Peter Telep [Telep - Squire’s Honor

Had there been less light, Christopher would not have been able to identify the corpse draped across the back of the wagon. But when he saw the cross bow bolt, still buried in the blue neck

A hunting party found him deep in the wood, the wagon driver said. Do you know who this is?

Christopher stiffened. Know him? I served him!

This is Lord Woodward! One of Arthurs own battle knights! Sir Lancelot wants me to take the body to the king himself.

And the king will think I killed him.

I am particularly indebted to Eyal Goldshmid, Georgia Howorth-Fair, Peter Ives, Christopher McClelland, Kip McGuire, Herb Middlemass, and Jim Poppino for their work on the prologue and first chapter of this novel.

My editor, Christopher Schelling, my agent, Robert Drake, and my best reader (and wonderful writer herself) Joan Vander Putten, were there for me on this one-as they were on the first and second volumes. I know of no more comforting feeling in the world than to have the guidance and support of friends such as these.

Associate editor Caitlin Deinard Blasdell had patient answers to my sometimes naive questions and was never too busy to talk to me. Shes a rare find in our world of answering machings and voice mail.

Though I know Sara Schwager only through her blue copyeditors pencil, I would be deeply remiss if I did not thank her for the excellent work she did on all three volumes of the Squire series. She forced me to look at etymologies and ironed the wrinkles out of my prose, much to the betterment of the manuscripts.

Rose and Vincent Palladino provided me with a roof over my head so that I would not have to write this novel in the rain. That helped! They have been much more than in-laws, and they have my Jove and deepest respect.

The Arthurian legend contains many anachronisms and contradictions that are maddening to writers who wish to be technically and historically accurate. While the military strategy, accoutrements, and politics were carefully researched, some were borrowed from other time periods for dramatic effect. The sail ing vessels known as cogs in this novel are actually late twelfth century German merchantmen used by a group of traders known as the Hansa League. I chose the Hansa League cogs because they not only suited the plot well, but I had a plethora of photos on which to base my descriptions. The port of Blytheheart, probably my favorite locale in the world of Squire, is purely fictional and only loosely based on several British ports of the period. With these details aside, lean back, quibble if you must, but most of all, I hope you enjoy this third volume of the Squire Trilogy.

Peter Telep

Christopher weaved into the dense maze of tree trunks. The early evening storm had birthed in the wood a rank scent that reminded him of a foul well. He knew he should not complain about the smell of the forest, for if the forest had a nose, he knew he wouldnt smell very good to it, either.

He forged on, and despite his rustling and the mil lionscore sounds of the droplets wrestling through leaf and limb, an unsettling silence pervaded. It was a silence within him, a feeling that someone was near. He came upon a fallen beech tree that lay in his path. He lowered his gaze, stepped over it, then heard the approach of someone or something come from ahead.

Ho! Squire! Though Christopher recognized the voice, there was something odd about it, a peculiarity he could not identify. He moved forward, then shifted around a tree.

The forest opened up into a wide clearing, and Lord Woodward stood on the opposite side of it, facing him. Christopher moved uneasily toward his new master.

Woodwards gray hair was wet and disheveled, and his beard looked as if it had not been trimmed in a moon or two. The knight fingered the hem of his blue and-white surcoat, which he wore over a linen shirt. He pulled the garment down in an effort to remove the wrinkles from it. Christopher judged the act as futile. The removal of the wrinkles in his surcoat did little to better Woodwards appearance. A burst of lightning picked out the knights eyes, which were narrowed by what might be anger. Darkness gathered around Woodward, but Christopher dismissed the image. It was only in his mind. It had to be.

Christopher reached the edge of the clearing, then took cover under a nearby tree limb. Lord, Ive come as ordered. He gestured with a hand to their surround ings, then, with a frown, added, But wouldnt a tent near the ramparts have been drier?

Woodward rested his palms on the balled hilts of the spathas sheathed at his sides, then he stepped away from the pair of overhanging limbs buffering him from the storm. He moved into the center of the clearing. He ignored the rain that washed over him. A tent back there would not have been as private for our conversation.

What is it, my lord? Christopher swallowed, then breathed deeply.

Come here. Into the clearing.

While biting the inside of his cheek, Christopher felt his heart beat a stroke much harder than it had before. The rain stung his head as he moved into the open. Water dribbled into his eyes. A chill wreaked havoc with his spine, then fanned out across his shoulders. He stopped an arms length away from the knight.

Thats better, boy, Woodward said. Men talk this way.

Christopher could smell Woodwards breath; it was soured by ale. Now it was evident why they stood like dolts in the rain. Drunk men talk this way.

Its cold, Christopher blurted out.

With an uncoordinated wave of his hand, and the volume of his voice a notch too loud, Woodward said, Pay nature no heed. Heed me. He belched.The rumors about you that have pierced my ears make it impossible for me to sleep. The banner knight took a step forward, putting his face only a fingers length away from Christophers. Are the rumors true, boy?

I am a true servant, to my heart, to my mind, and to God. It is my destiny. And my fate.

He fought to keep his gaze on Woodward as a muscle in his neck twitched. He wanted to look away, to run away from everything. But he kept on looking, and Woodwards stare gored him with the efficiency of a well-honed glaive.

I want an answer, boy! I demand one! Thunder had clapped during Woodwards shout, but even the unsettled heavens had not stifled the knights words.

Christopher found it hard to breathe, hard to stand. The moment threatened to choke the life out of him. What could he say? What could he do? He feigned innocence. I dont know what it is

How does a saddlemakers son like yourself become a squire to banner knights? How does filth like you get loose among us? Do you know that the word had traveled with a coursers speed? How long did you think it would take until it reached me? All of those moons you had been lying to me! And to think at one time I had asked you to watch over Marigween! My God, boy. I had been betrothed to her. How could you have done it? Knowingly? How could you have had a child with her? And out of wedlock, no less? And all of it behind my back!

He knew that this moment was a part of his punishment for disobeying the king. He had saved his friend Doyle from the hands of Seaver, but in order to do that he had betrayed Arthurs trust. Thus, Arthur had stripped him of his duty as squire of the body, squire to the king, and had given him to Woodward. Christopher had suspected that Arthur had done it to teach him a lesson, and to give him ample opportunity to confess his sin to Woodward.

Where did those opportunities go?

Christopher stood, armed only with an apology on the tip of his tongue. Death was a heartbeat into the future.