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  The welcoming arms of a pear-shaped abbot stretched out toward Christopher and Cornelia as they reached the entrance to the forebuilding. The red-nosed churchman hugged Cornelia and then Christopher. The abbot reeked of something. A sec­ ond and Christopher knew what it was. Ale.

  As they moved into the relative darkness of the alcove, Christopher whispered to his mother, “The abbot is drinking ale.”

  Cornelia put her index finger to her lips. “Shush.”

  They stepped into the sparsely furnished garrison quarters, smiled at a small group of fighters who were removing their link-mail, then moved quickly toward another staircase, which would take them up to the great hall.

  When they came from the shadows of the stairwell Christopher could not believe his eyes. All of it hit him at once-and it was almost too much to take. The great hall. He had never been inside a room this large, with so many great wooden beams and rafters. The chapel he had considered big, but it was nothing compared to this. The great hall: the center of all domestic life in the castle. He moved forward with his mother, breathing in the place.

  On each side were trestle tables whose benches were filled with villagers Christopher recognized. Roasted duck and pig, steamed vegetables, and freshly brewed ale were abundant, and many hands lifted to many mouths, making the food vanish quickly. The music blared, the minstrels danced and played around the stone-circled cookfires in the cen­ter of the floor, and the melodies and smoke escaped through a rectangular hole in the ceiling. Directly ahead, upon a high dais, a long, white­ clothed table provided a place for Lord Hasdale; Fiona, who had not appeared yet; the steward; and the other banner and bachelor knights of the castle. Pages dodged people in order to refill elaborately decorated drinking jugs and restock plates around the high table. Up above, standards draped down the walls, and a large escutcheon displaying Hasdale’s coat of arms hung centered among the flags. Christopher admired the many colors of the standards as a tug on his ann from Cornelia sent his gaze off in another direction.

  “There’s your father,” Cornelia said.

  From the very first trestle table, Sanborn waved them over. Chtistopher and his mother threaded their way through the crowd and were seated. A portly, gray­ bearded man, his soft-faced wife, and their son, who looked about Christopher’s age, soon joined them.

  “Cornelia, Christopher, this is Lord Heath, brother of the steward, his wife Neala, and their son Baines.”

  Christopher and his mother bowed their heads politely, then smiled.

  The boy, Baines, tugged on the veil covering his mother’s hair. ‘‘I’m off to the garderobe.”

  Neala understood. “Hurry back. You don’t want to miss the toast.”

  Baines nodded, then looked at Christopher. “Want to come?”

  Christopher looked to his mother for approval. The expression he desired appeared on Cornelia’s face. But she added a warning to the look. “Don’t make me come and find you.”

  The two boys hurried off as the adults exchanged smiles.

  Christopher and Baines weaved their way through the merry villagers and ducked down a hall which quickly gave way to a side room that was the garde­ robe. Three men sat, elbows on their bare thighs, lined up on a long, benchlike seat, under which was a hollow stone base that resembled a rectangular well. If it had not been for the open window above the men, the stench would have been unbearable. As it was, Christopher and Baines held their noses. Relieving oneself would not be a very pleasant occa­ sion today with all the villagers here.

  “I can wait,” Baines said, grimacing. “Come on.” “Where are we going?”

  Baines was already on his way out, not answering Christopher’s question.

  When they came back into the great hall, Baines asked, “Have you ever been here before?”

  “No.”

  “Then I have something to show you.” “But the toast … “

  Baines smiled. “You’ll be glad you missed the toast for this.” Baines gestured with his head toward a tunnelexit guarded by two sentries on the opposite side of the great hall.

  Christopher became anxious. Baines was a trouble­ maker and Christopher was about to let himself be lured into trouble not of his own making. But no one would believe that after they were caught. If he fol­ lowed Baines now, Jt would have to be of his own accord.

  “What great wonder are you going to show me?” Christopher needed to know, needed to make the decision easier.

  “One such as you have never seen. I vow you’ll be pleased.” Baines’s words, wink, and smile convinced Christopher to go.

  “It better be.”

  And they strolled their way across the hall, snatch­ ing up bits of meat from the plates of pages making their rounds. They chewed hungrily over the rising din as more people drew into the hall. Baines stepped up to the first sentry.

  “I was told by my uncle, Steward Farrel, that both you men must report to the garderobe at once. There is a disturbance there.”

  The sentries shared concerned looks, and the one near Baines said, “On our way.” The men abandoned their posts.

  Baines’s grin was dripping with self-satisfaction. Christopher was impressed.

  The two slipped down the narrow tunnel, ascended a short staircase, and shadow-hugged the walls as they neared another room, the lord’s solar. This was Hasdale’s bedroom, warmer and more comfortable than any other room in the castle. They heard women talking and giggling inside. The boys found another staircase leading to a balcony overlooking the solar. They went up, crept to the edge of the wooden rail­ ing, and slowly, furtively, peered over.

  Christopher’s jaw dropped. “Ohhhhhh … “

  Hasdale’s pregnant sister Alina sat in a window alcove, using the good light for her embroidery. But it was not she at whom Christopher looked.

  Directly below him, two other damsels were preparing a bath for Fiona, filling a wooden vat with buckets of water. They laughed over a joke Christopher could not quite hear. Again, they were not the object of Chrlstopher’s fascination.

  It was Fiona, standing near the vat, disrobing. Her skin shone milky white and her body possessed curves and muscles that Christopher never knew existed. He had never seen a woman as beautiful or as naked as she:

  Baines looked at Christopher, then whispered, “They always bathe before a banquet.”

  “My mother has told me that nakedness is ugly. We must always keep covered,” Christopher said.

  Baines pointed down to the luscious Fiona with an index finger. “Do you still believe that?”

  Unsuspecting, Alina talked to Fiona, her eyes fixed on her work. “With Jennifer gone, I’m not sure I want to use another midwife. Perhaps the lord can do it.”

  Fiona snickered. “That’s insane. What does a knight know about childbirth? Butchering they know, birthing they don’t. Jennifer is gone now. You have to accept that. Your baby will be delivered by another and will be strong and healthy.”

  Alina put her embroidery down on her lap and massaged her bulging belly. “I wish I was as sure as you, madam.”

  Their conversation was lost on Christopher. He watched as Fiona slowly slid into the vat, her pendu­ lous breasts shrouded by the water. The damsels began to wash her shoulders and neck with soap made of animal fat and wood ash.

  Suddenly it dawned on Christopher what he and Baines were doing, where they actually were-and the consequences if they were caught. He turned his head, about to tell Baines he wanted to leave. He saw the first sentry coming from the stairwell with vengeance scrolled all over his face.

  “Baines!” Christopher yelled.

  The women down below looked up, then screamed. Baines turned his head and saw the sentry, shad- owed by his partner in the wings. The two boys shot up and fell back toward the rear of the balcony. Baines looked down. Along the railing hung a series of ornamental drapes. He climbed over the front of the railing.

  “Where are you going?” Christopher shouted.

  But Baines’s escape r
oute became apparent. He lowered himself and clung onto the thin, colorful fab­ ric. The damsels hurried to fetch Fiona’s robe as Baines swung precariously over the vat.

  The first sentry was on Christopher, grabbing him sharply by the shoulders. Christopher conceded defeat without a struggle.

  The second sentry went to the railing, tried to reach down and snag Baines’s arm.

  The drapes tore under Baines’s weight. Baines let out a cry as he plunged downward, landing squarely in the tub of water with the naked Fiona.

  It was amusing, sure enough, but fear shoved its way into Christopher and wiped the grin from his face. He was in deep trouble not of his making. But, of course, who was going to believe that?

  The sentries led the soaking Baines and trembling Christopher to Lord Hasdale’s table and reported the incident.

  “I should severely punish you both. But it is a day of celebration. And forgiveness is the order here.” Hasdale directed his next words to Baines. “You, young man, desire to be a squire. To be my squire your father tells me. You’d better remember that the next time you consider spying on my wife.”

  “Yes, lord,” Baines answered.

  But Christopher did not hear Baines’s reply. His mind had singled out and locked onto a few simple words: to be the lord’s squire. He became lost in that idea. He saw himself gripping a spatha, slamming it home into Hasdale’s hand as the lord met an attacker head-on. Being there on the battlefield, sharing in it all, feeling the rumble of horses, and hearing the sounds, the wonderful sounds of metal and man and victory. That was a future.

  Christopher did not like the look on his father’s face as he filed back to their table; he knew it meant punishment.

  4

  Lord Garrett, a man seeking greater things than his Celtic blood could grant him, marched through Sussex, Dorset, and Devon, in search of a land to rule for himself and the Saxon army of two hundred he had recruited. Celtic fortresses had been taken and lost, and his men had become weary and disgruntled. With false promises, Garrett kept his warriors forging onward. Now they were in Cadbury, where, in the south, the castle of Shores rose out of the wasteland, an inviting stone-walled oasis. According to Garrett’s spies, Hasdale’s men would be tired and full from a day of celebrating the lord’s wedding. Most of the townsfolk had gone home to their tofts, and so there would be no peasant levy behind the walls to help defend them. The time for an attack could not have been better.

  When night fell, they daubed paint on their faces, finger-combed their fierce beards for luck, and attacked Sir Hasdale’s castle, first swimming the moat and reaching the berm, then slapping their lad­ ders against the perimeter walls. Crossbow bolts split the air and found the sentries in the drum towers; garrison men poured Greek fire over the wall’s edge, setting many of the Saxon attackers ablaze; blood splattered the old Roman walls and streets; howls of dying and injured men echoed over the clatter.

  Garrett feinted and riposted his way through Hasdale’s defenses and groped up a crumbling ladder, climbed through a window, and found himself in maid’s quarters. The torchlit decor was drab and bor­ ing. He burst outside the room into a hallway, then found and clanked up a spiral staircase. He was on the ready, knowing he was at a disadvantage climbing the stairs. An attacker could easily swing around the center post and deliver a death blow. But now, no such attempt was made. He emerged outside onto the rear wall-walk. Some of his men had made it this far and were engaging the Celts. One-handing his broadsword, he hacked the left arm off an attacker; a blood mist caught his cheek. Two Celts drove for ward, one seizing Garrett’s sword hand, the other driving a blade forward. Garrett grabbed the blade driver’s wrist and pulled the Celt past him. He tugged his sword arm free from the other Celt and, in one fluid motion, slipped his blade into the man’s Adam’s apple. The Celt fell, gurgling. Garrett pivoted away, came face-to-face with a man he recognized through the red crow on his shield as lord of the castle.

  “You are a sight, Garrett,” Hasdale said.

  Garrett sneered. “Let me gouge out your eyes and spare you this vision of pain on your wedding day.”

  “Lot warned me of you. The man of two tongues, raised by Celts only to become ruler of heathens. Are you proud?”

  Without answer, Garrett struck Hasdale across the breastplate with his sword. The blow sent the armored knight backward, but the blade did not pierce link-mail. “You were once a Celt. Now you’re no more than an animal. What happened?”

  Garrett’s sword met Hasdale’s, and the gritty metal-on-metal sounds reverberated in their ears. Garrett answered, “I grew tired of being the second son, second to lands, second to rule. Never again.”

  Among the flickering shadows of firelight, one of Garrett’s warriors held a pregnant woman from behind and struggled to push her down the staircase Garrett had ascended. Garrett watched Hasdale’s expression flip from rage to fear as the Celt spotted the woman.

  “Alina! Alina!” Hasdale cried.

  Garrett seized the moment, broke free of the strug­ gle, and beat Hasdale to Alina. He looked into her pleading eyes, concentrated on those blue, tearful orbs as he savored the million-year second. He tensed, felt chills spidering about his groin as his sword pierced Alina’s bulging belly. He plunged the blade deep, then ripped it upward as she shrieked her last, blood­ choked breath. He buried his· face in her neck as she fell back, pulled on her soft flesh with his teeth.

  She was lovely. She was dead.

  Garrett cocked his head and saw Hasdale wailing like a wounded beast, his blade raised, about to come down on him. Garrett withdrew his sword from the dead infant in Alina’s belly and ducked out of the way. The warrior clutching Alina caught the blow; it cracked the Saxon’s skull open and sent blood and brain matter seeping up where hair met blade. As Hasdale tugged his sword out of the dead Saxon’s head, Garrett looked to the outer bai­ ley and saw the Celts getting the upper hand. He struggled toward the front wall, where a ladder waited. Hasdale pursued him, but was intercepted by two more Saxons, whose wild blows kept him at bay.

  On the ground, Garrett called for retreat. The night wind dried and crusted the blood on his cheek as he and his men fell back into the misty wood.

  5

  The next morning. Airell, Sir Hasdale’s most stalwart and revered knight, staggered down Leatherdressers’ Row like a drunkard. He had fol­ lowed the invaders into the wood and battled them once more.

  Inside his house, Christopher slept on a trestle bed in the loft. A ka-kank echoed from somewhere. The boy’s eyes snapped open.

  Christopher rolled on his straw-filled mattress and brought his small frame to the window under the gable. He surveyed the street below. A man was in the road. Not just any man-a knight! His neck and one of his metallic arms were covered with blood, but Christopher could see his chest rising. Gingerly, Christopher toed his way down the wooden steps and creaked open the front door. The sun was arcing higher, and he squinted to get a better look at this strangely wonderful sight in front of his home.

  Airell’s face was slashed by branches and stained with dirt. His bascinet sat on the stone near him, dented and reflecting the sun. His bloodied arm shook occasionally and soft moans escaped his lips. There was an awful stench about him that Christopher could not identify. He moved closer, crouched, and leaned over the man. Without warning the knight’s good hand rose and locked around Christopher’s throat, pulled him down close to the man’s face. Christopher shivered and tears built in his eyes as he gasped for breath. The knight’s eyes opened. The hand on Christopher’s throat fell slack.

  “Boy,” Airell managed, trying to cut through the backed-up bile and blood in his throat, “I need-” Airell could speak no more.

  Christopher’s pulse raced like a shrew’s. He ran toward his house, scuffled past the front door, and rushed toward the stairs. “A knight!” he shouted.

  When he arrived in the loft, Sanborn and Cornelia stirred, then awakened. Sanborn let his wool pillow fall to the floor as
he climbed out of bed. He stum­ bled to the window at which Christopher pointed. The boy felt his heart trip-hammer in his chest.

  “He’s right, Cornelia. It’s one of the lord’s men.” “I’ll get my fire started,” Cornelia said.