The Rogue Knight (15 page)

The act of kindness had deeply moved young Rhys. The next day, after receiving the Baron’s permission to bury his mother in the fief’s highest hills, he’d told them why they had come to Pellinore Castle. His mother had been born in this fief, although in those days those hills had still been a Welsh stronghold.

Then young Rhys had given his warning. “I will tell you something else, good Baron. Owain ab Ifan marches here even now with a hundred hardy warriors. Owain has sworn to cut out your heart and roast it over an open fire.”

Baron Hugh and Owain ab Ifan had warred over the years and learned to hate each other. Each had done the other much harm.

“What you say cannot be,” the Baron had said. “Only last summer Owain swore a two-year truce with me. He swore it over the Holy Bible and before God, and in the presence of his priest. Because of the sworn truce, I forwent the joy of killing his son who I had captured.”

“All true,” had said young Rhys. “But in your border raid last year you slew his wife while Owain went north to the High Court.”

“His wife? No, impossible. I raided south of Owain’s lands.”

“His wife was visiting the homestead of those you slew. Now, Owain means to roast your beating heart.”

The Baron had gravely studied young Rhys. “Why do you tell me this? Are you a traitor?”

Young Rhys had laughed grimly. “You treated my mother with respect, which is more than Owain did. He called her a harlot. A harlot! She, a Gruffydd! When I tried to stab him, his men disarmed me and then he had me whipped. Someday I’ll kill him.”

The Baron had said no more to Rhys, although he’d kept him by his side for a week. At the end of the week, Owain ab Ifan invaded. He came with a hundred and fifty warriors rather than a mere hundred. The peasant levy had been called out, and all the knights, squires, sergeants and men-at-arms had been readied. In the ambush, a good half of the Welsh invaders died. And Baron Hugh slashed Owain ab Ifan’s knife-arm, crippling his bitter foe for life.

As a reward, the Baron had allowed Rhys the freedom of the fief’s highest hills. There young Rhys could live as a Welshman, raising his cattle and sheep and collecting as many servants as he could afford. In time of war, Rhys brought his Welsh and half-Welsh servants with him. Each of them had been trained in the southern Welsh manner of fighting, as longbowmen.

If the truth were known, none of the Englishmen had ever wanted to live high up in the hills. Crops couldn’t grow well there. But that suited Rhys and his household just fine. A Welshman seldom toiled like a peasant. He was a herder or hunter and loved nothing better than trekking over harsh terrain or wading through impossible marshes. The knightly manner of warfare wasn’t his, either. The Welshman fought afoot, with little or no armor. He shot a bow or used a lance, and in close-order work, a long knife served him better than a heavy sword. When Owain ab Ifan had attacked Pellinore Fief, his unarmored men intended to charge the armored knights. The ambush and the fast raid rather than the set-piece battle were the Welshman’s strong suit. In the Welshman’s wooded hills, the heavily armored knights usually made little headway.

Even so, since William the Conqueror’s time the Welsh had known relentless war and pressure from the adventurous Normans. Before that time, the Saxons had been content to hold the frontiers, since the Saxon by inclination had been a stay-at-home warrior. The Normans who’d invaded England in 1066 had been of a completely different nature. Perhaps the heritage bequeathed them by their Viking ancestors had something to do with their aggressive outlook. Only a few generations ago, Rollo, a Viking chieftain, and his warriors, had settled in Normandy with the French King’s permission. From the mix of French knights and Viking sea-rovers had been produced the restless and supremely confident Normans. The kingdom of Sicily had fallen to a Norman adventurer in William’s day. The people of the Byzantine Empire had constantly cursed the Norman knights who’d raided their productive territory. And many of the first crusaders had been those same restless Normans.

The Anglo-Norman attacks into Wales had started in 1095 under Rufus and had continued in 1114 and 1121 under King Henry the First. The Welsh, who lived in makeshift huts on their mountains, almost always drove their flocks and herds farther west or higher up the hills during the assaults. For hunters and herders, with little agricultural stake in the land, such movements had been easy and frustrating to the Norman conquerors. The moment the large Norman armies retreated, the Welsh herders and hunters returned. Thus it was, that only by building castles and by bringing in Englishmen to till the soil and occupy the newly-made towns that the Normans had been able to hold onto the conquered, eastern river-valleys of Wales. Year after year the struggle continued, each culture at ease in its own terrain, unable to come to the final clinch with its foes.

As the bailiff and Cord climbed upward to Rhys’ place, the pines and spruces began to thin out, giving way to large glades of summertime grasses and colorful mountain flowers. Cord, thinking to spy something, shielded his eyes from the sun. In the distance grazed a flock of sheep. He spotted two shepherds and noticed several long-haired sheepdogs.

The bailiff nodded when Cord pointed them out.

A while later a sharp whistle came from the edge of the nearest clump of pines. A stocky man strode out of the tree-line toward them. He wore rough garments, skins of some sort dyed green. A large bow was slung across his thick chest and a green hood was thrown over his head. Two shaggy hounds trotted beside him.

The bailiff mounted up, while Cord studied the man. It had to be Rhys, although he’d seldom seen the man. Rhys was either off on one of his many forays or content to stay up in his hills. The stocky hunter had a quick stride, confident and sure-footed. Soon Cord saw the shadowed face. Rhys’ head seemed square within the hood, with dark hair and intense eyes, very intense eyes. He had a long nose and a dark forked beard, and seemed older than a man should be in his mid-twenties. There also hung about Rhys a recklessness, a rashness that could be engaged to commit one of those legendary Welsh acts of daring.

He hailed them, raising his right hand. On the thick fingers flashed silver rings. “Bailiff! And the tall dog boy!” Rhys shouted in a commanding voice. “What brings you to my hills?”

Cord whispered to Sebald. The huge mastiff sat on his haunches, although he eyed the shaggy hounds on either side of Rhys.

The stocky Welshman grinned. “What’s wrong, dog boy, afraid my hounds will hurt your Baron’s expensive mastiff?”

“It isn’t that,” said Cord as Rhys stopped before them.

Rhys exposed his teeth as he doffed his hood and then rested his strong hands on his hips. “What is it then?”

“I don’t want to start any dog fights,” said Cord.

Rhys laughed in a way that said he knew that his two hounds would thrash the mastiff.

Cord bristled. He’d only been trying to be polite. “Maybe you’re fond of your tall hounds. Sebald would tear them apart if they fought. And since this your territory, I decided it wouldn’t be right for you to see your dogs killed.”

Rhys laughed even louder than before in what appeared to be merriment. He shook the heads of his two tall hounds and told them to beware of the huge mastiff. He even pointed out Sebald. Then Rhys’ intense eyes narrowed as he stared at Sebald, who Cord had been idly petting.

“You’re no dog boy,” Rhys said suspiciously, his merriment gone.

“Of course he is,” the bailiff said from upon the palfrey.

“Since when did the Baron start handing out gold rings to his servants?” Rhys asked.

“The Baron’s dead,” the bailiff said abruptly.

Rhys didn’t react; he eyed Cord, and Cord’s golden signet ring.

“Did you hear me?” the bailiff asked.

“I did,” Rhys said. He shook his head a moment later. “If you thought to disguise a knight, no…he’s still too young. Is he a squire then? If you thought to disguise a squire as a dog boy, you should have had him take off his golden ring. It ruins the effect, you see.” Rhys grinned again. With his intense eyes and forked beard, it made him seem like the devil of tricksters. “I know of what I speak, bailiff. Too many times, I’ve donned my own disguises. Detail, it all comes down to the tiniest of details, you see.”

“What are you babbling about, man?” the bailiff asked in exasperation. “He’s Cord the dog boy, nothing more.”

“Do you take me for a dim-witted fool?” Rhys asked. “The Baron’s dead, or so you said, and the Western Marches swarm with Prince Llewellyn’s Welsh and you’ve heard rumors. So instead of coming here in good faith, you disguise a squire as a dog boy. What is it? Do you mistrust me?”

“Why are you so leery of us?” the bailiff asked. Then his features shifted. A hooded look came over his eyes. “Ah, you’ve heard something? Is that it, Rhys? You’ve heard something important that’s made you nervous.”

Rhys stroked his forked beard. He appeared not to have heard the bailiff. He looked Cord up and down. “So your dog can kill mine, eh?”

“If I order it,” Cord said.

“You don’t act like a dog boy,” Rhys said slowly. “You’re too bold, too sure of yourself. And then there’s that ring of yours.” He stroked his beard some more. His smile crept back onto his face. “There are only two of you, however. Very well, bailiff. Why not get down off that high horse of yours and tell me what happened to the Baron?”

The stiff and frowning bailiff complied, handing the reins to Cord. The two men sat on some nearby rocks and began to talk in earnest.

The shaggy hounds took the opportunity of their master’s inattention to approach Sebald. With a word, Cord let him up. He held the palfrey’s reins and watched the three dogs sniff each other and piss over the same flowers. The three dogs seemed content with that, none of them willing to start a fight.

Cord glanced at Rhys and the bailiff. Rhys gestured and spoke urgently. The bailiff listened, his back as straight as if he rode in the saddle. Cord wondered at Rhys’ strange insistence that he was only pretending to be a dog boy. He nodded to himself. Others
did
see him differently now. Slaying Old Sloat truly
had
made a difference.

It didn’t surprise Cord when Rhys called him over, wanting an exact description of Old Sloat’s last minutes in life.

“It seems I was wrong about you,” Rhys said. “But now I’ve become curious.”

Cord told the tale, although he didn’t say anything about Richard’s broken legs. Rhys’ mentioning of Prince Llewellyn’s hosts left him cautious. It seemed wrong to let anyone know about the weakening of the castle’s defenses.

“So
you
killed the old monster, eh?” Rhys asked when Cord finished speaking. The Welshman grinned as his eyes blazed. “Dog boy or not, you well deserve a golden ring!”

“It was my father’s ring,” Cord heard himself say.

“Ah!” said Rhys. “Yes, now I remember you. You’re the felon’s son. Then your father was more than a felon, eh?”

Cord bristled.

Rhys waved him down. “I meant no insult.... What’s your name again?”

“Cord.”

“Cord, I meant no insult by my words. That’s what others say about you, is all. Believe me, I know about the whispering of others.”

Cord nodded, accepting the apology. “My father was a knight,” he explained.

“Ah!” Rhys said, leaning closer in obvious interest.

“It’s a long tale,” said Cord.

“Yes, I suppose it would be,” Rhys said. “Maybe some day you could share it with me. I’d be interested to know why a knight’s son who acts like a squire is only a dog boy in Pellinore Castle.”

“He may well tell you why,” the bailiff said, “but not now. I rode up here to speak with you, Rhys, to tell you about the Baron’s passing and that his son will soon be back in Pellinore. I suspect young Sir Guy will want all his knights to make their oaths of fealty to him. Freeholders will also be expected to come to the castle and give their oaths of loyalty.”

“I see,” Rhys said, perhaps a trifle guardedly.

The bailiff added, “The Lady Eleanor also instructed me to bring you bread and salt and some cakes she helped bake herself.”

“She’s very kind,” said Rhys as he accepted the sack of goods from Cord.

“And I remember you said something a few weeks ago about special pups,” the bailiff said. “I brought Cord along to inspect them. If he finds them good enough, and you’re willing, I would like to buy several so I can give them to Sir Guy as a gift.”

“Ah-ha!” Rhys said. “Now I understand why Pellinore’s bailiff graces my hills with his presence.”

The bailiff coughed, and said quietly, “These are the Baron’s hills.”

“Of course,” Rhys said after a short pause. “‘Twas a mere slip of the tongue.”

“Shall we go inspect the pups then?” the bailiff asked.

“Of course,” Rhys said. “But only if you agree to stay for supper.”

“If supper is early,” the bailiff said. “I’d like to be back in Pellinore before dark.”

“Very well,” Rhys said, rising from his rock. “An early supper it will be.” He put two thick fingers into his mouth and whistled loudly. A moment later, a shepherd in the distance whistled back.

“Let’s go,” Rhys said.

Cord held the stirrup while the bailiff mounted up. Then the two Pellinore Castle-men followed Rhys toward his mountain home.