The Rogue Knight (39 page)

“By all the saints,” Henri said, “we’re trapped.”

They glanced at each other, their fears obvious.

“Well,” Cord said, trying to contain his bitterness, “we aren’t beaten yet. Nor have they found us yet.” He jostled Sir Lamerok awake and told him to hold onto the shield they put over him. Then he set two spears by the knight’s side, some daggers and a gorget.

“Ready?” he asked the others.

“What’s your plan?” Rhys asked.

“To lift the trapdoor and see what occurs,” said Cord. “Maybe some of us can make it to freedom. If not, well, then at least we can die on our feet with weapons in hand.”

Lamerok made to rise off the stretcher.

Cord held him back. “That time isn’t yet, Sir Knight. Maybe we can still escape.”

Henri shook his head. He was nearest the trapdoor. “I think we’ve just played our last trick.”

“Then let’s hope Alice is still praying to the Virgin Mary,” said Cord.

“Get that hound out of here!” Eleanor shouted.

One of the huge kennel brutes had fallen upon one of the tamer castle dogs. The kennel monster, his teeth ripping into the weaker hound, fought to gain the bone the other hound refused to give up. The fight brought in more kennel brutes, and they disrupted the Great Hall and woke up frightened people who had already fallen asleep along the walls.

“Guards!” Eleanor shouted. “Drive those beasts from the hall.”

All the guards were drunk, snoring or still feasting in the red pavilion or tumbling with a maiden in some hidden part of the castle.

“Chief Falconer!” shouted Eleanor. “Get up and do your duty!”

“Where’s the dog boy?” the Chief Falconer complained.

“Cord!” Martha shouted. “Cord dog boy!”

“No, that isn’t any good,” a drunken Lady Eleanor shouted. “Reynard! Reynard, come down here!”

“I’ll get him,” the Chief Falconer said. For a wizened old man he ran spryly for the stairs and was soon out of sight.

“Who let those hounds out?” Eleanor asked, with a silver pitcher in her hands. One of the big kennel brutes nosed his way toward the main table. Eleanor flung the pitcher and hit him in the side. The hound growled but slunk away from the table.

“A splendid throw, milady,” said a scullion.

Eleanor grinned, and picked up another jug, hurling it at another hound. Soon all the women heaved items at the hounds. The huge kennel brutes slunk out of range, with their hackles raised.

“We didn’t even need Reynard,” Martha boasted.

“No,” said Eleanor. “Nor it seems do we need dog boys.”

“Milady!” the Chief Falconer shouted. “Milady!”

“What is it?” Eleanor said, standing at the head of the table, a clay jug in her hands.

“The door is barred!” the Chief Falconer wailed. “I pounded on it, but no one answered.”

“Locked?” Eleanor asked in obvious puzzlement.

“The living quarters are barred,” the Chief Falconer said. “I shouted for Reynard and the Lady Alice. No one answered or made a sound.”

“He’s raping her!” Martha shrieked.

All the women peered at plump Lady Martha.

“Why else would he lock the doors?” Martha asked. “The horrible mercenary is raping Alice.”

“He must be looting our chests, as well,” said Martha’s oldest daughter.

“To the stairs!” shouted Eleanor. “And you,” she shouted, pointing at a scullion. “Go tell my son. Go tell the Baron that the living quarters have been barred from within.”

The scullion raced out of the Great Hall.

“To the stairs!” Eleanor shouted, with the clay jug in her drunken hands held like a battle-axe.

***

As he marched up the tower stairs, with Baron Guy at his side, Philip saw a screaming scullion come caroming down.

“The living quarters are barred!” the scullion screamed.

The words drilled through Philip. His precious treasure chests were up in the living quarters under his bed. If the doors were locked, that could only mean someone was robbing him.

“Reynard is raping Alice!” the scullion screamed, clearly drunk out of her wits.

Philip caught her and slapped her face.

Aldora poked her in the belly. “Speak up, girl. What do you mean?”

The terrified scullion babbled out her words.

“My basket!” Aldora shrieked. “Someone is looting my basket.”

“No, Reynard is raping Alice,” the terrified scullion said.

“Oh ho!” Philip roared. “Not with my filly, he’s not.” The giant bog-knight drew his sword and charged drunkenly up the stairs. “Follow me, boys!” he thundered.

A goodly number of men-at-arms ran cheering after him. They were all quite drunk.

“What’s going on?” Guy whispered. His chin had been resting upon his chest. The commotion had at least caused him to look up.

“We must break down the tower door,” Aldora told him.

“Sir Lamerok….” Guy tried to slur.

“Bring the Baron along,” Aldora told the Gascon mercenary. Then she too hurried up the stairs after Philip.

***

“What do you see?” Henri whispered.

Cord carefully lowered the trapdoor and stared in amazement at his friends. “I saw them all,” he whispered. “They went charging past the corridor and into the Great Hall, bellowing something about the locked living quarters.”

Henri laughed in glee and half-hysteria.

Cord joined him before saying, “Tonight we can do anything, Henri. The Virgin watches over us.”

“Go,” urged Rhys.

Cord pushed open the trapdoor and boldly climbed up. When no one shouted at him, a feeling of power filled him. All the years of injustice had finally tipped the scales his way. He laughed with the thrill of his newfound power.

Rhys and Henri dragged up Lamerok. Gwen brought up the rear, while Richard dragged himself butt-first up the stairs.

“Go,” said Richard. “I’m no more help to you now!”

“I—” Cord tried to say.

“Go, Cord, and good luck.”

“To you too,” Cord said. Then he bolted after the others. He made it down the tower stairs without incident. At the foot of the stairs, two men-at-arms stood before Rhys and Henri, carefully eyeing the knight in the stretcher.

“What’s wrong?” asked Cord, striding up, knowing that these two could be swept away on a night like this.

“Wrong?” asked a drunken man-at-arms. “Are you asking
us
what’s wrong?”

“That’s right,” Cord said.

“He’s wrong,” the man-at-arms said, poking a stiff finger into Rhys’ chest. “I thought the Baron had him put in the dungeon this afternoon.”

Cord whistled.

“What’d you do that for?” the second man-at-arms nervously asked.

“You’ve seen the kennel hounds running about the yard, haven’t you?” Cord asked.

The man-at-arms nodded.

“I’m calling them,” Cord said. He whistled again, more sharply.

“Why are you calling them?” the nervous man-at-arms asked.

“So I can sic them on you,” said Cord.

The man-at-arms stepped back in alarm. The belligerent one scowled. “You think you can frighten us?” he asked.

Just then, two big kennel brutes ambled up.

Cord pointed at the belligerent man-at-arms. “Loki. Bruno. Attack!”

The big dogs growled savagely, their hackles up. The nervous man-at-arms turned and strode briskly for the barracks. The belligerent one backed up, his round eyes riveted on the two big dogs that stiff-leggedly stalked him.

“Move!” Cord whispered to the others.

Rhys and Henri moved, Gwen beside them.

The man-at-arms suddenly screamed as one of the brutes rushed in and bit his hand.

As Cord and the others strode for the gate, more people staggered toward the tower, seemingly curious about all the commotion and noise. It sounded now like soldiers used axes against heavy oak.

“Be ready,” said Cord as they entered the gatehouse. To their surprise, no one stood guard. That only reinforced Cord’s feelings of power and luck.

They marched over the drawbridge and headed toward the roped-off corral where Sir George and his retainers kept their steeds. No one stood on duty there, either.

“What’s the plan?” Rhys whispered.

“Pick which horses you want,” Cord said. “I’ll be right back.”

“What?” Henri said in alarm. “Cord, come back.”

Cord ignored the minstrel and ran to the red pavilion. He marched in and saw that a few men roared out songs. Most everyone else snored with their heads on the table or slumped out on the earthen floor.

“Cord!” a man-at-arms bellowed, swaying drunkenly on the bench.

“Hail, good friends!” Cord shouted. “Where are the saddles?”

“Saddles?” asked the man-at-arms.

“The knights wish to ride after the moon,” Cord said with a reckless laugh.

“Ha!” the man-at-arms shouted. “What fools they be.”

Cord shrugged, as if saying who could tell what nobles desired and thought of.

“Over there,” slurred another man-at-arms, pointing to the side where saddles had been heaped one atop the other.

Cord strode there and decided that maybe it would be pushing his luck too far to take any high saddles. Besides, high saddles were heavy. So he selected two regular saddles, wound reins around them, then grabbed the saddles by their horns and hoisted them onto his back.

To his surprise, Henri stepped up behind him and took two more saddles. “I decided to follow you,” the minstrel said in answer to Cord’s raised eyebrows.

“Are you taking any hounds with you?” asked a man-at-arms.

“Yes, I’m taking the kennel brutes,” said Cord.

“Ho!” shouted another man-at-arms. “Then I’m not stepping out of the tent.” He drained his tankard and bellowed laughter.

“You’ve gone mad,” Henri whispered as they strode out of the tent.

“No,” said Cord. “Not mad. Tonight is ours.”

Henri shook his head in admiration.

Cord chose a spirited destrier, Sir George’s prized war-horse, in fact. Soon Lamerok swayed in the saddle of the tamest palfrey. After tying the last knots used to steady him, Cord climbed up into his own saddle. He’d seldom ridden a horse, although he’d ridden mules many times before. The destrier snorted and peered at him.

“I’m a knight’s son,” Cord told the huge stallion. “Thus I don’t fear you and thus you must obey me. Do you understand?”

The huge war-horse snorted again and made to bite Cord’s foot. Cord hauled back on the reins, knowing that he must gain mastery immediately.

“Ride,” Rhys whispered.

Cord urged the war-horse forward, using his heels to prod the steed in the flanks. Soon he trotted beside the moat and toward the tower.

Henri brought along another saddled palfrey for Alice. Rhys and Gwen rode bareback, with Rhys holding onto the reins of Sir Lamerok’s mount. From the tower window, the one broken open, came flickering torchlight and the sound of thudding axes. Apparently, they hadn’t yet broken through.

“Alice!” shouted Cord.

“Over here!” came a feminine voice from a clump of bushes.

Cord rode toward the sound of her voice and the bark of Sebald’s greeting.

Just then, men yelled from high in the tower above. Someone by the broken window thrust a torch out. “I see riders!” a man shouted.

“Who are they?” roared a man. It sounded like Sir Philip.

The man hurled the torch across the moat. In its light, all saw Alice de Mowbray mount her palfrey. They could surely also see the other four riders.

“O base villains!” Philip roared, shaking his fist.

“That’s my destrier!” shouted Sir George.

“I haven’t finished with you!” Cord roared at those staring down at him. “Sir Tostig’s son will return!”

“Ride, you fool,” Henri said.

“Do you hear me, Philip Talbot?”

“Shoot him!” Philip roared.

The crossbowman stepped to the window and leveled his heavy weapon. Then a
twang
sounded beside Cord. Up sped an arrow. Before the crossbowman could fire, the arrow spun the Gascon mercenary out of sight.

“That’s for calling me and my wife witches!” Rhys thundered. “I too will return. So don’t forget Rhys ab Gruffydd.” He slung his bow and remounted his steed.

“Ride,” Alice said.

Cord brought his destrier back under control. And by the light of the moon, he followed Alice de Mowbray away from Castle Pellinore and to whatever future awaited them.

Instead of riding to the Bridge Village and crossing the toll bridge, the most direct and obvious route to Gareth Castle, Alice urged them toward the East Village.

“How do you expect to reach Gareth by this route?” Henri asked.

“We aren’t traveling to Gareth,” Alice answered.

“Why not?”

“‘Tis the Old Woman of Bones,” Rhys said. He and his wife nodded to each other. “Aye, milady, surely the Old Woman of Bones knows your desires and destination. Surely she’s unleashed the legions of darkness this night in order to waylay us if we travel straight to Gareth Castle.”

Henri snorted at the idea.

“Nay. Do not mock the old witch,” Rhys warned. “Hate her instead. Pray to God that He strike her dead. If given the chance, drive a silver dagger through her heart. But, my friend, do not mock her.”

“We would never have escaped from Pellinore if she had the kinds of powers you hint at,” Henri pointed out.

“Nay, you don’t understand,” Rhys said. “In the world of Light her powers are weak. In the world of Darkness, they multiply. In Pellinore Castle are people of God. In Pellinore Castle are a chapel and many praying Christians. Here are the wild things, the hidden things yet unconquered by Christ. Goblins and ghouls thrive here, trolls and pixies plunder the unwary. Even worse, here Satan and his witches brood as they hatch their evil plans.”

“Enough,” said Cord, who’d grown uncomfortable by the talk. Besides, he was having troubling controlling the spirited war-horse. Listening to Rhys frightened him and because of that, it made the stallion nervous and more high-strung. Cord wasn’t truly superstitious. He’d often hunted at night but had never seen goblins or ghouls, trolls or pixies. Maybe they haunted these dark places, maybe they didn’t. On a night like this, however, on the night he’d killed a man, he didn’t want to
hear
about them.

“Is it because of Aldora that you wish to take this strange route?” Henri asked Alice.

Instead of answering, Alice clucked her tongue and rode faster. Later, by starlight and a quarter moon, they turned into the hunting park before reaching the East Village. In the dark they carefully forded the Iodo River near the spot where Old Sloat had died, thereby leaving Pellinore Fief. They entered Clarrus Woods and into the wilds of Wales.

Rhys and Gwen dismounted and soon so did Cord and Henri. The night-creatures padded through the underbrush and the horses could hardly see anymore. Little starlight made it through the foliage, and with the nearly constant sounds of hidden beasts, the four didn’t trust their mounts to remain calm. Therefore, Cord and Rhys forged a path for Alice and for a slumped-over Lamerok, both of whom stayed a-saddle. Gwen guided Alice’s steed, her left hand on the bridle; Henri guided Lamerok’s steed. What little conversation there had been now became nonexistent, or if spoken only in dull monosyllables.

By the time the rising sun streaked the sky they were exhausted.

“We need to rest,” Alice said as she drew rein. They’d followed an old wolf run for the past hour and had finally entered a glade, a small clearing in the woods. By their slumped shoulders and drooping heads it was obvious they couldn’t travel much farther. First, they needed rest and nourishment.

With stiff fingers, Cord and Henri undid the knots that held the big knight in his saddle. As Lamerok clenched his teeth, they carefully slid him out of the saddle and gently laid him on a cloak. The knight’s tightly pressed lips relaxed, and after a time he closed his eyes. Soon he hardly seemed to breathe, as if he’d entered a state close to death. Maybe this was simply the first time in a long while he’d been able to sleep without worrying about a torturer waking him up with fists or his being dragged off to the rack for more stretching.

“I’ll be back,” Alice said. Her features were haggard and wary, although she seemed more relaxed than she had for days. She held a javelin in her right hand and rested her left on her dagger hilt.

“Where are you going?” asked Cord.

“Hunting,” she said. “We brought everything we needed but food.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Rhys, rising from where he sat beside his wife. With a grunt, he strung his longbow and selected four barbed arrows from his quiver. He tramped near Alice, raising his heavy eyebrows at her silence.

Alice nodded before turning toward the thickest part of the woods. She slipped between the foliage and soon disappeared from sight. Rhys followed close behind, moving even more like a wolf than she. The twig-snapping and leaf-crackling sounds soon died away.

The hobbled mounts tore at the glade’s lush green grass. By the signs, deer came here, and wolves and bears if the dried droppings were true indicators. The spoor of man was thankfully lacking.

Gwen stopped brushing her long red hair and sipped water from her skin. They’d filled them in the Iodo. She bade Cord goodnight, then she lay down on her cloak and soon fell asleep. Sebald ambled near, flopping down as he put his head on his paws. During the trek, Gwen had fed him small bits of jerky. She had even given his head a shake and spoken to him in a low whisper.

Anyone who Sebald liked so well, so did Cord. He was happier than ever that he’d released Gwen and Rhys. The more he thought about it, the more the entire night seemed like a dream. He couldn’t believe that he’d beaten brash Sergeant Reynard in combat, freed the tortured Sir Lamerok and taken saddles out of the red pavilion. He’d even stolen Sir George’s prized war-horse. It came to him suddenly that perhaps a knight above all
attempted
impossible feats, and by the very attempt, he often accomplished them. Cord the dog boy wouldn’t have tried what he’d done. Cord the squire had. It brought a satisfied smile to his face and made him feel grand.

“Why doesn’t Alice head straight for Gareth Castle?” Henri whispered.

Cord shrugged.

“She’s made a terrible mistake,” Henri said in a low voice. No doubt, he didn’t wish to disrupt Gwen’s slumber. “We must race to Gareth and bar the gates behind us. Then we can thumb our noses at Guy.”

“A good third of the fighting peasants and maybe half of Gareth’s knights and retainers are with Baron Guy,” Cord pointed out. “Maybe that’s part of Alice’s reasoning.”

“No, that doesn’t matter,” Henri said. “The castle is the important thing.” He expounded on his views but soon lost Cord’s attention.

Cord peered at Lamerok. The big knight groaned in his sleep and twitched from time to time. Just how bad were his injuries?

“Are you listening?” Henri asked.

Cord held up his hand, and then slid beside Lamerok. The knight’s face was a mess. Sir Guy and his men had treated Lamerok roughly. The beard was scraggly because somebody had yanked out sections of it, not because Sir Lamerok had just grown it. Cord noticed old scars under the beard, scars made by sharp blades and by blunt objects such as maces or clubs.

“Sir Lamerok,” he whispered.

The big knight didn’t stir.

“What are you doing?” Henri asked.

Cord gently shook Lamerok. It had no effect. Carefully then, Cord examined the knight’s limbs in the same way he would any of his hounds who’d been injured. He found an abundance of barely healed cuts and countless old scars. When he pressed the flesh to check the bones, to see if any of them were broken, he felt old knotted lumps. It seemed that in the past Lamerok had broken his arms, legs, hands and feet many times. Despite all the minor wounds and old scars, the worst being on his chest—someone had played havoc with a razor—Sir Lamerok seemed fit after a fashion. That is, none of the bones seemed presently broken, not even his ribs. By all the bruises, however, it was quite evident that they had hit him often. Whoever had hit him had really known their work. They’d hit him hard enough to bruise but not hard enough to break bones.

“Are you finished,” Lamerok whispered, opening his eyes as he stirred.

Cord jerked back, startled. “I thought you were unconscious,” he explained. “I tried to wake you, but you were out.”

“Yes, I suppose I was,” Lamerok said, his voice hoarse. “All your damned barbering woke me up again. What’s the matter with you, boy? Can’t you let a man sleep?”

“How do you feel?” asked Cord.

Lamerok scowled. Suddenly, though, the mangled lips curved into a smile. “I feel wonderful,” he said in a terrible whisper. “I’m free.” His eyes, discolored, bloodshot and surrounded by black and blue skin, bored into Cord’s. “I’ve you to thank for that, eh?”

Cord looked embarrassed. He wasn’t sure what he should say. He decided that since he was going to be a knight, he should learn to speak only the truth.

“Actually,” Cord said, “you have the Lady Alice de Mowbray to thank.”

“Oh?”

“She’s the one who told us to rescue you. If you want the truth, Henri and I thought the feat impossible. She browbeat us into it.”

“I don’t remember her being in the dungeon,” Lamerok said. He lay on his back. Slowly, he worked himself up onto his right side and then rested on his elbow.

“She wasn’t in the dungeon,” Cord said.

“Then how did she force you?” the scarred knight whispered.

“She said that she wouldn’t leave the castle without you.”

Lamerok looked perplexed. “Maybe you’d better explain yourself.”

Cord began to speak, even as Henri tried to signal him. “No,” Cord told Henri, “Sir Lamerok deserves to know exactly what occurs and why.”

“Excellent reasoning,” said Lamerok, as he gave Henri a glance.

“Yes, of course,” Henri mumbled.

So as sparrows and starlings flittered about the trees, as robins sang, Cord told Lamerok everything. He told the big knight about Guy, Philip and Bess. He told him how he’d discovered that old Baron Hugh had grown up with his father, Sir Tostig. Because of a few shrewd questions by Lamerok, Cord ended up telling about Old Sloat and telling how he had slain the mighty boar. He also gave Sir Lamerok Henri’s reasoning about why he should help Alice. Lastly, he told the knight about his own plans of becoming a knight.

“Just like Parsifal did,” Cord explained. When Lamerok grinned at that, Cord showed him his father’s golden ring with its lion signet.

“Yes, an interesting tale,” Lamerok said. “Tell me, have you told the noble
Norman
lady her part in it? How she will finance a Saxon’s rise into the knighthood by becoming his wife?”

“What difference does Saxon or Norman make?” asked Cord. “My father was a knight. Surely, that is all that matters. I’ve heard Richard say that knighthood is a universal order. All chivalrous knights of good breeding belong to the order, whether they are from Castile, Lombardy, the Western Marches of Wales or Normandy.”

“Who is this Richard?” Lamerok asked.

“The departed Baron Hugh’s squire.”

“He was a friend of yours?”

“Indeed. He helped us last night. Without him we would never have rescued you.”

“And this Richard, I think, taught you about knighthood?”

“He did,” Cord said, who over the past few days had come to recognize that more and more.

“Knighthood
is
a universal order,” Lamerok said. “All good knights who breathe the art of chivalry belong to it. However, a Norman knight still ranks higher than a Saxon knight, at least here in Merrie England.”

“But why?” asked Cord.

Lamerok chuckled dryly. “It is because of Hastings, my boy. Everything runs back to Hastings. The Normans have never recovered from the notion that they’re better than Saxons. Why else did they make the Saxons flee from the field of battle that day? Why else did God grant them England, and from there Ireland, Wales and now parts of Scotland?” Lamerok sighed. “It is because of Hastings, Cord, that Alice will not marry a Saxon.”

“That was over two hundred and fifty years ago!” Cord cried.

“No matter. The battle was decisive.”

“Normans aren’t better,” Cord said heatedly. “I remember something my father told me long ago. In September of 1106, King Henry crossed the Channel into Normandy. There rebellious Duke Robert and the Norman barons tried to defy the king. The Saxons who fought for the king defeated the Normans at Tenchebrai, and thereby gained revenge for the drubbing at Hastings. My father also told me that since that time the king’s true power left Rouen in Normandy and went to London. Since then the Normans have become more English, much more than they understand. At least that’s what my father thought.”

Lamerok shrugged. “I’ve not heard of the Battle of Tenchebrai.”

“I have,” Henri said. “Cord’s right.”

Lamerok shrugged again. “It matters not. The Normans never lost their arrogance or their control of England. Therefore, the Lady Alice will have been taught that it is ignoble to marry a Saxon. For that reason, Cord, among others, I’d hold off telling her your plans. Wait for the proper moment.”

“Do you think one will come?” Henri asked.

Lamerok grinned slyly. “I do. For it seems to me that the Lady Alice is a planner, a schemer.”

Cord frowned. “You shouldn’t speak ill of her, sir. It was because of her that you were rescued.”

“Which is why I name her a schemer,” Lamerok said. “Still, for your sake, lad, I’ll speak no more ill about her. For I deem you the one who truly rescued me, and for pure and knightly motives rather than for simple gain.”