The Rogue Knight (5 page)

“Baron,” said bald Sir Philip, “I’m thinking back to a time eleven years ago.”

“Yes, yes.”

“I think the dog boy grows overbold,” Sir Philip said. “The Earl must not hear of that or it may bring unneeded trouble upon you.”

Baron Hugh nodded sagely, his red-rimmed eyes thoughtful.

Huge Sir Philip said, “Maybe the Baron would allow me to add to the dog boy’s punishment?”

“Speak your mind, old friend.”

Sir Philip said, “Let the dog boy’s offending hand be chopped off, milord.”

The others gasped. Even Harold had the decency to look shocked.

Sir Philip seemed oblivious to them. He was saying, “A surer sign to the other peasants couldn’t be given, milord. Otherwise, I’m afraid, the peasants may think that the slaying of game is a trivial matter to you.”

“No!” shouted Richard. “Only a Turk could say such a thing. The dog boy is a loyal servant. To treat him as you suggest is ill-mannered.”

Sir Philip’s fleshy old face grew mottled with rage. His hand tightened around his sword-hilt as he shifted his stallion toward Richard.

Baron Hugh scowled. “Hold your tongue, Squire. You forget yourself.” He nodded to bald Sir Philip. “Yes, very well. I agree. Now please, good friend, don’t take offense at my squire.”

“But his words, milord, I cannot let them stand,” Sir Philip said, his yellowed teeth clenched.

Cord felt faint, his knees weak. He wondered if he should make a run for it.

“I spoke the truth!” Richard shouted at Philip, his own hand on his sword-hilt.

“Hold!” Baron Hugh roared at him.

Everyone stared at Richard.

“You will keep silent,” the Baron told his squire.

Richard, with fury in his eyes, somehow managed to control himself.

“We will settle this later,” Baron Hugh said to Philip.

“Yes, milord,” huge Sir Philip said. “Later, as you say.”

“And you, dog boy,” Baron Hugh said.

Cord looked up, his face pale, his knees almost buckling. He considered sending his hounds at the footmen and making a break for it. To lose a hand—He tried to swallow. All his thoughts were in turmoil.

“You will lose your offending hand,” Baron Hugh told him, “but only if Saint Hubert frowns upon you and Old Sloat escapes us once more. Only then. For I’ve already spoken in Saint Hubert’s name, yes?”

Sir Philip nodded, although it seemed reluctantly.

The Baron grinned down at the dog boy. “If Saint Hubert smiles upon you, Cord, and you are to be the forester, then you’ll need both your hands.”

Cord managed a sickly grin. He wanted to vomit, but he had to stay strong. Otherwise.... He didn’t want to think about otherwise.

“Yes, milord,” he said.

The Baron shook his long white hair like a haughty wolf. “Release the bloodhounds! Let the chase begin!”

Bloodhounds bayed as they crashed through the underbrush. Cord followed close behind despite the sharp twigs that jabbed his unprotected feet or the occasional thorns that made him curse. Soon the bloodhounds burst through the underbrush and rushed to the edge of the fief’s major watercourse. There they lost Old Sloat’s scent. Two bloodhounds immediately rushed upriver, the other two down. They snuffled through the reeds with frenzied activity, desperate to find the old boar’s trail. Across the Iodo River, the deep green of Clarrus Woods traveled up the hills into Welsh territory.

Richard reigned in his sweating palfrey. It was a highbred stallion but lacked a destrier’s bulk, training and savagery.

“The scent has vanished?” Richard asked.

“Old Sloat must have swum across the river,” said Cord.

“An old boar like Sloat wouldn’t dive into such icy waters.”

“An old boar like him is wily,” Cord pointed out. “Old Sloat heard the jingling bells, the olifants and the bloodhounds. He wouldn’t hesitate to swim across the Iodo. Why do you think he’s lived to grow so big? Because he knows when to flee,” Cord said, answering his own question.

From upon his palfrey, Richard glanced furtively at Cord’s hand.

“I’m going to find him,” Cord said hoarsely.

“Of course you are,” Richard said. “We’ll hunt until he’s dead.”

Cord studied the Iodo River. The water was cold and treacherous. Winter run-off from the Welsh Highlands fed these swift waters. They tumbled later into the Wye, one of the major rivers of Wales.

Thinking of the highlands and Welshmen made Cord glance upstream. Everyone born in the Western Marches learned to watch for raiders at an early age. Mountain-bred warriors who ran from hilltop to hilltop constantly fought the knights who, since William the Conqueror’s time, had marched ever deeper up the Welsh valleys. From his mountain fastness of Snowdonia in northern Wales, Prince Llewellyn had gained control of almost all of free Wales. King Henry the Third of England quarreled with his barons, and in those struggles, the English gave the Welsh their chance. Prince Llewellyn, piece by piece, stratagem by stratagem, year by year, used the many chances offered him. This summer, with rebellious Earl Simon and his allies galloping back and forth through the Marches storming royal castles and towns, Llewellyn had done better than ever.

For a time both squire and dog boy listened to the bloodhounds and listened to the huntsmen crash through the woods. The dogs barked in frustration. The huntsmen cursed. The knights, by their shouting, grew restless and angry.

Baron Hugh, like most nobles, passionately loved hunting. He disdained the taste of ill-fed cattle or garbage-fed pigs. Stags and wild boars, delightful venison, those were the meats he craved. And his boredom vanished when galloping after game. Not even hawking compared to the chase. Only tournaments brought the Baron more joy. But they were such costly affairs. Even worse, since Richard the Lion-Heart’s Decree of 1194, the crown regulated tournaments. There were only five official sites, and one then needed a licensed charter and a personal license to allow one to join in the games.

“Sloat swam across,” Cord suddenly said.

“Old Sloat is too lazy for that,” Richard said.

Cord’s chest tightened. His breathing grew difficult. If the trail wasn’t picked up soon....

“I’m sorry about your hand,” Richard said.

Cord shrugged, not daring to let the squire see the rage in his eyes.

Richard urged his palfrey closer. “Look, Cord, you slip across the Iodo and run for it. We’ll never catch Old Sloat today. Even if we catch him we might not be able to kill him.” Richard paused and then said thoughtfully, “In the forests he’s like a monarch, an invincible king.”

The constriction in Cord’s chest increased.

“It’s foolishness to trust your hand to the slaying of Old Sloat.”

Should he run away? Should he leave the familiar to rush into the unknown? Or should he trust Saint Hubert, who was a French saint?

Most of the knights of England were descended from William the Conqueror’s French Normans. Many
Anglo
-Norman knights had only recently lost their French lands during bad King John’s reign. In fact, French was the first language learned by most of the Anglo-Norman knights. Cord’s father had been of old Saxon blood. He didn’t think a French saint would watch over a Saxon.

“Look at you, Cord,” Richard said. “You’ve got size and strength. Join Prince Edward, or join rebellious Earl Simon. They both need fighting men.”

Cord shook his head.

“If you swung at Old Sloat, if you dared to stand up to that charging monster….” Richard blew out his cheeks. “You’d make a splendid mercenary.”

“No,” Cord said, meeting the squire’s gaze. “If I ran, I’d be declared an outlaw. You know that Baron Hugh has the right to make the judgment he did. He has the right of low justice.”

“But it was such a
foul
judgment.”

Cord said nothing, for what was there to say to that?

“Paugh!” Richard spat. “If I were a knight I’d challenge Sir Philip over it. I’d say: if I win, Cord keeps his hand. If you lose I’ll drive my sword through your stinking guts because of your foul suggestion.”

Cord nodded. Trial by duel wasn’t as common as it used to be, but it was still legal. Usually it was reserved for high justice, for those cases where lives were at stake. Here in the Western Marches the earls, or high lords, had the right of high justice. In their Great Halls they sat in judgment like kings, giving death sentences if they so desired. It was part of their heritage, given them by the King as they struggled decade after decade against the hill-born Welsh. The vassals of these great magnates, like Baron Hugh, were given the right of low justice. To chop off a man’s hand was low justice since it didn’t involve the taking of a life. If Cord ran, Baron Hugh had the right to declare him an outlaw, allowing anyone to kill him on sight. Such a ruling, by custom, would stand in England, and of course it would stand anywhere within the Western Marches.

Richard threw up his hands in exasperation.

Cord pretended not to notice as he listened to the hunt. By their barking, he knew the bloodhounds hadn’t picked up the scent. Cord flexed his hand, wondering what it’d be like to lose it.

“Listen to me, dog boy. If you make a run for it, I’ll help you. I’ve ten pennies. They’re yours if you want them.”

Cord stared up at Richard.

“Damn it, man! Don’t you see that Baron Hugh has decided
never
to make you forester.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, but I speak the truth.”

Cord couldn’t think. All he knew was that he had to find Old Sloat.

Richard shook his head. “Ah, dog boy, you’ve too much pride. Maybe Sir Philip is right after all.”

“Maybe he is,” Cord dared say. Then, with Sebald’s leash in one hand and three boarhounds’ in the other, he threw himself into the cold mountain stream. He gasped, but the chill eased the constriction in his chest. His dogs paddled; he waded. On no account could he let go of their leashes. The bloodhounds tracked. The boarhounds killed. It would be foolishness to let the boarhounds track ahead of the bloodhounds. They might not follow the right scent. The water deepened and his head went under. Icy liquid shot up his nose. He fought down his panic—he’d dealt with such problems before. He pushed off the pebbly bottom, surfaced and kicked with his feet.

He saw that Richard rode upstream along the shore. Cord’s head went under again because he wasn’t able to swim with his hands. If he used his hands, or if he rested his weight on the dogs, their heads would go under. That would panic them, and more than just about anything else he hated to panic his dogs. His head went under a third time and he almost choked. He expelled air, sank to the bottom as he raised his hands high above his head, then he leapt upward and forward. The bloodhounds still barked in frustration as he surfaced. Huntsmen shouted to one another, wondering aloud what had happened to Old Sloat.

“The dog boy’s trying to escape!” a man bellowed.

Cord turned as his scrotum shriveled in fear. Huge Sir Philip, high upon his war-horse, eyed him with hostility from the far shore. The giant knight held a small bow and an arrow against the string.

“Come back, dog boy!” Sir Philip bellowed. “Come back or it’s
you
we’ll hunt!”

Cord could only gape in fear.

A piebald stallion thundered at Philip. Upon the stallion rode the willowy Lady Alice de Mowbray. She wore leather leggings like any hunter, although of a costly purple color. She also wore a fine wool shirt that struggled to contain her breasts, a Welsh mantle and she gripped a javelin. Cord had seen her throw before. Whether mounted or afoot she was remarkably accurate.

“The dog boy escapes!” Sir Philip shouted at her. He raised his bow and drew back the string.

Water gushed into Cord’s mouth as he tried to yell that he merely searched for Old Sloat’s scent.

“Don’t be a fool,” Alice told Philip in a scathing tone. “The dog boy wants the old boar more than you ever will. But it’s I who shall slay Old Sloat!” She urged her stallion through the reeds, in front of Philip and therefore blocking his shot.

As Philip scowled, and Cord spat out river water, her stallion plunged into the stream, spraying water everywhere. She laughed and spurred it forward.

Alice de Mowbray wasn’t a timid, a weakling cowed by hardy knights. In her veins flowed the same hot blood as theirs, the same urge toward adventure and acts of bravery. She too, as a young lass, had listened to the tales of King Arthur of Camelot, Lancelot du Lac and Galahad. She too loved to hear minstrels sing about Sir Roland and the Emperor Charlemagne, and the exploits of her ancestors in the Crusades.

Her father, who had been Baron Hugh’s chief vassal, had owned much land and had lived in Gareth Castle to the west. Her father had never sired any sons. He’d treated her roughly, but he’d taught her to swing a sword, hurl a javelin and ride any stallion. She didn’t ride sidesaddle, either. Few ladies rode that way during a hunt. Nor was it exceptional that Alice de Mowbray hunted. While many noble-born maidens refrained from such adventure, many others loved to hawk and hunt as much as their knightly lords.

Cord was thankful that Lady Alice had decided to hunt today. But for her Sir Philip might have just skewered him with an arrow. His feet touched bottom. He waded ashore and his hounds dragged him through the reeds and onto solid ground. They sniffed around for Old Sloat’s scent. Almost immediately, they barked. The trail had been found.

“Well done, dog boy!” Alice shouted, coming ashore beside him. Water dripped from her leather leggings, but she was otherwise dry high upon her piebald stallion.

Baron Hugh roared orders from the other side of the Iodo. Bloodhounds, boarhounds and huntsmen ran for the spot where Cord had first jumped in.

“I’ll slay Old Sloat,” Alice boasted. “Never fear.”

“Yes, milady,” Cord said.

She laughed again, her teeth white and strong, her pale blue eyes filled with pride. “I’ll cheat old Philip of his sport,” she said. “You then will owe me a favor.” Her eyes lingered on him.

Despite his plight, a sudden heat rose in Cord. He said, “I’ll make a gift of Old Sloat’s hide to you, milady.”

She frowned. “Concentrate on the hunt, dog boy. I merely admire your courage, and that troubling honesty of yours. You should learn to tell your tales with more dissembling.”

Cord nodded as he shifted uneasily. He hated this delay. But he had to wait until the bloodhounds trailed Old Sloat’s scent. The sad-eyed bloodhounds entered the Iodo. Behind them waded the huntsmen. The knights and Squire Richard urged their stallions into the stream next, followed by Harold Watchman and the boarhounds.

Lady Alice rose up in the stirrups, scanning the forest in front of them.

Cord knew that the Lady Alice de Mowbray had been forced to stay at Pellinore Castle against her will. Three years ago, Prince Llewellyn had marched into the valley of the upper Wye. King Henry and Earl Simon had both been engaged in one of their more bitter quarrels. Llewellyn had captured the royal castle of Builth and had besieged many other nearby castles. Gareth Castle, in a night of pillage and slaughter, had fallen before Llewellyn’s butchers. Alice’s father had died swinging his ancestral sword. She, fourteen at the time, had killed her horse galloping the entire night to Pellinore Castle. Weeks later, after the King and Earl Simon had patched up their differences, Prince Llewellyn had marched back into the highlands.

With her mother and father dead, and with no brothers or uncles, Gareth Fief had fallen to Alice. Although a truce had been signed between the King and Prince Llewellyn, Baron Hugh had insisted that Alice stay at Pellinore Castle.

“The Upper Wye is still unsafe,” he’d said.

“But the fief must be protected,” had argued young Alice.

“True. My son will be the
castellan
until such time as I can find you a suitable husband.”

A
castellan
was a knight who commanded one of his lord’s outlying castles. Unlike a vassal, the castellan didn’t
own
the castle and could be replaced at any time for any reason.