The Rogue Knight (12 page)

“Who cares about the long term, especially in a time of unrest?” Philip asked. “Grind a loan out of the Jews. Worry about paying them back after we’ve gained loot. Surely, a chance to plunder will come to us. Earl Simon de Montfort will make a mistake sooner or later.”

Father Bernard shook his head.

“Why, what’s wrong with such thinking?” Philip demanded to know.

“This is a peaceful fief,” Father Bernard said. “Let us treat fairly and honestly even with the Jews. Let us build a future not on blood and rapine, but on hard work and prosperity.”

“Where will Sir Guy find the money then to pay his relief?” Philip asked.

“We must pray to God that He shows us,” said Father Bernard.

“He has,” Philip said with a laugh. “The moneylenders.”

Father Bernard nervously tugged his lower lip.

Alice fingered her crucifix, her fine brows pulled down. “The funeral will be in several days?” she asked quietly.

“Excuse me, milady?” asked Father Bernard.

“The funeral,” Alice asked, “when will it be?”

“When Sir Guy arrives,” Philip said rudely.

“And you go to Gareth Castle?” Alice asked.

“Of course,” Philip said.

Alice nodded. “I have a relic from the Holy Land at Gareth. Father Bernard, do you go to Gareth?”

“No, child, I have too much work to do here.”

“Hmmm,” Alice said, her brow furrowed even more.

“Why do you ask, my dear?” Father Bernard asked.

“I wish to pass the holy relic over Baron Hugh’s corpse,” Alice said. “Its power is strong and I felt that it might help him gain entry into Heaven that much more quickly.”

She saw their questioning eyes. “My grandfather brought it from the Holy Land,” she said. “It’s a piece of the True Cross. It’s kept in Castle Gareth’s chapel.”

“And you would consent to have it brought here?” Father Bernard asked in awe.

“Only with your permission, Father,” Alice said.

“You cannot come with me to Gareth,” Philip bluntly said.

“Are you certain, Seneschal?” asked Father Bernard.

“I’m certain,” Philip said.

“Hmmm, well…” Alice said. “If you had someone who has been on Crusade, I would consent to have
him
carry the relic back.”

“We have no one like that,” Philip scoffed, “and you know that.”

“Ah, but we do,” the bailiff said.

“Who?” asked Philip.

“Yes, who?” asked the concerned Father.

“Sergeant Hob,” the bailiff said.

The assembled host turned and stared at Hob. He poured ale down his gullet. His eyes were red.

“That man was a Crusader?” Philip asked in disbelief.

Hob lowered his jack, a severe frown upon his fleshy face.

“Is that true?” Philip asked.

Hob slowly nodded. Fourteen years ago, he’d gone on Crusade with Saint Louis of France and his knights. It had been the Sixth Crusade, fought almost entirely in Egypt. The city of Damietta had been taken, but in 1249 in the streets of Mansura the crusading host had been smashed and King Louis of France captured and ransomed by the Egyptian Sultan.

“Would you allow Hob to carry the relic back to Pellinore?” Father Bernard pleaded with Alice.

Alice rose and walked over to Hob. The fume of ale was strong about him. While the sergeant was fat, he was also big with broad shoulders. His face was liver-spotted and the veins upon his blob of a nose had broken and webbed long ago. He wore a soiled leather jerkin and stared at her with red-rimmed eyes. Alice knew that something had happened to Hob those many long years ago on Crusade. He never spoke about it, but the something lay upon him like a curse. It was why, he’d once said, that he drank so much. Forgetfulness came with ale and then his heart didn’t beat so heavily in his wicked chest.

“Would you go to Gareth and return with the holy relic?” Alice softly asked him.

Voices stilled as men awaited Hob’s answer. Father Bernard pleaded with his sad eyes.

“This is for Baron Hugh?” Hob asked in his ponderous way.

Alice nodded.

“Then I will do it,” he said.

Father Bernard clapped his hands like a child, while Philip loudly said, “Very well, it’s decided. Hob, you’ll join me tomorrow morning.”

Hob owlishly closed and opened his eyes, then drained his jack.

“Now if you’ll excuse me,” Alice said to the others, “I go to pray for Baron Hugh’s soul. Hob, would you join me? I need to give you your instructions.”

With a grunt Hob heaved himself to his feet. Together, he and Alice left the Great Hall to pray for the soul Baron Hugh de Clare of Pellinore.

Early the next morning, before sunrise, Cord fled the tower. He wheedled bread and cheese from the cook in the kitchen and then moved about the yard, waiting.

Unlike larger castles that had a bailey or outer court and a main or inner court, Pellinore Castle had just the main yard. Around it loomed the stout stone walls. The tower stood at the apex of the triangle of walls, with small turrets at the other two corners. The tight yard was packed with buildings. There was a barracks for the sergeants and men-at-arms, an aviary for the hawks and a nearby pigeon loft. There were stables, a small chapel beside the well and along the wall a smithy. There were storehouses, kennels, cattle pens and huts for important peasants. Pigs roamed the yard, and dogs, cats, a few children and peasants going about their tasks. The noise already made it hard to think.

Cord sat against a section of wall and petted Sebald as he waited. The drawbridge hadn’t yet come down, so it was impossible to leave. The key was to stay out of Sir Philip’s way.

Soon grooms hurried to the stable. Horses neighed, and after awhile Tencendur along with other destriers and palfreys stamped forth. A few small
sommiers
—pack horses—came out too. They were loaded with provisions. At last Cord saw Hob step out of the barracks and trudge to the tower, buckling on his sword belt. Dawn streaked the sky as Cord fell in step with him.

“Good morning, Hob.”

Hob grunted. Sleep lines indented his fleshy face. His thick fingers dug into the corners of his eyes and he popped his jaw as he yawned. He smelled like ale.

Cord liked Hob. The sergeant had taught him to box, wrestle and cast javelins. He’d also shown him how to handle his long knife. Even more than that, Hob talked to him as an equal and he didn’t treat him like a felon’s son.

“I’m in trouble,” Cord said.

Hob grunted again, scratching his belly. He wore the same leather jerkin as he had last night.

“Philip means to see me dead,” Cord said softly. “I think he’s going to tell Sir Guy lies about me.”

Hob stopped and faced Cord. The dog boy was taller and his shoulders just as broad, but Hob was much heavier. The thick face began to move. “You accuse Sir Philip of lying?” Hob asked in a low rumble.

Cord nodded.

Hob massaged his face with his ham-sized hand. “Lad, lad,” he said, “don’t ever say such a thing again. Don’t even think it. It will get you killed.”

“Do you think I’m wrong?” asked Cord.

“What does it matter what I think? Just don’t ever speak like that. To call a knight, the seneschal, a liar….” Hob shook his head. “That’s a foolish thing to do.”

“Letting others lie about me is even more foolish.”

“Then run away,” Hob said.

Cord blinked in amazement. “Run away?” he asked.

“Do it this very morning,” Hob said. “That’s my advice to you.”

“But I’m finally going to be somebody. I’m to be the new forester.”

“You are somebody,” said Hob. “You’re Cord, your father’s son.”

“Yes, a felon’s son,” Cord said bitterly.

Hob laid a gentle hand upon Cord’s arm. “You’re wrong. Your father was a knight, not a felon. Earl Mortimer began the fight between them. Your father was just trying to finish it. His luck was in being the weaker of the two.”

Cord shrugged off the memory, and then said earnestly, “I want you to do me a favor.”

Hob waited.

“Speak to Sir Guy about me. When Philip tells his…. When Philip gives one version of what happened, let Sir Guy know the other version.”

A soft smile stole over Hob’s face.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No, lad. It’s just that you’re the second person to give me such advice.”

“I am?” Cord asked, surprised.

“None of it will help, though,” said Hob.

Cord ignored the sergeant’s pessimism. Others often called Hob ‘the Raven.’ He was known for his gloomy croaks, for his glum tidings and predictions of disaster. Seldom did he smile; mostly he shook   his head. He’d said more than once that the reason why he was so certain that God was real was because the Devil was so utterly evident in the workings of men. Despite that, Cord knew that Hob soul’s was gentle and kind. Maybe that was why Hob had turned so gloomy.

“You aren’t listening to me,” Hob said. “I know of what I speak. Run away before it’s too late. Sir Guy isn’t the man his father was. He enjoys inflicting pain. Philip will play upon that.”

“I’m to be the forester, and then I can marry Bess.”

“Philip has a half share in the fulling mill,” Hob said slowly.

“Cuthbert said that if I’m the forester than I can marry Bess.”

Hob stepped closer. “Go see her, lad. I’m certain the rumors have already reached Cuthbert. But don’t be too cross with her, eh? Bess must mind her father and mother.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“Ah, but you will,” Hob said sadly. “That’s the truth, and it’s also a pity. Run away from here, for Pellinore will never be your home.”

“Old Sloat died. I therefore am the new forester.”

Hob clapped Cord on the shoulder before he hurried to the tower for his breakfast.

Dispirited, Cord returned to his spot by the wall. “He’s wrong,” he whispered to Sebald. “I’ll be the forester. The bailiff said so. This time the Raven croaks from the wrong tree.”

Sebald wagged his tailless rump, which made Cord laugh. He shook off his brooding and hurried to the kitchen. The cook pointed to a corner. Cord picked up a bloody sack and ambled to the kennel, ducking through the small entrance.

The kennel was a low-built building, a rickety affair. Inside were many stalls on either side of a long, narrow lane. The most savage castle dogs lived here. If some of these brutes had been at the hunt, Cord was certain that Baron Hugh would still be alive.

“Hello, my beauties!” he shouted.

The brutes bayed joyously.

Boldly, Cord opened each stall and walked in to wrestle with each monster. Some of the dogs growled with mock-seriousness. Cord only shook their massive heads harder and scratched their ears before tossing them a bloody chunk of meat. He loved his hounds. They loved him back.

Cord picked up two buckets and went to the well. Younger dog-boys cranked the handle and poured water into his pails. All of them feared the savage kennel brutes. None had Cord’s knack, and everybody in the castle knew about Cord’s strange ability with the beasts.

Later, he opened the kennel door to cart one last load. That’s when he saw Sir Philip clanking down the tower stairs.

The knight wore polished chainmail and he’d knotted a red-dyed scarf around his neck. Behind Philip followed the rest of the party. Soon, a dozen armed men and Hob mounted up. Another dozen—a cook, some body servants, two archers and the grooms—shouldered their burdens and hurried as Philip’s steed trotted toward the portcullis.

The iron grate creaked as it rose, while beyond, the drawbridge thumped down onto the ground. The horsemen clattered over the wooden bridge as the servants ran after them.

Cord heaved a sigh of relief. He’d feared another encounter with Philip. For at least a day or two, he’d be safe. He went back to the well for his last load and decided that he’d spend the first half of the morning running the savage brutes around the castle.

He leashed the first four and took them through the short tunnel in the gatehouse, then across the drawbridge. The moat below stank. Greenish scum floated on top, while knots of mosquitoes whined all around. In spring and the early parts of summer, the moat almost flooded because of the melting snow and later from the spring rains. As a child, he’d often caught frogs with the others during those times. Everyone ate frogs legs then. Now, in midsummer, the moat was almost at its lowest, and it was scummy and smelly.

Cord slapped a mosquito that landed on his neck and hurried down the hill.

In that direction was Pellinore Village. It was bigger than the East Village, but not by much. The spring that bubbled inside the castle also bubbled up in the village. The largest building, which was on the outskirts, was Father Bernard’s Church.

Cord began his circuit around the castle. Afterward, he ran up the dusty road and back into the kennel. The panting brutes eagerly lapped their water.

As Cord hurried out of the kennel with his next four dogs, Randal, a small, red-haired page, shouted for him to stop. From a safe distance away, Randal told him that Richard requested his presence.

Cord looked around and spotted two dog boys listening to Henri. Cord grinned. He liked the minstrel, a wanderer who’d been at Pellinore for over a month now. Henri owned a medium-sized, shaggy mutt with outrageously large paws that he had taught to walk on his hind legs, to catch sticks out of the air and to bark on command. Although Henri was Norman-born and a tad arrogant about it, he’d warmed to Cord and had told him much about the world. Even better, Henri had given him priceless advice on wooing Bess.

Cord saluted Henri and spoke to the dog boys. They paled, and each gingerly accepted two of the savage brutes.

Cord squatted on his haunches. “Listen you, don’t give Dan any trouble,” he told the first brute, with the massive head squeezed between his hands. He did similarly with each dog, and then he told the dog boys to mask their fear.

They pasted on fake smiles and headed toward the gatehouse.

“How do you do that?” asked Henri. He was slight of build and had a thin dark mustache.

Cord shrugged.

“Teach me, Cord, and I’ll teach you how to make women beg for your touch.”

Cord laughed. He never knew if Henri was serious or if the French-Norman minstrel merely teased him. Sometimes he thought Henri was lonely, at other times he wondered what dark void lived within the minstrel that sent him scurrying about the world like a vagabond.

“Do you doubt my skills?” Henri asked in his French accent.

“I’ve seen how the scullions watch you and giggle whenever you throw them a kiss.”

Henri nodded tightly.

“But I don’t know what to tell you about dogs that you don’t already know.”

“Ah, Cord. I don’t know how to tame savage beasts.”

Cord stepped closer, feeling a bit foolish. He didn’t like to say this, but Henri, he’d understand. Maybe the truth was that he wanted to let another know his secret. Who better to understand him than a minstrel, a teller of love and mighty deeds?

“I suppose there is one thing I do that others don’t,” Cord whispered.

“Yes?” Henri eagerly asked.

“I love my dogs,” Cord said, feeling his ears burn with embarrassment.

Henri’s handsome face fell. “You
love
them?”

Cord nodded.

Henri considered that. “Not physically, I hope.”

It took Cord a moment to understand what Henri meant. Then his ears burned again, and he didn’t know whether to be angry or ashamed.

Henri gave him a wry smile and clapped him on the back. “I merely jest, Cord. This love, however, what is it?”

“What do you mean?”

Henri made to answer, then shook his head and gave Cord another of his wry smiles. “Go see Richard. He’s asking for you.”

Puzzled by Henri’s reaction, Cord hurried up the tower stairs and told the steward that Richard had asked for him. The tall man waved him on.

Gingerly, because he’d only been on this staircase one other time, Cord walked up instead of running toward the tower’s living quarters. He cleared his throat when he reached the top. One of the servants scowled at him, then ushered him in when another servant said that Richard wanted to see him.

Everyone seemed somber as he entered. Cord tried not to gawk at the tapestries, the rich rug or at the wealth laid about with what seemed to him like disdain. At the sight of the huge curtained bed, however, he stopped and wondered what it would be like to live so. He was acutely aware of the rose scent wafting through the hall, and that he must smell like a dog. He didn’t dare look at his boots, fearing encrusted mud or even dog turds. He cursed himself for being such a fool as not to have cleaned himself first. Then he noticed the burnt flesh smell, and shivered. The barber had no doubt cauterized Richard’s wounds with a hot iron.

“Open the curtain,” came a curt command from within the huge bed.

“Milord, are you certain?” asked the elderly servant.

“Open it!”

The elderly man swung back one of the blue curtains and tied it in place with a golden string.

“Cord!” came the same commanding voice.

Cord stepped closer and saw into the gloom. Richard was propped up with pillows and expensive-looking cushions. His broad face was pale, the sides of his mouth tight, as if with pain. His legs had been re-splinted and the wounds cauterized.

“How are you?” Cord asked.

Richard made a weak gesture. “They bled me before dawn and said I had to stay in the dark.”

Cord nodded. Everyone knew that fresh air and sunshine hindered healing. The curtains had no doubt been pulled so Richard would be protected in the dark and unmoving air. The barber had bled Richard so bad humors could be drawn off. Cord could see that the barber had reset the bones.