The Rogue Knight (13 page)

“They burned me,” Richard said.

“I didn’t hear anyone scream, so I wasn’t certain.”

“Scream? I didn’t scream.”

“How did you manage that?”

Richard shrugged as if it was of no importance, but Cord could tell that the squire was pleased by the observation.

“The barber said you did a decent job of binding the wounds,” Richard said.

It was Cord’s turn to shrug. “The Good Lord knows I’ve set enough of my dogs’ bones.”

“Yes, that makes sense.”

“What happened, Richard?” Cord blurted. “How did you fall?”

“That’s the strangest thing,” Richard said. “I can’t remember.”

“Truly?”

Richard grimaced. “The last thing I recall was the sound of Baron Hugh’s horn, the racing boarhounds and my crashing after them. The barber thinks the fall may have knocked the memory out of me.”

“How long will you lie abed?”

Richard shrugged, trying not to look worried.

Cord shifted from side to side, not sure what more to say.

“I want to thank you,” Richard said. “The barber said that because of what you did the wounds probably won’t poison.”

Cord heaved a sigh of relief. If the wounds had poisoned, it would either meant amputation or a slow, agonizing death for Richard. “You’re going to heal all right then?”

“The barber says it’s most likely.”

“That’s wonderful news!”

Richard grinned. “I think so too, and I think in large measure it’s because of you. Believe me, Cord, it’s something I’ll never forget. I owe you. And Richard Clark pays his debts.”

Cord nodded with a smile, and he saw that the strain of talking had tired Richard. The squire needed rest more than anything else. He had learned that from his dogs.

“Maybe I should go,” Cord said.

“Yes, I think I’ll sleep.”

Before Cord could say anything more, Richard’s head lolled onto a cushion. A moment later, he snored. The elderly servant materialized and shooed Cord away. Then the servant pulled the curtain, putting Richard back into gloom.

Cord hoped Richard’s legs healed properly. What this world didn’t need was another cripple. He’d never been in a village without seeing limbless beggars or ones who badly limped. Mostly, though, those in need came to the castle or to the nearby monastery. In fact, soon the familiar beggars would chant outside the drawbridge for alms. Lady Eleanor along with Father Bernard’s lay brother would go there and decide who faked and who deserved help. Bread and boiled meat would be given. Cord grinned ruefully. Baron Hugh had always insisted on giving generous alms.

Cord reminded himself to take an extra loaf of bread tomorrow when he went with the bailiff to Rhys’ place. One-Foot Jake always sat on the trail under the big oak tree. Father Bernard taught that many remissions of sins came from giving alms. Even Philip could be generous, especially, Cord knew, when important people rode with him.

He checked on the younger dog boys, looked once more into the kennel and then thought about what Hob had told him.

Sir Philip had a half share in the fulling mill.

That meant Philip had paid half the outlay in order to build the mill. And he had probably also paid a half-share of compensation to Miller Dan. The law said a man couldn’t build a new mill that would take work away from an old mill. If first mill owner agreed, however, compensation money was paid to him.

Cord put on a hat, picked up his walking stick and whistled to Sebald. With his long stride, he left the castle and started down the hill. He was glad to be out and on his way to see Bess. Sebald barked and romped ahead. Cord laughed and ran after him. It wasn’t long before he came to the mill. He ambled to the main door and peered in.

“Cord!” said Cuthbert. He had a black eye and a bruised left cheek. He must have taken a nasty fall.

Cord waved, and said, “I’m here to see Bess.”

Cuthbert nervously moved his sausage-like fingers.

“Is she here?” Cord shouted, wondering how Cuthbert could have been so clumsy.

Cuthbert opened his mouth, turned away suddenly and watched the hammers fall.

Cord stepped in, shouting, “Is she here?”

“I don’t know where she is!” Cuthbert roared without turning around. “Maybe you should go back to the castle.”

“What?”

Cuthbert faced him, his features redder than ever. “Go away! Bess isn’t here!” He lurched to a trough, and he refused to take his eyes off the beaten wool.

Surprised, Cord backed out of the mill. Normally Cuthbert was as friendly as could be.

“No,” Cord whispered.

Could Philip have changed Cuthbert’s mind? Two weeks ago, Baron Hugh had given them permission to marry.

Cord hurried toward the miller’s house. The more he thought through the implications of Hob’s words, the more it felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach. He ran, whispering under his breath, “Not Bess. No, not my Bess.”

The Tanning Village with its customary sour odor came into view. Cord soon saw the miller’s house with its white picket fence. Like the mill, the huge house had a foundation of stone. It had several rooms, too, just as Cuthbert had several servants. In fact, Cuthbert was so rich that he’d taken to wearing fur-lined garments. He had learned to ride and had even practiced with swords. Bess had told him before that her father was intrigued by stories about
his
father.

“He likes to think of you as a knight’s son,” Bess had told him a month ago.

Cord reached the stout wooden door and hammered on it.

The chief servant, another half-Welsh worker, opened it and frowned. He had clean clothes and several iron rings on his fingers.

“I want to speak to Bess,” said Cord.

“Sorry. Not today, dog boy.”

Cord’s eyes widened. Dog boy, was it? “You listen here,” he said, “I want to speak to Bess.”

“It’s you who’d better listen. She doesn’t want to speak with you.”

“I don’t believe it,” Cord said.

The servant lifted a haughty chin. “Believe what you want, dog boy, but Bess isn’t seeing you.”

“Bess!” Cord shouted. “I want to speak with you. Bess!”

“Go away,” the servant hissed. “Go away or I’ll call the watchman.”

Cord glared at the smaller man. The servant glared back. Suddenly Cord bellowed and shoved the servant into the house, barging in.

“Bess! Where are you, Bess?”

A tiny wisp of a woman stepped into the room. It looked like she’d been crying.

“Bess,” Cord said, striding up to her and trying to take her into his arms.

She slipped away and said, “Leave, Cord. I can’t see you.”

“No,” he said, hurting inside, bleeding, it seemed. “What’s wrong?”

A strong hand clamped down on his shoulder.

Cord turned, knocking the hand away, and glared down at the servant. “If you lay hands on me again I’ll thrash you,” he warned.

The servant, a red-haired man, reached out to push Cord. Cord grabbed the hand as Hob had taught him and twisted so the man cried out. Cord kept twisting and spun the man around, jerking the arm up behind the servant’s back. He leaned down and whispered in his ear, “Go away or I’ll break your arm. Nod if you understand.”

The man gritted his teeth.

Cord twisted harder and hissed, “Nod if you understand!”

The red-haired man groaned as he nodded.

Cord released the hold and pushed the servant. The red-haired man shot Cord a venomous glance. Then he hurried out of the house.

“Bess, talk to me,” Cord said.

Bess stared at him wide-eyed.

“Bess,” he said, stepping up and putting his hands on her shoulders. “I’m going to be the forester. You believe me, don’t you?”

She bit her delicate lip.

“Oh Bess,” he said, the hurt now plain in his voice.

“You’d better run away, Cord. Far, far away so Sir Philip can never find you.”

The bitter words caused him to drop his hands.

“Not you too,” he whispered.

“Trust me in this, Cord. The rumors are you killed Baron Hugh, or that your actions killed him. Sir Philip means to see you hang for that.”

“No,” he said woodenly. “I killed Old Sloat. I’m the forester now.”

“You’re just a dog boy, Cord. Just a dog boy whose father wasn’t a knight but a felon.”

He looked at her puffy eyes and red nose. He ached to hold her.

Her features hardened. “I want you to leave, dog boy!” she said loudly. “Please don’t make me repeat myself.”

Cord turned. The village watchman stood in the doorway. Behind him, with his hands on his hips, stood the red-haired servant. An insane desire to kill both men filled Cord. He reached for his knife.

“No!” Bess screamed, her soft hands on his wrist. “Don’t, Cord,” she whispered. “Don’t, or you’ll hang now instead of having the chance to run. It’s over between us, but don’t let yourself be slain.”

“Over?” he said dully.

“My father and mother say it’s over, so it’s over.”

Cord pulled away. Blindly, almost drunkenly, he brushed past the watchman and servant and fled Cuthbert’s house. Cord ran into the nearby woods.

“Bess!” he howled, and then the tears began to flow.

The next day an hour before noon, Cord found himself beside the Iodo River. Although he heard the fulling mill’s clacking water wheel, a bend in the stream and a clump of trees hid the stout building from view.

Sebald, no doubt tired of waiting for his master, lay down and closed his eyes.

Cord hardly noticed as he stared blank-eyed at the rushing stream. A pressure pushed behind his eyeballs, his stomach felt hollow and his arms hung limply.

A branch came bustling down the Iodo. Cord minutely turned his head and watched the bobbing thing. A few leaves still clung to the wood. The power of the Iodo turned the branch in a slow circle as it moved downstream. Suddenly, the wood clacked against a jutting boulder. The blow deflected the branch, but soon the Iodo resumed its control and turned the wood again as it drifted out of sight.

Cord sighed heavily.

Sebald raised his head. Cord didn’t notice. Sebald barked. Cord blinked several times. Sebald barked again, louder. Cord gave him a glance. Sebald wagged his rump.

Cord stirred and tried to slough off his despair.  All he wanted was to be the forester of Pellinore Fief so he could marry Bess. Was that asking too much? Once he’d been a knight’s son, but the powerful marcher nobles had destroyed his father’s village and had hanged his father like a common criminal when he’d dared to strike back. Cord wondered if they’d done that because his father had been a Saxon instead of a Norman.

No, not
they,
but him— Roger Mortimer of Wigmore Castle.

Cord clenched his hands into fists. He’d served Baron Hugh for nine long years, nine years of training the hounds. Because of Roger Mortimer, Baron Hugh had treated him like a peasant. Because he’d been akin to a peasant, a lowly dog boy, Bess’s mother and father hadn’t thought him good enough to marry her. Oh, but if he’d become the forester.... Oh, yes, they had hinted that
then
he’d be good enough for Bess.

A despairing sneer twisted his face.

‘If Old Sloat is killed,’ the Baron had said, ‘you will be the forester.’ Baron Hugh had even sworn that by Saint Hubert of Liege, his most powerful and binding oath.

His sneer vanished as anger drove away his despair. A grinding rage took its place. Cord clawed up dirt and stones. He hurled the loam into the swift-flowing Iodo River. “No!” he shouted.

Sebald leaped up, with his hackles raised.

Cord panted. His face was red, his shoulders hunched and his body trembling with rage. Maybe he’d lost Bess, maybe he’d even lost the position of forester, but he’d be damned if he’d flee from Philip and allow them to brand him an outlaw. They were taking everything from him. Very well, he vowed here and now to become more than the forester. In his mind’s eye, he saw Old Sloat bloody and dead at his feet.
He’d
slain the old boar.
He’d
been victorious. Now others tried to cheat him as they’d always cheated him.

Whining, Sebald pressed against his leg.

Cord glanced down at the huge mastiff. Their eyes met, and some of the rage drained out of Cord. At least someone, even though he was just a dog, cared about him and could tell that he was troubled. It made the world seem less overwhelming, less uncaring.

Cord stripped off his jerkin, yanked off his boots and knife and pants. Naked, he leaped into the mountain stream. He gasped and plunged underwater. He surfaced with another gasp, took a cake of soap out of his kit and scrubbed himself raw.

He waded out. His stomach still felt hollow, but the cold river bite had helped clear his head. He studied his father’s golden ring tied to the leather thong. It lay on his crumpled garments.

“Now it’s mine,” he said.

Cord cut the thong with his knife and showed the ring to Sebald. Despite all they had done to him, he was still of noble blood. Maybe he’d lived like a peasant most of his life, but he was not a peasant. Sir Philip thought to cheat him of being the forester. So be it. Now he was going to reach even higher. He was going to reach for what was even more his by right than the forester position.

He studied the signet ring as he had countless times before. Upon it was the image of a roaring lion, the King of Beasts.

“You and I slew Old Sloat,” Cord told Sebald, “while Sloat slew the Baron.”

Only a knight could have slain the boar, or one who should be a knight. A chill swept through Cord, a heady realization.

“I
will
become a knight,” he said. He vowed it by Saint George of England as he slipped the golden ring onto his finger. With pride, he examined the lion signet. Fierce determination filled him, and he laughed in a new way. Only then, did he shake Sebald’s wedge-shaped head and don his garments.

***

Cord returned in time for dinner—lunch.

For the folk of Pellinore Castle, and for all of England and Wales, dinnertime was the biggest and most important meal of the day. Since the Baron was dead and Philip had ridden for Gareth Castle, it fell upon Sir Walter to decide where to hold dinner.

Cord strolled over the drawbridge and through the gatehouse, very conscious of the golden signet ring on his finger. He moved toward the sound of ringing steel, walking around the stable and to the small plot of hard-packed dirt beside it. There Sir Walter exchanged blows with a stout lad, a red-faced, freckled boy who wore the same serious expression as the look-alike adult. They wielded blunt swords, practice blades. The boy sweated freely, his mouth open like a landed carp.

Sir Walter swung, missed and stumbled. The lad gave a triumphant shout, clutched his over-sized sword with two hands and hewed at his father. Sir Walter twisted and deflected the blow with a sharp clang of iron. The boy cried out in pain as the sword flew from his nerveless fingers.

Fat Sergeant Hob had once taught Cord a similar lesson. Hard blows, after an extended bout, sometimes stole strength from unwary fingers.

The boy shook his hands as he dodged a thrust from his father, then he dove for the sword. Sir Walter obviously pulled much of the power out of his next swing. Even so, the saw-toothed, blunt sword thudded against the lad’s back. He cried out again and sprawled face-first onto the dirt.

“The victory is mine,” Sir Walter said heavily, breathing hard.

Cord knew that the knight pretended to be more tired than he really was. His eldest son was known to be overly sensitive about his lack of fighting prowess.

The boy arose, with tears welling in his eyes. The blow had no doubt been painful. That, however, was an important lesson for a knight-in-training. He needed to know how to take a fist to the nose, feel the exquisite pain, the explosion of the fear-making sensation and the blinding tears to his eyes. Then, when he’d tasted the dregs of defeat, then he needed to arise, gird up his courage and lift his sword again. To know the cost of defeat and
then
have the courage to fight, ah, that was the knightly test.

“Again?” asked Sir Walter.

The boy hesitated, his face still filled with the fear and anguish which sharp pain can cause. Sir Walter tried to hide his disappointment, although Cord spotted it. Even a knight-in-training must not hesitate to fight when challenged.

“Yes!” the boy cried. “Again. I challenge you again.”

Sir Walter smiled and clapped the boy on the shoulder. More pain crossed the lad’s face, but he didn’t flinch.

Cord suspected, as he had for some time, that this lad had the right fiber. One day, if he wasn’t maimed during training, he could become a worthy English knight.

A tall steward, who had patiently waited beside Cord, cleared his throat as he stepped forward. “Milord,” he told Walter, “the food will soon be ready.”

Sir Walter wiped sweat from his face and accepted a flagon of beer from his groom.

“The day is lovely,” the steward said helpfully.

Sir Walter nodded. “We’ll eat in the garden today. Please give the order.”

“Thank you, milord,” the steward said. He strode away and began shouting orders.

“Another pass, Father?” asked the boy, the blunt practice sword in his hands.

“No. Enough for now. Go wash, then report to the steward. You’ll take Richard’s place.”

“Yes, Father!” shouted the boy. He gave the ragged sword to his father’s groom. Then he hurried after the steward.

Cord silently applauded Sir Walter’s first decision. If the weather was good, he hated to eat in the castle. Out-door dining couldn’t be beaten. He hurried to the kennel, checked the brutes there, and then perked up as the dinner-horn blared three times. He said a few quick words to the hounds before rushing out and joining the throng headed through the gatehouse. People jostled one another as they walked quickly. It had been a long time since breakfast. Appetites were keen and the rules of etiquette rather loose.

The throng headed down the hill, turned off the road before the barbican gate, walked through the jousting yard where the baron had always held his tournaments and moved under the apple trees of the garden. In order of rank, they lined up at the wash tables. Servants held cloths so they could dry their hands after a thorough scrubbing. Burly servants meanwhile set down sawhorses while others laid long planks across them. A narrow cushioned bench found itself before the Knight’s Table, while cruder benches went on both sides of the Retainers’ Tables.

Sir Walter and his wife, plump Lady Martha, took the positions of honor at the center of the Knight’s Table. Lady Eleanor still grieved for her late husband, weeping in the chapel for his immortal soul. At Walter’s signal, the other knights and ladies sat. Then the rest of the throng threw themselves down for lunch. Father Bernard said grace and finally the porters were allowed to set down their steaming dishes.

While this wasn’t a feast day, roasted boar proved to be the main course. Old Sloat had been brought from the forest, been butchered and served. Steaming bowls of cooked beets and cabbage were also set on the tables.

“Please begin,” Sir Walter said.

Cord picked up his trencher knife and grabbed the nearest loaf of bread before the stable boy across from him could. He sawed off a thick slice, slapped it down and then poked a beet with his knife. He gnawed on it as he waited for the meat. Finally, a thick slab of pork found itself on his bread plate. He doused it with gravy and threw some hot cabbage beside it. Using his fingers, but cutting the pork with his knife, he ate reasonable slices and chewed with his mouth closed. Richard had told him the rules of knightly etiquette. The stable boy across the table had both his elbows on the plank and had his chunk of pork clutched between his raised hands. He gnawed off huge pieces of meat and chewed with both sides of his mouth.

“Hey, do you think you’re a knight now?” the stable boy brayed, seeing perhaps the ring on Cord’s finger. Meat spewed from his mouth and grease smeared his lips and chin.

Cord shrugged as he sawed off another slice of pork.

The stable boy gnawed at his meat, grunting because he’d taken too much in one bite.

If Richard had been here, Cord was certain the squire would have nudged him and pointed out the stable boy’s bad table manners. Refined nobles were above such grossness.

Sebald, no doubt growing impatient, nuzzled Cord in the back. Cord tossed the huge mastiff a slice of pork, but he didn’t turn around and pet him. To handle animals while sitting at the table wasn’t knightly. Nor did Cord wipe his trencher knife on the tablecloth nor pick his teeth while at the table. Ever since learning the knightly rules of etiquette, he’d tried to follow them.

The stable boy, after drinking a large amount of beer, gathered a gob of spit in his mouth and spat it across the plank, barely missing Cord.

“Even you know better than that,” Cord said.

The stable boy belched. Then he began to devour his trencher—the gravy-soaked slab of bread he’d used as a plate.

Cord put his trencher into his food sack, tying it to his belt. This afternoon he had to go with the bailiff to Rhys’ place. The gravy-soaked bread he planned to give to One-foot Jake who begged beside the old oak tree along the way.

As he sipped beer, Cord happened to notice Sir Walter’s son, the one who would soon be leaving as a squire to a neighboring baron. The lad stood stiffly. Maybe his back still hurt from the blow his father had given him.

The lad had taken Richard’s position at the Knight’s Table. It would be quite some time before anyone took Richard outside. Better to leave him in the healing gloom, Cord knew. It seemed odd without Richard’s bluff frame hovering by the Knight’s Table. He’d been a picture of refinement and an ever-present example of the Baron’s goodness and ability to teach knightly manners.

Sir Walter’s eldest son made the opposite impression. The lad cocked his freckled face, eagerly listening to what the Lady Alice said to Lady Martha, his mother. Martha nodded, while Alice laughed softly. The boy glanced left. He laughed, too, at something Cord couldn’t see. Cord did see the boy make a comment to Alice, who turned in surprise at the squire-in-training by her elbow. The boy spoke again, loudly, and pointed.

Alice blushed.

Sir Walter caught the exchange. He rose, twisted his son’s ear and whispered a reprimand, or so Cord supposed.