The Rogue Knight (18 page)

The question Philip kept asking himself was how to use this foreknowledge to best advantage. There had to be a way.

“Look at that,” Hob said, interrupting Philip’s thoughts.

Philip looked where Hob pointed. The rutted track they followed left the woods and dipped down into a grassy glade. At the end of the glade, about a half-mile away, stood a black and sooty grove. The air smelled smoky and felt heavy, and there hung above the blackened grove the feeling of death and destruction.

“That was an apple grove,” Hob said.

Philip knew the area. “Yes,” he said, “the orchard belonged to a landlord who sides with King Henry.”

“Pillagers did that,” Hob rumbled, his dark eyes scanning the terrain. “The feel of murder is heavy there.” He nodded tightly. “Wrongful killing has been done.”

From the rear of the column came shouted orders. Philip saw men-at-arms rally around a man in a red silk coat. The man rode Tencendur. The big white stallion was the largest war-horse here and carried the frail Sir Guy with contemptuous ease. In moments, a cavalcade of horsemen galloped past Philip and Hob. They rode toward the burnt orchard, Sir Guy signaled Philip to hurry the column after the riders.

Philip rode back and shouted orders. Some of the burly peasants moaned at the increased pace and complained about marching through ashes. They quickly wilted when Philip roared at them. He drew his sword and waved it above his head.

As the column crossed the glade, Hob and Philip rode together at its head.

“What do you think Sir Guy plans?” Philip asked Hob.

The sergeant shrugged his fat shoulders.

“He seems to fear something,” Philip said.

Hob grunted in agreement.

Soon the column left the glade and entered the sooty orchard. About halfway into the orchard they saw Sir Guy pacing his steed. Of the others, the cavalcade, there was no sign, although tracks led outward on either side of Guy, to the right and to the left.

“Does he plan to stop here?” Philip asked in wonder.

Sir Guy made urgent motions. He seemed to be gesturing to the old crone who rode in the lead cart. Guy looked agitated.

As they came into hailing range, Sir Guy whispered in a tortured, almost strangled way—his illness had injured his ability to speak. “Look!” he hissed. “Devils! A mighty flock of devils!”

Sir Philip followed Guy’s quivering, pointing finger. Through the burnt branches above flapped a flock of crows. The crows cawed loudly, and seemed to look down on Guy with abnormal interest.

“Those are crows, milord!” Philip shouted. “Crows come to feast upon carrion.”

Guy turned a thin, almost skeletal face Philip’s way. The young baron-to-be looked terrible. He had lank red hair that hung around his sickly face. The cheeks were shallow and the pale green eyes hollow. A feverish light seemed to shine there. He had a sweaty high forehead better reserved for a Churchman than a wasting fighting man. Guy licked chapped lips, and with bony, huge-knuckled fingers, he tugged at the scarf wound around his thin throat.

At least he isn’t a leper
, Philip thought for what could have been the hundredth time today.
Maybe he’ll conquer this wasting disease
.

Philip didn’t believe that. Young Sir Guy was dying. It was just a matter of time. The trouble was, the wretch seemed so terrified of death that he clung to life with the fever of a mad dog.

“Crows?” whispered Sir Guy. “Those are crows I see?”

Despite his loathing for the man, Philip urged his mount closer. The stallion’s hooves stirred the black ashes that lay like dark snow upon the ground.

“Do you see that, milord?” Philip asked, pointing out a bloated corpse hidden in the ashes. Once perhaps it had been a woman.

Sir Guy peered closely as if his eyesight had dimmed. Suddenly, he jerked back as he hissed, “Knave! What joke is this?”

Philip was too perplexed to be angry at being called a knave. He watched in amazement as Sir Guy turned paler than he’d thought possible and then turn a sickly hue of yellow. Guy swayed in the saddle, trembling, although he managed to bring the huge Tencendur closer. More amazed than ever, Philip watched Guy grind his teeth, as his eyes seemed to expand almost out of their sockets.

“I am your liege!” Guy shrieked, his voice cracking from the strain. “You may not torment me with sick jokes!” He snatched the long leather gloves off his belt and struck Philip across the face.

Philip stared at Guy in shock.

A few of the men gasped, Hob among them.

“You struck me,” Philip finally growled. For all his frailty, Guy had slapped hard, the leather gloves leaving a red mark across Philip’s scar-strewn face.

Guy blinked rapidly, and some of the sickly yellow hue left his skin. Some of the shine seemed to have left his eyes, too, and he looked away from Philip.

“You struck me,” Philip said, louder this time. Anger tinged his words.

Guy opened his mouth and worked his lips, but no sounds issued.

“By all the saints above, you struck me!” Philip thundered. He leaned toward Guy and grabbed a fistful of red silk coat. “Stupid bastard!” he roared. “No man strikes me and gets away with it.”

“You-you-you,” Guy stammered in his eerie whisper, desperately trying to say something.

“Leave him be, Sir Knight. He didn’t know what he did. But he just saved us from them black devils.”

Philip’s lips curled, and his huge fingers clenching onto the silk coat unconsciously tightened.

Toward Guy’s war-horse hobbled the old crone, a hag in a miss-match of brilliant colors. She was tiny, with a riot of gray hair and a rumpled face of wrinkles and warts. Huge copper bracelets jangled upon her bony wrists, while in her gnarled left hand she held onto a peeled stick. Green, red, yellow and strips of purple cloth made up her gaudy gown, while old feet kicked up ashes.

“Release him,” the crone said in a surprisingly strong voice, a rough voice filled with the blunt knowledge of the world. She fixed Philip with a stare of hypnotic intensity.

“He struck me,” Philip growled, still holding onto Guy’s jacket.

“He tried to warn you,” she said. “But you shrugged off his warnings. Next time you’d better listen.”

“What warnings?”

She pointed at Guy with her hickory stick. “He saw them black devils.”

“The crows, you mean?” Philip asked.

She turned, and pointed up at the noon sky. The crows flew in a large circle, their caws quite audible.

“Do you see?” she asked. “Them crows search out for souls to steal. That’s cause they aren’t crows, Sir Knight. Them are devils! Devils, I say, searching for a usurer so they can wing his soul down to Lucifer.”

Many of the men-at-arms crossed themselves at her unholy words. The peasants, who stood further back, moaned in fear.

“If you’d continued riding,” the old crone said, closing upon Philip, pointing her peeled stick at him, “then you’d have ridden under their influence. Then maybe them flying devils would have alighted and snatched away your soul!”

Several of the men-at-arms muttered litanies, while peasants grew pale with fright. Hob reached down into his saddlebags and pulled out the relic that he’d been sent to Gareth Castle to fetch. He bowed his fleshy face and whispered prayers up to Heaven.

Philip’s grip loosened, although he hadn’t yet let go of the red silk coat.

“So what was his lordship supposed to do?” the old crone hissed. “Let you lead us into damnation?”

“No!” shouted one of the men-at-arms.

“So he slapped you,” she said. “Slapped you to try and save you.”

Philip curled his lips again. “You slapped me!” he shouted at Guy, shaking the thin man. “If you ever do that again I’ll run my sword through you.”

“Release him!” shrieked the crone, leaping forward like a cat as she swung the stick against Philip’s hand. Her aim was remarkably good.

Philip yelped and snatched back his hand. Then his face turned scarlet. He drew his sword and turned his mount toward the crone.

“If you strike me,” she hissed, “I’ll curse you.”

“Not if I kill you first!” Philip snarled.

“No,” Guy whispered. He, too, drew his sword and turned to face Philip. The horsemen who had come with Guy from Gareth Castle (who had ridden out but had been quietly falling back as the column moved up) drew their swords and urged their mounts toward the huge Pellinore knight.

“You may not harm Aldora,” whispered Guy. “She’s all that keeps me from Death’s door.”

“She’s a witch,” shouted Philip.

“No. She’s a holy woman.”

“She’s bewitched you.”

Guy shook his overlarge head. At least it seemed so perched upon his thin neck. “She sees things that we cannot.”

“It was you, lord, who saw them devils,” Aldora said from behind Tencendur.

Guy smiled savagely. “Yes,” he whispered. “I knew they were devils. That’s why I stopped and sent the others to check the rest of the orchard. The crows flew with too much malice, not as mere carrion-eaters. Their cries grated upon my ears and sent shivers down my spine. I was certain the devils tried to trap us.”

“Ah, lord,” Aldora said, as if impressed. “You’ve a keenness about you. You saved us from harm.”

“There. You see?” Guy asked Philip.

Philip slowly lowered his sword. Yes, Philip saw all right. The old crone was sly, and young Sir Guy was terrified of dying. Well, maybe he’d be frightened too if he had to die so young. But why think of dying? That was a long way off. Old Baron Hugh was dead. Now he could go back to Tarn Tower out by the moors, or he could make friends with this sick skeleton of a man who couldn’t even wear chainmail, and use him somehow.

Philip calculated many things quickly. The fulling mill was only one of those things. Young Sir Guy wouldn’t live forever no matter what the witch did. Who would take control of the fief then? And if it wasn’t him, then maybe he could persuade Guy to give him Alice. Her lands would be enough for his grand plan, one that came to him that very moment. He would build a mighty fief.
He
, Philip Talbot, would become a baron. He would become Earl Roger Mortimer’s most important baron.

He stifled a gleeful laugh. Power seemed to flow into him because of his decision. Baron Philip! What a grand ring that had. Better by far to remain friends with Guy, or at least learn how to control him as Aldora did, than to fight to the death now. Philip smiled. Even if she was a witch, Old Aldora wasn’t stupid. Maybe she could be made to see reason. Philip sheathed his sword.

“Milord,” he said to Guy, holding out his hand as he controlled his disgust, “you surprised me. Never have I been struck without striking back. But then never did devils in the guise of crows come hunting for my soul. I suppose I should thank you for your vigilance.”

“You aren’t angry with me?” Guy whispered in his tortured way.

“Let me tap your cheeks in order to satisfy my honor, milord, and then we can forget this little incident.”

“Yes, of course,” whispered Guy.

Philip, hiding both his disgust and his gleeful resolve, moved closer with his mount and touched Guy’s checks with his gloved fingers. In his mind, he struck Guy savage blows, killing him, taking his barony from him. He felt a pang of guilt knowing that this was Hugh’s only son. No! This was a freakish skeleton-man, somehow kept alive by the powers of that witch.

“Now you, Aldora,” Philip said, knowing deep within himself that he must conquer her too. “Now you must feel the flat of my sword, although only lightly. I realize that you struck in defense of your lord.”

The old crone eyed Philip and flinched when he touched cold steel upon her neck. Soon Philip sat calmly in the saddle again, even though his stomach churned at being so near Guy.

He asked, “Do we continue on to Pellinore?”

Guy shaded his eyes against the sun, watching the crows. “They don’t seem to be flying farther away,” he whispered.

“Then let us camp here,” Aldora suggested.

Guy appeared not to hear, but soon he whispered, “I think we’ll stop here. Grooms, pitch the pavilion.”

Men hurried to unpack the carts.

“Milord,” said Philip, “shouldn’t we find a greener spot, not in all these ashes?”

“Maybe go back a half mile,” Aldora said quietly.

Guy soon gave the orders to march back a half mile. None of the men-at-arms or peasants grumbled. They all appeared content to put distance between themselves and the frightening flock of crows.

It was only as the main tent went up and most of the mules were tethered that the bad news hit. The scouts returned with news of a large force of horsemen. A second scouting showed that the enemy outnumbered them in the most important category, knights, about three to one.

After the scouts made their second report, Sir Guy staggered out of his huge red tent and whispered hoarse orders. The knights, squires and sergeants mounted up and moved in front of the parked carts. Then Guy motioned to the peasant footmen, who sullenly lined up behind the horsemen.

A groan escaped Guy’s bloodless lips. “I’m ruined,” he whispered. He wrapped thin hands around his boney shoulders, hugging himself.

Philip urged his stallion out of the line of horsemen. “Milord!” he called.

Guy turned haunted eyes upon him.

“If you’ll allow me, I’ll prepare the defenses for you.” He’d seen Guy’s fear and knew that energetic action was needed. An armed mob, which is what the peasant footmen were, fed off a commander’s emotions. Even knights and sergeants could quickly become dispirited at Guy’s antics. Philip wondered if Guy’s sickness had poisoned his mind and therefore his thinking. It would explain much.

Guy bit his lip. Then he turned and whispered urgently to Aldora.

The old crone rattled her bracelets and made strange passes through the air with her stick. She eyed Philip. Finally, she said something to Guy. He laughed sharply. A moment later Aldora joined in, making a harsh, cackling sound.

Before Philip could react, Guy nodded and whispered, “Yes. Prepare the defenses.”

Philip was certain they’d laughed at him. It enraged him. He roared orders at the peasants, sending them into the nearby woods behind them. Then he rode in front of the horsemen and bellowed more orders. He straightened their ranks. Pointing at a keen-eyed squire, he told the youth to take the fastest mount and station himself at the edge of the burnt orchard, the one ahead of them.

“Only return once you
see
the enemy,” Philip told the squire.

As the youth trotted across the half-mile wide glade, Philip dismounted and strode toward the woods where he’d sent the peasants.

Sir Guy stopped him near the tent. “Shouldn’t we all retreat into the woods?”

Philip shook his head.

“If we’re in the woods, the enemy knights won’t be able to charge us,” Guy whispered.

Philip had fought in forests before. He hated it. Men sneaking up, trees and branches blocking sword-swings. One part of the army would be unable to see the other. He made a face. Forest warfare was confusion and chaos. The peasants would melt away as soon as the enemy attacked. No, he wanted the peasants in a palisade, no matter how crude it was, as much to hem the peasants in as to give them courage to stand and fight. He didn’t care to explain all that to Guy, however. All he wanted was this skeleton-man to get out of his way so he could organize this hodgepodge force into something that could survive the day.

“You should rest, milord,” Philip said. “You look weary.”

Guy limply waved his arm at the parked carts. “All I own is there. If I should lose today….”

Then you’re doubly foolish to have laughed at me
, Philip thought to himself. “Rest, milord. When the time comes to fight, I’ll send a squire to inform you.”

Guy nodded wearily, plodding back toward his tent.

Philip breathed easier. Guy sickened him, made him feel unclean. Philip studied the edge of the woods. The peasants half-heartedly swung at the trees. He stamped toward them, making his cape swirl.

“Put your backs into it, you dogs! Chop enough trees and you’ll be safe from the enemy. If you fail, sharp steel will hack into your guts.”

Wood chips flew as the rhythmic thud of axes increased. Soon a man roared “timber” and a gnarled oak tree crashed to the ground. Philip strode there, propelling peasants toward the branches.

“Lop those off, lads. Give me a tree I can use.”

The sweating peasants hewed with a will. One by one, the thick branches fell off the fallen trunk. Philip showed the waiting carters where to haul the biggest limbs for the defensive perimeter. The carters lashed ropes onto the wood and cracked whips. Mules brayed and dragged the heavy branches, which made furrows in the soil. Soon another tree fell. Philip strode there, knowing that his presence made the peasants work harder.

Their initial ardor soon wore off, however, and Philip couldn’t be everywhere at once. Soon it seemed that every peasant stood beside a tree, half-heartedly chopping branches.

Philip strode to the horsemen. They waited in the sunlight where Guy had positioned them, well ahead of his tent and the parked carts. The horsemen sweated in the noon heat and talked among themselves, bragging about what mighty feats of arms they’d soon perform. There were six knights and squires and sixteen sergeants.

“Dismount,” Philip said. “Let your horses rest so they’re strong for the fight.”

“What if the enemy suddenly charges across the glade?” asked a Gareth knight.

“Charge the full half mile?” Philip sneered. “No, we’ll have enough time to mount up. Let the grooms feed the stallions. Then I want all of you to eat and drink. Then go sit under the trees, in the shade.”

Philip marched to the big red tent, to the area in front facing the burnt orchard. It was where the carters had dragged the branches. He drove the cooks, a minstrel, a dwarf and the handful of female camp followers toward the pile. He made sure each had at a dagger and the cooks their hatchets.

“Take the straightest branches and give them sharp points,” Philip told them. “Don’t worry about hacking off twigs or minor branches, either. Just give me stakes that I can plant in the ground.” A few of the cooks complained. Philip cuffed them and told them to obey orders. Then, to ensure that they kept working once he left, he yelled for the youngest squire to come and watch them.

“Don’t let them dally,” Philip said.

“What if they do?” asked the squire, a youth of sixteen.

“Then kick them in the arse!”

The squire grinned with delight, rounding on the cooks and shouting for them to hurry up.

Philip paused beside a food cart, drinking thirstily from an ale skin, and gnawing on salted beef. Then he strode back into the woods. Six felled trees were ready. The carters lashed ropes to the big trunks and began hauling them out one by one. At Philip’s orders, the peasants had left the stubs, giving the trunks a spiked look. He peered across the glade and at the burnt orchard. There was still no sign of the enemy.

How much longer will they give us
?
Should I rest the peasants or keep them busy? If the enemy shows up now, the peasants might all run away, seeing how they’re already in the woods.

“You, you and you,” Philip shouted. “Take your men back near the tent. The rest of you give me three more trees.”

The selected peasants marched with Philip. He set them to work planting sharpened stakes. He showed them how he wanted the stakes angled.

“If a horseman tries to force his way past these, he’ll impale his mount.”

A few of the smarter peasants nodded in understanding. Philip put those in charge of the others.

He wiped sweat off his face as he showed the carters and the remaining peasants how he wanted the tree trunks laid. The four biggest trunks went out in front. The other two he had laid on the sides. When two more trunks arrived, he had the men put those on the sides as well.

After another twenty minutes of hard work, a knight roared, “The squire’s coming!”

Philip looked up. The youth lashed his mount, galloping across the half-mile wide glade. Almost immediately, Philip saw the enemy host trot out of the burnt orchard.

Philip held himself steady, trying to count the enemy horsemen. Their own ‘army’ contained about eighty men, if he counted everyone including the cooks. The enemy had about two-thirds that. The enemy, however, were all knights, squires and sergeants and were all mounted.

Sunlight glittered off their mail. Tall banners waved, and they moved with confidence.

“It’s Earl Robert de Ferrers of Derby!” cried the keen-eyed squire.

A knight, who’d clanked up to Philip, cursed with fear. “Robert de Ferrers. What chance do we have now?”

“We have plenty of chances,” Philip snarled. “So hide your cowardice and rally the men.”

“Cowardice?” spat the knight.

“Do you fear Robert de Ferrers?”

“When he has so many heavy horsemen behind him I do. All we have is rabble.”

Philip shouted at Hob. He trusted the fat sergeant to fight. He sent Hob into the woods, telling him to return with the rest of the peasants. Then Philip turned back to the knight.

“We can beat Robert de Ferrers. He’s too proud, too filled with ideas of valor and nobility.”

“You’re a fool if you think so,” said the knight. “Robert is a true son of chivalry. Your tiny fort of tree trunks will only make him laugh and spur him on. I know, de Ferrers. It’s said he almost unhorsed Prince Edward in France during tournament season. Only a valiant knight could manage such a feat.”

“Will you run away?” Philip asked the knight.

The knight scowled, putting a hand to his sword hilt.

“No?” asked Philip.

The knight half drew his sword, the slur to his courage angering him.

Philip clapped the smaller knight on the shoulder. “No, you won’t run, old comrade. I can see the determination in your eyes. Go mount your steed and marshal the horsemen over there, to the left side of the tent.”

As the angry knight shouted for his stallion, Philip strode among the footmen, physically grabbing them and putting them behind the tree trunks. “Stand here, soldier, and don’t move! If the enemy draws near, pray to God and hew with all your strength.”

Hob soon herded footmen out of the forest.

A quick glance showed Philip that about a third of those peasants had already run away. He was thankful that Hob had brought him as many peasants as he had. He debated with himself, wondering if he should stand with the peasants by the tree trunks in order to bolster their courage, or mount up and wait with the cavalry. He watched the enemy cavalry. They didn’t seem to be in any hurry to charge across the clearing and attack his simple fort.

Philip stayed among the tree trunks, shouting encouragement to the nervous peasants. Maybe three dozen stakes stood in front of the trunks. It was a paltry number, hardly enough to deter a determined foe. Another dozen stakes and shovels lay where the cooks and camp followers had dropped them. Those people now huddled near the big red tent, moaning in fear and calling out to Sir Guy to save them. Philip shouted at Hob, telling the fat sergeant to shut them up.

“Look at that, lads!” Philip shouted at the peasants around him. “The enemy fears to rush us.”

Peasants peered doubtfully at him.

“The war-horses will impale themselves on the stakes and break their legs if they try to jump our tree trunks,” Philip said. “Then all we have to do is stab fallen knights through their eye slits.”

Some of the peasants muttered. One or two laughed grimly.

“I forgot my spear in the woods,” a man yelled, moving away from the front rank.

Philip drew his sword and roared at the man to hold his post. The peasant wavered. Philip stalked toward him, telling the man that cowardice brought quick death, but bravery eternal life in Heaven. The peasant paled as the tip of Philip’s sword touched his chin.

“What’s it to be?” Philip asked, ready to drive his sword through the man if he chose wrongly.

“I’ll fight, milord,” the peasant whispered.

“Then yank out your knife, fool, and face the enemy!”

The peasant almost cut himself in his hurry to obey.

“Here they come!” shouted another peasant, a burly fellow who gripped his spear with resolution.

Philip turned toward the enemy. The enemy riders had dressed their ranks, forming two lines. The knights and older squires formed the first line, the sergeants the rear one. At a slow walk, the horsemen approached.

“We’re doomed,” a peasant wailed.

Philip strode to the man and slapped him with the flat of his blade. “Start singing the Holy Standard!” Philip roared.

The footmen glanced at him in bewilderment.

“Sing, damn you!” Philip shouted. He began to sing.

At first only Hob sang the martial song with him. Then a few of the braver peasants began singing. The others took heart, and they sang.

“That’s it,” Philip laughed. “Show them that you’re brave.”

He studied the enemy. Big knights in mail armor astride huge stallions loomed before them. Earl Robert de Ferrers’ banner waved proudly over the mailed host: the furrier, rows of wavy lines representing furs. Sunlight glinted upon the shiny armor, polished to a hurtful sheen. The huge stallions snorted and pawed the earth. The array of lances, still pointing skyward, looked like a small forest of pines. Once those lances came down and trumpets pealed....

Sweat slicked Philip’s armpits. His stomach fluttered. He hoped most of the peasants had never been in battle with knights before. A man who didn’t know what could happen, would be braver than one who’d felt the shock of battle.

The singing died down.

Then one of the enemy knights detached himself from the host. He spurred his brown stallion, trotting toward them. He had no lance, but waved a large white cloth. He wore a great helmet and had a huge sword strapped to his side. The stallion seemed to sneer at them, cantering as only a proud war-horse could. The broad-shouldered knight reined in his mount, halting a spear’s throw before the tree trunks. He removed his helmet and revealed an open face with a triangular-shaped red beard and a thick red mustache.