The Rogue Knight (25 page)

Alice waited, trying to judge their faces. This might be her last chance to escape before Sir Philip and Guy returned. Too many days had passed, that’s what her heart said. It was an ill omen. Guy would do her no favors, she knew, neither would Philip. She remembered the bald knight’s oath in the forest, with Old Sloat hardly dead. If she could return to Gareth Castle, with Guy the Seneschal gone, then she was certain she could rally her knights. Oh, things would be different then. As the ancient law said: Possession was nine tenths of ownership.

“Milord! Milord!” cried Cord. He came bursting into the Great Hall, several big dogs barking beside him. Cord only needed a moment, and then he rushed toward them. “Herons!” he shouted. “I’ve spotted a flock of herons!”

Herons were one of the fastest prey. Falcons were generally used to fly against them. Since falcons were the most loved, having herons for prey was a prized event.

Lady Martha clapped her hands. “Quickly, let’s gather our birds and hunt them down.”

Eleanor stirred.

“What say you, milady?” Martha said, clamping her hands onto Eleanor’s right arm.

“Yes, why not?” Eleanor said. “Let us hawk.”

“A splendid idea,” Sir Walter said, rising. He clapped Cord on the shoulder. “Get some of your water hounds, dog boy, and meet us at the drawbridge.”

“At once, milord!” Cord said, hurrying out without a glance in Alice’s direction.

“What about me, milord?” Alice asked. At first, she and Henri had wondered if she should just saddle up in this happy event. In the end, they had agreed that she should ask.

“The Seneschal ordered you to stay in the castle,” the bailiff said.

“I know,” Alice said heatedly. “And now I’m bored to tears with nothing to do. Look, I’ll be in your company. What could possibly happen that Philip wouldn’t approve off?”

The bailiff glanced at Sir Walter.

“They’re overdue,” Alice said. “Am I to be a prisoner the rest of my life?”

“Oh let her hawk with us,” Lady Eleanor said. “I’m tired of seeing her mope about the castle.”

Alice’s heart leapt with joy. She could have hugged old Lady Eleanor.

“The Seneschal gave us precise orders,” the bailiff said, if seemingly reluctantly.

“He’s overdue,” Eleanor said.

“Yes, but—”

“No! I am the Baroness!” Eleanor said. She smiled at Alice. “Look at her, all eager to hawk, and Jael ready and eager to catch the herons. She can ride near me. I’ll watch her.”

“Very well, milady,” the bailiff said.

Alice couldn’t believe it. She was actually going to be given the chance to escape. She felt badly for Lady Eleanor’s sake. Yet by what right had they kept her prisoner here these last few years?

Alice coaxed Jael onto her gauntlet. Then she strode to the stable to have her swiftest stallion saddled. Her heart pounded heavily and her mouth was dry. Her chance had come.

Cord the dog boy ran ahead of the others, leading them down the fief’s major road. It was a narrow, dusty lane with potholes everywhere that led them west through the trees. Still, despite its switchback route, the road took them toward the fief’s single bridge. Alice had instructed Cord to take them there. At least he would do
that
.

Alice rode in the rear of the lively throng, astride her swiftest stallion, Arthur. He was black with a white rump and had the habit of tossing his proud head and nickering whenever she pulled the reins too tightly. Hence his name, for he acted like a king. He wanted to be at the head of the throng, cantering beside Sir Walter’s big stallion. Both the stallions were palfreys; both, however, seemed to think of themselves as something special.

Sir Walter and the bailiff had changed out of their armor and into hawking clothes: bright finery with fur-lined capes. The women likewise wore finery, with tall cone hats that had scented scarves dangling from the pointy tops. The scarves twisted in the breeze, while the ladies held up their wrists with their favorite falcons upon them.

A knot of servants followed, usually having to trot in order to keep up with the mounted gentry. Some of the servants carried bags, others hawking lures and dummies and others still a few extra birds in case different prey should be spotted. The Chief Falconer, although a peasant, rode an old packhorse in order to keep up with the gentry. He was a wizened dwarf of a man, an inch less than five feet. He had grizzled stubble for hair and a patch over his right eye, long ago lost to an angry goshawk. His father before him had been Pellinore Fief’s chief falconer, as had his grandfather, who had won the post by taming a monstrous sea eagle used later to hunt wolves. The one-eyed Chief Falconer kept up a running commentary to Lady Martha. The plump noblewoman drank in his wisdom. She’d been known to slip him a penny here and there when her birds preformed some extra-special feat. He’d responded enthusiastically and had taken a shine to Lady Martha.

Bringing up the rear of the throng were two mounted and well-armed sergeants. The bailiff had added them, saying that one couldn’t be too careful now that Earl Simon had gained control of the Severn. Because of his wonderful tale, Henri rode a mount. Lady Martha had said that maybe if the minstrel saw
their
hunt, that he’d make a story out of it. Alice had considered that a godsend, and a good omen for her escape.

What worried Alice was that the first objective had been achieved almost been too easily. She rode Arthur and was now outside the castle. In her saddlebags was salted beef, while two water-skins were wound around her cantle. She wore a long dagger at her belt, had one hidden in her tall boots. While she didn’t have a bedroll, her unstrung bow was secured to the saddle and several strings of catgut were in her pouches. A quiver with twenty barbed arrows slapped against Arthur’s side. Her weapon wasn’t the long Welsh bow so loved by the Southern Welsh, but a small hunting bow. Maybe she should have taken a crossbow. Lady Eleanor had one and she surely would have lent it to her. The crossbow was a deadly weapon that at close range could pierce chainmail, but was heavy and unwieldy. The small bow would be more useful against outlaws and the like, the more probable threat.

Besides, there was no sense in berating herself for not having a crossbow. She had to concentrate on the second goal: That of crossing the toll bridge. Unfortunately, that was up to Cord. He had to convince the others that the herons had moved on from where he’d first supposedly seen them.

Crossing the toll bridge was all-important.

The Western Marches were a mix of small valleys divided by hills and mountains. The merchant routes through the valleys usually followed major rivers. To reach Gareth Castle one could follow the Wye River, which the Iodo River eventually drained into. There was a secondary route, one used by many merchants and pilgrims when they made their yearly journey to Canterbury. This route used Pellinore’s toll bridge. From there one followed a dusty track that led through a pass, over some rounded hills and then down into the Wye Valley.

The toll bridge, which Bridge Village had been built around, was one of the sturdiest bridges in Wales. Usually bridges were rickety affairs of wood, only haphazardly kept up. Pellinore’s toll bridge had a legendary past. It had been built of stones and was a squat arch bridge that spanned the raging and fast flowing Iodo River. The old legend said that the ancient Romans from the dim and misty past had built this bridge. In fact, it had been an important bridge then, for the famed legions that had swept through ancient Wales had used paved roads and stone bridges to out-march the unruly pagans of that time. Apparently, in that time this area had contained a particularly warlike tribe, hence the need for a good stone bridge that would be difficult to destroy.

The toll bridge had been another of Baron Hugh’s sources of income. For a passing traveler, for one on foot, the toll was one groat. For anyone mounted, driving a cart or for a Jew afoot or riding, the toll was more. Pellinore folk could freely use the bridge, although the bridge guards had to first wave them on.

“Dog boy!” the bailiff shouted.

Cord slowed and glanced back.

“Are you truly telling us that you raced uphill all this way to tell us about herons?” the bailiff asked.

“I saw herons!” Cord shouted.

“Yes, but all the way down here?” the bailiff asked.

Alice held her breath. Henri, who rode near, seemed to sit stiffly in the saddle.

The wizened dwarf of a Chief Falconer gave a hearty shout. “Milords! Ladies! Look!”

Three herons flew swiftly over the Bridge Village. Alice and Henri glanced at each other in amazement. Too much good luck too early meant bad luck in the near future.

Cord pointed at the herons. “What did I tell you?”

Cord’s brazenness startled Alice. After all, he’d made up the entire story. Then she smiled. Surely, Cord had been wise enough to tell them about herons he’d seen in the past. He no doubt took them to a place where he’d expected to see herons, or where there would be a good chance of spotting some.

The bailiff shook his head. “You’ve the endurance of your hounds. How else can you run for so long without becoming tired?”

“Do we give chase, milord?” asked Cord.

The bailiff studied the herons, which flew across the boiling Iodo River and toward a stand of marsh about a half mile away on the other side.

“It’s farther than we planned to ride,” the bailiff said.

“Let’s go!” shouted Lady Martha.

The wizened Chief Falconer nodded vigorously and seconded her opinion.

“Onward!” Sir Walter shouted. He touched a prick spur to his palfrey and galloped toward the center of the village. The others followed, many of their birds screeching at the increased pace.

The Bridge Village was the biggest of Pellinore Fief’s villages. Stables stood ready for travelers’ horses and mules, while inns beckoned them to stay and rest or to throw darts and get drunk. Seedy beds where as many as ten customers slept at a time contained hordes of lice and far too many rats and mice for the cats to destroy. The food was good and Baron Hugh had never allowed the innkeepers to overcharge the travelers or to play the more common tricks upon them, such as a harlot stealing a man’s money after he fell asleep, or the seizure of a guest’s baggage, on the pretense that the man hadn’t paid. After Baron Hugh hanged a dishonest innkeeper, the others plied their trade honestly.

The best farmland lay around the Bridge Village, and the most prosperous farmers lived here. Many of the homes were as big and as sturdily built as Old Alfred’s, in East Village. In the center of town, close to the toll bridge, stood a tall stone church, the fief’s biggest. Because of its importance, a wooden wall had been built around the Bridge Village. Houses had been built beyond the wall, but the very center of town, and the toll bridge, were protected after a fashion.

Cord led them through the gate, nodding to the leather-clad swordsmen. The hawking party clattered over the toll bridge. Below, the fast flowing Iodo River shot under the spanning arch.

Alice’s heart began to thud as she crossed the bridge. This was it. There was no turning back…. Well, she could forgo the escape attempt. But what would Henri and Cord think? She wiped her brow, thinking about how she and Henri would be all alone on the road to Gareth Castle. They needed Cord. Too many highwaymen infested these routes, and too many knights and their retainers would be aboard now that the Western Marches seethed with rebellion. The tall dog boy with several of his brutish charges, yes, that would make many men reconsider.

Cord killed Old Sloat
, Alice told herself. No one else had ever been able to do that. Not Baron Hugh even though he’d tried countless times, not even huge Sir Philip who had slain many a bear with only a boar spear and while afoot.

“Damn him,” Alice hissed under her breath. Why had she ever asked the dog boy for his help in the first place?

“Are you still game?” Henri asked, who rode beside her.

“Of course I’m game,” Alice said, but truly, she was scared. This was the most hazardous thing she’d ever tried to do. She was escaping from her rightful liege, evil though that liege might be.

No, he isn’t my liege yet
.
Until Guy pays his relief to Earl Mortimer, he’s not yet the baron. So what I need are stout stone walls and a company of knights and men-at-arms. Then we’ll see whose liege over whom
.

“This will be risky,” Alice whispered.

Henri nodded tightly.

The hawking party left the Bridge Village behind and moved toward the marsh. It was soggy ground that abounded with bushes and tall reeds. The trees here had long ago been hewn down for the town’s use.

“Send in your hounds!” Sir Walter shouted.

Cord unleashed two dogs and gave them orders. Barking wildly, they plunged into the marsh and disappeared from view.

Alice, Martha and Eleanor doffed their falcons’ hoods and they ranged themselves in a semicircle. The two knights slipped to the side, giving the ladies the first chance. Behind the ladies waited the servants. The Chief Falconer sat astride his small steed and near Lady Martha. He kept whispering advice, which from her nods she gladly took.

“There!” the wizened falconer hissed.

Alice looked to see where he pointed. Lady Martha shouted triumphantly and threw up her arm as she shouted, “Kill!”

Her falcon snapped into the air as a heron lofted from the marsh. Like an arrow, the falcon flew swiftly, its wings beating the air and its silver bells tinkling.

Along with the others, Alice held her breath as she watched the sleek bird of prey wing toward the heron. Suddenly the heron cried out in fear and veered sharply to the left, increasing its rate of flight. The falcon flew even faster, gaining speed all the time. The heron desperately flapped its long wings. Behind it, the falcon screeched. Then, in a sudden flurry, the falcon’s sharp talons raked the heron as it flew just above the sleek white bird. Mortally stricken, the heron plummeted to the earth. The falcon, giving a victorious cry, swerved and sped down toward its prize.

Lady Martha and the Chief Falconer rode toward the heron that landed in the mucky soil. The wizened falconer climbed off his steed to stand ankle deep in mud as he swung his lure. Attached to it was a piece of fowl. The falcon, which stood atop the dead heron, screeched once more and flew to the lure. The Chief Falconer hooded the bird and put her back on Lady Martha’s gloved wrist.

“The talons are bloody,” Lady Martha said with delight.

“A perfect strike,” the falconer said.

Lady Martha flipped him a penny.

He bowed and said thanks.

“Keep watching,” Sir Walter told Eleanor and Alice.

“No more,” Alice whispered under her breath. “You’re not supposed to flush up any more.” She hoped Cord could remember that. Yet how was he supposed to call in his dogs in their excitement?

The Chief Falconer bagged the dead heron and slogged out of the marsh, his old nag following him. Soon he handed the bag to a servant, while one of his apprentices bent down and wiped the muck off his master’s boots. Only then did the wizened Chief Falconer remount his nag.

“Can’t Cord flush out any more?” Sir Walter asked impatiently.

Alice’s palfrey Arthur nickered and stamped his front hooves. She soothed him, patting his sleek neck as she waited.

The others behind them tried to keep quiet, but it was almost impossible. Two grooms suddenly burst out laughing, only to turn red with embarrassment when Sir Walter glared at them. They’d been telling jokes to pass the time.

Finally, Cord appeared from behind some reeds, his water dogs leashed. The dog boy was muddy from head to toe. He had no doubt followed his dogs into the very center of the marsh.

Alice was grateful for his willingness to see his end of the plan through. Then she became indigent again when she realized that Cord wouldn’t be joining her.

“The lout,” she whispered.

“What’s wrong?” Sir Walter shouted at Cord.

The muddy dog boy cupped his hands and shouted, “The herons have slipped away.”

Lady Eleanor made a most unladylike comment, while Alice scowled and then pretended to pout.