The Rogue Knight (28 page)

Cord shook his head. “I must ask Sir Guy about the forester position.”

“Don’t bother, Cord. That hope is doomed to failure.”

“You’re wrong,” said Cord. “Guy has to make me the forester. His father promised me the position.”

With his fingers, Henri preened his thin dark mustache as he eyed Cord. “Very well,” he said at said. “But you should wait until tomorrow morning before you ask. Let the others first forget our part in Alice’s escape. Let them worry about other things before we start intruding.”

Seeing the wisdom in the minstrel’s counsel, Cord glumly agreed. He wanted to ask. He wanted to do it now. Instead, he bedded down in the kennel and soon went to sleep.

The next morning Cord discovered that Alice had been confined to the upper living quarters of the tower. Two armored sergeants, it was said, stood at the top of the stairs. The castle was a-buzz with the rumors about Alice’s fate.

A flirtatious scullion told Cord that neither of Alice’s former Gareth servants was allowed to see her. Sir Guy, whispered the pretty scullion, had talked about sending Alice to a nunnery. Only the stern rebuttals of Sir Walter and Lady Eleanor had turned Guy from such a course.

With his sack of entrails in hand, Cord left the kitchen scullion and hurried toward the kennel to feed his dogs.

Hob, as he watched a gang of Gareth peasants swab the stable with whitewash, motioned Cord near. Hob wore a greasy leather jerkin and a long heavy sword. His eyes were red and his nose even more so. It was chillier than yesterday. A crackling fire roared in the middle of the yard where hung-over men warmed themselves. Last night the fighting men had drunk heavily, fat Hob chief among them.

“It feels like rain,” grumbled Hob, with his hands tucked under his armpits.

Cord eyed the pregnant clouds and felt the heavy air pressure. Maybe there would lightning and thunder by this afternoon. He loved watching jagged bolts of lightning zigzag across the sky and even more, he enjoyed the powerful thunder that followed. Cord set down his sack of entrails and looked around. No one seemed to be watching them.

Cord asked, “Have you heard about Alice?”

Hob shrugged. Then he scowled and yelled at one of the painters to get a hurry-on. “It’s a damn fool thing to keep these men here,” he muttered. “Guy should let the Gareth people return home.”

“Henri says that Guy wants to impress the outlying knights with his strength.”

“A futile gesture, if it’s true,” Hob said. “The knights will know that these are Gareth folk. Worse, with so many mouths to feed and then feast, the castle stocks will shrink that much more quickly. No, with money being tight and the stocks low, Sir Guy should play it safer.”

Cord glanced at the peasants. They were stocky fellows with ugly scowls. He’d heard that most of them wished to return home immediately. The idea of a feast had mollified them a little, but not much.

As was normal practice, Sir Guy wanted his liegemen to pay him homage as quickly as possible. Therefore, his summons had gone out this morning in the form of riders. In three days, all the knights who had sworn allegiance to Baron Hugh were to present themselves at Pellinore Castle. Here they would be feted, and here, in an opulent ceremony, they would kneel one by one in front of Guy and place their hands in his, pledging fealty to him. Such a show of strength on Sir Guy’s part was important, just as it was important to remind one’s men who their lord was.

“Hob?”

“Hmm.”

“Why doesn’t Lady Alice appeal to the Gareth knights and retainers? Surely most of them would back her.”

Fat Sergeant Hob turned his strange eyes upon Cord. “You’d best keep such questions to yourself, lad. If the wrong ears heard what you just said your head might well wobble off alone in a bucket.”

Cord shifted uncomfortably.

“If I didn’t know better,” said Hob, “I’d think you were concerned about the Lady Alice.”

“But I am!”

Hob sighed and shook his head.

“Aren’t you?” Cord asked.

“Aren’t I
what
?”

“Concerned for Alice?”

“Why should I be? She’s safe enough up in the living quarters. Richard is always there, as are most of the ladies. Why, what has you in such a state?”

“Well...Lady Alice doesn’t want to be here.”

“Why should that concern you?”

Cord groped for words.

Hob lowered his voice. “Listen, you’re stepping into things that are over your head. If I didn’t know better, I’d believe the rumors that you and Henri helped her escape.”

Cord felt his stomach tighten.

“Fortunately,” Hob said, “the bailiff scoffs at such rumors. Last night he informed Philip that neither you nor Henri did anything out of the ordinary yesterday. I’m beginning to wonder, though.” Hob took off his helmet and scratched his head. “If you’re going to stay at Pellinore, then you need to remain loyal to your liege. Sir Guy is a sickly fellow, but he’s our lord. My advice is to take off that ring and ask Sir Guy for the forester position.”

“Why should I take off the ring?” Cord asked. “It’s mine.”

“It will only antagonize Philip and maybe even Sir Guy. Nobles are touchy about us lower folk taking on airs.”

“My father was a knight,” Cord said stiffly.

Hob shook his head. “Cord, Cord. You’re never going to get anywhere talking like that. Nobody wants to hear such things. I know you, and I know you loved your father. Other folk might think you’re reaching too high.” Perhaps Hob noticed the stubborn set to Cord’s face. He changed tack. “So your father was a knight. Many folk have knightly fathers and never become knights themselves. You must adjust to fate. You’re a dog boy who has a chance to become a forester, slim though that chance is.”

“Baron Hugh promised me the position.”

“Philip hates you,” Hob said.

“I know!”

Hob sighed. “Listen, Cord. If you truly want to be forester, quietly go to Sir Philip and see if you can patch things up. He can talk to Guy for you.”

Cord mulishly shook his head.

Hob put a hand on Cord’s arm and asked quietly, “You spoke to Bess, didn’t you?”

Cord nodded.

“You found out that she wouldn’t marry you, yes?”

“That’s right,” Cord whispered.

“If you could gain Philip’s good graces, then maybe you would be able to marry Bess. Have you thought of that?”

Cord hadn’t. Now he did. Soon he shook his head as he said thickly, “Philip hated my father. Because of that he’ll always hate me.”

Hob rubbed his fleshy face, studying Cord. “You’re in way over head, dog boy. You have enemies much too powerful for you. Run away. It’s your only hope. Speak to that wastrel Henri, maybe the two of you can flee together.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It’s clear to me that the two of you helped Alice in her escape attempt. Unless you want to pay with your head for such foolishness, you must flee. Lad, if you think Sir Philip is slow-witted then the two of you are more foolish than I thought.”

For a time Cord watched the peasants paint. The entire yard was filled with workers, most of them painting, a few sweeping up. The knot around the fire constantly changed as men-at-arms warmed themselves or peasants drank hot broth brought out by serving boys.

“You’re a strapping man, Cord,” Hob added. “You can fight as well as anyone. I should know, I trained you.”

Cord knew that none of the other sergeants could beat Hob at a sword fight. Hob would probably give Sir Philip a tough bout. During the past few years, Hob had taken him into the woods. There, he’d given him gruff lessons in the art of knife and sword fighting. That was one of the reasons why Cord thought sometimes that once Hob had been a knight. Fat old Hob definitely knew one end of a sword from the other. In fact, Hob had taught him the difference between the sweeping broom-style of fighting that most knights used when they wore heavy armor, to the cunning blade work that a knife-fighter used if he wished to win.

Six months ago, Hob had said the strangest thing. “Now you fight with the cunning of a Templar.”

When Cord asked him about it, Hob shook his head and gave him a thorough drubbing with the practice swords.

The only
Templars
that Cord knew about were the Knights Templars. They were a holy order of monkish knights that primarily fought in the Holy Land against the infidels. These days Templars had penetrated into nearly every royal court, and were known as haughty men. None doubted their valor or their knightly skills. Hob was the furthest thing from a Templar. Could Hob have known Templars in the Holy Land when he’d been on crusade? Had Templars somehow been the reason or part of the reason why Hob was to this day disturbed about what had happened to him while on crusade?

Cord didn’t know.

“Are you listening, lad?” asked Hob.

“What? Yes.”

Hob grunted before he said, “If you should decide to run away, I can have Father Bernard write a letter for you. I’ll sign the letter and you can give it to a friend of mine who will take you on as a mercenary.”

“That’s kind of you.”

“You’ve always been a good lad, a good dog boy. It’s never been your fault that your father died a felon.”

Cord’s face tightened.

Once again, Hob switched tacks. “Listen. I admire Lady Alice and I like her spirit. And I like you too, lad. But her fate is sealed. Sir Guy will give her in marriage to whomever he pleases. Your fate is also sealed, or almost so. To become a knight is not one of those fates.”

Hob’s words made Cord want to swear. He hated their ring of truth and refused to accept the finality of it.

“Slip off that ring of yours,” Hob said, “and bury it deep. Then go see Sir Philip or go ask Sir Guy directly to make you the forester.”

Cord picked up his entrails-sack and wandered to the kennel. Was Alice’s fate truly sealed? Should he go seek out Sir Philip and try to work things out? He recalled the way Bess had told him to leave… Philip had caused that. If he put his tail between his legs and slunk up to the big knight, would the other allow him to marry Bess? Then the bailiff’s tale came thundering back to him. Philip had hated his father. Now Philip meant to kill him, didn’t he?

“I don’t know,” Cord whispered to his dogs. “I can’t decide what to do.”

He touched his ring and even pulled it partway off. If he went into the woods and buried it again…. He nodded and yanked it off and slipped the ring into his pouch. He felt terrible. Hadn’t
he
slain Old Sloat the boar? Didn’t that make
him
knightly?

Cord shook his head. Reality said that he was a dog boy. Only fantasy could make him a knight. And wasn’t fantasy and tall tales the realm of minstrels?

He sighed, opened the door and strode toward the tower. He saw Philip marching down the tower stairs. Behind him came skeletal Sir Guy in his red silk coat. At Guy’s elbow walked a small old woman clad in a bright miss-match of colors. Although gray-haired and prune-faced, she walked spryly. Cord figured her for a Welshwoman. She had that feel. All of them hurried down the stairs, for the wind had picked up and the feel of rain had grown stronger.

“I better get this over with,” Cord whispered to himself.

Philip saw him, and perhaps he saw the determination in Cord. The giant knight turned and pointed Cord out to Guy. The lank-haired, sickly noble nodded. They all met at the foot of the stairs.

“Dog boy,” Philip said gruffly, “come closer so our new lord can see who you are.”

Cord inched closer and bowed his head to a squinting Guy. It seemed that the baron-to-be had trouble seeing. Cord also saw the strain in Guy’s manner and he saw how loosely the red silk coat hung on his shoulders. Guy’s tall forehead seemed pointed, the nose decidedly so and the narrow chin sharp and gaunt. The pale cheeks were sunken in and the obviously thin neck was wrapped in a blue silk scarf. Guy held the front of his coat closed against the whistling wind. His fingers looked like spider’s legs.

Philip quietly spoke into Guy’s ear.

Guy whispered to Cord, “Are you the one who led my father to Old Sloat?”

Cord was appalled at Guy’s manner of speech. The sibilant whisper made him seem even weaker. Worse, he was hard to understand.

“Answer your new lord, dog boy,” Philip growled.

“I’m sorry, milord,” Cord said to Guy, bowing his head once more. “Yes, I told your noble father about Old Sloat.”

A ghost of a smile flickered across Guy’s bloodless lips. Then the smile disappeared. It was replaced with a scowl. “Sir Philip has told me much about that day.”

Cord gulped audibly. He obviously had to repair whatever damage Philip had caused him as quickly as possible. “I loved your father, milord. His death was a terrible thing.”

Guy recoiled and his face turned even paler than before. The old crone helped steady him. Then she shot Cord a venomous glance.

Cord didn’t understand. “I-I mean, your father fought valiantly, milord, but Old Sloat was an evil beast. He tore out your father’s throat before any of us could do anything. But I slew the evil monster, milord. I killed Old Sloat.”

“Silence!” Guy hissed. “No more!”

Cord shrank back, not knowing what had caused Sir Guy to become so angry with him. This all seemed sinister, unholy, demented.

Philip said, “Yes, milord, Cord led your father to Old Sloat.”

“Bu-But I didn’t cause your father’s death, milord,” Cord said. “Old Sloat killed him and I killed Old Sloat. I avenged your father’s murder.”

“Stop!” Guy shrieked, stepping forward and slapping Cord across the face.

Cord staggered back, more from his fright at Guy’s madness than any physical pain. He saw Philip smile in glee and he saw the giant knight wipe the smile off his face before anyone else could notice.