The Rogue Knight (38 page)

Cord ran up the isle, letting out the hounds on the other side. In moments, all the kennel hounds were milling around in the isle. These were the monstrous hounds, the ones people feared. Cord opened the low kennel door and told them to go. They hesitated. He ordered them out again. Finally, they surged out, barking with delight at their freedom.

Two nearby men gave startled shouts. They lurched away from a huge hound that used his wet nose to poke them in the groin.

Cord shut the door in order to protect Sarah and then he hurried back to the stretcher. When some of the hounds followed him, he told them to hunt. They knew that command and started sniffing for game. Soon they were swallowed up in the darkness.

“Now we’ve got to move fast,” Henri said. “Soon the whole castle will be in an uproar.”

Cord grunted with effort as they carried Richard back up the tower stairs. They entered through the main doors and turned left into the short corridor. Hopefully, no one in the Great Hall had seen them. One person did see them, a drunken guard at the trapdoor.

“Richard?” asked the guard, a slovenly man-at-arms. He’d been sitting on a stool, but now he stood. “I thought I just saw you three
leave
the tower.”

Richard winced in apparent pain. “Bend down, man,” he whispered.

“What was that, milord?” the slovenly man-at-arms asked.

“Can’t you see that he’s hurt?” Cord snapped.

The slovenly man-at-arms gave Cord an ‘I’ll-remember-this-look’ as he bent down to listen to Richard. Cord stepped up and plucked the man’s helmet off his head as Henri’s sap came whistling down.

Soon, they wrestled up the trapdoor and uncovered the lantern. Spiral stone stairs led down. Cord carried the heavy man-at-arms into the gloomy armory, using pieces of rope to tie the man’s hands and feet and a gag to cover his mouth. It wasn’t long before Henri and he carried Richard down on the stretcher. Henri only took a moment to scurry back up and shut the trapdoor behind them.

“If anything goes wrong we’ll never leave alive,” Henri said, picking up his end of the stretcher.

“Now isn’t the time to think,” Richard said.

“Amen to that,” said Cord, who hurried through the gloom toward the dungeon door. The last thing he wanted was to think how his stomach was twisted into a tight knot or the way the back of his throat burned with stomach acid. Fear filled him. He’d always hated the dungeon. To fail now, with the trail so evident behind them, would surely land him in the dungeon for the rest of what would then be a rather short and painful life.

He set Richard down. “Which key is it?” he asked.

“Try them all!” Henri snapped. “Hurry.”

“I am, I am,” Cord said, fumbling a key into the big keyhole. He twisted the dagger-sized instrument. The tumblers rolled and the heavy lock clicked open.

Cord’s stomach did a little flip as he drew open the heavy iron door. Alice’s mad plan was halfway home.

Sir Guy struggled to his feet. “My goblet is empty,” he slurred. “And I find that the hour is late. It is time for me to retire.”

“No!” shouted Philip. “Surely not yet, Lord. The night has barely begun.”

Sir Guy turned his pale, thin face to Aldora. His eyes were bloodshot in a most ghastly way. He breathed heavily, almost painfully.

“Milord, whatever you think is best,” small Aldora whispered.

“We would toast you again, Baron Guy!” Philip shouted. Despite the vast amount of godale and wine he’d drunk, he was well aware of how terrible Guy looked. This night was killing him, or so it seemed to Philip. He planned to make the new baron swallow more and more wine until at last the wretch collapsed. Hopefully by then, the frightful scarecrow would be dead. The moment that occurred, Philip planned to draw his sword and chop off the ugly little witch’s head. He hated her more since now he was certain she was in league with the Devil. Neither Rhys nor his beautiful wife Gwen would have risked their lives unless they truly believed what they’d said about her.

“Just one more drink?” Guy asked Aldora.

The small little Welshwoman touched her bone torc and muttered under her breath. She whispered so very quietly that only Guy could hear her.

He paled and began to tremble.

“What is it, Baron?” Philip asked. He’d noticed that the sickly scarecrow puffed up with pride and beamed with delight every time someone called him
Baron
.

The tip of Guy’s thin tongue scratched across his lips. Aldora steadied him.

“You must rest, milord.”

Guy bobbed his head, his thin neck looking ready to bend and collapse. “Rest,” he whispered. “Yes, I do feel the need to rest.”

“Let me accompany you then, Baron,” Philip said, rising to his feet like a barely awakened bear. He lurched heavily against the table so a pitcher spilled its foamy contents onto the tablecloth.

“No,” said Guy, weakly gesturing to those at the table. “Stay here and feast.”

“I’ll return here later, Baron,” Philip said. “But I would be honored if you’d allowed me to walk with you back to the tower.”

“Yes, of course,” said Guy, who’d seemed to have lost his strength. Beads of sweat dotted his cheeks and his high forehead was slick.

Philip was certain the little witch planned to go down to the dungeon tonight and murder Rhys and Gwen. He didn’t really care about them, but this might be a chance to see Sir Lamerok and also learn more about Aldora. Philip wanted to know how exactly this tiny minion of Satan kept her hold over the Baron. And if the right chance presented itself, well, maybe he could solve
all
his problems.

Guy let Aldora help him toward the tent flap.

“Allow me,” Philip said grandly, taking Guy’s left arm and propelling his lord a little faster.

Aldora sighed but said nothing.

As the trio stepped out of the tent, the dour Gascon crossbowman fell into step behind them. In his hands was a loaded crossbow. It was a heavy instrument, well able to punch through the strongest chainmail, at least at close range. The stout iron bolt in the weapon’s groove could easily zip entirely through flesh.

Philip could feel the dour Gascon staring at his shoulder blades. At a word from Guy, the Gascon would drill him with the unknightly weapon. The feeling stole Philip’s mirth. Making certain Guy died tonight might take some subtly. Perhaps down in the dungeon
wouldn’t
be the moment to twist the thin baron’s neck. His plan had been to say that Sir Lamerok had attacked them.

“What’s that commotion?” Aldora asked.

“What?” Philip asked, wondering what she was talking about.

“I hear yelling from within the castle,” Aldora said.

Philip perked up as they neared the drawbridge. It was true. Men shouted in fear and hounds barked. “What’s the meaning of this?” he asked.

“Trouble,” Aldora said. “I feel trouble in my bones.”

Philip shivered. Gwen ab Gruffydd had named Aldora the Old Woman of Bones. Superstitious dread began to fill the giant bog-knight. Just what sort of powers did an ‘Old Woman of Bones’ have? Dreadful powers, he decided, hating her more than ever because of that.

“Hurry,” Aldora hissed at them. “And you, Gaston, be ready.”

“I always am,” the crossbowman replied.

They hurried across the drawbridge and through the gatehouse.

“You two,” Philip told the guards, “follow me. And draw your swords.”

The two half-drunken men-at-arms drew their swords and followed close behind Philip. By now, both Aldora and Philip propelled the ungainly Guy faster than ever. The baron’s eyes had been rolling in his head ever since they’d left the tent, and he lurched like a stork.

“Hold,” Guy whispered. “I feel sick.”

Aldora hissed a command, and Philip barely let go in time. Sir Guy fell to his knees and groaned in obvious pain. Then, small Aldora held his forehead as Guy retched, his thin frame shaking as if with ague.

“Get away!” yelled a man.

Philip peered into the dark castle yard. A man almost stumbled into him. At the man’s heels trotted a huge hunting hound. Philip recognized the hound as one of the kennel brutes. As old Baron Hugh’s closest friend, Philip knew which hounds the dead baron had loved best: the most ferocious ones, the ones kept in the kennel.

“Someone’s let out the hounds,” Philip said, his drunken mind working at its fastest speed.

“Eh?” Aldora asked.

“The kennel hounds,” Philip said dully. “They’ve been released.”

“Gaston!” Aldora said. The crossbowman stepped up, his heavy weapon ready. “If I point someone out,” Aldora said, “kill him.”

The lean crossbowman nodded.

“What’s the meaning of such an order?” Philip demanded.

“Treachery,” Aldora said, who still held Guy’s forehead. “I smell treachery. But we’ll discover by whom, dear Philip. Then they’re mine.”

“Aye,” Philip said, trying to keep a hand in the matter. He wondered if any of this had anything to do with Cord. The idea that it might reminded him of Terrible Tostig. A horrible feeling descended upon him.

“We must march for the tower,” he said.

“Agreed,” Aldora said, who now gently helped Guy to his feet.

“The tower!” Philip bellowed. “Anyone who can hear me is to head to the tower!”

The growing knot of people that had begun with Guy, Aldora and Philip grew into a mob as they headed toward the tower stairs.

***

“Let us out of here,” Rhys ab Gruffydd pleaded. His scarred hands gripped the prison bars. Both he and his wife were trapped in one of the dungeon’s most ghastly cells. It was a hole in the rock, a tiny hole four feet deep, four feet wide and covered by an iron grate. Most people put in the hole were left to rot.

Richard sat on the floor, regarding them.

“You’ll not regret helping us,” Rhys promised. “I swear by God’s beard that I’ll do you as great a favor in return if you let us out.”

Cord turned the key to Sir Lamerok’s cell. The iron door opened without a squeak. The oiled hinges were well used. Lifting the lantern, Cord peered into the gloomy cell. It was small, but this cell had a mat on the floor and a smelly pail in the corner. A big man squinted up at the lantern-light and threw up a brawny arm as he groaned.

“Not yet,” the big man whispered. “No, I’ll not tell you yet.”

Cord felt horror at the scene. The big man, surely Sir Lamerok, wore costly rags. They were of linen, silk and fur, but they were in tatters and spattered with blood. He had a scraggly beard and his long dark hair was lank and dirty. He had a broad face, but it was bruised with purple and yellow colors and a bent and broken nose. One eye was puffed shut, one ear was cut off and his lips were mangled.

“I’m a friend,” said Cord, forcing himself into the cell.

A dry rattle issued from the knight’s throat.

“It’s true,” Cord said. “I’m here to rescue you.”

The brawny arm came down. Sir Lamerok’s good eye peered intently at Cord. “Who are you?” he whispered.

“I’m Cord, the son of Sir Tostig of Barrow.”

For a moment, Sir Lamerok said nothing. Then his good eye squinted. “Sir Tostig the Saxon?”

A thrill filled Cord. “The same,” he said.

“I thought they hanged Sir Tostig. Yes, they hanged him years ago.”

“They did,” Cord agreed. “Sir Philip Talbot and Baron Hugh de Clare were both at the hanging. So was I.”

“Ah,” Sir Lamerok said. “I think I understand.”

“Guy is Hugh de Clare’s son.”

“Yes, I know.”

“They made me into the castle dog boy,” Cord said. “Now, at last, I’m my father’s son again.”

“Bravo,” said Sir Lamerok.

“That’s why I’m here to rescue you,” Cord said.

With a groan and by great effort Sir Lamerok struggled to a sitting position.

“Do you have any broken bones?” Cord asked.

The dry rattle, a laugh of sorts, issued once again from the knight’s throat. “Maybe no broken bones, by my joints have little strength. The rack and the screws have been used on me, good Squire.”

Cord nodded, and felt thrilled to be called a squire. “I’ve brought a stretcher,” he said.

“Ah, good thinking. You’d better bring it in here and put me on it.”

Cord stepped out of the cell. He saw that Richard slid himself toward the main dungeon door.

“I’ve decided to wait outside in the armory,” Richard explained. “I hate this place. I don’t want to wait the night down here.”

Cord nodded, and urged Henri to bring him the stretcher.

“Let us out,” Rhys pleaded from the floor cell.

Cord glanced at them.

“You know me, dog boy,” Rhys said, peering into Cord’s eyes. “You know I don’t deserve this.”

“You ate at our table,” Gwen quietly told him.

Shame rushed through Cord. He knelt by the lock and fumbled with the keys. “You must promise not to flee until we’re all ready to go.”

“Cord,” Rhys said in a flood of emotion, “I promise to see you through to wherever you’re going. Until you release me from my oath, I’ll follow you to the gates of Hell.”

“Rhys!” Gwen scolded.

“He has my oath, and I mean to keep it no matter what the odds.”

With a heave of his shoulders, Cord lifted the iron grate and set it aside. He gave his hand to Gwen and helped her up. Then he helped up Rhys.

The burly Welshman, or half Welsh, gripped Cord’s hand with strength and hugged him tightly. “You won’t regret this,” he whispered into Cord’s ear. “Aye, Rhys ab Gruffydd keeps his word and stands by his brother, brother.”

The fierce words startled Cord. He thumped the burly man on the back and freed himself. Then the two of them clasped hands once more.

“The Lady Alice de Mowbray waits outside the castle for us,” Cord said. “I’m taking her back to Gareth Fief.”

Rhys grinned like a wolf. “Aye, you’re a knight’s son, all right.”

Cord moved back into Sir Lamerok’s cell. The big knight was unconscious. Cord and Henri wrestled him onto the stretcher. When they picked up the stretcher, Cord could tell that Lamerok was heavier than Richard. They exited the cell. Rhys and Gwen were gone, and so was Richard. They hurried past the rack and screws and the iron maiden. One look at the maiden made Cord vow never to fall into Sir Guy’s hands. Better to die fighting than screaming as your limbs were torn out. No wonder Rhys had pledged so fervently.

The rack was a heavy trestle table with iron bracelets for the ankles and wrists, and then a winch. A spindle turned the winch, which drew the bracelets apart. In time, if the winch was spun far enough, legs were pulled out of hips and arms from shoulders. Before that, the joints were sorely strained and the pain was no doubt exquisite. The screws could be applied to any toe or finger, although the thumb was the perennial favorite. The device, by the power of the hangman’s hand, simply drove a screw into the unfortunate’s thumb or toe, usually through the nail.

The iron maiden was used only when the end had been decided upon. Cord almost puked examining it. The unfortunate was laid in a lead coffin, his forehead, chest and thighs strapped down by leather thongs. Then, from above, let down by a pulley and chain, came the maiden. It was another heavy piece of lead with about a hundred iron spikes pointing down. As fast or as slow as the hangman wanted, the iron maiden could be lowered onto the doomed unfortunate. Either way, the person in the maiden’s embrace screamed long and horribly as the spikes drove down into his flesh.

Cord hurried past the torture room and found Richard in the armory. The squire sat on a box with a spear over his lap. A grinning Rhys stood by his side.

“I found my longbow,” the half Welsh said. “The fools put it down here, and they put my arrows here as well.”

“Listen,” Richard said, using his thumb to point up. Loud shouts and noises came from above.

“I hear Philip,” Cord whispered.