The Rogue Knight (44 page)

In his nightmare, Cord saw the Welsh raider who Sebald had slain earlier this summer. The mangled raider fought his way out of the earth and lurched toward him. The raider’s clothes were in tatters and his face was a horror of ruined flesh and wriggling worms.

“
Owain ab Ifan approaches
,” the dead Welshman intoned, his lifeless white orbs peering into Cord’s. “
Owain ab Ifan holds the Curse of the Druids in his
hands
.”

Cord tried to run but his feet wouldn’t respond. Terrified, screams gurgling in his throat, he watched in horror as the dead-man neared.

“
Owain ab Ifan approaches
,” the raider moaned in his eerie voice, the volume rising.

“Leave me alone!”

“
He approaches
!
And he carries the Curse
!” The dead man drew a longbow and aimed a fiery arrow at his chest.

“No!” Cord howled, trying to lift his feet so he could dodge out of the way.

The dead archer grinned and released the string.

“No!” Cord yelled, bolting upright and startling himself from sleep. His heart raced, and he thought to see a strange man staring down at him. The man grinned and bobbed his head. Mortified, certain he was about to die, Cord leaped up and swung groggily. With his racing heart and sleep-drugged mind, Cord couldn’t comprehend it when his hand passed harmlessly through the man. Then the chill of Hell swept through him. A devil or a ghost mocked him. Cord staggered back, about to release a bloodcurdling scream, when suddenly he heard the rustle of leaves as the man bobbed and grinned once more. He looked more closely at the man and deflated with sick relief.

The man was a branch. The bobbing was merely its swaying up and down in the early morning breeze. His nightmare and the strange dawn-shadows had both conspired to play this goblin’s trick upon him.

He glanced at the others, who slept in a circle around the glowing embers of last night’s fire. They all slept except for Henri, who stood guard somewhere out of sight.

His
bellow
when he’d first woken had no doubt been much quieter than he’d realized. Even so, the nightmare and the branch-man solidified in Cord what had been gnawing at him for the last two days. Normally he wasn’t superstitious. This ancient druidic treasure, however, it was something else entirely.

Without waking the others, Cord went to his saddle and untied a heavy leather sack. Alice had proved true to her word six days ago. She’d taken Sergeant Reynard’s hauberk out of the tower, lowering it through the broken window to the moat below. He’d been unwilling to don the armor before this, much less examine it. After all, he’d slain the former owner. He didn’t like the image of himself as a ghoul who robbed the dead.

You took his sword easily enough
, a small voice whispered in him.

Cord shrugged off his conscience. A sword was different. Armor protected. Although distaste filled his mouth, he lifted the cold, shapeless bulk of chainmail.

The hauberk had been fashioned with hundreds of interlocking rings, each separately riveted and linked to several others, forming a double coat of chain mail. Only a direct thrust could break through the well-forged rings. That’s what made a crossbow so deadly. Lances, backed by a destrier’s bulk, also had that kind of power.

Cord examined the broken links. Here his Toledo steel dagger had punched through and stabbed Reynard. He took out a leather thong and cut several pieces. He threaded each piece through several links, using six cords in all. What he needed was an armorer, new rings, an anvil and a hammer in order to fix the hauberk. His barbering would have to do. He went back to his saddle, took the padded jacket Richard had given him and donned it. Only then, did he slip the hauberk over his head and let it slid down like a tunic. The padded jacket kept the rings from pressing into his flesh. If a warrior bashed his sword against him, the quilted jacket absorbed the shock. The mailed sleeves only reached to his elbows and the bottom barely went to mid-thigh. A fully armored knight would have sleeves that reached to his wrists and wear gauntlets. He would also have chainmail hose and a coif, or mail hood.

The term mail came from the French word
maille
, which meant mesh. Cord belted a girdle around his waist, securing the chain-mesh in place. Finally, he slipped the baldric over his torso and adjusted the sword.

“Well, well.”

Cord turned in embarrassment.

“What have we here?” Henri asked.

Cord shrugged.

“Is it Owain ab Ifan you fear or Philip?”

“Neither,” said Cord. “But the druidic curse.”

Henri laughed silently like a fox. “Surely you don’t believe in fairy tales?”

“In fairies, no, but curses—”

“Bah! It’s all nonsense. Just like unicorn horns are nonsense.”

“How can you say that? You have a unicorn’s horn.”

“This is exactly why I say it.”

“But you have the horn.”

“The horn grows out of a whale’s head. That’s what makes it ludicrous, and more delicious. Cord, Lamerok knows how to weave a story. He knows how to keep us in suspense. But it’s only a tale.”

“His squire died through archery,” Cord said. “As did the Roman prelate. There is an evil curse at work, and I want no part of it.”

“Don’t you see that Lamerok is
using
that?”

“He’s not.”

“There is a treasure, surely, but one he overheard Eustace the Monk speaking—”

“I don’t want the treasure,” Cord said. “Not the treasure of druids who slew innocents, nor the treasure of traitors who stabbed each other in the back. It’s black gold, Satan’s allure. I’ll have no part of it.”

Henri gave Cord an appraising glance. “I greet thee well, Parsifal, and I’m indebted to thy innocence. Pray, show me how the knights of yore battled for a damsel’s honor.”

“What?”

Henri swept off his hat and made a low bow. “Milord, I thank thee.”

“Are you making fun of me?” Cord growled.

Henri clapped Cord on the shoulder. “Tell Lamerok your resolve, but not the lady. She’ll become suspicious at such nobility and think it simplicity.”

“I mean what I say.”

“Why else do you think I’ve stayed with you?” Henri smoothed his hat’s feather. “Wake the others. We don’t want Owain or Philip catching up.” The minstrel grinned. “Those two are curses I understand, placed on this earth to plague those who are holy.”

“Poke fun at me all you want,” Cord said. “But don’t forget that the Old Woman of Bones is linked to the same devils whom the druids worshipped.”

“I’d start worrying less about curses and more about vengeful knights. If we’re not lucky—Henri shrugged.

***

They rode single file through a ravine. Thorns lined the top and slippery shale the bottom. This was a bleak area, one blasted long ago by cruel winds in summer and blizzards in winter.

With barely room enough, Alice urged her palfrey beside Cord’s destrier. She arched her eyebrows at him. Like all of them, her clothes had become travel-stained and her features become lean and hungry. Food was scarce and water almost as much.

“The hauberk suits you,” she said.

“Thank you, milady.”

“And you’ve learned to ride like a...like a knight.”

Cord dipped his head.

“Soon you’ll have to fight, though.”

“Whom, milady?” he asked.

“Sir Philip or Owain ab Ifan,” she said, “or maybe a host of screaming Welshmen hot for our blood.”

Cord adjusted the baldric, moving the brass buckle toward the center of his chest. “May I speak plainly, milady?”

“Please do.”

“I think this treasure hunt is a fool’s errand. Look how we trap ourselves in a tight place. We should ride for open ground.”

“And go where?”

Cord looked into her eyes. She was a lady, a fighter and a woman who could take care of herself. She was the worthy partner of a knight. Yes, she had title to Gareth Fief, but he wanted her because he admired her. He loved to look and talk with her. She would be a wonderful, strong mother for his children.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

He grinned, and felt silly and bold all at once. “You taught me how to handle my destrier.”

“You’ve learned a modicum of skill. To fight on horseback will take longer to learn.”

“You’re right. But then I’m Parsifal.”

“If you say so.”

“Alice, let’s ride from here. Let’s go to France. I’ll enter tournaments and win the needed money for your men-at-arms. Then we’ll come back to Gareth Fief and take it away from Guy.”

She gave him an unreadable glance. “You’re a dreamer, a man with his heads in the clouds.”

He slapped his hauberk and patted the destrier. “These aren’t dreams, milady. With my sword I’ll carve a destiny for both of us.”

She stared at him.

“I want you to be my wife.”

“For the money my fief can give you.”

Cord shook his head. “I want you because you’re bold, wily and don’t give in.” He smiled. “Consider my proposal. Ponder it deeply. I’ve time.”

She turned away, troubled.

Cord felt grand for the sheer reason that he’d done what he had planned for days now. Yes, to be a knight meant to act on your thoughts. To be a knight meant to be a man of action.

“We need Gaius’ Treasure,” Alice said.

“Do we?”

“You need the treasure in order to be a knight.”

“I have a splendid destrier and a hauberk, incomplete as it is. A knightly sword is mine. Maybe I need a shield, lance and spurs, but those I can purchase elsewhere.”

“You want to be a
knight
, Cord. A knight needs money in order to live in style, to act as one of his rank should. At this point gaining money should be your chief concern.”

“Lamerok lived as a knight and he gathered money by winning jousts.”

Alice laughed bleakly. “He’s also one of the most powerful knights alive. Not now perhaps...or maybe he is.”

“What?”

“I think Lamerok
appears
to be in more pain than he really is.”

“You think he’s faking?” Cord asked.

She nodded.

“Why would he?” asked Cord.

“Why else,” she said. “He wants to surprise us when we reach Gaius’ Treasure.”

Cord considered that. He was beginning to believe that the allure of gold poisoned the mind. Maybe that was part of the curse. Since he no longer wanted the gold, it didn’t have a grip on him.

“I want you to test Lamerok,” Alice said. “Ask him to train you. That’s why you’re the squire, after all. Find two sticks, stout sticks, and have him show you a few sword tricks. I don’t think he’ll be able to keep up the pretence as he’s battling with you. Press him. Make him work. Thwack him a few times if you have to.”

Cord shook his head.

“What’s wrong with that?” Alice demanded.

“You’re wily,” Cord said, with admiration in his voice.

Alice blushed.

Cord leaned over and took her hand. “Think about marriage with me.”

“With a Saxon?” she asked with a sneer.

That didn’t daunt Cord anymore. He was going to win this lady as knights did in the stories. In many stories, the lady sneered and belittled the knight, only to be truly in love with him all the while. Besides, hadn’t Henri told him to wear the lady away as constant raindrops did rocks?

“I will prove my love by taking on this quest.”

Alice blinked several times. “You’ve changed quickly.”

“I am Parsifal, milady; and Saxon though I may be I am a true heir to King Arthur’s knights of old.”

***

Cord began by praising Lamerok’s skills. Why, the stories they’d heard of his prowess in France and the Low Countries, what a marvel. Unsurprisingly, Lamerok begged off the idea of practice, saying he still recovered from the dungeon horrors. It was true Lamerok’s face looked battered. Over the past six days, however, the black and blue bruises had faded to ugly yellow marks. The terrible stiffness in the joints had also lessened. Before, Lamerok’s face had screwed up each time he’d moved an arm or shifted a leg. After Alice’s words, Cord watched the knight. That sudden flinch of pain was gone.

“You’re my teacher,” Cord insisted.

Lamerok conceded the point, carefully chewing the last of their coarse bread. Mid-afternoon had fled and now it was a chilly early evening. They were in a small gorge with a stream. Lamerok had suggested they rest here. He promised that tomorrow they’d reach the cave.

“At least show me a few sword tricks,” Cord urged.

Lamerok rubbed his chin. “I’ve seen you filing your sword. It takes days for you to rub out the nicks. Why do you want to mar such work? Besides, I have no sword. Now if I had a sword….”