The Rogue Knight (45 page)

“I have stout branches,” said Cord. He walked to his saddle and returned with two straight branches. They were heavy and sword-length. With string, Cord had tied a cross-guard to each.

“You’ve been busy,” Lamerok remarked dryly.

“Then you’ll show me?”

Lamerok sighed, slowly working to his feet. “I suppose I can show you a move or two. Not that it will help, mind you. Swordsmanship takes years of practice, not a
trick
or two.”

Cord nodded.

The others munched on food, sitting around the fire. Alice and Henri diced and whispered together as they ate. Gwen combed her long red hair.

“That you’re wearing armor should help,” Lamerok said.

“Oh?” asked Cord.

“I might hit hard a few times. Just to show you how a knight fights.”

“I’m ready,” said Cord, holding his practice sword rather awkwardly.

“Now I’m still tired and sore,” Lamerok explained, “but I can at least show you how to hold a sword.” He gripped his branch and showed Cord the exact position of his hands. “Yes, that’s it. Now place your feet farther apart. Good. Watch my sword now, keep your eyes there.”

Lamerok’s sword snaked forward, the blunt wooden point aimed at Cord’s chest. Nimbly, with the clack of wood, Cord parried the blow.

“Ah, you
do
know a move or two. Excellent,” Lamerok said. He swung a few more times.

Cord blocked each blow. He didn’t watch the sword, but the forearms as Hob had taught him. Lamerok swung slowly and the knight seemed tired, but he didn’t sweat. Despite the puffing and complaining, that told Cord Lamerok wasn’t as ill as he claimed.

“Enough,” Lamerok said, letting the blunt sword drop to the ground.

“Are you tired?” Cord asked solicitously.

“Very,” said the knight.

“Let me try a swing on you,” Cord suggested. “It’s something Hob taught me.”

Lamerok sighed. “I’m sure the sergeant meant well, but I’m not feeling good and I’m sure he showed you little of real worth.”

“Pick up your sword,” Cord said.

Lamerok blew out his cheeks, doing no such thing.

Cord tapped the knight’s chest with his practice sword. “Guard yourself,” he said.

“I’ve had enough,” Lamerok said, turning to go.

Cord tapped Sir Lamerok’s cheek and then the other.

“
You
guard yourself,” Lamerok said, who snatched up his sword.

Now the swings came faster than before. Cord parried each as he recalled what Hob had taught him. For two years, the fat sergeant and he had practiced like this. Hob had always told him that he lacked skill, was too slow and didn’t really understand swords or daggers. Maybe if he practiced harder, well, he could learn a bit. The truth suddenly dawned on Cord. Maybe he was better than he knew. Maybe Hob had always told him he was too slow so he hadn’t gotten a big head. Hob could be like that.

Lamerok’s swings rained faster yet, and harder.

Cord grinned at the knight. They were just as tall and as wide of shoulder. Sir Lamerok, despite his dungeon time, was still the heavier between them.

“Is that all you can teach me?” Cord asked.

Lamerok’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

Cord launched a swift attack, beating aside the knight’s sword and hitting him hard against the side.

“You’re dead!” shouted Cord.

“Guard yourself!” Lamerok shouted. Then the blows rained as the knight forced Cord back. Yet Cord parried the swings. Lamerok crouched low and swung his practice sword in an arc, knocking Cord’s legs out from under him. The knight rushed in and poked the tip against Cord’s throat.

“Now
you’re
dead,” Lamerok snarled.

Cord’s left leg throbbed painfully. There would be a huge bruise tomorrow. He might even have a limp.

Lamerok wiped sweat from his face. He glanced at Alice. She and Henri watched closely. “Ah, I see,” said Lamerok. He removed the tip from Cord’s throat and gave him a hand up.

“You’re no dog boy,” Lamerok said. “Why have you deceived me?”

“I was a dog boy,” Cord said, limping beside Lamerok as they walked to the fire.

“Impossible,” Lamerok said. “Where did you ever learn to fight like a Templar?”

Alice and Henri learned forward.

Lamerok sat down. “I’ve fought almost everyone, lad. From Hungry to Scotland, I know all the styles. You fight like a Knight Templar. You studied my blows as you parried them. I saw that in your eyes but I refused to believe it. Once you thought you’d gauged all that I could give, you attacked. Templars fight like that.”

“Sergeant Hob taught me everything I know,” Cord said.

“Was he a Templar?”

“I doubt it,” said Cord. “Although…long ago he fought in the Holy Land.”

“I’d like to know more about Hob.”

“Something happened to him in the Holy Land,” Cord said. “It embittered him or cursed him. At least, that’s what he thinks.” Cord shook his head. “I don’t think Hob would want me talking about this.”

“When was he in the Holy Land?” Lamerok asked.

“1249, I think.”

Lamerok nodded. “That was the time of the Sixth Crusade. Saint Louis, the King of France, set sail to Egypt, not to the Holy Land. The Crusaders took Damietta but lost horribly at Mansura. The King of France was captured and ransomed. Many Templars perished in the Egyptian Delta. A few Knights Templars purchased their way to freedom. That should have been impossible because individual Templars are not allowed private funds.”

“You are well informed,” Henri said.

“I’d like to know why you’ve been faking,” Alice said.

“Simple caution,” Lamerok said. “As a man who has made his living fighting, I’ve learned that it’s best if your opponent underestimates you. As I underestimated you,” he told Cord.

Cord grinned.

“Is he really that good?” Henri asked.

Lamerok faced Cord. “You’re good, and I think you can be better. All you need is polish.”

Cord was aglow. Then his leg throbbed. “What was that move?” he asked.

“It’s an old Viking trick. Sweep at the knees when your opponent is concentrating on your torso. It’s not as useful if your foe is nimble. The old Viking sweep is an all or nothing attack.” Lamerok grinned. “That’s how good you are, Cord.”

Cord heartily shook Lamerok’s hand. “Thank you,” he said.

“Aye, you’ll make a good knight, my boy. Just remember what I told you about staying away from jousts. Fight afoot for now and with swords and there are many knights whom you could already defeat.”

“I think we should be talking about the treasure,” Alice said.

“Do you?” Lamerok asked. “I’m more curious about this Sergeant Hob. The man has obviously taught a dog boy the Templar manner of fighting. Templars are usually the vainest of knights. Of all the Knightly Orders, Templars are the most class conscious.”

“What about the treasure?” Alice repeated.

“Tomorrow,” Lamerok said with a tired smile. “At the moment I’m winded and ready for sleep. Tomorrow we’ll pack our bags with gold. I promise.”

A wolf howled.

“Ah,” Aldora said around a campfire many miles away. “The creature worships its dark master.”

Those who followed Philip on his quest shifted uneasily. They’d ridden hard into this bleak land, the little witch their guide. The hounds, which had been pegged nearby, bayed at the howling wolf. They were the worst of the kennel brutes, savage beasts that loathed their wild cousin. At an angry word from Philip, two dog boys slunk amongst the kennel brutes with sticks and beat them into silence.

“It is foolish to beat the dogs,” Aldora said. “They too must worship the dark one as he strides through the night. To do otherwise will bring their deaths upon them.” She eyed the kennel monsters. “Aye, they’re wild ones themselves and still know the dreadful laws of Darkness.”

Philip shot her an ugly scowl.

Fat Sergeant Hob said, “You speak blasphemy, old woman. Do you hope to frighten us with words?”

Philip laughed. “Yes, that’s exactly her plan.” He was glad the sergeant was here. Maybe the drunkard liked Cord, but the sergeant didn’t scare. That was Aldora’s game, wasn’t it? She wanted them frightened. Strange how an old woman, using words—or were those spells—could upset the men.

Philip stared at the flames rather than into Aldora’s eyes. Thank God for the holy relic, and for Father Bernard. He still had a bad taste in his mouth as he thought about the oath that the witch had made him swear. Luckily, before leaving Pellinore, Father Bernard had absolved him of the oath. Therefore, he was no longer bound to Taranis, the so-called Lord of Night and Despair. In return for swearing, Philip had learned of an ancient druidic treasure. Squire Hugo, it seemed, had babbled strange things in Gareth Castle as Aldora had tried to remove an arrow from his lungs.

Aldora now surprised Philip by saying, “The treasure is near.”

Philip scowled anew. The witch was obviously trying to divide them. Soon he’d put an end to her scheming. Then he’d return to Pellinore Castle and take up the mantle of baron. For surely Sir Guy had died by now. Baron Philip Talbot, that had a lovely ring, all right.

“Did you not know that we seek treasure?” Aldora asked Hob.

Murmuring arose from the men.

“Aye, we seek treasure in this old vale,” Aldora said in a singsong voice. “We
root
through the Valley of Death, overturning rocks in order to find baubles of gold and pearl. But fear not, for Taranis has given me the key and has opened the way.”

Hob stood, his wine-fueled eyes filled with confusion. “Do you mock Holy Scripture?”

Aldora leaned toward the fire, tossing a handful of what seemed like sand into the flames. The sand hissed and popped, sparkling for just a moment like sword-stroke sparks.

The men moaned in fear and peered at her with dread.

“Listen to me, O Men of Iron. You walk where Taranis treads. This is the Valley of Death. For millennia, Taranis has feasted upon those who thought to sacrifice
his
children to newer gods. Here is the bloody altar to those in the unseen world. Here—”

“Enough,” Philip said.

Aldora slowly shook her head. “Do you not wonder upon the
reason
for Hugo’s death, the squire to Sir Lamerok of Dun?”

The men stirred. Despite their fear of her, they were interested in anything about Lamerok.

“Because Sir Lamerok and his squire Hugo dared to tread upon scared ground,” Aldora said, “they awakened the ancient Taranis from slumber. Even Owain ab Ifan knows enough of the old ways to know
never
to tread here.”

“Owain knows about the treasure?” Philip asked suspiciously.

“Owain ab Ifan knows nothing about
the
treasure,” Aldora said. “But he knows
everything
about the Valley of Death.” Aldora peered at the men. “Every Welshmen in these parts knows better than ye. That is why, for now, we are safe from Owain and his raiders.”

“What does that mean?” asked Hob.

“The old woman is mad,” Philip said.

Aldora chuckled. Only dour Gaston smiled at the sound. “You think I speak riddles and madness, eh? Well, the Valley of Death is no riddle. For eons, it has been a killing ground, a bloody altar to Taranis, and to his brother gods Teutates and Esus. Did not King Rufus, the son of William the Conqueror, lose fifty of his bravest knights in the depths of Wales? That took place here! And here, in ages past, the arrogant Romans lost a squadron of their finest cavalry, butchered to the last Latin legionary.”

Aldora searched the men’s eyes. “Do you hear the wind?” She chuckled at their reluctant nods. The wind blew strongly tonight, whistling past the rocks and through the gorge. “I will tell you a secret. That is no wind. Those slain here will march forever in the Horde of the Damned, doing the will of Taranis. It is their eternally damned voices that you hear.”

One of the men-at-arms moaned fearfully. The others watched the small Welshwoman, their eyes seeming to dance as moths around flames.

“Before the Romans, the bold Viking Chieftain Dragar Spear-Slayer died crying like a girl-child, begging to be released to the dreadful Odin.” Aldora smiled wickedly. “‘Tis said the druids stabbed him in the groin and slit his chest like an overripe pumpkin and pulled out his lungs, giving him the bloody eagle that the Northmen so fondly gave to others. Before that….”

Philip’s head swam with fear and loathing. Aldora frightened the men. If she continued they would bolt or their courage would wither, and then he’d never slay Cord and never take Alice for his own. The devil Taranis scared him, enough so he feared stopping Aldora. He’d foolishly sworn a fearful oath to Taranis.
But Father Bernard absolved me from the oath
, Philip told himself. Somehow, though, that didn’t seem enough for him tonight. He couldn’t rise and make Aldora stop talking. She wove a spell around them. She dominated them with her will.

Philip licked his dry lips as Aldora’s voice droned on. By an act of will, he reached inside his pouch and touched the piece of the True Cross. Nothing happened. He still couldn’t rise.

Panic threatened to overwhelm Philip. For a dreadful moment, he thought that Father Bernard’s absolution hadn’t taken. Then, however, one of his oldest memories came to his rescue. He thought he saw, or could hear, the ghost of Terrible Tostig laughing at him. That forced him to recall how long ago Terrible Tostig had nearly beaten him to death in front of a girl. Rage coursed through Philip. Tostig had returned from the grave, from the hanging tree. He’d returned in the guise of a dog boy.

Consuming rage filled Philip Talbot. If the witch continued to speak, then he’d lose control of his men and then he’d never beat Terrible Tostig.

“Silence!” roared Philip, rising unsteadily to his feet.

Aldora stared at him. The men watched him open-mouthed.

“Speak no more about Taranis!” Philip thundered.

“This is the Valley of Death,” Aldora intoned.

Philip cuffed her, sending the witch sprawling across the ground. He drew his sword, even though pain shot through his shoulder. “Speak about Taranis again, or try to lay a curse upon us, and I’ll chop your ugly head from your shoulders. Then I’ll cut out her black heart and roast it to Satan.”

The small witch cringed like a kicked cur.

“I am the master here!” Philip thundered. He waved his sword, his rage pounding in his brain.

“You are now foresworn,” Aldora whispered.

Philip kicked her in the stomach. Aldora vomited. After wiping her lips, she crawled away into the darkness.

“Turn in,” Philip told the men. He sheathed his sword.

“Well done,” said Hob, clapping Philip on his bad shoulder.

Philip almost groaned, but he nodded instead.

“The piece of the True Cross is powerful,” said Hob.

“Aye.”

Hob smiled and went to his sleeping-skin.

As Philip readied to turn in, he heard the distant wolf once more. The wolf didn’t worship. The wolf merely howled his challenge at the world. For a wild instant, Philip almost threw back his head to howl back. He smiled ruefully. If he did that, the men would be sure to think the old witch had cursed him. Instead, he settled down for the night, hoping that tomorrow would bring him his long sought vengeance.