The Rogue Knight (6 page)

Alice, everybody learned later, had argued heatedly that she was quite capable of holding her own castle against anyone, be he or she Welsh, Saxon or Anglo-Norman.

Feudal custom and Baron Hugh had disagreed. A knight, a man, was needed. As it would have been nearly impossible to deprive Alice of the hereditary fief, Baron Hugh hadn’t bothered to try. Instead, he’d used Alice, and the chance to wed her to whom he wished, to lash his vassals into line. Since Alice had no family, by law it fell upon her liege, Baron Hugh, to find her a husband. He could hand the plum of marrying Alice to whomever he chose, a worthy retainer, a needed ally, anyone. Maybe custom said that if Alice paid a sum she could forgo his choice, but few maidens were so hardy as to enforce this custom against a strong-willed lord.

“Hurry!” Cord hissed at the swimming bloodhounds.

Perhaps he’d spoken more loudly than he’d known, for Lady Alice asked, “Do you think that you’re the lord of the hunt?”

“What? Oh! No, milady. I’m just an anxious dog boy.”

“No, not just. Hob told me about you. Your father was a knight, wasn’t he?”

Cord’s heart beat more quickly. This was dangerous ground. What had Hob, that drunken lout, told the Lady Alice?

“Yes, Hob told me that your father was a Saxon knight,” she said. “One that made the mistake of taking on a powerful enemy. It seems you’re the same kind of fool.”

“My father was a good man.”

“Ah,” Alice said. “I see. Sir Philip is right after all.” She glanced back. The first bloodhound climbed out of the stream and violently shook itself. “I pity you, dog boy. What a waste to throw away your life.”

“Don’t pity me,” Cord heard himself saying, hating pity more than enmity.

Instead of showing anger, Lady Alice smiled. “I like your spirit. Pray that it will be enough.”

“Yes, I’ll pray,” Cord said. “I’ll pray to Saint George of England, not to Saint Hubert of France.”

Alice’s eyes widened.

The bloodhounds dashed past them and into the denser part of the forest. Out of the river climbed huntsmen and the knightly steeds.

Alice’s stallion pranced about and snorted impatiently. Alice inclined her head. “Good luck, Cord. I can see that on this fief you’re going to need it.” She spurred her stallion and crashed into the underbrush after the bloodhounds.

Cord slipped out of the way as the three knights and the squire thundered after Alice. Leashed dogs and huntsmen ran in their wake. Cord joined them, toiling uphill. Fallen trees, thick oak roots and snarled branches made the going difficult. Yet it also made it difficult for the horsemen, enough so those on foot kept them in sight. Cord, as he panted, could never understand why more horses didn’t break their legs in these wild chases. The nobles rode recklessly, often unaware of what awaited them past the next tree or thicket.

The four bloodhounds in the lead bayed joyously. Unlike the boarhounds, and unlike the mastiff Sebald, the bloodhounds ran free. Until Old Sloat was actually spotted, the other dogs would remain leashed. An excited boarhound, especially young ones like these, sometimes picked up the wrong trail. Then they became useless, or even worse, they split up the party. With a beast like Old Sloat, that could be dangerous. Yet it also entailed a danger for the bloodhounds. If they should come upon Old Sloat and be too far ahead of the hunters.... For that reason, as the boarhounds dragged them relentlessly forward, Cord and the huntsmen ran hard after the nobles.

The excitement of the chase drove away some of Cord’s fears. His strong legs propelled him deeper into the wild woods as his keen senses told him that the bloodhounds were on a hot trail. His boarhounds gasped as the leather collars half-choked them. Sebald had more sense, running exactly hard enough to keep pace but not so hard that he choked himself. Of course, Sebald was built much heavier than the boarhounds. If the boarhounds were fighting dogs, men-at-arms, if you will, Sebald was a knight among hounds. Like a knight, he seemed to act from a higher courtly code. The young boarhounds had no such qualms. They were simple brutes who yearned to sink their fangs in the fat old boar.

Catching Old Sloat, Cord hoped, would simply be a matter of time now.

***

Old Sloat the King of Beasts grew weary of running before the hounds. He was gorged on truffles, and more than a little upset at being chased from the nicely dug hole. Yet he had heard the terrible sound of MAN ON HORSE, the ringing peal that meant DOGS gave chase.

Old Sloat had little fear of the DOGS who bayed behind him. No, he didn’t fear them at all. What he did fear was MAN ON HORSE. Perhaps fear wasn’t right.
Prudence
had forced him from the truffle-hole. Prudence had bid him to swim through the cold mountain water.

Now the King wheezed, weary of pumping his short legs and crashing through the underbrush. Anger now washed his thoughts with a red haze. Had he not been so gorged, he’d have simply sunk into a watery thicket and slipped far away. That had proved an effective strategy for time on end. However, he hadn’t quite finished all the truffles. Even now, with a full belly and death on his heels, he thought back to the wonderful taste of truffles. Truffles. Truffles. Truffles. His anger at being driven away from the hole suddenly blazed into a wicked wish: to see all those who chased him lying bloody on the ground before him.

Old Sloat turned, and hurled himself into a dense thicket of thorns. Because of his tough hide and his rutting shields, he ignored the pricklers. He broke through and whirled at bay. Here. Here he would make a stand.

Old Sloat pawed the earth as he waited, listening to the baying DOGS. Once he even heard the peal of MAN ON HORSE. His anger grew. His wish to slay his tormenters became something he could almost taste. Then the sound he’d been waiting for occurred. DOGS struggled through the thorns, whining as they came. When the first one broke through, Old Sloat attacked.

***

Baron Hugh raged at Old Sloat. His face turned scarlet as he shook his leather-gauntleted fist. Four costly bloodhounds lay dead on the earth before him. Cord and Harold Watchman had squirmed into a thorny thicket and dragged out the four mangled bloodhounds.

“Damn you, Sloat!” roared Baron Hugh. “Damn you to bloody hell!”

“He’s a spawn of Darkness,” Sir Walter said.

Sir Philip spat at the ground. “He’s just a clever beast. Nothing more than that.”

As the nobles argued, Cord wiped gory hands on his breeches. He couldn’t stop trembling. Cunning Old Sloat had turned at bay and slain their best chances of finding him. Now.... Cord swallowed in a constricted throat as he eyed Baron Hugh. The white-haired lord of Pellinore Fief grew more wrathful by the moment. He raved about the slain mastiff, and he raved about a monster that would slay four costly bloodhounds bought from a Norse Irishman from Dublin.

“We must slay this beast!” Baron Hugh roared.

“Do you think we can, milord?” Sir Philip asked. “Maybe we should try another day.”

“Are you tired, Sir Philip?” Richard asked mockingly.

Lady Alice laughed.

Old Sir Philip shot Richard a scowl.

Cord feared for Richard. The knight might be old and bald, with a face-full of scars and eyebrows like a bear, but he was still huge, heavy and strong. Sir Philip was like an ancient oak tree, gnarled, twisted, maybe even brittle inside, but mighty until the rotten core gave way.

Cord nervously flexed his hand as he thought about the old knight.

“Should I run with the boarhounds, milord?” Cord asked, stepping up to the mighty war-horse.

Baron Hugh, his face scarlet, gave him a venomous scowl.

“Perhaps the bloodhounds wounded Sloat,” Cord said meekly.

“Aye!” Baron Hugh said as he turned his head at the thicket.

“We can’t give Sloat time to rest,” Cord said.

“Get your arse in there, dog boy! Find the trail!”

Cord squeezed back into the thicket. Thorns pierced his flesh. He ignored them. His boarhounds whined.

“Don’t let him out of your sight, Hugh,” Philip shouted. “He’ll race off to Wales if you do.”

“He’ll be a dead dog boy if he tries that!” Baron Hugh shouted.

For a moment, Cord couldn’t breathe. Then the young boarhounds gave voice as they picked up a scent. Cord prayed to Saint George that it was the right one. And before he considered what he did, Cord unleashed the boar
hounds, only keeping hold of Sebald.

“They’re off!” Cord yelled.

Lady Alice shouted triumphantly, urging her stallion into the chase. Richard did likewise. A moment later, Baron Hugh blew his olifant. The huntsmen and the rest of the hounds leaped into action once more.

Cord ran harder than before. If Old Sloat turned at bay again, he wanted to be there to throw Sebald into the fray and maybe stick the boar with his knife. He had no illusions about slaying Old Sloat. But maybe he could keep Sloat busy until the knights unlimbered their boar spears and waded in for the kill.

  He kept ahead of the tiring war-horses. Like Sebald, the war-horses were heavily muscled, not meant for long runs. The war-horses were meant to fight it out and carry mailed warriors. Why the knights had ridden the destriers today, Cord wasn’t sure.

To his dismay, Cord found the trail heading back toward the Iodo and lower ground. He’d been on hunts for Old Sloat before. The crafty pig usually slipped into a nearby bog. It would be next to impossible to track him into there. Once more Cord debated about running away. The back of his neck tingled. Old Sir Philip kept a beady eye on him.

An olifant pealed. It was Richard’s. No doubt, he signaled to any huntsmen who’d dropped behind where the hunt was headed.

Sweat soaked Cord’s clothes and his gasps raggedly tore down his throat. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep running so hard. The awful thought of having only one hand gave him an extra burst of speed.

The baying boarhounds raced toward the Devil’s Bog, a sprawling area of reeds, slick mud and puddles of varying sizes. Ducks and geese loved the area. Once, Baron Hugh had led a hawking party there, but only once. The terrain was treacherous and very difficult to take a horse through. Going in afoot meant coming out amuck from toe to hairline.

The pit of Cord’s stomach clenched into a tight ball. What was he going to do? Let them chop off his hand? Never! He’d fight for all he was worth if they tried that. Yet how could he overcome the huntsmen, or the knights? He tried to swallow, but found that his mouth had dried out. It was time to slip off, maybe make a run for it. Ah, maybe it was time to follow cunning Old Sloat. Maybe he’d slip into the Devil’s Bog himself.

“Hold!” shouted Baron Hugh, who drew rein.

Cord almost didn’t heed the command. He turned his head and saw Sir Philip on his war-horse only an arms-length away. The huge knight seemed ready to hurl his boar spear. Cord knew a moment of bitter defeat. Then he decided that all wasn’t yet lost. He still had his hand. And he had a knife. The first man who came for him had better beware.

Baron Hugh drew rein before the edge of the Devil’s Bog. Tall reeds hid barking, splashing boarhounds. From their barks, Cord knew they were confused. No doubt, they had lost the scent.

“That’s it then,” Sir Philip said.

Baron Hugh angrily shook his head. “That’s not it. I must have this boar. I must have his head in my castle. Nothing will stop me.”

Philip said, “But this is the Devil’s Bog. That cunning beast has used it before and he will again. We had our chance. Now it’s gone.”

Baron Hugh angrily shook his head.

Despite his boast, Cord saw the baron’s rage wilt. It often went like this. Baron Hugh demanded something. Sir Philip calmly talked him out of the outrageous demand. Everyone here knew the play.

“He slew five of my best hounds!” Baron Hugh shouted.

“A costly defeat,” Philip agreed. “But what can we do now?”

“Shall I go in a flush him out?” Cord asked.

Both Baron Hugh and Sir Philip shot him a wondering glance. This wasn’t how the play went. The two nobles argued back and forth until the Baron saw reason.

“Impudence,” Philip said. “And now that Sloat’s out of reach, I think it’s time your hand be chopped off.”

Richard barked harsh laughter. “Oh, that’s to your liking, isn’t it? You want a little easy sport rather than the manly task of finishing off the beast. I see getting mud on your trousers is too much for you, eh, Philip?”

“And what do you suggest?” Philip asked Richard.

“Let Cord and I go into the bog and drive Old Sloat out to the Baron and you.”

“Foolishness,” Philip said.

“I suppose, if you’re afraid of Old Sloat, it is,” Richard said.

Sir Philip’s rein on his temper slipped. He urged his war-horse toward Richard.

“No, wait, old friend,” Baron Hugh said. “I’ll go into the bog and drive out Sloat.”

“Is that wise, milord?” Philip asked.

“I’ll join him,” Lady Alice said. “For I tire of this beast beating us. After slaying five of the baron’s best hounds, today, Old Sloat must die.”

“Yes!” Richard shouted.

“Which hounds should I take?” Cord dared ask.