The Rogue Knight (7 page)

“You!” Baron Hugh said, pointing at Cord, “are to stay with Philip. If I’m to muddy myself for nothing, and lose five costly hounds, then by Saint Hubert your right hand will come off before the sun sets.”

As his knees weakened, Cord stepped away from the pointing finger. This was it then. It wasn’t just a threat. If Old Sloat wasn’t killed soon, he’d been without his right hand for the rest of his life. With growing dismay, Cord watched Baron Hugh and the Lady Alice plunge into the bog. They took three more hounds and half the huntsmen. Almost immediately, they disappeared from view.

“We should pace them,” Sir Walter said.

Sir Philip nodded agreement. “Keep the hounds leashed,” he told the remaining huntsmen. “And you, dog boy, you walk over here by me.”

Cord couldn’t do ought but obey.

“And you, squire, would do well to watch your tongue,” Sir Philip warned.

Richard kept his thoughts to himself. He gave Cord one worried glance, then he rose up in the stirrups and appeared to be watching what went on in the bog.

An olifant pealed.

“They’re headed east,” Richard said.

Sir Philip grunted, urging the others to follow him.

From behind Harold Watchman whispered into Cord’s ear, “If you try and slip away, I’ll yell, you felon’s brat.” He laughed evilly. “I can hardly wait to see your hand in the dirt.”

Cord didn’t bother to reply. Everything depended upon Old Sloat’s death.

***

Old Sloat soaked in a semi-warm, scummy puddle surrounded by reeds. He heard the DOGS and he saw a MAN ON HORSE. Old Sloat didn’t worry, for he knew they weren’t on his trail. They flailed in slime, floundered in the deep puddles and angrily shouted at one another. The DOGS barked in confusion, splashing in circles. They were simple brutes, dangerous only on level ground and in a big pack.

For time on end, ever since he’d left his mother, Sloat had used the bogs as his source of refuge. As strong and deadly as MAN ON HORSE was, he was also a fool. In the bogs, MAN ON HORSE was blind and slow, a cretin.

If Old Sloat could be said to chuckle, to know amusement, he knew it now. As the MAN ON HORSE neared, Sloat submerged and waded into deeper water. The deeper water was cold, however. It reminded him of the cold mountain stream. He hated being cold. Crossing the icy stream, Old Sloat lost his amusement as his monstrous belly rumbled. He wanted the rest of the truffles. Yes, truffles. To get the truffles he’d have to cross the stream again. In order to do that, he’d use a ford. To reach the ford he’d have to leave the bog.

No matter. MAN ON HORSE would flounder here for a long time. He knew their habits: Dangerous and stubborn, but quite stupid. Still, he hated MAN ON HORSE for his ability to scare him and drive him from the things he loved, like truffles and rutting.

Old Sloat surfaced, back-tracking the way he’d come. He would leave the swamp while his enemies forged through it.

As Old Sloat plowed through slime, his short legs producing sucking sounds. It was then he heard a MAN swearing. Old Sloat’s murderous rage blazed. The others were far distant. The MAN pulled one of his legs out of the slime and splashed into a puddle. He held a club, but no knife or spear.

Old Sloat’s knife-cut burned anew. He’d killed a huge brute of a DOG earlier today, but a horrible MAN AFOOT had given him a wound.

Old Sloat grunted, his eyes fiery. He charged out of the reeds and at the wide-eyed MAN. The MAN screamed, flailing with his club, trying to dodge. The slime held him tight. With his vast weight, Old Sloat knocked the MAN backward. Then he trampled the MAN, letting his feet crush and pound the prone enemy. Old Sloat spun around. The MAN gurgled, and slowly turned his head to look at Sloat in terror. Sloat grunted once more, then he trampled the MAN again, this time staying atop him until the hated MAN squirmed no more.

Only then did Old Sloat continue out of the bog. He’d circle, reach the ford and then go back to the truffles. Yes, truffles, truffles, truffles. How he loved them. He loved them to the same degree that he hated MAN.

***

The sun sank into the horizon. The peals from within the bog had stopped some time ago. Sir Philip had taken them into a clearing, dismounted and declared that they’d wait here. Now he turned to Harold Watchman and gave him a signal.

Cord, who petted Sebald, noticed Harold striding toward him. He leaped to his feet and put his hand to his knife-hilt.

Harold paused as Sir Philip and Sir Walter moved up.

“Keep away from me,” Cord warned the watchman.

“What’s this?” Philip demanded. “Are you holding up justice?”

Cord licked his lips.

“The sun sets,” Philip said. “So as the Baron said, it’s time to chop off your right hand.”

Cord couldn’t believe this was happening. He couldn’t quite yet draw his knife. To do that…. Philip might kill him for it.

“You can’t chop off his hand here,” Richard said, striding up.

“Why not?” Philip asked.

Richard groped for words. He said suddenly, “You don’t have any tar to smear on the wound. He’ll bleed to death.”

“Nonsense,” Philip said. “You’ll tie a tight thong on his forearm. That’ll keep him from bleeding to death.”

Cord began to shake. His stomach roiled so he almost puked.

Sir Philip motioned to Harold Watchmen. The burly peasant took another step closer to Cord.

Cord, light-headed and dizzy, drew his knife. “Stay back!” he warned. Sebald had risen and taken his place beside him.

“Are you threatening us?” Sir Philip asked in a judicious tone.

Cord took a step back, his knife before him. Sir Philip had always hated him. He didn’t know why. Maybe he never would.

“You’re to lose your hand, dog boy.”

Cord heard a footstep from behind. As he turned, a club came down and hit his hand. His knife fell to the ground. Harold lunged. A huntsman pulled Sebald away as another helped Harold. They tackled Cord and pushed his face into the dirt.

Sir Philip bent near and whispered, “I’ve waited a long time for this, dog boy. A long time.” He straightened, “Over there by the tree stump. I want you to put his hand and wrist over it.”

Just then, a loud and long peal shook the forest.

“Hold it!” Richard said. He yanked Harold off Cord and glared at the huntsman, forcing the man to back away.

The peal came again. It was Baron Hugh’s olifant.

“He’s found him!” Richard cried. “He’s found Old Sloat.”

“Impossible,” Philip said.

The peal came once more. They knew its ring, what it meant. The Baron did indeed chase the old monster once more. The olifant’s power told them so.

Richard handed Cord his knife. “The chase isn’t over yet,” he said. “Let’s go.”

The huntsmen scrambled to the leashed hounds. Sir Walter mounted up. Only Sir Philip and Harold Watchman hesitated.

“Are you daft?” Richard shouted at Philip. “The Baron needs us!”

Philip shook his head and muttered, but he too mounted up. “Keep an eye on him,” he told Harold.

Cord, sick at what had almost happened, his hand throbbing from being hit, tried to marshal his thoughts. All he knew was a blinding hatred toward Old Sloat. The crazy old boar had caused him this horrible predicament. He had to see Old Sloat dead or he’d lose his hand forever. There would be no escaping that horror. He knew that now. Only Old Sloat’s death would bring him back his hand.

Baron Hugh’s olifant pealed again. Cord, along with the others, hurried in that direction.

***

The two knights and the squire lead the charge. Behind them, Cord raced in front of the other huntsmen. Boarhounds bayed fiercely. The party crashed through branches and over bushes. Fallen logs and oak roots tried to trip them. It didn’t matter. The Pellinore hunting party followed the sound of the Baron’s olifant and his two hounds.

The grade shifted upward. Cord’s thighs burned.

Richard laughed from up ahead. “Listen to the dogs!”

Cord knew he meant the Baron’s dogs. They sounded tired, but they also had a savage note, as if they closed with the dangerous monster.

“Release the hounds!” Philip shouted.

Cord unclipped boarhounds, ones he had leashed earlier. The few that the huntsmen had streaked past Cord. They shot toward the sound of the baying. Richard yelled with joy and spurred his palfrey after the hounds. Sir Philip and Sir Walter followed.

Cord and Sebald recklessly leaped over a fallen tree and turned right after the horsemen. They dodged under branches and dove through several heavy thickets. With his heart beating savagely and his throat dry, Cord wondered if Saint George was about to grant him a victory.

Lady Alice’s olifant pealed close by. A boarhound yelped in pain. A pig grunted.

Heedless of the branches tearing at his clothes and face, Cord ran toward the noise. Sebald panted beside him.

“Baron Hugh!” Richard shouted from somewhere just ahead.

Cord put on a final burst of speed.

“O foul villain!” Baron Hugh shouted.

Cord heard a pig’s squeal.

“I see you!” Richard shouted.

“Richard, no!” Alice shouted.

A horse whinnied terribly. Something heavy crashed against the earth with a loud thud. The horse screamed.

Cord burst through the thicket before him and slid to a stop atop a cliff. Below Baron Hugh and Lady Alice had cornered Old Sloat below. Two dead boarhounds lay near the panting monster. Squire Richard was also there. The squire was pinned underneath his squirming palfrey. Cord could only guess that Richard hadn’t stopped in time. He and his horse must have plummeted over the cliff and almost atop Old Sloat. The squire’s face was very white. As the horse squirmed, he moved Richard’s body by his motions. The horse’s front legs looked broken. Sweat poured off the stallion, and the sweat had a strange, sickly odor.

Sir Philip, Sir Walter and the rest of the boarhounds raced around the cliff.

Below, his neck hairs bristling with rage, Old Sloat stepped toward Richard.

“No!” shouted Cord. He hurled a stone that pinged off the monster pig. Sloat squealed with rage, spinning to face the Baron.

Baron Hugh, his fine clothes soaked with slime, his face haggard with fatigue, dismounted. He clutched his boar spear two-handedly. Lady Alice, also mud-splattered, readied her javelin.

Cord desperately needed Old Sloat dead. He feared that Baron Hugh didn’t have the stamina left do to the deed. Nor did he think that a mere javelin could slay the pig. Also, he was worried that Sloat would gore Richard.

“Come on,” he hissed at Sebald. Cord turned and slipped over the cliff. With his toes, he found purchase. Wearily, as he watched Old Sloat, he slid down a little more. Sebald whined from above. Then the dog lunged and made a controlled drop beside the squire.

Baron Hugh laughed in dreadful glee. The monstrous boar with his small dark eyes breathed heavily. He bled from several dog bites. With a short hop, Sloat widened his stance and lowered his bloody tusks. Rage glistened in his inky eyes. His mane stiffened even more than before.

The old white-haired Baron leveled his boar spear. His hands trembled. No doubt, he was very tired. Just then, Lady Alice shouted, rose up in the stirrups and hurled her javelin. The missile shot true, but it slid off Sloat’s callused rutting shield.

Enraged, the eight hundred-pound beast charged Baron Hugh. As Cord dropped to the ground, the Baron set himself. The spear’s sharp head slid into Sloat’s shoulder. Then it bounced off the thick tissue of the boar’s rutting shield. Sloat darted his head down and up. Baron Hugh bellowed in outrage as his feet left the earth. Old Sloat trampled him, spun atop him, trampled some more, and then rushed Cord.

Panicked, Cord picked up Richard’s boar-spear. Blood pumped out of Sloat’s wound. Through the blood peered the wickedly black eye of Old Sloat. The beast meant to slay him. It meant to trample his corpse and gloat.

All the fear of losing his hand, all his hatred of Sir Philip and the injustices he’d had to bear all his life welled like a boil in Cord. The boil broke, and out oozed hatred. Cord roared as he backed up a step against the cliff. He knelt, ground the boar-spear against the hill and held on with all his youthful strength.

As Sir Philip rode into view, Old Sloat smashed into Cord’s pike. The hardened pole buckled in Cord’s hands as the razor-sharp steel entered Sloat’s neck. The monster’s vast weight pushed the spearhead deeper. Squealing, Sloat tried to slash Cord. Sebald bit into Sloat’s throat and jerked the tusks from Cord. Cord shouted with rage and fear and twisted the boar-spear. The fat pig squealed, thrashing his stumpy legs as life drained from him. Then Old Sloat died and grew very still.

A mighty feeling of victory washed over Cord. He let go of the boar-spear as he shouted, “Yes! Yes!”

Huge old Sir Philip sat motionless upon his destrier, his mouth agape. He looked at Cord as if he’d seen a ghost or some other supernatural horror.

Sebald growled as he shook Old Sloat.

Sir Philip, his scarred face pale, worked his mouth. “You... You slew Old Sloat.”