The Rogue Knight Page 13

  A tall steward, who had patiently waited beside Cord, cleared his throat as he stepped forward. “Milord,” he told Walter, “the food will soon be ready.”

  Sir Walter wiped sweat from his face and accepted a flagon of beer from his groom.

  “The day is lovely,” the steward said helpfully.

  Sir Walter nodded. “We’ll eat in the garden today. Please give the order.”

  “Thank you, milord,” the steward said. He strode away and began shouting orders.

  “Another pass, Father?” asked the boy, the blunt practice sword in his hands.

  “No. Enough for now. Go wash, then report to the steward. You’ll take Richard’s place.”

  “Yes, Father!” shouted the boy. He gave the ragged sword to his father’s groom. Then he hurried after the steward.

  Cord silently applauded Sir Walter’s first decision. If the weather was good, he hated to eat in the castle. Out-door dining couldn’t be beaten. He hurried to the kennel, checked the brutes there, and then perked up as the dinner-horn blared three times. He said a few quick words to the hounds before rushing out and joining the throng headed through the gatehouse. People jostled one another as they walked quickly. It had been a long time since breakfast. Appetites were keen and the rules of etiquette rather loose.

  The throng headed down the hill, turned off the road before the barbican gate, walked through the jousting yard where the baron had always held his tournaments and moved under the apple trees of the garden. In order of rank, they lined up at the wash tables. Servants held cloths so they could dry their hands after a thorough scrubbing. Burly servants meanwhile set down sawhorses while others laid long planks across them. A narrow cushioned bench found itself before the Knight’s Table, while cruder benches went on both sides of the Retainers’ Tables.

  Sir Walter and his wife, plump Lady Martha, took the positions of honor at the center of the Knight’s Table. Lady Eleanor still grieved for her late husband, weeping in the chapel for his immortal soul. At Walter’s signal, the other knights and ladies sat. Then the rest of the throng threw themselves down for lunch. Father Bernard said grace and finally the porters were allowed to set down their steaming dishes.

  While this wasn’t a feast day, roasted boar proved to be the main course. Old Sloat had been brought from the forest, been butchered and served. Steaming bowls of cooked beets and cabbage were also set on the tables.

  “Please begin,” Sir Walter said.

  Cord picked up his trencher knife and grabbed the nearest loaf of bread before the stable boy across from him could. He sawed off a thick slice, slapped it down and then poked a beet with his knife. He gnawed on it as he waited for the meat. Finally, a thick slab of pork found itself on his bread plate. He doused it with gravy and threw some hot cabbage beside it. Using his fingers, but cutting the pork with his knife, he ate reasonable slices and chewed with his mouth closed. Richard had told him the rules of knightly etiquette. The stable boy across the table had both his elbows on the plank and had his chunk of pork clutched between his raised hands. He gnawed off huge pieces of meat and chewed with both sides of his mouth.

  “Hey, do you think you’re a knight now?” the stable boy brayed, seeing perhaps the ring on Cord’s finger. Meat spewed from his mouth and grease smeared his lips and chin.

  Cord shrugged as he sawed off another slice of pork.

  The stable boy gnawed at his meat, grunting because he’d taken too much in one bite.

  If Richard had been here, Cord was certain the squire would have nudged him and pointed out the stable boy’s bad table manners. Refined nobles were above such grossness.

  Sebald, no doubt growing impatient, nuzzled Cord in the back. Cord tossed the huge mastiff a slice of pork, but he didn’t turn around and pet him. To handle animals while sitting at the table wasn’t knightly. Nor did Cord wipe his trencher knife on the tablecloth nor pick his teeth while at the table. Ever since learning the knightly rules of etiquette, he’d tried to follow them.

  The stable boy, after drinking a large amount of beer, gathered a gob of spit in his mouth and spat it across the plank, barely missing Cord.

  “Even you know better than that,” Cord said.

  The stable boy belched. Then he began to devour his trencher—the gravy-soaked slab of bread he’d used as a plate.

  Cord put his trencher into his food sack, tying it to his belt. This afternoon he had to go with the bailiff to Rhys’ place. The gravy-soaked bread he planned to give to One-foot Jake who begged beside the old oak tree along the way.

  As he sipped beer, Cord happened to notice Sir Walter’s son, the one who would soon be leaving as a squire to a neighboring baron. The lad stood stiffly. Maybe his back still hurt from the blow his father had given him.

  The lad had taken Richard’s position at the Knight’s Table. It would be quite some time before anyone took Richard outside. Better to leave him in the healing gloom, Cord knew. It seemed odd without Richard’s bluff frame hovering by the Knight’s Table. He’d been a picture of refinement and an ever-present example of the Baron’s goodness and ability to teach knightly manners.

  Sir Walter’s eldest son made the opposite impression. The lad cocked his freckled face, eagerly listening to what the Lady Alice said to Lady Martha, his mother. Martha nodded, while Alice laughed softly. The boy glanced left. He laughed, too, at something Cord couldn’t see. Cord did see the boy make a comment to Alice, who turned in surprise at the squire-in-training by her elbow. The boy spoke again, loudly, and pointed.

  Alice blushed.

  Sir Walter caught the exchange. He rose, twisted his son’s ear and whispered a reprimand, or so Cord supposed.

  Richard would never have so obviously eavesdropped on a noble conversation. Nor would he have interjected a comment unless asked for one. The worst offense, making Alice blush, would have mortified Richard if he’d been the serving squire.

  Cord suddenly sat back in wonder.

  All this time I’ve had noble blood. Maybe Richard realized that all along. Maybe that’s why he’s taught me so much about knighthood.

  Cord smiled, and with renewed curiosity, he examined his ring before taking another swallow of beer.

  I am a knight’s son. I, therefore, can someday become a knight.

  He abruptly studied Sir Walter’s son again. The lad fidgeted. Then he rolled his eyes as the steward leaned over and said something to Walter.

  Cord smiled. Richard had done likewise before Baron Hugh had taken him in hand and trained him in courtly behavior. Squires and knights sometimes spent a lifetime serving more powerful nobles. Unless one knew the rules of etiquette, such service could only bring shame. Boorish behavior could also lose one the hard-to-acquire positions.

  Lords and ladies, Cord knew, often showed their high station by the rank of the person who served them. Conversely, a person gained standing by being allowed to serve and help a highly-ranked person. Cord had heard how Baron Hugh once held the stirrup for Earl Mortimer when the other had mounted his horse in the presence of the King. Even better, two years ago the Baron had poured wine into Prince Edward’s cup when the latter had toasted Earl Mortimer’s health. The Baron had bragged about that for months. And because he’d been well-versed in courtly manners, the incident had been one of refinement and therefore true nobility.

  Unlike Sir Walter’s son, Richard waited on his lord’s table with perfect grace. The porters brought him the dishes and he bent on one knee in order to hand the food to his superior. Then he stepped back, standing at ease, not laughing at the eaters, not rolling his eyes, and not picking his nose nor spitting or playing with the dogs. Visitors had often extolled Richard’s skillful manners to the Baron, which of course had rebounded onto the teacher.

  In fairness to Sir Walter’s son, this was probably his first time at table-serving. Soon he would begin his long years of training in a castle other than his father’s. Everyone knew that a father was too soft on his own blood. Hard knocks and knightly ste
rnness were needed in order to bash home the lessons that a squire needed to learn. Cord envied the boy, but tried not to.

  Envy was a sin, and if he were to become a knight, he’d need God’s help. Sinning all the time surely wasn’t the way to gain that help.

  Lady Alice clapped her hands.

  Along with everyone else, Cord looked up to see what she wanted.

  Alice arose, a beauty in mourning white. Her features showed her sadness, and in her hands, which were folded in a prayer-like poise, she held a large silver cross.

  “Dear Sir Walter,” Alice said, “may I ask a request of you?”

  Lady Martha whispered into her husband’s ear.

  Walter nodded to whatever his wife had said. Then he answered Alice. “Please, milady, feel free to speak your mind.”

  “Since this is our first meal without our dear departed lord,” Alice said, “I thought perhaps that we could have a moment of silence. Then, I request that Father Bernard say a prayer for the Baron’s soul.”

  Murmurs of approval rose.

  Alice kissed the crucifix. All knew that now she could only speak the truth.

  “While it is true that at first I only remained at Pellinore because of the Baron’s insistence,” Alice said, “in time the baron became a second father to me. He was a bluff and powerful man, but he feared God and protected his people with a vigilance that none could ever fault.” Alice raised her voice. “We will miss you, Baron Hugh. I will miss you.” She lowered her head.

  Cord heard those around him saying that she wept for him.

  “Truly, the Lady Alice loved him like a father,” said a mason to Cord’s left.

  “She mourns him more than any of his knights, that’s for certain,” said the mason’s wife.

  “I’ve been wrong about her,” said another woman. “I’ve always heard that she hated the Baron.”

  “Hush! What a foul thing to say. Look at her. She’s so lovely, so pure and innocent. No, she loved the baron.”

  “I’m not so sure—”

  “Look! She wipes her eyes. And now she speaks again. Quiet all of you. Listen!”

  The babble died away. Cord, like those around him, strained to hear what Lady Alice would say next.

  “Please, dear God,” Alice said loudly, with her eyes closed, “protect Sir Guy as he rides for Pellinore. Protect him from the armies roaming the Marches. And most of all, dear God, give him wisdom and strength as he attempts to pick up the mantle laid down by his glorious father.”

  Abruptly, Alice sat down, with her head lowered and her shoulders trembling.

  For a moment silence ruled, except for two hounds fighting over a bone. Finally, Father Bernard stood and said a loud amen.

  Lady Martha hugged Alice, and everyone saw how she whispered comforting words to Alice. It moved many of the women to tears, and many of the men roughly drained their jacks of ale.

  Sir Walter called for their attention, then said, “Henri, play us a song about the Baron.”

  The minstrel rose, and in his liquid way he strode to the front of the Knight’s Table. He strummed his lute as he thoughtfully studied the clouds. Suddenly, his sweet voice began the song. It told of a baron who manfully attempted to accomplish his duties. Alas! Death took the baron before his goals could be attained. Now the lord baron, Henri sang, watched over them from within the clouds above. Yes! Even now, he could see the Baron as he smiled down on his people of Pellinore Fief.

  Cord and others gazed up at the clouds in awe. A shiver of supernatural dread shot down Cord’s back. Did the Baron watch him even now? If he did, what did the Baron say to the angels? What did the Baron think about?

  “The Baron ain’t up there,” the stable boy hissed. “He kicked me in the arse too many times for him to go straight up. I say he’s still in Purgatory.”

  A smith cuffed the stable boy across the head and told him to shut his yap.

  Cord frowned and studied the clouds anew. Maybe the stable boy was right. Besides, how could Henri see the Baron? Not even Father Bernard had been able to, or the Lady Alice? Surely, because of her sorrow God would grant her the vision before that woman-chasing minstrel.

  Someone tapped Cord’s shoulder.

  “The bailiff wants you,” said Sir Walter’s eldest son, the one who had taken Richard’s position today.

  “Now?” asked Cord.

  The lad jerked his thumb at the Knight’s Table. Sir Walter and the bailiff spoke together.

  “All right, I’ll be right over,” said Cord.

  People rose, some wandering back up the hill toward the castle, others breaking into separate clumps as they gossiped before renewing their day’s work.

  Cord checked the tables and tossed a few extra scraps to various hounds, kicked two snarling brutes in order to break up their fight and pushed his way toward Henri. He grabbed the small minstrel’s arm and pulled him away from two serving maids.

  “Easy, Cord. I’m not one of your hounds.”

  “Sorry,” Cord mumbled.

  Henri massaged his arm as he smiled wryly. “What has your temper up, dog boy? Why are you hauling me away from the ladies?”

  “Did you really see the Baron?” Cord blurted.

  “You mean up in the clouds?”

  “Tell me the truth.”

  “The truth?” Henri asked. “All you want is the truth? Bah! Why not ask for the moon, or sacks of gold, or a ship full of naked virgins.”

  “Then you didn’t see the Baron?”

  “Shhh,” Henri said, glancing around as he pulled Cord away from those nearest them. “What are you trying to do? Set me up for a beating?”

  “What? A beating? You’re not making any sense.”

  “Is that a surprise? I’m the minstrel after all.”

  “Everyone was in tears. Even I felt something.”

  Henri gave Cord his trademark smile.

  “How could you see the Baron when Lady Alice couldn’t, or when even Father Bernard didn’t?” Cord asked.

  “Cord, Cord,” Henri said, shaking his head. “Sometimes you’re wiser than a pope. At other times, you’re a simpleton looking for a thrashing. I could see what the guileful Alice couldn’t or the simple-minded Father didn’t because I study hearts.”

  Cord frowned, trying to understand.

  Henri leaned near and whispered, “The truth, which is what you asked for, is that Baron Hugh is dead. What happened to his soul?” Henri shrugged theatrically. “Up, down, here, there, never, always. Who knows? The priests say they do. But they whore, guzzle and gorge themselves as much as any man. So I don’t know why they should have any inner secrets over us.”

  “Henri!” Cord said, outraged by the minstrel’s blasphemous words.

  “Ah, I forgot. You pray, tithe and listen to priests with the best of them. As for me....” Henri glanced around, then leaned closer yet and whispered, “Where do souls go when men die? Who knows, really? What I do know is this: Men live on in people’s hearts.” Henri poked Cord in the chest. “There lives the Baron. Yes, right there.” He poked harder. “That’s what I saw when I said the Baron watched us from above.”

  Cord tried to speak.

  “Yes, dog boy, I saw the Baron peering out of your heart.”

  “You’re mad,” Cord whispered.

  “Am I? Then why did everyone shed tears at my words?”

  Cord shook his head.

  “Because I saw the truth, that’s why.”

  “I...I don’t understand you, Henri.”

  The small minstrel smiled sadly, much of the wit for once drained out of his face. “I know you don’t. But like me, you sometimes see things for what they are. It’s why you control hounds better than any man alive does. You spoke of love the other day, but that can’t be why the hounds obey you so well.”

  “No?” Cord asked, feeling better because now they talked about something he understood.

  Henri said, “Love is a myth, an illusion, a thing which men play with. Just as I played with t
he Baron’s memory.”

  “No, Henri, love is the treasured something that men and women give.” Thinking of Bess, Cord sighed in the way children do after a long cry. “Sometimes, though,” he said softly, “love is spurned and trampled into the dust.”

  Henri shook his head. “There is no love, only lies which people tell each other.”

  Cord finally saw the pain in Henri. It shocked and surprised him. He saw the pain in the small minstrel’s posture, in the wry smile, in the eyes which seemed so deep but which were haunted with an almost unbearable affliction. Unconsciously, he reached out and squeezed Henri’s shoulder.

  Henri jerked away.

  “I...I think you’re a lonely man,” Cord said.

  Henri’s mouth twisted with distaste.

  “But I’m your friend,” Cord said.

  Henri stared rudely, although some of the tension eased out of him. “I have no friends.”

  “You have one,” said Cord.

  Henri stared in obvious bewilderment. Then he asked softly, “Why would you be my friend?”

  Cord thought about it. “Because I like you.”

  “I can’t help you win back Bess, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “It isn’t.” But he wondered if that were really true.

  Henri searched Cord’s face. “No, it isn’t,” he said in surprise.

  “Cord!” the bailiff shouted.

  Cord waved. Then told Henri, “I’m off.”

  “Yes. Good bye.”

  Cord wanted to say more, hesitated, but couldn’t think of anything to say. He felt awkward. At last, he chuckled nervously and strode away.

  He left a frowning Henri, who mumbled softly to himself that all of life was a lie. When the two serving maids found him, he’d already put his protective wry smile back into place. Still, he played his game with the maids with less zest than before. Cord’s words troubled him, and he wondered if maybe he wasn’t the fool, not the earnest dog boy who claimed to love his hounds.

  Maybe he’d have to stay at Pellinore a little while longer. If there really was truth, love and meaning, then surely it behooved him to find out.