The Rogue Knight Read online

  “None of that,” said fat Sergeant Hob, who had moved up. He put his ham-sized hand on Reynard’s shoulder and spun him around, away from Cord.

  “Unhand me, cur!”

  “Play elsewhere,” Hob said, giving Reynard a shove that staggered the armored sergeant.

  Although Hob only wore festive finery, Reynard gave him a squinty, calculating glance. He finally turned with an oath and grabbed Lady Alice by the elbow, and painfully propelled her toward Sir Guy.

  Hob watched the clanking Reynard. With a sigh, he turned to Cord. “You’d better stay away from that one. He’s a killer and will eat you for breakfast and spit you out.”

  “I’m not afraid of him,” Cord said.

  “You’d better be,” said Hob. “Otherwise you’ll soon be dead.”

  Cord shrugged mulishly.

  Hob shrugged too then, paused as if he wanted to tell Cord something more, then turned and staggered back to the crowed wine table.

  Cord tested his face. It hurt, but nothing was broken or bleeding. He decided he didn’t want to think about it. So he went to the wine table where the bailiff stood with the cook. There in measured cups the cook gave wine to whoever asked. The bailiff was there for those who drank too much. That would be for later during the feast. At the moment, the bailiff and Hob argued.

  Cord accepted a cup of wine from the cook, went by the tables and sat on a bench. The blow to the face had taken away his festive spirit. He didn’t like Reynard. The man was a bully and a killer, and he’d manhandled Alice.

  Cord quaffed wine and leaned back against a table. That’s when he noticed the yellow-clad hangman pull at Philip’s sleeve. Philip turned and listened to the hangman. To Cord’s surprise Philip called over the dour Gascon mercenary. They talked until the mercenary shrugged. Philip shouted and Sir Guy turned his way. Philip pointed at the hangman. Guy rubbed his face, and nodded. The mercenary had witnessed the nod. He nonchalantly gave Philip the dungeon keys from his belt. Philip turned to the hangman and gave him the keys.

  Cord didn’t understand any of it so he finished off his wine and relaxed. Finally, after his face stopped throbbing, he decided to go back and dance.

  -10-

  As noon approached, the dancing died down. Most of the people were exhausted and lay panting in the shade like dogs. Instead of viol playing, the minstrels began to perform tricks. Henri juggled balls, made them disappear to the oohs of the crowd and then found the rag balls as he pulled them out of the vests of Sir George, Sir Walter and giant Sir Philip. The people cheered, clapped and stamped their feet.

  Next two minstrels put on masks and preformed a play, a farce about a lecherous peasant asking his priest for forgiveness. The people hooted with laughter, some of them wiping tears from their eyes. Father Bernard watched stiffly, although he made no move to stop the play. In the play, the peasant made a grievous blunder, trying to kiss a girl when the priest wasn’t looking. The actor-priest gave the peasant such a mighty buffet that the lecherous fellow fell unconscious to the sward. Only then did Father Bernard loosen up as he gave a loud shout of approval.

  When Henri stood up and spoke his last line—he’d played the part of the lecherous peasant—the herald blasted his silver trumpet. He declared that it was time to begin the feast. The nobility, he said, would retire to Sir Guy’s red pavilion. The commoners would eat under the elm trees and in the shade on the sawhorses and boards provided.

  Cord hurried to a choice spot in the shade, bumping against others as everyone rushed to sit down. He knew the fare wouldn’t be as costly or bizarre, not like what was served in the red tent. Stuffed eels were a favorite with the nobles, as well as pig’s tongues or rooster’s combs. There would be lots to eat today, and the wine and beer would flow freely and endlessly.

  The sea of sawhorse tables and benches seemed never ending. Cord saw numberless folk he hadn’t seen in years. He waved too many and joked good-naturedly with others. Only Harold Watchman did he turn away from. After the grand feast, some of the leftovers would be sent to the nearer villages for the poor. The usual beggars at the barbican gate wouldn’t go hungry for at least a week. Of course, those with hangovers tomorrow would be vast. Cord was counting on just that. He kept hearing the bailiff or the cook shout for another tun of wine or for a new vat of beer.

  Cord thanked a lass who filled his cup with ale. He tasted it and swirled the rich ale in his mouth, swallowing it with a nod. Godale, he decided. This would be Sir Guy’s very best beer, and would surely be in short supply for the common folk. Godale was double strength beer, nor was it spiced up the way many brewers did these days. Ever since the Crusades, some brewers had begun to fill their drinks with juniper, resin or cinnamon. It destroyed the proper taste, but some folk liked it.

  Nearly every castle, monastery or village had its own brewery. The East Village made the best beer in Pellinore Fief, although the Bridge Village made some that was just as good in Cord’s opinion.

  Cord finished his godale and wondered how to get more. Then he remembered he wasn’t supposed to get drunk today.

  Those who had been tired out by the dancing now threw themselves into the feast. People swallowed amazingly huge chunks of roast venison or fistfuls of rolled cabbage or spiced mutton. The foaming beer, after the jump-start with godale, seemed to disappear into endless caverns. Already the rowdier folk roared out songs as they feasted, or they gave hearty buffets to their friends and laughed as the unfortunates almost choked on their food.

  Sergeant Reynard spoke to the bailiff. The bailiff followed him into the red pavilion. No doubt, he’d gone to break up a fight between nobles.

  Sergeant Reynard wouldn’t be drunk tonight. Sir Guy paid him double wages to stay sober and alert.

  Cord tried not to drink too much himself. But the knowledge that this might be his last day on earth battled against his intentions. He poured every third cup of beer under the table. As long as he did that he wouldn’t become drunk, or so he told himself after his second cup. He devoured roast venison and threw down a vast number of spiced eggs. They were delicious and of course had to washed down by more beer.

  A vast good feeling filled Cord. Tonight he’d free Alice and then he’d be off to become a knight. He toasted with the hearty fellows beside him, and barely remembered that this was his third cup again. He dashed the beer down under the table and soaked his boots. He was about to swear, when someone tapped him on the shoulder. Cord turned bleary eyes upon a small minstrel who stood behind him, frowning.

  “No more, Cord,” Henri whispered into his ear.

  “Sure,” Cord slurred. “I’ll drink no more.”

  “I can’t believe this,” Henri said in exasperation. “You’ve already drunk too much.”

  “No I haven’t.”

  “How many cups have you had?”

  Cord had to think carefully. “…Seven.”

  Henri swore in French and then urged Cord yet again not to drink. “If you do, then we’re as good as dead tomorrow.”

  A loud cheer arose from the red pavilion up the hill.

  “What’s that?” Cord asked in bewilderment.

  Henri made a face. “The squires are bringing in the big pastry.”

  “Huh?”

  “Small bird pie.”

  “Oh,” Cord said. It would be a huge pastry. Inside it would be countless sparrows, starlings and other little birds. To Sir Guy would go the honor of slicing open the pie to let the live birds flutter out. The tent flap would be closed as the castle falconers let their hawks and falcons wing up into the confined spaces. None of the little birds would survive, but would fall bloody and torn onto the tables. The nobles loved such after-dinner entertainment.

  “Bugger off,” an old man growled at Henri, who’d accidentally brushed the old man’s back.

  “Leave him be,” said Cord, elbowing the old shepherd. He’d watched the thin old man drink cup after cup of wine, eating only a little of the venison. The fool wheezed through his nose in a man
ner that irritated Cord.

  “What’s wrong with you?” the old shepherd growled at Cord, elbowing him back.

  Cord shouted, about to wrestle the old shepherd off the bench and onto the ground. This would be just the thing to end a good feast.

  “Cord!” Henri shouted, dragging him off the bench.

  Cord allowed himself to be pulled back, even though the old shepherd jeered.

  “What kind of fool are you?” Henri said, pulling him aside.

  “This is my last day,” Cord said. “I wanted to feast, that’s all.”

  “But seven cups of beer!”

  “I poured out every third one.”

  Henri shook his head.

  “I’ll be fine by tonight,” Cord assured him.

  “No, that isn’t the point. You’re supposed to be sharp, utterly ready.”

  Cord finally stopped as Henri dragged him out of sight of the others. He put his big hands on Henri’s shoulders. “Reynard’s guarding Alice,” he said glumly. “I think he’ll be guarding her all night. And he’s not drinking. Those are Sir Guy’s orders.”

  “Yes, so?”

  Cord shrugged. “So I wanted to drink before I died.”

  “Are you afraid of Reynard?”

  Cord puffed out his chest. “I’ll destroy him.”

  Henri shook his head again.

  That made Cord’s head spin.

  “Make yourself throw up. That’ll at least get some of the beer out of you.”

  “Throw up?” Cord asked.

  “Stick your finger down your throat.”

  Cord didn’t like the sound of that, but he realized he’d been foolish.

  “Over here,” Henri said, pulling him near Lady Eleanor’s rose bushes.

  Cord bent low and stuck his finger into his throat. Soon he was groaning, wishing more than ever that he’d had more self-control.

  “It just sort of crept up on me,” he tried to explain.

  “I know how that can be,” Henri said.

  “I...I kept thinking about tonight, about facing Reynard.”

  “You slew Old Sloat, didn’t you?”

  Cord nodded.

  “Then you can defeat Reynard.”

  “With just a dagger?”

  “Not any dagger. You’ve told me before that it’s a Toledo steel dagger. And look at the size of it. It’s a short sword really.”

  Cord nodded as another loud shout arose from the red pavilion.

  “That’s probably the last sparrow to die,” Henri said. “Sir Guy will be wanting the minstrels again. I’d better go. Will you be all right?”

  Cord nodded.

  “No more drinking, right?”

  “Right.”

  Henri hurried off, while Cord touched the hilt of his dagger. He’d beaten a mercenary arm wrestling in order to win this dagger. Maybe he’d won it for this very night. He grinned. Maybe God had seen to it that he’d won the dagger for this very night in order to face another mercenary, a killer who enjoyed inflicting pain.

  With those thoughts, Cord found himself a lonely spot to lie down. He’d rest a short while, then he’d start preparing for tonight. He felt tired and full, and more than a little groggy. Another cheer sounded from somewhere, but by then he was drifting off to sleep.

  ***

  Cord woke with a groan. He felt awful. His head throbbed, his eyes hurt and his right cheek felt tender. He sat up, and he groaned again as his head spun and his stomach threatened to spew its contents. What had he been thinking, drinking wine and beer in the same day? You weren’t supposed to mix those. He was old enough to know that.

  He’d been thirsty dancing, he recalled, and the wine had been good. He tried to think back to what Henri had told him before. He’d seen them water the red wine…now he remembered! Sir Guy liked to see people get roaring drunk. Henri had told him earlier that the liquid being used to water the red wine had been white wine. He must have forgotten that in the excitement of all the lovely girls and the dancing. He’d had several cups of wine before sitting down to eat. Then he’d drunk beer like a fool because the wine had already blurred his thinking.

  “Throw away every third cup,” he mumbled to himself as he rubbed his forehead. “What a great idea.”

  He peered up at the stars. A new feeling made him rise quickly. He undid his breeches and urinated on Lady Eleanor’s rose bushes. Ah, now that felt glorious. Only after he buckled up his breeches did he hear the singing and clapping from the revelers around him. Good, the feast wasn’t over. He hadn’t slept too long.

  He began to wander. The moon was high in the sky, so it had been night for a few hours already. That meant more of the beer in him had burned off.

  He yelled as he staggered over a man lying in the grass. Cord barely caught himself in time. He turned. The man snored, not minding that he’d been kicked in the side. Cord checked the grounds and saw many a man and woman passed out, drunk out of their minds.

  This was better and better. For this was what Henri and he had hoped for. If there were ever a time that someone could be spirited out of a castle, it would be after a major feast when everyone, or almost everyone, was drunk.

  A bonfire roared in the practice yard in front of the red pavilion. Cord wandered that way, listening to the crackling logs and feeling the fire’s warmth. Only then did he realize how cold he was. The evening breeze was chilly. A log popped and sent up a shower of sparks. One spark landed on the red tent, but the dew had already fallen and the spark sputtered and died.

  Cord heard singing from in the tent as knights and their retainers roared out camp songs. The words were lewd, so Cord assumed that the ladies had already left for the Great Hall.

  A shout made him turn. Two men drunkenly lumbered at each other. They hammered one another for a moment, then fell into a heap and were soon laughing and roaring at the stars together.

  A familiar bump in the back of his leg made Cord grin with delight. Sebald, his belly looking very full, had finally found him.

  “Have you been sleeping, boy?” Cord asked, giving the huge mastiff a friendly shake.

  Sebald wagged his tail.

  “Let’s go,” Cord told him.

  The two walked past the red tent but didn’t head for the gatehouse. Instead, they continued to circle the castle and the moat. At last, they came to the big tower. It was part of the wall and dominated the skyline. Cord tugged Sebald to some bushes twenty feet from the moat. A small rope and a stake lay at the bottom of a particular bush. Cord pushed the stake into the ground, tied the rope to it and to Sebald’s spiked collar.

  “You’re going to wait here,” Cord told him.

  Sebald wagged his tail again.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Cord turned to leave. Sebald whined and tugged at the rope.

  “No, stay,” said Cord.

  Sebald whined and tugged again.

  “Stay, Sebald!” Cord said.

  The huge mastiff peered at him, and then he lay down and put his head on his paws. He looked downhearted.

  “I’ll be back as quick as you can blink,” Cord said. He walked to the drawbridge, nodded to bleary-eyed guards and headed straight for the kennel. He avoided drunken louts by keeping his head down and walking fast. A few men sang lewd songs, but most snored in their blissful state.

  The first surprise came when Cord ducked through the low door and stepped into the kennel.

  “I knew you’d come,” said a woman.

  Cord looked up in alarm. Out of the shadows, with a lantern in her hand, came the castle scullion Sarah. She was a pretty lass, with long dark curls, a small rosebud mouth and a full figure with big breasts and round hips. When they’d danced, he’d stared at her swaying breasts. By the look on her face and her fumy breath, she’d drunk quite a few cups of beer.

  She set down the lantern, stepped to him, swung her arms around his neck and yanked his mouth against hers. She pressed her luscious body against his and kissed long and hard.

  “Oh,
Cord.” She kissed him again and rubbed herself against his groin. Her strong fingers stroked his head as she messed up his hair. He instinctively put his arms around her and hugged tightly, pressing her breasts against his chest and returning her kiss with one of his own.

  “Hmmm,” she signed, becoming more aroused than before. She pulled him down so in moments they were both on their knees. Her hands left his head as they roved under his shirt and across his flat belly and muscled chest. “Oh Cord,” she whispered, “make love to me.”

  Cord thought he heard the kennel door creak open, and he tried to turn to look. Sarah’s strong fingers left his shirt and clutched onto his hair as she turned his face back to hers.

  A loud French curse broke the mood.

  Sarah’s hands left Cord’s hair as she made a small squeal of surprise. A dull thwack made her body go slack. Cord held her, but he felt her loosen. He realized she was unconscious. Gently, he lowered her to the floor.

  Behind her stood Henri, a leather sap in his hands.

  “Why’d you do that?” Cord asked.

  “Why?” Henri asked. He swore again, softly, and put the sap away.

  “Did you hurt her?” Cord asked.

  Henri snorted. “Do you joke? Sarah’s a tough girl. Besides, I’ve done such things before. She’ll be fine.”

  Cord bent over her and touched her head. A lump had already arisen on the back of her head. It wasn’t a large lump, but he didn’t like the feel of it. He lifted one of her eyelids to make sure she was still alive.

  “Leave her alone,” Henri said, “or you’ll wake her up.”

  “You shouldn’t have hit her.”

  “No? Then what should I have done? Let you rut with her first?”

  “It might have put her to sleep.”

  “No,” Henri said, “it would have put you to sleep. A woman like her could go on all night.” Henri shook his head. “You’re the strangest man I know, dog boy. On a hunt, you’re the most serious and intent person there is. On the night of a daring rescue where the life of a fine young lady is at stake, you become drunk and a womanizer.”

  “You don’t understand, she was waiting for me.” Cord, despite Henri’s interruptions, quickly explained what had happened.