The Rogue Knight Page 4

  Cord shrugged with feigned indifference. “Suit yourself, but I’ll tell Baron Hugh just the same.”

  Harold lowered his spear until he held it with both hands. His drooping eye almost closed, while his good eye squinted. “You looking for a beating, felon’s boy?”

  Cord controlled his anger and openly laughed in Harold’s face.

  Harold’s face tightened and his thick lips curled into the ugliest sneer yet. One of the boarhounds growled. A look of shock filled Harold’s face as he saw the pack eyeing him.

  “Are you setting your hounds on me?” he asked, his voice rising.

  “Will you help me or not?”

  “Those beasts hate me,” Harold said, a whine entering his voice. “They’ll turn on me if I try to take them.”

  “No they won’t. Just stop pointing your spear at me, that’s all.”

  Harold’s eyes widened. “You’re a devil,” he whispered. “You’ve bewitched these hounds. No dogs watch over their handlers like that.”

  “Mine do,” Cord said proudly. He’d long ago learned a simple truth—the hounds returned his love.

  “Go on, leave,” Harold said as he stepped back. “Get those hounds out of here.”

  “You’d better help me, Harold Watchman.”

  Harold looked indecisive.

  “You’ll just take three of them,” Cord said, relenting, telling himself that Harold hadn’t meant anything by his insults. “If you take three, I can control the others.”

  “Three?” Harold whined.

  “Hurry up, Watchman. We don’t want to keep the Baron waiting.”

  At last, Harold wilted, although he whispered as he leaned his spear against a fence, “I’ll remember this, you damn felon’s whelp.”

  Cord pulled the hounds near the watchman. Many of them began sniffing Harold. Harold stiffened. Two of them pushed their shoulders against his legs. Harold made a strange sound.

  “Stop that!” Cord told the hounds, although it delighted him to see the watchman squirm. “Here,” he said to Harold.

  Harold tentatively reached for three of the leashes.

  Cord divided the rest of his hounds evenly between his hands. “Let’s go,” he said.

  Harold didn’t move. His three hounds busily sniffed him, obviously making him nervous.

  “Use your knees to knock them in the head,” Cord said.

  Harold gingerly did so. One of the boarhounds growled at him.

  “Do it harder, with more authority,” Cord said.

  “N-No,” Harold stammered. “They’ll attack me if I do.”

  Cord stepped near and used the bottom of his foot to shove the offending boarhound. “Obey!” Cord told him. To Harold, he said, “Now start walking.”

  Harold did. The three boarhounds followed, and soon they pulled Harold along as they sniffed at the trail and strained at the leashes. Harold moved ahead of Cord, who controlled his hounds better.

  Soon they were out of the East Village and moving past the bakehouse. Cord silently thanked Maude for the sausage as the smell of freshly baked bread was overpowering.

  After several hundred yards Harold said, “I forgot my spear!”

  “You couldn’t carry your spear. You need both your hands for the dogs.”

  “I need my spear,” Harold insisted, sounding worried.

  “No one will steal it.”

  “It’s not that,” Harold said, his red face glistening with sweat. “We’re headed toward Old Sloat.”

  “Does that worry you?”

  “Damn you, man, of course I’m worried. Old Sloat killed the forester. That old bugger was meaner than a she-bear with cubs. If a wild boar could do him in, then it can surely do for the likes of us.”

  “We have boarhounds.”

  “Boarhounds! Are you daft? Old Sloat will kill the boarhounds. Then he’ll kill us!”

  Cord thought likewise, at least if no knights were present, but Harold grated on him. “Today Old Sloat dies,” he boasted.

  “By you?”

  Cord looked coldly into Harold’s eyes.

  Harold tried to match the glare, but failed. He muttered, “You’re no knight, felon’s son. You can’t kill the boar.”

  “If it comes to that, watchman, I can.” Cord was thinking about Senno, about the old boar yanking out his beloved hound’s intestines. Maybe, just maybe, the beast could be slain.

  Harold glanced at Cord again and his laugh died on his moist lips. Before either man could say more, an olifant blasted its powerful notes.

  “Baron Hugh!” shouted Cord. He told Harold, “Make sure you don’t let go of those leashes. The hounds have to be released at the proper times and intervals.”

  The olifant pealed again. To Cord’s trained ear Baron Hugh sounded impatient.

  Harold wheezed as he ran faster, and sweat poured off his face and soaked his dirty shirt. “How do you know its Baron Hugh?”

  “I know the sound of his olifant,” Cord said, as if explaining that he breathed by opening his mouth and sucking down air.

  A different horn pealed, a horn higher sounding than before.

  “That’s the squire’s olifant,” Cord said. More horns pealed. “And those are Sir Walter’s, Sir Philip’s and the Lady Alice’s olifants.”

  “You’re a sorcerer,” Harold muttered.

  “ Don’t talk. Run!”

  Cord put on a burst of speed. The lords and the lady wanted the boarhounds now! Baron Hugh probably scowled at Senno’s corpse and swore his awful oaths. He would be astride Tencendur and holding the olifant in his strong hands.

  Another blast rang out.

  The olifant—the hunting horn—was used so the members of a party could find each other in the woods or upon the wide fields. If blown with power, one could hear an olifant more than a mile away. Cord saw in his mind’s eye the olifant in Baron Hugh’s leather-gauntleted hand. It was made of ivory and chased with silver and gold. It would be slung around the baron’s neck by a red-silk cord.

  Cord ran up a rise and saw the hunting party milling on the edge of the woods. His boarhounds barked and grew excited. They knew a hunt was afoot.

  Baron Hugh, white-haired and thickset, sat astride Tencendur. He held a boar spear and wore a black lambkin cape. His face showed his rage: red, somewhat puffy, eyes bright with fury. Squire Richard spoke from the palfrey to Tencendur’s right.

  Each of the nobles, unlike any of the huntsmen, wore fur of some kind: the baron his lambkin cape, Richard his fox cape, the Lady Alice an ermine hood, the other two knights had fur collars. Their clothes, again unlike the huntsmen, were clean.

  Nobles changed clothes daily, and the clothes they wore were of the finest craftsmanship. Almost everyone, peasant or noble, wore homespun wool. The coarse wool was difficult to keep clean. Linen could be purchased in the larger towns and at every decent trade fair. Cotton and silk were rare. Fur, however, rabbit, fox, marten, half-mythical Russian mink, could be acquired rather easily. But by custom, fur could only be worn by the nobility. Many nobles thus wore fur with the same passion with which they wore swords or kept falcons on their wrists: as a sign of their high station.

  Richard, who spoke urgently to the baron, was as proud of his fox-lined cape as he was of the slender sword strapped to his waist. It wasn’t yet a heavy, knightly sword, but a sword it surely was.

  The other two knights and the lady also listened to Richard. Around the mounted gentry swarmed the huntsmen and a handful of hounds.

  “Cord!” Baron Hugh bellowed.

  A knot tightened in Cord’s gut. He had to handle this correctly or the position of forester would be forever lost. He ran hard, wondering what he should say. He was glad to see the bloodhounds. With them trailing, the chances of finding Old Sloat increased tenfold. Had Richard seen to that?

  Richard stopped talking and inclined his head. Then he backed up his palfrey and winked at Cord.

  Cord inadvertently smiled.

  “You grin?” Baron Hugh asked in surp
rise. “Tell me why, dog boy.”

  “Baron,” Cord said, putting a note of confidence into his voice. “I’m glad you’re here. Old Sloat slew Senno. Now you can slay him.”

  “You think so, dog boy?”

  “He’s gorged, milord. Old Sloat will be slower today than usual.”

  “Yes!” the baron roared, his face turning redder. “He’s gorged on Italian mastiff. How did you let that happen?”

  Cord saw the brightness to Hugh’s eyes. He’d been drinking. All three of the knights looked as if they’d been drinking. Maybe, before Richard had come with the news, they’d been at one of their afternoon drinking bouts. For the Pellinore gentry the long summer months, while waiting for baronial enemies to invade the valley, were times filled with boredom and therefore with endless drinking contests.

  “No answer, dog boy?” the Baron asked in a menacing tone.

  “He was protecting your people, milord,” Richard said.

  “Let him speak for himself!” Baron Hugh snarled. “I want to know how a dog boy who yearns to be forester could lose a prized mastiff to Old Sloat.”

  Harold, who had finally lumbered up, muttered something about a felon’s son being a stupid fool.

  Cord lifted his angular chin. All his careful plans and honeyed words vanished because of the watchman’s rude words. He would not bow and scrape before the Baron with Harold watching. No, he would be bold like his father the knight had once been bold.

  “Milord,” Cord said, “this is the truth.”

  Baron Hugh’s eyes narrowed as Cord told the tale, and he hissed when Cord said he’d slashed at Old Sloat.

  “You actually cut him?” the white-haired baron asked in disbelief.

  “Yes, lord.”

  “And it was your intention to cut him?”

  Cord blinked in disbelief at what he’d just admitted. Perhaps he’d spoken too boldly. “Ah...milord, my intention? No, no, it was not my intention. I was simply trying to scare Old Sloat, milord.”

  Baron Hugh glanced at Sir Philip and Sir Walter, a veteran of thirty-four. Both knights lived at Pellinore Castle with Baron Hugh, although both held tiny castles, towers really, that belonged to the baron’s extended fief. By their noble presence, they added luster to the baron’s court and helped him in various ways as councilors, judges and hunting partners. Sir Walter wore chainmail armor and held an axe. He often assisted the bailiff, especially in the bloodier affairs. Sir Philip was Baron Hugh’s closest friend for over twenty years. He rubbed a well-veined hand over his bald head. Like the Baron, Philip wore rough hunting garments and dearly loved the chase. Old battle scars crisscrossed his face, while shaggy gray eyebrows gave him the countenance of a bear.

  “Don’t you know that boars are reserved solely for knights?” asked Walter.

  “Yes, milord,” said Cord. “I know that.”

  “Then—”

  “A moment,” said bald Sir Philip. “Dog boy.”

  “Yes, milord?” Cord asked, noticing that Philip swayed in the saddle. Clearly, he was drunk.

  “You know, of course,” Philip said slowly and deliberately, his scars twisting as he spoke, “that Old Sloat killed the forester.”

  Cord nodded. Now he wished he’d told the tale with more humility. Sir Philip had always hated him for some unfathomable reason.

  “Did you wish to avenge the forester’s death?” Sir Philip asked in a soft voice.

  Cord frowned, not knowing what to say, more than a little fearful of Philip.

  “The reasons don’t matter,” Sir Walter said. He lifted his axe, his chainmail sleeve clinking. “Old Sloat escapes deep into the woods and we chatter over trivia. Loose the dogs, I say, and let us kill this brute.”

  “Ah, but reasons do matter,” said huge Sir Philip. “This lad wishes to be forester, yet given half a chance he tries to kill Baron Hugh’s game. Even worse, he lets a costly Italian mastiff die.”

  “Milords,” said Richard, “isn’t this just a matter of a brave lad saving a little girl’s life? We should commend him, and thank him for his courage in coming to tell Baron Hugh that worthy game is afoot. He knew the cost of his actions, yet he’s dared to tell the truth. I, for one, admire his courage and his honesty.”

  “You’re wrong,” Sir Philip said, his scarred face flushed. “He’s a peasant who tried to slaughter the Baron’s game.”

  Harold, who stood directly behind Cord, snickered evilly.

  Cord opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of what he’d planned to say and closed his mouth.

  “He should be whipped for his impertinence,” Sir Philip said.

  Sir Walter shrugged, his chainmail clinking.

  Baron Hugh, having listened to the advice from his councilors, as it was their duty to give him, lowered his boar spear and prodded the mastiff’s bloody corpse.

  “You’ve cost me an expensive Italian hound, dog boy.”

  “Please forgive me, milord,” Cord asked contritely, fearing their belligerent looks.

  “You begin to act as if you think that your blood is noble,” Baron Hugh said.

  Cord lowered his eyes, then his head. He heard Harold snicker again, and it made him clench the leashes with all his strength. His father had been hanged like a common felon, but his father been a knight. A knight!

  My blood is noble.

  “...However,” Baron Hugh was saying, “you saved a little girl. And after considering your options, you ran to tell me of Old Sloat’s whereabouts. My judgment is this.”

  Cord looked up.

  “You will pay me Senno’s purchase price.”

  Cord nodded as he groaned inwardly. Where could he find that kind of money?

  “And today, during this hunt,” Baron Hugh said, “we will let Old Sloat and Saint Hubert decide your fate. If Saint Hubert grants us victory and the cunning old boar is slain, you will be made into my forester. But,” the Baron said, holding up an admonitory finger. “If Saint Hubert frowns upon you and Old Sloat escapes us once more, you will be lashed twenty times in order to remind you that you are a peasant, not of noble blood.”

  Saint Hubert was the huntsman’s saint. Long ago in the eighth century, or so it was claimed, the great huntsman Hubert of Liege came upon a stag who bore between his horns an image of Jesus Christ. The sight had so moved Hubert that he renounced his titles and joined a religious order.

  Cord flexed his shoulder blades. To be whipped like a peasant...no. His father had been a knight. That had never been clearer to him than today. He scowled, and then he saw Sir Philip watching him.

  Sir Philip’s scarred face tightened. He urged his stallion closer to the Baron and cleared his throat.

  Baron Hugh turned. He’d been talking with the chief huntsman. “Speak,” the Baron told Philip.

  “Baron,” said bald Sir Philip, “I’m thinking back to a time eleven years ago.”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “I think the dog boy grows overbold,” Sir Philip said. “The Earl must not hear of that or it may bring unneeded trouble upon you.”

  Baron Hugh nodded sagely, his red-rimmed eyes thoughtful.

  Huge Sir Philip said, “Maybe the Baron would allow me to add to the dog boy’s punishment?”

  “Speak your mind, old friend.”

  Sir Philip said, “Let the dog boy’s offending hand be chopped off, milord.”

  The others gasped. Even Harold had the decency to look shocked.

  Sir Philip seemed oblivious to them. He was saying, “A surer sign to the other peasants couldn’t be given, milord. Otherwise, I’m afraid, the peasants may think that the slaying of game is a trivial matter to you.”

  “No!” shouted Richard. “Only a Turk could say such a thing. The dog boy is a loyal servant. To treat him as you suggest is ill-mannered.”

  Sir Philip’s fleshy old face grew mottled with rage. His hand tightened around his sword-hilt as he shifted his stallion toward Richard.

  Baron Hugh scowled. “Hold your tongue, Squire. You fo
rget yourself.” He nodded to bald Sir Philip. “Yes, very well. I agree. Now please, good friend, don’t take offense at my squire.”

  “But his words, milord, I cannot let them stand,” Sir Philip said, his yellowed teeth clenched.

  Cord felt faint, his knees weak. He wondered if he should make a run for it.

  “I spoke the truth!” Richard shouted at Philip, his own hand on his sword-hilt.

  “Hold!” Baron Hugh roared at him.

  Everyone stared at Richard.

  “You will keep silent,” the Baron told his squire.

  Richard, with fury in his eyes, somehow managed to control himself.

  “We will settle this later,” Baron Hugh said to Philip.

  “Yes, milord,” huge Sir Philip said. “Later, as you say.”

  “And you, dog boy,” Baron Hugh said.

  Cord looked up, his face pale, his knees almost buckling. He considered sending his hounds at the footmen and making a break for it. To lose a hand—He tried to swallow. All his thoughts were in turmoil.

  “You will lose your offending hand,” Baron Hugh told him, “but only if Saint Hubert frowns upon you and Old Sloat escapes us once more. Only then. For I’ve already spoken in Saint Hubert’s name, yes?”

  Sir Philip nodded, although it seemed reluctantly.

  The Baron grinned down at the dog boy. “If Saint Hubert smiles upon you, Cord, and you are to be the forester, then you’ll need both your hands.”

  Cord managed a sickly grin. He wanted to vomit, but he had to stay strong. Otherwise.... He didn’t want to think about otherwise.

  “Yes, milord,” he said.

  The Baron shook his long white hair like a haughty wolf. “Release the bloodhounds! Let the chase begin!”

  Chapter Three

  Bloodhounds bayed as they crashed through the underbrush. Cord followed close behind despite the sharp twigs that jabbed his unprotected feet or the occasional thorns that made him curse. Soon the bloodhounds burst through the underbrush and rushed to the edge of the fief’s major watercourse. There they lost Old Sloat’s scent. Two bloodhounds immediately rushed upriver, the other two down. They snuffled through the reeds with frenzied activity, desperate to find the old boar’s trail. Across the Iodo River, the deep green of Clarrus Woods traveled up the hills into Welsh territory.