The Rogue Knight Page 8

  Philip nodded again.

  “Now, I’m going to help you into the saddle and then we’ll ride home. Do you agree?”

  Philip nodded as tears streamed out of his swollen eyes. He didn’t even think about revenge. Not now, not with Tostig standing above him.

  ***

  Philip, as his steed climbed out of the Iodo River, shivered at the memory. Little help that the Earl had been enraged with Tostig. It hadn’t even mattered that Tostig had been banished from the Earl’s court, his squire-hood lost. Tostig had still become a knight. Tostig had still plagued him for years afterward, until that happy day when Terrible Tostig had been hanged from a tree like a common felon. Yes, that had helped a little. But what had helped even more was that Terrible Tostig had a son, a young lad named Cord. What had helped was that he’d been able to convince Baron Hugh to take Cord on as his dog bog. What had helped was that for years he’d secretly gloated over the dog boy, giving him the blows he’d never dared give Tostig. And it had helped that Cord looked so much like his father. Oh, that had helped a great deal.

  Today, however, he’d seen the dog boy grin at him the way his father had grinned. He’d seen the same fire in Cord’s eyes that had been in Tostig’s. Maybe he’d even seen Tostig himself, come back to haunt him after all these years.

  “And he killed Old Sloat,” Philip whispered. Not Baron Hugh, not himself, not any other knight who for years had tracked Old Sloat. No one had been able to accomplish such a mighty feat. No, only Cord the dog boy, the son of Terrible Tostig, had done that.

  Fear filled Philip. Terrible Tostig had returned. What could he possibly do about it? Maybe a quarter mile later the answer came. As Philip considered the answer, an evil sneer twisted his face. Baron Hugh was dead. Who then controlled the fief?

  At the moment— I do.

  Philip also realized something else. Cord the dog boy wanted to marry Bess, the fulling miller’s daughter. Baron Hugh had given his consent a few weeks ago.

  But only I have the right to the fulling mill now that Hugh is dead.

  He couldn’t just kill Cord, much as he wanted too. No, not yet anyway. But he could make the dog boy suffer. Oh, he could make him suffer indeed.

  Philip’s huge face tightened with resolve as he spurred his destrier toward the Tanning Village. Yes, it was time to speak with Cuthbert the Fulling Miller and make him see sweet reason. If Cuthbert couldn’t see reason, then a few hardy blows might do the trick. If that didn’t work.... Philip massaged his groin. Maybe he could return later with some retainers and have a private meeting with the daughter. For now that Baron Hugh was dead, he, Philip the Seneschal, controlled Pellinore Fief.

  After that, it would be time to begin the rumors that would end with Cord the dog boy dangling from a rope. For hadn’t Earl Mortimer and he engineered Tostig’s hanging long ago?

  Philip laughed, and he knew once more the familiar pleasure of dominance.

  Chapter Five

  Alice de Mowbray bit her tongue. She was tired and dirty, and she so desperately needed her wits. Yelling at her servants wouldn’t help.

  “Gently, Susan,” Alice said. “My hair’s tangled, and you’ve already pulled out two twigs.”

  “Yes, milady,” said the old serving woman. Susan was a crone of fifty, with gray hair, a wrinkled face and nary a tooth in her mouth. For all that, her shoulders were strong and her muscles just as thick as when she’d been a lass of sixteen. Long ago, Susan had helped her father, a carpenter, saw wood and sand it down. Then a raiding Welshman had bashed in his skull. Lady Alice’s mother had taken Susan in years ago as a scullion.

  Susan was one of Alice’s two servants from Castle Gareth. She was one of the few survivors from that terrible night when Prince Llewellyn’s warriors had broken through the front gate. Sir de Mowbray, Alice’s father, had died killing Welsh.

  Alice whispered a short prayer to the Virgin Mary for her father—she always did when thinking about him. He’d been a hard-fisted knight who’d drawn steel on the slightest impulse. Alice was certain her father hadn’t yet made it out of Purgatory. Tonight, once everything was decided, she’d go to Castle Pellinore’s chapel and light tapers for him and say a hundred Hail Marys.

  “You need a bath, milady,” Susan said softly.

  “Michael is already boiling the water.”

  “In the kitchen?”

  Alice nodded.

  Susan bent low as she whispered into Alice’s ear, “Shouldn’t you be with the knights, milady? Someone will have to go to Castle Gareth and tell Sir Guy that his father is dead. You—”

  Alice held up a hand.

  On the other side of the hall the sobbing stopped. The crying had been constant ever since Lady Eleanor had been told of her husband’s death.

  Alice picked up her stool and quietly moved it to the edge of her wooden screen.

  Across the hall, two young boys held tapers for Father Bernard. He stepped onto a large platform that led up to the bed, and he whispered to Lady Eleanor. A canopy hung from the ceiling and golden cords held back the blue curtains. The bed contained a vast goose-feather mattress and could easily sleep ten people. It lay on an ornately carved frame of cedar, which stood a good two feet above the floor. Intricately embroidered cushions lay strewn about the bed, and on the far side Squire Richard Clark stirred and groaned in his sleep. He’d been urged to drink two flagons of ale in order to reduce his pain and help him sleep.

  The bed dominated the old hall. In Alice’s opinion, the hall was far too large.

  Pellinore Castle, Alice knew only too well, was old and cramped. A little less than two hundred years ago, one of the Conqueror’s earls had built a wooden tower and palisade here. Since that time, and since the Crusades when many Europeans had first seen stout stone castles in the East, Pellinore Castle had gone through several transformations. About a hundred years ago, the wooden tower had been pulled down and a thick stone tower built in its place. Fifty years ago, the wooden walls came down and stone ones rose up. Twenty years ago, the moat had been dug and a solid barbican built. Gareth Castle, newer and airier, had not prepared Alice for the living conditions here.

  The baron’s family and his retainers still lived in the old, cramped and dark tower. At the very top, on the flagstaff turret, prowled the castle watchman. He blew his horn every sunset and every morn. When strangers approached, he signaled that as well. From a heavy beam projecting outward of the turret—the beam was the castle’s gibbet—hung a very dead thief. His corpse was three days old, and the eyes had long ago eaten out by crows.

  From the tall flagstaff atop the turret flew the castle banner. The banner showed a white spread-winged eagle on a field of red. Below the eagle, in black letters, was the arrogant motto:

  Not king nor prince,

  Duke nor count am I;

  I am the lord of Pellinore.

  The banner never came down. Only if the castle were taken in siege or by assault would the Pellinore eagle desert its post.

  Down a spiral flight of stone stairs were the living quarters where Alice now was. She, after much argument, had been allowed her wooden screen and single bed. A draft always chilled her here, but in order to have this tiny piece of privacy she endured the draft. She shared the dank hall with the Baron, his wife, children, squire, with Sir Philip, his daughter and groomsman, with Sir Walter and his wife, with the bailiff, his wife and children and with ten of the highest ranked servants. Her bed, specially built for one, had a heavy curtain that she pulled around her no matter how hot the hall became. Only in bed did she have privacy. Susan slept on a mat at the foot of the bed.

  Below the living quarters was the Great Hall—the eating room with its massive fireplace. The dog boys, minstrels and other wayfarers together with countless castle servants and hounds slept there on the rushes or on straw pallets. Below that, at ground level, stood the armory and storage rooms. At the very bottom, dug deeply into the earth, was the dungeon and torture chamber.

  Alice c
ouldn’t hear what Father Bernard told Lady Eleanor. His voice suddenly rose, however, as a sob escaped the noble lady. Father Bernard bowed his head and motioned to the two young boys. They retreated to the staircase and took their leave.

  An attendant, a middle-aged peasant with perfect manners, stepped upon the bed platform and whispered to Eleanor. She sobbed louder and retreated into the depths of her huge bed. The attendant pulled the golden cords. The heavy blue curtains swung down and sealed Lady Eleanor within. The attendant then stepped off the platform and whispered to another, a younger peasant in training. They both nodded and lay down on their mats. If Eleanor called, they would instantly leap up, ready to help her in any way.

  By the light of the flickering night-candle, Alice studied the rest of the hall. Someone paced back and forth in the shadows near Sir Walter’s corner. Over by the fireplace, where embers glowed, sat a youth staring into the redness. He looked like the bailiff’s oldest son. Another youth, a girl, sat on a stool beside the chess table, which was near the fireplace. She sat on the opponent’s stool, opposite Baron Hugh’s. Alice recognized her, Baron Hugh’s second cousin and Philip’s daughter from his first marriage. The girl had often played chess with Baron Hugh. She’d had a knack for it, and Baron Hugh had daily praised her on her skill. In the gloom, the girl picked up one of the ivory pieces. The set had been purchased in Ireland, in Cork, from Scandinavian traders. The ivory was said to be walrus, harvested from a half-mythical place called Greenland far to the northwest in a land of eternal sunlight.

  Alice scanned the rest of the hall. Few other pieces of furniture were here except for chests. In this age, nobles kept their costly belongings in chests, not closets or drawers. There were a few narrow benches, and against the wall opposite the stairs stood the baron’s throne-like chair of state. It had a backrest and arms and was carved with hunting scenes and cushioned with padded silk. At the foot of the chair, in the Spanish custom, lay a Turkish rug. It was Lady Eleanor’s greatest conceit, for she’d long ago heard of the Lady Eleanor of Castile who had come to Westminster to visit Prince Edward before their marriage. The Spanish lady had carpets strewn about her apartments. Now their Eleanor tried to do likewise.

  A few tapestries hung from the walls and hid the soot and the old stones. A man sat in one of the windowsills. Near the window where the Baron and Baroness’s silver crucifix hung—the place they kneeled each morning and evening to say their prayers—stood two weeping children.

  From the stairs came the mournful music of a minstrel who played his viol. He played in the Great Hall, for the knights, sergeants and men-at-arms who drank to Baron Hugh’s memory.

  Moved by the music, wondering if she should continue with her plan, Alice recalled the Baron’s son. Sir Guy was presently the castellan of her castle. He’d become a tall man with a narrow face, narrow mouth and a crooked half-smile. She shivered at the thought of him. Once, when he’d been a squire and she a visiting lass of ten, she’d found him high upon the flagstaff turret. His dark eyes had been glazed and quite scary, even as he petted a squirming kitten.

  She recalled their conversation vividly:

  “Why do cats always land on their feet?” he’d asked in his strange, silky way.

  Alice had shaken her head.

  “And why do they say cats have nine lives?” Guy had asked.

  She’d backed away from him. He’d seemed remote, at that moment not quite human.

  “This cat has only one life,” Guy had said, squeezing it so it mewed in pain.

  “Leave it alone. It’s only a kitten.”

  He’d leered. “Leave it alone, pretty Alice? Yes, I’ll leave it alone. But only if you take off all your clothes and come and rub yourself against me.”

  Alice had choked on his wicked words and almost bolted.

  He’d waited, finally shrugged, turned and hurled the kitten into the air. It mewed once more, then it had plummeted to its death far below.

  Alice had fled in terror. She’d also been too embarrassed to tell anyone what Guy had said to her. Ever since then she’d avoided Guy as if he’d had the pox.

  Alice shivered at the memory and knew that no matter what the cost, she had to steel her heart tonight. Her future was at stake. Soon Guy would be her new liege.

  “I’ll brush my own hair,” Alice whispered to Susan. “You bring up the water. Tell Michael to help you.”

  “Shouldn’t you go down to the hall now, milady?” Susan whispered. “The knights make plans.”

  Alice considered Susan her wisest councilor. The old serving woman had seen much in her life, and she had a quick wit and a normally cheery temperament.

  “Let them make plans,” Alice whispered. “Let them air their differences and quarrel and reproach themselves. I’ll only come down once cleaned and carefully attired in white.”

  “In mourning clothes, milady?”

  “I mourn for Baron Hugh.”

  Susan picked up a flickering candle and peered into Alice’s eyes. “You are serious, milady,” she said in obvious surprise. “Oh bless you, you’re serious.” She kissed Alice on the check, picked up a portion of her long skirt and hurried into the darkness.

  Alice dragged a comb through her hair, and pulled hard when she came to a snarl. She winced as she accidentally yanked out hair. She flung the comb onto her clothes chest and tried to think.

  Poor Baron Hugh, killed by a pig.

  She couldn’t forget the handsome dog boy. His features were knightly enough but his station was so very low. There had been nothing lowborn in his slaying of Old Sloat, though!

  Alice smiled. Yes, that had been a mighty feat. A man who could slay Old Sloat could surely do many other brave deeds.

  She frowned. Why did Sir Philip hate Cord? He would surely kill Cord before long. That would be a horrible shame. Cord should run away. Was it possible, however, for the slayer of Old Sloat to flee like a knave? Alice didn’t think so. Besides, he was stubborn, just as Hob had said.

  Alice picked up the comb, thoughtfully pulling several of her long strands from it. Apparently, Cord’s father had been a knight. Hob had said that, too. So Cord wasn’t really a felon’s son. He was the son of a knight who had made the terrible mistake of taking on Earl Roger Mortimer. In all the Western Marches, there were few lords as powerful as Roger Mortimer.

  So why did I ride between Philip and the dog boy?

  Alice knew why. Cord had spirit. He was bold when faced by Sloat, and his way with dogs... sometimes it seemed supernatural. No one could train dogs like Cord. Maybe, though, the reason she liked Cord had more to do with his heroic slaying of Sloat. His handsome features had been stamped in such a defiant and knightly scowl as the boar had charged. Her heart had quickened at the sight.

  Cord was a man! He was a true gallant from the storybooks!

  Alice shivered as the viol from below made a most mournful tune. She was exhausted. She wanted noting more than to take a hot bath and then go to sleep. The knights, however, made plans in the Great Hall. Someone had to go to Gareth Castle to tell Sir Guy what had occurred in the woods. Soon Guy would be the Baron, would be her new liege. It would be up to him whom she married.

  Her eyes narrowed. She was going to marry whom she wanted, not some cur that thought he owned her and her castle. Nor could she forget Philip and his awful boast. She touched the slender dagger hidden in her boot. If Philip tried to lay his foul hands upon her….

  She shuddered. It has hard being surrounded by so many enemies. They all hungered for her land, for her castle, but they thought nothing of her. Maybe a few of them wanted to sate their lusts upon her—

  No, you must think. Don’t let despair control you. Use your wits!

  She nodded. Tonight began the struggle to regain her castle. Tonight the Baron’s knights plotted and jockeyed for position. Tonight she would have to bend them to her will. This was a delicate time, but it could also be a time where many gains might be won.

  Alice bowed her head.

&nbs
p; I do mourn you, Baron Hugh. May you soon go to Heaven. But I will not lie to myself. You’ve given me a chance to regain what’s mine. So if I’m strong tonight and shed you no tears, know that when they bury you I’ll cry and say many prayers for your soul. I hope you understand. I know my father would have.

  She heard a bucket scrape against stone. Michael and Susan brought her hot water.

  The water had been boiled outside in the kitchen. While many meals in Pellinore Castle took place in the Great Hall, all food was cooked outside. Fires were a terrible hazard. Thus, almost all kitchens were shabby affairs of wood, built near the Great Halls to assist the servants who ran up and down the stairs with their heavy plates of food. When great lords feasted in the hall, pages and squires did the carting, and sometimes knights of lowly rank.

  “What is that?” a woman whispered in the dark.

  “Forgive me, milady,” Alice said, candle in hand. “My servants bring me hot water.”

  “Hot water?”

  “The hunt was tiring, milady.”

  “You bathe?” Sir Walter’s wife Martha asked in disbelief, a short, plump woman of thirty-five. “You bathe now, at a time like this?”

  “I must purify myself, milady,” Alice said. “I must cleanse myself from the horror I’ve witnessed.”

  Lady Martha hissed, “Are you mad? Don’t you know that we’ve covered all the mirrors, all things that reflect and shine? Don’t you realize that we’ve poured out all the water?”

  “Milady?” Alice asked.

  Martha stepped near, her eyes wide, stark, wild. “Baron Hugh died, you witch! You were there. Sir Philip told us how you planned it.”

  “What?” Alice said, shocked at the news.

  The short plump woman in her nightgown edged closer. Normally she was mild, demure, the soul of charity. Tonight her hair was in disarray and her skin was blotched. “You planned it!” she hissed.