The Rogue Knight Page 9

  “How could I plan Old Sloat’s actions?” Alice asked.

  “Because you’re a witch!” the woman hissed.

  Alice stepped back, appalled by the woman’s flaring nostrils, by her fingers that hooked like a goshawk’s talons. Did the woman plan to rake her with those fingers?

  The plump, almost frenzied woman stepped forward. “Why do you always flee our company, Alice? Why do you often ride alone in the woods? Yes,” she said, nodding. “We’ve all noticed. We’ve all wondered.”

  “I-I grow weary sometimes,” Alice said. The woman’s anger was making her sick. They were friends, companions. Why, wasn’t Martha the one who always asked her to read to them? Alice had ten books in her locked chest. Only Father Bernard and Richard had any other books. In the constant war against boredom, Alice often read to the other ladies.

  “Weary?” Martha sneered. “Weary because you can’t stand the company of honest Christians?”

  “No,” Alice whispered, shaking her head. “You don’t understand.”

  “Ha!” the woman barked.

  Alice heard the sharp intake of breath. Near her stood Susan and Michael, each holding heavy buckets of boiled water.

  “You’re a witch!” the plump woman said, stabbing a hard finger into Alice’s chest. “You always struggled against Baron Hugh. He wished to wed you to a good, strong knight. But no, you lifted that haughty nose of yours and disdained his wishes. You made one excuse after another. Why, Alice?”

  In the dark, Alice felt many eyes upon her. Some were hostile, others merely curious. How to handle this normally fine lady? To argue and defend oneself against witchcraft wouldn’t do. Rather, the whole idea had to be crushed before others even took up such madness. The charge of witchcraft, even without proof, was a grave danger.

  “Oh, milady,” Alice wailed. She dropped the candleholder, hearing it clatter on the floor. Then she threw her arms around the shorter woman. She let all her weariness, all her loneliness that she struggled to control burst through into tears. She buried her face against the soft shoulder and cried aloud. It was something she knew none of them had ever seen her do.

  “I saw!” Alice wailed. “I saw what that terrible beast did! Why, milady? Why did the Baron ride ahead of us? Why didn’t he stay with at least one other person? We all knew Old Sloat was a killer.”

  Alice felt the short fingers stroking her hair. She also felt the many staring eyes. With calculation, but also because the strain of staying strong these two years had worn her down, she let herself go limp. Martha caught and steadied her.

  “Help me,” Martha told Susan and Michael.

  Soon Alice lay on her bed, with Martha stroking her brow.

  “Poor Alice,” she said. “Poor, poor Alice.”

  “M-Milady,” Alice whispered. “I’ve ridden almost daily into the forests because I miss my father so.”

  The plump hand stopped its stroking. Because Susan had relit the candle, Alice saw the frown on Martha’s face.

  Be careful, Alice told herself. She’s distraught at Baron Hugh’s death.

  “You see,” said Alice, “my father loved the woods. Sometimes, when the wind whispers through the leaves... why, I can almost hear his laughter.” That was true. The laughter wasn’t joyful, however, but insane. On windy days, the forest badly frightened her. Those times were one of the reasons why Alice was certain that her father still suffered in Purgatory.

  The plump hand still hadn’t moved. Alice felt the lady’s searching stare.

  “I know Baron Hugh wished me married,” Alice said softly. “But… sometimes I don’t think I’m worthy.”

  “Oh, child,” Martha said, her hand once more stroking Alice’s brow. “You poor, poor child. Of course you’re worthy.”

  “Do you think so?” Alice asked in a small voice.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then you don’t think that I’m…”

  “No! Hush, child. I spoke so because… because…” It was Martha’s turn to sob.

  Alice sat up and hugged Martha. The two stayed like that for almost a minute. At last, Martha released Alice, wiped her nose and tried to rearrange her hair.

  “It’s just, child, I heard you whispering with your servant. And Sir Philip, he said the most awful things.”

  “Sir Philip hates me,” Alice said quietly.

  “Yes, I think he does. Why, I don’t know. He’s such a fine knight, such a strong and mighty warrior.”

  “Yes, he is,” Alice lied.

  “Maybe you could teach him not to hate you.”

  Alice kept herself from shuddering. “Do you think so?” she asked meekly.

  “Maybe if I spoke with Walter. Yes, Walter could help Philip change his mind.”

  Alice sighed and slumped back onto the bed.

  “Oh, you poor child. You must be very tired.”

  “I am,” Alice admitted.

  Martha nodded and made to rise. Then she saw Susan and Michael standing to the side, the buckets at their feet. Steam rose from them.

  “You must pour out that water,” Martha said sternly.

  Alice made a tired noise as she sat up. She put her hands around Martha’s shoulders. “Please, don’t be upset with me. My mother taught me that I must cleanse myself after seeing such a horrible passing. I-I won’t be able to sleep until I bathe.”

  Martha paused. “Truly, your mother taught you this?”

  “Yes.” Yes, Alice thought, my mother taught me to bathe when I’m dirty.

  “Child, don’t you know that it’s evil to have standing water near a corpse?”

  “How so, milady?”

  “You might drown the soul! No, no bath tonight.” To the servants, Martha said, “Pour out the water.”

  “Oh, milady,” Alice said. “Baron Hugh lies below in the chapel, not up here. Surely if I took a quick bath—”

  “Didn’t you hear me?” Martha asked in shock. “You’ll drown Baron Hugh’s soul as it ascends into Paradise.”

  “Don’t most knightly souls first go down to Purgatory?”

  “Alice! What a dreadful thought.”

  “Forgive me, milady. I’m so tired. I hardly know what I’m saying. It’s just….” Alice suddenly understood. This poor woman was a simple soul, filled with superstitions and nonsense. Inspiration filled her. “Surely I won’t drown Baron Hugh’s soul if I say Hail Marys while I cleanse myself of the Curse of the Dead.”

  “The Curse of the Dead?” Martha asked in horror.

  “If I don’t wash off the curse,” Alice said, “then I’ll never be able to marry anyone.”

  “Truly?” asked Martha.

  “Please, don’t leave this curse on me, milady. Don’t let the Devil gain a foothold in me.”

  “No, no,” Martha said slowly. “And the corpse does lie below.” She hugged herself.

  Alice frowned. The worry that filled Martha’s face…. Alice’s eyebrows rose. She sidled closer and whispered, “Tell me, milady, what truly troubles thee?”

  Martha looked down.

  “You’ve helped me,” Alice said. “Now let me help you.”

  “Yes. Maybe you can help. Maybe you could whisper to Sir Guy that he not send my Walter away.”

  “Away to where, milady?”

  Martha whispered quietly, “Sir Walter and Sir Guy are not on friendly terms. If you could help breach that—I don’t want to leave here, Alice. I love living at Pellinore Castle. I’m afraid Walter will want to go back to our dingy old tower once Sir Guy returns.” She turned away. “Oh, what a fool you must think me.”

  “Never,” Alice said. “I’ll help you any way I can.” She meant it, too. She liked Martha, and now that she knew that Sir Walter disliked Guy, her respect for Walter rose.

  Martha smiled and patted Alice’s hand. “Thank you, child. Thank you. Now hurry, take your bath and cleanse yourself from the Curse of the Dead.”

  “Yes, I’ll do as you suggest.”

  Martha rose and retreated to her side o
f the hall.

  Alice watched her servants pour the water into her wooden tub. Four buckets hardly gave her enough. She tested the water. It was almost perfect. She sent Michael away and then let Susan disrobe her. By candlelight, she let her long frame sink into the tub. Oh, the hot water felt so relaxing. She sighed, but not too loudly, lest she disturb the others. Taking up a precious bar of soap, she washed herself, beginning with her breasts. Susan took up a brush and scrubbed her back.

  Tension oozed out of Alice. She washed her hair, and then let Susan squeeze out the water and dry her head. For a time she sat quietly in the tub, and almost dozed. Susan gently shook her. The water had cooled so heat no longer relaxed her. Alice shivered as she stood, but she felt gloriously clean. How peasants could go years without a bath amazed and disgusted her. Some of them, at times, seemed no better than animals.

  She remembered one of her father’s favorite jokes. A peasant went to London Town and by mistake wandered down the Perfumer’s Lane. The smell overcame him and he fainted. The merchants, wanting to rid themselves of this smelly serf, tried everything to wake him. Nothing worked. At last, a knight walked up, saw the problem and immediately devised the solution. He took a spade from a man, shoveled up fresh cow manure and held the spade under the peasant’s nose. The peasant awoke refreshed and hurried away from the unfamiliar Perfumer’s Lane, swearing never to submit himself to such bizarre odors again.

  Alice smiled as Susan helped her don fresh garments. She smiled because she could hear her father’s laughter. He used to roar and slap his thigh after telling the joke. Still, wasn’t it more a matter of training? Susan and Michael didn’t stink, and they were peasants. Her mother had taught all Castle Gareth people to be clean. If people were treated like animals and made to feel like animals, wouldn’t they then act like animals? She didn’t know. Maybe if she asked a great Churchman someday. They always seemed to understand such mysteries, or at least they had ready answers.

  “You look lovely, milady,” Susan whispered. “Very pretty indeed.” Her practiced hands smoothed the expensive linen dress. “And so somber in mourning white. There, that’s it, set your expressions gravely. Don’t smile—but don’t frown!” she added quickly. “You don’t want to mar your lovely features.”

  “Help me tie my hat,” Alice said.

  With deft motions, Susan tied on the hat and then fluffed the long blonde hair and laid it perfectly down Alice’s back. “Ah, so pretty, my dear. So like your mother, God bless her soul.”

  Alice made to bend low, to unlock her special chest.

  “Hsst!” Susan said. “Don’t do that. You’ll wrinkle the dress.” She took the key from Alice and opened the heavy lock. Then, easing open the lid, she moved aside the books Romance of the Rose, the Golden Legend and Reynard the Fox. She lifted a small jewelry box and unlocked it with a tiny and almost delicate key. The insides were rather bare, with only a few rings, and with a long silver chain and a silver crucifix.

  Alice carefully wound the chain around her hands and held the crucifix upright. Then, with Susan in the lead holding the candle, Alice moved serenely through the hall and down the narrow spiral stairs to the Great Hall below.

  Chapter Six

  Alice composed herself. Tonight she’d have to choose her words carefully. Her father, God grant him a quick entry into Heaven, had taught her how to deal with knights. Hadn’t he allowed her into his Great Hall during his drunken feasts in order to let her see the knights at their worst carousing? Maybe her father hadn’t been a good parent for a little girl, but he’d stripped away any pretense she might have had concerning fighting men. The Castle Gareth knights had been of a different stripe than Pellinore’s warriors. Her father, when she was honest with herself, had been more a robber knight than a lord of a fief. His forays into free Wales, his capture and ransom of merchants, knights and even rich Churchmen had made his name legendary. The men he’d kept near had been rough and brutal.

  Sir Philip reminded her of them and those days. Philip would have felt at home in her father’s brigand court. The rest of Pellinore’s knights were more refined, more noble really, not just a pack of well-armed thieves. She knew, deep within her, that she liked and respected them for that.

  Sir Philip, he’d be the one to watch tonight and every night. He’d be the one she’d have to outfox if she were to win her freedom. The others, maybe even when young Sir Guy returned, would surely look to Philip in this time of distress and uncertainty. He’d been Baron Hugh’s second cousin and his seneschal, the castle overlord. As seneschal, Philip kept the various keys to all the important locks. He made the rounds at night, with the squire, to see that everything was secure, the guards and watchmen alert. When the Pellinore knights rode to battle, he carried the banner. When the Baron made plans, he first sought council from the seneschal. Seneschal was the highest rank a lord could give any of his knights. For over twenty years, Sir Philip had held that post under Baron Hugh, as his father had held it under Baron Hugh’s father.

  Alice tightened her grip around the crucifix. From the Great Hall drifted upward the sad viol sounds. Then a rich, melodious voice broke into a mournful dirge. The minstrel who had wandered by a month ago sang of Baron Hugh’s nobility, of his generosity, of his well-loved knights and men-at-arms whom he’d left behind.

  Alice whispered to Susan. Susan stopped. Alice bent her head and listened to the sad song. A tear fell from her eyes, then another. She sniffled, finally dried her eyes with her sleeve and told herself yet again to be strong. Tonight she needed her wits. Sir Philip the Seneschal would have his.

  Over the years he’d become Baron Hugh’s richest vassal. Philip’s mighty frame, his bald dome of a head, badly scarred face and bushy eyebrows hid a crafty mind. In the bedroom above, she knew that Philip had a small chest filled with silver and gold coins hidden in his bigger clothes chest. He carefully collected money, almost like a merchant. No doubt, he had some grand scheme in mind, some nefarious goal.

  Alice stepped into the Great Hall. Unlike other dark nights, resinous torches flickered their uneasy light. At the far end blazed the mighty fireplace that was large enough to roast a boar like Old Sloat. The Great Hall was by far the biggest room in all Pellinore Castle. The sides contained a gallery eight feet above the floor. When in the past Baron Hugh had wished to speak to as many people as possible, he’d stood in the center of the Great Hall and by raising his voice all heard him. Above the gallery, the walls were sooty, while here and there hung hunting trophies: great spreads of antlers, several bear’s heads and the heads and tusks of mighty boars. Soon Old Sloat would find his head there, and surely, a legend would arise because of this afternoon’s fell tragedy. Below the gallery were ancient weapons of war and of the hunt. Whenever weddings occurred, or tournaments, expensive tapestries would be hung from the walls.

  By the fireplace, the minstrel ended his dirge. He gently stroked his viol a few more times with an instrument that looked like a bow. Then he stilled that too and sat down at one of the long oaken tables. Knights, sergeants, men-at-arms, servants and even Father Bernard with several of his helpers sat at the tables. Upon the heavy tables lay empty plates. Slabs of salted beef, hunks of cheese and rounds loaves of bread had been served. Father Bernard had insisted upon it, Alice knew. He didn’t want the mourners to become too drunk, too quickly. Open ale barrels stood at the head of each table. The men had leather, handless jacks, and each drank heavily, rising and walking to the barrels when they needed a refill.

  The air was thick with ale-fumes and the sweaty stench of men who hadn’t bathed in a long time.

  Alice slowly moved past the tables that had been grouped around the fireplace. She trod upon dry rushes strewn everywhere. Each Saturday the scullions removed the old rushes, while boys sent to the river’s edge brought in fresh ones. Mice moved within the dry rushes, searching for hidden scraps. Several dogs, their routine upset by this nighttime drinking, prowled the rushes in search of the tiny prey. Alice saw Cord sitting
in the shadows, a cloak wrapped around his shoulders as he grimly petted his mighty mastiff. Near him slept some wayfarers, apparently too tired to care about the free ale.

  Father Bernard, Baron Hugh’s chaplain, spoke now. He was a reserved man, older than most. Alice knew him well because of the homilies he tried to impart about how to be a good wife. He could read, owned a few books and always listened when she complained to him about her dreadful lot. He always sympathized with her, and he listened even if he could do nothing. Alice liked him, and she knew Baron Hugh had, too. Since only Father Bernard, Richard and she could read, Baron Hugh had mostly relied upon the good Father to read whatever letters he’d received. Any charters or documents had always first been carefully gone over by Father Bernard.

  The Father wore a dark robe and several expensive rings. He’d been born a poor peasant, but because a monk had noticed his intelligence, he’d been given Church training and had risen high because of Baron Hugh’s trust and liking. The Father’s heavy face was lined with worry. His gray eyes showed that he’d been weeping. He now scratched the little hair he had left, which was silver.

  “Too little,” Father Bernard was saying in his low tone. “Sir Guy will have to find another source.”

  “Ah, who would have thought it?” said a sad sergeant.

  “These are difficult times,” Father Bernard said. “The Earl drained the last of Baron Hugh’s reserves.”

  “Now he’ll drain them yet again,” Sir Philip growled. “Robbery, that’s what it is.”

  Men gasped in amazement.

  “Not that I mean any disrespect toward the Earl,” Philip hastily added. “He’s a good man, a powerful liege. Whatever he’s due is just.”

  “Yes,” Father Bernard said. “I hope Sir Guy will see it likewise. If not….” He shrugged his round shoulders.

  “Poor Baron Hugh!” cried a man. “To Baron Hugh, the finest lord in all England and Wales!”

  “To Baron Hugh!” chorused many, their voices raw, their features haggard and red-eyed.

  Jacks tipped up and ale flowed into gaping maws. Several men rose unsteadily and staggered to the barrels, dipping their jacks into the amber-colored liquid.