The Rogue Knight

by Vaughn Heppner

  Old Sloat pawed the earth as he waited, listening to the baying DOGS. Once he even heard the peal of MAN ON HORSE. His anger grew. His wish to slay his tormenters became something he could almost taste. Then the sound he’d been waiting for occurred. DOGS struggled through the thorns, whining as they came. When the first one broke through, Old Sloat attacked.

  ***

  Baron Hugh raged at Old Sloat. His face turned scarlet as he shook his leather-gauntleted fist. Four costly bloodhounds lay dead on the earth before him. Cord and Harold Watchman had squirmed into a thorny thicket and dragged out the four mangled bloodhounds.

  “Damn you, Sloat!” roared Baron Hugh. “Damn you to bloody hell!”

  “He’s a spawn of Darkness,” Sir Walter said.

  Sir Philip spat at the ground. “He’s just a clever beast. Nothing more than that.”

  As the nobles argued, Cord wiped gory hands on his breeches. He couldn’t stop trembling. Cunning Old Sloat had turned at bay and slain their best chances of finding him. Now.... Cord swallowed in a constricted throat as he eyed Baron Hugh. The white-haired lord of Pellinore Fief grew more wrathful by the moment. He raved about the slain mastiff, and he raved about a monster that would slay four costly bloodhounds bought from a Norse Irishman from Dublin.

  “We must slay this beast!” Baron Hugh roared.

  “Do you think we can, milord?” Sir Philip asked. “Maybe we should try another day.”

  “Are you tired, Sir Philip?” Richard asked mockingly.

  Lady Alice laughed.

  Old Sir Philip shot Richard a scowl.

  Cord feared for Richard. The knight might be old and bald, with a face-full of scars and eyebrows like a bear, but he was still huge, heavy and strong. Sir Philip was like an ancient oak tree, gnarled, twisted, maybe even brittle inside, but mighty until the rotten core gave way.

  Cord nervously flexed his hand as he thought about the old knight.

  “Should I run with the boarhounds, milord?” Cord asked, stepping up to the mighty war-horse.

  Baron Hugh, his face scarlet, gave him a venomous scowl.

  “Perhaps the bloodhounds wounded Sloat,” Cord said meekly.

  “Aye!” Baron Hugh said as he turned his head at the thicket.

  “We can’t give Sloat time to rest,” Cord said.

  “Get your arse in there, dog boy! Find the trail!”

  Cord squeezed back into the thicket. Thorns pierced his flesh. He ignored them. His boarhounds whined.

  “Don’t let him out of your sight, Hugh,” Philip shouted. “He’ll race off to Wales if you do.”

  “He’ll be a dead dog boy if he tries that!” Baron Hugh shouted.

  For a moment, Cord couldn’t breathe. Then the young boarhounds gave voice as they picked up a scent. Cord prayed to Saint George that it was the right one. And before he considered what he did, Cord unleashed the boar hounds, only keeping hold of Sebald.

  “They’re off!” Cord yelled.

  Lady Alice shouted triumphantly, urging her stallion into the chase. Richard did likewise. A moment later, Baron Hugh blew his olifant. The huntsmen and the rest of the hounds leaped into action once more.

  Cord ran harder than before. If Old Sloat turned at bay again, he wanted to be there to throw Sebald into the fray and maybe stick the boar with his knife. He had no illusions about slaying Old Sloat. But maybe he could keep Sloat busy until the knights unlimbered their boar spears and waded in for the kill.

  He kept ahead of the tiring war-horses. Like Sebald, the war-horses were heavily muscled, not meant for long runs. The war-horses were meant to fight it out and carry mailed warriors. Why the knights had ridden the destriers today, Cord wasn’t sure.

  To his dismay, Cord found the trail heading back toward the Iodo and lower ground. He’d been on hunts for Old Sloat before. The crafty pig usually slipped into a nearby bog. It would be next to impossible to track him into there. Once more Cord debated about running away. The back of his neck tingled. Old Sir Philip kept a beady eye on him.

  An olifant pealed. It was Richard’s. No doubt, he signaled to any huntsmen who’d dropped behind where the hunt was headed.

  Sweat soaked Cord’s clothes and his gasps raggedly tore down his throat. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep running so hard. The awful thought of having only one hand gave him an extra burst of speed.

  The baying boarhounds raced toward the Devil’s Bog, a sprawling area of reeds, slick mud and puddles of varying sizes. Ducks and geese loved the area. Once, Baron Hugh had led a hawking party there, but only once. The terrain was treacherous and very difficult to take a horse through. Going in afoot meant coming out amuck from toe to hairline.

  The pit of Cord’s stomach clenched into a tight ball. What was he going to do? Let them chop off his hand? Never! He’d fight for all he was worth if they tried that. Yet how could he overcome the huntsmen, or the knights? He tried to swallow, but found that his mouth had dried out. It was time to slip off, maybe make a run for it. Ah, maybe it was time to follow cunning Old Sloat. Maybe he’d slip into the Devil’s Bog himself.

  “Hold!” shouted Baron Hugh, who drew rein.

  Cord almost didn’t heed the command. He turned his head and saw Sir Philip on his war-horse only an arms-length away. The huge knight seemed ready to hurl his boar spear. Cord knew a moment of bitter defeat. Then he decided that all wasn’t yet lost. He still had his hand. And he had a knife. The first man who came for him had better beware.

  Baron Hugh drew rein before the edge of the Devil’s Bog. Tall reeds hid barking, splashing boarhounds. From their barks, Cord knew they were confused. No doubt, they had lost the scent.

  “That’s it then,” Sir Philip said.

  Baron Hugh angrily shook his head. “That’s not it. I must have this boar. I must have his head in my castle. Nothing will stop me.”

  Philip said, “But this is the Devil’s Bog. That cunning beast has used it before and he will again. We had our chance. Now it’s gone.”

  Baron Hugh angrily shook his head.

  Despite his boast, Cord saw the baron’s rage wilt. It often went like this. Baron Hugh demanded something. Sir Philip calmly talked him out of the outrageous demand. Everyone here knew the play.

  “He slew five of my best hounds!” Baron Hugh shouted.

  “A costly defeat,” Philip agreed. “But what can we do now?”

  “Shall I go in a flush him out?” Cord asked.

  Both Baron Hugh and Sir Philip shot him a wondering glance. This wasn’t how the play went. The two nobles argued back and forth until the Baron saw reason.

  “Impudence,” Philip said. “And now that Sloat’s out of reach, I think it’s time your hand be chopped off.”

  Richard barked harsh laughter. “Oh, that’s to your liking, isn’t it? You want a little easy sport rather than the manly task of finishing off the beast. I see getting mud on your trousers is too much for you, eh, Philip?”

  “And what do you suggest?” Philip asked Richard.

  “Let Cord and I go into the bog and drive Old Sloat out to the Baron and you.”

  “Foolishness,” Philip said.

  “I suppose, if you’re afraid of Old Sloat, it is,” Richard said.

  Sir Philip’s rein on his temper slipped. He urged his war-horse toward Richard.

  “No, wait, old friend,” Baron Hugh said. “I’ll go into the bog and drive out Sloat.”

  “Is that wise, milord?” Philip asked.

  “I’ll join him,” Lady Alice said. “For I tire of this beast beating us. After slaying five of the baron’s best hounds, today, Old Sloat must die.”

  “Yes!” Richard shouted.

  “Which hounds should I take?” Cord dared ask.

  “You!” Baron Hugh said, pointing at Cord, “are to stay with Philip. If I’m to muddy myself for nothing, and lose five costly hounds, then by Saint Hubert your right hand will come off before the sun sets.”

  As his knees weakened, Cord stepped away f
rom the pointing finger. This was it then. It wasn’t just a threat. If Old Sloat wasn’t killed soon, he’d been without his right hand for the rest of his life. With growing dismay, Cord watched Baron Hugh and the Lady Alice plunge into the bog. They took three more hounds and half the huntsmen. Almost immediately, they disappeared from view.

  “We should pace them,” Sir Walter said.

  Sir Philip nodded agreement. “Keep the hounds leashed,” he told the remaining huntsmen. “And you, dog boy, you walk over here by me.”

  Cord couldn’t do ought but obey.

  “And you, squire, would do well to watch your tongue,” Sir Philip warned.

  Richard kept his thoughts to himself. He gave Cord one worried glance, then he rose up in the stirrups and appeared to be watching what went on in the bog.

  An olifant pealed.

  “They’re headed east,” Richard said.

  Sir Philip grunted, urging the others to follow him.

  From behind Harold Watchman whispered into Cord’s ear, “If you try and slip away, I’ll yell, you felon’s brat.” He laughed evilly. “I can hardly wait to see your hand in the dirt.”

  Cord didn’t bother to reply. Everything depended upon Old Sloat’s death.

  ***

  Old Sloat soaked in a semi-warm, scummy puddle surrounded by reeds. He heard the DOGS and he saw a MAN ON HORSE. Old Sloat didn’t worry, for he knew they weren’t on his trail. They flailed in slime, floundered in the deep puddles and angrily shouted at one another. The DOGS barked in confusion, splashing in circles. They were simple brutes, dangerous only on level ground and in a big pack.

  For time on end, ever since he’d left his mother, Sloat had used the bogs as his source of refuge. As strong and deadly as MAN ON HORSE was, he was also a fool. In the bogs, MAN ON HORSE was blind and slow, a cretin.

  If Old Sloat could be said to chuckle, to know amusement, he knew it now. As the MAN ON HORSE neared, Sloat submerged and waded into deeper water. The deeper water was cold, however. It reminded him of the cold mountain stream. He hated being cold. Crossing the icy stream, Old Sloat lost his amusement as his monstrous belly rumbled. He wanted the rest of the truffles. Yes, truffles. To get the truffles he’d have to cross the stream again. In order to do that, he’d use a ford. To reach the ford he’d have to leave the bog.

  No matter. MAN ON HORSE would flounder here for a long time. He knew their habits: Dangerous and stubborn, but quite stupid. Still, he hated MAN ON HORSE for his ability to scare him and drive him from the things he loved, like truffles and rutting.

  Old Sloat surfaced, back-tracking the way he’d come. He would leave the swamp while his enemies forged through it.

  As Old Sloat plowed through slime, his short legs producing sucking sounds. It was then he heard a MAN swearing. Old Sloat’s murderous rage blazed. The others were far distant. The MAN pulled one of his legs out of the slime and splashed into a puddle. He held a club, but no knife or spear.

  Old Sloat’s knife-cut burned anew. He’d killed a huge brute of a DOG earlier today, but a horrible MAN AFOOT had given him a wound.

  Old Sloat grunted, his eyes fiery. He charged out of the reeds and at the wide-eyed MAN. The MAN screamed, flailing with his club, trying to dodge. The slime held him tight. With his vast weight, Old Sloat knocked the MAN backward. Then he trampled the MAN, letting his feet crush and pound the prone enemy. Old Sloat spun around. The MAN gurgled, and slowly turned his head to look at Sloat in terror. Sloat grunted once more, then he trampled the MAN again, this time staying atop him until the hated MAN squirmed no more.

  Only then did Old Sloat continue out of the bog. He’d circle, reach the ford and then go back to the truffles. Yes, truffles, truffles, truffles. How he loved them. He loved them to the same degree that he hated MAN.

  ***

  The sun sank into the horizon. The peals from within the bog had stopped some time ago. Sir Philip had taken them into a clearing, dismounted and declared that they’d wait here. Now he turned to Harold Watchman and gave him a signal.

  Cord, who petted Sebald, noticed Harold striding toward him. He leaped to his feet and put his hand to his knife-hilt.

  Harold paused as Sir Philip and Sir Walter moved up.

  “Keep away from me,” Cord warned the watchman.

  “What’s this?” Philip demanded. “Are you holding up justice?”

  Cord licked his lips.

  “The sun sets,” Philip said. “So as the Baron said, it’s time to chop off your right hand.”

  Cord couldn’t believe this was happening. He couldn’t quite yet draw his knife. To do that…. Philip might kill him for it.

  “You can’t chop off his hand here,” Richard said, striding up.

  “Why not?” Philip asked.

  Richard groped for words. He said suddenly, “You don’t have any tar to smear on the wound. He’ll bleed to death.”

  “Nonsense,” Philip said. “You’ll tie a tight thong on his forearm. That’ll keep him from bleeding to death.”

  Cord began to shake. His stomach roiled so he almost puked.

  Sir Philip motioned to Harold Watchmen. The burly peasant took another step closer to Cord.

  Cord, light-headed and dizzy, drew his knife. “Stay back!” he warned. Sebald had risen and taken his place beside him.

  “Are you threatening us?” Sir Philip asked in a judicious tone.

  Cord took a step back, his knife before him. Sir Philip had always hated him. He didn’t know why. Maybe he never would.

  “You’re to lose your hand, dog boy.”

  Cord heard a footstep from behind. As he turned, a club came down and hit his hand. His knife fell to the ground. Harold lunged. A huntsman pulled Sebald away as another helped Harold. They tackled Cord and pushed his face into the dirt.

  Sir Philip bent near and whispered, “I’ve waited a long time for this, dog boy. A long time.” He straightened, “Over there by the tree stump. I want you to put his hand and wrist over it.”

  Just then, a loud and long peal shook the forest.

  “Hold it!” Richard said. He yanked Harold off Cord and glared at the huntsman, forcing the man to back away.

  The peal came again. It was Baron Hugh’s olifant.

  “He’s found him!” Richard cried. “He’s found Old Sloat.”

  “Impossible,” Philip said.

  The peal came once more. They knew its ring, what it meant. The Baron did indeed chase the old monster once more. The olifant’s power told them so.

  Richard handed Cord his knife. “The chase isn’t over yet,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  The huntsmen scrambled to the leashed hounds. Sir Walter mounted up. Only Sir Philip and Harold Watchman hesitated.

  “Are you daft?” Richard shouted at Philip. “The Baron needs us!”

  Philip shook his head and muttered, but he too mounted up. “Keep an eye on him,” he told Harold.

  Cord, sick at what had almost happened, his hand throbbing from being hit, tried to marshal his thoughts. All he knew was a blinding hatred toward Old Sloat. The crazy old boar had caused him this horrible predicament. He had to see Old Sloat dead or he’d lose his hand forever. There would be no escaping that horror. He knew that now. Only Old Sloat’s death would bring him back his hand.

  Baron Hugh’s olifant pealed again. Cord, along with the others, hurried in that direction.

  ***

  The two knights and the squire lead the charge. Behind them, Cord raced in front of the other huntsmen. Boarhounds bayed fiercely. The party crashed through branches and over bushes. Fallen logs and oak roots tried to trip them. It didn’t matter. The Pellinore hunting party followed the sound of the Baron’s olifant and his two hounds.

  The grade shifted upward. Cord’s thighs burned.

  Richard laughed from up ahead. “Listen to the dogs!”

  Cord knew he meant the Baron’s dogs. They sounded tired, but they also had a savage note, as if they closed with the dangerous monster.

&
nbsp; “Release the hounds!” Philip shouted.

  Cord unclipped boarhounds, ones he had leashed earlier. The few that the huntsmen had streaked past Cord. They shot toward the sound of the baying. Richard yelled with joy and spurred his palfrey after the hounds. Sir Philip and Sir Walter followed.

  Cord and Sebald recklessly leaped over a fallen tree and turned right after the horsemen. They dodged under branches and dove through several heavy thickets. With his heart beating savagely and his throat dry, Cord wondered if Saint George was about to grant him a victory.

  Lady Alice’s olifant pealed close by. A boarhound yelped in pain. A pig grunted.

  Heedless of the branches tearing at his clothes and face, Cord ran toward the noise. Sebald panted beside him.

  “Baron Hugh!” Richard shouted from somewhere just ahead.

  Cord put on a final burst of speed.

  “O foul villain!” Baron Hugh shouted.

  Cord heard a pig’s squeal.

  “I see you!” Richard shouted.

  “Richard, no!” Alice shouted.

  A horse whinnied terribly. Something heavy crashed against the earth with a loud thud. The horse screamed.

  Cord burst through the thicket before him and slid to a stop atop a cliff. Below Baron Hugh and Lady Alice had cornered Old Sloat below. Two dead boarhounds lay near the panting monster. Squire Richard was also there. The squire was pinned underneath his squirming palfrey. Cord could only guess that Richard hadn’t stopped in time. He and his horse must have plummeted over the cliff and almost atop Old Sloat. The squire’s face was very white. As the horse squirmed, he moved Richard’s body by his motions. The horse’s front legs looked broken. Sweat poured off the stallion, and the sweat had a strange, sickly odor.

  Sir Philip, Sir Walter and the rest of the boarhounds raced around the cliff.

  Below, his neck hairs bristling with rage, Old Sloat stepped toward Richard.

  “No!” shouted Cord. He hurled a stone that pinged off the monster pig. Sloat squealed with rage, spinning to face the Baron.

  Baron Hugh, his fine clothes soaked with slime, his face haggard with fatigue, dismounted. He clutched his boar spear two-handedly. Lady Alice, also mud-splattered, readied her javelin.