The Rogue Knight

by Vaughn Heppner

  As the bailiff and Cord climbed upward to Rhys’ place, the pines and spruces began to thin out, giving way to large glades of summertime grasses and colorful mountain flowers. Cord, thinking to spy something, shielded his eyes from the sun. In the distance grazed a flock of sheep. He spotted two shepherds and noticed several long-haired sheepdogs.

  The bailiff nodded when Cord pointed them out.

  A while later a sharp whistle came from the edge of the nearest clump of pines. A stocky man strode out of the tree-line toward them. He wore rough garments, skins of some sort dyed green. A large bow was slung across his thick chest and a green hood was thrown over his head. Two shaggy hounds trotted beside him.

  The bailiff mounted up, while Cord studied the man. It had to be Rhys, although he’d seldom seen the man. Rhys was either off on one of his many forays or content to stay up in his hills. The stocky hunter had a quick stride, confident and sure-footed. Soon Cord saw the shadowed face. Rhys’ head seemed square within the hood, with dark hair and intense eyes, very intense eyes. He had a long nose and a dark forked beard, and seemed older than a man should be in his mid-twenties. There also hung about Rhys a recklessness, a rashness that could be engaged to commit one of those legendary Welsh acts of daring.

  He hailed them, raising his right hand. On the thick fingers flashed silver rings. “Bailiff! And the tall dog boy!” Rhys shouted in a commanding voice. “What brings you to my hills?”

  Cord whispered to Sebald. The huge mastiff sat on his haunches, although he eyed the shaggy hounds on either side of Rhys.

  The stocky Welshman grinned. “What’s wrong, dog boy, afraid my hounds will hurt your Baron’s expensive mastiff?”

  “It isn’t that,” said Cord as Rhys stopped before them.

  Rhys exposed his teeth as he doffed his hood and then rested his strong hands on his hips. “What is it then?”

  “I don’t want to start any dog fights,” said Cord.

  Rhys laughed in a way that said he knew that his two hounds would thrash the mastiff.

  Cord bristled. He’d only been trying to be polite. “Maybe you’re fond of your tall hounds. Sebald would tear them apart if they fought. And since this your territory, I decided it wouldn’t be right for you to see your dogs killed.”

  Rhys laughed even louder than before in what appeared to be merriment. He shook the heads of his two tall hounds and told them to beware of the huge mastiff. He even pointed out Sebald. Then Rhys’ intense eyes narrowed as he stared at Sebald, who Cord had been idly petting.

  “You’re no dog boy,” Rhys said suspiciously, his merriment gone.

  “Of course he is,” the bailiff said from upon the palfrey.

  “Since when did the Baron start handing out gold rings to his servants?” Rhys asked.

  “The Baron’s dead,” the bailiff said abruptly.

  Rhys didn’t react; he eyed Cord, and Cord’s golden signet ring.

  “Did you hear me?” the bailiff asked.

  “I did,” Rhys said. He shook his head a moment later. “If you thought to disguise a knight, no…he’s still too young. Is he a squire then? If you thought to disguise a squire as a dog boy, you should have had him take off his golden ring. It ruins the effect, you see.” Rhys grinned again. With his intense eyes and forked beard, it made him seem like the devil of tricksters. “I know of what I speak, bailiff. Too many times, I’ve donned my own disguises. Detail, it all comes down to the tiniest of details, you see.”

  “What are you babbling about, man?” the bailiff asked in exasperation. “He’s Cord the dog boy, nothing more.”

  “Do you take me for a dim-witted fool?” Rhys asked. “The Baron’s dead, or so you said, and the Western Marches swarm with Prince Llewellyn’s Welsh and you’ve heard rumors. So instead of coming here in good faith, you disguise a squire as a dog boy. What is it? Do you mistrust me?”

  “Why are you so leery of us?” the bailiff asked. Then his features shifted. A hooded look came over his eyes. “Ah, you’ve heard something? Is that it, Rhys? You’ve heard something important that’s made you nervous.”

  Rhys stroked his forked beard. He appeared not to have heard the bailiff. He looked Cord up and down. “So your dog can kill mine, eh?”

  “If I order it,” Cord said.

  “You don’t act like a dog boy,” Rhys said slowly. “You’re too bold, too sure of yourself. And then there’s that ring of yours.” He stroked his beard some more. His smile crept back onto his face. “There are only two of you, however. Very well, bailiff. Why not get down off that high horse of yours and tell me what happened to the Baron?”

  The stiff and frowning bailiff complied, handing the reins to Cord. The two men sat on some nearby rocks and began to talk in earnest.

  The shaggy hounds took the opportunity of their master’s inattention to approach Sebald. With a word, Cord let him up. He held the palfrey’s reins and watched the three dogs sniff each other and piss over the same flowers. The three dogs seemed content with that, none of them willing to start a fight.

  Cord glanced at Rhys and the bailiff. Rhys gestured and spoke urgently. The bailiff listened, his back as straight as if he rode in the saddle. Cord wondered at Rhys’ strange insistence that he was only pretending to be a dog boy. He nodded to himself. Others did see him differently now. Slaying Old Sloat truly had made a difference.

  It didn’t surprise Cord when Rhys called him over, wanting an exact description of Old Sloat’s last minutes in life.

  “It seems I was wrong about you,” Rhys said. “But now I’ve become curious.”

  Cord told the tale, although he didn’t say anything about Richard’s broken legs. Rhys’ mentioning of Prince Llewellyn’s hosts left him cautious. It seemed wrong to let anyone know about the weakening of the castle’s defenses.

  “So you killed the old monster, eh?” Rhys asked when Cord finished speaking. The Welshman grinned as his eyes blazed. “Dog boy or not, you well deserve a golden ring!”

  “It was my father’s ring,” Cord heard himself say.

  “Ah!” said Rhys. “Yes, now I remember you. You’re the felon’s son. Then your father was more than a felon, eh?”

  Cord bristled.

  Rhys waved him down. “I meant no insult.... What’s your name again?”

  “Cord.”

  “Cord, I meant no insult by my words. That’s what others say about you, is all. Believe me, I know about the whispering of others.”

  Cord nodded, accepting the apology. “My father was a knight,” he explained.

  “Ah!” Rhys said, leaning closer in obvious interest.

  “It’s a long tale,” said Cord.

  “Yes, I suppose it would be,” Rhys said. “Maybe some day you could share it with me. I’d be interested to know why a knight’s son who acts like a squire is only a dog boy in Pellinore Castle.”

  “He may well tell you why,” the bailiff said, “but not now. I rode up here to speak with you, Rhys, to tell you about the Baron’s passing and that his son will soon be back in Pellinore. I suspect young Sir Guy will want all his knights to make their oaths of fealty to him. Freeholders will also be expected to come to the castle and give their oaths of loyalty.”

  “I see,” Rhys said, perhaps a trifle guardedly.

  The bailiff added, “The Lady Eleanor also instructed me to bring you bread and salt and some cakes she helped bake herself.”

  “She’s very kind,” said Rhys as he accepted the sack of goods from Cord.

  “And I remember you said something a few weeks ago about special pups,” the bailiff said. “I brought Cord along to inspect them. If he finds them good enough, and you’re willing, I would like to buy several so I can give them to Sir Guy as a gift.”

  “Ah-ha!” Rhys said. “Now I understand why Pellinore’s bailiff graces my hills with his presence.”

  The bailiff coughed, and said quietly, “These are the Baron’s hills.”

  “Of course,” Rhys said after a short pause. �
�‘Twas a mere slip of the tongue.”

  “Shall we go inspect the pups then?” the bailiff asked.

  “Of course,” Rhys said. “But only if you agree to stay for supper.”

  “If supper is early,” the bailiff said. “I’d like to be back in Pellinore before dark.”

  “Very well,” Rhys said, rising from his rock. “An early supper it will be.” He put two thick fingers into his mouth and whistled loudly. A moment later, a shepherd in the distance whistled back.

  “Let’s go,” Rhys said.

  Cord held the stirrup while the bailiff mounted up. Then the two Pellinore Castle-men followed Rhys toward his mountain home.

  Chapter Ten

  Cord wasn’t used to the Welsh manner of homecoming after a hard day’s work. He’d heard of it, but listening to it was another matter entirely.

  As two shepherds joined Rhys, the stocky Welshman began to hum. The shepherds, who looked like a father and son team, grinned at each other as Rhys hummed louder and louder. Their grimy faces became less strained, their slumped shoulders more squared. The sheep, which bleated all around them, quickened their pace, and the sheepdogs herded with more zeal.

  Rhys suddenly broke into song. His powerful voice started low and built up in tempo and volume. Soon he was booming out one of the myriad songs that come to the Welsh as naturally as breathing. It wasn’t long before the father joined Rhys, and then the son joined, too. All three Welshmen sang with gusto, their voices echoing off the hills and filling the glades and small forests with joyful sounds. Before three songs had been sung, another team of shepherds ambled along. They too joined the merry singers, adding their lusty voices to the mix.

  Cord marveled at them, and he delighted in the singing. If he’d known the songs or understood the Welsh language, he would have joined in.

  The bailiff, however, said under his breath, “Bah! They’re all Singers.”

  The Anglo-Normans had never understood the Welsh love of singing, and had come to call them ‘Singers’ as a term of contempt. The Welsh were just as contemptuous of the Norman lack of poetic talent.

  Cord’s weariness lessened as he listened to the singing. He wondered idly if the Norman nobles would walk more, instead of riding everywhere, if they sang more.

  The shepherds soon herded their flocks into a large stone corral, which stood beside a low-built barn of wood and woven wattles. Although the fence had been made to last, the barn didn’t look sturdy. The house, a big, sprawling affair a little higher up than the barn, had the same rickety look. It had one floor, a small door and many stuffed-shut windows. Smoke billowed out of the window to the side, while a stand of fir trees cut off the stiff mountain breeze that blew down the hill. The entire place had been built on a small plateau, although both above and below the barn and house the hill sloped steeply.

  Cord counted twelve shepherds, about as many wives, a host of children and another handful of servants. It made Rhys’ Place seem large, bigger than any other freeholder’s home he’d been to. Cord knew that the Welsh were unlike his own Saxons or the overlord Normans. Both types of Englishmen lived in settled communities, whether in villages, towns or castles. Seldom did an English family live all alone, without any neighbors less than a stone’s throw away. The Welsh, on the other hand, often built their homesteads well away from others, hidden in some wooden glade or deep in a moor. If Rhys had had any neighbors, the other house would have been built at least a mile or more away.

  Servants ran to the bailiff’s palfrey, and soon led him away to the barn where cows lowed.

  “Should we look at the pups now?” the bailiff asked.

  “Let’s wait till after supper,” said Rhys.

  A tall woman in a clean woolen dress strode out to greet them. She had a shock of long red hair, a regal stride and smiles for the guests.

  “This is my wife, Sir Knight,” Rhys said with a proud smile. “The Lady Gwen ab Gruffydd.”

  The bailiff surprised Cord by taking one of the lady’s clean white hands and like a palace courtier pressing his lips to the delicate skin. “You add grace and beauty to this lonely mountain hideaway,” the bailiff said grandly.

  Gwen curtsied, while Rhys, if it was possible, seemed to stand taller and puff out his chest even more than before.

  “And this tall man is the boar-slayer,” Rhys told his wife. “He slew Old Sloat, the beast who tragically slew Baron Hugh.”

  Gwen’s hand flew up to her mouth, her startling green eyes showing her concern. “The Baron is dead?”

  “Alas, yes,” Rhys said. “I had hoped to have you meet him, my love. He was a good man, generous, bold and brave.”

  “When is his funeral?” Gwen asked the bailiff. “We must attend.”

  “Sir Guy returns from Castle Gareth,” the bailiff said. “In a day, maybe two, the funeral will be held in the castle.”

  Gwen moved up to Cord, touching his cheek. “You must be very brave, and a mighty hunter, to have slain this beast which killed your Baron. You are most welcome in our home.”

  Cord could barely find his tongue, although he managed to say, “Thank you, milady.” As she turned away, he added, “But I didn’t slay Old Sloat by myself, milady. Sebald helped.”

  “Sebald?” she asked.

  Cord petted Sebald’s massive head.

  “Ah, I see,” she said. “Yes. He is a mighty beast himself.” She turned to Rhys. “You should ask the boar-slayer to stud out his hound. We could use dogs like that up here in the hills.”

  “You’re always right, my dear,” Rhys said, taking his wife’s arm. “But at the moment, I’m famished.”

  “Then enter within, husband, and let us begin the feast.”

  Arm in arm, Rhys and Gwen led everyone into the house. The smoke was thick since supper was still being cooked, but the roasting mutton smelled mouth-watering.

  Cord noticed that the sprawling house had been divided into several sections. The divisions were wooden walls, not just curtains. His estimation of Rhys’ wealth rose accordingly.

  A tall handsome man who looked a lot like Gwen sat on a stool and strummed a lyre. His long red hair had been pulled back and was now held in place by a golden band. What most impressed Cord was the man’s linen shirt and fur-lined leather jacket.

  “This is my brother-in-law,” Rhys said. “Edric the Bard.”

  Edric held up a mug of ale. He swallowed a long draught before returning to his lyre.

  “He’ll sing for us later,” Gwen said from the fireplace.

  “Yes, in order to earn my keep,” Edric said in a melodious voice, plucking a lyre string for emphasis.

  “Now! None of that,” Rhys boomed, slapping Edric on the back a trifle harder than seemed necessary. “You’ll have the bailiff and the boar-slayer thinking that Rhys ab Gruffydd makes men earn his hospitality. Such a thing will never be said, or if said, then I’ll hunt the liar down and cut out his tongue.”

  Edric grinned, which put deep lines in his face. He appeared to be over thirty, and it was obvious that he’d been drinking. “That was spoken like a true Welshman,” he said loudly.

  “Aye, aye,” chorused someone in the rear of the smoky room.

  Cord saw Gwen flash her brother a frown. The bard, who also noticed the frown, looked intently upon his lyre as he plucked strings, although it seemed that he secretly smiled.

  As Cord sat on a bench at the main table, he felt the Welsh and half-Welsh all around him. It was a subtle feeling, a tension waiting to build or lessen, depending on what happened next. Maybe the bailiff felt it too, for he shook his head when Gwen asked if he’d like to set aside his sword. Rhys tugged his beard at this. Then he shrugged as Gwen shot him a questioning look. The stocky Welsh freeman unbuckled his long knife and set it on a hook on the wall. The shepherds did likewise, until everyone but Cord and the bailiff were unarmed.

  “My hounds will give us warning if marauders attempt to invade my house,” Rhys explained to the bailiff. “A year ago, I heard how th
e ancient Greeks used to go unarmed in their homes. How civilized, I thought to myself. In such a civilized way I’ve now trained my household.”

  “I always keep my sword at my side,” the bailiff said gruffly.

  “Just like the Viking pirates of old,” said Edric the Bard. He’d arisen, and now sat across the table from the bailiff.

  “What do you mean?” the bailiff demanded.

  The bard merely gave him a lazy half-smile, his startling green eyes (just like his sister) alive in the smoky gloom.

  “Do you call me a pirate?” the bailiff asked.

  “You wear your sword like one,” Edric said quietly.

  “Enough!” said Rhys, slapping the table. “You’re my guest, bard, but you must treat my other guests with the respect they’re due.”

  Edric lifted his fiery eyebrows.

  “The bailiff is the Baron’s man,” Rhys explained. “He is also a good and just man himself, and a friend of mine. He will therefore be treated as such.”

  “He’s a Norman knight,” said Edric, as if that were an insult.

  “Yes,” said Rhys. “The same kind of Norman knight who fought with you and your brethren at Bridgenorth.”

  “Bridgenorth?” the bailiff asked. “What’s this about Bridgenorth?”

  Rhys gave the bailiff a soothing smile. He sat at the head of the table, the bailiff to his right. Edric sat to Rhys’ left. Cord sat farther down the table, beside the shepherd’s son. Young boys set down wooden cups, while a tall girl poured ale first to Rhys, then the bailiff and then refilled Edric’s mug before going on down the line.

  “You spoke about Bridgenorth,” the bailiff said. “Does that have anything to do with Earl Simon’s army?”

  “Let us eat first,” said Rhys. “We can talk politics later.”

  “But if you have important news—” the bailiff tried to say.

  “To Baron Hugh’s memory,” Rhys shouted as he lifted his cup.

  Men and women raised their cups, all except for Edric.

  “I ask, brother-in-law,” said Rhys, “that you drink to my benefactor’s memory.”