The Rogue Knight

by Vaughn Heppner

  “I also wish to propose a toast,” de Ferrers said. “To wisdom, that she never leave those who need her most.”

  The three knights drank again.

  Guy cleared his throat.

  Before he could speak, de Ferrers said in a quiet, urgent tone, “Sir Guy, I hope you will not think me rude in my noticing that you presently battle an illness. I apologize for my lack of decorum a few moments ago. I didn’t mean to stare like a lowborn peasant. You merely surprised me. But know, sir, that my sympathies go out to you, and I also admire your fortitude. You seem to be in pain, and I can see that you have a fever. Please, sit down, and let me know if there is a medicine or a drink that one of my knights or squires can fetch you.”

  “You’re most gracious,” Guy whispered. He sank onto the cot, pulled a linen handkerchief from his red silk coat and carefully dabbed his brow. Aldora hovered nearby, her concern obvious.

  “Are you well enough to parley?” de Ferrers asked.

  “Yes, of course,” whispered Guy.

  De Ferrers nodded thoughtfully, sipping more wine. “My reason for being here, sir, is quite simple. I owe a debt to Sir Lamerok of Dun. I had not thought to see him until I returned to France next year. When I’d heard he’d landed in England, I prepared to greet him in Derby. Alas, for reasons known only to him, he rode into the Western Marches. Then word came to me that he’d been captured, imprisoned in Gareth Castle. I inquired as to the amount of the asked for ransom, fully determined to pay it. You can well imagine my surprise, Sir Guy, when I found that no ransom amount had been set. While I deplore the kidnapping of questing knights, I also realize that certain persons thrive on such base business. I have told myself however that there is a quarrel between you and Sir Lamerok, and thus refused to believe the persons who informed me that you’d imprisoned him out of spite or for pure monetary reasons.”

  “None of this has been out of spite or for reasons of false gain,” whispered Guy.

  “Are you in the habit of imprisoning questing knights?” de Ferrers asked.

  “I assure you, never.”

  De Ferrers smiled and took another sip of wine. “That is pleasant news, Sir Guy. Please forgive me for even hinting that your character might be other than noble.”

  “Before we speak further,” Guy whispered, “I wish to learn who spoke so basely about me.”

  “Certainly,” de Ferrers said. “Breton pirates, those who follow Eustace the Monk.”

  Guy coughed suddenly, and only after several long, wet, braying coughs was he able to bring himself back under control. He whispered even more hoarsely than before, “I’m surprised that a knight of your caliber has any dealings with Eustace the Monk.”

  De Ferrers smiled sourly. “Who harries the Channel with more zeal, Sir Guy? I can think of no one. Since I am often in France, I have been forced on an occasion or two to have dealings with Eustace. While he is many unsavory things, he has never proven himself a liar. Nor did his men lie when they said you held Sir Lamerok.”

  Guy scowled and dabbed his forehead again.

  De Ferrers said, “Since your father and I have never been at odds, I’ve decided that battle between us should be avoided. Sir Philip is correct in one particular. Much unrest stirs within England. I thus wish to save my knights for the critical battle, which surely must happen soon now that Earl Simon has so boldly taken control of the Severn.”

  “Prince Edward will not let that stand,” Guy whispered.

  “You may well be right,” de Ferrers said. “I’ve often ridden against Prince Edward in tournament. Edward Longshanks is surely the tallest and strongest man in England, and in looks, one can only think of his granduncle, King Richard the Lion Hearted. Edward leads his knights with the same kingly dash as old Richard did, and never has Edward been matched at jousting, or with drawn swords.”

  “Save perhaps for the times when he’s been matched against you,” Guy whispered.

  De Ferrers inclined his head. “You are generous with your compliments, sir.”

  “I speak the truth,” whispered Guy.

  “In any regard,” said de Ferrers, “I have decided to pay Sir Lamerok’s ransom even though I hold the preponderance of force here. Pray tell me, Sir Guy, what is the amount?”

  Guy dabbed his forehead once more.

  “You may tell me, sir,” de Ferrers said. “My word is my oath. I am prepared to pay any reasonable sum.”

  Guy’s bloodless lips tightened. “I haven’t set a ransom price, Sir Richard, for I have no intention of releasing him...yet.”

  Philip was surprised. Here was a golden opportunity to gain the relief money needed to pay Earl Roger Mortimer. Guy could be installed as baron within the week if he wanted. All he had to do was accept de Ferrers generous offer.

  “Are those your last words on the subject?” de Ferrers quietly asked.

  “They are,” whispered Guy.

  De Ferrers shook his head, walked to the ornate table and set his chalice upon it. “That is most unwise, Sir Guy. I and my retainers can defeat you.”

  “Try, and I will slit Sir Lamerok’s throat,” Guy whispered harshly.

  De Ferrers frowned. “Do you hold a grudge against Sir Lamerok?”

  “I no longer wish to discus it,” Guy whispered.

  Exasperation filled de Ferrers’ handsome face. “I don’t understand you, sir. I offer you money, within reason, of course. Sir Lamerok hasn’t been in England or in Wales for over ten years. This I know because he told me so himself last year. Your father hasn’t been to France in ages, nor have you, I think.” De Ferrers eyebrows rose. “Ah! Do you move Sir Lamerok by your father’s command?”

  “My father is dead,” Guy whispered.

  “What?” said de Ferrers.

  Philip told the Earl of Derby what had happened to Baron Hugh.

  “This is ill news,” de Ferrers said. “A great knight has fallen. I mourn with you, Sir Guy.”

  Guy nodded curtly.

  De Ferrers said, “It would be a terrible tragedy then for Baron Hugh de Clare’s son to die so soon after his father’s passing. Please, Sir Guy, reconsider your decision.”

  With his mouth firmly set, Guy shook his head once more.

  “Then prepare to die,” de Ferrers said, his tone more sad than angry.

  Guy rose, his eyes betraying fear. “I will slit Sir Lamerok’s throat if you attack.”

  “So you’ve told me,” de Ferrers said. “But that would be most unwise, sir. I will defeat your force. Tree trunks and stakes will not make warriors out of peasants. Your few knights and handful of sergeants will also die, and after sullying their honor. Tragic. Very tragic. What will be even worse, Sir Guy, will be your own fate if Sir Lamerok is harmed. I’m afraid that by committing such a base deed as you threaten, that you will gain my wrath. I will tell my men to capture rather than slay you. Then I will hand you over to my hangman. He will heat his knives and make you rue the day you harmed Sir Lamerok.”

  “What is Sir Lamerok to you?” Philip asked.

  De Ferrers studied him. “I jousted against Sir Lamerok in Paris. He rode with Prince Edward. Alas, our mighty prince unhorsed me. Base sergeants then swarmed, determined to finish me. Sir Lamerok leaped down from his stallion and beat them off with the flat of his sword. His ransom for my person was very fair, and he allowed me to buy back my armor and my favorite steed. Even more, he saved my life from the sergeants. Ever since then I’ve wished to repay his courtesy. Now I have finally discovered the means.”

  “Is Sir Lamerok a highly ranked knight?” Philip asked, curious to know more about this Scotsman.

  De Ferrers grinned. “Not Sir Lamerok. He was a landless knight, I’ve heard. As a young squire, he read all the works of Chretien de Troyes. From them he learned true chivalry. Since he considered himself a hardy knight, and truly he is so, he took up the noblest sport possible and has fought for five years in almost every tournament in Northern France. Few now care to face Sir Lamerok in joust and risk their l
ife against him. He is an admirable knight, able to quote the romantic lays as well as fight with noble abandon.”

  Philip nodded. He was finally beginning to understand de Ferrers’ behavior. Sir Lamerok, like de Ferrers, had fallen under Chretien de Troyes’ spell concerning tournaments.

  It had begun almost a hundred years ago. Until then the chansons de geste, epic poems of heroic deeds, had held sway over Western Europe with their endless stories of battles and feuds and their relentless hammering on the theme of loyalty between vassal and lord. The new romances challenged that. They stressed courtly love amidst the court ceremonial, which in essence meant tournaments. Here the storybook knights displayed their strength and courage before their ladies.

  The master of this new genre was Chretien de Troyes. His patrons had been Count Henry of Champagne and Count Philip of Flanders. The two counts had had close ties with Eleanor of Aquitaine and her circle of future kings, queens and dukes. All of them lavishly patronized courtly literature and the growing chivalric sport. The arch-romancer, Chretien de Troyes, who wrote Erec, Clieges, Lancelot, Yvain and Perceval, catered to the noble tourneyers. The chivalric sport was written of in glowing terms. Those stories helped give the tournaments greater prestige. The two fed off each other and helped increase knightly interest in both. Knights and their ladies read the romances and tried to emulate their storybook heroes and heroines in nobility, courtly love, and endless tournaments, a time of fetes as well as mock battles.

  To host a tournament took was costly. Usually they were held at the great courts, the semi-annual meetings of a king or baron with his vassals. Northern France and the Low Countries were the heart of courtly love and tournaments. Here enthusiasts, both rich and poor, roamed from tournament to tournament. And here the very hardiest knights could make a living out of their passion. For in a tournament, when a group of knights fought in mock combat against another group, great prizes could be won. The victor, one who captured an opponent, took possession of the loser’s armor and war-horse and often ransomed the captive. However, it was still a deadly game in 1263. The jousting often took an ill turn, as men’s blood grew hot. As many as sixty knights had died in one particularly bloody tournament at Neuss in 1240. Usually, however, gross injuries were the worst the knights suffered. That Robert de Ferrers still had his youthful good looks was due as much to his great skill as to plain luck.

  Philip couldn’t understand why Sir Guy so desperately wanted to hold on to Sir Lamerok. Nor could Philip understand why Breton pirates had come to de Ferrers, telling him about the captured Scotsman. There was a secret here. It had to be a secret worth money.

  “This is your last chance to repent your error,” de Ferrers told Guy.

  “You will never free Sir Lamerok,” Guy whispered.

  “We shall see, sir,” de Ferrers said. He strode to the tent flap. He turned suddenly, staring at Guy. “Out of deference to your dear departed father, I will give you one hour to change your mind. Then I shall attack, and soon thereafter, you will feed off a dish of heated knives. Consider well, Sir Guy. Good day.”

  Earl Robert of Derby thereupon strode out of the tent and back to his waiting squire.

  In moments, Guy wept on his couch as Aldora tried to sooth him. He pushed her away and wept louder, his face hidden in his hands.

  Philip waited for Guy to regain his composure.

  “It isn’t fair!” Guy whispered hoarsely. “Not fair at all!” He began to strike his couch as tears fell from his eyes.

  Aldora pawed at him, trying to calm him.

  “What is not fair, milord?” Philip asked loudly, deciding that something had to be done. De Ferrers was right; the tree trunks probably wouldn’t save them. It had given them time. Time was now running out.

  Guy squeezed his hands into trembling fists. They looked like gnarled lumps attached to sticks. He peered up, his eyes bloodshot, his face flushed, his hair sweaty and lank.

  “He dared to give me an ultimatum,” Guy whispered as the tears streaked down his face.

  Philip nodded encouragement, even though he couldn’t believe that a man like Baron Hugh had ever sired the thing he saw before him.

  “De Ferrers said....” Guy clenched his teeth together. “Oh, Aldora!” he hissed.

  “There, there, Lord,” she said, stroking his hair, making soft sounds as she calmed him. “You have still been given your promises and you must still believe them, milord. Much has been taken from you, but much therefore will be given you in the time you have left.”

  “No!” Guy whispered, shaking his oversized head. “None of it is true, Aldora. Your master lied to me. Lied!” He raised his bloodshot eyes to hers. “He is the Prince of Lies, after all. He’s cheated me. Cheated!”

  “Hush, Lord,” Aldora whispered. “You must never speak so.”

  Guy paled, and nodded. “You’re right. I didn’t mean what I said. You know that, don’t you, Aldora?”

  “Of course, milord.”

  “And he knows that too, doesn’t he?” Guy asked, clutching at her.

  “Of course he knows, milord. For he knows all.”

  Philip blanched. What terrible wickedness did they speak? Who was Aldora’s master?

  Philip, like his ancestors before him, still believed in these strange supernatural beings, but not with the same utter conviction that his forefathers had. He had come to believe that sometimes people pretended to be witches, or have powers that they really didn’t have, in order to gain power in the more ordinary world. Therefore, his fear of Aldora as a witch wasn’t total. Besides, if she had magical powers, he could kill her and then be blessed by Father Bernard once he returned home to Pellinore Castle. That would nullifying any death curses that she’d scream at him if he dared to take a bloody course.

  Guy pulled his hands away from Aldora’s and dried his eyes with his silk sleeve. He arose and wandered to the table.

  “You’ve already had two cups of wine, milord,” Aldora admonished.

  “Can’t I have another?” he asked querulously, his hand on the flagon of costly French wine.

  “You mustn’t overtax yourself, milord.”

  Guy sighed, putting the chalice back on the table.

  “Maybe you should ransom Sir Lamerok,” Philip suddenly said, wondering what Guy’s reaction would be to his suggestion.

  “Never!” Guy hissed.

  “Milord,” Philip said, “I must ask you to reconsider for several reasons. I’ve already told you the sad state of your father’s treasury. Pellinore Fief is nearly penniless. What funds you yourself bring are your treasury. Earl Mortimer will demand a handsome relief before he allows you to become baron. This relief, or the majority of it surely, you can gain through Sir Lamerok’s ransom. You heard de Ferrers. He’s ready to be generous. The more silver he gives you, the better he’ll feel about his debt to Lamerok.”

  Guy sat back on his cot, glaring at Philip, his face set in that stubborn mold which only a de Clare seemed able to achieve.

  For the first time, Philip saw something of Baron Hugh in him. A bitter pang filled Philip. He missed Hugh. And this was Hugh’s son, his only son.

  “Milord,” Philip said, although with less force than before. “If you don’t ransom Sir Lamerok, then Sir Richard will attack. He is a man of his word. You must not doubt his intentions.”

  Guy’s scowl deepened. “I’ll kill Sir Lamerok if de Ferrers attacks.”

  “Yes, milord, I’m sure you will. But how will that help you?”

  For a moment, Guy looked uncertain. Then he hissed with renewed vehemence, “I must keep Sir Lamerok!”

  “Why, milord? Why keep him when it will mean your death, will mean perhaps the deaths of all of us here?”

  “No,” Guy whispered, clapping his hands over his ears. “Speak no more about...about....”

  “About death?” Philip asked.

  Guy screwed his eyes shut. He began to tremble.

  “You must listen to me, milord,” Philip said, his voice ris
ing because he could hardly contain his disgust for a knight who quailed at the idea of death. “Your father always faced unpleasant facts. He never lacked—”

  Guy opened his eyes to peer intently at Philip. Slowly, he lowered his hands onto his lap. “My father never lacked, what, Sir Philip?”

  Philip had already seen his error. “Milord, de Ferrers rides with his choice companions. Hob counted them. Sixty armored warriors wait less than a half mile away. Sixty, milord. We have eight knights or squires and sixteen sergeants, a paltry twenty-four warriors altogether. The peasants, cooks and carters don’t count. Maybe if they were atop turrets or behind parapets, then they could drop rocks or pour heated oil upon the enemy. As it is, after a few of them die, after the rest see their comrades spill their guts and choke out gore….” Philip shrugged suggestively.

  Aldora stepped away from the cot as the two knights talked. Her copper bracelets jangled as she sat on a bearskin in the corner. She pulled a basket over and began to rummage through it.

  “No, no,” Guy whispered to Philip. “You’ve wisely laid out these tree trunks and planted countless sharpened stakes. The peasants have gained courage from that and will fight like heroes now.”

  “If Sir Richard blindly charged, slaying his stallions upon the stakes, then maybe,” Philip said scornfully. “I’m afraid, however, that my defenses are more illusion than fact. It was meant to show the enemy that we would fight. That he would have to dismount and battle afoot—something no knight truly cares to do. Many commanders would carefully weigh the odds before attacking a fortified camp. The commander would know surely, or so I was hoping he’d know, that your castles stood nearby, that any of his wounded would have a long and harrowing journey before they reached a place of safety.”

  “None of those facts have changed,” whispered Guy.

  “No, milord, they haven’t. But now I have the measure of the enemy commander. The Earl of Derby will fight to his last man. He has laid his honor on the line. He will attack until he’s freed Sir Lamerok or until he’s dead. There is no middle ground with a Galahad like Sir Richard.”