The Rogue Knight

by Vaughn Heppner

  “Then we must kill him,” Aldora said from the bearskin.

  Both Philip and Guy turned toward her. She held a black statuette, an ugly idol of a being with horns, a protruding tongue and claw-like hands. She stroked it as one would a choice pet, and the set of her wrinkled, wart-ridden face was determined, almost fierce.

  “What’s that?” Philip spat as he grasped his sword-hilt.

  “This is the demon that plagues Sir Guy,” Aldora said, holding up the statuette.

  Philip drew his sword, looking upon Aldora with disgust, and perhaps with a little fear.

  “No, Sir Knight,” Aldora said, although she didn’t look at him. “You shall not harm me.”

  “If you’re a witch then I’ll kill you,” Philip said thickly.

  Aldora only chuckled as she continued to stroke the demonic idol.

  “What do you see, Aldora?” Guy whispered.

  “What are you babbling about?” Philip demanded.

  Guy, his sickly features for once serene, turned to Philip. “Aldora can see into the future. She’s a seer, a holy woman who wields the White Magic. With her power, she looked into the spirit world and saw which demon bedeviled me. Then she made a statuette of the demon and used, and uses, her power to keep the evil creature at bay. This is why I still live, Sir Philip, still defy the demon who tries to kill me. Alas, his evil has poisoned my blood and brought me to my sad state.”

  “She truly is a witch?” Philip asked, not knowing what to believe. Half of him said this was clever fakery. The other half feared, even quailed before a woman with that kind of power.

  “No,” whispered Guy. “Aldora is not a witch but the great-granddaughter of Merlin. She can see into the future and into the spirit world.” Guy smiled. “She’s a prophetess.”

  Philip’s sword lowered a fraction.

  “You must keep Sir Lamerok,” Aldora said in a dull, almost distracted tone. “You must never give him up until he tells you what you must know.”

  Guy nodded, entranced.

  Philip scowled and ran a hand over his baldness. He stepped closer to Aldora, raising his sword once more.

  “Ah,” Aldora said. “I see a path to safety.”

  “Tell me,” Guy whispered.

  “You must stop de Ferrers,” she droned.

  “How?”

  Aldora slowly looked up and swiveled her head until she gazed just below Philip’s eyes.

  Philip advanced another step.

  “No, Philip,” whispered Guy as he tugged on the knight’s sword arm. “We must listen to Aldora. We must use her path to safety.”

  Philip growled, “The only safety is in giving up Sir Lamerok.”

  “Until I learn what he knows he’ll remain my prisoner,” said Guy.

  Philip tried to speak.

  “The path—” Aldora shouted, her stick pointed at Philip’s face “—lies through you!”

  “Me?” Philip asked, surprised and appalled at her words.

  “You know the way,” she said.

  “Tell me, Philip,” Guy whispered joyously. “Tell me how we can win past de Ferrers.”

  Philip lowered his sword as he heard the hope in Guy’s voice. Until now, Guy had treated him poorly, had barely listened to what he’d had to say. Maybe here was a way to change all that.

  “Do you fear to take the path?” Aldora asked in a harsh tone.

  Philip stared at her in shock. Could the old bag of bones really be the great-granddaughter of Merlin?

  “Oh, dear Philip,” whispered Guy, “save me and I shall owe you a debt of gratitude.”

  All at once, Philip saw a way to achieve his goal. He loathed being this near Guy, having him touch and breathe on him. It sickened him. But this was also Baron Hugh’s son. He owed the baron many times over. If he could achieve his goal of winning himself a barony and help his dearly departed friend’s only son—

  “Milord,” Philip said, disengaging his arm from Guy as he sheathed his sword. “Maybe there is a way, but it entails much risk. It entails great bodily harm to me. Maybe even my death.”

  Guy winced at the mentioning of that horrible word.

  “Would you grant me a boon, milord, if I won a way past de Ferrers for you?”

  Guy hesitated, glancing at Aldora. She nodded ever so slightly. “What boon would you ask?” asked Guy.

  “The hand of the Lady Alice de Mowbray in marriage,” Philip said boldly.

  Guy’s eyes narrowed, while Aldora once again gave him one of her tiny nods. Guy slowly softened his features and soon he smiled. With a gesture of friendliness, he said, “Yes. Done, my friend.”

  “Milord?” Philip asked.

  “I grant you your boon,” said Guy, “provided that I and Sir Lamerok safely reach Pellinore Castle.”

  Philip grinned with delight, unable to believe that he’d really achieved the first step of his grand goal.

  “Now tell me your plan,” whispered Guy.

  “Of course, milord,” Philip said. “I shall joust with de Ferrers, and defeat him, winning passage for ourselves.”

  “What?” Guy whispered in alarm. “You can’t defeat de Ferrers. Not in a joust. He’ll kill you. And why would he agree to a joust in the first place?”

  “He’ll agree because he’s filled with chivalric nonsense,” Philip said. “And I’ll win because....” Philip forced down his fears and concentrated on his dislike for the valorous Earl of Derby. Any action other than this, would leave him dead or gravely injured, or captured and held for ransom. A duel him a chance for glory and a way to wipe out what he’d seen in de Ferrers’ eyes when he’d winced during the handshake.

  He told Guy, “I’ll win because battle is no game to me, but a deadly act of war.” Or I’ll be dead, he told himself. But in that case, nothing else matters.

  ***

  The peasants cheered as Philip heaved himself into the high saddle. Even though he’d been doing this a lifetime, it still proved a difficult task. A knight trained hard so he could move, mount up and wield his weapons while encumbered in armor.

  The costly equipment began with a felt jacket, a gambeson. The felt protected Philip from his own armor, from its rubbing away his skin. It also helped absorb heavy blows. Next, he’d slipped on chainmail, his hauberk. It came down to his knees, with slits in front and back so he could sit on his steed. The hauberk was Philip’s primary piece of defensive equipment, the most expensive and the most protective. The hauberk was made of interlocking metal rings: each individually forged, hammered and welded shut. The mail made for flexible armor, able to turn most blows. He wore chainmail leggings to protect his legs, and he wore golden spurs. They were a symbol of knighthood. Squires wore silver spurs.

  Philip wore leather gloves plated with strips of metal, his gauntlets. Upon his head, he first wore a leather cap, then a chainmail coif, or hood, which protected his neck, head and chin. Lastly, he wore a great helmet. Drilled holes in front of his nose and mouth allowed in fresh air, while narrow slits before his eyes allowed him to see. His vision was severely curtailed by the helmet, but the protection it afforded was immense. Atop Philip’s helmet was a stuffed, red leather rooster. It helped to identify him in a sea of armored knights. And it was intimating because it made him seem taller and fiercer in a strange medieval way.

  Over the hauberk, Philip wore a light cloth, a surcoat. Since the crusades, surcoats had come into style. Originally, they’d been worn to help deflect the terrible Holy Land sunlight and protect the mail from sandblasting grit. Philip’s surcoat was blue-colored with a red rooster emblem in the center.

  To swing a sword well, to handle skillfully a lance and even to ride a destrier while heavily armored took years of acquired skill.

  Not all of a knight’s protection came from armor. A kite-shaped, leather-covered wooden shield was secured to Philip by a neck strap. Leather handles allowed him to shift the shield as needed. The shield was blue and emblazoned with a crowing red rooster.

  All told, Philip�
�s gear weighed over sixty pounds. It was a fine reason indeed to ride a horse rather than walk.

  Besides the golden spurs, one of a knight’s greatest status symbols was his knightly waist belt. It was slung down low on his hips. Attached to Philip’s belt was a blue-painted wooden scabbard. His sword with its gilt-edged hilt weighed a good seven pounds and was thirty-six inches in length. Philip cherished his sword, which bore the same name that Roland had given his sword: Durendal. Baron Hugh had called his sword Joyeuse, the same name Charlemagne had given his. For over twenty years, Durendal had faithfully served Philip. He patted the hilt, knowing that its tempered steel could never fail him, for it never had.

  As armor had become more efficient, the style in swords had changed. After the year 1000, the sharp cutting swords of the Franks and Lombards had given way to the heavy blades of the Normans and Flemish. Those swords were meant to bludgeon a heavily armored opponent, to crush his limbs. Great sweeping blows rather than delicate swordsmanship was the preferred combat method. Because of Durendal’s weight and when combined with Philip’s trained strength, he could easily cut an unprotected man in two.

  “Here you are, milord,” Philip’s groom said.

  Philip accepted a long, heavy lance—the nearly perfect cavalry weapon. His was made out of carefully selected ashwood and colored blue with red barber’s swirls. On the end protruded a terrible spike of Castilian steel. A knight’s grip needed to be equally terrible when he made his strike. This lance hadn’t yet been equipped with the flaring piece of wood that would help a knight keep his hand in place. In 1263, a lance was a straight piece of wood, held in place by a knight’s grip. With the lance couched under his arm and level with his hip, he tried to smash through the enemy shield. The bearer slanted his shield to try to deflect the maiming blow.

  For the maximum thrusting power, a knight needed to be welded to his saddle. The high saddle was a heavy wood-leather combination, securely tied to the horse. Both front and rear cantle rose high, from which came the name high saddle. Philip literally wedged himself into the saddle. He was also held in place by hip-hugging acrons that were attached to the rear cantle. Then, at the moment of contact, a knight had to clamp his knees to the horse’s body and try to make himself rock steady.

  As he waited, Philip kept telling himself that younger knights were often master swordsmen, able to swing with cunning and great endurance. Older knights didn’t have the same stamina as younger knights. Older knights, with their vast fund of experience, were usually better at jousting. To aim the lance while galloping, to hold the shield at exactly the right deflecting angle and to hold your breath just so, that took year after year of practice to learn properly.

  Within his helmet, Philip grinned, despite his fears. He had a plan, a foul, tricky plan. How else could he expect to win?

  This is war, he told himself. This isn’t a foolish bit of knight errantry. Either I win and eventually become a baron, or I lose and kiss the needed friendship of Sir Guy goodbye.

  “Milord!” shouted his groom.

  “I see him,” Philip said, his stomach beginning to churn.

  Sir Robert rode from the enemy camp. He was the perfect knight, with a fan of ostrich feathers fluttering on his great helm.

  Philip’s doubts flared anew. De Ferrers had surely survived over a hundred such jousts; he would know all the tricks, sleights and deceits.

  Philip scraped a dry tongue around the insides of his mouth. Then he shucked off a gauntlet and fumbled at his helmet’s straps.

  “Milord, what’s wrong?” asked his groom.

  “Get me wine,” Philip said.

  “There isn’t time, milord.”

  “Wine, man! I want wine!”

  The groom blanched and hurried to Sir Guy’s tent. The knights, squires and sergeants lined up behind Philip began to murmur.

  Philip tore off his helmet, feeling the fresh air and hearing the murmurs. His men wondered at his hesitation. Damn them. I’m the one daring to face Sir Galahad. No, not Sir Galahad, but Earl Robert of Derby. He’s young, filled with chivalrous nonsense.

  Philip grimaced. De Ferrers’ chivalrous nonsense had given him the skills to defeat hosts of knights in just such affairs as these.

  Where is that wine?

  He glanced back, looking for his groom. He didn’t dare look at any of Guy’s knights or sergeants. He didn’t want them to see the fear in his eyes.

  Suddenly one of the horses trotted forward. Upon it sat heavy Hob. “Sir Philip, are you well?”

  “Yes, I’m fine,” said Philip. But even to himself his voice sounded hollow.

  Hob reined in beside Philip and held up an old piece of the True Cross. It was a dusty piece of wood, as long as Hob’s fat hand. “Touch this, Sir Philip, and pray for victory.”

  Philip didn’t dare touch a piece of the True Cross. The knot in his stomach tightened at the mere thought of doing so. He didn’t dare because he planned trickery. He planned to commit a foul blow. The Savior of Heaven wouldn’t honor that.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Hob. “Why are you so pale?”

  Philip looked over at de Ferrers. The elegant white knight on his huge white horse was halfway to the selected jousting spot. Philip’s guts tightened even more. He winced in pain.

  “Sir Philip?” asked Hob.

  Just then, the panting groom ran up, with a flagon in his hands. “Milord, your wine.”

  Philip took the flagon and threw back his head, letting the red liquid slosh into his mouth and some out the sides of his mouth. He swabbed the wetness around with his tongue, gulped more and smacked his lips at the sweet taste.

  A fire loosened the knot in his stomach and shot up into his head. He grinned at Hob before putting the helmet back on. He fumbled with the straps and then slipped on his gauntlets.

  “Let’s go,” he said, urging his destrier toward the jousting field.

  He concentrated upon de Ferrers. Beside the gallant knight strode his squire. The squire would rush unto the jousting field in case de Ferrers fell. He would help his master regain his feet, not always an easy task in armor. Philip’s groom would do likewise for him. Philip now studied de Ferrers’ lance, and his grin widened. De Ferrers had an eight-foot lance. His own was twelve feet in length. It was easier to aim a shorter lance and it was unlikely to splinter as quickly as a longer one. But a longer lance hit first.

  Suddenly Philip desperately wanted to pray for victory. But whom could he pray to? Not to Jesus Christ, not with the deceit that he planned. Maybe he could pray to that little demonic idol which Aldora had held in Sir Guy’s tent.

  “Help me win,” Philip prayed. For a moment, fear swept through him. Had he prayed to a demon? If so, and if he died today, surely he would go to Hell.

  Just then, de Ferrers’ squire pulled out a trumpet and gave a mighty blast.

  With a start, Philip realized that he was at his end of the jousting field, a level area of grass. At the other end waited de Ferrers. Lined up well behind the Earl were his horsemen. Philip knew that Sir Guy’s horsemen were lined up behind him an equal distance away.

  “Are you ready, Sir Philip?” shouted the squire.

  Philip dipped his twelve-foot lance, which caused a red pennon just below the wicked steel spike to flutter. De Ferrers then dipped his lance rippling a spotless white pennon.

  “At my signal let the joust begin!” shouted the squire.

  Philip sucked down air, clutched his lance and pulled the reins so his steed knew that battle was about to begin. The big stallion snorted and pawed the earth. This is what the stallion had been trained for.

  The squire put the silver trumpet to his lips and blew a mighty peal.

  Philip’s gut clenched. He spurred his mighty stallion and dropped his lance into position. The huge war-horse dug his hooves into the sward and began the straight run at the enemy. The jangle of armor, the drum of hooves, the tightness in the belly, the short draughts of air, Philip was hardly aware of them now. He stood in
his stirrups, although he was still wedged in his saddle because the stirrups were hung extremely low. He peered through his eye slits at the fast approaching enemy. De Ferrers leaned forward, with his lance couched under his right arm.

  Philip laughed then, enraptured with the terrible moment. To kill his enemy—ah, what sweet joy. He was unaware that within his helmet he roared a mighty battle cry.

  De Ferrers closed rapidly, his lance aimed straight and unwavering at Philip. Philip shifted his huge pole and angled his shield to meet de Ferrers’ attack. The distance closed with awful speed. Philip shifted his lance again, aiming at de Ferrers’ steed, at the noble creature’s head! If he could kill the horse, he could unseat de Ferrers and then ride him down at his leisure. But to kill the horse was ignoble, a foul in the rules of jousting. It was also a difficult feat. Philip roared, de Ferrers shouted.

  Philip gripped the round wood with all his strength. Then Sir Robert used the spike of his lance, deflecting Philip’s weapon just enough. It was a masterful move. Philip knew a sudden, terrible moment of fear. De Ferrers expertly turned Philip’s lance-spike with his shield. At the same moment, de Ferrers’ lance, which had dropped back into position, smashed against Philip’s shield. It was a perfect hit.

  Philip felt his shoulder muscle tear and his saddle’s rear cantle snap. He lifted off the war-horse, encased in his iron. He felt horribly trapped as the ground rushed up. With a mighty crash and metallic screeching, he hit and rolled. He groaned. His entire right side was numb. He was only vaguely away of de Ferrers, who slowed his war-horse, turned it and trotted back toward him.

  “Help me,” Philip prayed aloud, although with the ringing in his ears he couldn’t hear the words. Whether it was the prayer or Philip’s own sense of urgency, his head cleared and he realized that de Ferrers shouted at him from what seemed like a great height.

  Almost Philip rose then. Instead, cunning filled him. He remained as he was. De Ferrers’ stallion came even closer. Philip saw the hooves through his eye slits, even though he lay face-first on the ground.

  “Raise your hand if you submit!” de Ferrers shouted.

  Closer, Philip thought, just a little closer.