As if hearing him, the enemy stallion neared. Only then, did Philip shout and rise as quickly as he could. He saw de Ferrers sawing at the reins, trying to back up. The lance lowered as de Ferrers tried to club him with it. Philip ignored the lance, drew his sword and stabbed into the stallion’s side with all his strength. The magnificent creature screamed as the long blade slid into him. Philip kept pushing. De Ferrers shouted with rage, but both horse and knight fell. Such was the athletic grace of de Ferrers, however, that he leaped clear of the stallion, although he fell down. Philip yanked his bloody sword out of the stallion’s side, clanked around the dying beast and toward de Ferrers. De Ferrers began to rise as he drew his sword. Philip swung. With a loud, metallic clang, he gave de Ferrers a mighty buffet upon the helmet. De Ferrers fell down. Philip straddled the prone de Ferrers as enemy knights cried foul and rode onto the jousting field.
Philip pried at the dented helmet, tearing it off de Ferrers’ head. An ugly welt had arisen on de Ferrers’ forehead and his eyes were glazed.
“Submit!” Philip roared, holding up his sword. “Submit or I’ll chop off your head!”
De Ferrers stared up at him in shock.
“Submit!” Philip roared again, the heady feel of victory filling him with strength.
“Yes,” de Ferrers whispered. “I submit.”
Chapter Fourteen
Because Philip had not yet returned with Sir Guy, Lady Eleanor waited longer than customary to bury her husband. In the wait, Baron Hugh’s corpse began to rot. The stench, at first a small, ordinary thing, soon became awful.
The body had been embalmed and the heart taken out. The castle butcher, under the prayerful guidance of Father Bernard, had sliced the heart into four equal parts. Each quarter had been carefully wrapped in linen and set in a small stone box. The messengers who went out to the four parish churches where Baron Hugh had been patron, each took one of the stone boxes. At each parish church, the stone box had been buried in remembrance of the Baron.
Baron Hugh had often proudly talked about his holding the patronage of four parish churches. Practically all the non-cathedral churches in England and France had patrons, most of them secular nobility like Hugh, although sometimes the patrons were bishops or rich abbots. As patron, Baron Hugh had received part of each parish church’s tithe, and as patron, he had usually named the new parish priest when a vacancy opened. The overseeing bishop had never declined Baron Hugh’s choices except once.
The selected person, the son of a rich tanner who lived in Pellinore Fief, had failed even the bishop’s simple test. For the bishop had no interest in making an enemy of Baron Hugh and had therefore always administered easy tests. The lad, a good-looking youth with the shoulders of a fighting man, had been able to chant several of the familiar psalms as required by the bishop. However, the lad hadn’t been able to decline a Latin noun or conjugate a simple verb. The lad’s father had quietly gone to Hugh, and together they’d gone to an abbot of noted greed. The rich tanner had paid Hugh, and Hugh had given this worldly abbot a portion of that sum. The abbot had then given the good-looking lad his priestly certificate. Baron Hugh and the lad then went back to the overseeing bishop. By custom, the bishop was supposed to honor any other prelate’s certificate. This bishop had refused, and a terrible fight ensued, with Baron Hugh going so far as to draw his sword as he backed the bishop against his own church wall. The bishop boldly dared Hugh to strike, saying that Hugh would spend eternity in Hell if he spilled innocent blood. Frightened by the threat and admiring the bishop’s courage, Baron Hugh had relented and withdrawn his candidate from consideration.
Now Baron Hugh’s corpse grew ripe in the castle’s chapel despite whatever good or bad he’d done during life. The fully armored men-at-arms who kept a faithful watch around Hugh’s corpse at last complained. Day and night, with over a dozen tall candles flickering around the black-covered corpse, the men-at-arms watched. They made certain the Devil didn’t come, take the dead body and replace it with a cat. And they watched to make certain that no dog raced over the corpse and changed it into a blood-drinking vampire.
At Lady Eleanor’s reluctantly given request, the stone coffin was readied and a waxen death mask made of Baron Hugh’s face. Those knights, priests, squires, ladies, rich burgers, and merchants who could stomach the stench paid Baron Hugh their last respects. Pots of incense, which were burned liberally at the funeral, were put into the stone coffin together with Hugh. The heavy coffin was lugged to the castle graveyard and laid in the earth.
That had happened a day ago, and now Alice wandered about the Great Hall, bored to distraction. Sir Walter and the bailiff had gone to the Tanning Village to put a stop to an ongoing feud. Lady Eleanor and Martha had gone to Pellinore Village to see a newborn baby. Because of Philip’s harsh instructions, Alice still wasn’t permitted out of the castle. She felt like screaming. The enclosed spaces, which she usually avoided by riding briskly in the nearby fields, now squeezed her spirit with their dreariness.
What would Guy’s return bring? Why was Sir Philip taking so long in bringing Guy back to Pellinore? It seemed mysterious, and that made Alice nervous that the two plotted a nefarious scheme.
I have to escape. I have to return to Gareth and take control of my ancestral castle and fief.
She couldn’t just throw a rope over the castle wall at night and slither down. To reach the safety of Gareth’s walls she needed a horse. Even that might not be enough. Parties of armed men roamed the Marches; entire armies, both big and small, roamed the Marches! With Earl Simon de Montfort having sealed off the Western Marches, all those who sided with the King were in peril. She was one of those. Therefore if she were captured…
Better the enemies she knew than those she didn’t.
She sighed, then she bolted upright as a heavy thump and then a loud yell floated down the stairs from the living quarters above.
Idle hounds, the girls sweeping up the old dry rushes and a tottering old man polishing the hunting weapons on the walls stopped what they were doing and stared upward. Finally, the old man mumbled something about poor Squire Richard. The girls, a few years younger than Richard, began talking about him.
Alice kept an eye on the girls, having agreed to supervise them until Martha returned. Their conversation turned her thoughts to the squire.
Surely, he’s even more bored than I am. He could use cheering up.
Suiting thought to action, Alice headed up the stairs. The girls could clean up the Great Hall without her watching them. Martha always hovered above them like a kestrel, pestering them with little quips and old religious rhymes about the punishments meted out to the lazy. Alice’s mother had never been like that, trusting the servants instead to do a good job and rewarding them if they did.
Alice heard another loud groan from above. So she lifted the pleats of her long white skirt and hurried up the stairs.
The living quarters were gloomy. No candles burned and all the shutters were closed. The only light came from the stained glass window, which in the morning when the sunlight shone through it radiated with colorful reds, blues and yellows. The sun had moved on, however, and the outside of the stained glass window was now in the shade.
Alice searched through the gloom, finally spotting movement. As he sat on his rear, Richard dragged himself backward across the stone floor, his splinted legs trailing.
“Richard?”
The burly squire grimaced, then clenched his teeth and dragged himself farther. A suppressed groan slid out of him.
“Richard!” she said, rushing beside him.
He stared at her with glassy eyes, his long, sweaty hair plastered to his head.
“My….” He licked his lips. “My legs hurt. Not enough so they trouble me. But I thought a flagon of wine would help me rest better.”
He’s lying, she realized. Richard never complains about pain. One of his secret joys is that no one can make him yell.
Alice realized what awful pain he must be in.
She glanced around. No one else was here. She touched his forehead. It burned and was sweaty. Then she noticed the rancid odor surrounding him.
Maybe the others had left because of him. Therefore, no one had been here to bring him wine.
“Let me help you back into bed,” she said.
“And then you’ll bring me wine?”
“Of course.”
The struggle wearied her. Richard was heavy. Helping him up into the bed was even worse, and it left sweat stains on her dress.
He clenched his teeth as he trembled.
“Wine,” he whispered. “Bring me wine.”
She hurried across the room. Then she wondered if wine was the best remedy. She’d treated fevers before and knew that drunkenness didn’t help. He needed water, lots of water. And he needed to sleep.
This hall is too depressing, she decided.
Alice went to each of the shutters and threw them open. Sunlight filled the hall along with the trilling of nearby robins and larks. A fresh breeze swept away the rancid odor. She found a water jug and brought it to him.
He drank greedily. When he set aside the jug, he muttered, “This isn’t wine. I need wine. Don’t you understand?”
She picked up a cloth and wet it, and began to sponge his face. He soon lay back and closed his eyes, and sighed. Later, she helped him take off his sweat-soaked shirt. Then she began to sponge his chest.
“That feels good,” he whispered.
She smiled, but was appalled at how hot he felt. “I should check your legs,” she said.
“No! Don’t touch them!”
“When did the barber last check your wounds?” she asked, now more worried than ever.
He shook his head.
“Your wounds need to be checked,” she said.
“No! They’re fine.”
“Richard!”
Suddenly he trembled again, and all over his torso and face droplets of sweat oozed out of his skin. He clenched his teeth, but couldn’t control the groan that slid out.
“I have to look at your legs,” Alice told him. “I’m going to look at your legs. Right now, in fact.”
He made a feeble gesture.
Slowly, carefully, she unwrapped the bandage around his right leg. The burn, from the white-hot brand that had sealed the wound, had scabbed properly. Around the burn, the skin was a bruised purple color. Otherwise, everything seemed fine. She re-wrapped the bandage and checked the left leg, and almost threw up. Pus oozed from the infected wound. The stench sickened her.
“Wait here,” she said. She ran down the stairs and returned a short time later with the thin castle barber. He had rotting teeth and an odd way of hunching his shoulders.
He peered at the wound, rubbed his short hands in his dry, rasping way and said, “I need my leeches.”
Alice fetched him his stone jar of leeches. He’d gathered them from the scummy castle moat, she knew. She loathed them. As a young girl, she’d tried to swim in her father’s moat. She’d run screaming to her mother after climbing out and seeing the slimy bloodsuckers attached to her legs. Her mother had peeled them off, chuckling at her hysteria. From that time, Alice had a mortal dread of any outdoor water. Her older cousin, back then, had told her that bloodsuckers were the Devil’s creatures. That if they sucked up enough blood, they would steal your soul. Alice knew better now, or so she thought. Deep within her, though, was still the little girl’s fear and loathing of bloodsuckers.
She had to look away as the barber carefully dropped the leeches onto the festering wound.
“Ah, look at them swell,” the barber soon said in approval. “Good. They’re drinking the poisoned blood, making room for healthy blood.”
Feeling faint, Alice moved near an open window, drinking in the fresh air. Far below, circling the castle, ran Cord the dog boy. He ran easily, as much a part of the pack as any of the bear-hounds. There was such elemental strength to Cord, and tenderness, too. How else could he tame such savage beasts?
Why I am thinking like this? Cord can’t help me. He’s only a dog boy, although he is strong and brave. Then a new thought struck her. Cord had as much reason to fear Philip as she did Guy. So why doesn’t Cord run away? Why don’t I run away? To stay at Pellinore is madness. She shivered, and remembered anew Guy’s weird eyes; the way as a squire, he’d tracked her every move. She’d only been seven then. He’d always tried to touch her, tried to get her alone, away from others.
Why will he be any different now?
Alice folded her arms across her chest as she watched Cord. She needed allies. She needed people to help her get back home. She could do much worse than asking the brave dog boy, the slayer of Old Sloat, to help her. Maybe he’d even come along. The idea of that secretly delighted her, although she refused to admit it to herself.
The barber tapped her shoulder. When she turned, he told her to close all the windows.
“Will Richard be all right?” she asked.
The barber frowned and hunched his shoulders more than before. “He needs sleep,” the barber said. “Lots of sleep.”
“Should I give him wine then?”
“No! No more wine. Just water and sleep.”
“How can I get him to sleep when he’s in pain?”
“Distract him,” the barber said. “Speak to him, play draughts with him. Anything to take his mind off the pain.”
“I understand.”
The barber smiled, exposing his black teeth. “But first of all close all these windows. Ill humors blow in and will poison the wound.”
Alice nodded, closing the nearest shutters. After the barber packed his tools and hefted his stone jar of leeches and left, Alice reopened all the shutters. Too much gloom hurt the spirit, and if Richard were supposed to be diverted from his pain, then cheerful bird songs and sunlight would surely help him more than anything else would.
“Are you feeling better?” she asked as she sat down beside him.
Richard was propped up in the big baronial bed, his splinted legs stretched out.
“I’m still hot,” he said, wiping his forehead. “But I’m thinking better.” He gave her a pasty smile. “I’d still like some wine, though, or a jack of ale.”
“Do your wounds hurt?”
His pasty smile widened.
“That bad, eh?”
“It’ll pass,” he said.
It hurt her to see strong Richard this way. His burly, big-nosed looks always cheered her. He usually whistled and winked at everyone as he went about his duties. Of all the people at Pellinore, he came closest to being like the knights in the romantic stories of chivalry.
“Would you like me to read to you?” Alice asked.
“Thank you, but no,” he said. “What I’d really like is some wine.”
The pain must be really bad, Alice thought. He’s usually not this insistent. How can I get his mind off it? A game! Which game, though?
Alice, like many medieval noblewomen, was better at most board games than men. Chess, the noblest board game of all, was a passion with her, just as it was a passion with Sir Walter’s eldest daughter.
Alice glanced at the chessboard set up by the fireplace. Baron Hugh had often been found there, chin on fist as he contemplated his pieces. Model knights rode horses, all the details carefully carved onto the walrus ivory that had been imported from Cork, in Ireland. Cork was an old Viking town, she knew, settled by Norsemen. Both kings held swords, the queens held drinking horns, while the bishops held their croziers close to their chests. Alice recalled her father’s chess set that had been imported from the East. The Mohammedans despised women, she’d heard, and she believed it because her father’s set hadn’t had a queen, but a phez, a councilor, instead. Nor did her father’s old set have bishops, but the pil, an elephant.
Alice was so good at chess that it had fallen to her to teach the game to Richard. Unfortunately, he had no real facility for it. That wasn’t unusual in younger men. Alice had read the Song of Roland. It depicted one aspec
t of knighthood perfectly. According to the song, after Charlemagne and his knights had stormed Cordova, they’d rested under the trees. The older knights pulled out their wood-inland chessboards, while the younger men played backgammon. So it was in most castles, the older knights having the greater patience to play chess.
Richard enjoyed backgammon much more than chess. People wagered on it more, and backgammon included the rolling of dice. Dicing! Now Richard loved that more than any game. Alice knew ten different games of dice, some using three or even six dice to play.
“I know,” Alice told Richard, “how about some dicing?”
Interest flickering across Richard’s round face.
“We could even gamble,” she said.
He gave her one of his familiar grins.
“But only for small sums,” she said.
“Yes, fine,” he said, his voice sounding more like the Richard she knew.
“I have some dice in my clothes chest,” Alice said, rising.
“There’s no need for that,” Richard said. He reached under a pillow and pulled out two ivory dice. Then he reached under a different pillow and pulled out a small clay dish and a host of thin wooden pins. There were red, blue and small gray pins.
“Pounds, shillings and pence?” Alice asked.
Richard nodded.
“We’ll only play for pence,” Alice said.
Richard picked up the dice and rolled. He grinned and made his wager. Alice made hers. Richard rolled again, twice, thrice and then lost his bet. He grumbled, but Alice noticed that the pain had left his eyes.
The wooden pins marched back and forth. When he won, Richard laughed. When he lost, he grumbled or cursed under his breath. Then he hit a losing streak and his curses became louder and cruder.
“Richard, please,” Alice said once.
“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Richard said, scooping up the dice and rattling them. “Place your bet.”
Alice did, a smaller one than before.
“No more than that?” Richard asked crossly. “You’ve got to give me a chance to win back what I’ve lost.”
The Rogue Knight Page 22
