“I’ll betray no one,” Cord said, staring into Alice’s eyes.
“You must swear it,” Henri said.
Cord grinned, lifting one of his big hands. On it shone a golden ring with a lion signet. “I swear by my father’s knightly ring that I will betray no one within the kennel.”
Alice stared at the ring in surprise. It fitted the dog boy’s finger perfectly. She met his blue eyes again. He seemed different, bigger, nobler if that were possible, surer of himself. Her heart beat faster, the thought of them fleeing to Castle Gareth together more alluring than ever.
“Alice plans to escape,” Henri said.
“Ah,” said Cord.
“We need your help,” Henri said again.
Cord stared intently at Alice. “You freely have my help, milady. For didn’t you help me when Philip planned to attack me?”
Alice nodded. She was unaware of the broad smile on her face.
Henri outlined the plan, Cord silently taking it in. The dog boy didn’t seem worried about his part in the deception. Alice began to wonder if she’d still need Henri along. All alone in the wilds with the tall dog boy….
Then Cord was saying, “No, I can’t leave Pellinore.”
Alice blinked in confusion.
“Lady Alice needs protection,” Henri said.
Cord smiled uncertainly and nodded to Alice, although now he wouldn’t meet her gaze. “I would freely help you, milady. And it saddens me to refuse this part of your request. You must understand, however, that if I run away then Philip will think that I’m a coward.” He stood a bit taller, although within the low kennel the effect only made him dip his head more. “I do not fear the Seneschal. I will not run away from him.” He seemed to deflate some. “Of course I will help you all that I can, milady, to escape from the others.”
“You fool!” Henri hissed. “What good is it if she escapes this castle but is then captured by scoundrels?”
“No!” Alice heard herself say. “I need no dog boy to escort me home.” She bitterly regretted the scorn in her voice because of the hurt that filled Cord’s eyes. But she also delighted in the hurt, too. How could he have refused to escape alone with her to Gareth?
“Milady….” Cord said, groping for words.
“Thank you for what help you will give,” she said coldly. “I so appreciate it.” Then she turned and stalked for the door.
“Listen, Cord,” Henri began.
“Minstrel, come along!” Alice commanded.
A moment later, she and Henri left the kennel. He tried to explain Cord’s reasoning. She shook her head and told him that she wasn’t interested in cowardly dog boy excuses, even though she knew that it was brave of Cord to stay to face the much more powerfully placed Philip. Sir Philip would soon see Cord dead.
“I don’t care,” Alice whispered.
“What?” Henri asked.
Alice shook her head, bitterly disappointed in the dog boy.
***
Jael cried out and clutched her wrist, digging sharp talons into the leather gauntlet. Alice slowed and straightened her wrist, then made soft soothing sounds. The moody falcon settled down. Alice descended the stairs at a more leisurely rate after that, soon enough entering the Great Hall.
The servant girls had long ago finished sweeping up the old smelly rushes. They now sat on benches in a corner and sewed garments, waiting for the young boys sent out to the river to return with fresh rushes. The old man with the oily rag stood on a creaky ladder, dusting the antlers of a mighty stag. Henri sat near the fireplace, humming softly as he made a new rag ball.
Alice marched up to him, setting Jael onto a perch left expressly in the Great Hall for that purpose.
“I wish to hear a tale,” she told Henri.
“What sort of tale?” he asked.
“A hawking tale,” Alice said. “I’m bored to tears and yet cannot leave the castle in order to enjoy myself. Your tale must suffice.”
Henri shrugged, putting away the half-made rag ball. “Very well, milady, a hawking tale it will be.”
He launched into his tale. Alice tried to listen, but she was too nervous. So many things could go wrong. Lady Eleanor might not stable her horse right away, but decide to go elsewhere. Or what if Eleanor and Martha listened to Henri’s tale, but that Cord didn’t show up at the proper moment? Even worse, what if all their plans went perfectly, but Eleanor refused the simple request of letting her ride along?
Alice shook her head, pushing her worries aside. She smiled at Henri and forced herself to listen to his tale. He told an interesting story about a giant eagle used to hunt wolves.
The young boys soon returned with bundles of fresh rushes. Together they and the girls spread them out on the Great Hall’s floor. Soon a game of tag ensued. A word from the old man on the ladder put a stop to that. Alice had put him in charge of them.
Where are they? Alice asked herself. She sighed heavily.
Henri winked.
That made her smile. She continued to listen. And then Lady Eleanor and Lady Martha walked in. They were in the middle of a conversation. At the same moment, Sir Walter and the bailiff walked in, both men clinking in their suits of chainmail. Alice’s heart sank. Her plan envisioned just the ladies, not the knights.
“Would you hear more, milady?” Henri asked.
“Yes, yes, continue,” Alice said.
Henri did, raising his voice as he leaped into an exciting scene.
Out of the corner of her eye, Alice saw Sir Walter turn and peer at them. Jael took that moment to screech and shift on her perch. The conversation between the ladies and knights halted. Henri didn’t. He swung his arms wide and bent low on his legs, imitating the giant eagle that swooped down on the story wolf. Alice laughed and clapped her hands.
“Splendid! Splendid!” she cried.
“Ho!” Sir Walter shouted, striding toward them. “What tale is this you tell?”
“Milord,” Henri said with a bow, “I’m relating to the Lady Alice a story of the giant eagle.”
“Why is Jael on the perch?” Sir Walter asked Alice.
“I grow bored, milord,” Alice said. “So much so, I’m afraid, that I changed into my hunting clothes to pretend and climbed the highest turret. Alas, my daydreams lacked color. So I searched out the minstrel that he tells me a good hawking story.”
Lady Eleanor, Lady Martha and the bailiff wandered near.
“Is it a good story?” Sir Walter asked, who loved hawking.
“Why not hear for yourself?” Alice suggested, crossing her fingers as she hid her hands behind her back.
Sir Walter pursed his lips as he tugged off his riding gloves. He slapped them against his leg. Dust flew off.
“It was tiring work today,” the bailiff said.
Sir Walter nodded, and it seemed that he was about to expand on the bailiff’s comment.
Lady Martha piped in, however, saying, “Let’s listen to Henri’s tale.”
Lady Eleanor nodded, sitting down beside Alice. Eleanor looked weary; the lines in her face twice the number since Baron Hugh’s death. She also looked desperate, no doubt afraid to find idle time and thus think about her dearly departed husband.
“Why not?” the bailiff said, also sitting down.
Alice had to force herself not to sigh with relief. In fact, it was very hard just to keep quiet and not launch into praise of Henri’s tale. Henri had told her that in these sorts of gambits one needed to say less rather than more.
“Speak on, minstrel!” Sir Walter boomed.
Henri complied, launching into a zestful tale calculated to entice them to want to hawk.
Alice waited, trying to judge their faces. This might be her last chance to escape before Sir Philip and Guy returned. Too many days had passed, that’s what her heart said. It was an ill omen. Guy would do her no favors, she knew, neither would Philip. She remembered the bald knight’s oath in the forest, with Old Sloat hardly dead. If she could return to Gareth Castle, with Guy
the Seneschal gone, then she was certain she could rally her knights. Oh, things would be different then. As the ancient law said: Possession was nine tenths of ownership.
“Milord! Milord!” cried Cord. He came bursting into the Great Hall, several big dogs barking beside him. Cord only needed a moment, and then he rushed toward them. “Herons!” he shouted. “I’ve spotted a flock of herons!”
Herons were one of the fastest prey. Falcons were generally used to fly against them. Since falcons were the most loved, having herons for prey was a prized event.
Lady Martha clapped her hands. “Quickly, let’s gather our birds and hunt them down.”
Eleanor stirred.
“What say you, milady?” Martha said, clamping her hands onto Eleanor’s right arm.
“Yes, why not?” Eleanor said. “Let us hawk.”
“A splendid idea,” Sir Walter said, rising. He clapped Cord on the shoulder. “Get some of your water hounds, dog boy, and meet us at the drawbridge.”
“At once, milord!” Cord said, hurrying out without a glance in Alice’s direction.
“What about me, milord?” Alice asked. At first, she and Henri had wondered if she should just saddle up in this happy event. In the end, they had agreed that she should ask.
“The Seneschal ordered you to stay in the castle,” the bailiff said.
“I know,” Alice said heatedly. “And now I’m bored to tears with nothing to do. Look, I’ll be in your company. What could possibly happen that Philip wouldn’t approve off?”
The bailiff glanced at Sir Walter.
“They’re overdue,” Alice said. “Am I to be a prisoner the rest of my life?”
“Oh let her hawk with us,” Lady Eleanor said. “I’m tired of seeing her mope about the castle.”
Alice’s heart leapt with joy. She could have hugged old Lady Eleanor.
“The Seneschal gave us precise orders,” the bailiff said, if seemingly reluctantly.
“He’s overdue,” Eleanor said.
“Yes, but—”
“No! I am the Baroness!” Eleanor said. She smiled at Alice. “Look at her, all eager to hawk, and Jael ready and eager to catch the herons. She can ride near me. I’ll watch her.”
“Very well, milady,” the bailiff said.
Alice couldn’t believe it. She was actually going to be given the chance to escape. She felt badly for Lady Eleanor’s sake. Yet by what right had they kept her prisoner here these last few years?
Alice coaxed Jael onto her gauntlet. Then she strode to the stable to have her swiftest stallion saddled. Her heart pounded heavily and her mouth was dry. Her chance had come.
Chapter Seventeen
Cord the dog boy ran ahead of the others, leading them down the fief’s major road. It was a narrow, dusty lane with potholes everywhere that led them west through the trees. Still, despite its switchback route, the road took them toward the fief’s single bridge. Alice had instructed Cord to take them there. At least he would do that.
Alice rode in the rear of the lively throng, astride her swiftest stallion, Arthur. He was black with a white rump and had the habit of tossing his proud head and nickering whenever she pulled the reins too tightly. Hence his name, for he acted like a king. He wanted to be at the head of the throng, cantering beside Sir Walter’s big stallion. Both the stallions were palfreys; both, however, seemed to think of themselves as something special.
Sir Walter and the bailiff had changed out of their armor and into hawking clothes: bright finery with fur-lined capes. The women likewise wore finery, with tall cone hats that had scented scarves dangling from the pointy tops. The scarves twisted in the breeze, while the ladies held up their wrists with their favorite falcons upon them.
A knot of servants followed, usually having to trot in order to keep up with the mounted gentry. Some of the servants carried bags, others hawking lures and dummies and others still a few extra birds in case different prey should be spotted. The Chief Falconer, although a peasant, rode an old packhorse in order to keep up with the gentry. He was a wizened dwarf of a man, an inch less than five feet. He had grizzled stubble for hair and a patch over his right eye, long ago lost to an angry goshawk. His father before him had been Pellinore Fief’s chief falconer, as had his grandfather, who had won the post by taming a monstrous sea eagle used later to hunt wolves. The one-eyed Chief Falconer kept up a running commentary to Lady Martha. The plump noblewoman drank in his wisdom. She’d been known to slip him a penny here and there when her birds preformed some extra-special feat. He’d responded enthusiastically and had taken a shine to Lady Martha.
Bringing up the rear of the throng were two mounted and well-armed sergeants. The bailiff had added them, saying that one couldn’t be too careful now that Earl Simon had gained control of the Severn. Because of his wonderful tale, Henri rode a mount. Lady Martha had said that maybe if the minstrel saw their hunt, that he’d make a story out of it. Alice had considered that a godsend, and a good omen for her escape.
What worried Alice was that the first objective had been achieved almost been too easily. She rode Arthur and was now outside the castle. In her saddlebags was salted beef, while two water-skins were wound around her cantle. She wore a long dagger at her belt, had one hidden in her tall boots. While she didn’t have a bedroll, her unstrung bow was secured to the saddle and several strings of catgut were in her pouches. A quiver with twenty barbed arrows slapped against Arthur’s side. Her weapon wasn’t the long Welsh bow so loved by the Southern Welsh, but a small hunting bow. Maybe she should have taken a crossbow. Lady Eleanor had one and she surely would have lent it to her. The crossbow was a deadly weapon that at close range could pierce chainmail, but was heavy and unwieldy. The small bow would be more useful against outlaws and the like, the more probable threat.
Besides, there was no sense in berating herself for not having a crossbow. She had to concentrate on the second goal: That of crossing the toll bridge. Unfortunately, that was up to Cord. He had to convince the others that the herons had moved on from where he’d first supposedly seen them.
Crossing the toll bridge was all-important.
The Western Marches were a mix of small valleys divided by hills and mountains. The merchant routes through the valleys usually followed major rivers. To reach Gareth Castle one could follow the Wye River, which the Iodo River eventually drained into. There was a secondary route, one used by many merchants and pilgrims when they made their yearly journey to Canterbury. This route used Pellinore’s toll bridge. From there one followed a dusty track that led through a pass, over some rounded hills and then down into the Wye Valley.
The toll bridge, which Bridge Village had been built around, was one of the sturdiest bridges in Wales. Usually bridges were rickety affairs of wood, only haphazardly kept up. Pellinore’s toll bridge had a legendary past. It had been built of stones and was a squat arch bridge that spanned the raging and fast flowing Iodo River. The old legend said that the ancient Romans from the dim and misty past had built this bridge. In fact, it had been an important bridge then, for the famed legions that had swept through ancient Wales had used paved roads and stone bridges to out-march the unruly pagans of that time. Apparently, in that time this area had contained a particularly warlike tribe, hence the need for a good stone bridge that would be difficult to destroy.
The toll bridge had been another of Baron Hugh’s sources of income. For a passing traveler, for one on foot, the toll was one groat. For anyone mounted, driving a cart or for a Jew afoot or riding, the toll was more. Pellinore folk could freely use the bridge, although the bridge guards had to first wave them on.
“Dog boy!” the bailiff shouted.
Cord slowed and glanced back.
“Are you truly telling us that you raced uphill all this way to tell us about herons?” the bailiff asked.
“I saw herons!” Cord shouted.
“Yes, but all the way down here?” the bailiff asked.
Alice held her breath. Henri, who rode nea
r, seemed to sit stiffly in the saddle.
The wizened dwarf of a Chief Falconer gave a hearty shout. “Milords! Ladies! Look!”
Three herons flew swiftly over the Bridge Village. Alice and Henri glanced at each other in amazement. Too much good luck too early meant bad luck in the near future.
Cord pointed at the herons. “What did I tell you?”
Cord’s brazenness startled Alice. After all, he’d made up the entire story. Then she smiled. Surely, Cord had been wise enough to tell them about herons he’d seen in the past. He no doubt took them to a place where he’d expected to see herons, or where there would be a good chance of spotting some.
The bailiff shook his head. “You’ve the endurance of your hounds. How else can you run for so long without becoming tired?”
“Do we give chase, milord?” asked Cord.
The bailiff studied the herons, which flew across the boiling Iodo River and toward a stand of marsh about a half mile away on the other side.
“It’s farther than we planned to ride,” the bailiff said.
“Let’s go!” shouted Lady Martha.
The wizened Chief Falconer nodded vigorously and seconded her opinion.
“Onward!” Sir Walter shouted. He touched a prick spur to his palfrey and galloped toward the center of the village. The others followed, many of their birds screeching at the increased pace.
The Bridge Village was the biggest of Pellinore Fief’s villages. Stables stood ready for travelers’ horses and mules, while inns beckoned them to stay and rest or to throw darts and get drunk. Seedy beds where as many as ten customers slept at a time contained hordes of lice and far too many rats and mice for the cats to destroy. The food was good and Baron Hugh had never allowed the innkeepers to overcharge the travelers or to play the more common tricks upon them, such as a harlot stealing a man’s money after he fell asleep, or the seizure of a guest’s baggage, on the pretense that the man hadn’t paid. After Baron Hugh hanged a dishonest innkeeper, the others plied their trade honestly.
The best farmland lay around the Bridge Village, and the most prosperous farmers lived here. Many of the homes were as big and as sturdily built as Old Alfred’s, in East Village. In the center of town, close to the toll bridge, stood a tall stone church, the fief’s biggest. Because of its importance, a wooden wall had been built around the Bridge Village. Houses had been built beyond the wall, but the very center of town, and the toll bridge, were protected after a fashion.
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