De Montfort’s zeal drove him to make a desert of a once productive land, and it gave him many victories. He fell in battle in 1218, and his eldest son Amauri took over. The only other surviving son of the ‘Scourge of the Albigensians’ was another Simon. He was a tall and powerfully built man with the dark good looks of the South. This Simon de Montfort later defied King Henry III of England. In 1263, he gained control of the majority of the Western Marches of Wales.
It was a different era here in Wales from the Albigensian Crusade of Simon’s father. Nevertheless, it had this similarity: it was a bad time to be an outlaw.
-1-
Beautiful Alice de Mowbray fled on a huge black stallion. Fear twisted her belly and doubt gnawed her thoughts. Beneath her, the stallion Arthur thundered upon the packed-dirt trail. Alice looked back, but could see nothing but oaks and beeches and their rustling, shimmering leaves. In front of her the branches whipped past uncomfortably near as she ducked repeatedly. The leaf-scented wind tossed her long blonde hair this way and that.
After two long years of enforced servitude, she fled from Pellinore Castle. Unless she reached Gareth Castle and summoned her retainers, her supposedly rightful liege would force her to marry anyone he desired. She was a prize for her liege’s men, a piece of chattel like a sword or a title. To help her escape that fate, she had her wits, a bow, two daggers and the fastest stallion in all Wales.
She hoped it would be enough.
Alice ducked another branch and eased Arthur into a canter. She wore leather hunting clothes and knee-high boots. They had been made in Paris, the tops flaring down.
Although Gareth Castle wasn’t that far away, she had to travel through several forests and sets of hills. Worse, Wales presently seethed with rebellion and swarmed with armed men. Earl Simon de Montfort and his allies defied the King. Prince Llewellyn of Wales was one of Simon’s allies. Three long years ago, Llewellyn’s Welsh had slain her father and sacked Gareth Castle. Because of Llewellyn’s deed, she rode alone and friendless in a rough and savage land.
Alice laughed to hide her fear. She had strong white teeth and the hope of youth. Even better, she was free and was determined to remain that way. While riding, she lifted her slender bow and strung it with catgut thread. Hers wasn’t a big Welsh longbow, sometimes over six feet in length. She had a three-foot bow made of yew. By her right leg slapped a quiver of barbed arrows.
Alice loved to read. She loved stories, and she loved tales of other lands. Twenty years ago, said the bards, thick-limbed Mongols had swarmed out of the plains of Russia and invaded Poland and Hungry. Batu Khan, grandson of Genghis Khan, led the invincible horde. Neither the Polish knights nor the Teutonic Knights or helpful French cavaliers had been able to stand against the Mongols. Hungry and Bohemia had became deserts, lands principally populated by wolves and crows. The Mongols and their heathen allies had discovered an unbeatable manner of fighting. They wielded small but heavy bows made of horn and sinew, and they could fire their bows while a-horse and with Welsh-like accuracy. Sheets of arrows fell like rain upon their foes, striking enemy rider and horse with dreadful ease.
A good shot with a bow, Alice had often practiced shooting from horseback in her many forays into the woods. Alas! Her skill while mounted and galloping was as good as most Englishman’s: abysmal. Still, her bow gave her confidence.
Some time later, she rode out of the wood and spied the Welsh uplands before her. The grass grew like velvet on the hills. In another hour, she would reach them. Before long, another swath of trees hid the hills from view.
She passed a woodcutter with an axe perched on his shoulder. The woodcutter’s woman led a twig-laden mule. A sparrow tweeted from the twigs as it stole a ride. The man and woman eyed her curiously. But in the manner of folk who spent long hours alone in the wilds, they said nothing. Later she passed two plump merchants lurching back and forth on their cart. A single large horse drew the cart, which creaked at every lurch. They shouted a Christian hello and waved. She nodded and rode on.
Maybe a half-hour later, she stood before a babbling stream. Stones glittered as the water rushed over them. Arthur drank the cool water as she chewed stale bread.
Taking another crunchy bite, Alice studied the large forest before her. The beeches stood tall and straight, motionless. Compared to here, it was dark in there. Shadows and trees made it easier to ambush someone. She could take the long way around to Gareth Castle or she could plunge into the woods like a knight thrusting his sword. Crouching, using a hand, she cupped cold water and sipped. This wasn’t a time for caution, but for luck and hard riding.
She mounted, crossed the stream and soon entered the realm of shadows. The sun no longer beat on her face, but it was almost as hot. The forest air seemed lifeless and muggy. The leaves hung limply and she heard few sounds other than Arthur’s snort now and again.
Time passed, and Alice grew tired of staring into the shadows. Her shoulder slumped as she sat in the saddle, although she kept her hands on the saddle’s horn. Then the stallion’s ears twitched, and a moment later, he nickered. Alice sat straighter as she scanned the trail. Ahead, the dirt path turned to the right, going past a huge old oak tree. She debated plunging off the trial to hide. What if they were outlaws? They might trap her in the denser thickets. Her best chance lay in hard riding.
“Easy, boy,” she whispered to Arthur, stroking his strong neck.
Alice heard jingling seconds before a lone horseman cantered into view. He was a smooth-skinned youth. By his fox-lined cape, he appeared to be a squire. He rode a tired palfrey and wore dusty leathers. An oversized dagger slapped at his side.
Alice almost yanked back on the reins as another horseman appeared. This one wore scale-mail or fish-scale armor, the latter name came because the armor looked like a fish’s scales. Such armor was cheaper than chainmail and easier to forge. Alice knew that an armorer sewed small toe-sized pieces of metal to a leather coat, overlapping the various pieces. Sergeants—horsemen of non-noble blood—generally wore scale-mail. Knights wore the more expensive chainmail.
Alice’s stomach tightened. She recognized the sergeant. He had a brand scar on his left cheek. Welsh raiders had caught him once and had tortured him for over an hour. He was one of the men who had gone with Sir Philip to Gareth Castle. Alice had been certain that Philip would take their new liege on the regular, more open route between the two castles. Surely, the new liege would be carting the majority of his belongings aboard wagons. If Sir Guy was on the trail ahead of her it would mean she had terrible luck.
“Lady Alice?” the sergeant asked, as he drew rein.
The youth ahead of the sergeant swept blond hair from his eyes and frowned at Alice.
She knew then that to ride ahead was to meet Sir Philip. She drew rein, trying to think of something witty that would put them off guard. All she managed to say was, “I’ll tell Sir Walter you’re home.”
As she turned Arthur, the brand-scarred sergeant said, “I thought Sir Philip ordered you to stay in Pellinore.”
With her spurs, Alice pricked Arthur’s sides. He nickered in complaint even as he lurched forward.
“Stop, milady!” the sergeant shouted.
“Run, Arthur!” she screamed, spurring him again.
The squire yelled, too, his voice breaking and cracking. He slashed his mount with a whip, giving chase.
Fleeing, Alice pounded down the trail. This was dreadfully unfair. To have escaped the others and now almost fallen into Philip’s grasp—no! She wasn’t caught yet.
“Halt!” cried the squire. He sounded closer.
Alice twisted around in the saddle. Yes, he gained on her. Arthur was tired, no longer fresh. Did she dare shoot the squire? Her stomach roiled at the idea. She didn’t know the youth, but by the eager look on his face, he was more than willing to capture her and hand her over to Philip or Guy.
She notched an arrow to the catgut string and twisted back enough to aim at him. She wondered fleetingly how Mongols d
id it. The squire, his blond hair sweeping across his suddenly wide-staring eyes, shouted in alarm. She drew the string, aimed—a passing branch struck her, making stars blossom in her eyes. Her bow and arrow spun away. Her feet slipped out of the stirrups. She tumbled over Arthur’s rump. Then, with a sick thud, she slammed onto the dirt. Air grunted out of her and she groaned in pain.
Hooves drummed on the ground. She felt it through her back. Soon feet thudded beside her as the squire leaped off his mount.
“Milady?” he asked, moving closer.
Alice squinted as her chest ached. She had to escape. Although she couldn’t breathe, she pulled out her boot dagger and lunged up. The youth shouted in rage and he became a blur of motion. Pain flared in Alice’s arm. Her knife spun away. Then he grabbed and twisted her arm, rolling her onto her stomach as he shoved her arm painfully behind her back. Only then did her chest unlock as she sucked down air.
“You tried to stab me,” he said in outrage.
“Let me go,” she whispered.
More hooves thundered toward them. Armor clanked. As the squire hauled her to her feet, she turned and saw huge Sir Philip gallop toward her. His huge bulk and bald dome of head were unmistakable. Behind him followed a host of warriors.
She struggled to free herself, but the squire held her tightly.
“Alice!” boomed Philip from high upon his stallion. “Dearest Alice,” he laughed.
Alice knew she was in terrible danger now. All her plans were bitter ashes of defeat. It would have been better if she’d never tried to escape. For now she’d put herself outside the law.
-2-
Sir Walter crossly questioned Cord the dog boy. Pond water drenched Cord’s clothes and drenched the dogs beside him. Although Cord was as big as a knight, his position had become very precarious.
Cord had called the lords and ladies to the hawking of herons. Then he had led them far from Pellinore Castle. Even worse, Alice de Mowbray had escaped.
“Don’t lie to me, Cord,” Walter said.
“Milord,” said Cord. “I called you because of the herons. You saw them. How was I supposed to know that Alice would dare break Sir Philip’s command?”
Cord kept calm because he knew himself now to be as good as any of them. He’d slain the great boar, Old Sloat. None of the knights had done that. Who then were they to question him? He lied to Sir Walter, but it had been for a greater good, to help a maiden in distress.
Sir Walter squinted. That tightened the knight’s leathery face. Many men had quailed at that look and broken down.
Cord just stood taller, keeping his eyes guileless. Yes, he had helped Alice. If his betters learned that, they’d hang him.
At nineteen, Cord was big with broad shoulders and powerful arms. A heavy Toledo steel dagger was strapped at his side. Only knights or knights-in-training—squires—could carry swords. While Cord’s father had been a knight, his father had been declared an outlaw and hanged from a tree. That made Cord a felon’s son, almost a criminal himself. He’d suffered ten long years at Pellinore Castle, bullied by the men who had craftily engineered his father’s death. Cord held the low station of chief dog boy of Pellinore Castle. Things had been changing lately. He now wore his father’s golden signet ring, a knightly item that portrayed a roaring lion. Cord had vowed to become a knight like his father, and in his heart, he yearned to bring his father’s old enemies to justice.
From upon his stallion, Sir Walter pulled off his right-hand glove. He had long fingers, with the middle fingernail black from an old wound. He flexed his hand before letting it drop onto a stiff riding crop. Maybe he meant to beat Cord with it. Before he could, Walter looked up surprised. He gasped and then barked sharply with laughter that sounded a lot like relief.
Cord turned, and it felt as if someone had dashed icy water on his face. His mouth sagged and a hollowness spread throughout his chest. Alice rode her large palfrey with her hands tied behind her back. Behind her followed Sir Philip and the ravaged Sir Guy in a red silk coat.
Cord shivered fearfully. He hated that, and he tried to control the fear. Maybe he could fool the others, but Philip would see through his actions today and declare him guilty. Cord was certain the Chief Falconer had his suspicions. But one of the unspoken rules of the castle folk, those of non-noble rank, was to let their betters discover such intrigues themselves. That was especially true if the intrigues involved those of noble rank. Sir Guy…Cord didn’t like the glassy look in his eyes. He didn’t like Guy’ sickly features or the evil smirk that played upon the man’s lips. From time to time Sir Guy leered at Alice. Cord had once trained a mongrel with eyes like those. It had been an unpredictable hound, a coward at heart. Then, when one’s back was turned, that’s when the mongrel had been most dangerous.
It would be better, Cord decided, to stay out of Philip’s sight. So as the great throng of men and wagons neared, he slipped among the levy of Gareth peasants that marched with Philip and Guy. The levy had undoubtedly come to insure the safe movement of Guy’s belongings. Since the peasants were afoot and tired, they brought up the rear of the large throng. Therefore, Cord saw Henri the minstrel trot in from the same trail the others had used.
Henri was a small Frenchman with a black spade beard. The small minstrel was pale-faced and tight-lipped. Somehow, he’d avoided Sir Guy on the trial ahead. Cord knew that Alice’s plan had been to meet up with Henri and travel together with him to Gareth.
Cord raised his eyebrows in surprise. Someone like Henri who usually looked out for himself should have fled elsewhere. Why had the minstrel come back?
Henri dismounted, gave the reins to a peasant and sauntered toward Cord. Cord nodded to himself. Soon, they ambled apart from the others.
“I saw the great throng,” Henri whispered. “And Alice never showed up where she promised. Then I wondered—”
“They have her,” Cord said.
“What?” said Henri, clutching Cord’s arm.
Cord pointed toward the van of the throng. On horseback, the nobles headed back toward Pellinore Castle on the hill.
Henri groaned miserably.
“What can we do for her?” asked Cord.
“For now nothing,” Henri said. He was pale and his where like those eyes of a rabbit. “Do the others suspect us?”
Cord told the minstrel how about Sir Walter’s questions. He also told the Frenchman how he was sure the Chief Falconer knew the truth.
Henri chewed on his lower lip. “We’d better not give the Chief Falconer any reason to betray us then.”
“Do you think me daft?”
“Hmmm. What? Oh, no, of course not. Listen. We can’t do anything out of the ordinary. That would make us look guilty.”
“You said nothing would go wrong.”
Henri shrugged moodily. “It wasn’t supposed too. Everything was going perfectly. Ah, don’t look up, but people are watching us. We must join the others.”
For a time, they walked silently and among the others. Cord heard the clank of knightly armor, creaking carts and the tramp of the Gareth footmen. Dark clouds moved across the sky as strong gusts of wind began to blow across the countryside. Henri buttoned his jacket. Old leaves tumbled past Cord’s feet.
Despite his worry for Alice, Cord kept wondering if the soon-to-be-Baron Guy would give him the post of forester. Baron Hugh, Guy’s dead father, had promised him the post.
Despite his plans about becoming a knight, Cord’s innate practicality kept returning to a means of making a living in the meantime. Forester was better than chief dog boy. His only other choice seemed to be that of a mercenary. Frankly, he had no interest in that. As a lowly dog boy, all he’d be able to become as a mercenary would be a footman, a spear-carrier. Spear-carriers were fodder for the swords of knights.
Cord sighed. To become a knight, he’d need money and luck, a lot of both. Never mind all the training he’d have to undergo. It took long years of training to learn how to charge with a lance and fight with a sword whi
le wearing heavy armor. Cord blew out his cheeks. He’d need money to buy a destrier, to buy a chainmail hauberk, a knightly sword, a lance, a high saddle, a helmet, a shield and a mule for carrying provisions. Then he’d need even more money to pay for a groom and for a palfrey for regular riding. Cord shook his head. Where could he possibly acquire that much money?
The only immediate answer was to kidnap a rich lord and ransom him. Too many penniless knights tried just that, however. He would be competing against much better armed and trained outlaws. Even more to the point was how was he supposed to kidnap a well-armed and trained fighting noble, one carefully protected from such an eventuality?
Until he had a real plan, it would be better to be a forester than a chief dog boy. He also wondered about something else. As sinister as Sir Guy, the new liege, seemed, he also didn’t look long for this world.
Once a person had a position such as forester, or chief falconer, or steward, or even head butcher, it was almost impossible to lose that post. Usually, one had to commit a serious crime. A baron, earl, or even king had great power over his people. However, within their spheres of influence the various servitors had great leeway and prerogatives. Higher posts within a castle became hereditary. For instance, Pellinore’s chief huntsman was the eldest son of the former chief huntsman, and the present hangman had received his position after his grandfather had passed away. Because of that, if a lord—be he baron, earl or king—dismissed a higher ranked servitor without good reason the others would become sullen and rebellious. Almost all lords recognized this and acted accordingly. If therefore Cord obtained the position of forester, as a matter of course, the other castle servitors would want him to keep his position even if a new lord didn’t like him. When he took over a fief or castle, almost all lords kept the non-noble servitors in whatever position they’d held. The main exception was if a lord promoted a servant to a better and higher rank.
The Rogue Knight Page 27
