“Silence!” Guy hissed. “No more!”
Cord shrank back, not knowing what had caused Sir Guy to become so angry with him. This all seemed sinister, unholy, demented.
Philip said, “Yes, milord, Cord led your father to Old Sloat.”
“Bu-But I didn’t cause your father’s death, milord,” Cord said. “Old Sloat killed him and I killed Old Sloat. I avenged your father’s murder.”
“Stop!” Guy shrieked, stepping forward and slapping Cord across the face.
Cord staggered back, more from his fright at Guy’s madness than any physical pain. He saw Philip smile in glee and he saw the giant knight wipe the smile off his face before anyone else could notice.
“The dog boy’s a coarse lout,” Philip explained. “He thrives off his tales of…. Well, of those things that your lordship would rather not dwell on.”
“Yes, yes,” Guy whispered, his eyes bright with rage.
“Oh,” Philip added, as if it was an afterthought. “The dog boy hopes to become your new forester.”
“Never!” Guy hissed as he glared at Cord. “No, he’ll never become forester. I name Fulk the new forester.”
“Yes, milord,” Philip said with a curt little bow. “I’ll send Fulk to you right away so you can give him the good news. I’m sure it will make the Hunter family quite pleased with you.” Philip strode away, no doubt to find the chief huntsman’s son.
“Milord,” Cord said to Guy, “your father promised me the forester position.”
“Away with you!” Guy whispered haughtily. “Be satisfied that I allow you your head, knave! Now go, before I change my mind.” Leaning on the old crone, Guy shuffled toward three knights talking by the smithy.
Cord stood with his mouth agape, staring after Guy. What had just happened? Philip’s smile said that somehow he’d been maneuvered into doing something Guy hated.
With weakened knees, Cord slumped and sat on the stairs. Before he could decide what to do, lightning rent the sky. A moment later thunder shook the air. A few fat raindrops struck Cord in the face. Wearily he rose. He couldn’t decide whether to go up into the tower or head back to the kennel. The raindrops increased into a sudden shower.
At the next bolt of lightning Cord turned and raced for the kennel. To see Philip with his mocking smile and Guy with his sinister madness—he couldn’t take that now. What he needed was to be with his hounds. Before he reached the small door, the rain fell in torrents and soaked him thoroughly. He didn’t care. All wanted was to be alone in order to think things through.
-4-
The next morning a loud knock woke Cord up with a start. Groggily he arose and shuffled to the low kennel door.
Thickset Fulk stood outside. He wore a woolen hat and seemed to have no neck. He had a pair of the biggest hands that Cord had ever known a person to have. Fulk didn’t speak much, nor did he say anything right off. He inclined his thick head instead.
Cord had always thought of Fulk as a strangler. What else did a man with such huge hands do but wrap them around someone’s throat and choke the life out of them?
“I want no trouble with you,” Fulk finally said in his slow, methodical way.
It was still dark outside, but that was more because of the drizzly sky than the hour. Dawn had arrived, but the heavy cloud-cover meant this would be a dreary day.
“Trouble?” Cord asked, still trying to wake up.
“I’m the new forester,” Fulk said. He didn’t gloat, but simply stated it matter-of-factly.
Cord’s shoulders slumped nevertheless as the blood drained from his face. So this was it. He hadn’t gotten the forester position. Mechanically, he held out his hand and said, “Congratulations.”
Fulk’s huge hand dwarfed Cord’s, even though Cord stood taller than Fulk and was considered stronger.
“Then you aren’t mad?” Fulk asked.
“Not at you.”
Fulk blinked several times before he nodded. He wasn’t the quickest-witted person in Pellinore Castle. His lips moved as he slowly formed his next question. “If you want, I might be able to have you be my helper.”
Cord bit his lip, forcing himself to keep his anger in check. “Thanks,” he finally said. “I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t think long. My father will soon force one of my younger brothers on me, or one of my cousins.”
“Don’t worry,” Cord said.
Fulk rubbed his lips and then added, “Sir Walter and the bailiff will be hunting soon. Venison for the coming feast, you understand. You’re to have your best hounds ready.”
Cord nodded. He was too numb to do much else. The reality of not becoming forester was crushing the little spirit that he had left. Fulk, he was the forester. Big hands Fulk. It was so unjustly unfair.
“Have them ready by the breakfast horn,” Fulk said. Then he turned and trudged through the drizzle toward the kitchen.
Cord shut the door. He’d have to spend the morning tramping through the woods in foul weather.
He suddenly found that couldn’t move. The idea of hunting, of being with the men who would watch him grow old as Pellinore’s chief dog boy filled him with apathy. Maybe old Baron Hugh had loved his hounds more than almost anything else. The old baron had bred his dogs with passion and insightful intelligence. Therefore, being chief dog boy, despite what the bailiff had said about their hidden mockery against his father, hadn’t been so bad. Because of the baron’s love of his dogs and his countless breeding programs, chief dog boy had gained status within the castle servitor hierarchy. With Guy, however, all that would probably change. Chief dog boy would fall in whatever prestige it had once had.
“What am I going to do?” he whispered.
Cord had no idea. Hob had crushed his fantasizes about knighthood and now Sir Philip had crushed all chances of him ever becoming forester. With a weary sigh he moved to a bucket filled with water and splashed his face. He’d better gather a few of the dog boys and choose which hounds he’d use today.
His numbness didn’t leave him in the kitchen as he swallowed tasteless bread. It didn’t leave him in the Great Hall as he dragged his chosen helpers to the kennel and it didn’t leave him as he heard the latest tales about Alice.
Her chests had been smashed open last night and all her coinage confiscated by Sir Guy. It had proved to be a sizeable sum. No doubt, it would help defray the cost of his mercenary crossbowman and sergeants. Sir Walter had protested the action. Guy had merely shrugged. The bailiff had said that his act was unlawful and the chief Gareth knight had been ready to speak sternly. Sir Philip had wondered aloud if Sir Guy wasn’t merely fining Lady Alice. Sir Guy had agreed, saying that this was all a fine for her escape attempt. Sir Guy had also named the chief Gareth knight the new castellan and slipped a costly silver chain and pendant off his neck and onto the knight’s. The bribed Gareth knight agreed to the fine, and despite a withering look from Alice, he had said that her enforced stay here was properly legal. Lady Alice had been left the majority of her clothes, her books but not any of her jewelry. By the look on her face, black rage had filled her, though she spoke to no one.
The hunt proved to be a soggy affair. The drizzle increased at times to a shower and then dropped back to the constant wetness. The knights said little, the huntsmen even less as they huddled under their wet cloaks and the hounds hardly made a sound as they were forced to the chase. At last, in a small clearing, the tall beeches blocking out most of the drizzle, Cord was called forward. Sir Walter told him to hurry up and find some game.
“What do you mean, ‘find some game’?” Cord asked. His numbness had worn away to reveal an ember of anger that burned deep within him. As he’d tramped past wet branches and had been slapped in the face by damp leaves, the ember had ignited his former rage. Whatever apathy he’d felt, had been consumed by his striding after the horsemen.
“Speak to your dogs,” Sir Walter told him.
“I don’t understand,” Cord said.
Sir Walte
r scowled from upon his palfrey. Like everyone else, he was soaked. His sealskin hood hadn’t helped because gusts of wind kept throwing droplets into his broad face. To make matters worse, his palfrey had become moody and had to be spurred constantly.
“It’s too wet today,” Sir Walter said. “But I know you can make your dogs excited enough so they can find something we can spear.”
“Are you saying the huntsmen can’t track as well as me?” Cord asked.
Sir Walter silently stared down at him.
“Because if that’s what you’re saying,” Cord said recklessly, “then maybe you should see to it that I gain the proper position for my skills.”
“I understand your anger at not becoming forester,” Sir Walter said. “But no matter what your feelings you must watch your tongue.”
“Toward my betters, is that it?”
Sir Walter nodded silently, dangerously.
Sebald, his massive Italian mastiff, nuzzled Cord’s hand and whined.
Cord petted his dog and realized with a start that Sebald sensed something. He turned his back on Sir Walter and made clicking noises. More of the hunting hounds moved toward him. The huntsmen perked up at this and then so did the mounted gentry.
“This way,” Cord said, before plunging into the woods with his hounds.
The day thus didn’t prove fruitless. For they ran down a deer, and a little after one o’clock they returned to the castle.
Cord sneezed as stepped into the kennel with his brutes. He’d been looking forward to changing into dry clothes. He wanted to warm himself inside the Great Hall by the fire.
“There you are,” Henri said. The minstrel rose. He’d been sitting on an upturned bucket reading a book. “I’ve been waiting all morning for you to get back.”
Cord only grunted, moving past Henri to open a gate as he whistled at one of the black boarhounds. The huge beast obediently slipped into the stall. Soon all the hounds were in their places and immediately began to devour the meat preset by their water dishes.
“I took the liberty of feeding your hounds,” Henri said. “I didn’t want you scurrying off to do chores once you finally returned.”
“Thanks,” Cord muttered as he slipped off his wet shirt. He went to a plain wooden chest, opened it and took out his only other shirt. He soon had on dry clothes, minus any shoes or boots, but he was still cold. There were quite a few drafts in the kennel, and the wind whistled in and out of the rickety building.
“You know,” Henri said. “This is the first time I’ve ever seen you cold.”
“How about that,” Cord said. He accepted the loaf of bread that Henri handed him and bit into it. As he devoured the food, Henri began to talk.
“I don’t know if you’ve heard about Alice.”
Cord nodded.
“Then you know that they’ve stolen her money and some of her most expensive clothing. It’s robbery, Cord, plain and simple robbery. I don’t know how the others are standing for it. Frankly, I don’t see how Richard is standing for it. Yes, yes. I know. He’s crippled right now. But you’d think he’d do something.”
“Sir Guy’s his new liege,” Cord said with a full mouth.
“Not truly. Sir Guy hasn’t yet paid Earl Mortimer his relief. Until he does he’s not legally the baron.”
Cord shrugged.
“Oh, it matters all right,” Henri said. “Guy can’t rest secure in his baronage until the earl grants him the title. What if Earl Simon and his army should enter the valley? Maybe Simon would install a new baron instead of Guy. Or maybe if things became too rough, Baron Hugh’s old knights would think carefully about Guy’s lack of title as they sat out events in their towers.”
“How does that concern us?” Cord asked.
“Until the relief is paid it makes Sir Guy’s position uncertain. It means that at the feast some of the knights might be convinced not to give him their oath of fealty. They might especially be persuaded that way by tales of how he’s treating Lady Alice.”
Cord swallowed his last bit of bread and washed it down with water. The minstrel was back in his fantasy world, inventing things that would never happen.
“Listen, Henri. You and I can’t do anything about Alice.”
“What do you mean?” Henri asked.
“Look at us. I’m the chief dog boy. You’re the wandering minstrel. We’re powerless.”
“Powerless? What do you mean, powerless? Lady Alice almost escaped yesterday. I wouldn’t call that powerless.”
“That was yesterday when they were off their guard. Now they’re not. Now we’re only two lowly people again.” Cord shrugged. “Free Alice? No, she’s too carefully guarded now, kept in a strong castle tower.”
“That’s nonsense,” Henri said. “We’re both noble born, not lowly people. Castle tower or not, we can free Alice if we put our minds too it.”
Cord snorted rudely.
Henri’s eyebrows rose. “Where’s your ring?”
Cord patted his pouch.
“Why aren’t you wearing it?”
“Haven’t you been listening? I’m Cord the dog boy.” He threw up his hands. “I can’t even become the forester. Wearing a knightly ring will only anger my betters.”
Henri sat down on the upturned bucket.
Cord began to pace. “I don’t know what to think anymore. My father was a knight, but he died a felon. I’ve grown up as a peasant dog boy. Now the knights of the castle, or the two highest-ranked knights, hate me. If I continue to poke my nose into affairs that are much too high for my concern, what will become of me? I’ll tell you what. I’ll soon be dead.”
“So you’ll let them win?”
“What other choice do I have?”
“You’re a knight’s son, Cord. You told me so yesterday. Your choice is clear: Become a knight.”
“How?” Cord asked, laughing harshly. “Don’t you know that such a thing is impossible?”
“Don’t you know the story of Parzival?”
Cord frowned, then asked, “Don’t you mean Perceval the Gaul?”
“No, I mean Parzival,” Henri said. “Perceval the Gaul was Chretien de Troyes’ knight.”
Cord shook his head.
“Ah,” Henri said, “I keep forgetting everyone’s ignorance here in the Western Marches. Alice would understand, though. I’m sure of that.”
“I suppose I’m too much of a lout to understand,” Cord said bitterly.
Henri sat up. “Then let me correct that. Surely you know the story of the Holy Grail.”
“Of course,” Cord said.
The story was part of the Arthurian legends. As any good marcher knew, King Arthur’s court had been here in the Western Marches as well as in Southwestern England. In fact, King Arthur’s grave was in Glastonbury. In Old Latin the inscription read: Arthur King of the Britons and his wife Gwynevere lie here. Prince Edward had seen the grave, it was said, and had been impressed by it. However, older legends in Wales said that the grave would never be found, until that day that Arthur rose again to protect his people.
The great French Troubadour Chretien de Troyes had first penned the story of the Holy Grail. It had been the last of his many immortal Romances.
The Anglo-Normans who had invaded Britain had loved the stories of King Arthur enough to pass the tales back to France. That had occurred for two critical reasons. Arthur, the historic Arturius, had been a Roman-style cavalryman who had lived in ancient Briton a hundred years after the legions had left and during the dreadful Saxon invasions. Therefore, the historic Arturius had both ridden to battle upon a horse and had hated Saxons. That was just like the Norman knights who had broken the Saxons at the Battle of Hastings. The Bretons in William the Conqueror’s train had also spoken the same language as the Welsh and had held the same bardic traditions. Tales of King Arthur and Merlin and the Knights of the Round Table had soon thereafter been spread back to France and to the romantic writers there.
In Chrétien de Troyes’ last Romance, Jose
ph of Arimathea had gotten hold of the bowl that Christ had drunk from at the Last Supper. Joseph had then gone to the foot of the Cross and caught in the bowl some of the blood from the crucified Christ. Years later, Joseph’s offspring had brought the bowl with its immortal blood to Britain. There the bowl had been kept in a mysterious castle, kept by a sick and imprisoned king. Only a pure and perfect knight could find the Grail and free the king by asking him what ailed him.
In Chrétien’s original story, Perceval the Gaul searched for and finally found the Grail, carrying it off to heaven. In England, the spotless son of the tarnished Sir Lancelot, Sir Galahad, had done likewise.
However, for all of Chrétien de Troyes’ greatness, he did not give Europe the final and polished version of all the Arthurian legends. Wolfram von Eschenback, a Bavarian knight who gained the patronage of the Landgrave Hermann of Thuringia, had dictated the greatest poem of the thirteenth century. It was said that Wolfram had never learned to read, but had been read to and had had others pen down his spoken words.
To Henri’s mind, who read every piece of poetry to come through his hands, sixteen of Wolfram’s books seemed to have been based upon eleven books of Chrétien’s Conte del Graal. Wolfram had clearly taken Perceval the Gaul and transformed him into Parzival. It was this version of Wolfram’s which became his most famous story and which Henri now referred.
“Yes, I’m sure you know the story of the Holy Grail,” Henri said. “At least you know the English version with Sir Galahad. That you don’t know the German story of Parzival is a shame.”
“Why a shame?” asked Cord.
Henri crossed his legs and leaned back against a post, setting the book he’d been reading on his lap. “It ill becomes me to give you a shortened version of the tale, at least of Parzival’s early life. It’s the part most apropos to you, you understand.”
Cord shrugged, but he was intrigued in spite himself. He’d never known one of the heroes of a Romance to have troubles similar to his own.
The Rogue Knight Page 29
