He stopped and wiped away the bead of sweat that had popped across his forehead. Maybe it was better not to think about old Tostig. It only made his bad shoulder throb with pain.
Ever since the joust with Earl Robert de Ferrers of Derby, he’d been careful not to use his sword arm. No one knew that something had torn in his shoulder during the joust. No one must ever know, because in time the muscle would heal, wouldn’t it? Yes, yes, it would heal and then he’d be just as powerful and deadly as ever. But until then he’d have to bluff his way through.
Philip drove out thoughts of Terrible Tostig and his look-alike son and concentrated upon what he’d say to Guy. He let the clank and rattle of his big sword sooth his worries as he headed down the hill.
Sir Guy spoke with his mother down in the castle garden. While old Baron Hugh had controlled the castle and ruled almost all its waking actions, Lady Eleanor had ruled the garden.
Philip drank in the fresh morning smell as he squeezed through the bushes that divided the garden from the practice yard. It was always such a joy to leave the tower and stroll in the garden. He moved under tall old elm trees and upon the carpet of lush green grass that Tom the Gardener kept carefully mowed.
Here the castle folk often came to take their noonday meals. Here one could find the chess players, the dicers, the idlers and those who listened to the lute players and the cheerful minstrels. Tomorrow, if the weather held, Sir Guy would hold the feast and dances out here rather than within the Great Hall. To swirl your partner round and round on the green grass and in the shade of the elms instead of in the dank old Great Hall made a world of difference.
Philip saw Lady Eleanor, Sir Guy and Aldora. They spoke to old Tom the Gardener, over by the rows upon rows of flowers. There were thorny roses, lilies and bright marigolds, and there were poppies, daffodils and acanthus.
Lady Eleanor had sent some of her maids into the fields in search of wild hawthorns and wreathe-woodbines, but the time of year wasn’t right. The garden would have to supply the countless garlands and chaplets for the revelers at tomorrow’s feast. To Philip’s eye, there were more than enough flowers for the occasion. Of course, after tomorrow the garden’s flowers would be woefully denuded.
The other half of the garden swarmed with Eleanor’s maidens and peasant helpers. Lettuce, cresses, mint, parsley, hyssop and fennel were being picked, as well as cucumbers, beets and wormwood. Unfortunately, the cherry trees had long ago been picked clean and the apples weren’t yet ripe. The young maidens and their peasant helpers would bring the garden’s delights to the kitchen for the cooks.
Lady Eleanor’s garden was as important to castle life as the armory, stable and aviary. Pellinore Castle would be a duller and lifeless place without it.
Guy, who wore his red silk coat, frowned as his mother talked. She seemed intent upon instructing him about something that he didn’t wish to hear. Philip hung back. Maybe now wasn’t the time to speak with Guy. Small Aldora happened to turn and nod at him. Philip had a sudden inspiration and motioned Aldora over.
She dutifully shuffled toward him. She wore a red-blue dress and leather boots. A tall hat was fixed to her head and hid her gray hair, but her leathery face and crafty eyes belied the outer changes. She was still the witch woman, the supposed granddaughter of Merlin the Magician. Few in the castle knew what to make of her, so they treated her warily, with grudging respect.
Philip had come to understand that Aldora’s hold over Guy was powerful. He hadn’t forgotten the horrible wooden idol of the demon that apparently plagued Guy. Maybe the best way to convince Guy was to have Aldora suggest it to him first.
“Good day, milady,” Philip said.
Aldora smirked. “A good day, milady, is it? Since when have you taken a liking to me?”
“Since I’ve come to recognize your importance,” Philip said blandly. She seemed too wise in the ways of the world to be taken in by smooth talk. He’d decided for brutal honesty. She’d be easier to trick that way; at least more easily tricked than any other way he could think of.
“What do you want Guy to do for you?” she asked, her dark eyes hard and crafty.
“You’ve divined my intentions, Good Aldora. I do indeed wish you to speak with Guy.”
“For your own profit, no doubt.”
“Yes, no doubt,” Philip said. That she was bold and saucy didn’t trouble him. She had a keen mind. And he was sure that she was of gentle blood, at least that of Welsh ancestry. Like many of the lord marchers to the south, he had a good opinion of the Welsh, quite unlike old Baron Hugh and many of the other marcher knights. Besides, Sir Guy wouldn’t live long. He could therefore endure this bold witch and kill her when the day of vengeance and gathered rewards occurred. Or maybe, if he actually gained the baronage, he could be merciful and send her home with a purse full of silver pennies.
“Well, speak your mind,” she said.
“Sir Guy is rash,” Philip began.
“So you’ve noticed. Good. I was hoping somebody would.”
“Beg pardon?” Philip asked in surprise.
Aldora smirked once more. “No, no, Sir Knight, it’s you who wish to speak to me. Please go on.”
Philip steadied himself by taking hold of his sword pommel. This little Welsh witch was full of surprises. He wondered why she’d so freely joined her fate to Guy’s.
“You said he was rash,” she prompted.
“Er, yes,” Philip said. “I’ve just listened to Jack Hangman. He’s quite upset.”
“Because Gaston the crossbowman took his place?” she asked.
Philip nodded. The Gascon mercenary was a dangerous fellow. He was one of those terrible mercenary crossbowmen, the kind bad King John had used before Runnymede and the signing of the Magna Charta. The Genoese were the best crossbowmen, but the mercenaries out of Gascony, the southern French County under King Henry’s sovereignty, were a close second. Neither crossbowmen nor mercenaries were loved in England these days. The crossbow, as the almost unique tool of mercenaries, had gained odium in Merrie England. In the hands of such professionals as Gaston, they could be terrible weapons, able at close range to penetrate the heaviest knightly mail. Gaston the crossbowman, after Aldora, seemed to be Sir Guy’s closest confidante.
“Jack Hangman is upset,” Philip said. “That isn’t good for castle morale.”
Aldora snorted in a most unladylike fashion. “Who loves the hangman enough to stick up for him?”
“It isn’t that,” Philip said. “The others will see this as an attack to their own positions. They’ll wonder when Sir Guy will do the same to them. You must understand, things will not go well for Guy if he continues to keep the hangman out of the dungeon.”
Aldora shook her head. “I can’t help you there. Guy is unmovable when it comes to Sir Lamerok.”
Philip pursed his lips. “Why go to such extremes? Why not let Jack run his dungeon but have Gaston admit the tortures?”
“That’s out of the question. Sir Guy doesn’t want anyone near Sir Lamerok?”
“May I ask you why?”
The humor left Aldora’s wrinkled old face. “Do you think me daft? If you want to know why then ask Sir Guy. On that subject my mouth is sealed.”
Philip pondered that. “No, it won’t do,” he finally said. “Sir Guy is committing too many blunders. Smashing open Alice’s chests and this will make Sir Walter and the bailiff openly grumble. Sir Guy can’t afford that.”
“He has you, the seneschal. Who more does he need?”
“He needs his knights above all,” Philip said. “After that it is wise to keep his men-at-arms happy. Then he must keep his castle servitors content. Believe me, castles have been lost through less.”
“Lost?” Aldora asked.
“This isn’t the wilds, witch woman, where when danger threatens you scamper away like deer. Here men may have to make a stand and hold off Simon de Montfort and his victorious army. Traitors can easily open castle posterns. Ropes can be thrown down in the middle of the n
ight.”
“What are you saying?”
“Guy must have a secure castle, a secure fief. To start taking away the prerogatives of his chief servants is foolish and stupid. He must win people over, not antagonize them. With a civil war in progress it’s more vital than ever.”
Aldora rubbed her chin. “Yes, as you imply, I’m not used to castle life and its customs. I hadn’t thought this.”
“When did you join Guy?” Philip asked.
She waved aside the question. “Perhaps as you say, the hangman can take on his regular duties. However, only Gaston can torture Lamerok. Guy won’t move on that point.”
“That should suffice for now. Yes, that should keep the hangman from openly grumbling.” Philip intended to stride off. Then he paused and eyed Aldora more closely. He decided to play a hunch. “Once Sir Lamerok tells you where the gold is hidden, you’ll need trusty swordsmen to help you carry it back to a place of safety.”
For a moment, Aldora’s eyes widened in surprise. “Who told you—” Then she clamped her mouth shut. “Ah, you’re sly, Sir Philip. Who would have thought it from such a brute of a knight?”
“Consider what I’ve said, and let Sir Guy consider it as well.”
Aldora remained tight-lipped.
Philip grinned, adding, “I think Lamerok is proving too stubborn for Gaston. When you realize you’d have to kill Lamerok to apply enough torture to make him talk, then come to me. I’ve a way for prying secrets out of honorable knights.”
“So have I,” Aldora said in a menacing tone.
“I believe you.” He nodded. “A good day to you, then.”
She hobbled back to Sir Guy.
Philip grinned tightly. It appeared Lamerok knew the whereabouts of hidden gold. Why otherwise hadn’t Guy handed Lamerok to de Ferrers for ransom? It would make sense then why Breton pirates were interested in freeing Lamerok. Maybe the Scottish knight knew the location of piles of gold!
Philip’s grin grew into a bold smile. At last, Lady Luck was shining on him. It was a good feeling, one he planned to enjoy for a long time.
-6-
“Alice says yes,” Henri said. The minstrel had just come from the tower, having been there to tell Richard another tale.
“You’re absolutely certain she’ll be allowed there?” asked Cord. He knelt by the well as he brushed one of the expensive bloodhounds.
“I just said so.”
“You asked her directly?”
“Calm down. Otherwise, people are going to be able to tell something’s afoot.”
Cord couldn’t calm down. He was terrified, so he brushed the bloodhound too hard. She whined. “Sorry, girl,” he whispered. He rose, gave her a pat to let her go and touched a sack tied to his belt. “Come on,” he told Henri.
“Where to?”
“I told the cook I’d catch him twenty frogs. For that, he’s going to give me a flagon of wine. I’m going to use the flagon to bribe Edgar.”
“Whose Edgar?” asked Henri, hurrying to keep up.
“The Steward’s helper.”
“He’s not suspicious?”
Cord shook his head. “I told him I needed it to rope off my hounds, for the watchdogs. I told him Sir George requested it.”
“This Edgar might check your story and find out you’re lying.”
“Edgar’s running too many chores for the Steward to worry about that. Besides, Sir George lost a war-horse two years ago to thieves. It’d be like him to ask for guard dogs.”
They entered the gatehouse, nodding to the men-at-arms on duty. As they slipped toward the moat, Cord noticed that it would soon be dark. Beyond the moat, Sir George and his men erected the big tent Guy had lent him.
The tower’s living quarters was packed with Pellinore Fief’s visiting nobility. Old Baron Hugh hadn’t directly controlled the entire fief. About half the fief had been parceled out to various knights. For instance, Sir Philip of Tarn Tower had a castle in Tarn Fief, which in legal terms was a part of the greater Pellinore Fief. Philip could just as easily lived in his tower as in Pellinore Castle, but for his own reasons he’d chosen ago to live with Hugh. Sir George didn’t have a castle or a tower but a strongly built manor house at the extreme west of Pellinore Fief. He’d been one of Baron Hugh’s lesser vassals. Other such vassals had already arrived at Pellinore Castle and taken up quarters in the tower. The Great Hall was filled with its regular occupants and the Gareth men-at-arms, some of the Gareth peasant levy and the entourages of various vassals. Even the castle yard was being used, with the lowest ranked people sleeping under the stars.
Therefore, Sir George and his retainers had gladly taken Guy up on the use of his big red tent. More people would arrive tomorrow morning and then the castle would be bursting with folk. The weather looked good. And hopefully, for the dance and feast tomorrow, it wouldn’t rain.
Sir George’s men-at-arms hoisted the pavilion in the practice yard, the area where knights jousted and squires charged the quitain. Cord and Henri worked their way to the lowest part of the moat. Already a frog croaked in anticipation of tonight’s chorus. Once the sun set frogs and crickets would start making noise.
Cord pulled off his boots, his breeches and shirt and tested his stick by swishing it back and forth. “Ready?” he asked.
“I haven’t done this since I was a kid in Normandy,” Henri said.
“Bring back old memories?”
Henri nodded glumly.
Gingerly, the two of them parted reeds and waded into the scummy water as they started hunting frogs.
“I still think we should have sounded out some of the Gareth people,” Henri said. “I bet there’s a few who’d have helped us.”
“How would you have asked them?” said Cord.
“Easily. Start a conversation and see how they feel about Alice’s imprisonment.”
“I haven’t heard any of them grumbling about it. And believe me, I’ve been listening for it.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Henri said, as he whacked a frog.
“At the very least it means that they don’t want to be heard grumbling. And if that’s so, then they’re surely not going to trust Pellinore’s chief dog boy enough to spill his guts to him.”
Henri grunted as he swung his stick. “You may have a point.”
“Or maybe the Gareth people don’t care,” Cord said, who opened his sack so Henri could drop in his catch. “Sir Thomas accepted the position of castellan easily enough. And if anyone should have balked at what Guy’s doing to Alice it would have been Sire de Mowbray’s oldest friend.”
“Sir Thomas’ action makes one pause,” Henri agreed.
“It makes me wonder how likely the other Gareth folk will take to Alice, if and when we bring her there.”
“You worry too much.”
Cord laughed sourly. “Only because it’s my head if I fail.” He lowered his stick and stared at Henri. “This scheme is mad. We don’t have a chance.”
Henri clutched Cord’s forearm with a muddy hand. “You’re a stick-in-the-mud Saxon, a plodder. The idea of doing something exciting drives you wild with fear. Lucky for us, Pellinore’s people are the same way. No one will think anyone here is mad enough to do what we’re planning.” Henri grinned. “Even Chrétien de Troyes would be impressed with us.”
Cord made a face.
“You can’t be a plodding Saxon anymore,” Henri said. “Think like a Viking, one of those adventurous pirates of old.”
“How so?”
“We have to dare. We have to tread boldly into the lion’s den. The old Vikings had that kind of courage, and so do the best knights. If we succeed, our names will become bywords in the Western Marches and England. Kings and princes admire such daring because few men have it. Kings and princes will dub such men and make them knights.”
“We hope,” Cord said.
“Bah! Be bold! Be courageous! Tell yourself you’ll only be surprised if you fail!”
“Why do I have the fee
ling I’m going to be easily surprised tomorrow?”
Henri poked Cord with his stick. “All we have is our boldness. Therefore we have to ram it to the hilt.”
Cord saw the wisdom of that. He grinned, and that eased some of his tension. Why try half way? He was finished in Pellinore. And he was the one who had slain Old Sloat! That was something he was going to tell himself repeatedly until this was over. Ram it to the hilt. Yes, he was going to do exactly that. He was going to rub it in their faces.
“See those horses?” he asked Henri.
Henri nodded at Sir George’s horses. The stables in the castle yard were full, so ropes had been used to fence off an area near the pavilion. There Sir George and his men hobbled their destriers and palfreys. There two of Sir George’s men prowled on duty, mindful of what had once happened to their master.
“We’re going to ride out on those horses tomorrow,” vowed Cord.
Henri clapped him on the back. “Now you’re thinking like a knight: bold, daring and outrageous.”
They climbed out of the moat as the bloated sun sank into the horizon. Cord took the first bucket of clean water he’d brought along and dumped it over Henri. The small minstrel did likewise for him with the second bucket. Then they dried off, put on their clothes and headed back into the castle with their frogs.
“Are you playing for the dance tomorrow?” asked Cord.
Henri nodded before adding, “You should try to dance with as many girls as you can. And smile a lot, and pretend to drink a lot.”
“Why?”
“So later at night if someone sees you in the yard they won’t be suspicious. They’ll have seen you having a good time and assume that you’ve adjusted to not being forester, if they think about you at all.”
Cord stopped Henri. “I’m starting to enjoy this,” he said in surprise.
“You feel alive, yes?”
Cord gave the small minstrel a feral grin and then headed to the kitchen.
-7-
Alice couldn’t sleep. She didn’t toss and turn or clutch her stomach. She didn’t pull her long blonde hair or twirl it around her fingers as she fretted. She didn’t dread the coming marriage with Sir Philip that she’d heard others whispering about, nor had she flinched whenever the awful Guy leered at her. Nor had she shrank back when Aldora tried to give her the Evil Eye. Yes, she considered the tiny pruned-up Welsh woman as Satan’s own. Alice de Mowbray had done none of those things because rage consumed her.
The Rogue Knight Page 31
