Alice lay flat on her back with her arms held stiffly beside her. She stared up into the darkness and didn’t twitch her feet or shift her fingers. She kept remembering how the rail-thin Guy with his pale face of death had ordered her chests dragged into the open and smashed into splinters. In front of everyone, the two smirking sergeants had taken hammers and broken her chests apart. Her clothes, her coins, her books, jewelry, diary, daintiest slippers, nightgowns, her portrait of her mother, one and all had been spilled onto the floor and picked over by the boorish Guy de Clare.
Others had been there to jeer. Huge Sir Philip with his crafty smile stood at the forefront. The evil little witch who claimed to be the great granddaughter of Merlin had once or twice stirred her peeled hazel stick in her belongings. The silent Gascon mercenary with his big thumbs hooked through his crossbow belt nodded when Guy took her most expensive dresses. Worst of all Sir Thomas Clive—her father’s oldest friend—merely fondled the pendant given him by Guy and blandly looked on. Only one person had the decency to protest: Squire Richard Clark. He had been unable to help however, although by his bold words he’d made the bailiff turn and stalk out of the room.
To have failed in her escape was horrible. To be Guy’s prisoner was awful. To know that soon huge Sir Philip would legally be able to lie naked atop her was hideous. But to smash open her only belongings and then grub through them like a pig violated her very being. Nothing else in Pellinore Castle was hers. Sir Guy had brutally taken that away. He’d gloated while doing it and had leered in his sick and evil way.
Alice de Mowbray clenched her teeth and made the muscles that hinged her jaws bulge. She was going to get even. She was going to make Sir Guy de Clare rue the day he’d set eyes on her. If it took ten hours, ten days, ten weeks, ten months, ten years she would even the score and take from him what he held most dear.
Alice sat bolt upright. She wanted to scream her rage to everyone in the hall. They’d taken Susan and Michael, her servants, and had sent them packing to Gareth. Sinister Guy had hoped to strip her of all her friends, just as he’d tried to strip her of all her dignity. Clad only in her nightgown, Alice swung her long legs onto the floor. There was no longer any bed curtain to pull back because Guy had ordered it taken down, just as he’d ordered her wooden paneling removed. Therefore, she no longer had any privacy while in the tower’s living quarters.
She stood up. Only the night-candle flickered. The hall, she knew, was packed with sleeping people. Countless vassals had come to pledge their oath of fealty to Guy tomorrow and slept in the hall with their wives and children.
“I wish to go up to flagstaff turret,” Alice loudly said into the darkness.
Various people grumbled. It was bad form to speak so loudly and wake others up. Alice didn’t care. Her rage made her reckless. She would be like Jael, like her freed falcon, a screaming prisoner who none could control.
“Do you hear me, Guy?” Alice asked. “I want to see the stars.”
“Quiet, lass,” grumbled a sleepy knight.
“No!” Alice shouted. “I want to go up to the flagstaff turret!”
“Someone beat her until she shuts up,” a man said.
“Lay hands upon me and I’ll knee you in the groin,” Alice retorted fiercely.
For a moment, there was silence.
“Sir Guy?”
“Quiet!” hissed Guy.
“I can’t sleep,” Alice said. “I wish therefore to go up to the flagstaff turret.”
“I’ll watch her, milord.” That was Richard. “I can’t sleep either.”
In a petulant voice, Guy ordered his sergeants to watch Alice and carry Richard. The heavily muscled warriors had been sleeping. Now they complained bitterly as Alice walked ahead of them and as they manhandled the crippled Richard up the tower.
Soon Alice stood on the flagstaff turret. It was cold, but she had brought a shawl and wrapped it around her head and shoulders. The stars twinkled overhead. From below came the shifting light of the bonfires in the castle yard and out in the practice yard.
Richard bade the two big men to set him down on a stool. Each sergeant had a sword strapped to his side. They were fierce warriors, mercenaries really, Norman adventurers who hadn’t had the advantage of a noble birth. Guy had bound them to him by coin and splendid promises. Each knew that when Sir Lamerok talked they’d be rich. With these two men, blond-haired bravos with burly shoulders, hard faces and cruel eyes, Guy had held Gareth Castle in thrall. They hadn’t done it alone, but with help from Gaston the crossbowman. These three warriors had been tougher than any Gareth Castle knight, and they had helped make Guy’s word law.
“You’re a stupid wench,” said the bigger of the two sergeants, Reynard Cutthroat by name. “Keep doing what you just did and Sir Philip may find on his wedding night that he doesn’t have a virgin.”
“Watch your mouth,” Richard said.
“You watch yours,” Reynard said, striding to Richard. He towered over the crippled squire.
“You’d be wise to watch how you treat him,” Alice said.
Reynard faced Alice. “You trying to tell me what to do, wench?”
“You’re a fool,” Alice said.
Reynard’s hard face grew tight. He marched up to Alice, hulking over her. While not as big as Philip, Reynard Cutthroat was tall and bluff. “You want to say that again, you stupid wench?”
The sergeant frightened her. He didn’t seem quite right in the head. He was a brutal man, one who laughed at others’ pain. Still, she wasn’t going to show him fear. In her haughtiest tone, Alice said, “You’re a fool.”
Reynard’s slap was loud and snapped Alice’s head to the side. He laughed as she tried to knee him, and he pushed her back against the parapet.
“You’ll regret that,” she hissed, although tears welled in her eyes.
Reynard laughed again, and peered at his friend. That’s when Richard’s hurled boot clunked him in the head. Reynard roared with rage and drew his sword.
Richard, his back to the parapet and upon his stool, held a long, evil-looking dagger. “That’s it,” Richard growled, his round face twisted with anger. “Come near me so I can gut you like the cur you are.”
The second sergeant rushed forward and held Reynard back, whispering urgently into his ear.
“I won’t forget this,” Reynard said.
“Nor I your loutish breeding,” Richard shot back.
“Aye, hide behind your blood, you cripple. But don’t ever be fool enough to cross swords with me. You’ll end up dead if you do.”
Richard kept his frozen smile in place, his eyes never leaving Reynard’s.
The big sergeant growled a curse and sheathed his sword. Then the two of them departed.
Alice stepped up to Richard, handing him his boot. “I’m sorry,” she said.
Richard sheathed his dagger. “Sorry? I haven’t enjoyed myself more since breaking my legs. Are you all right?”
Alice worked her jaws. The blow still stung. “I’ll be fine,” she said.
For a while, neither said a word. Alice enjoyed looking at the stars. The cold wind blew upon them and made her shiver. How she loved the stars. They were glorious, and they made her realize how grand God was and mysterious His ways. When she stared up at the starry heavens, she forgot her worries and pains. Instead, she felt like a bird that soared above it all. What would it be like to visit those tiny points of light? Were they giant candles? She didn’t know. Or were they angels like the astrologers said—angels who winged across the night sky in such an orderly fashion that wise men could foretell the future by their movement? Somehow, she’d never thought so, but such a belief she wisely kept to herself.
“May I speak frankly, milady.”
Alice regarded Richard. His round face with its outrageously huge nose seemed bent upon worry and concern.
“Please, good squire, say whatever is on your mind.”
“You’ve become reckless, milady.”
Alice gave hi
m a wan smile. Her rage wasn’t far below the surface, but she didn’t want to loose it upon him.
“If you’re to be successful tomorrow, then you must regain control of yourself.”
Alice’s fine eyebrows rose high.
“Henri sometimes speaks too loudly, milady. A poor cripple like me, bored onto very death, has learned to listen to whatever is said. The dog boy and minstrel foolishly helped you once. Now they’re going to kill themselves by helping you twice.”
Alice went cold inside.
“Fear not, I have no intention of reporting what I know. Cord saved my legs. That’s something I’ll never forget. You, too, saved my leg. But more than that I like you, milady. Sir Guy has treated you badly and means to treat you worse. I’ll not be party to that.”
“Oh, Richard,” Alice said, touching his arm. “You risk too much.”
He shook his head. “I don’t risk enough. But I plan to if it comes to that.”
“You must stay clear of this,” she said. “Otherwise, you may never gain your knighthood.”
“Bah!” Richard said. “I’m not so ignoble that I count every cost. I search for what is valiant and truthful and steer toward such things.”
Alice smiled, her heart going out to the brave squire.
“I know one other thing, as well, milady.”
She nodded.
“You can trust Cord with your life.”
Alice frowned. She wasn’t sure what she felt for the dog boy who had hung back the first time that she’d tried to escape. Would she have been caught if he’d escaped with her? Probably. Still, it galled her that he’d hung back.
“Now, if you’ll permit me,” Richard said, “I’d like to give you a little advice concerning tomorrow’s adventure. You see, I’ve done some thinking on the subject.”
“As have I,” Alice said.
“I can imagine, but this is the sort of thing I’ve thought a lifetime about.”
Alice squinted. She did have a plan, something she was certain that neither Cord nor Henri would like to hear. Surely, they would balk if they knew what she wanted to do once free. Wouldn’t it be wise to bounce her idea off Richard? Yes, for he might see what she’d missed.
She began to tell him her secret plan.
At first, Richard blanched and shook his head, saying that her plan was more than reckless, but dangerously foolish. She was adamant, however. At last, he grinned in a manner that surely his hero Sir Lancelot had grinned when he met his sweet Queen Gwynevere.
“Here are a few things I’d do differently,” Richard said.
As Alice listened, she realized the wisdom of speaking with the squire. He had indeed thought this through.
“Of course you realize,” Richard said later, “that once I give my oath of fealty to Guy I can no longer help you. In fact, I may have to help him in the months to come to track you down.”
“I know,” Alice said softly.
Richard nodded, then turned and peered at the red pavilion in the practice yard. Horses nickered as guards prowled about on duty.
Alice went back to studying the heavens. She wondered what Cord the dog boy was thinking. A sad smile stole over her. After this she wouldn’t be able to think of him as a dog boy, would she? No, he’d be something else. What, though? She shook her head. Poor Cord. If he was ever going to become a knight, she had a feeling he’d have to do so quickly; otherwise, he’d be dead.
-8-
The feast day began with a light breakfast for the castle folk. Cord devoured several hot biscuits and drank a cup of diluted wine. He wore his best clothes: a woolen shirt, clean breeches and boots. His hair was combed, his hands and face carefully scrubbed and his Toledo steel dagger strapped to his side in a new sheathe. Since he didn’t want to dirty himself, he oversaw the other dog boys and made sure the kennel hounds were watered, fed and given short runs so they wouldn’t howl all afternoon. The castle dogs, those given the run of the place, could look after themselves. With the feast and all, Cord was certain they’d be gorged by this evening.
He felt a pang of unease as the last kennel stall was closed, knowing that one way or another, this was going to be his last day as Pellinore’s chief dog boy. Either he would be gone tonight with the beautiful Alice de Mowbray or he’d be dead. No doubt, Sir Philip would try to make certain that he dangled from a rope like his father. With that in mind, Cord trailed behind Sir George and his retainers as the castle horn summoned everyone to the Great Hall.
As a lowly dog boy, a supposed peasant, he wasn’t allowed on the main floor of the Great Hall. Along with the host of commoners, he filed up the stairs and onto the balconies that overlooked the main hall. Countless important peasants jostled against one another for this grand event and made the heavy balcony creak at their combined weight. They had come from the East Village, Pellinore Village, the Tanning Village, the Bridge Village, and all the other villages Sir Guy directly controlled. Old Alfred and his wife Maude were here, and Lame Jack, who made a point of shaking hands with Cord. Cuthbert the Fulling Miller together with his wife and his pretty daughter Bess were also here. Innkeepers, tanners, furriers, masons, freeholders, elder shepherds, cobblers, bakers, huntsmen, falconers, smiths, herders, watchmen, socmen, soap-boilers, franklins, peddlers and tawners and their wives and children were all packed shoulder to shoulder in the balconies. Most wore cloaks and tunics of good cloth and warm colors, and they wore sturdy shoes of felt or leather. A few of the richer peasants had fur collars and cuffs, but those were rare. Everyone, man or woman, wore a hat. Some had feathers in their hats; some even had copper bands.
The finest clothing was below in the Great Hall, about eight feet down. Milling in the huge hall were knights and their ladies, chain-armored sergeants, squires, pages, a host of eligible maidens and Father Bernard in his vestments along with other ranking Churchmen. The nobility had carefully consulted their tailors.
The knights wore the richest garments, tabards of silk and velvet, and white damasks. The tabard’s sleeves were tight fitting and the shoulders snug, and upon the costly fabric had been sewn many different types of gems. Elegant, curled shoes were the norm for the knights, and instead of their sword belts, they wore belts of gold links upon waists both trim and bulging. The ladies wore long beautiful dresses and vied with one another with their costly jewelry. Most of the women wore extravagant neck coverings with wimples and peplums that came all the up to their chins, while many of the long trains of their gowns dragged upon the clean rushes on the floor.
The youngest pages trailed behind the ladies, holding up the expensive trains. From time to time, the ladies stopped and allowed the pages to shake their trailing gowns. Priests frowned upon the custom of long trains and had often preached that devils rested there. Thus, the pages shook the long trains in order to shake off any grinning imps or hideous demons that had stopped to rest.
Sir Guy entered from the stairs. From neck to heel, he wore red silk garments that shimmered in the sunlight. The high windows had been opened for the occasion and the Great Hall was flooded with light as well as the warbling of larks and robins. Guy sat in a throne-like wooden chair near the fireplace. The chair had been brought down last night from the living quarters, and at its foot had been strewn Lady Eleanor’s most expensive Spanish rug. Close beside Guy, at attention, stood his two sergeants in polished armor and the dour crossbowman who wore doublet and hose. On Guy’s right sat his mother Lady Eleanor, while to his left perched small Aldora. She fingered a strangely white torc affixed to her throat. It seemed fashioned out of bone, but surely, that couldn’t be the case. Who would wear bone jewelry?
Cord craned his head; he was taller than anyone else on the balcony. So even though he hadn’t been able to work his way to the edge of the railing, he had a good view of those below as long as they stayed in the center of the hall. He saw Alice. She wore a nice dress, but it wasn’t silk or linen but made out of simple wool. Alice’s face was blank, but it wasn’t slack. Cord wondered what she wa
s thinking and whether or not she felt nervous about tonight.
A hush fell upon the hall as Sir Guy’s herald stepped forth. He was a barrel-built man with long gray hair and a rich leather coat strewn with red silk stripes. He put a long silver trumpet to his lips and blared loudly. When the sounds died away, he commenced talking.
“Long live Sir Guy of Pellinore! He welcomes everyone to his castle. Know that on the news of his dear father’s departure, Sir Guy wept bitterly. For it is not a simple task to take up the reins which knightly Baron Hugh de Clare once held. Thus it is….”
The herald spoke at length, praising Hugh, speaking upon Guy’s heritage and then upon the terrible times that had befallen England and Wales. The herald ended his first speech on this final note.
“Because of these desperate times, Sir Guy has not had the opportunity to speak with his liege Earl Roger Mortimer. Evil Simon de Montfort and his Welsh allies have upset the Western Marches with their plundering. Therefore, it is with a sad heart that Guy now asks for homage and your oaths of fealty. He is sad because Earl Roger Mortimer has not yet formally taken his homage. The earl has not yet bade him to take up the mantle of ‘Baron of Pellinore Fief.’ As soon as it is safe to do so, Sir Guy de Clare will travel to Wigmore Castle and repair this deficiency. Until then, it is not right in these dangerous times that Pellinore Fief be without a baron. It is in this light that Sir Guy now asks for homage and for your oaths of fealty.”
The herald blew his silver horn once again.
Philip, dressed in gleaming chainmail armor and a silk cloak, strode toward Guy.
“Sir Philip of Tarn Tower approaches Sir Guy!” the herald shouted.
Philip inclined his bald dome of a head, only his bushy eyebrows combed for the occasion. His giant stature was evident to all. His shoulders and belly were bigger than anyone else’s.
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