The Rogue Knight

by Vaughn Heppner

  The Chief Falconer nodded wisely.

  “I told Reynard to watch her,” Richard said. “Sir Guy’s orders must always be obeyed.”

  “Lady Eleanor wished to know if he wanted any refreshments?” the Chief Falconer said.

  “No!” said Cord.

  The Chief Falconer frowned at Cord.

  “What he means,” said Henri, “is that Reynard told us he doesn’t want more wine or beer. He’s afraid he’ll fall asleep otherwise.”

  “But he hasn’t had any beer or wine all night,” the Chief Falconer said.

  There was a short, painful pause. Cord’s mouth hung open. He didn’t know what to say. He wondered if he should let go of the stretcher and try to knock out the wizened old falconer.

  “Well,” Richard slowly said, “I suppose what you mean is that he wasn’t supposed to have any. Believe me, he’s been drinking plenty.”

  “Ah,” the Chief Falconer said.

  “But don’t say anything,” Richard said. “I wouldn’t wish any trouble upon him.”

  “He might take it ill, too,” said Cord.

  The wizened old man nodded in understanding, finally turning around. “I’ll light your way.”

  “Thanks,” Cord said. “I’ve almost stumbled already.” He was amazed at how one became almost used to lying on the spur-of-the-moment. Maybe they were going to do this after all.

  Eleanor greeted them as they entered the Great Hall. Cord noticed the Chief Falconer subtly nod to Martha.

  “We’re off to the pavilion,” Henri said.

  After they rushed through the Great Hall and descended the tower stairs, Richard said, “You must hurry.”

  “We are hurrying,” Henri wheezed.

  Cord steered around two drunken men who leaned against one another and stumbled through the yard. They sang a song and wept. Cord passed the main well but didn’t turn toward the gatehouse. Instead, he headed toward the pigsty and the lone shack beyond it. The shack was the hangman’s house, where lived his wife, his old mother-in-law and four dour children. Even tonight, the other castle folk wouldn’t associate with Jack Hangman. In fact, on a night like this they might take out their hatred and dislike of him and beat him up or slice his throat. The three of them had agreed that Jack had probably already barricaded himself in his shack and wouldn’t come out until morning. The trick would be to give him a reason to lift his bar and step outside so they could take his keys.

  “I just thought of something,” Cord said, who heard the grunting of pigs.

  “Speak up,” Richard said.

  “We’ll have to take Jack with us, at least for a ways,” Cord said. “If Henri knocks him on the head and leaves him in his house, Jack’s wife and children will see that we’ve taken the keys. They’re sure to go running to Guy.”

  “So when do I hit him?” Henri asked.

  “Alice said Guy has given rigid rules concerning Sir Lamerok. The hangman will surely know all those rules.”

  “Leave it to me,” Henri said.

  Cord set Richard down, knocked on the house’s loose planks and then rotated his shoulders.

  “Knock again,” said Henri. “He didn’t hear you.”

  Richard said, “That’s not how you summon the hangman. Jack!” Richard bellowed. “Jack Hangman! Come outside!”

  Cord heard the bar being lifted. The latch rattled and the door opened. Hunched Jack Hangman, clad in his yellow tunic and holding a lantern, peered at them. His keys dutifully jangled from his big leather belt.

  “Squire Richard?” Jack squinted because of his woefully bad eyesight.

  “The Baron wants you,” Richard said. “You’re to come with me.”

  “What’s wrong, Jack?” a harridan’s voice shouted from within the house.

  “It’s the Squire, mother.”

  “You must hurry,” Richard said. “There’s no time to waste.”

  Jack bobbed his nearly hairless head, stepping outside and shutting the door.

  “Cover the lantern,” Richard snapped.

  “Milord?” asked Jack.

  “Are you daft, hangman?” Richard angrily asked. “I said cover your lantern.”

  “But I’ll light your way, milord.”

  “Dolt!” Richard thundered. “I don’t want the way lit. This is a secret run. Surely you understand that?”

  “Of course, milord. If you’ll tarry a moment….” Jack opened the door to the loud complaints of the harridan and hurried within.

  “I hate to be gruff,” Richard said. “But that’s the sort of language he’s used to.”

  In moments, the door opened again and out came Jack with the lantern covered by a cloth. As Cord picked up the stretcher, he heard the heavy bar drop back into place. On a night like this, the hangman’s wife wasn’t taking any chances. Cord hurried toward the pigsty, his nose twitching at the stench. Its singular quality seemed to be that no one hung around the sty. Even for drunks it was too smelly.

  “A moment,” Henri said. “There’s a pebble in my shoe.”

  Cord deposited Richard onto the ground. Then he stepped forward, and in a comradely fashion, he put his arm around Jack’s hunched shoulders.

  Jack winced under Cord’s big arm and gave him a startled glance.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” Cord said in what he hoped was a reassuring tone.

  “Ask me?” Jack asked in amazement.

  Suddenly, Jack Hangman grunted as his head lolled forward. Cord gently laid him on the ground as Henri put away his sap.

  “Prop him against the wall,” Henri said.

  Cord dragged the hangman beside the wall. On the other side of the wood, he heard pigs grunt in their sleep. He took Jack’s ring of keys and stuffed them in his shirt. It wasn’t long before he held onto the stretcher again and hurried across the yard.

  “Now comes the tricky part,” Richard said.

  Cord ground to a halt, holding on tightly as Henri still tried to walk forward.

  “What’s wrong?” Henri hissed.

  “I just thought of something,” Cord said.

  “Well stop thinking and start doing,” Henri said.

  “No, this could help,” Cord said. “It’ll create confusion.”

  “What do you mean?” Richard asked.

  Cord quickly told them his idea.

  Henri laughed sharply. “It’s a good plan.”

  “I know not,” Richard said. “It’s risky.”

  “This entire night is one big risk,” Henri pointed out. “I’m for it.”

  “Very well,” Richard said. “But hurry.”

  Cord ran to the kennel, bolting inside and waking up the huge brutes with a whistle. He briskly walked down the isle, opening gate after gate. The huge, mean hounds stepped out, peering at him in wonder.

  “Leave her alone!” Cord told one hound, a big black brute with a spiked collar that sniffed the unconscious Sarah. The hound peered up at Cord.

  Cord ran up the isle, letting out the hounds on the other side. In moments, all the kennel hounds were milling around in the isle. These were the monstrous hounds, the ones people feared. Cord opened the low kennel door and told them to go. They hesitated. He ordered them out again. Finally, they surged out, barking with delight at their freedom.

  Two nearby men gave startled shouts. They lurched away from a huge hound that used his wet nose to poke them in the groin.

  Cord shut the door in order to protect Sarah and then he hurried back to the stretcher. When some of the hounds followed him, he told them to hunt. They knew that command and started sniffing for game. Soon they were swallowed up in the darkness.

  “Now we’ve got to move fast,” Henri said. “Soon the whole castle will be in an uproar.”

  Cord grunted with effort as they carried Richard back up the tower stairs. They entered through the main doors and turned left into the short corridor. Hopefully, no one in the Great Hall had seen them. One person did see them, a drunken guard at the trapdoor.


  “Richard?” asked the guard, a slovenly man-at-arms. He’d been sitting on a stool, but now he stood. “I thought I just saw you three leave the tower.”

  Richard winced in apparent pain. “Bend down, man,” he whispered.

  “What was that, milord?” the slovenly man-at-arms asked.

  “Can’t you see that he’s hurt?” Cord snapped.

  The slovenly man-at-arms gave Cord an ‘I’ll-remember-this-look’ as he bent down to listen to Richard. Cord stepped up and plucked the man’s helmet off his head as Henri’s sap came whistling down.

  Soon, they wrestled up the trapdoor and uncovered the lantern. Spiral stone stairs led down. Cord carried the heavy man-at-arms into the gloomy armory, using pieces of rope to tie the man’s hands and feet and a gag to cover his mouth. It wasn’t long before Henri and he carried Richard down on the stretcher. Henri only took a moment to scurry back up and shut the trapdoor behind them.

  “If anything goes wrong we’ll never leave alive,” Henri said, picking up his end of the stretcher.

  “Now isn’t the time to think,” Richard said.

  “Amen to that,” said Cord, who hurried through the gloom toward the dungeon door. The last thing he wanted was to think how his stomach was twisted into a tight knot or the way the back of his throat burned with stomach acid. Fear filled him. He’d always hated the dungeon. To fail now, with the trail so evident behind them, would surely land him in the dungeon for the rest of what would then be a rather short and painful life.

  He set Richard down. “Which key is it?” he asked.

  “Try them all!” Henri snapped. “Hurry.”

  “I am, I am,” Cord said, fumbling a key into the big keyhole. He twisted the dagger-sized instrument. The tumblers rolled and the heavy lock clicked open.

  Cord’s stomach did a little flip as he drew open the heavy iron door. Alice’s mad plan was halfway home.

  -13-

  Sir Guy struggled to his feet. “My goblet is empty,” he slurred. “And I find that the hour is late. It is time for me to retire.”

  “No!” shouted Philip. “Surely not yet, Lord. The night has barely begun.”

  Sir Guy turned his pale, thin face to Aldora. His eyes were bloodshot in a most ghastly way. He breathed heavily, almost painfully.

  “Milord, whatever you think is best,” small Aldora whispered.

  “We would toast you again, Baron Guy!” Philip shouted. Despite the vast amount of godale and wine he’d drunk, he was well aware of how terrible Guy looked. This night was killing him, or so it seemed to Philip. He planned to make the new baron swallow more and more wine until at last the wretch collapsed. Hopefully by then, the frightful scarecrow would be dead. The moment that occurred, Philip planned to draw his sword and chop off the ugly little witch’s head. He hated her more since now he was certain she was in league with the Devil. Neither Rhys nor his beautiful wife Gwen would have risked their lives unless they truly believed what they’d said about her.

  “Just one more drink?” Guy asked Aldora.

  The small little Welshwoman touched her bone torc and muttered under her breath. She whispered so very quietly that only Guy could hear her.

  He paled and began to tremble.

  “What is it, Baron?” Philip asked. He’d noticed that the sickly scarecrow puffed up with pride and beamed with delight every time someone called him Baron.

  The tip of Guy’s thin tongue scratched across his lips. Aldora steadied him.

  “You must rest, milord.”

  Guy bobbed his head, his thin neck looking ready to bend and collapse. “Rest,” he whispered. “Yes, I do feel the need to rest.”

  “Let me accompany you then, Baron,” Philip said, rising to his feet like a barely awakened bear. He lurched heavily against the table so a pitcher spilled its foamy contents onto the tablecloth.

  “No,” said Guy, weakly gesturing to those at the table. “Stay here and feast.”

  “I’ll return here later, Baron,” Philip said. “But I would be honored if you’d allowed me to walk with you back to the tower.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Guy, who’d seemed to have lost his strength. Beads of sweat dotted his cheeks and his high forehead was slick.

  Philip was certain the little witch planned to go down to the dungeon tonight and murder Rhys and Gwen. He didn’t really care about them, but this might be a chance to see Sir Lamerok and also learn more about Aldora. Philip wanted to know how exactly this tiny minion of Satan kept her hold over the Baron. And if the right chance presented itself, well, maybe he could solve all his problems.

  Guy let Aldora help him toward the tent flap.

  “Allow me,” Philip said grandly, taking Guy’s left arm and propelling his lord a little faster.

  Aldora sighed but said nothing.

  As the trio stepped out of the tent, the dour Gascon crossbowman fell into step behind them. In his hands was a loaded crossbow. It was a heavy instrument, well able to punch through the strongest chainmail, at least at close range. The stout iron bolt in the weapon’s groove could easily zip entirely through flesh.

  Philip could feel the dour Gascon staring at his shoulder blades. At a word from Guy, the Gascon would drill him with the unknightly weapon. The feeling stole Philip’s mirth. Making certain Guy died tonight might take some subtly. Perhaps down in the dungeon wouldn’t be the moment to twist the thin baron’s neck. His plan had been to say that Sir Lamerok had attacked them.

  “What’s that commotion?” Aldora asked.

  “What?” Philip asked, wondering what she was talking about.

  “I hear yelling from within the castle,” Aldora said.

  Philip perked up as they neared the drawbridge. It was true. Men shouted in fear and hounds barked. “What’s the meaning of this?” he asked.

  “Trouble,” Aldora said. “I feel trouble in my bones.”

  Philip shivered. Gwen ab Gruffydd had named Aldora the Old Woman of Bones. Superstitious dread began to fill the giant bog-knight. Just what sort of powers did an ‘Old Woman of Bones’ have? Dreadful powers, he decided, hating her more than ever because of that.

  “Hurry,” Aldora hissed at them. “And you, Gaston, be ready.”

  “I always am,” the crossbowman replied.

  They hurried across the drawbridge and through the gatehouse.

  “You two,” Philip told the guards, “follow me. And draw your swords.”

  The two half-drunken men-at-arms drew their swords and followed close behind Philip. By now, both Aldora and Philip propelled the ungainly Guy faster than ever. The baron’s eyes had been rolling in his head ever since they’d left the tent, and he lurched like a stork.

  “Hold,” Guy whispered. “I feel sick.”

  Aldora hissed a command, and Philip barely let go in time. Sir Guy fell to his knees and groaned in obvious pain. Then, small Aldora held his forehead as Guy retched, his thin frame shaking as if with ague.

  “Get away!” yelled a man.

  Philip peered into the dark castle yard. A man almost stumbled into him. At the man’s heels trotted a huge hunting hound. Philip recognized the hound as one of the kennel brutes. As old Baron Hugh’s closest friend, Philip knew which hounds the dead baron had loved best: the most ferocious ones, the ones kept in the kennel.

  “Someone’s let out the hounds,” Philip said, his drunken mind working at its fastest speed.

  “Eh?” Aldora asked.

  “The kennel hounds,” Philip said dully. “They’ve been released.”

  “Gaston!” Aldora said. The crossbowman stepped up, his heavy weapon ready. “If I point someone out,” Aldora said, “kill him.”

  The lean crossbowman nodded.

  “What’s the meaning of such an order?” Philip demanded.

  “Treachery,” Aldora said, who still held Guy’s forehead. “I smell treachery. But we’ll discover by whom, dear Philip. Then they’re mine.”

  “Aye,” Philip said, trying to keep a hand in the matter. H
e wondered if any of this had anything to do with Cord. The idea that it might reminded him of Terrible Tostig. A horrible feeling descended upon him.

  “We must march for the tower,” he said.

  “Agreed,” Aldora said, who now gently helped Guy to his feet.

  “The tower!” Philip bellowed. “Anyone who can hear me is to head to the tower!”

  The growing knot of people that had begun with Guy, Aldora and Philip grew into a mob as they headed toward the tower stairs.

  ***

  “Let us out of here,” Rhys ab Gruffydd pleaded. His scarred hands gripped the prison bars. Both he and his wife were trapped in one of the dungeon’s most ghastly cells. It was a hole in the rock, a tiny hole four feet deep, four feet wide and covered by an iron grate. Most people put in the hole were left to rot.

  Richard sat on the floor, regarding them.

  “You’ll not regret helping us,” Rhys promised. “I swear by God’s beard that I’ll do you as great a favor in return if you let us out.”

  Cord turned the key to Sir Lamerok’s cell. The iron door opened without a squeak. The oiled hinges were well used. Lifting the lantern, Cord peered into the gloomy cell. It was small, but this cell had a mat on the floor and a smelly pail in the corner. A big man squinted up at the lantern-light and threw up a brawny arm as he groaned.

  “Not yet,” the big man whispered. “No, I’ll not tell you yet.”

  Cord felt horror at the scene. The big man, surely Sir Lamerok, wore costly rags. They were of linen, silk and fur, but they were in tatters and spattered with blood. He had a scraggly beard and his long dark hair was lank and dirty. He had a broad face, but it was bruised with purple and yellow colors and a bent and broken nose. One eye was puffed shut, one ear was cut off and his lips were mangled.

  “I’m a friend,” said Cord, forcing himself into the cell.

  A dry rattle issued from the knight’s throat.

  “It’s true,” Cord said. “I’m here to rescue you.”

  The brawny arm came down. Sir Lamerok’s good eye peered intently at Cord. “Who are you?” he whispered.

  “I’m Cord, the son of Sir Tostig of Barrow.”

  For a moment, Sir Lamerok said nothing. Then his good eye squinted. “Sir Tostig the Saxon?”