The Rogue Knight

by Vaughn Heppner

  A thrill filled Cord. “The same,” he said.

  “I thought they hanged Sir Tostig. Yes, they hanged him years ago.”

  “They did,” Cord agreed. “Sir Philip Talbot and Baron Hugh de Clare were both at the hanging. So was I.”

  “Ah,” Sir Lamerok said. “I think I understand.”

  “Guy is Hugh de Clare’s son.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “They made me into the castle dog boy,” Cord said. “Now, at last, I’m my father’s son again.”

  “Bravo,” said Sir Lamerok.

  “That’s why I’m here to rescue you,” Cord said.

  With a groan and by great effort Sir Lamerok struggled to a sitting position.

  “Do you have any broken bones?” Cord asked.

  The dry rattle, a laugh of sorts, issued once again from the knight’s throat. “Maybe no broken bones, by my joints have little strength. The rack and the screws have been used on me, good Squire.”

  Cord nodded, and felt thrilled to be called a squire. “I’ve brought a stretcher,” he said.

  “Ah, good thinking. You’d better bring it in here and put me on it.”

  Cord stepped out of the cell. He saw that Richard slid himself toward the main dungeon door.

  “I’ve decided to wait outside in the armory,” Richard explained. “I hate this place. I don’t want to wait the night down here.”

  Cord nodded, and urged Henri to bring him the stretcher.

  “Let us out,” Rhys pleaded from the floor cell.

  Cord glanced at them.

  “You know me, dog boy,” Rhys said, peering into Cord’s eyes. “You know I don’t deserve this.”

  “You ate at our table,” Gwen quietly told him.

  Shame rushed through Cord. He knelt by the lock and fumbled with the keys. “You must promise not to flee until we’re all ready to go.”

  “Cord,” Rhys said in a flood of emotion, “I promise to see you through to wherever you’re going. Until you release me from my oath, I’ll follow you to the gates of Hell.”

  “Rhys!” Gwen scolded.

  “He has my oath, and I mean to keep it no matter what the odds.”

  With a heave of his shoulders, Cord lifted the iron grate and set it aside. He gave his hand to Gwen and helped her up. Then he helped up Rhys.

  The burly Welshman, or half Welsh, gripped Cord’s hand with strength and hugged him tightly. “You won’t regret this,” he whispered into Cord’s ear. “Aye, Rhys ab Gruffydd keeps his word and stands by his brother, brother.”

  The fierce words startled Cord. He thumped the burly man on the back and freed himself. Then the two of them clasped hands once more.

  “The Lady Alice de Mowbray waits outside the castle for us,” Cord said. “I’m taking her back to Gareth Fief.”

  Rhys grinned like a wolf. “Aye, you’re a knight’s son, all right.”

  Cord moved back into Sir Lamerok’s cell. The big knight was unconscious. Cord and Henri wrestled him onto the stretcher. When they picked up the stretcher, Cord could tell that Lamerok was heavier than Richard. They exited the cell. Rhys and Gwen were gone, and so was Richard. They hurried past the rack and screws and the iron maiden. One look at the maiden made Cord vow never to fall into Sir Guy’s hands. Better to die fighting than screaming as your limbs were torn out. No wonder Rhys had pledged so fervently.

  The rack was a heavy trestle table with iron bracelets for the ankles and wrists, and then a winch. A spindle turned the winch, which drew the bracelets apart. In time, if the winch was spun far enough, legs were pulled out of hips and arms from shoulders. Before that, the joints were sorely strained and the pain was no doubt exquisite. The screws could be applied to any toe or finger, although the thumb was the perennial favorite. The device, by the power of the hangman’s hand, simply drove a screw into the unfortunate’s thumb or toe, usually through the nail.

  The iron maiden was used only when the end had been decided upon. Cord almost puked examining it. The unfortunate was laid in a lead coffin, his forehead, chest and thighs strapped down by leather thongs. Then, from above, let down by a pulley and chain, came the maiden. It was another heavy piece of lead with about a hundred iron spikes pointing down. As fast or as slow as the hangman wanted, the iron maiden could be lowered onto the doomed unfortunate. Either way, the person in the maiden’s embrace screamed long and horribly as the spikes drove down into his flesh.

  Cord hurried past the torture room and found Richard in the armory. The squire sat on a box with a spear over his lap. A grinning Rhys stood by his side.

  “I found my longbow,” the half Welsh said. “The fools put it down here, and they put my arrows here as well.”

  “Listen,” Richard said, using his thumb to point up. Loud shouts and noises came from above.

  “I hear Philip,” Cord whispered.

  “By all the saints,” Henri said, “we’re trapped.”

  They glanced at each other, their fears obvious.

  “Well,” Cord said, trying to contain his bitterness, “we aren’t beaten yet. Nor have they found us yet.” He jostled Sir Lamerok awake and told him to hold onto the shield they put over him. Then he set two spears by the knight’s side, some daggers and a gorget.

  “Ready?” he asked the others.

  “What’s your plan?” Rhys asked.

  “To lift the trapdoor and see what occurs,” said Cord. “Maybe some of us can make it to freedom. If not, well, then at least we can die on our feet with weapons in hand.”

  Lamerok made to rise off the stretcher.

  Cord held him back. “That time isn’t yet, Sir Knight. Maybe we can still escape.”

  Henri shook his head. He was nearest the trapdoor. “I think we’ve just played our last trick.”

  “Then let’s hope Alice is still praying to the Virgin Mary,” said Cord.

  -14-

  “Get that hound out of here!” Eleanor shouted.

  One of the huge kennel brutes had fallen upon one of the tamer castle dogs. The kennel monster, his teeth ripping into the weaker hound, fought to gain the bone the other hound refused to give up. The fight brought in more kennel brutes, and they disrupted the Great Hall and woke up frightened people who had already fallen asleep along the walls.

  “Guards!” Eleanor shouted. “Drive those beasts from the hall.”

  All the guards were drunk, snoring or still feasting in the red pavilion or tumbling with a maiden in some hidden part of the castle.

  “Chief Falconer!” shouted Eleanor. “Get up and do your duty!”

  “Where’s the dog boy?” the Chief Falconer complained.

  “Cord!” Martha shouted. “Cord dog boy!”

  “No, that isn’t any good,” a drunken Lady Eleanor shouted. “Reynard! Reynard, come down here!”

  “I’ll get him,” the Chief Falconer said. For a wizened old man he ran spryly for the stairs and was soon out of sight.

  “Who let those hounds out?” Eleanor asked, with a silver pitcher in her hands. One of the big kennel brutes nosed his way toward the main table. Eleanor flung the pitcher and hit him in the side. The hound growled but slunk away from the table.

  “A splendid throw, milady,” said a scullion.

  Eleanor grinned, and picked up another jug, hurling it at another hound. Soon all the women heaved items at the hounds. The huge kennel brutes slunk out of range, with their hackles raised.

  “We didn’t even need Reynard,” Martha boasted.

  “No,” said Eleanor. “Nor it seems do we need dog boys.”

  “Milady!” the Chief Falconer shouted. “Milady!”

  “What is it?” Eleanor said, standing at the head of the table, a clay jug in her hands.

  “The door is barred!” the Chief Falconer wailed. “I pounded on it, but no one answered.”

  “Locked?” Eleanor asked in obvious puzzlement.

  “The living quarters are barred,” the Chief Falconer said. “I shouted for Reynard and the Lady Al
ice. No one answered or made a sound.”

  “He’s raping her!” Martha shrieked.

  All the women peered at plump Lady Martha.

  “Why else would he lock the doors?” Martha asked. “The horrible mercenary is raping Alice.”

  “He must be looting our chests, as well,” said Martha’s oldest daughter.

  “To the stairs!” shouted Eleanor. “And you,” she shouted, pointing at a scullion. “Go tell my son. Go tell the Baron that the living quarters have been barred from within.”

  The scullion raced out of the Great Hall.

  “To the stairs!” Eleanor shouted, with the clay jug in her drunken hands held like a battle-axe.

  ***

  As he marched up the tower stairs, with Baron Guy at his side, Philip saw a screaming scullion come caroming down.

  “The living quarters are barred!” the scullion screamed.

  The words drilled through Philip. His precious treasure chests were up in the living quarters under his bed. If the doors were locked, that could only mean someone was robbing him.

  “Reynard is raping Alice!” the scullion screamed, clearly drunk out of her wits.

  Philip caught her and slapped her face.

  Aldora poked her in the belly. “Speak up, girl. What do you mean?”

  The terrified scullion babbled out her words.

  “My basket!” Aldora shrieked. “Someone is looting my basket.”

  “No, Reynard is raping Alice,” the terrified scullion said.

  “Oh ho!” Philip roared. “Not with my filly, he’s not.” The giant bog-knight drew his sword and charged drunkenly up the stairs. “Follow me, boys!” he thundered.

  A goodly number of men-at-arms ran cheering after him. They were all quite drunk.

  “What’s going on?” Guy whispered. His chin had been resting upon his chest. The commotion had at least caused him to look up.

  “We must break down the tower door,” Aldora told him.

  “Sir Lamerok….” Guy tried to slur.

  “Bring the Baron along,” Aldora told the Gascon mercenary. Then she too hurried up the stairs after Philip.

  ***

  “What do you see?” Henri whispered.

  Cord carefully lowered the trapdoor and stared in amazement at his friends. “I saw them all,” he whispered. “They went charging past the corridor and into the Great Hall, bellowing something about the locked living quarters.”

  Henri laughed in glee and half-hysteria.

  Cord joined him before saying, “Tonight we can do anything, Henri. The Virgin watches over us.”

  “Go,” urged Rhys.

  Cord pushed open the trapdoor and boldly climbed up. When no one shouted at him, a feeling of power filled him. All the years of injustice had finally tipped the scales his way. He laughed with the thrill of his newfound power.

  Rhys and Henri dragged up Lamerok. Gwen brought up the rear, while Richard dragged himself butt-first up the stairs.

  “Go,” said Richard. “I’m no more help to you now!”

  “I—” Cord tried to say.

  “Go, Cord, and good luck.”

  “To you too,” Cord said. Then he bolted after the others. He made it down the tower stairs without incident. At the foot of the stairs, two men-at-arms stood before Rhys and Henri, carefully eyeing the knight in the stretcher.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Cord, striding up, knowing that these two could be swept away on a night like this.

  “Wrong?” asked a drunken man-at-arms. “Are you asking us what’s wrong?”

  “That’s right,” Cord said.

  “He’s wrong,” the man-at-arms said, poking a stiff finger into Rhys’ chest. “I thought the Baron had him put in the dungeon this afternoon.”

  Cord whistled.

  “What’d you do that for?” the second man-at-arms nervously asked.

  “You’ve seen the kennel hounds running about the yard, haven’t you?” Cord asked.

  The man-at-arms nodded.

  “I’m calling them,” Cord said. He whistled again, more sharply.

  “Why are you calling them?” the nervous man-at-arms asked.

  “So I can sic them on you,” said Cord.

  The man-at-arms stepped back in alarm. The belligerent one scowled. “You think you can frighten us?” he asked.

  Just then, two big kennel brutes ambled up.

  Cord pointed at the belligerent man-at-arms. “Loki. Bruno. Attack!”

  The big dogs growled savagely, their hackles up. The nervous man-at-arms turned and strode briskly for the barracks. The belligerent one backed up, his round eyes riveted on the two big dogs that stiff-leggedly stalked him.

  “Move!” Cord whispered to the others.

  Rhys and Henri moved, Gwen beside them.

  The man-at-arms suddenly screamed as one of the brutes rushed in and bit his hand.

  As Cord and the others strode for the gate, more people staggered toward the tower, seemingly curious about all the commotion and noise. It sounded now like soldiers used axes against heavy oak.

  “Be ready,” said Cord as they entered the gatehouse. To their surprise, no one stood guard. That only reinforced Cord’s feelings of power and luck.

  They marched over the drawbridge and headed toward the roped-off corral where Sir George and his retainers kept their steeds. No one stood on duty there, either.

  “What’s the plan?” Rhys whispered.

  “Pick which horses you want,” Cord said. “I’ll be right back.”

  “What?” Henri said in alarm. “Cord, come back.”

  Cord ignored the minstrel and ran to the red pavilion. He marched in and saw that a few men roared out songs. Most everyone else snored with their heads on the table or slumped out on the earthen floor.

  “Cord!” a man-at-arms bellowed, swaying drunkenly on the bench.

  “Hail, good friends!” Cord shouted. “Where are the saddles?”

  “Saddles?” asked the man-at-arms.

  “The knights wish to ride after the moon,” Cord said with a reckless laugh.

  “Ha!” the man-at-arms shouted. “What fools they be.”

  Cord shrugged, as if saying who could tell what nobles desired and thought of.

  “Over there,” slurred another man-at-arms, pointing to the side where saddles had been heaped one atop the other.

  Cord strode there and decided that maybe it would be pushing his luck too far to take any high saddles. Besides, high saddles were heavy. So he selected two regular saddles, wound reins around them, then grabbed the saddles by their horns and hoisted them onto his back.

  To his surprise, Henri stepped up behind him and took two more saddles. “I decided to follow you,” the minstrel said in answer to Cord’s raised eyebrows.

  “Are you taking any hounds with you?” asked a man-at-arms.

  “Yes, I’m taking the kennel brutes,” said Cord.

  “Ho!” shouted another man-at-arms. “Then I’m not stepping out of the tent.” He drained his tankard and bellowed laughter.

  “You’ve gone mad,” Henri whispered as they strode out of the tent.

  “No,” said Cord. “Not mad. Tonight is ours.”

  Henri shook his head in admiration.

  Cord chose a spirited destrier, Sir George’s prized war-horse, in fact. Soon Lamerok swayed in the saddle of the tamest palfrey. After tying the last knots used to steady him, Cord climbed up into his own saddle. He’d seldom ridden a horse, although he’d ridden mules many times before. The destrier snorted and peered at him.

  “I’m a knight’s son,” Cord told the huge stallion. “Thus I don’t fear you and thus you must obey me. Do you understand?”

  The huge war-horse snorted again and made to bite Cord’s foot. Cord hauled back on the reins, knowing that he must gain mastery immediately.

  “Ride,” Rhys whispered.

  Cord urged the war-horse forward, using his heels to prod the steed in the flanks. Soon he trotted beside the moat an
d toward the tower.

  Henri brought along another saddled palfrey for Alice. Rhys and Gwen rode bareback, with Rhys holding onto the reins of Sir Lamerok’s mount. From the tower window, the one broken open, came flickering torchlight and the sound of thudding axes. Apparently, they hadn’t yet broken through.

  “Alice!” shouted Cord.

  “Over here!” came a feminine voice from a clump of bushes.

  Cord rode toward the sound of her voice and the bark of Sebald’s greeting.

  Just then, men yelled from high in the tower above. Someone by the broken window thrust a torch out. “I see riders!” a man shouted.

  “Who are they?” roared a man. It sounded like Sir Philip.

  The man hurled the torch across the moat. In its light, all saw Alice de Mowbray mount her palfrey. They could surely also see the other four riders.

  “O base villains!” Philip roared, shaking his fist.

  “That’s my destrier!” shouted Sir George.

  “I haven’t finished with you!” Cord roared at those staring down at him. “Sir Tostig’s son will return!”

  “Ride, you fool,” Henri said.

  “Do you hear me, Philip Talbot?”

  “Shoot him!” Philip roared.

  The crossbowman stepped to the window and leveled his heavy weapon. Then a twang sounded beside Cord. Up sped an arrow. Before the crossbowman could fire, the arrow spun the Gascon mercenary out of sight.

  “That’s for calling me and my wife witches!” Rhys thundered. “I too will return. So don’t forget Rhys ab Gruffydd.” He slung his bow and remounted his steed.

  “Ride,” Alice said.

  Cord brought his destrier back under control. And by the light of the moon, he followed Alice de Mowbray away from Castle Pellinore and to whatever future awaited them.

  -15-

  Instead of riding to the Bridge Village and crossing the toll bridge, the most direct and obvious route to Gareth Castle, Alice urged them toward the East Village.

  “How do you expect to reach Gareth by this route?” Henri asked.

  “We aren’t traveling to Gareth,” Alice answered.

  “Why not?”

  “‘Tis the Old Woman of Bones,” Rhys said. He and his wife nodded to each other. “Aye, milady, surely the Old Woman of Bones knows your desires and destination. Surely she’s unleashed the legions of darkness this night in order to waylay us if we travel straight to Gareth Castle.”