The Rogue Knight

by Vaughn Heppner

  Henri snorted at the idea.

  “Nay. Do not mock the old witch,” Rhys warned. “Hate her instead. Pray to God that He strike her dead. If given the chance, drive a silver dagger through her heart. But, my friend, do not mock her.”

  “We would never have escaped from Pellinore if she had the kinds of powers you hint at,” Henri pointed out.

  “Nay, you don’t understand,” Rhys said. “In the world of Light her powers are weak. In the world of Darkness, they multiply. In Pellinore Castle are people of God. In Pellinore Castle are a chapel and many praying Christians. Here are the wild things, the hidden things yet unconquered by Christ. Goblins and ghouls thrive here, trolls and pixies plunder the unwary. Even worse, here Satan and his witches brood as they hatch their evil plans.”

  “Enough,” said Cord, who’d grown uncomfortable by the talk. Besides, he was having troubling controlling the spirited war-horse. Listening to Rhys frightened him and because of that, it made the stallion nervous and more high-strung. Cord wasn’t truly superstitious. He’d often hunted at night but had never seen goblins or ghouls, trolls or pixies. Maybe they haunted these dark places, maybe they didn’t. On a night like this, however, on the night he’d killed a man, he didn’t want to hear about them.

  “Is it because of Aldora that you wish to take this strange route?” Henri asked Alice.

  Instead of answering, Alice clucked her tongue and rode faster. Later, by starlight and a quarter moon, they turned into the hunting park before reaching the East Village. In the dark they carefully forded the Iodo River near the spot where Old Sloat had died, thereby leaving Pellinore Fief. They entered Clarrus Woods and into the wilds of Wales.

  Rhys and Gwen dismounted and soon so did Cord and Henri. The night-creatures padded through the underbrush and the horses could hardly see anymore. Little starlight made it through the foliage, and with the nearly constant sounds of hidden beasts, the four didn’t trust their mounts to remain calm. Therefore, Cord and Rhys forged a path for Alice and for a slumped-over Lamerok, both of whom stayed a-saddle. Gwen guided Alice’s steed, her left hand on the bridle; Henri guided Lamerok’s steed. What little conversation there had been now became nonexistent, or if spoken only in dull monosyllables.

  By the time the rising sun streaked the sky they were exhausted.

  “We need to rest,” Alice said as she drew rein. They’d followed an old wolf run for the past hour and had finally entered a glade, a small clearing in the woods. By their slumped shoulders and drooping heads it was obvious they couldn’t travel much farther. First, they needed rest and nourishment.

  With stiff fingers, Cord and Henri undid the knots that held the big knight in his saddle. As Lamerok clenched his teeth, they carefully slid him out of the saddle and gently laid him on a cloak. The knight’s tightly pressed lips relaxed, and after a time he closed his eyes. Soon he hardly seemed to breathe, as if he’d entered a state close to death. Maybe this was simply the first time in a long while he’d been able to sleep without worrying about a torturer waking him up with fists or his being dragged off to the rack for more stretching.

  “I’ll be back,” Alice said. Her features were haggard and wary, although she seemed more relaxed than she had for days. She held a javelin in her right hand and rested her left on her dagger hilt.

  “Where are you going?” asked Cord.

  “Hunting,” she said. “We brought everything we needed but food.”

  “I’ll go with you,” said Rhys, rising from where he sat beside his wife. With a grunt, he strung his longbow and selected four barbed arrows from his quiver. He tramped near Alice, raising his heavy eyebrows at her silence.

  Alice nodded before turning toward the thickest part of the woods. She slipped between the foliage and soon disappeared from sight. Rhys followed close behind, moving even more like a wolf than she. The twig-snapping and leaf-crackling sounds soon died away.

  The hobbled mounts tore at the glade’s lush green grass. By the signs, deer came here, and wolves and bears if the dried droppings were true indicators. The spoor of man was thankfully lacking.

  Gwen stopped brushing her long red hair and sipped water from her skin. They’d filled them in the Iodo. She bade Cord goodnight, then she lay down on her cloak and soon fell asleep. Sebald ambled near, flopping down as he put his head on his paws. During the trek, Gwen had fed him small bits of jerky. She had even given his head a shake and spoken to him in a low whisper.

  Anyone who Sebald liked so well, so did Cord. He was happier than ever that he’d released Gwen and Rhys. The more he thought about it, the more the entire night seemed like a dream. He couldn’t believe that he’d beaten brash Sergeant Reynard in combat, freed the tortured Sir Lamerok and taken saddles out of the red pavilion. He’d even stolen Sir George’s prized war-horse. It came to him suddenly that perhaps a knight above all attempted impossible feats, and by the very attempt, he often accomplished them. Cord the dog boy wouldn’t have tried what he’d done. Cord the squire had. It brought a satisfied smile to his face and made him feel grand.

  “Why doesn’t Alice head straight for Gareth Castle?” Henri whispered.

  Cord shrugged.

  “She’s made a terrible mistake,” Henri said in a low voice. No doubt, he didn’t wish to disrupt Gwen’s slumber. “We must race to Gareth and bar the gates behind us. Then we can thumb our noses at Guy.”

  “A good third of the fighting peasants and maybe half of Gareth’s knights and retainers are with Baron Guy,” Cord pointed out. “Maybe that’s part of Alice’s reasoning.”

  “No, that doesn’t matter,” Henri said. “The castle is the important thing.” He expounded on his views but soon lost Cord’s attention.

  Cord peered at Lamerok. The big knight groaned in his sleep and twitched from time to time. Just how bad were his injuries?

  “Are you listening?” Henri asked.

  Cord held up his hand, and then slid beside Lamerok. The knight’s face was a mess. Sir Guy and his men had treated Lamerok roughly. The beard was scraggly because somebody had yanked out sections of it, not because Sir Lamerok had just grown it. Cord noticed old scars under the beard, scars made by sharp blades and by blunt objects such as maces or clubs.

  “Sir Lamerok,” he whispered.

  The big knight didn’t stir.

  “What are you doing?” Henri asked.

  Cord gently shook Lamerok. It had no effect. Carefully then, Cord examined the knight’s limbs in the same way he would any of his hounds who’d been injured. He found an abundance of barely healed cuts and countless old scars. When he pressed the flesh to check the bones, to see if any of them were broken, he felt old knotted lumps. It seemed that in the past Lamerok had broken his arms, legs, hands and feet many times. Despite all the minor wounds and old scars, the worst being on his chest—someone had played havoc with a razor—Sir Lamerok seemed fit after a fashion. That is, none of the bones seemed presently broken, not even his ribs. By all the bruises, however, it was quite evident that they had hit him often. Whoever had hit him had really known their work. They’d hit him hard enough to bruise but not hard enough to break bones.

  “Are you finished,” Lamerok whispered, opening his eyes as he stirred.

  Cord jerked back, startled. “I thought you were unconscious,” he explained. “I tried to wake you, but you were out.”

  “Yes, I suppose I was,” Lamerok said, his voice hoarse. “All your damned barbering woke me up again. What’s the matter with you, boy? Can’t you let a man sleep?”

  “How do you feel?” asked Cord.

  Lamerok scowled. Suddenly, though, the mangled lips curved into a smile. “I feel wonderful,” he said in a terrible whisper. “I’m free.” His eyes, discolored, bloodshot and surrounded by black and blue skin, bored into Cord’s. “I’ve you to thank for that, eh?”

  Cord looked embarrassed. He wasn’t sure what he should say. He decided that since he was going to be a knight, he should learn to speak only the truth. />
  “Actually,” Cord said, “you have the Lady Alice de Mowbray to thank.”

  “Oh?”

  “She’s the one who told us to rescue you. If you want the truth, Henri and I thought the feat impossible. She browbeat us into it.”

  “I don’t remember her being in the dungeon,” Lamerok said. He lay on his back. Slowly, he worked himself up onto his right side and then rested on his elbow.

  “She wasn’t in the dungeon,” Cord said.

  “Then how did she force you?” the scarred knight whispered.

  “She said that she wouldn’t leave the castle without you.”

  Lamerok looked perplexed. “Maybe you’d better explain yourself.”

  Cord began to speak, even as Henri tried to signal him. “No,” Cord told Henri, “Sir Lamerok deserves to know exactly what occurs and why.”

  “Excellent reasoning,” said Lamerok, as he gave Henri a glance.

  “Yes, of course,” Henri mumbled.

  So as sparrows and starlings flittered about the trees, as robins sang, Cord told Lamerok everything. He told the big knight about Guy, Philip and Bess. He told him how he’d discovered that old Baron Hugh had grown up with his father, Sir Tostig. Because of a few shrewd questions by Lamerok, Cord ended up telling about Old Sloat and telling how he had slain the mighty boar. He also gave Sir Lamerok Henri’s reasoning about why he should help Alice. Lastly, he told the knight about his own plans of becoming a knight.

  “Just like Parsifal did,” Cord explained. When Lamerok grinned at that, Cord showed him his father’s golden ring with its lion signet.

  “Yes, an interesting tale,” Lamerok said. “Tell me, have you told the noble Norman lady her part in it? How she will finance a Saxon’s rise into the knighthood by becoming his wife?”

  “What difference does Saxon or Norman make?” asked Cord. “My father was a knight. Surely, that is all that matters. I’ve heard Richard say that knighthood is a universal order. All chivalrous knights of good breeding belong to the order, whether they are from Castile, Lombardy, the Western Marches of Wales or Normandy.”

  “Who is this Richard?” Lamerok asked.

  “The departed Baron Hugh’s squire.”

  “He was a friend of yours?”

  “Indeed. He helped us last night. Without him we would never have rescued you.”

  “And this Richard, I think, taught you about knighthood?”

  “He did,” Cord said, who over the past few days had come to recognize that more and more.

  “Knighthood is a universal order,” Lamerok said. “All good knights who breathe the art of chivalry belong to it. However, a Norman knight still ranks higher than a Saxon knight, at least here in Merrie England.”

  “But why?” asked Cord.

  Lamerok chuckled dryly. “It is because of Hastings, my boy. Everything runs back to Hastings. The Normans have never recovered from the notion that they’re better than Saxons. Why else did they make the Saxons flee from the field of battle that day? Why else did God grant them England, and from there Ireland, Wales and now parts of Scotland?” Lamerok sighed. “It is because of Hastings, Cord, that Alice will not marry a Saxon.”

  “That was over two hundred and fifty years ago!” Cord cried.

  “No matter. The battle was decisive.”

  “Normans aren’t better,” Cord said heatedly. “I remember something my father told me long ago. In September of 1106, King Henry crossed the Channel into Normandy. There rebellious Duke Robert and the Norman barons tried to defy the king. The Saxons who fought for the king defeated the Normans at Tenchebrai, and thereby gained revenge for the drubbing at Hastings. My father also told me that since that time the king’s true power left Rouen in Normandy and went to London. Since then the Normans have become more English, much more than they understand. At least that’s what my father thought.”

  Lamerok shrugged. “I’ve not heard of the Battle of Tenchebrai.”

  “I have,” Henri said. “Cord’s right.”

  Lamerok shrugged again. “It matters not. The Normans never lost their arrogance or their control of England. Therefore, the Lady Alice will have been taught that it is ignoble to marry a Saxon. For that reason, Cord, among others, I’d hold off telling her your plans. Wait for the proper moment.”

  “Do you think one will come?” Henri asked.

  Lamerok grinned slyly. “I do. For it seems to me that the Lady Alice is a planner, a schemer.”

  Cord frowned. “You shouldn’t speak ill of her, sir. It was because of her that you were rescued.”

  “Which is why I name her a schemer,” Lamerok said. “Still, for your sake, lad, I’ll speak no more ill about her. For I deem you the one who truly rescued me, and for pure and knightly motives rather than for simple gain.”

  “Sir Lamerok,” Henri said. “I deem that you have plans, or schemes, of your own.”

  The big knight chuckled in a wheezing, old man’s way, nodding at last.

  “Well,” Cord said, “the important thing is that we’re all free. Now we can all help each other.”

  Lamerok began to cough, a wet hacking cough that put him on his back. When he finally brought the coughing under control, he wheezed, “I still don’t understand how this Sergeant Reynard was overcome. He sounded like a fierce fighter.”

  “He was,” Henri said.

  “Didn’t he guard Alice?”

  “Yes, of course he did,” Henri said. “That’s why Cord had to kill him.” Henri gave the big knight a run down of the fight.

  “Ah,” Lamerok said. He turned his head. “Then it seems that you do indeed have the makings of a knight. Who taught you how to fight?”

  “Sergeant Hob,” said Cord. “And Richard,” he added thoughtfully.

  “I find this intriguing,” Lamerok whispered. “You’ll have to tell me more about this Hob and more about Richard’s instructions.” His voice trailed off as he spoke. “Not now, however. I find it hard to keep my eyes open.”

  “You should rest,” Cord agreed. “Your ordeal in the dungeon took much from you.”

  “Wake me when it’s time to eat,” Lamerok whispered. He gave them a bitter grin. “I’ve been bashed before, lads. Usually in tournaments, though. In any regard, I’ve a strong constitution. Give me a few days and lots of good venison and I’ll fight with the best of them.”

  After Lamerok began to snore, Cord propped himself against a mossy rock. He was tired. He watched a pair of robins fly to their nest and shove grasshoppers and worms into the gaping mouths of their chicks. His eyes drooped. Soon he was fast asleep. He awoke to the sound of a crackling fire and the wonderful smell of cooking rabbit.

  Painfully, Cord rose and stretched, his joints popping. His stomach grumbled and his head felt as if it was filled with rocks. He’d hardly slept enough, he knew. But the sound of fire and the smell of food had made sleep impossible.

  Rhys turned the spits upon which three skinned rabbits hung. Greasy gobs plopped from the carcasses like raindrops and sizzled nicely in the flames. Rhys had made his small fire inside a circle of rolled together stones. Alice crouched nearby, her arms wrapped around her knees as she watched the flames. She held onto her javelin and her face was unreadable, her emotions masked.

  “‘Morning,” said Cord. The sun had risen to somewhere around midmorning. Sunshine bathed the center of the glade and it had dried up all the dew.

  Alice gave him a nod.

  He sat down beside her. “We really did it,” he said, grinning.

  “So it seems,” she agreed, her features never altering from her mask.

  He looked at her in surprise. “Why are you so glum? You were trapped in Pellinore Castle for over three years, now you’re free.”

  “Yes, I suppose I am free. I’m glum because now I don’t know what to do.”

  “It’s simple. We ride to Gareth Castle, take over and ready ourselves for Sir Guy’s arrival.”

  “Maybe two years ago I could have done that. Now….” She s
hrugged. “I have no money, other than the few coins I purloined from Philip’s treasure chest.”

  “You don’t need money,” Cord said. “All you must do is show yourself to your people.”

  “What about Sir Thomas?” Alice asked bitterly. “He’s Gareth’s new castellan, and he’s thrown in his lot in with Baron Guy. Worse, most of the fighting peasants and half of Gareth’s retainers are still in Pellinore. I hadn’t counted on that the first time I tried to escape.”

  “Maybe Sir Thomas isn’t with Guy anymore,” Cord said. “Now that you’re free—”

  “No! Sir Thomas has thrown in his lot with Guy. I understand that now. If I go penniless to Gareth Castle I stand a good chance of being recaptured and given to Philip. He’ll wed me on the spot and gain legal control of my fief. Then I’m no longer of use to any of them. Then I might as well be dead.”

  “So why did you ever ask us to help you?” Cord said.

  “I’d thought that my knights had stayed faithful to my father’s memory and thus to me. Now I no longer believe that.”

  “Because of Sir Thomas?” asked Cord.

  “And because none of the Gareth folk raised a finger to help me these past few days.” Alice gave Cord a stern look. “I will win back Gareth Castle, never fear. To do so I need men-at-arms. In order to control the men-at-arms I need knights and money.”

  “How much did you take from Philip’s treasure chest?” Cord asked.

  “Not enough. Not nearly enough,” Alice said.

  “Was it enough to buy a good suit of armor and a lance?”

  Alice studied him. “Sir Lamerok is sorely hurt,” she said at last. “I’d hoped he would have been stronger.” She shrugged.

  Cord frowned.

  “That’s why you asked about armor, isn’t it?”

  “No,” he said.

  She seemed puzzled. “Why worry about armor and lances then?”

  Cord’s face turned red. He didn’t know how to broach the topic. A lifetime of habits and thoughts were difficult to overcome.