The Rogue Knight

by Vaughn Heppner

  Hob nodded at Cord and then he said to the others, “For two years I’ve trained Cord. He is everything a knight should be. Sir Philip has said, however, that he will not face one who isn’t a knight. Very well.”

  Hob, as Raymond of Lorraine, a Knight Templar, dismounted. He held up the piece of the True Cross. “I swear before God that I’ve spoken the truth. As a knight, and even more as a former Undermarshal of the Order of the Temple, I dub Sir Tostig of Barrow’s son.”

  Hob turned, struck Cord on the shoulder and roared, “I dub thee Sir Cord Fitz-Tostig!”

  Henri, Rhys and Alice cheered lustily. In moments so did the Pellinore men-at-arms.

  Hob turned to Philip. “Now you may face him, one knight to another.”

  Philip nodded bleakly, staring at Cord, watching him take off Sir Lamerok’s armor and jacket and putting it on himself. He almost charged, but Undermarshal Raymond of Lorraine guarded the young knight.

  Maybe Philip had always known it would come to this. “Damn you, Tostig,” he whispered. Philip wondered if maybe, just maybe he’d already damned himself. He should never have made a false oath on a piece of the True Cross. Perhaps almost as bad, he had made a false oath to the devil Taranis. He re-gripped his shield and wiped sweat out of his eyes. A sickly grin twitched across his face. Everything could be solved if he could cut down Cord Dog Bo—if he could slay Sir Cord Fitz-Tostig.

  ***

  “Are you ready, Sir Cord?” asked Hob.

  Cord felt a thrill shoot through him. He smiled widely, nodded. Then he saw Sir Lamerok of Dun lying dead on the shale. The smile vanished.

  “Remember,” Hob said, “Sir Philip is strong, very strong.”

  “I’m faster,” said Cord, “and have more endurance.”

  Hob moved close and clutched Cord’s biceps. “Be wary, as I’ve taught you to be wary.”

  “Yes, Undermarshal.”

  Hob shook his head. “I am not Raymond of Lorraine. I am fat Sergeant Hob.” He squeezed the arm. “Now go, kill yonder knight and save your lady.”

  Sir Cord Fitz-Tostig, with a hauberk that only reached to his elbows and a little past his waist and with a heavy longsword, but without a shield, helmet, mail hose or gauntlets, marched to face the Banneret Sir Philip Talbot of Tarn Tower.

  Huge Sir Philip drew his sword and clanked a few steps forward. He wore a complete set of chainmail armor. He was endowed with giant strength and had a lifetime of cunning to guide him.

  “I will kill you,” Philip growled.

  Cord stopped and saluted Philip with his sword. “You were there when my father died. What is more, you hated my father and no doubt saw to his hanging.” Cord smiled grimly. “I am my father’s son, Sir Philip. I am here to pay a blood-debt. You are about to die.”

  Philip’s face drained of color. He worked his mouth but no sounds issued.

  Cord’s grin grew even grimmer. He tossed his head in a reckless way.

  Philip staggered backward. “Tostig,” he whispered.

  “This is the end,” said Cord.

  “Yes,” Sir Philip said. “Yes, this is the end.” He licked his lips, shook his head, and suddenly thundered, “BUT I’M TAKING YOU WITH ME, TOSTIG!”

  Sir Philip launched himself at Sir Cord. With his superior size, armor and because of his shield he forced Sir Cord back. Only Cord’s speed and agility saved him as he parried the blows or dodged them. When Cord tried to attack, the shield proved too much of a barrier. Finally, he began to scoop up pieces of shale and throw them at Philip’s head. It slowed the attack a little. Soon sweat poured off Philip and he gasped like a spent bull. Each swing caused him to wince with pain.

  “Your arm is weary,” said Cord.

  Philip bellowed again, and shook his shield off his arm. He grasped his sword two-handedly and hammered in sweeping blows. Cord kept dodging and retreating.

  The Pellinore men-at-arms booed.

  Philip ground to a halt as he let his sword tip drop to the ground. “Stand and fight,” he said. “Your prancing does you no credit.”

  Warily, Cord approached the heavily breathing man.

  Philip lifted his sword with a roar and swung a high sweeping blow at Cord’s unprotected head. Cord ducked low as he’d seen Sir Lamerok do yesterday. With all his strength, he swung at Philip’s legs. The sword crunched against Philip’s left knee. Philip buckled, roared in pain and fell to the ground.

  “Tostig!” Philip screamed.

  Sir Cord, a true knight of his times, rammed the cold steel of his sword into the face of his foe.

  The duel was over.

  -25-

  “Untie the witch,” said Cord.

  The others had come down from the hill. With Philip and Gaston dead, and with Aldora shorn of power, Hob was the highest ranked among the Castle Pellinore warriors. The men-at-arms and sergeants grumbled at Cord’s words. Raymond of Lorraine, the former Undermarshal of the Knights Templars, scowled. The men obeyed and untied Aldora.

  Cord said, “Because of your treachery Sir Lamerok is dead.”

  “No treachery,” Aldora hissed as she rubbed her wrists. “He was a thief, come to steal that which he had no right to.”

  “You mean Gaius’ Golden Treasure?” asked Cord.

  “No!” Aldora spat. “I mean the stolen druidic blood vessels. Take them at your peril, O Man of Iron.”

  “I don’t want them,” said Cord.

  Aldora stared at him in amazement, while the Pellinore warriors grumbled and complained. A cunning look entered the witch’s old eyes. “Do you speak the truth?” she asked.

  Cord said nothing, although he matched her stare for stare.

  She looked away first. “Aye, you’re a tough one, all right.” She rubbed her jaw. “What if I trade ye something of equal value for the treasure? Will you leave the treasure to me then?”

  “No!” shouted one of the Castle Pellinore warriors.

  Cord rounded on the man. “I slew your champion! Do you doubt my right to make the decision? Well, speak up,” Cord said, pushing the man’s shoulder.

  The Pellinore man-at-arms flinched. Like the others, he’d seen Sir Cord defeat the terrible banneret.

  “It’s your decision,” said the Pellinore man-at-arms.

  Cord nodded and turned back to Aldora. “What’s your trade?”

  “I have information,” she said slyly. “You must agree to the trade before I give it to you.”

  “No,” said Cord. “You must tell me. If it’s a fair trade, then I’ll agree.”

  She agreed, perhaps having taken Sir Cord’s measure. “Baron Guy is dead,” she said.

  The Pellinore men-at-arms crossed themselves at this revelation.

  “How do you know?” asked Cord.

  “He is dead,” Aldora said. “I know. That is enough.”

  “Who will be the new baron?” asked Cord.

  “Whoever Lady de Clare marries,” said Hob.

  “We can return to Pellinore,” Alice said. “Or go back to Gareth Castle.”

  Cord took Alice by the elbow and steered her away from the others. Henri, Rhys and Gwen soon joined them. “What do you think?” asked Cord.

  “The decision is up to you,” Rhys said.

  “We’ll be passing up treasure if we leave,” said Cord.

  “No,” Alice said. “We won’t.”

  They stared at her.

  “I broke open Philip’s treasure chests when you left the tower that terrible night. Then I lowered the coins in sacks and buried them outside the castle as I waited for you to rescue Sir Lamerok.”

  Henri laughed, shaking his head.

  “I will split the treasure with all of you,” Alice said. “Thus we can forgo taking the tainted druidic treasure. Now that Pellinore is safe for us, I can dig up the coins.”

  Although the fight had drained him, Cord worked to one knee and took Alice’s slender hand in his dirty ones. “Marry me, milady.”

  “You have the money you need, Sir Cord. You no longe
r need my fief,” she said.

  “It’s you I want, Alice.”

  Alice peered into his eyes. “Do you truly want me for a wife?”

  “I do.”

  “Then I’ll marry you,” Alice declared, throwing herself into his arms as he rose. She whispered in his ear, “Yes, I’ll marry you, Sir Cord of Wales, and be your wife forever.”

  The End

  If you enjoyed The Rogue Knight, you might also like The Sword of Carthage. Read on for an exciting excerpt.

  The Sword of Carthage

  Historical Note

  Five centuries after the founding of Rome began the longest, continuous war in ancient times. In terms of numbers of men involved, it saw the largest naval battle in history. The next largest was during World War II when the Americans crushed the Imperial Japanese Fleet at Leyte Gulf, in October, 1944.

  Rome battled Carthage. Rome had patriotic legionaries, tough allies and the aggressiveness of youth. Carthage—the richest city on Earth—controlled a sprawling maritime empire, hired vicious mercenaries and ran its military campaigns like a hardheaded business venture.

  Between them, they fought a war that shook the ancient world.

  Prologue

  The Oracle

  There was a scratch at the door.

  I held my breath as the ostrich quill in my fingers quivered.

  A creak sounded. In the dead of night, it was an ominous noise. I pictured an assassin outside my door, a killer with an envenomed blade and cold hatred in his heart. Would he be a Roman spy? Their dreaded legions had never beaten me on the battlefield, a stain upon the vaunted glory of Rome. Or would he be an Iberian bravo whose chieftain I had slain? Maybe he was a Celtic madman. The last had absurd notions about freedom that might have made an Athenian demagogue blanch.

  I dropped my ostrich quill and picked up an Iberian short sword. My mercenaries called it the espasa. The Romans had named it the gladius hispanicus, and after the war had adopted it as their national weapon. It was a double-edged stabbing sword made of highly tempered steel. It was a murderous weapon, perfect for the shove and push of close combat where desperate men decide the fate of nations. I was too old for it now, too sick.

  In the flickering lamplight, I noted my veined hand. Once my wrists had been powerful, my arms as bands of iron. By Baal, I yearned for the fire of youth! I’d become like an overused candle, burned out by bitter warfare and racked by a wasting disease. The priest-physicians of Eshmun had assured me that the god might yet heal my illnesses. They were notorious liars, but the hope of health consumed me nonetheless.

  My breath rattled in my throat. I hawked and spat on the floor. Old age was disgusting. I shuffled to the door and flung it open.

  I almost cried out. The dark corridor was empty. My heart beat wilder because of it. Sickness, age and the hours of darkness heightened irrational fears. I knew that even as I knew that the killer was fast and cunning. I backed up to my writing table and groped for the lamp even as I kept watch of the corridor. Armed with the flickering light, I advanced into the hall, with my sword ready.

  I shuffled down the tiled hall and threw open the door to the speaking chamber.

  A guard turned. He was a member of the Sacred Band of Baal. His black eyes took in my sword. This was the oval chamber where I often addressed the officers. It held a hundred mementoes from a dozen battlefields, trophies won by cunning and courage. The guard was big, a Carthaginian noble.

  “Sir?” he said, no doubt perplexed. I wore night robes and was barefoot. He wore heavy armor and carried a shield and spear.

  “Who entered this corridor?” I said, angry at his sloth.

  He shook his helmeted head.

  I almost put the blade under his throat, suspected him to be part of the plot. Maybe he read my intent.

  “Sir,” he said, “you’re pale, your eyes are red. You look feverish. You should lie down.”

  I barked an old man’s laugh, which dissolved into a coughing fit. My sword clattered onto the tiles and the lamp dashed out its light as it shattered. The strong hands of youth helped me down the corridor, guided me into my bedchamber as I wheezed.

  He tried to lay me down.

  “No, no, he’s sure to come here,” I said.

  “Sir?” he asked.

  “The assassin, you fool!”

  The guard backed away. Then his strident voice rang down the corridor—once my voice had sounded as loud as I directed soldiers on the battlefield.

  The resident priest-physician in his billowing red robes soon hurried into the room. He fumbled over me while he prattled on with endless advice. I needed rest, to eat more figs, he said, and pray more to Eshmun. As if I could allow myself such luxuries when the hungry wolf of Rome padded before the fat sheep that was Carthage.

  Why did so few of my fellow citizens not realize that Rome was a hungry beast set upon devouring the world? One does not bargain with a wolf. One does not attempt taming it, unless he desires the loss of his hand and arm and the eventual tearing out of his throat. There was only one defense against a raving beast, and that was to kill it. In Rome’s case, that would take an army greater than which Alexander the Great had conquered the East. It is well to remember that the mighty Alexander had fought Persians who often ran away. For all their grievous faults, Romans do not run from a fight.

  I was building an army that would be a match for Rome. I had vowed it by Baal, Tanit and Melqarth.

  “Father, what’s wrong? Why aren’t you asleep?”

  I brushed aside the physician’s hands and struggled upright as my oldest son strode into the room. He was the antidote to my fears, the purge to my worries. Hannibal Barca was a son that every father should have the honor of siring. He rubbed sleep out of his eyes as he came to me.

  My soldiers already loved him. He sought danger as other young men searched for maidens to deflower. He wasn’t reckless, but desired to prove his courage and the mastery of his skills. Nor as the son of the commander did he lord it over the mercenaries or disobey my commands. On the contrary, Hannibal obeyed my orders without quarrels. He was obedient as befitted a good son and a good soldier. He rode like a Numidian, crossed steel better than any Celtic bravo and had already developed a keen tactical eye. Of all my sons, he most excelled in the military arts. If I could not lead my army into the heart of Italy, I had no doubt that someday Hannibal would. Yet there was more to this grim conflict than just generalship. The old men of Carthage, the Suffetes, the Senate and even the People, had to be cajoled into bravery. The terrible war I foresaw would be as much political as military, as monetary as moral. Hannibal, my prodigy of a son, wasn’t yet ready to take my place as the divine general of Iberia.

  This lean young man hovering over my bed reminded me of myself when I’d first been given a command. It had been in that brutal war against Rome, what my Latin enemies called The Punic War, no doubt the first among many.

  With a nod of his head, my son dismissed the physician. Then he pulled up a stool and sat beside me.

  “You have a fever, father.”

  I shrugged. Fevers had often claimed me. I’d learned to ignore them. A soldier cannot allow himself weaknesses. A general must forbid them any place upon his person.

  Concern filled Hannibal. “The guard said you spoke about an assassin. Did you actually see this villain?”

  “I heard him,” I said.

  “Where?”

  “Outside the door of my study.”

  An intent look fell upon Hannibal. It masked his emotions, his thoughts. It made me wonder how feverish I really was. Had I been acting foolishly?

  “The priests may have overreacted, father. I’m sure they read your oracle wrong.”

  He meant the priests of Melqarth in Gades. And as he had done so many times before, his ability to read my thoughts astounded me. The Oracle and its recent prophecy concerned my violent death. I admit it had badly shaken me.

  The priests of Melqarth were an odd lot, certainly. They went abo
ut bare-foot, with their heads shaved and wore white linen robes. Unlike Greeks and Romans, white for Phoenicians was the color of death. Each priest had vowed himself to celibacy and had never known a woman’s embrace. Their temple was the oldest in Iberia, built over a thousand years ago on the eastern end of the isle of Gades. The first Phoenicians to settle in Iberia had erected the temple. No idol stood in its holy of holies, no image of Melqarth. Instead, an eternal flame burned upon the central altar. For over a thousand years, the fire had danced. Almost as impressively, at the temple entrance were two bronze pillars each eight cubits high. Legend held that Melqarth himself had carved the mysterious symbols that adorned the famed pillars.

  The Greeks, incidentally, the gossips of the world, called Melqarth Hercules, and placed his tenth labor near Gades. In the Greek legend, Hercules stole the cattle of Geryon and erected two memorials at the western end of the Mediterranean. Greeks called the twin memorials ‘the Pillars of Hercules’, their names being Gibraltar and Ceuta. Gades was several leagues outside the Strait of Gibraltar and lay upon the outer Ocean. I excused the Greeks their ignorance. It was after all Carthaginian custom to sink any foreign trade-ships caught in our waters. Thus, most Greek information concerning these hinterlands was for them second, third and even fourth-hand knowledge. The two temple towers eight cubits high were the real pillars, not mere rocky hills. As one named after the god I could not allow myself such Greek foolishness. Hamilcar meant ‘favored by Melqarth’; and throughout my life, I have felt myself to be so.

  “Ignore the priests,” Hannibal was saying, taking one of my worn hands in his youthfully strong ones. “Their warning is mere chatter. For eight years, no enemy has been able to touch you. This fever… it too will pass. You are too young to die now, too needed.”

  “No man is too young,” I whispered.

  Hannibal smiled. It had such power, able to melt women and befriend soldiers on the spot. He thought that anything he willed to be possible. I had sensed in him for some time this titanic will, had carefully nurtured it without allowing him to think himself invincible. Unfortunately, time and failure, things that come to all men, had not yet tempered this belief in his godlike abilities. I still needed to teach him about the venality of men, how to use that against them. He thought that he understood the power of gold and greed. What Carthaginian wouldn’t? But he didn’t completely, not yet, not deeply enough. It was a possible weakness in him.