Book One

Foreword

On the last day of April 1258, the English barons attended parliament in full armor. They left their swords at the door, but it did not calm King Henry the Third. In fear, he yielded to their angry demands, which became known as the Provisions of Oxford, the first step to democracy. However, Henry was a slippery king, and his struggle against the barons did not end there. In time, he began to evade the most onerous of the stipulations.

In desperation, the barons agreed to let King Louis of France render an arbitration on the provisions. Earl Simon de Montfort would travel to France as the baronial spokesman. All knew him as a powerful advocate and a forceful man. Alas, a hole in the road near Catesby caused his horse to throw him. Simon fell and broke his leg—and the accident changed history. He was unable to travel. Without Simon de Montfort in attendance, King Louis went far beyond his role as arbiter. And on the morning of 23 January 1264, he handed down the Mise (or settlement) of Amiens. The mise favored the English King on every point, and the Provisions of Oxford that King Henry had sworn to observe were declared null and void.

It meant civil war.

Prologue

Spring 1263

The rebelling barons were strongest in the Western Marches of Wales. It was a rugged country, and the English crown had not yet subdued all the land. Prince Llewellyn of Wales bent no knee to any English lord or king. His Welshmen often raided the Anglo-Norman strongholds. The constant fighting had turned the Marcher Barons into a rough, war-ready lot, independent and jealous of their rights. Perhaps that’s why most of them supported the Baronial cause.

Yet not all the barons in the Western Marches had fallen away from the Plantagenet King, Henry III. In Pellinore Fief, the people loved the king because their lord Baron Hugh de Clare did. Tonight the baron celebrated in a cruel but usual medieval fashion.

In the main castle yard, huntsmen dragged a young bear to the baiting post. Bonfires raged, throwing lurid light upon the scene and upon the gathered crowd. Peasants in their dirty smocks shouted and jeered at the bear. The knot of nobles in their finery, their eyes bloodshot from countless jacks of ale, laughed and placed bets. Young dog-boys struggled to hold onto a pack of vicious brutes. The hounds were huge, with slavering fangs and heavy collars of spiked iron. After studying the hounds, no one dared to bet coins on the bear.

“That’s what the king should do to de Montfort!” shouted a huge old knight. Firelight played off his bald dome of a head and off his thick, white eyebrows. He towered over everyone, and everyone feared him. He was Sir Philip of Tarn Tower, the Seneschal of Pellinore Castle.

Lady Alice de Mowbray shook her head. She pitied the poor bear. It bawled in fear as the huntsmen knotted its heavy leather leash to the baiting post. The Baron and Sir Philip had captured the bear two days ago. The Baron boasted endlessly about it. He’d waded in with only a net in hand, jumping upon the beast and wrestling it to the ground.

Alice de Mowbray sneered as she slipped away from the growing throng. She wore hunting clothes and a dagger with a jeweled hilt. She was twenty, with blonde hair and a face many considered beautiful. Tonight was her long sought after opportunity.

Nearby, stable boys shouted in glee. Bloody-handed cooks bellowed advice to the two young dog-boys. Grooms gave odds to each other. Herders booed the bear. Maids, scullions, masons, pages, squires, the priest, goose-girls, men-at-arms and the knights, everyone eagerly awaited the coming fight.

Usually, boredom afflicted everyone. Stuffed in the narrow castle corridors and the small rooms, people soon tired of one another. Only a handful of nobles and churchman read books, and minstrels soon told all the good tales. Hunting was fun, so was fighting and chasing girls…but regular castle life, with its endless dull routines and chores, soon become boring in the extreme. Therefore, everyone lusted after the slightest excitement. It didn’t matter if it was cruel.

Alice de Mowbray was different. She no longer found interest in cruelty, not even cruelty to a young bear that would some day grow up into an old and ferocious beast that would probably raid the sheep. The bear was a captive, taken from its home and bound in a place it hated—Pellinore Castle.

Despite her noble breeding, Lady Alice spat on the ground. She also hated Pellinore Castle for she too was a captive. The Baron, her liege, hoped to bind her to the husband of his choosing, just as the bear was now bound to the post. Such a husband would be no better than the vicious brutes unleashed and urged to attack the bear.

Alice strode away from the throng, away from the bonfires that cackled and threw sparks and flickering flames into the night. She clenched her fists in rage, although she sought to keep her face devoid of emotion. She looked back, and was surprised to see Cord the dog boy standing by the castle wall. It dawned on her that Cord should have been handling the vicious brutes. He scowled as he watched the fight. He crossed his brawny arms and planted his muscled legs in a wide stance. Though only a dog boy and a felon’s son, Cord had a knight’s bearing, and he was handsome. At his side sat a huge dog, an imported Italian mastiff named Sebald. Many considered the mastiff the most courageous dog in the castle, perhaps in all Wales.

Alice recalled Cord’s refusal to have anything to do with baiting so young a bear. He would pay for that refusal. But perhaps like her he knew what it meant to be a captive.

A dog snapped at the bear. Another bit the bear’s flank. The bear spun to defend itself, but the leash jerked it short. Baffled, the bear roared. The dogs snarled, continuing to circle it. The bear lunged at the nearest dog. The leash strained tight and then parted. Freed, the bear pounced upon a surprised dog, killing it with a blow. People screamed. The young bear rose onto its hind feet, roaring at the crowd. Then something short and heavy hissed. The bear grunted, with a crossbow bolt stuck in its neck.

Sir Philip laughed in glee. He held the crossbow.

The bear sank with a groan, and the dogs rushed in for the kill.

Alice turned away in disgust and hurried into the darkness. With long, reckless strides, she fled the jeering crowd. She drove the blood-maddened sounds from her mind. Instead, she listened for anyone who might catch her and report her deed to the Baron. She must succeed tonight. For too long, the Baron had held her against her will. Her father had died in a night of terrible rapine and slaughter. The Welsh had stormed his castle, butchering everyone. With no blood kin to protect her, the Baron could chose whom she would marry, and he wielded that baronial right like a whip over his men. Alice was the prize. Whoever married her gained the right to her castle—for everyone knew that only a man was considered capable of running and defending a castle.

“They’re wrong,” Alice whispered to herself.

She looked around. No one was in sight. Carefully, she opened the door to the pigeon loft. A bird cooed in its nest. Others, in the darkness, rustled their wings. Alice unerringly moved to the roost where a special pigeon sat. He was Father Bernard’s pigeon, from the Bishop of Canterbury’s pigeon loft. If freed, this pigeon would fly straight there, providing no hawk caught it along the way.

Alice scooped up the surprised bird and hurried outside. She looked around once more before she took out a small strip of parchment and a string. As the pigeon cooed its complaint and struggled to be free, she tied the parchment around its leg. Alice’s fingers felt clumsy and fear clenched her stomach. If anyone caught her…

A low growl alerted her. She spun around. Sebald, the Italian mastiff, pointed his blunt snout at her. A moment later, Cord the dog boy stepped up. He stared at her in surprise, seeing the pigeon in her hands, and then the note. His handsome eyebrows shot upward.

Alice licked her lips, readying a lie or a harsh command.

Cord spoke first. “I understand,” he said. He wrapped his big hand around Sebald’s collar. “Good luck.” He turned and dragged his hound with him, striding out of sight.

Alice blinked. Then she blinked again. She laughed as she threw the messenger pigeon into the air. Although it was dark, the pigeon beat its wings and flew out of sight. Would the message do any good? She wasn’t sure. She hoped so. She laughed again, a sound of release, then one of pure gladness. It was good to know that not every hand was turned against her. She sighed. How sad that Cord the dog boy was a felon’s son and held so lowly a station in the castle hierarchy. He was so strong-looking and brave.

Alice shrugged. Then she slipped away into the night, wondering what the future would bring.

Chapter One

A forest stood between Pellinore Fief and the wilds of Wales. In this forest lived the King of Beasts, though he was neither lion, bear nor hulking wolf. Old Sloat, the King, was a wild boar, a monstrous pig with lower eyeteeth that were as sharp as a poniard, set at an angle to do the most damage. They were continually honed by the upper eyeteeth, which acted as a block-like whetstone. At one time or another, he’d used those tusks to kill a wolf, a bear and even a man.

The man had died hard, on his knees, his teeth bared and knife raised. He’d tried to turn his mangled body and always face the King. In the end, Old Sloat had gutted the man, the forester of Pellinore Fief, as he’d gutted so many other foes before him.

As befitted the King of Beasts, Old Sloat ate whatever he desired. In this, he was much like a man. In his forest, he usually dined upon acorns and beechnuts, rosebay, willow herb, hogweed and goatweed. However, to have reached his vast size, the ponderous ruler had pounced upon wounded rabbits and gobbled down eggs and the young of ground-nesting birds. Nor did snakes or frogs survive a meeting with Old Sloat. Those too he chewed, swallowed and grew strong upon. Dead fish, in lean times, proved edible to this giant among pigs, while insects by the thousands, grasshoppers being his particular favorite, garnished his more usual fare.

Within his forested domain eyesight counted for little. Shadows and streaks of light waged an uneven struggle here. Gloom usually prevailed, until the fall of night when darkness became supreme. The King of Beasts was unconcerned. Like all pigs, he relied more upon his wonderful sense of smell and keen hearing than upon his indifferent eyesight.

On one particular gloomy early afternoon Old Sloat raised his ugly head with its stiff brown mane shot through with white. His beady black eyes became glassy and his flat snout twisted ever so slightly.

Truffles! He smelled truffles!

With a grunt, he broke into a trot, following the odor with unerring accuracy. Above all else, he loved truffles, a potato-shaped fungus that grew in the ground.

A long, low gray shadow slunk out of his way. The wolf clearly wanted nothing to do with the King.

Old Sloat ignored the wolf because he lusted after those truffles. Truffles, truffles, truffles. That’s all he wanted. Truffles to gobble, truffles to gorge on.

Then he slowed. A new smell made his flat snout twitch again. He smelled MAN, and just as strongly, he smelled MAN’S horrible ally DOG. He snorted and tested the scent further. Ah. It didn’t matter. While he smelled MAN and DOG, he didn’t smell HORSE. Upon HORSE dwelled the most terrible kind of MAN, the one who wore metal and roared with fierce pride. That kind of MAN had at various times tried to hunt him. That kind of MAN invaded the King’s domain with his horrible ally DOG.

MAN ON FOOT, however, was nothing.

It was impossible, of course, for the King of Beasts to know the dreadful laws of Pellinore Fief in 1263. He didn’t know that by law peasants, men a-foot, couldn’t hunt wild boars or even spear the deer that nibbled upon their hard-worked fields. Not even rabbits could be lawfully slaughtered and thrown into the cooking pot, to ease the ever-hungry stomachs. If a peasant did any of these things, and was found out, the man on horseback, the knight, either took the peasant to the chopping block to remove the offending hand, or to the hanging tree to remove the offender altogether. All that Old Sloat knew was that the despised MAN AFOOT feared to close with him. Yell and swing his sticks, yes—come near for the final clutch—no.

Maybe, though, that’s all Old Sloat needed to know, other than the wonderful smell of truffles. Truffles, truffles, truffles. He chomped his teeth together as saliva drooled from his jaws. Very soon, he would feast to his royal delight.

***

Cord the dog boy wanted the newly vacant position of forester. Old Sloat had slashed the previous forester to death. At nineteen years of age, Cord was tired of sleeping on the rushes in the main castle hall, and tired of sleeping with the hounds. Too many people thought of him as part hound himself. That, however, was only half the reason for wanting to be forester. In order to marry Bess, the rich miller’s quite beautiful daughter, he needed to have a prestigious job. Chief dog boy wouldn’t do. Maybe he had an uncanny knack with the hounds, maybe he was tall and ruggedly handsome, as more than a few of the castle scullions had told him, but none of that counted with the ambitious miller or his wife.

Forester. He had to become Pellinore Fief’s new forester. The bailiff had already given him the nod. Now Baron Hugh de Clare had to agree. Today, without the squire, the bailiff or any of his men to help, Cord had to move six of the baron’s boisterous boarhounds and force Tiny to accept their lodging in his hut. If he could successfully do this task, he could probably win the baron’s agreement.

Even so, gaining that agreement would be difficult. Cord knew that, and he also knew why. Oh, he knew why, all right. He’d had a lifetime of learning the why, short as his lifetime had been. Twelve years ago, his father had been a knight turned outlaw. Eleven years ago, his father had been a captured outlaw hung from a massive old elm tree. That had turned Cord, a lad of nine then, into a felon’s son.

A felon’s son gained kicks, buffets and brutal beatings where others only gained a box to the ears, a stern reprimand or a wagging finger. A felon’s son seldom had friends. Because of that, the castle bullies had targeted him for their particular attention. Worse, Baron Hugh’s meanest knight had often gone out of his way to thump Cord’s head.

Reviled and picked upon, living in a strange castle without any protectors, the spirit within young Cord had flickered and almost winked out.

The only reason the baron had taken him in, Cord knew, had been to acquire his father’s special boarhound. Even then, Cord had had an uncanny knack with hounds and with that boarhound in particular. That boarhound had licked Cord’s cuts and bruises and had slept beside him in the Great Hall, and had kept the young boy’s spirit alive. Old Hob, a drunken sergeant—a non-noble horseman—had told Cord to set the boarhounds on his tormenters. Cord had, and he’d been severely whipped because of it. Yet the worst of the tormenting had stopped. And from that moment on Cord had determined to become Pellinore Fief’s chief dog boy.

It had taken him ten long years to achieve the rather lowly position. A felon’s son could do nothing quickly. Bess had changed all that, however. Now events moved at a bewildering pace. At first, he’d had to sneak to see Bess, as her proud and rather clever father had strict ideas about whom his daughter could see and whom she couldn’t; unfortunately, Bess had soon tired of him. Until, that is, Cord had shown her his secret ring.

Eleven long years ago, when they’d hung his father, his enemies had jeered at the dangling corpse. They’d even dragged Cord near to watch. Alas, his father’s enemies had also known fury because his father’s golden signet ring had been missing. A year after the hanging, a visiting monk, a brown-habited Franciscan, had spoken to Cord at Pellinore Castle. The monk, who had been at the hanging, pressed a small hard object into Cord’s hands. It was his father’s missing ring. Cord had been dumbfounded.

“Hide it,” the monk told him.

Cord had hidden it that very afternoon, protecting it in an oily cloth and burying it in the ground. Perhaps once a year he’d dug it up and tried it on his finger, only to bury it again. That ring he’d shown Bess. She in turn had begged him to show it to her father, who had wondered aloud and appraisingly if this meant Cord was still technically a noble. That’s when, by following the miller’s clever advice, everything had begun to change for Cord.

The golden ring now hung from Cord’s neck on a leather thong, hidden under his tunic. Upon the ring was the image of a lion, his father’s signet. Cord considered it his good luck charm.

As he thought about the ring, Cord rubbed his angular jaw. He moved down a trail with his long stride. He wore boots, leather leggings and a woolen tunic. On his belt hung an empty food sack and a big hunting knife. He smiled at the two black-and-tan Italian mastiffs beside him. They moved thick muscles as they trotted. Each dog wore a spiked collar to protect it from bear or wolf bites, or from the dreaded slashes of a boar’s tusks. In all Pellinore Fief, only Baron Hugh’s prized bloodhounds had cost more than the imported mastiffs.

Cord had brought them along for a reason. He could hardly wait to tell Bess the reason. That’s why he’d taken this long route, hoping to find her at the mill.

In 1263, there were only two mills on all Pellinore Fief. Whoever used them paid for the privilege. While Baron Hugh had sold a few peasants the right to grind their own grain, he hadn’t allowed the same privilege with the fulling mill. Cord knew from listening to Bess and her mother and father, that mills brought in a lot of money. While the building of mills dipped heavily into the pockets of rich men, the returns from the rents quickly filled those pockets back up. Cuthbert Miller, because he had part ownership of the mill, had grown incredibly wealthy for a Thirteenth Century English peasant.

Cord, along with everyone else who kept their eyes open, knew that much of Pellinore’s prosperity came from sheep. The fulling mill, built over six years ago, showed it. All over England and parts of the Western Marches had arisen fulling mills. No nation had more or better wool than England. With the new fulling mills the transformation from loomed to fulled wool occurred faster and more uniformly than it had in the past.

How many afternoons had Cord listened to either Bess or her mother and father go on and on about the fulling mill? They’d been countless. Why, he almost knew as much about fulling as Cuthbert.

The old way of fulling took a lot of sweat and labor. After leaving the loom, strong men took the wool and soaked it in vats. It had to be scoured, cleaned and thickened. For hours, men tramped the wool with their feet as it lay in troughs, or they beat the wool with heavy, fulling bats. Cord had tried the old way once and had gotten a handful of blisters and sore back muscles.

The new way… ah, what a marvel it was.

Cord and the mastiffs strolled beside the babbling Iodo River. They took a bend in the trail and came upon the marvel, the fulling mill.

The stoutly-built wooden building rested securely on a foundation of stone. Even now, the big wheel spun round and round as the swiftly-flowing stream pushed it. Cord stopped and watched, always amazed at the power of water. He listened to the hammer sounds from within, to the clack of gears and cams, to the shouts of men. Amazing! To let this wonderful machine do the work of so many fullers, ah, what clever men millers were.

Cord strode to the main door and peered in.

He saw a bewildering array of cogs, gears and cams. This was a tilt-hammer system, according to Cuthbert. A revolving drum moved by the water-wheel caused wooden hammers to lift and then smash down against the soaking woolen cloth. One man, the miller, oversaw it. Once whole gangs of men had been needed to do the work. Cuthbert employed two half-Welsh workers to help him move the heavy lengths of cloth. They also helped Cuthbert buy from the Welsh shepherds who came to Pellinore to sell. Few Welshmen farmed the way Englishmen did. On their hills and mountains, they mainly herded sheep. Cuthbert was always bragging about what great bargains he’d made off the loony Welsh.

“Cord! What are you doing here?”

Cord waved to Cuthbert, a beefy man with huge hands. Sweat ran down the miller’s face and his leather apron was wet. He must have been moving wool.

“I’m here to see Bess!” Cord shouted.

“Try the village!” Cuthbert shouted back.

Cord frowned as he stepped away from the door. He wasn’t sure he had time to search through the Tanning Village. He surely didn’t have time to go to Cuthbert’s house and ask for Bess. Well, he’d better waste no more time. He turned and broke into a trot.

It wasn’t long before the Tanning Village came into view. The houses were bigger and better built here than Pellinore Village. The reasons were the tanning and tawing yards, which brought the peasants prosperity.

Cord peered over at the nearer yard. An old man with two young apprentices was tying a hide onto a wooden frame. Other men, working farther down the row of framed hides, carefully scraped them. Still others worked at wooden pumps, pouring river-water into sunken vats. There with long sticks they stirred soaking hides.

Two long buildings stood to the rear of the tanning and tawing yards. There the tanners and tawers stored their cured hides, and there in stone crocks they kept their special chemicals. The tanners, who cured ox, cow and calf hides, used tannic acids or lime. The tawers, who cured deer, sheep or horse skins, used alum or oil.

Unfortunately, from the two yards and into the stream flowed dried blood, fat, surplus tissues, flesh impurities, hair and acid, lime and alum. Near the tawing yard stood the butcher’s yard, and over a rise of ground were pens for sheep and cattle. Baron Hugh had decreed that no one draw water from the Iodo River until a mile away from the Tanning Village. Even so, the villagers downstream of the Tanning Village constantly complained about the corruption of their water. Pellinore Fief’s best ale came from the East Village, which unsurprisingly was upstream of the Tanning Village.

Cord scanned the village for sign of Bess. When he didn’t see her, he wondered what to do. Should he stop at the house? No, he decided. He’d better worry more about doing his task than telling Bess about it. Therefore, he crossed the stream on the rickety bridge and trotted toward the East Village.

Today, without the squire, the bailiff or any of his men to help, Cord had to move the baron’s boarhounds to Tiny’s place.

The peasants of Pellinore Fief owed the baron many services. The most mundane took them onto domain land, that land which directly belonged to the baron. There they planted, tilled and harvested his crops. Only after the baron’s land received their attention could the peasants plant, till and harvest their own tiny plots of land. They also pruned and picked the baron’s apple trees, mowed and brought in his hay, chopped and carted firewood to his castle, slopped the muck out of his moat every spring and lent their hands but mostly their backs when castle repairs were called for. In return, Baron Hugh protected them from harm. Here in the Western Marches of Wales, that made the trade about equal.

There was one obligation that irked most on the peasants. That was lodging and feeding the castle hounds in their homes. The hunting dogs barked constantly, making sleep difficult. The castle dogs also ate more than the peasants expected and often bit people.

Usually the bailiff or his men assisted the dog boys. The bailiff helped convince an unruly peasant that it was better to comply with the ancient obligation than to grumble and fight. Tiny, however, bailiff or not, always complained. On at least three occasions, he’d savagely kicked a hound in the head and once he’d even punched a man-at-arms and endured in sullen silence several days punishment in the stocks.

Cord was to take the lodged boarhounds from Old Alfred’s home to Tiny’s. The switch was three days early. Tiny was known to be at home because he’d twisted his ankle a day ago, and he always drank a lot when he didn’t work in the fields.

Cord knew everyone wanted him to fail this test. He also knew that he didn’t want to fight Tiny. The man was incredibly strong and hardly felt pain. It wasn’t that Cord was afraid…. Well, maybe he was a little afraid, but only a little. Sergeant Hob had taught him to box, wrestle and wield knives. Nor did Cord lack strength. His bones were big and his nineteen-year-old muscles were lean, long and hard. His full weight wasn’t upon him yet, but his shoulders were as broad as any man’s. He might even win a fight with Tiny. Of course, he might also loose several teeth or have his head hurt for weeks to come.

The other reason Cord didn’t want to fight Tiny was to show Baron Hugh that he could make unruly characters like Tiny obey him through words alone. A forester needed to know how to talk to peasants, how to get them to do things without a lot of fuss. Upset peasants caused the bailiff problems, and that made problems for the baron.

Cord ran a big-boned hand through his hair.

A forester had several important duties. He told the peasants how many of their pigs could roam the acorn-littered woods. He also told the peasants when and how much firewood they could chop. On a grimmer note, the forester stalked the poachers. The rabbits, deer, boars, stags and other game animals belonged to Baron Hugh. Only the baron or his guests could lawfully hunt them. Too many hungry peasants thought otherwise.

Cord petted the nearest mastiff. The hound wagged his tailless rump, causing Cord to laugh. Others thought of these two mastiffs as vicious, savage beasts. He thought of them as clansmen, as his close friends. He’d trained them, lived with them and gone on every hunt with them. In fact, earlier this spring he’d been with Baron Hugh when they’d met raiding Welshmen. The mastiffs had pulled down one of the shaggy hillmen, and had helped convince the others to keep moving north. Word of this deed had passed throughout the fief with startling speed. Cord hoped to intimidate Tiny with these two black-and-tan brutes, and through the successfully completed chore win himself the position of forester.

Cord waded across the Iodo again, which wandered about the fief. He strode into one of the hunting parks. Soon, he’d be on East Village land. In time, the trees began to thin out.

A mastiff growled.

Cord became uneasy. This is where the old forester had died. Cord stopped and hissed at the dogs. They stopped, although the smaller mastiff kept growling low in his throat. Cord was relieved to hear people talking. They sounded excited. He frowned at Senno, the smaller mastiff. He shouldn’t have growled because of people.

“Stop that,” Cord said, giving the mastiff’s wedge-shaped head a shake. He hurried, and soon stepped out of the forest’s shade.

Peasants huddled around a man scooping earth from a hole in the baron’s grain-field, one near the forest. The peasant on his knees laughed and threw up a—

“Truffle,” Cord said. He grinned. Everyone loved truffles. Then he frowned. The peasants had found the truffles in Baron Hugh’s field. Should he demand them for the baron? To bring back a bag of truffles might help him secure the position of forester. No, he decided. He’d win the post through doing his job, not through robbing hard-working peasants.

When they were finished hoeing here, the East Village peasants would eat a quick lunch and then go their separate ways to work their own tiny fields. Each peasant owned several plots of land scattered throughout the fief. Every day except holy days, week in and week out, a peasant trudged back and forth between his and the baron’s fields, wasting a lot of precious time simply ambling along.

Cord strode through the field to the clump of happy diggers. Old Maude, a wrinkled-faced woman of forty-one, saw him. She scowled and whispered to the others. Everyone looked up and tried with varying degrees of success to hide their guilt.

“Good day,” said Cord.

A few of them nodded.

“Maude,” he said, “is anyone at your cottage?”

She closed the mouth of her sack, tying it to her belt. “Why do you want to know, dog boy?” Her rheumy old eyes took in the mastiffs. “You coming to lodge more dogs?” she asked sullenly.

“No, quite the opposite, in fact,” Cord said. “I’m here to take away the boarhounds lodged in your house.”

Maude glanced at the others. The man who had been on his knees stood up. The others shuffled in front of the hole where the truffles lay buried.

“If someone’s at your home then I can take the dogs away,” Cord said.

“Those boarhounds ate three of our chickens,” Maude complained.

“Er… yes,” Cord said. “That was unfortunate. I suppose that’s why the steward said to take the hounds three days early.”

“Three days,” she said. “It should be worth a week!”

Cord managed a shrug, understanding her plight but unwilling to speak against the baron or his hounds.

“Are you taking the pack to Tiny?” she asked with sudden glee.

Cord nodded.

She laughed, spittle dribbling down her chin. “He’ll knock your block off, dog boy. Tiny hates felons and their brats.”

Cord stiffened, his face going blank. He knew they gauged his reaction to the insult. He shrugged again, but with more studied indifference.

“I don’t care what Tiny hates. He’ll do the baron’s will. Now, if you’ve gotten your share of truffles, why not send someone home so they can be there when I am.”

Old Maude peered up into his face. “You ain’t taking the truffles?”

“You work hard enough,” he said. “I don’t see why you shouldn’t be allowed what treats you can find.”

“Well spoken,” the peasant with the dirty knees said, Lame Jack by name.

“And fair,” said Old Maude, as if surprised.

The others nodded.

Cord turned and strode away before they said something that might embarrass him. The two mastiffs followed.

After twenty long strides, a piercing scream made Cord twist around in surprise. The peasants bolted from the hole. Lame Jack was the only one who hadn’t run. He held his ground, with a hoe raised high as if it were an axe. He shouted angrily.

The high-pitched scream came again, from Maude. “My granddaughter!” she shrieked. “He’ll kill my granddaughter!”

Cord’s eyes narrowed. Then he saw a monstrous creature trot out of the forest’s shadows. Its brown and white mane bristled and long tusks gleamed. Small eyes darted back and forth as it grunted. The beast was Old Sloat. By his huge size and bulk Cord guessed him to be something over eight hundred pounds in weight. He was the largest wild boar Cord had ever seen. Almost as bad, he saw the rutting shields. Before rutting season, wild boars grew tough, triangular-shaped skin plates on their sides. It protected them from the lateral slashes of other boars during rutting fights. Old Sloat’s shields seemed to be coated with resin, giving it an extra thickness. No doubt, he’d achieved that by rubbing himself against trees. It would be impossible to cut through the shields with a knife. Even with a boar spear, the shields would be hard to penetrate.

To the dog boy’s surprise, he saw something majestic in the pig’s arrogant pace. That frightened Cord even more for it was always easier to fear what you respect. Yet it couldn’t be possible that Sloat was majestic. Cord had heard that a devil lived in Old Sloat. Father Bernard had agreed it might be so. Christ had once driven devils out of a man, and those same devils had then inhabited a herd of pigs. Who but a devil could drive a boar to slay a forester?

In a mixture of awe and fear, Cord watched Old Sloat. The monster went directly to the truffle-hole, ignoring the frozen little girl and the others shrieking from a safer distance away.

“Somebody save my granddaughter!” Maude screamed.

Lame Jack hobbled toward the frozen child. No one else dared close with the snorting monster that pushed his snout into the truffle-hole.

Coming out of his surprised and frightened daze, Cord roared orders at the mastiffs and drew his knife. Sunlight gleamed off the polished blade. Just holding the eighteen inches of killing steel gave Cord confidence. He knew the laws and customs of the fief, but his heart went out to the small girl. His two mastiffs barked as they raced at Old Sloat.

The giant boar looked up from his hole. The small girl took a terrified step backward. Old Sloat grunted in surprise, perhaps not knowing until now that she stood so close. He charged her.

Closer to the boar than anyone else, Lame Jack hurled his hoe. It clipped Old Sloat in the side an instant before he reached the girl. The massive boar spun in rage, spraying dirt upon the moaning little waif. Lame Jack snarled his defiance, a puny knife now in his hands.

The mastiffs launched themselves upon what seemed like the unsuspecting boar.

The canny monster spun again, squealed in what seemed like glee and ripped open the belly of the first mastiff. Cord went cold with fear. Baron Hugh would whip him for allowing the mastiff to be killed like this. The second mastiff, bigger and more battle-wise than the first, dodged the bloody tusks that tried to rip into him. Boar and mastiff squared off, each circling the other, looking for an opening.

The small girl shrieked and somehow broke the spell that had rooted her feet to the ground. She fled to her Uncle Jack, who picked her up and hobbled away to join the others.

Unmindful of his safety, only knowing that he couldn’t lose two mastiffs, Cord ran up to Sebald and clicked a leash onto the spiked collar.

Old grunting Sloat, the enraged King, charged again.

Cord swore in fear, twisted and slashed with his long knife. Thick pigskin parted. Old Sloat squealed and slashed with his tusks. Cord’s hunting boot, made of armor-like leather, parted as if it was made of silk. For an instant, Cord felt the warmth of Old Sloat’s breath on his ankle. Then Sebald raked his teeth across the boar’s hindquarters. Old Sloat jumped away. Sebald tried to follow.

“No!” Cord bellowed, as he hung onto the leash. Although yanked brutally forward, Cord managed to keep Sebald by his side.

Old Sloat ran back to the truffle-hole. His dark evil eyes never left the madly barking mastiff.

Cord’s heart raced and his breath came in ragged gasps. He was trembling. The boot was ruined, but thank God, he wasn’t crippled for life. If he’d gone down….

The monstrous grunting old boar eyed him, clearly ready for another go. The coppery stink of blood hung in the air.

Cord looked away, afraid lest he entice the bloody beast by staring at him too long. His eyes lingered on the dead mastiff. That made Cord tremble anew. Flies already crawled over the exposed intestines. Cord was used to seeing his charges killed. Stags, boars and bears took a fearful toll of hunting hounds. But to lose such a costly hound without being on a hunt….

Sickened by fear of Baron Hugh de Clare’s future wrath, Cord almost vomited. He saw the forester position escaping him like a starling from a freshly cut pie. Taking the mastiffs along in order to awe Tiny now seemed like the stupidest decision of his life.

“You must run to the castle, dog boy.”

Cord turned. Lame Jack, wheezing his onion breath, stood behind him. There was another hoe in his gnarled hands. A small bent old man in a dirty sheepskin blouse, Lame Jack was considered by the others to be a wise village elder.

Jack hobbled a little closer and closed a callused hand around Cord’s wrist. “Hurry, and wipe away that blood,” he whispered. “Don’t let anyone know you cut Old Sloat. Someone might be telling Baron Hugh about it in order to gain his favor.”

Cord turned his back toward the knot of peasants who touched the little girl in wonder. He wiped the blood off his knife and sheathed it.

“You lost a mastiff,” Lame Jack whispered.

“I know,” Cord whispered back, his stomach turning over.

“You’ve got to win back the baron’s affection or face his coming wrath.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Jack squeezed Cord’s arm with surprising strength. “You just saved my niece, dog boy. Now I’m trying to save you from losing what you value. Everyone knows you want to be forester, but everyone says a felon’s son should never want such a lawful position. But I’ve just seen your heart today. You’re a good man, dog boy, felon’s son or not.”

Cord swallowed away the sudden lump in his throat.

“I’ll keep Old Sloat busy while you run back to the castle and tell the baron that today he can slay the man-killer. He’s sure to reward the man who brings such good news.”

Seeing the answer to his problems, Cord slapped Lame Jack on the shoulder. He took off his boots, since he couldn’t run in the ruined one, and put them in the food sack hanging from his belt. With Sebald at his side, he walked warily away from Old Sloat. After passing a large oak tree and leaving the boar’s sight, Cord headed for the castle.

Long years of coursing with the hounds had given Cord great stamina and had taught him not to waste himself on a short burst of speed. The castle was three miles uphill. A steady pace would bring him there quickest.

He shook his arms, trying to loosen the cramped muscles.

Old Sloat almost had me, he thought. If I’d gone down—Dead! Just as Baron Hugh’s mastiff is dead. Maybe just as my chances of ever being forester are dead.

Crows jerked Cord out of his reverie. They cried raucously, flapping away from a half-eaten squirrel rotting on the trail.

Sweat stung Cord’s eyes and a spot under his ribs ached. Fear that he’d be too late, that Old Sloat would take himself far away from the field, drove Cord on. He topped an incline, turned left at a lightning-scarred oak tree and jogged onto a lush meadow. In the distance was a horse and rider. They trotted off a forested hill on whose summit perched Pellinore Castle, presently hidden from view.

Cord took his boots out of the sack and waved the sack above his head. The rider must have noticed, because the horse galloped toward him.

It wasn’t long before Cord recognized the horse and rider. The horse, a huge white stallion, galloped with pounding strength. He was Baron Hugh’s prized destrier, his high horse or warhorse. Strong, agile and fierce, Tencendur—named after Charlemagne’s famous destrier—was a magnificent animal. He feared nothing, and in the midst of battle, he was trained to lash out with his iron-shod hooves and bite with his strong teeth.

The hooves drummed, the white mane flowed, the fierce eyes centered on Cord. He heard the tiny saddle bells. At other times, the jingling sounded merry. Now it had an ominous tone.

Long ago, Cord had stood frozen in a lane before a charging destrier. A peasant had tried to snatch him to safety, but had tripped instead and had his spine crushed by the murderous hooves. Cord had never forgotten the meaty sound, or the shock in the peasant’s dying eyes.

Destriers terrified Cord. Instead of taking a step backward, however, or to the side, Cord willed his legs to remain motionless.

Richard Clark flashed his strong white teeth at Cord and brought Tencendur to a halt. Sweat glistened on Tencendur’s creamy hide, and the rich, horse-leather odor was strong.

“You’re a beauty,” Richard said, patting the thick neck.

Tencendur did a little high step at the praise. Richard laughed, clearly loving his lord’s horse.

The squire was a beefy, thick-necked fellow who had labored seven years in Baron Hugh’s service. A younger son of one of the baron’s liegemen, Richard had few prospects. The word was that Richard’s knighting was to be delayed yet another year. Until he gained a fief that could sustain a suit of armor, a warhorse, weapons and the freedom from servile labor, Richard would not be knighted.

Cord felt that was unfortunate. For no squire tilted at the quintain with more zeal, traded sword blows with the master-at-arms with more fury, boxed, wrestled, hunted, played chess and practiced singing and swimming more than Richard. His declared determination to match Lancelot du Lac, the perfect knight of the Arthurian legends, bordered on fanaticism.

“Speak, Cord! Spill the news that sits so plainly on your face.”

“I’ve seen Old Sloat,” Cord said in a rush.

Richard yelped with glee.

“He killed Senno,” Cord added.

Richard’s round face grew puzzled. “Old Sloat killed one of the mastiffs?” he asked loudly. It seemed Richard could never speak quietly.

Cord gave him a glum nod.

“Was it because of something foolish you did?”

Cord, who trusted the squire, told him what had happened.

Richard rubbed his nose, a big, strong nose that dominated his round face. “You did the right thing,” he said at last, as the wind fluttered his long brown hair.

“Maybe, but will the baron think likewise?”

Richard thought about it before he shrugged.

“I understand,” Cord said grimly. He forced himself to lift his chin and put life into his voice. “But what if the baron slew Old Sloat?”

Richard yelped with glee again. “A splendid idea, Cord! A hunt!” He turned Tencendur with easy skill. “You gather the boarhounds at Old Alfred’s. That will save us from waiting for the castle dog-handlers to run beside us.”

“You’ll only use one pack?” Cord asked in surprise, remembering how easily Old Sloat had killed Senno.

“We’ll use Sebald, too!” Richard shouted.

“Will that be enough?” asked Cord.

“It’s too late in the day for an organized hunt,” Richard shouted, his excitement building. “We have to do this on the quick. You run to Alfred’s and ready the pack.”

“They’re still a little young,” said Cord.

“No matter! Just have them ready. I’ll bring Baron Hugh and his knights within the hour. If he slays Old Sloat, Cord, you’ll probably be made forester before you can sneeze.”

With that, Richard Clark spurred Tencendur. The huge stallion pounded away, the tiny saddle-bells jingling.

Chapter Two

Cord blanched at the sight. Rage mingled with fear and combined with loathing. If Baron Hugh saw this…he might go berserk.

Peering around a gnarled oak tree, the sentinel to the forest path, Cord saw the King of Beasts chew on the intestines of dead Senno. That seemed obscene and blasphemous toward the proper order of things. Cord had seen wild boars catch and eat field mice before, and he’d seen them devour carrion: deer, cat, bird—anything really. He knew that many of the peasants’ pigs ate all the refuse they could find. A pig, wild or domestic, ate just about anything. They were a lot like people that way. But to eat a dog, a vicious mastiff bred to attack bears and boars and wolves, no that was wrong. It made Old Sloat seem invincible.

Old Sloat yanked out another loop of intestine and chewed happily, grunting and getting his teeth bloody.

Cord turned away as his fear mingled with hatred. He longed to spear Old Sloat, to right the injustice of Senno’s slaying. He swallowed, and admitted to himself that Old Sloat wouldn’t be easy to kill. Even the knights risked life and limb to chase the wily old boar, the eater of hounds and slayer of men.

Cord eased himself away from the tree, his left hand still bunched in the skin and fur of Sebald’s neck. Sebald, better than any of the other castle hounds, knew what that signified: Stay silent!

Without breaking any twigs or kicking any rocks, Cord and Sebald made a wide detour, using the folds of the land to hide from Old Sloat. Cord knew that to face the old pig now, the strangely regal beast, would be to die.

In time, Cord straightened, sheathed his knife and lengthened his stride. He set a stiff pace for the East Village.

He passed peasants toiling in the various fenced-in fields. Later he saw women drawing water above the ford in the stream, and soon after that, he heard the thud of an axe as a man splintered wood to feed the baker’s oven. By law, the peasants had to bake their bread in Baron Hugh’s oven, which cost them in loaves. The oven stood near the stream. It was a rounded brick-built structure with an iron grate. Crackling wood burned at the bottom of the outdoor oven. The baker tossed in a few more logs. Then, with a leather mitten, he opened the oven door and peered within.

The smell of baking bread made Cord’s mouth water.

He kept striding up a small slope and into the East Village. A small collection of huts, cottages and mazy lanes made up the town. Baron Hugh protected ten such villages. It had been over a year since any Welshmen had made it into the village to do any burning. Last spring, English outlaws had raided the East Village. The bailiff and his men had tracked down five of the outlaws and slain them in their forest hideaway. The others had fled the region.

Despite its small size, the East Village bustled with activity and buzzed with noise. Dogs, cats, chickens, pigs and children roved up and down the muddy lanes, barking, meowing, clucking, grunting and yelling. From somewhere came the sound of hammering. From somewhere else two women sang, while from a third location a grandfather shouted at his supposedly lazy daughter-in-law. Cord saw the parish priest quietly talking to a small boy as a man with a bundle of reeds on his back trudged by on his way home.

Mud squished between Cord’s toes. The lanes always seemed to be muddy. He passed shacks that looked ready to lean over into the mud, and the stench of dung was overpowering. Each home had foul-smelling manure piles. The manure, in spring, was carted out to the fields as fertilizer. At the moment, hens and pigs scratched or rooted in the manure piles or cackled and grunted atop them.

The biggest home belonged to prosperous Old Alfred. It stood near the center of the village. From within came the sounds of barking dogs, a lowing cow and screaming children. Cord tied Sebald to the strongest pole of the fence and slid past the manure pile, avoiding the rush of two piglets.

Before he could knock, Old Maude stuck her head out of the nearest window. “Dog boy! Come in. Come in.”

Cord lifted the latch and opened the heavy door. First cleaning the mud from his feet on the scraper, he walked into a large room with the customary packed dirt floor. Children played, tiny piglets wrestled over a worn carrot and a duck with ducklings stood in the nearest corner. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw several hens sitting on boxes. A hiss caused him to look up. Soot stained everything above shoulder height, while half-wild cats prowled above where hordes of mice infested the thatch roof.

“Alfred is away,” Maude said, working to stitch a torn shirt. “He’s using his cart to carry firewood to the castle.”

“No matter,” said Cord. “I’m here for the boar hounds.”

Maude smiled, rose and took one of his big hands in her small dry ones. “You acted bravely today, dog boy. I’m sorry I ever thought ill of you.”

Before Cord could speak, a toddler stumbled out of the knot of watching children and hugged his leg.

Maude laughed. “Little Charlotte thanks you for saving her sister’s life.”

Cord reddened as he patted the toddler’s head, more glad than ever that he’d dared face Old Sloat. The little girl smiled up at him. He knew a pang of wanting for children of his own and thought of Bess.

“Here,” said Maude. “A strong man like you is always hungry.” She pushed a sausage into his hands.

Cord thanked her with a grin. His running had made him ravenous. He looked around as he gobbled the greasy sausage.

A black pot hung over the fire in the fireplace, by the smell carrot soup was simmering nicely. In the far corner was a huge bed with a feather mattress that the entire family used at night. If guests came they slept there, too. Cord kept looking. A boy stood on a carefully constructed bench and slipped a hammer into the rack of tools. Maude shouted at the boy when he almost cut his hand on some shears. Then Maude glanced over at an older daughter who wove a basket.

After wiping his hands on his breeches, Cord followed Maude into the cattle-shed part of the house. One of the tiny stalls contained a lowing cow that needed milking. Three other stalls held the pack of shaggy boarhounds, most of who slept. Farther back were mows for hay, while at the very back were the grain-cribs.

One of the boarhounds spotted Cord, wagged his tail and barked a greeting. Others looked up and saw Cord too. Soon they all barked and wagged their tails. He laughed and let them lick his hands.

“They love you,” Maude said, shaking her kerchiefed head. “Anyone else they growl and raise their hackles at. Killed three of our chickens, one of them did.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Cord said.

“No, that isn’t your fault, dog boy. Brutes like these should stay in the castle, not be sent into common homes like ours.”

“This is no common home. It’s a mansion.”

Maude beamed at the compliment. Compared to many of the other cottages in the East Village, it was true. Tiny stuffed straw in his few windows rather than having wooden shutters like Alfred and Maude did. Nor did Tiny have smooth lumber walls, but wattles stuffed with moss and reeds. A strong storm could knock down Tiny’s house, but only a fire would destroy this solid place.

Cord leashed the big boarhounds, petted and spoke to them as he worked. He didn’t want to over-excite them or he’d never be able to handle them all. There were really too many for one man to properly handle. Maybe he should ask some of the peasant boys to help him. Thinking back to the old boar made him shake his head. Today would bring killing. He didn’t want anyone’s blood on his hands. Maybe if some of the bailiff’s men were around, he’d ask them for help. They were trained for killing.

With his big fists knotted around the leashes, Cord said, “Clear the way!”

Maude scurried ahead of him, shooing away children, ducks and piglets. The boarhounds tried to pull him this way and that as he hurried through the house. A cat hissed and chickens cackled with fear.

“No!” Cord shouted. “No!” He clenched his big fists harder and somehow managed to make it through the house without losing any dogs.

“Someone unleash Sebald,” he said.

It was Old Maude who did it. “Good luck,” she said. “I hope you catch the man-killer.”

Cord nodded. Then he was too busy trying to make the pack go where he wanted to worry about anything else. The boarhounds barked and bayed at everything, glad to be out of the stalls. Several times, he stopped to let them raise their legs and piss on posts and fences. The village dogs kept away from the pack, but barked wildly from around corners and behind fences. Sebald moved like an earl, ignoring everyone as he stayed near Cord.

“Hey!” a man bellowed. “What goes on there!”

Cord looked up. Then he yanked at the leashes as he said, “Heel!”

The hounds milled around him, sniffing, peering around. They barked back at the village dogs again.

A coarse-faced, thick-bellied man marched toward Cord. From the chair perched beside the small tavern and the leather jug beside it, Cord figured the village watchman had been snoozing. Harold, the watchman, was one of the bailiff’s men, a peasant-deputy. He reported to the bailiff or to one of his lieutenants when they made their rounds from village to village. Harold was supposed to keep the other peasants from knifing one another and help break up their uglier brawls. His primary task was to insure that East Village wasn’t taken unawares by raiding Welshmen from over the border, or by marauding outlaws.

Harold wore bluish trousers—Baron Hugh’s color—and a dirty woolen shirt that had once been blue. He had a spear perched on his shoulder. Twice a year Baron Hugh handed out blue-colored clothes to those who served him.

“Where’re you taking those hounds, dog boy?”

Harold’s nose had been broken several times and his left eye drooped. He wore a blue cap and sneered at everything as if he thought that whatever anyone told him was a lie.

“You’re making the village dogs go mad,” Harold complained.

“There’s to be a hunt,” Cord told him.

“A hunt? Where?”

“Old Sloat is by the stream near the baron’s field.”

The boarhounds became restless and tugged in several directions. Cord decided to make Harold help him.

“Baron Hugh’s coming quickly,” Cord said, “but without the usual number of dogs and handlers.”

“How do you know that?” Harold sneered.

“I spoke to the squire and he gave me the instructions.” Cord looked down at the restless boarhounds and shouted, “Heel now! Heel!”

A few of the boarhounds lowered their heads as if in shame. The moment Cord looked back at Harold, however, they perked up again.

“I can’t manage all these hounds without help,” Cord said.

Harold laughed as if Cord had told him a good joke.

“Can you help me?” Cord asked.

“Me?” Harold asked in surprise. “What do I look like to you, boy? A felon’s servant?”

The dogs pulled Cord to the side as the insult made his face burn. “Heel! I say,” he thundered at the dogs. “Obey!”

More of the hounds looked down shamefaced. Some of them tucked their tails between their legs.

“They aren’t trained very well,” Harold said with a sneer.

“The Baron wants Old Sloat,” Cord said angrily. “If I don’t get these hounds to the field in time and Baron Hugh fails to kill the boar, I’ll tell him that you refused to help me.”

Harold’s sneer turned into a scowl. Shorter by a head than Cord, he probably weighed just as much. While much of his weight was in his belly, his fleshy arms and shoulders contained a good deal of strength.

“I’m not under your orders,” Harold growled.

Cord shrugged with feigned indifference. “Suit yourself, but I’ll tell Baron Hugh just the same.”

Harold lowered his spear until he held it with both hands. His drooping eye almost closed, while his good eye squinted. “You looking for a beating, felon’s boy?”

Cord controlled his anger and openly laughed in Harold’s face.

Harold’s face tightened and his thick lips curled into the ugliest sneer yet. One of the boarhounds growled. A look of shock filled Harold’s face as he saw the pack eyeing him.

“Are you setting your hounds on me?” he asked, his voice rising.

“Will you help me or not?”

“Those beasts hate me,” Harold said, a whine entering his voice. “They’ll turn on me if I try to take them.”

“No they won’t. Just stop pointing your spear at me, that’s all.”

Harold’s eyes widened. “You’re a devil,” he whispered. “You’ve bewitched these hounds. No dogs watch over their handlers like that.”

“Mine do,” Cord said proudly. He’d long ago learned a simple truth—the hounds returned his love.

“Go on, leave,” Harold said as he stepped back. “Get those hounds out of here.”

“You’d better help me, Harold Watchman.”

Harold looked indecisive.

“You’ll just take three of them,” Cord said, relenting, telling himself that Harold hadn’t meant anything by his insults. “If you take three, I can control the others.”

“Three?” Harold whined.

“Hurry up, Watchman. We don’t want to keep the Baron waiting.”

At last, Harold wilted, although he whispered as he leaned his spear against a fence, “I’ll remember this, you damn felon’s whelp.”

Cord pulled the hounds near the watchman. Many of them began sniffing Harold. Harold stiffened. Two of them pushed their shoulders against his legs. Harold made a strange sound.

“Stop that!” Cord told the hounds, although it delighted him to see the watchman squirm. “Here,” he said to Harold.

Harold tentatively reached for three of the leashes.

Cord divided the rest of his hounds evenly between his hands. “Let’s go,” he said.

Harold didn’t move. His three hounds busily sniffed him, obviously making him nervous.

“Use your knees to knock them in the head,” Cord said.

Harold gingerly did so. One of the boarhounds growled at him.

“Do it harder, with more authority,” Cord said.

“N-No,” Harold stammered. “They’ll attack me if I do.”

Cord stepped near and used the bottom of his foot to shove the offending boarhound. “Obey!” Cord told him. To Harold, he said, “Now start walking.”

Harold did. The three boarhounds followed, and soon they pulled Harold along as they sniffed at the trail and strained at the leashes. Harold moved ahead of Cord, who controlled his hounds better.

Soon they were out of the East Village and moving past the bakehouse. Cord silently thanked Maude for the sausage as the smell of freshly baked bread was overpowering.

After several hundred yards Harold said, “I forgot my spear!”

“You couldn’t carry your spear. You need both your hands for the dogs.”

“I need my spear,” Harold insisted, sounding worried.

“No one will steal it.”

“It’s not that,” Harold said, his red face glistening with sweat. “We’re headed toward Old Sloat.”

“Does that worry you?”

“Damn you, man, of course I’m worried. Old Sloat killed the forester. That old bugger was meaner than a she-bear with cubs. If a wild boar could do him in, then it can surely do for the likes of us.”

“We have boarhounds.”

“Boarhounds! Are you daft? Old Sloat will kill the boarhounds. Then he’ll kill us!”

Cord thought likewise, at least if no knights were present, but Harold grated on him. “Today Old Sloat dies,” he boasted.

“By you?”

Cord looked coldly into Harold’s eyes.

Harold tried to match the glare, but failed. He muttered, “You’re no knight, felon’s son. You can’t kill the boar.”

“If it comes to that, watchman, I can.” Cord was thinking about Senno, about the old boar yanking out his beloved hound’s intestines. Maybe, just maybe, the beast could be slain.

Harold glanced at Cord again and his laugh died on his moist lips. Before either man could say more, an olifant blasted its powerful notes.

“Baron Hugh!” shouted Cord. He told Harold, “Make sure you don’t let go of those leashes. The hounds have to be released at the proper times and intervals.”

The olifant pealed again. To Cord’s trained ear Baron Hugh sounded impatient.

Harold wheezed as he ran faster, and sweat poured off his face and soaked his dirty shirt. “How do you know its Baron Hugh?”

“I know the sound of his olifant,” Cord said, as if explaining that he breathed by opening his mouth and sucking down air.

A different horn pealed, a horn higher sounding than before.

“That’s the squire’s olifant,” Cord said. More horns pealed. “And those are Sir Walter’s, Sir Philip’s and the Lady Alice’s olifants.”

“You’re a sorcerer,” Harold muttered.

“ Don’t talk. Run!”

Cord put on a burst of speed. The lords and the lady wanted the boarhounds now! Baron Hugh probably scowled at Senno’s corpse and swore his awful oaths. He would be astride Tencendur and holding the olifant in his strong hands.

Another blast rang out.

The olifant—the hunting horn—was used so the members of a party could find each other in the woods or upon the wide fields. If blown with power, one could hear an olifant more than a mile away. Cord saw in his mind’s eye the olifant in Baron Hugh’s leather-gauntleted hand. It was made of ivory and chased with silver and gold. It would be slung around the baron’s neck by a red-silk cord.

Cord ran up a rise and saw the hunting party milling on the edge of the woods. His boarhounds barked and grew excited. They knew a hunt was afoot.

Baron Hugh, white-haired and thickset, sat astride Tencendur. He held a boar spear and wore a black lambkin cape. His face showed his rage: red, somewhat puffy, eyes bright with fury. Squire Richard spoke from the palfrey to Tencendur’s right.

Each of the nobles, unlike any of the huntsmen, wore fur of some kind: the baron his lambkin cape, Richard his fox cape, the Lady Alice an ermine hood, the other two knights had fur collars. Their clothes, again unlike the huntsmen, were clean.

Nobles changed clothes daily, and the clothes they wore were of the finest craftsmanship. Almost everyone, peasant or noble, wore homespun wool. The coarse wool was difficult to keep clean. Linen could be purchased in the larger towns and at every decent trade fair. Cotton and silk were rare. Fur, however, rabbit, fox, marten, half-mythical Russian mink, could be acquired rather easily. But by custom, fur could only be worn by the nobility. Many nobles thus wore fur with the same passion with which they wore swords or kept falcons on their wrists: as a sign of their high station.

Richard, who spoke urgently to the baron, was as proud of his fox-lined cape as he was of the slender sword strapped to his waist. It wasn’t yet a heavy, knightly sword, but a sword it surely was.

The other two knights and the lady also listened to Richard. Around the mounted gentry swarmed the huntsmen and a handful of hounds.

“Cord!” Baron Hugh bellowed.

A knot tightened in Cord’s gut. He had to handle this correctly or the position of forester would be forever lost. He ran hard, wondering what he should say. He was glad to see the bloodhounds. With them trailing, the chances of finding Old Sloat increased tenfold. Had Richard seen to that?

Richard stopped talking and inclined his head. Then he backed up his palfrey and winked at Cord.

Cord inadvertently smiled.

“You grin?” Baron Hugh asked in surprise. “Tell me why, dog boy.”

“Baron,” Cord said, putting a note of confidence into his voice. “I’m glad you’re here. Old Sloat slew Senno. Now you can slay him.”

“You think so, dog boy?”

“He’s gorged, milord. Old Sloat will be slower today than usual.”

“Yes!” the baron roared, his face turning redder. “He’s gorged on Italian mastiff. How did you let that happen?”

Cord saw the brightness to Hugh’s eyes. He’d been drinking. All three of the knights looked as if they’d been drinking. Maybe, before Richard had come with the news, they’d been at one of their afternoon drinking bouts. For the Pellinore gentry the long summer months, while waiting for baronial enemies to invade the valley, were times filled with boredom and therefore with endless drinking contests.

“No answer, dog boy?” the Baron asked in a menacing tone.

“He was protecting your people, milord,” Richard said.

“Let him speak for himself!” Baron Hugh snarled. “I want to know how a dog boy who yearns to be forester could lose a prized mastiff to Old Sloat.”

Harold, who had finally lumbered up, muttered something about a felon’s son being a stupid fool.

Cord lifted his angular chin. All his careful plans and honeyed words vanished because of the watchman’s rude words. He would not bow and scrape before the Baron with Harold watching. No, he would be bold like his father the knight had once been bold.

“Milord,” Cord said, “this is the truth.”

Baron Hugh’s eyes narrowed as Cord told the tale, and he hissed when Cord said he’d slashed at Old Sloat.

“You actually cut him?” the white-haired baron asked in disbelief.

“Yes, lord.”

“And it was your intention to cut him?”

Cord blinked in disbelief at what he’d just admitted. Perhaps he’d spoken too boldly. “Ah…milord, my intention? No, no, it was not my intention. I was simply trying to scare Old Sloat, milord.”

Baron Hugh glanced at Sir Philip and Sir Walter, a veteran of thirty-four. Both knights lived at Pellinore Castle with Baron Hugh, although both held tiny castles, towers really, that belonged to the baron’s extended fief. By their noble presence, they added luster to the baron’s court and helped him in various ways as councilors, judges and hunting partners. Sir Walter wore chainmail armor and held an axe. He often assisted the bailiff, especially in the bloodier affairs. Sir Philip was Baron Hugh’s closest friend for over twenty years. He rubbed a well-veined hand over his bald head. Like the Baron, Philip wore rough hunting garments and dearly loved the chase. Old battle scars crisscrossed his face, while shaggy gray eyebrows gave him the countenance of a bear.

“Don’t you know that boars are reserved solely for knights?” asked Walter.

“Yes, milord,” said Cord. “I know that.”

“Then—”

“A moment,” said bald Sir Philip. “Dog boy.”

“Yes, milord?” Cord asked, noticing that Philip swayed in the saddle. Clearly, he was drunk.

“You know, of course,” Philip said slowly and deliberately, his scars twisting as he spoke, “that Old Sloat killed the forester.”

Cord nodded. Now he wished he’d told the tale with more humility. Sir Philip had always hated him for some unfathomable reason.

“Did you wish to avenge the forester’s death?” Sir Philip asked in a soft voice.

Cord frowned, not knowing what to say, more than a little fearful of Philip.

“The reasons don’t matter,” Sir Walter said. He lifted his axe, his chainmail sleeve clinking. “Old Sloat escapes deep into the woods and we chatter over trivia. Loose the dogs, I say, and let us kill this brute.”

“Ah, but reasons do matter,” said huge Sir Philip. “This lad wishes to be forester, yet given half a chance he tries to kill Baron Hugh’s game. Even worse, he lets a costly Italian mastiff die.”

“Milords,” said Richard, “isn’t this just a matter of a brave lad saving a little girl’s life? We should commend him, and thank him for his courage in coming to tell Baron Hugh that worthy game is afoot. He knew the cost of his actions, yet he’s dared to tell the truth. I, for one, admire his courage and his honesty.”

“You’re wrong,” Sir Philip said, his scarred face flushed. “He’s a peasant who tried to slaughter the Baron’s game.”

Harold, who stood directly behind Cord, snickered evilly.

Cord opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of what he’d planned to say and closed his mouth.

“He should be whipped for his impertinence,” Sir Philip said.

Sir Walter shrugged, his chainmail clinking.

Baron Hugh, having listened to the advice from his councilors, as it was their duty to give him, lowered his boar spear and prodded the mastiff’s bloody corpse.

“You’ve cost me an expensive Italian hound, dog boy.”

“Please forgive me, milord,” Cord asked contritely, fearing their belligerent looks.

“You begin to act as if you think that your blood is noble,” Baron Hugh said.

Cord lowered his eyes, then his head. He heard Harold snicker again, and it made him clench the leashes with all his strength. His father had been hanged like a common felon, but his father been a knight. A knight!

My blood is noble.

“…However,” Baron Hugh was saying, “you saved a little girl. And after considering your options, you ran to tell me of Old Sloat’s whereabouts. My judgment is this.”

Cord looked up.

“You will pay me Senno’s purchase price.”

Cord nodded as he groaned inwardly. Where could he find that kind of money?

“And today, during this hunt,” Baron Hugh said, “we will let Old Sloat and Saint Hubert decide your fate. If Saint Hubert grants us victory and the cunning old boar is slain, you will be made into my forester. But,” the Baron said, holding up an admonitory finger. “If Saint Hubert frowns upon you and Old Sloat escapes us once more, you will be lashed twenty times in order to remind you that you are a peasant, not of noble blood.”

Saint Hubert was the huntsman’s saint. Long ago in the eighth century, or so it was claimed, the great huntsman Hubert of Liege came upon a stag who bore between his horns an image of Jesus Christ. The sight had so moved Hubert that he renounced his titles and joined a religious order.

Cord flexed his shoulder blades. To be whipped like a peasant…no. His father had been a knight. That had never been clearer to him than today. He scowled, and then he saw Sir Philip watching him.

Sir Philip’s scarred face tightened. He urged his stallion closer to the Baron and cleared his throat.

Baron Hugh turned. He’d been talking with the chief huntsman. “Speak,” the Baron told Philip.

“Baron,” said bald Sir Philip, “I’m thinking back to a time eleven years ago.”

“Yes, yes.”

“I think the dog boy grows overbold,” Sir Philip said. “The Earl must not hear of that or it may bring unneeded trouble upon you.”

Baron Hugh nodded sagely, his red-rimmed eyes thoughtful.

Huge Sir Philip said, “Maybe the Baron would allow me to add to the dog boy’s punishment?”

“Speak your mind, old friend.”

Sir Philip said, “Let the dog boy’s offending hand be chopped off, milord.”

The others gasped. Even Harold had the decency to look shocked.

Sir Philip seemed oblivious to them. He was saying, “A surer sign to the other peasants couldn’t be given, milord. Otherwise, I’m afraid, the peasants may think that the slaying of game is a trivial matter to you.”

“No!” shouted Richard. “Only a Turk could say such a thing. The dog boy is a loyal servant. To treat him as you suggest is ill-mannered.”

Sir Philip’s fleshy old face grew mottled with rage. His hand tightened around his sword-hilt as he shifted his stallion toward Richard.

Baron Hugh scowled. “Hold your tongue, Squire. You forget yourself.” He nodded to bald Sir Philip. “Yes, very well. I agree. Now please, good friend, don’t take offense at my squire.”

“But his words, milord, I cannot let them stand,” Sir Philip said, his yellowed teeth clenched.

Cord felt faint, his knees weak. He wondered if he should make a run for it.

“I spoke the truth!” Richard shouted at Philip, his own hand on his sword-hilt.

“Hold!” Baron Hugh roared at him.

Everyone stared at Richard.

“You will keep silent,” the Baron told his squire.

Richard, with fury in his eyes, somehow managed to control himself.

“We will settle this later,” Baron Hugh said to Philip.

“Yes, milord,” huge Sir Philip said. “Later, as you say.”

“And you, dog boy,” Baron Hugh said.

Cord looked up, his face pale, his knees almost buckling. He considered sending his hounds at the footmen and making a break for it. To lose a hand—He tried to swallow. All his thoughts were in turmoil.

“You will lose your offending hand,” Baron Hugh told him, “but only if Saint Hubert frowns upon you and Old Sloat escapes us once more. Only then. For I’ve already spoken in Saint Hubert’s name, yes?”

Sir Philip nodded, although it seemed reluctantly.

The Baron grinned down at the dog boy. “If Saint Hubert smiles upon you, Cord, and you are to be the forester, then you’ll need both your hands.”

Cord managed a sickly grin. He wanted to vomit, but he had to stay strong. Otherwise…. He didn’t want to think about otherwise.

“Yes, milord,” he said.

The Baron shook his long white hair like a haughty wolf. “Release the bloodhounds! Let the chase begin!”

Chapter Three

Bloodhounds bayed as they crashed through the underbrush. Cord followed close behind despite the sharp twigs that jabbed his unprotected feet or the occasional thorns that made him curse. Soon the bloodhounds burst through the underbrush and rushed to the edge of the fief’s major watercourse. There they lost Old Sloat’s scent. Two bloodhounds immediately rushed upriver, the other two down. They snuffled through the reeds with frenzied activity, desperate to find the old boar’s trail. Across the Iodo River, the deep green of Clarrus Woods traveled up the hills into Welsh territory.

Richard reigned in his sweating palfrey. It was a highbred stallion but lacked a destrier’s bulk, training and savagery.

“The scent has vanished?” Richard asked.

“Old Sloat must have swum across the river,” said Cord.

“An old boar like Sloat wouldn’t dive into such icy waters.”

“An old boar like him is wily,” Cord pointed out. “Old Sloat heard the jingling bells, the olifants and the bloodhounds. He wouldn’t hesitate to swim across the Iodo. Why do you think he’s lived to grow so big? Because he knows when to flee,” Cord said, answering his own question.

From upon his palfrey, Richard glanced furtively at Cord’s hand.

“I’m going to find him,” Cord said hoarsely.

“Of course you are,” Richard said. “We’ll hunt until he’s dead.”

Cord studied the Iodo River. The water was cold and treacherous. Winter run-off from the Welsh Highlands fed these swift waters. They tumbled later into the Wye, one of the major rivers of Wales.

Thinking of the highlands and Welshmen made Cord glance upstream. Everyone born in the Western Marches learned to watch for raiders at an early age. Mountain-bred warriors who ran from hilltop to hilltop constantly fought the knights who, since William the Conqueror’s time, had marched ever deeper up the Welsh valleys. From his mountain fastness of Snowdonia in northern Wales, Prince Llewellyn had gained control of almost all of free Wales. King Henry the Third of England quarreled with his barons, and in those struggles, the English gave the Welsh their chance. Prince Llewellyn, piece by piece, stratagem by stratagem, year by year, used the many chances offered him. This summer, with rebellious Earl Simon and his allies galloping back and forth through the Marches storming royal castles and towns, Llewellyn had done better than ever.

For a time both squire and dog boy listened to the bloodhounds and listened to the huntsmen crash through the woods. The dogs barked in frustration. The huntsmen cursed. The knights, by their shouting, grew restless and angry.

Baron Hugh, like most nobles, passionately loved hunting. He disdained the taste of ill-fed cattle or garbage-fed pigs. Stags and wild boars, delightful venison, those were the meats he craved. And his boredom vanished when galloping after game. Not even hawking compared to the chase. Only tournaments brought the Baron more joy. But they were such costly affairs. Even worse, since Richard the Lion-Heart’s Decree of 1194, the crown regulated tournaments. There were only five official sites, and one then needed a licensed charter and a personal license to allow one to join in the games.

“Sloat swam across,” Cord suddenly said.

“Old Sloat is too lazy for that,” Richard said.

Cord’s chest tightened. His breathing grew difficult. If the trail wasn’t picked up soon….

“I’m sorry about your hand,” Richard said.

Cord shrugged, not daring to let the squire see the rage in his eyes.

Richard urged his palfrey closer. “Look, Cord, you slip across the Iodo and run for it. We’ll never catch Old Sloat today. Even if we catch him we might not be able to kill him.” Richard paused and then said thoughtfully, “In the forests he’s like a monarch, an invincible king.”

The constriction in Cord’s chest increased.

“It’s foolishness to trust your hand to the slaying of Old Sloat.”

Should he run away? Should he leave the familiar to rush into the unknown? Or should he trust Saint Hubert, who was a French saint?

Most of the knights of England were descended from William the Conqueror’s French Normans. Many Anglo-Norman knights had only recently lost their French lands during bad King John’s reign. In fact, French was the first language learned by most of the Anglo-Norman knights. Cord’s father had been of old Saxon blood. He didn’t think a French saint would watch over a Saxon.

“Look at you, Cord,” Richard said. “You’ve got size and strength. Join Prince Edward, or join rebellious Earl Simon. They both need fighting men.”

Cord shook his head.

“If you swung at Old Sloat, if you dared to stand up to that charging monster….” Richard blew out his cheeks. “You’d make a splendid mercenary.”

“No,” Cord said, meeting the squire’s gaze. “If I ran, I’d be declared an outlaw. You know that Baron Hugh has the right to make the judgment he did. He has the right of low justice.”

“But it was such a foul judgment.”

Cord said nothing, for what was there to say to that?

“Paugh!” Richard spat. “If I were a knight I’d challenge Sir Philip over it. I’d say: if I win, Cord keeps his hand. If you lose I’ll drive my sword through your stinking guts because of your foul suggestion.”

Cord nodded. Trial by duel wasn’t as common as it used to be, but it was still legal. Usually it was reserved for high justice, for those cases where lives were at stake. Here in the Western Marches the earls, or high lords, had the right of high justice. In their Great Halls they sat in judgment like kings, giving death sentences if they so desired. It was part of their heritage, given them by the King as they struggled decade after decade against the hill-born Welsh. The vassals of these great magnates, like Baron Hugh, were given the right of low justice. To chop off a man’s hand was low justice since it didn’t involve the taking of a life. If Cord ran, Baron Hugh had the right to declare him an outlaw, allowing anyone to kill him on sight. Such a ruling, by custom, would stand in England, and of course it would stand anywhere within the Western Marches.

Richard threw up his hands in exasperation.

Cord pretended not to notice as he listened to the hunt. By their barking, he knew the bloodhounds hadn’t picked up the scent. Cord flexed his hand, wondering what it’d be like to lose it.

“Listen to me, dog boy. If you make a run for it, I’ll help you. I’ve ten pennies. They’re yours if you want them.”

Cord stared up at Richard.

“Damn it, man! Don’t you see that Baron Hugh has decided never to make you forester.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, but I speak the truth.”

Cord couldn’t think. All he knew was that he had to find Old Sloat.

Richard shook his head. “Ah, dog boy, you’ve too much pride. Maybe Sir Philip is right after all.”

“Maybe he is,” Cord dared say. Then, with Sebald’s leash in one hand and three boarhounds’ in the other, he threw himself into the cold mountain stream. He gasped, but the chill eased the constriction in his chest. His dogs paddled; he waded. On no account could he let go of their leashes. The bloodhounds tracked. The boarhounds killed. It would be foolishness to let the boarhounds track ahead of the bloodhounds. They might not follow the right scent. The water deepened and his head went under. Icy liquid shot up his nose. He fought down his panic—he’d dealt with such problems before. He pushed off the pebbly bottom, surfaced and kicked with his feet.

He saw that Richard rode upstream along the shore. Cord’s head went under again because he wasn’t able to swim with his hands. If he used his hands, or if he rested his weight on the dogs, their heads would go under. That would panic them, and more than just about anything else he hated to panic his dogs. His head went under a third time and he almost choked. He expelled air, sank to the bottom as he raised his hands high above his head, then he leapt upward and forward. The bloodhounds still barked in frustration as he surfaced. Huntsmen shouted to one another, wondering aloud what had happened to Old Sloat.

“The dog boy’s trying to escape!” a man bellowed.

Cord turned as his scrotum shriveled in fear. Huge Sir Philip, high upon his warhorse, eyed him with hostility from the far shore. The giant knight held a small bow and an arrow against the string.

“Come back, dog boy!” Sir Philip bellowed. “Come back or it’s you we’ll hunt!”

Cord could only gape in fear.

A piebald stallion thundered at Philip. Upon the stallion rode the willowy Lady Alice de Mowbray. She wore leather leggings like any hunter, although of a costly purple color. She also wore a fine wool shirt that struggled to contain her breasts, a Welsh mantle and she gripped a javelin. Cord had seen her throw before. Whether mounted or afoot she was remarkably accurate.

“The dog boy escapes!” Sir Philip shouted at her. He raised his bow and drew back the string.

Water gushed into Cord’s mouth as he tried to yell that he merely searched for Old Sloat’s scent.

“Don’t be a fool,” Alice told Philip in a scathing tone. “The dog boy wants the old boar more than you ever will. But it’s I who shall slay Old Sloat!” She urged her stallion through the reeds, in front of Philip and therefore blocking his shot.

As Philip scowled, and Cord spat out river water, her stallion plunged into the stream, spraying water everywhere. She laughed and spurred it forward.

Alice de Mowbray wasn’t a timid, a weakling cowed by hardy knights. In her veins flowed the same hot blood as theirs, the same urge toward adventure and acts of bravery. She too, as a young lass, had listened to the tales of King Arthur of Camelot, Lancelot du Lac and Galahad. She too loved to hear minstrels sing about Sir Roland and the Emperor Charlemagne, and the exploits of her ancestors in the Crusades.

Her father, who had been Baron Hugh’s chief vassal, had owned much land and had lived in Gareth Castle to the west. Her father had never sired any sons. He’d treated her roughly, but he’d taught her to swing a sword, hurl a javelin and ride any stallion. She didn’t ride sidesaddle, either. Few ladies rode that way during a hunt. Nor was it exceptional that Alice de Mowbray hunted. While many noble-born maidens refrained from such adventure, many others loved to hawk and hunt as much as their knightly lords.

Cord was thankful that Lady Alice had decided to hunt today. But for her Sir Philip might have just skewered him with an arrow. His feet touched bottom. He waded ashore and his hounds dragged him through the reeds and onto solid ground. They sniffed around for Old Sloat’s scent. Almost immediately, they barked. The trail had been found.

“Well done, dog boy!” Alice shouted, coming ashore beside him. Water dripped from her leather leggings, but she was otherwise dry high upon her piebald stallion.

Baron Hugh roared orders from the other side of the Iodo. Bloodhounds, boarhounds and huntsmen ran for the spot where Cord had first jumped in.

“I’ll slay Old Sloat,” Alice boasted. “Never fear.”

“Yes, milady,” Cord said.

She laughed again, her teeth white and strong, her pale blue eyes filled with pride. “I’ll cheat old Philip of his sport,” she said. “You then will owe me a favor.” Her eyes lingered on him.

Despite his plight, a sudden heat rose in Cord. He said, “I’ll make a gift of Old Sloat’s hide to you, milady.”

She frowned. “Concentrate on the hunt, dog boy. I merely admire your courage, and that troubling honesty of yours. You should learn to tell your tales with more dissembling.”

Cord nodded as he shifted uneasily. He hated this delay. But he had to wait until the bloodhounds trailed Old Sloat’s scent. The sad-eyed bloodhounds entered the Iodo. Behind them waded the huntsmen. The knights and Squire Richard urged their stallions into the stream next, followed by Harold Watchman and the boarhounds.

Lady Alice rose up in the stirrups, scanning the forest in front of them.

Cord knew that the Lady Alice de Mowbray had been forced to stay at Pellinore Castle against her will. Three years ago, Prince Llewellyn had marched into the valley of the upper Wye. King Henry and Earl Simon had both been engaged in one of their more bitter quarrels. Llewellyn had captured the royal castle of Builth and had besieged many other nearby castles. Gareth Castle, in a night of pillage and slaughter, had fallen before Llewellyn’s butchers. Alice’s father had died swinging his ancestral sword. She, fourteen at the time, had killed her horse galloping the entire night to Pellinore Castle. Weeks later, after the King and Earl Simon had patched up their differences, Prince Llewellyn had marched back into the highlands.

With her mother and father dead, and with no brothers or uncles, Gareth Fief had fallen to Alice. Although a truce had been signed between the King and Prince Llewellyn, Baron Hugh had insisted that Alice stay at Pellinore Castle.

“The Upper Wye is still unsafe,” he’d said.

“But the fief must be protected,” had argued young Alice.

“True. My son will be the castellan until such time as I can find you a suitable husband.”

A castellan was a knight who commanded one of his lord’s outlying castles. Unlike a vassal, the castellan didn’t own the castle and could be replaced at any time for any reason.

Alice, everybody learned later, had argued heatedly that she was quite capable of holding her own castle against anyone, be he or she Welsh, Saxon or Anglo-Norman.

Feudal custom and Baron Hugh had disagreed. A knight, a man, was needed. As it would have been nearly impossible to deprive Alice of the hereditary fief, Baron Hugh hadn’t bothered to try. Instead, he’d used Alice, and the chance to wed her to whom he wished, to lash his vassals into line. Since Alice had no family, by law it fell upon her liege, Baron Hugh, to find her a husband. He could hand the plum of marrying Alice to whomever he chose, a worthy retainer, a needed ally, anyone. Maybe custom said that if Alice paid a sum she could forgo his choice, but few maidens were so hardy as to enforce this custom against a strong-willed lord.

“Hurry!” Cord hissed at the swimming bloodhounds.

Perhaps he’d spoken more loudly than he’d known, for Lady Alice asked, “Do you think that you’re the lord of the hunt?”

“What? Oh! No, milady. I’m just an anxious dog boy.”

“No, not just. Hob told me about you. Your father was a knight, wasn’t he?”

Cord’s heart beat more quickly. This was dangerous ground. What had Hob, that drunken lout, told the Lady Alice?

“Yes, Hob told me that your father was a Saxon knight,” she said. “One that made the mistake of taking on a powerful enemy. It seems you’re the same kind of fool.”

“My father was a good man.”

“Ah,” Alice said. “I see. Sir Philip is right after all.” She glanced back. The first bloodhound climbed out of the stream and violently shook itself. “I pity you, dog boy. What a waste to throw away your life.”

“Don’t pity me,” Cord heard himself saying, hating pity more than enmity.

Instead of showing anger, Lady Alice smiled. “I like your spirit. Pray that it will be enough.”

“Yes, I’ll pray,” Cord said. “I’ll pray to Saint George of England, not to Saint Hubert of France.”

Alice’s eyes widened.

The bloodhounds dashed past them and into the denser part of the forest. Out of the river climbed huntsmen and the knightly steeds.

Alice’s stallion pranced about and snorted impatiently. Alice inclined her head. “Good luck, Cord. I can see that on this fief you’re going to need it.” She spurred her stallion and crashed into the underbrush after the bloodhounds.

Cord slipped out of the way as the three knights and the squire thundered after Alice. Leashed dogs and huntsmen ran in their wake. Cord joined them, toiling uphill. Fallen trees, thick oak roots and snarled branches made the going difficult. Yet it also made it difficult for the horsemen, enough so those on foot kept them in sight. Cord, as he panted, could never understand why more horses didn’t break their legs in these wild chases. The nobles rode recklessly, often unaware of what awaited them past the next tree or thicket.

The four bloodhounds in the lead bayed joyously. Unlike the boarhounds, and unlike the mastiff Sebald, the bloodhounds ran free. Until Old Sloat was actually spotted, the other dogs would remain leashed. An excited boarhound, especially young ones like these, sometimes picked up the wrong trail. Then they became useless, or even worse, they split up the party. With a beast like Old Sloat, that could be dangerous. Yet it also entailed a danger for the bloodhounds. If they should come upon Old Sloat and be too far ahead of the hunters…. For that reason, as the boarhounds dragged them relentlessly forward, Cord and the huntsmen ran hard after the nobles.

The excitement of the chase drove away some of Cord’s fears. His strong legs propelled him deeper into the wild woods as his keen senses told him that the bloodhounds were on a hot trail. His boarhounds gasped as the leather collars half-choked them. Sebald had more sense, running exactly hard enough to keep pace but not so hard that he choked himself. Of course, Sebald was built much heavier than the boarhounds. If the boarhounds were fighting dogs, men-at-arms, if you will, Sebald was a knight among hounds. Like a knight, he seemed to act from a higher courtly code. The young boarhounds had no such qualms. They were simple brutes who yearned to sink their fangs in the fat old boar.

Catching Old Sloat, Cord hoped, would simply be a matter of time now.

***

Old Sloat the King of Beasts grew weary of running before the hounds. He was gorged on truffles, and more than a little upset at being chased from the nicely dug hole. Yet he had heard the terrible sound of MAN ON HORSE, the ringing peal that meant DOGS gave chase.

Old Sloat had little fear of the DOGS who bayed behind him. No, he didn’t fear them at all. What he did fear was MAN ON HORSE. Perhaps fear wasn’t right. Prudence had forced him from the truffle-hole. Prudence had bid him to swim through the cold mountain water.

Now the King wheezed, weary of pumping his short legs and crashing through the underbrush. Anger now washed his thoughts with a red haze. Had he not been so gorged, he’d have simply sunk into a watery thicket and slipped far away. That had proved an effective strategy for time on end. However, he hadn’t quite finished all the truffles. Even now, with a full belly and death on his heels, he thought back to the wonderful taste of truffles. Truffles. Truffles. Truffles. His anger at being driven away from the hole suddenly blazed into a wicked wish: to see all those who chased him lying bloody on the ground before him.

Old Sloat turned, and hurled himself into a dense thicket of thorns. Because of his tough hide and his rutting shields, he ignored the pricklers. He broke through and whirled at bay. Here. Here he would make a stand.

Old Sloat pawed the earth as he waited, listening to the baying DOGS. Once he even heard the peal of MAN ON HORSE. His anger grew. His wish to slay his tormenters became something he could almost taste. Then the sound he’d been waiting for occurred. DOGS struggled through the thorns, whining as they came. When the first one broke through, Old Sloat attacked.

***

Baron Hugh raged at Old Sloat. His face turned scarlet as he shook his leather-gauntleted fist. Four costly bloodhounds lay dead on the earth before him. Cord and Harold Watchman had squirmed into a thorny thicket and dragged out the four mangled bloodhounds.

“Damn you, Sloat!” roared Baron Hugh. “Damn you to bloody hell!”

“He’s a spawn of Darkness,” Sir Walter said.

Sir Philip spat at the ground. “He’s just a clever beast. Nothing more than that.”

As the nobles argued, Cord wiped gory hands on his breeches. He couldn’t stop trembling. Cunning Old Sloat had turned at bay and slain their best chances of finding him. Now…. Cord swallowed in a constricted throat as he eyed Baron Hugh. The white-haired lord of Pellinore Fief grew more wrathful by the moment. He raved about the slain mastiff, and he raved about a monster that would slay four costly bloodhounds bought from a Norse Irishman from Dublin.

“We must slay this beast!” Baron Hugh roared.

“Do you think we can, milord?” Sir Philip asked. “Maybe we should try another day.”

“Are you tired, Sir Philip?” Richard asked mockingly.

Lady Alice laughed.

Old Sir Philip shot Richard a scowl.

Cord feared for Richard. The knight might be old and bald, with a face-full of scars and eyebrows like a bear, but he was still huge, heavy and strong. Sir Philip was like an ancient oak tree, gnarled, twisted, maybe even brittle inside, but mighty until the rotten core gave way.

Cord nervously flexed his hand as he thought about the old knight.

“Should I run with the boarhounds, milord?” Cord asked, stepping up to the mighty warhorse.

Baron Hugh, his face scarlet, gave him a venomous scowl.

“Perhaps the bloodhounds wounded Sloat,” Cord said meekly.

“Aye!” Baron Hugh said as he turned his head at the thicket.

“We can’t give Sloat time to rest,” Cord said.

“Get your arse in there, dog boy! Find the trail!”

Cord squeezed back into the thicket. Thorns pierced his flesh. He ignored them. His boarhounds whined.

“Don’t let him out of your sight, Hugh,” Philip shouted. “He’ll race off to Wales if you do.”

“He’ll be a dead dog boy if he tries that!” Baron Hugh shouted.

For a moment, Cord couldn’t breathe. Then the young boarhounds gave voice as they picked up a scent. Cord prayed to Saint George that it was the right one. And before he considered what he did, Cord unleashed the boar hounds, only keeping hold of Sebald.

“They’re off!” Cord yelled.

Lady Alice shouted triumphantly, urging her stallion into the chase. Richard did likewise. A moment later, Baron Hugh blew his olifant. The huntsmen and the rest of the hounds leaped into action once more.

Cord ran harder than before. If Old Sloat turned at bay again, he wanted to be there to throw Sebald into the fray and maybe stick the boar with his knife. He had no illusions about slaying Old Sloat. But maybe he could keep Sloat busy until the knights unlimbered their boar spears and waded in for the kill.

He kept ahead of the tiring warhorses. Like Sebald, the warhorses were heavily muscled, not meant for long runs. The warhorses were meant to fight it out and carry mailed warriors. Why the knights had ridden the destriers today, Cord wasn’t sure.

To his dismay, Cord found the trail heading back toward the Iodo and lower ground. He’d been on hunts for Old Sloat before. The crafty pig usually slipped into a nearby bog. It would be next to impossible to track him into there. Once more Cord debated about running away. The back of his neck tingled. Old Sir Philip kept a beady eye on him.

An olifant pealed. It was Richard’s. No doubt, he signaled to any huntsmen who’d dropped behind where the hunt was headed.

Sweat soaked Cord’s clothes and his gasps raggedly tore down his throat. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep running so hard. The awful thought of having only one hand gave him an extra burst of speed.

The baying boarhounds raced toward the Devil’s Bog, a sprawling area of reeds, slick mud and puddles of varying sizes. Ducks and geese loved the area. Once, Baron Hugh had led a hawking party there, but only once. The terrain was treacherous and very difficult to take a horse through. Going in afoot meant coming out amuck from toe to hairline.

The pit of Cord’s stomach clenched into a tight ball. What was he going to do? Let them chop off his hand? Never! He’d fight for all he was worth if they tried that. Yet how could he overcome the huntsmen, or the knights? He tried to swallow, but found that his mouth had dried out. It was time to slip off, maybe make a run for it. Ah, maybe it was time to follow cunning Old Sloat. Maybe he’d slip into the Devil’s Bog himself.

“Hold!” shouted Baron Hugh, who drew rein.

Cord almost didn’t heed the command. He turned his head and saw Sir Philip on his warhorse only an arms-length away. The huge knight seemed ready to hurl his boar spear. Cord knew a moment of bitter defeat. Then he decided that all wasn’t yet lost. He still had his hand. And he had a knife. The first man who came for him had better beware.

Baron Hugh drew rein before the edge of the Devil’s Bog. Tall reeds hid barking, splashing boarhounds. From their barks, Cord knew they were confused. No doubt, they had lost the scent.

“That’s it then,” Sir Philip said.

Baron Hugh angrily shook his head. “That’s not it. I must have this boar. I must have his head in my castle. Nothing will stop me.”

Philip said, “But this is the Devil’s Bog. That cunning beast has used it before and he will again. We had our chance. Now it’s gone.”

Baron Hugh angrily shook his head.

Despite his boast, Cord saw the baron’s rage wilt. It often went like this. Baron Hugh demanded something. Sir Philip calmly talked him out of the outrageous demand. Everyone here knew the play.

“He slew five of my best hounds!” Baron Hugh shouted.

“A costly defeat,” Philip agreed. “But what can we do now?”

“Shall I go in a flush him out?” Cord asked.

Both Baron Hugh and Sir Philip shot him a wondering glance. This wasn’t how the play went. The two nobles argued back and forth until the Baron saw reason.

“Impudence,” Philip said. “And now that Sloat’s out of reach, I think it’s time your hand be chopped off.”

Richard barked harsh laughter. “Oh, that’s to your liking, isn’t it? You want a little easy sport rather than the manly task of finishing off the beast. I see getting mud on your trousers is too much for you, eh, Philip?”

“And what do you suggest?” Philip asked Richard.

“Let Cord and I go into the bog and drive Old Sloat out to the Baron and you.”

“Foolishness,” Philip said.

“I suppose, if you’re afraid of Old Sloat, it is,” Richard said.

Sir Philip’s rein on his temper slipped. He urged his warhorse toward Richard.

“No, wait, old friend,” Baron Hugh said. “I’ll go into the bog and drive out Sloat.”

“Is that wise, milord?” Philip asked.

“I’ll join him,” Lady Alice said. “For I tire of this beast beating us. After slaying five of the baron’s best hounds, today, Old Sloat must die.”

“Yes!” Richard shouted.

“Which hounds should I take?” Cord dared ask.

“You!” Baron Hugh said, pointing at Cord, “are to stay with Philip. If I’m to muddy myself for nothing, and lose five costly hounds, then by Saint Hubert your right hand will come off before the sun sets.”

As his knees weakened, Cord stepped away from the pointing finger. This was it then. It wasn’t just a threat. If Old Sloat wasn’t killed soon, he’d been without his right hand for the rest of his life. With growing dismay, Cord watched Baron Hugh and the Lady Alice plunge into the bog. They took three more hounds and half the huntsmen. Almost immediately, they disappeared from view.

“We should pace them,” Sir Walter said.

Sir Philip nodded agreement. “Keep the hounds leashed,” he told the remaining huntsmen. “And you, dog boy, you walk over here by me.”

Cord couldn’t do ought but obey.

“And you, squire, would do well to watch your tongue,” Sir Philip warned.

Richard kept his thoughts to himself. He gave Cord one worried glance, then he rose up in the stirrups and appeared to be watching what went on in the bog.

An olifant pealed.

“They’re headed east,” Richard said.

Sir Philip grunted, urging the others to follow him.

From behind Harold Watchman whispered into Cord’s ear, “If you try and slip away, I’ll yell, you felon’s brat.” He laughed evilly. “I can hardly wait to see your hand in the dirt.”

Cord didn’t bother to reply. Everything depended upon Old Sloat’s death.

***

Old Sloat soaked in a semi-warm, scummy puddle surrounded by reeds. He heard the DOGS and he saw a MAN ON HORSE. Old Sloat didn’t worry, for he knew they weren’t on his trail. They flailed in slime, floundered in the deep puddles and angrily shouted at one another. The DOGS barked in confusion, splashing in circles. They were simple brutes, dangerous only on level ground and in a big pack.

For time on end, ever since he’d left his mother, Sloat had used the bogs as his source of refuge. As strong and deadly as MAN ON HORSE was, he was also a fool. In the bogs, MAN ON HORSE was blind and slow, a cretin.

If Old Sloat could be said to chuckle, to know amusement, he knew it now. As the MAN ON HORSE neared, Sloat submerged and waded into deeper water. The deeper water was cold, however. It reminded him of the cold mountain stream. He hated being cold. Crossing the icy stream, Old Sloat lost his amusement as his monstrous belly rumbled. He wanted the rest of the truffles. Yes, truffles. To get the truffles he’d have to cross the stream again. In order to do that, he’d use a ford. To reach the ford he’d have to leave the bog.

No matter. MAN ON HORSE would flounder here for a long time. He knew their habits: Dangerous and stubborn, but quite stupid. Still, he hated MAN ON HORSE for his ability to scare him and drive him from the things he loved, like truffles and rutting.

Old Sloat surfaced, back-tracking the way he’d come. He would leave the swamp while his enemies forged through it.

As Old Sloat plowed through slime, his short legs producing sucking sounds. It was then he heard a MAN swearing. Old Sloat’s murderous rage blazed. The others were far distant. The MAN pulled one of his legs out of the slime and splashed into a puddle. He held a club, but no knife or spear.

Old Sloat’s knife-cut burned anew. He’d killed a huge brute of a DOG earlier today, but a horrible MAN AFOOT had given him a wound.

Old Sloat grunted, his eyes fiery. He charged out of the reeds and at the wide-eyed MAN. The MAN screamed, flailing with his club, trying to dodge. The slime held him tight. With his vast weight, Old Sloat knocked the MAN backward. Then he trampled the MAN, letting his feet crush and pound the prone enemy. Old Sloat spun around. The MAN gurgled, and slowly turned his head to look at Sloat in terror. Sloat grunted once more, then he trampled the MAN again, this time staying atop him until the hated MAN squirmed no more.

Only then did Old Sloat continue out of the bog. He’d circle, reach the ford and then go back to the truffles. Yes, truffles, truffles, truffles. How he loved them. He loved them to the same degree that he hated MAN.

***

The sun sank into the horizon. The peals from within the bog had stopped some time ago. Sir Philip had taken them into a clearing, dismounted and declared that they’d wait here. Now he turned to Harold Watchman and gave him a signal.

Cord, who petted Sebald, noticed Harold striding toward him. He leaped to his feet and put his hand to his knife-hilt.

Harold paused as Sir Philip and Sir Walter moved up.

“Keep away from me,” Cord warned the watchman.

“What’s this?” Philip demanded. “Are you holding up justice?”

Cord licked his lips.

“The sun sets,” Philip said. “So as the Baron said, it’s time to chop off your right hand.”

Cord couldn’t believe this was happening. He couldn’t quite yet draw his knife. To do that…. Philip might kill him for it.

“You can’t chop off his hand here,” Richard said, striding up.

“Why not?” Philip asked.

Richard groped for words. He said suddenly, “You don’t have any tar to smear on the wound. He’ll bleed to death.”

“Nonsense,” Philip said. “You’ll tie a tight thong on his forearm. That’ll keep him from bleeding to death.”

Cord began to shake. His stomach roiled so he almost puked.

Sir Philip motioned to Harold Watchmen. The burly peasant took another step closer to Cord.

Cord, light-headed and dizzy, drew his knife. “Stay back!” he warned. Sebald had risen and taken his place beside him.

“Are you threatening us?” Sir Philip asked in a judicious tone.

Cord took a step back, his knife before him. Sir Philip had always hated him. He didn’t know why. Maybe he never would.

“You’re to lose your hand, dog boy.”

Cord heard a footstep from behind. As he turned, a club came down and hit his hand. His knife fell to the ground. Harold lunged. A huntsman pulled Sebald away as another helped Harold. They tackled Cord and pushed his face into the dirt.

Sir Philip bent near and whispered, “I’ve waited a long time for this, dog boy. A long time.” He straightened, “Over there by the tree stump. I want you to put his hand and wrist over it.”

Just then, a loud and long peal shook the forest.

“Hold it!” Richard said. He yanked Harold off Cord and glared at the huntsman, forcing the man to back away.

The peal came again. It was Baron Hugh’s olifant.

“He’s found him!” Richard cried. “He’s found Old Sloat.”

“Impossible,” Philip said.

The peal came once more. They knew its ring, what it meant. The Baron did indeed chase the old monster once more. The olifant’s power told them so.

Richard handed Cord his knife. “The chase isn’t over yet,” he said. “Let’s go.”

The huntsmen scrambled to the leashed hounds. Sir Walter mounted up. Only Sir Philip and Harold Watchman hesitated.

“Are you daft?” Richard shouted at Philip. “The Baron needs us!”

Philip shook his head and muttered, but he too mounted up. “Keep an eye on him,” he told Harold.

Cord, sick at what had almost happened, his hand throbbing from being hit, tried to marshal his thoughts. All he knew was a blinding hatred toward Old Sloat. The crazy old boar had caused him this horrible predicament. He had to see Old Sloat dead or he’d lose his hand forever. There would be no escaping that horror. He knew that now. Only Old Sloat’s death would bring him back his hand.

Baron Hugh’s olifant pealed again. Cord, along with the others, hurried in that direction.

***

The two knights and the squire lead the charge. Behind them, Cord raced in front of the other huntsmen. Boarhounds bayed fiercely. The party crashed through branches and over bushes. Fallen logs and oak roots tried to trip them. It didn’t matter. The Pellinore hunting party followed the sound of the Baron’s olifant and his two hounds.

The grade shifted upward. Cord’s thighs burned.

Richard laughed from up ahead. “Listen to the dogs!”

Cord knew he meant the Baron’s dogs. They sounded tired, but they also had a savage note, as if they closed with the dangerous monster.

“Release the hounds!” Philip shouted.

Cord unclipped boarhounds, ones he had leashed earlier. The few that the huntsmen had streaked past Cord. They shot toward the sound of the baying. Richard yelled with joy and spurred his palfrey after the hounds. Sir Philip and Sir Walter followed.

Cord and Sebald recklessly leaped over a fallen tree and turned right after the horsemen. They dodged under branches and dove through several heavy thickets. With his heart beating savagely and his throat dry, Cord wondered if Saint George was about to grant him a victory.

Lady Alice’s olifant pealed close by. A boarhound yelped in pain. A pig grunted.

Heedless of the branches tearing at his clothes and face, Cord ran toward the noise. Sebald panted beside him.

“Baron Hugh!” Richard shouted from somewhere just ahead.

Cord put on a final burst of speed.

“O foul villain!” Baron Hugh shouted.

Cord heard a pig’s squeal.

“I see you!” Richard shouted.

“Richard, no!” Alice shouted.

A horse whinnied terribly. Something heavy crashed against the earth with a loud thud. The horse screamed.

Cord burst through the thicket before him and slid to a stop atop a cliff. Below Baron Hugh and Lady Alice had cornered Old Sloat below. Two dead boarhounds lay near the panting monster. Squire Richard was also there. The squire was pinned underneath his squirming palfrey. Cord could only guess that Richard hadn’t stopped in time. He and his horse must have plummeted over the cliff and almost atop Old Sloat. The squire’s face was very white. As the horse squirmed, he moved Richard’s body by his motions. The horse’s front legs looked broken. Sweat poured off the stallion, and the sweat had a strange, sickly odor.

Sir Philip, Sir Walter and the rest of the boarhounds raced around the cliff.

Below, his neck hairs bristling with rage, Old Sloat stepped toward Richard.

“No!” shouted Cord. He hurled a stone that pinged off the monster pig. Sloat squealed with rage, spinning to face the Baron.

Baron Hugh, his fine clothes soaked with slime, his face haggard with fatigue, dismounted. He clutched his boar spear two-handedly. Lady Alice, also mud-splattered, readied her javelin.

Cord desperately needed Old Sloat dead. He feared that Baron Hugh didn’t have the stamina left do to the deed. Nor did he think that a mere javelin could slay the pig. Also, he was worried that Sloat would gore Richard.

“Come on,” he hissed at Sebald. Cord turned and slipped over the cliff. With his toes, he found purchase. Wearily, as he watched Old Sloat, he slid down a little more. Sebald whined from above. Then the dog lunged and made a controlled drop beside the squire.

Baron Hugh laughed in dreadful glee. The monstrous boar with his small dark eyes breathed heavily. He bled from several dog bites. With a short hop, Sloat widened his stance and lowered his bloody tusks. Rage glistened in his inky eyes. His mane stiffened even more than before.

The old white-haired Baron leveled his boar spear. His hands trembled. No doubt, he was very tired. Just then, Lady Alice shouted, rose up in the stirrups and hurled her javelin. The missile shot true, but it slid off Sloat’s callused rutting shield.

Enraged, the eight hundred-pound beast charged Baron Hugh. As Cord dropped to the ground, the Baron set himself. The spear’s sharp head slid into Sloat’s shoulder. Then it bounced off the thick tissue of the boar’s rutting shield. Sloat darted his head down and up. Baron Hugh bellowed in outrage as his feet left the earth. Old Sloat trampled him, spun atop him, trampled some more, and then rushed Cord.

Panicked, Cord picked up Richard’s boar-spear. Blood pumped out of Sloat’s wound. Through the blood peered the wickedly black eye of Old Sloat. The beast meant to slay him. It meant to trample his corpse and gloat.

All the fear of losing his hand, all his hatred of Sir Philip and the injustices he’d had to bear all his life welled like a boil in Cord. The boil broke, and out oozed hatred. Cord roared as he backed up a step against the cliff. He knelt, ground the boar-spear against the hill and held on with all his youthful strength.

As Sir Philip rode into view, Old Sloat smashed into Cord’s pike. The hardened pole buckled in Cord’s hands as the razor-sharp steel entered Sloat’s neck. The monster’s vast weight pushed the spearhead deeper. Squealing, Sloat tried to slash Cord. Sebald bit into Sloat’s throat and jerked the tusks from Cord. Cord shouted with rage and fear and twisted the boar-spear. The fat pig squealed, thrashing his stumpy legs as life drained from him. Then Old Sloat died and grew very still.

A mighty feeling of victory washed over Cord. He let go of the boar-spear as he shouted, “Yes! Yes!”

Huge old Sir Philip sat motionless upon his destrier, his mouth agape. He looked at Cord as if he’d seen a ghost or some other supernatural horror.

Sebald growled as he shook Old Sloat.

Sir Philip, his scarred face pale, worked his mouth. “You… You slew Old Sloat.”

Cord grinned savagely.

Philip gasped. Then he whispered, “Tostig.”

Lady Alice glanced sharply at Philip.

Cord cocked his head. Had Philip said Tostig? Had Philip spoken the name of his, Cord’s, long dead father?

Philip blinked, and he glanced at the Baron. “Hugh!” he bellowed. “Hugh!” Philip alighted from his mount and ran to the trampled and quite dead Baron Hugh.

Cord wiped sweat and blood from his face. He’d done the miraculous. He’d killed the monster that had reigned in Clarrus Woods for as long as he could remember.

Old Sloat had been the King of Beasts, he thought. The knowledge stirred something in him. Cord ran his hands through his hair, staining it red with Old Sloat’s blood. The motion almost seemed like that of a king crowning himself. Cord’s shoulders squared without his being aware of it. His chin rose and his eyes flashed.

The nearby palfrey screamed, breaking through Cord’s thoughts. He staggered to Richard’s struggling palfrey and put him out of his misery. Cord then pulled out an unconscious but still breathing Richard. Both his legs were broken. Cord knelt beside Richard and touched one of the thighs. Richard groaned. Cord went to work. He set the bones, splinted the legs and bound the wounds. He stood when he was done and looked around. Sir Philip studied him. The ugly set to the heavy knight’s face told Cord more than he wanted to know.

“You’re going to pay for this day,” Sir Philip whispered.

Cord was too drained to guard his response. “Old Sloat is dead. That means I’m the forester.”

Philip roared an oath and drew his sword. He looked upon Cord with stark, unthinking hatred.

The Lady Alice de Mowbray urged her mount between Sir Philip and Cord. She gazed questioningly upon the knight.

Sir Philip said, “Maybe not today, dog boy, but someday soon I’m going to kill you. Then I’m going to put your head on a stick and plant it on Hugh’s grave.”

“That’s disgusting,” Alice said.

Old Sir Philip laughed; it was an ugly sound. “You’d better hope, you young filly, that Baron Hugh’s son doesn’t grant me the right to marry you.”

“Touch me and I’ll kill you,” Alice said flatly.

“We’ll see,” Philip said. Then, as the others knelt by dead Baron Hugh, Philip mounted up and rode off alone.

Chapter Four

Philip rode slumped in the saddle, dazed and disoriented by the day’s events. He was only vaguely aware that the sun sank into the western horizon, its bloated disc barely above the forest. The horror he’d witnessed yet lingered. It made him fearful. He urged his destrier on, tired though the stallion was. Philip hoped to reach the Iodo River soon. He didn’t like the idea of fording the swift stream in the dark.

Too many strange things came out on nights like this.

“…I’ve seen a ghost,” he whispered.

Philip sat up when he realized he’d spoken aloud. A cursory glance showed him that no one had dared ride with or walked beside him. The others must have sensed his mood. And they’d stayed to help with Baron Hugh’s corpse. They couldn’t leave the corpse for the ghouls to gnaw, or for any goblins to tamper with it. On a more pragmatic level, he knew they couldn’t leave the corpse for wolves to feast upon. That would be blasphemous.

Normally, Philip wasn’t superstitious. But how did a person fight superstitions when he’d just seen a ghost?

Huge Philip Talbot shivered with renewed dread. It had all happened so quickly: Baron Hugh blasting his olifant, Cord reprieved from a hand chopping. Then he’d ridden around the small cliff Richard had so recklessly plummeted off—Philip scowled thinking of the squire. The boy had called him a Turk! Oh, there would be a day of reckoning. Philip assured himself of that. Then he shivered again, thinking of the frightening boar-slayer. The tall slayer with his bloody spear, with the grin Philip had never been able to forget, all these many years he’d tried.

“Tostig,” he whispered, speaking the name of the man he’d hated more than any other. Speaking the name of the man he’d feared more than any other.

It had happened many years ago—a lifetime ago. He’d only been a lad of seventeen then. He’d been a huge and clumsy youth with big feet and even bigger hands, although without the big gut that he had nowadays. Still, he’d been strong even then. Oh yes, he’d been stronger than any one of them. There had been the young baron-to-be Hugh and the almost Earl Roger Mortimer. He’d even been stronger than Terrible Tostig, who had been nineteen years old then and a bane to all three of them. Tostig and he had both been squires to the Earl of Wigmore Castle, Roger Mortimer’s father. Philip could hardly remember the Earl’s face anymore; it had been so long ago. He could recall the incident, however, as if it had happened this morning.

It had all started because of that stupid barn, a perfectly built barn with its hidden stores of grain. How the old Earl how raved about that, eh? Oh, he’d raved long and fiercely, and then he’d sent his squires into the woods to find the freeholder who had dared hold back the dues owed his liege.

***

Young Philip Talbot, a huge brute at seventeen, crouched low in the saddle in order to avoid the branches that whizzed past him at dangerous speeds. His palfrey, a spirited stallion that seemed to sense his master’s clumsiness, galloped uncomfortably close to the trees. The smell of pinesap was overpowering. Philip almost sawed back on the reins. He knew, though, that he’d yank too hard and that the palfrey would neigh in rage and maybe even rear back and throw him off. Philip knew he was strong. Why, he could bend horseshoes into twisted shapes that no one else could budge. For all that, he was still clumsy. He’d finally accepted that when he’d had to practice longer at the quintain than any other squire in order to get it right.

He hated the quintain. He hated the heavy post with its straw man who held a shield with one stout wooden arm and a leather bag filled with sand dangling from a rope on the other. The straw man looked more like the Savior as he hung on the cross than a dummy knight. All the squires, one at a time, thundered on warhorses at the quintain, their practice lances held level and aimed at the quintain’s red shield. A perfect strike in the center of the shield, on the white spot surrounded by red, caused the shield to swivel harmlessly away. Any other strike made the straw man, the quintain, twist with brutal speed. The straw man, as he twisted, swung his leather bag filled with sand to smack the offending squire in the back. The blow hurt. Worse for Philip, because he was clumsy he was often knocked out of the saddle.

All the other squires laughed at him then, all except Terrible Tostig. Tostig tried to give him hints on how to do it right. Philip hated Tostig for that. He, Philip Talbot, was Anglo-Norman while Tostig was a Saxon cur. He, Philip Talbot, had a banneret for a father, while Tostig’s father had barely made it into knighthood.

Philip, as he thundered past the pine trees, endured his palfrey’s knavery all because he wanted to beat Tostig to the freeholder and his daughter. If his palfrey bucked him off, Philip knew he’d probably have to spend at least twenty minutes trying to coax the sly stallion into coming near enough again so he could remount. The cunning old stallion would play his stupid game of always stepping back just fast enough so he, Philip, would be reduced to cursing like an Irishman. By then Tostig would have found the pair.

Only Tostig and he had been with the Earl in the barn. Apparently, the freeholder had bolted, no doubt having gained warning through his barking dogs. Philip had killed one of those brutes. He’d told the Earl he’d done so because the dog had snarled at him. The real reason was because he’d seen Tostig pet it.

Terrible Tostig. He hated his fellow squire. He hated him because he did everything so easily. Philip hated him because of his smile, because of his good looks, and most of all, because Terrible Tostig didn’t fear him like the others did. Because Tostig didn’t fear him, he hadn’t been able to browbeat the other squires and pages into line as his mother had told him to do.

Philip was grinning, even though he cursed as a branch thwacked him on the shoulder, ripped his costly shirt and almost tore him out of the saddle. The rich and insufficiently subservient freeholder had made a terrible mistake, building his barn with hidden granaries. Now Philip had his chance to make the man pay for the insults he’d thrown at him in the past, and through that he’d hit back at Tostig. For didn’t Tostig forever flirt with the man’s pretty daughter?

Yes! And again yes!

Philip spied the freeholder. The stupid fool sat on his two-wheeled cart as if he was out for a holiday drive, as if nothing was wrong back at the barn. Beside him sat his willowy daughter in a pretty yellow dress. She spoke earnestly to her father. She had a pretty, dark-haired face and long dark hair. Even better, her breasts were huge, always straining against her woolen clothes.

“Halt!” Philip thundered.

Both the freeholder and his daughter jerked back to stare at him. Surprise filled their faces. He saw them glance at each other, as if asking aloud why the Earl’s clumsiest squire rode so fast at them.

In moments, Philip galloped up even with them. Only then did he dare to saw back on the reins. The palfrey screamed, as he’d known all along that it would. The stallion reared back. Philip fought to stay on, but one of his big feet slipped out of the stirrups. That twisted his leg back. Then his other foot slipped out and he fell back with a yell and landed on his back. As the palfrey’s front hooves thudded onto the ground, Philip groaned with wounded pride.

The freeholder laughed, although he quickly strangled it. But the daughter laughed, too, for a little longer than her father had.

Red with shame and rage, Philip scrambled up. A mounting fury swirled within him like a storm.

“Are you all right?” the freeholder asked. He was a wiry man with a great bushy black beard and an expensive leather jacket.

The daughter giggled.

Philip turned even more scarlet than before. A vein on his neck throbbed and his thoughts became hellish.

“What’s wrong, Squire?” the freeholder asked, a nervous quaver entering his voice.

“Wrong?” Philip asked thickly. “Why, you stupid dolt, the Earl found your hidden granaries. That’s what’s wrong.”

The freeholder paled. His pretty filly of a daughter threw a slim hand before her rosy-lipped mouth. Her giggles fled.

“Step down from your cart!” Philip roared.

The freeholder blinked stupidly.

“I said: STEP DOWN!” Philip thundered, no longer feeling clumsy at all.

The freeholder hastily jumped off his cart.

Philip, his embarrassed fury close to the berserk rage of his Viking ancestors, punched the freeholder in the face before the other was even aware of what happened. Boxing was one of Philip’s favorite sports and he was good at it, if a little slow. The crunch of the freeholder’s nose startled Philip, and it gave him an almost insane sense of gratification. The daughter’s scream did something to him that was hardly aware of. He hit the freeholder again, smashing the nose to pulp. The wiry freeholder with his expensive leather coat staggered back. Then he collapsed onto his arse as blood poured onto his huge black beard. Philip laughed. The pretty filly screamed once more, her face red as tears streamed down her cheeks. Philip stepped behind the father, jerked the man’s hands together and lashed the wrists. He hoisted the man to his feet, pushed him back against a tree and tied him to it.

The pretty filly with her long black hair and big breasts jumped off the cart and tugged at Philip’s arms. “Leave him alone!” she screamed. “Leave him alone!”

Philip finally realized that his manhood was gorged with blood. Maybe it had already known what his berserk brain told him: Rape the girl in front of her father.

“You beast, leave him alone!” the pretty filly screamed.

Philip turned, towering above her, drinking in her womanly scent. “As you wish,” he rasped. He reached out with his big hand and ripped her blouse away. Huge breasts, impossibly big breasts, swung free as she stared at him in shock.

Philip laughed, excited and entranced, completely taken with his power.

“Stop,” the freeholder groaned, blood pouring down his face.

“No,” the girl whispered. “Not in front of my father.”

Philip grabbed her as she turned to run. With another yank, he ripped away the rest of her dress. A moment’s work tore off her underlinen. She had slender long legs and very little black hair between them. How grand.

“Stop,” moaned the girl and father together.

Philip somehow fumbled off his belt as he lowered his trousers.

The girl stared down at him in horror.

He pushed her onto the loam as the father struggled to free himself. She finally fought back. A swift backhand blow snapped her pretty head to the side and caused the struggles to cease. Then, as Philip pushed apart her smooth legs, he heard the whinny of another horse. Why he didn’t think it was his own horse he never figured out. Instead, as he lay atop the sweet-smelling girl, Philip looked up.

Terrible Tostig leaned on his saddle horn, a look of disgust on his angular and oh so handsome face.

“You’ll have to wait until I’m done,” Philip said thickly, even though his manhood began to shrivel. Something in Tostig’s eyes stole his fury.

“You’re done now,” Tostig said in a dreadful whisper.

“Watch if you want,” Philip said, desperately trying to face Tostig down.

Tostig laughed, and then he grinned in that terrible frozen way of his. It was a grin that Philip would never be able to forget. Tostig slid off his palfrey. Philip jumped up, pulling his pants over his withered manhood.

“You’ve earned this,” Tostig said, punching straight and hard.

Horrible pain exploded upon Philip’s face as his head rocked back. Tears welled in his eyes. He tried to wipe the tears away. Then another punch hammered in. Philip roared and swung a haymaker. Tostig dodged it.

Although the Saxon squire was smaller, he was much quicker than Philip and almost as strong.

“Are you learning your lesson?” Tostig grimly asked, circling, throwing in blow after blow.

The fists felt like granite. Philip desperately tried to defend himself, tried to charge and grapple the older squire who maddeningly stayed out of range. Nothing helped. Nothing mattered but the granite-hard blows. Tostig was beating the hell out of him! Philip was hardly aware that he screamed, cursed, and pleaded all at once.

“I’m not going to beat you to death,” Tostig said some minutes later.

Philip swayed. His face was a bloody mess, with both his eyes swelled shut. A horrible fear had descended upon him, that he either would die or be maimed for life.

“No, I’m not going to kill you,” Tostig said, as if he worked hard to control of himself. “Even a pig like you can learn. Am I right?”

Philip swayed, hoping that the beating was at an end. A rock hard fist slammed into his gut, doubling him over as he groaned. His knees buckled.

“I asked you a question, pig? Am I right?”

Philip mumbled a reply. Another blow hammered into his side. A rib cracked.

“Am I right, Pig Philip?”

Philip nodded sickly.

“Good, I’m glad you think I’m right,” Tostig said from somewhere far away. “I glad you learned your lesson. Rape is wrong. Abusing your strength is wrong. A knight must be noble. A knight must not be a pig.”

Philip nodded again.

“Now, I’m going to help you into the saddle and then we’ll ride home. Do you agree?”

Philip nodded as tears streamed out of his swollen eyes. He didn’t even think about revenge. Not now, not with Tostig standing above him.

***

Philip, as his steed climbed out of the Iodo River, shivered at the memory. Little help that the Earl had been enraged with Tostig. It hadn’t even mattered that Tostig had been banished from the Earl’s court, his squire-hood lost. Tostig had still become a knight. Tostig had still plagued him for years afterward, until that happy day when Terrible Tostig had been hanged from a tree like a common felon. Yes, that had helped a little. But what had helped even more was that Terrible Tostig had a son, a young lad named Cord. What had helped was that he’d been able to convince Baron Hugh to take Cord on as his dog bog. What had helped was that for years he’d secretly gloated over the dog boy, giving him the blows he’d never dared give Tostig. And it had helped that Cord looked so much like his father. Oh, that had helped a great deal.

Today, however, he’d seen the dog boy grin at him the way his father had grinned. He’d seen the same fire in Cord’s eyes that had been in Tostig’s. Maybe he’d even seen Tostig himself, come back to haunt him after all these years.

“And he killed Old Sloat,” Philip whispered. Not Baron Hugh, not himself, not any other knight who for years had tracked Old Sloat. No one had been able to accomplish such a mighty feat. No, only Cord the dog boy, the son of Terrible Tostig, had done that.

Fear filled Philip. Terrible Tostig had returned. What could he possibly do about it? Maybe a quarter mile later the answer came. As Philip considered the answer, an evil sneer twisted his face. Baron Hugh was dead. Who then controlled the fief?

At the moment— I do.

Philip also realized something else. Cord the dog boy wanted to marry Bess, the fulling miller’s daughter. Baron Hugh had given his consent a few weeks ago.

But only I have the right to the fulling mill now that Hugh is dead.

He couldn’t just kill Cord, much as he wanted too. No, not yet anyway. But he could make the dog boy suffer. Oh, he could make him suffer indeed.

Philip’s huge face tightened with resolve as he spurred his destrier toward the Tanning Village. Yes, it was time to speak with Cuthbert the Fulling Miller and make him see sweet reason. If Cuthbert couldn’t see reason, then a few hardy blows might do the trick. If that didn’t work…. Philip massaged his groin. Maybe he could return later with some retainers and have a private meeting with the daughter. For now that Baron Hugh was dead, he, Philip the Seneschal, controlled Pellinore Fief.

After that, it would be time to begin the rumors that would end with Cord the dog boy dangling from a rope. For hadn’t Earl Mortimer and he engineered Tostig’s hanging long ago?

Philip laughed, and he knew once more the familiar pleasure of dominance.

Chapter Five

Alice de Mowbray bit her tongue. She was tired and dirty, and she so desperately needed her wits. Yelling at her servants wouldn’t help.

“Gently, Susan,” Alice said. “My hair’s tangled, and you’ve already pulled out two twigs.”

“Yes, milady,” said the old serving woman. Susan was a crone of fifty, with gray hair, a wrinkled face and nary a tooth in her mouth. For all that, her shoulders were strong and her muscles just as thick as when she’d been a lass of sixteen. Long ago, Susan had helped her father, a carpenter, saw wood and sand it down. Then a raiding Welshman had bashed in his skull. Lady Alice’s mother had taken Susan in years ago as a scullion.

Susan was one of Alice’s two servants from Castle Gareth. She was one of the few survivors from that terrible night when Prince Llewellyn’s warriors had broken through the front gate. Sir de Mowbray, Alice’s father, had died killing Welsh.

Alice whispered a short prayer to the Virgin Mary for her father—she always did when thinking about him. He’d been a hard-fisted knight who’d drawn steel on the slightest impulse. Alice was certain her father hadn’t yet made it out of Purgatory. Tonight, once everything was decided, she’d go to Castle Pellinore’s chapel and light tapers for him and say a hundred Hail Marys.

“You need a bath, milady,” Susan said softly.

“Michael is already boiling the water.”

“In the kitchen?”

Alice nodded.

Susan bent low as she whispered into Alice’s ear, “Shouldn’t you be with the knights, milady? Someone will have to go to Castle Gareth and tell Sir Guy that his father is dead. You—”

Alice held up a hand.

On the other side of the hall the sobbing stopped. The crying had been constant ever since Lady Eleanor had been told of her husband’s death.

Alice picked up her stool and quietly moved it to the edge of her wooden screen.

Across the hall, two young boys held tapers for Father Bernard. He stepped onto a large platform that led up to the bed, and he whispered to Lady Eleanor. A canopy hung from the ceiling and golden cords held back the blue curtains. The bed contained a vast goose-feather mattress and could easily sleep ten people. It lay on an ornately carved frame of cedar, which stood a good two feet above the floor. Intricately embroidered cushions lay strewn about the bed, and on the far side Squire Richard Clark stirred and groaned in his sleep. He’d been urged to drink two flagons of ale in order to reduce his pain and help him sleep.

The bed dominated the old hall. In Alice’s opinion, the hall was far too large.

Pellinore Castle, Alice knew only too well, was old and cramped. A little less than two hundred years ago, one of the Conqueror’s earls had built a wooden tower and palisade here. Since that time, and since the Crusades when many Europeans had first seen stout stone castles in the East, Pellinore Castle had gone through several transformations. About a hundred years ago, the wooden tower had been pulled down and a thick stone tower built in its place. Fifty years ago, the wooden walls came down and stone ones rose up. Twenty years ago, the moat had been dug and a solid barbican built. Gareth Castle, newer and airier, had not prepared Alice for the living conditions here.

The baron’s family and his retainers still lived in the old, cramped and dark tower. At the very top, on the flagstaff turret, prowled the castle watchman. He blew his horn every sunset and every morn. When strangers approached, he signaled that as well. From a heavy beam projecting outward of the turret—the beam was the castle’s gibbet—hung a very dead thief. His corpse was three days old, and the eyes had long ago eaten out by crows.

From the tall flagstaff atop the turret flew the castle banner. The banner showed a white spread-winged eagle on a field of red. Below the eagle, in black letters, was the arrogant motto:

Not king nor prince,

Duke nor count am I;

I am the lord of Pellinore.

The banner never came down. Only if the castle were taken in siege or by assault would the Pellinore eagle desert its post.

Down a spiral flight of stone stairs were the living quarters where Alice now was. She, after much argument, had been allowed her wooden screen and single bed. A draft always chilled her here, but in order to have this tiny piece of privacy she endured the draft. She shared the dank hall with the Baron, his wife, children, squire, with Sir Philip, his daughter and groomsman, with Sir Walter and his wife, with the bailiff, his wife and children and with ten of the highest ranked servants. Her bed, specially built for one, had a heavy curtain that she pulled around her no matter how hot the hall became. Only in bed did she have privacy. Susan slept on a mat at the foot of the bed.

Below the living quarters was the Great Hall—the eating room with its massive fireplace. The dog boys, minstrels and other wayfarers together with countless castle servants and hounds slept there on the rushes or on straw pallets. Below that, at ground level, stood the armory and storage rooms. At the very bottom, dug deeply into the earth, was the dungeon and torture chamber.

Alice couldn’t hear what Father Bernard told Lady Eleanor. His voice suddenly rose, however, as a sob escaped the noble lady. Father Bernard bowed his head and motioned to the two young boys. They retreated to the staircase and took their leave.

An attendant, a middle-aged peasant with perfect manners, stepped upon the bed platform and whispered to Eleanor. She sobbed louder and retreated into the depths of her huge bed. The attendant pulled the golden cords. The heavy blue curtains swung down and sealed Lady Eleanor within. The attendant then stepped off the platform and whispered to another, a younger peasant in training. They both nodded and lay down on their mats. If Eleanor called, they would instantly leap up, ready to help her in any way.

By the light of the flickering night-candle, Alice studied the rest of the hall. Someone paced back and forth in the shadows near Sir Walter’s corner. Over by the fireplace, where embers glowed, sat a youth staring into the redness. He looked like the bailiff’s oldest son. Another youth, a girl, sat on a stool beside the chess table, which was near the fireplace. She sat on the opponent’s stool, opposite Baron Hugh’s. Alice recognized her, Baron Hugh’s second cousin and Philip’s daughter from his first marriage. The girl had often played chess with Baron Hugh. She’d had a knack for it, and Baron Hugh had daily praised her on her skill. In the gloom, the girl picked up one of the ivory pieces. The set had been purchased in Ireland, in Cork, from Scandinavian traders. The ivory was said to be walrus, harvested from a half-mythical place called Greenland far to the northwest in a land of eternal sunlight.

Alice scanned the rest of the hall. Few other pieces of furniture were here except for chests. In this age, nobles kept their costly belongings in chests, not closets or drawers. There were a few narrow benches, and against the wall opposite the stairs stood the baron’s throne-like chair of state. It had a backrest and arms and was carved with hunting scenes and cushioned with padded silk. At the foot of the chair, in the Spanish custom, lay a Turkish rug. It was Lady Eleanor’s greatest conceit, for she’d long ago heard of the Lady Eleanor of Castile who had come to Westminster to visit Prince Edward before their marriage. The Spanish lady had carpets strewn about her apartments. Now their Eleanor tried to do likewise.

A few tapestries hung from the walls and hid the soot and the old stones. A man sat in one of the windowsills. Near the window where the Baron and Baroness’s silver crucifix hung—the place they kneeled each morning and evening to say their prayers—stood two weeping children.

From the stairs came the mournful music of a minstrel who played his viol. He played in the Great Hall, for the knights, sergeants and men-at-arms who drank to Baron Hugh’s memory.

Moved by the music, wondering if she should continue with her plan, Alice recalled the Baron’s son. Sir Guy was presently the castellan of her castle. He’d become a tall man with a narrow face, narrow mouth and a crooked half-smile. She shivered at the thought of him. Once, when he’d been a squire and she a visiting lass of ten, she’d found him high upon the flagstaff turret. His dark eyes had been glazed and quite scary, even as he petted a squirming kitten.

She recalled their conversation vividly:

“Why do cats always land on their feet?” he’d asked in his strange, silky way.

Alice had shaken her head.

“And why do they say cats have nine lives?” Guy had asked.

She’d backed away from him. He’d seemed remote, at that moment not quite human.

“This cat has only one life,” Guy had said, squeezing it so it mewed in pain.

“Leave it alone. It’s only a kitten.”

He’d leered. “Leave it alone, pretty Alice? Yes, I’ll leave it alone. But only if you take off all your clothes and come and rub yourself against me.”

Alice had choked on his wicked words and almost bolted.

He’d waited, finally shrugged, turned and hurled the kitten into the air. It mewed once more, then it had plummeted to its death far below.

Alice had fled in terror. She’d also been too embarrassed to tell anyone what Guy had said to her. Ever since then she’d avoided Guy as if he’d had the pox.

Alice shivered at the memory and knew that no matter what the cost, she had to steel her heart tonight. Her future was at stake. Soon Guy would be her new liege.

“I’ll brush my own hair,” Alice whispered to Susan. “You bring up the water. Tell Michael to help you.”

“Shouldn’t you go down to the hall now, milady?” Susan whispered. “The knights make plans.”

Alice considered Susan her wisest councilor. The old serving woman had seen much in her life, and she had a quick wit and a normally cheery temperament.

“Let them make plans,” Alice whispered. “Let them air their differences and quarrel and reproach themselves. I’ll only come down once cleaned and carefully attired in white.”

“In mourning clothes, milady?”

“I mourn for Baron Hugh.”

Susan picked up a flickering candle and peered into Alice’s eyes. “You are serious, milady,” she said in obvious surprise. “Oh bless you, you’re serious.” She kissed Alice on the check, picked up a portion of her long skirt and hurried into the darkness.

Alice dragged a comb through her hair, and pulled hard when she came to a snarl. She winced as she accidentally yanked out hair. She flung the comb onto her clothes chest and tried to think.

Poor Baron Hugh, killed by a pig.

She couldn’t forget the handsome dog boy. His features were knightly enough but his station was so very low. There had been nothing lowborn in his slaying of Old Sloat, though!

Alice smiled. Yes, that had been a mighty feat. A man who could slay Old Sloat could surely do many other brave deeds.

She frowned. Why did Sir Philip hate Cord? He would surely kill Cord before long. That would be a horrible shame. Cord should run away. Was it possible, however, for the slayer of Old Sloat to flee like a knave? Alice didn’t think so. Besides, he was stubborn, just as Hob had said.

Alice picked up the comb, thoughtfully pulling several of her long strands from it. Apparently, Cord’s father had been a knight. Hob had said that, too. So Cord wasn’t really a felon’s son. He was the son of a knight who had made the terrible mistake of taking on Earl Roger Mortimer. In all the Western Marches, there were few lords as powerful as Roger Mortimer.

So why did I ride between Philip and the dog boy?

Alice knew why. Cord had spirit. He was bold when faced by Sloat, and his way with dogs… sometimes it seemed supernatural. No one could train dogs like Cord. Maybe, though, the reason she liked Cord had more to do with his heroic slaying of Sloat. His handsome features had been stamped in such a defiant and knightly scowl as the boar had charged. Her heart had quickened at the sight.

Cord was a man! He was a true gallant from the storybooks!

Alice shivered as the viol from below made a most mournful tune. She was exhausted. She wanted noting more than to take a hot bath and then go to sleep. The knights, however, made plans in the Great Hall. Someone had to go to Gareth Castle to tell Sir Guy what had occurred in the woods. Soon Guy would be the Baron, would be her new liege. It would be up to him whom she married.

Her eyes narrowed. She was going to marry whom she wanted, not some cur that thought he owned her and her castle. Nor could she forget Philip and his awful boast. She touched the slender dagger hidden in her boot. If Philip tried to lay his foul hands upon her….

She shuddered. It has hard being surrounded by so many enemies. They all hungered for her land, for her castle, but they thought nothing of her. Maybe a few of them wanted to sate their lusts upon her—

No, you must think. Don’t let despair control you. Use your wits!

She nodded. Tonight began the struggle to regain her castle. Tonight the Baron’s knights plotted and jockeyed for position. Tonight she would have to bend them to her will. This was a delicate time, but it could also be a time where many gains might be won.

Alice bowed her head.

I do mourn you, Baron Hugh. May you soon go to Heaven. But I will not lie to myself. You’ve given me a chance to regain what’s mine. So if I’m strong tonight and shed you no tears, know that when they bury you I’ll cry and say many prayers for your soul. I hope you understand. I know my father would have.

She heard a bucket scrape against stone. Michael and Susan brought her hot water.

The water had been boiled outside in the kitchen. While many meals in Pellinore Castle took place in the Great Hall, all food was cooked outside. Fires were a terrible hazard. Thus, almost all kitchens were shabby affairs of wood, built near the Great Halls to assist the servants who ran up and down the stairs with their heavy plates of food. When great lords feasted in the hall, pages and squires did the carting, and sometimes knights of lowly rank.

“What is that?” a woman whispered in the dark.

“Forgive me, milady,” Alice said, candle in hand. “My servants bring me hot water.”

“Hot water?”

“The hunt was tiring, milady.”

“You bathe?” Sir Walter’s wife Martha asked in disbelief, a short, plump woman of thirty-five. “You bathe now, at a time like this?”

“I must purify myself, milady,” Alice said. “I must cleanse myself from the horror I’ve witnessed.”

Lady Martha hissed, “Are you mad? Don’t you know that we’ve covered all the mirrors, all things that reflect and shine? Don’t you realize that we’ve poured out all the water?”

“Milady?” Alice asked.

Martha stepped near, her eyes wide, stark, wild. “Baron Hugh died, you witch! You were there. Sir Philip told us how you planned it.”

“What?” Alice said, shocked at the news.

The short plump woman in her nightgown edged closer. Normally she was mild, demure, the soul of charity. Tonight her hair was in disarray and her skin was blotched. “You planned it!” she hissed.

“How could I plan Old Sloat’s actions?” Alice asked.

“Because you’re a witch!” the woman hissed.

Alice stepped back, appalled by the woman’s flaring nostrils, by her fingers that hooked like a goshawk’s talons. Did the woman plan to rake her with those fingers?

The plump, almost frenzied woman stepped forward. “Why do you always flee our company, Alice? Why do you often ride alone in the woods? Yes,” she said, nodding. “We’ve all noticed. We’ve all wondered.”

“I-I grow weary sometimes,” Alice said. The woman’s anger was making her sick. They were friends, companions. Why, wasn’t Martha the one who always asked her to read to them? Alice had ten books in her locked chest. Only Father Bernard and Richard had any other books. In the constant war against boredom, Alice often read to the other ladies.

“Weary?” Martha sneered. “Weary because you can’t stand the company of honest Christians?”

“No,” Alice whispered, shaking her head. “You don’t understand.”

“Ha!” the woman barked.

Alice heard the sharp intake of breath. Near her stood Susan and Michael, each holding heavy buckets of boiled water.

“You’re a witch!” the plump woman said, stabbing a hard finger into Alice’s chest. “You always struggled against Baron Hugh. He wished to wed you to a good, strong knight. But no, you lifted that haughty nose of yours and disdained his wishes. You made one excuse after another. Why, Alice?”

In the dark, Alice felt many eyes upon her. Some were hostile, others merely curious. How to handle this normally fine lady? To argue and defend oneself against witchcraft wouldn’t do. Rather, the whole idea had to be crushed before others even took up such madness. The charge of witchcraft, even without proof, was a grave danger.

“Oh, milady,” Alice wailed. She dropped the candleholder, hearing it clatter on the floor. Then she threw her arms around the shorter woman. She let all her weariness, all her loneliness that she struggled to control burst through into tears. She buried her face against the soft shoulder and cried aloud. It was something she knew none of them had ever seen her do.

“I saw!” Alice wailed. “I saw what that terrible beast did! Why, milady? Why did the Baron ride ahead of us? Why didn’t he stay with at least one other person? We all knew Old Sloat was a killer.”

Alice felt the short fingers stroking her hair. She also felt the many staring eyes. With calculation, but also because the strain of staying strong these two years had worn her down, she let herself go limp. Martha caught and steadied her.

“Help me,” Martha told Susan and Michael.

Soon Alice lay on her bed, with Martha stroking her brow.

“Poor Alice,” she said. “Poor, poor Alice.”

“M-Milady,” Alice whispered. “I’ve ridden almost daily into the forests because I miss my father so.”

The plump hand stopped its stroking. Because Susan had relit the candle, Alice saw the frown on Martha’s face.

Be careful, Alice told herself. She’s distraught at Baron Hugh’s death.

“You see,” said Alice, “my father loved the woods. Sometimes, when the wind whispers through the leaves… why, I can almost hear his laughter.” That was true. The laughter wasn’t joyful, however, but insane. On windy days, the forest badly frightened her. Those times were one of the reasons why Alice was certain that her father still suffered in Purgatory.

The plump hand still hadn’t moved. Alice felt the lady’s searching stare.

“I know Baron Hugh wished me married,” Alice said softly. “But… sometimes I don’t think I’m worthy.”

“Oh, child,” Martha said, her hand once more stroking Alice’s brow. “You poor, poor child. Of course you’re worthy.”

“Do you think so?” Alice asked in a small voice.

“Yes, of course.”

“Then you don’t think that I’m…”

“No! Hush, child. I spoke so because… because…” It was Martha’s turn to sob.

Alice sat up and hugged Martha. The two stayed like that for almost a minute. At last, Martha released Alice, wiped her nose and tried to rearrange her hair.

“It’s just, child, I heard you whispering with your servant. And Sir Philip, he said the most awful things.”

“Sir Philip hates me,” Alice said quietly.

“Yes, I think he does. Why, I don’t know. He’s such a fine knight, such a strong and mighty warrior.”

“Yes, he is,” Alice lied.

“Maybe you could teach him not to hate you.”

Alice kept herself from shuddering. “Do you think so?” she asked meekly.

“Maybe if I spoke with Walter. Yes, Walter could help Philip change his mind.”

Alice sighed and slumped back onto the bed.

“Oh, you poor child. You must be very tired.”

“I am,” Alice admitted.

Martha nodded and made to rise. Then she saw Susan and Michael standing to the side, the buckets at their feet. Steam rose from them.

“You must pour out that water,” Martha said sternly.

Alice made a tired noise as she sat up. She put her hands around Martha’s shoulders. “Please, don’t be upset with me. My mother taught me that I must cleanse myself after seeing such a horrible passing. I-I won’t be able to sleep until I bathe.”

Martha paused. “Truly, your mother taught you this?”

“Yes.” Yes, Alice thought, my mother taught me to bathe when I’m dirty.

“Child, don’t you know that it’s evil to have standing water near a corpse?”

“How so, milady?”

“You might drown the soul! No, no bath tonight.” To the servants, Martha said, “Pour out the water.”

“Oh, milady,” Alice said. “Baron Hugh lies below in the chapel, not up here. Surely if I took a quick bath—”

“Didn’t you hear me?” Martha asked in shock. “You’ll drown Baron Hugh’s soul as it ascends into Paradise.”

“Don’t most knightly souls first go down to Purgatory?”

“Alice! What a dreadful thought.”

“Forgive me, milady. I’m so tired. I hardly know what I’m saying. It’s just….” Alice suddenly understood. This poor woman was a simple soul, filled with superstitions and nonsense. Inspiration filled her. “Surely I won’t drown Baron Hugh’s soul if I say Hail Marys while I cleanse myself of the Curse of the Dead.”

“The Curse of the Dead?” Martha asked in horror.

“If I don’t wash off the curse,” Alice said, “then I’ll never be able to marry anyone.”

“Truly?” asked Martha.

“Please, don’t leave this curse on me, milady. Don’t let the Devil gain a foothold in me.”

“No, no,” Martha said slowly. “And the corpse does lie below.” She hugged herself.

Alice frowned. The worry that filled Martha’s face…. Alice’s eyebrows rose. She sidled closer and whispered, “Tell me, milady, what truly troubles thee?”

Martha looked down.

“You’ve helped me,” Alice said. “Now let me help you.”

“Yes. Maybe you can help. Maybe you could whisper to Sir Guy that he not send my Walter away.”

“Away to where, milady?”

Martha whispered quietly, “Sir Walter and Sir Guy are not on friendly terms. If you could help breach that—I don’t want to leave here, Alice. I love living at Pellinore Castle. I’m afraid Walter will want to go back to our dingy old tower once Sir Guy returns.” She turned away. “Oh, what a fool you must think me.”

“Never,” Alice said. “I’ll help you any way I can.” She meant it, too. She liked Martha, and now that she knew that Sir Walter disliked Guy, her respect for Walter rose.

Martha smiled and patted Alice’s hand. “Thank you, child. Thank you. Now hurry, take your bath and cleanse yourself from the Curse of the Dead.”

“Yes, I’ll do as you suggest.”

Martha rose and retreated to her side of the hall.

Alice watched her servants pour the water into her wooden tub. Four buckets hardly gave her enough. She tested the water. It was almost perfect. She sent Michael away and then let Susan disrobe her. By candlelight, she let her long frame sink into the tub. Oh, the hot water felt so relaxing. She sighed, but not too loudly, lest she disturb the others. Taking up a precious bar of soap, she washed herself, beginning with her breasts. Susan took up a brush and scrubbed her back.

Tension oozed out of Alice. She washed her hair, and then let Susan squeeze out the water and dry her head. For a time she sat quietly in the tub, and almost dozed. Susan gently shook her. The water had cooled so heat no longer relaxed her. Alice shivered as she stood, but she felt gloriously clean. How peasants could go years without a bath amazed and disgusted her. Some of them, at times, seemed no better than animals.

She remembered one of her father’s favorite jokes. A peasant went to London Town and by mistake wandered down the Perfumer’s Lane. The smell overcame him and he fainted. The merchants, wanting to rid themselves of this smelly serf, tried everything to wake him. Nothing worked. At last, a knight walked up, saw the problem and immediately devised the solution. He took a spade from a man, shoveled up fresh cow manure and held the spade under the peasant’s nose. The peasant awoke refreshed and hurried away from the unfamiliar Perfumer’s Lane, swearing never to submit himself to such bizarre odors again.

Alice smiled as Susan helped her don fresh garments. She smiled because she could hear her father’s laughter. He used to roar and slap his thigh after telling the joke. Still, wasn’t it more a matter of training? Susan and Michael didn’t stink, and they were peasants. Her mother had taught all Castle Gareth people to be clean. If people were treated like animals and made to feel like animals, wouldn’t they then act like animals? She didn’t know. Maybe if she asked a great Churchman someday. They always seemed to understand such mysteries, or at least they had ready answers.

“You look lovely, milady,” Susan whispered. “Very pretty indeed.” Her practiced hands smoothed the expensive linen dress. “And so somber in mourning white. There, that’s it, set your expressions gravely. Don’t smile—but don’t frown!” she added quickly. “You don’t want to mar your lovely features.”

“Help me tie my hat,” Alice said.

With deft motions, Susan tied on the hat and then fluffed the long blonde hair and laid it perfectly down Alice’s back. “Ah, so pretty, my dear. So like your mother, God bless her soul.”

Alice made to bend low, to unlock her special chest.

“Hsst!” Susan said. “Don’t do that. You’ll wrinkle the dress.” She took the key from Alice and opened the heavy lock. Then, easing open the lid, she moved aside the books Romance of the Rose, the Golden Legend and Reynard the Fox. She lifted a small jewelry box and unlocked it with a tiny and almost delicate key. The insides were rather bare, with only a few rings, and with a long silver chain and a silver crucifix.

Alice carefully wound the chain around her hands and held the crucifix upright. Then, with Susan in the lead holding the candle, Alice moved serenely through the hall and down the narrow spiral stairs to the Great Hall below.

Chapter Six

Alice composed herself. Tonight she’d have to choose her words carefully. Her father, God grant him a quick entry into Heaven, had taught her how to deal with knights. Hadn’t he allowed her into his Great Hall during his drunken feasts in order to let her see the knights at their worst carousing? Maybe her father hadn’t been a good parent for a little girl, but he’d stripped away any pretense she might have had concerning fighting men. The Castle Gareth knights had been of a different stripe than Pellinore’s warriors. Her father, when she was honest with herself, had been more a robber knight than a lord of a fief. His forays into free Wales, his capture and ransom of merchants, knights and even rich Churchmen had made his name legendary. The men he’d kept near had been rough and brutal.

Sir Philip reminded her of them and those days. Philip would have felt at home in her father’s brigand court. The rest of Pellinore’s knights were more refined, more noble really, not just a pack of well-armed thieves. She knew, deep within her, that she liked and respected them for that.

Sir Philip, he’d be the one to watch tonight and every night. He’d be the one she’d have to outfox if she were to win her freedom. The others, maybe even when young Sir Guy returned, would surely look to Philip in this time of distress and uncertainty. He’d been Baron Hugh’s second cousin and his seneschal, the castle overlord. As seneschal, Philip kept the various keys to all the important locks. He made the rounds at night, with the squire, to see that everything was secure, the guards and watchmen alert. When the Pellinore knights rode to battle, he carried the banner. When the Baron made plans, he first sought council from the seneschal. Seneschal was the highest rank a lord could give any of his knights. For over twenty years, Sir Philip had held that post under Baron Hugh, as his father had held it under Baron Hugh’s father.

Alice tightened her grip around the crucifix. From the Great Hall drifted upward the sad viol sounds. Then a rich, melodious voice broke into a mournful dirge. The minstrel who had wandered by a month ago sang of Baron Hugh’s nobility, of his generosity, of his well-loved knights and men-at-arms whom he’d left behind.

Alice whispered to Susan. Susan stopped. Alice bent her head and listened to the sad song. A tear fell from her eyes, then another. She sniffled, finally dried her eyes with her sleeve and told herself yet again to be strong. Tonight she needed her wits. Sir Philip the Seneschal would have his.

Over the years he’d become Baron Hugh’s richest vassal. Philip’s mighty frame, his bald dome of a head, badly scarred face and bushy eyebrows hid a crafty mind. In the bedroom above, she knew that Philip had a small chest filled with silver and gold coins hidden in his bigger clothes chest. He carefully collected money, almost like a merchant. No doubt, he had some grand scheme in mind, some nefarious goal.

Alice stepped into the Great Hall. Unlike other dark nights, resinous torches flickered their uneasy light. At the far end blazed the mighty fireplace that was large enough to roast a boar like Old Sloat. The Great Hall was by far the biggest room in all Pellinore Castle. The sides contained a gallery eight feet above the floor. When in the past Baron Hugh had wished to speak to as many people as possible, he’d stood in the center of the Great Hall and by raising his voice all heard him. Above the gallery, the walls were sooty, while here and there hung hunting trophies: great spreads of antlers, several bear’s heads and the heads and tusks of mighty boars. Soon Old Sloat would find his head there, and surely, a legend would arise because of this afternoon’s fell tragedy. Below the gallery were ancient weapons of war and of the hunt. Whenever weddings occurred, or tournaments, expensive tapestries would be hung from the walls.

By the fireplace, the minstrel ended his dirge. He gently stroked his viol a few more times with an instrument that looked like a bow. Then he stilled that too and sat down at one of the long oaken tables. Knights, sergeants, men-at-arms, servants and even Father Bernard with several of his helpers sat at the tables. Upon the heavy tables lay empty plates. Slabs of salted beef, hunks of cheese and rounds loaves of bread had been served. Father Bernard had insisted upon it, Alice knew. He didn’t want the mourners to become too drunk, too quickly. Open ale barrels stood at the head of each table. The men had leather, handless jacks, and each drank heavily, rising and walking to the barrels when they needed a refill.

The air was thick with ale-fumes and the sweaty stench of men who hadn’t bathed in a long time.

Alice slowly moved past the tables that had been grouped around the fireplace. She trod upon dry rushes strewn everywhere. Each Saturday the scullions removed the old rushes, while boys sent to the river’s edge brought in fresh ones. Mice moved within the dry rushes, searching for hidden scraps. Several dogs, their routine upset by this nighttime drinking, prowled the rushes in search of the tiny prey. Alice saw Cord sitting in the shadows, a cloak wrapped around his shoulders as he grimly petted his mighty mastiff. Near him slept some wayfarers, apparently too tired to care about the free ale.

Father Bernard, Baron Hugh’s chaplain, spoke now. He was a reserved man, older than most. Alice knew him well because of the homilies he tried to impart about how to be a good wife. He could read, owned a few books and always listened when she complained to him about her dreadful lot. He always sympathized with her, and he listened even if he could do nothing. Alice liked him, and she knew Baron Hugh had, too. Since only Father Bernard, Richard and she could read, Baron Hugh had mostly relied upon the good Father to read whatever letters he’d received. Any charters or documents had always first been carefully gone over by Father Bernard.

The Father wore a dark robe and several expensive rings. He’d been born a poor peasant, but because a monk had noticed his intelligence, he’d been given Church training and had risen high because of Baron Hugh’s trust and liking. The Father’s heavy face was lined with worry. His gray eyes showed that he’d been weeping. He now scratched the little hair he had left, which was silver.

“Too little,” Father Bernard was saying in his low tone. “Sir Guy will have to find another source.”

“Ah, who would have thought it?” said a sad sergeant.

“These are difficult times,” Father Bernard said. “The Earl drained the last of Baron Hugh’s reserves.”

“Now he’ll drain them yet again,” Sir Philip growled. “Robbery, that’s what it is.”

Men gasped in amazement.

“Not that I mean any disrespect toward the Earl,” Philip hastily added. “He’s a good man, a powerful liege. Whatever he’s due is just.”

“Yes,” Father Bernard said. “I hope Sir Guy will see it likewise. If not….” He shrugged his round shoulders.

“Poor Baron Hugh!” cried a man. “To Baron Hugh, the finest lord in all England and Wales!”

“To Baron Hugh!” chorused many, their voices raw, their features haggard and red-eyed.

Jacks tipped up and ale flowed into gaping maws. Several men rose unsteadily and staggered to the barrels, dipping their jacks into the amber-colored liquid.

Alice, as serenely as ever, moved through the hall and toward the outer stairs. A trapdoor led to the armory and storerooms below, which were at ground level. The only entrance outside was at the second story with wooden stairs leading down.

Sir Philip loudly asked, “Who goes there?”

Alice stopped halfway through the hall.

“Did you hear me?”

“I heard you,” Alice said.

“Come here,” Philip ordered.

Serenely, demurely, Alice obeyed. She heard the intake of many a man’s breath and felt their hungering eyes. None of this afternoon’s huntsmen had changed. She smelled the foliage odor that hung about them. She saw the dirt that clung to their boots. She lowered her gaze and couldn’t help noticing all the hack-marks in the tables. Trencher knives had made them over countless feasts and dinners. Why she noticed them now she didn’t know, but it brought to her mind’s eye Baron Hugh’s old habit of digging into the table with his knife whenever he’d been bored.

“Why are you dressed so?” Philip asked in a slurred voice.

“To pray for Baron Hugh’s soul,” Alice said meekly.

“Tonight?”

“When better?” Alice asked. She saw the countless hungry eyes. She knew that her dress clung tightly to her. Thankfully, a few of the eyes were friendly. Hob, the fat sergeant with a blob for a nose and strange brown eyes, nodded to her. She gave him the faintest of smiles.

“The funeral won’t be until Sir Guy arrives,” Philip said.

“Surely Baron Hugh’s soul could use my prayers tonight,” Alice said.

“Very true,” Father Bernard said. “You are a good Christian to think so.”

The bailiff nodded as well. He was a thin knight with a long, lean jaw. He only smiled when his small, toddling daughter tried to say his name, or when she ran and clung to his long leg. There was no one within the fief more just than the bailiff was. Baron Hugh had known it, all the servants, squires and men-at-arms knew it and most importantly all the peasants of the fief knew it. They always wished for the bailiff to make the judgments. Seldom did the bailiff, who was like a sheriff only on a smaller scale, name the whip, the brand or the rope as his punishments. He, even more than Baron Hugh, believed in fines rather than grim violence. The bailiff was the poorest knight among Hugh’s vassals. He’d relied the most upon the Baron’s generosity and gift giving. He was also the hardest working and the most God-fearing. In many ways, he’d been the Baron’s staunchest vassal. Surprisingly, he looked the least drunk. He wore chainmail armor and his sword was in easy reach, his almost constant attire.

“You surprise me,” Philip told Alice.

“Oh?” asked Alice, who had felt strengthened by the bailiff’s nod.

“Yes,” Philip said, his blue eyes lingering on her. “I always thought you hated the Baron.”

“What an odd notion,” Alice said.

Father Bernard shot Philip a frown.

Philip scowled at Alice and leaned his elbows on the table. “Of course you hated him. Come, admit it now that he’s dead.”

“My lords,” Alice said to the others. “Must I submit to such base abuse?”

“No,” the bailiff said in his slow way. The lean knight turned to Philip. “You overreach yourself, sir.”

Philip laughed at the smaller man. “You dare tell me that?”

“I do,” said the bailiff.

Philip’s eyes narrowed as he searched the bailiff’s stiff face. Suddenly he roared with laughter. “I see! You wish to divorce your wife and marry this pretty filly. Is that it?”

“You’re drunk,” Alice said loudly. “And it’s plain to see that you’re a boor, hardly a knight at all. A knight, a noble, would have better manners.”

Philip rose to his imposing height, his red-rimmed eyes slitted. “Have a care, lady.”

Father Bernard looked distressed.

“Yes, you call me a lady, but you don’t treat me as such,” Alice said. “Is this more of your bad manners?”

“Please,” said Father Bernard, “let us not argue. The Devil loves divided councils. Let us band together rather and think on the good of the fief.”

“Ah, sound advice, Father,” Philip said slowly, slyly glancing at the others. Suddenly he smiled. “Yes. Thank you, Father.” He sat back down and thoughtfully sipped from his jack.

“How to gain the needed money for Sir Guy, that’s what we need to discover,” Father Bernard said. He touched a parchment. “The Earl’s relief is large.”

“That it is,” said Philip.

Alice sat beside Father Bernard. He smiled at her. She looked at the charter and read the amount of the relief. Ah, it was large indeed. Sir Guy would have to find a great sum of money before he became the new baron. Before Guy would be allowed to place his hands in Earl Roger Mortimer’s and make his pledge of fealty, the Baron’s son would have pay over the relief. If Guy hadn’t been Baron Hugh’s son the relief payment would be even more, a truly staggering sum. Guy must pay the amount that Pellinore Fief received in a year of dues and payments. The dues came from the various tenants, the payments from the uses of ovens, mills, bridges and such. For any other but the Baron’s legal heir the relief would be two years worth of dues and payments.

Alice draped her silver chain upon her neck and laid the crucifix between her breasts. Sir Guy needed a lot of money in order to pay his relief. That was wonderful news.

She bent her head, trying to keep the triumphant smile from her lips. The news was wonderful for this reason: When Guy allowed her to leave Pellinore and reenter Gareth Fief, and take her pledge of loyalty to him, she would have to pay him her relief. Of course, if he could force her to marry someone, then her husband, as the new banneret of Gareth Fief, would pay the relief. But now that she knew Guy needed money, would desperately need money, ah, this was very good news. For Earl Roger Mortimer wasn’t the sort of noble to forgo his rights or the sort to allow the monies due him to lie fallow. Roger Mortimer would put heavy pressure on Guy to pay quickly.

Alice saw the grim faces, and she saw the steady drinking. It wasn’t healthy to be without ones rightful lord. It wasn’t natural.

Where had Baron Hugh’s treasury money gone? Ah, yes, of course. She recalled what had happened.

After Prince Llewellyn and his Welsh had sacked Gareth Castle in 1260, Earl Simon had marched down from Chester. Llewellyn had slipped back into the rugged highlands, a place no knightly army could hope to find or corner him. Soon thereafter, the uneasy truce between Simon and the King had broken apart. Then, two years later in November 1262, one of Llewellyn’s barons had through trickery entered Mortimer’s border castle at Cefnllys. Once in control of the enemy castle, the Welsh had begun to dismantle it. Roger had called out his knights and had summoned his high vassals. Hugh had declined the invitation, but had sent a sum of money instead. Roger marched into a trap, for Llewellyn with the bulk of his host had descended upon the earl and his knights. There, within the skeleton of the razed castle, Roger had been besieged. Upon his oath, he’d agreed to pay Llewellyn if the prince allowed him to march free. Soon thereafter Earl Roger Mortimer had ridden in strength to Pellinore Castle. In this very hall, Hugh had entertained him, and in this hall, Hugh had been forced to give up yet another large sum of money.

It was a vassal’s obligation to help pay his lord’s ransom. Earl Mortimer, Alice quietly heard Father Bernard explain to the others, had insisted that Llewellyn’s fee had been a form of ransom. Hugh had suggested that Roger find a bishop to absolve him from his oath. Roger hadn’t believed he could find such a bishop. So in the end Baron Hugh had opened his treasure chest and paid his liege three-quarters of the asked-for sum.

1262 had melted into 1263. Llewellyn, inflamed by his victories, had released his armies upon the quarrelsome Western Marches. Countless castles had fallen. Even the Herefordshire lowlands had been ravaged. Only because of the unsuccessful sieges of some of the larger castles, and the northern invasion of Wales by Prince Edward of England, had Llewellyn’s armies finally been turned back. However, when rebellious Earl Simon de Montfort had finally broken with the King, almost all the Marcher barons had joined de Montfort’s standard. Llewellyn had taken that opportunity to besiege the last of the royal castles in the Western Marches. Roger Mortimer, no friend of Simon, had also borne some of Llewellyn’s attacks, since Roger hadn’t joined the rebellious barons but stayed loyal to the King.

Roger had therefore ridden once more to Pellinore Castle, which hadn’t been invaded any of these years by Welsh, rebellious barons or revengeful Prince Edward. Baron Hugh had paid over another lump sum to Earl Mortimer. More than ever, explained Father Bernard, Baron Hugh had wished to keep his warriors at home in order to protect his lush valley.

“Alas,” said Father Bernard to the knights and to Alice, “now Pellinore’s treasure chest is bare. But that will not satisfy Roger Mortimer. More than ever, he yearns for money in order to keep an army in the field. He plots with Prince Edward against Simon.”

Sir Walter nodded somberly.

“Civil war is a bitter thing,” the bailiff said.

Philip roared with laughter.

“Sir Knight, what we discuss is a serious matter,” Father Bernard told him in reproach.

“I agree, Father,” Philip said. “Please, excuse my laughter.” He turned and shouted, “Dog boy!” He drained his ale and banged his fists upon the table. “Dog boy!”

A moment later Cord stepped near.

Alice studied him. Cord looked scared, although he tried to hide it. Where was the fire she’d seen this afternoon?

“Dog boy,” Philip said roughly, “I believe the Baron laid a fine upon you today.”

“He did, Sir Knight,” Cord said softly.

“Yes,” Philip said. “Because of your foolishness an expensive Italian mastiff died. Baron Hugh said that you would pay his purchase price.”

Cord twined his hands around the hat he held.

“Set ten pennies on the table,” Philip ordered.

Cord made an attempt to clear his throat. “I don’t have ten pennies, sir.”

“What?” Philip asked. “You lack ten pennies?”

“Yes, milord.”

Philip stroked his scarred chin in an exaggerated way. “This is not right, I think,” he said to the others. “Baron Hugh laid a fine upon him. Now he must pay.”

“Did Baron Hugh indeed pay ten pennies for Senno?” asked the bailiff.

Philip gazed at the bailiff. “I have said ten pennies, so ten pennies it was.”

“So much money for a dog?” the bailiff asked. “Five pennies possibly, maybe six, but ten?”

“I said ten,” Philip growled, thrusting out a stubborn chin.

“Five or ten,” Cord said, “I have neither.”

“What do you own?” Philip snapped.

“My knife,” Cord said warily. “My boots and my clothes.”

“Nothing more?” Philip asked. His eyes held a strange light.

“No, milord.”

“You’re a liar!” Philip shouted.

Shocked silence filled the hall. Most of those present were illiterate. A man’s word thus counted even more. To be branded a lair was a terrible slur.

Alice saw perspiration almost leap onto Cord’s face. His strong fingers clenched his hat even tighter than before.

Philip grinned. His canines seemed longer than other men’s teeth. It made him seem wolfish, like a dangerous beast. “Yes, you’re a liar, dog boy.”

Cord winced at Philip’s words. Then the huge mastiff Sebald ambled up, leaning his bulk against the dog boy’s long legs. To Alice’s eyes, it seemed that Cord derived strength and courage from the dog. His hand fell onto the mastiff’s head and he straightened.

“I think you own a ring,” Philip said. “A gold ring.”

Cord’s right hand flew up to his tunic. No, Alice thought, to something hidden under his tunic.

“Show us your golden ring,” Philip said.

Cord shook his head.

“Show us!” Philip shouted.

“No,” Cord said.

“Dog boy!” the bailiff said.

Cord’s head whipped toward the bailiff.

“Do you own a golden ring?” the bailiff asked in his judicial tone.

Sebald leaned harder against Cord. Cord petted Sebald and glanced down at him. When he looked up, he said earnestly, “Milords, the Baron said that if Old Sloat was slain that I would be the new forester. Surely the ten pennies could be taken from my wages.”

Philip laughed. “Are you sure the Baron really said that?”

“He did,” Sir Walter interjected. “We all heard him.”

Philip stroked his chin again. “Can we give the forester position to a liar?”

“No, of course not,” the bailiff said. “Cord,” he asked, “do you own a golden ring?”

Cord nodded miserably.

Philip grinned in delight, but didn’t laugh, as it seemed he wanted to.

“Why didn’t you tell us that you owned the ring?” the bailiff asked in a gentle voice.

Cord hung his head.

“Dog boy,” the bailiff said quietly. “Look at me.”

Cord raised his head.

“Show me the ring,” the bailiff said.

“It’s… it’s my father’s ring,” whispered Cord.

“Show it to me,” the bailiff said.

“Milord,” Cord said in an agonized tone, “it’s all I own that once was his. It’s his heirloom to me. I-I didn’t think of it in the way that Sir Philip suggested.”

“What do you mean?” the bailiff asked.

Cord said, “Sir Philip wanted to know of things that I could sell in order to pay Baron Hugh’s fine.”

The bailiff nodded.

“A moment,” said Philip. “Who is he to know the intent of my thoughts?”

“It’s what I thought, too,” said Hob.

“And I as well,” Alice added.

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” Philip said irritably. “The dog boy lied.”

“Did he?” asked the bailiff.

“What do you mean: did he?” Philip loudly asked. “The evidence is before you. You’re supposed to be an honest judge.”

“Good sirs,” said Father Bernard. “We must remain calm and friendly.”

“I am an honest judge,” the bailiff said, glaring at Philip.

“Then judge fairly,” Philip snapped.

The bailiff turned frosty eyes upon Cord. “Show me the ring.”

“Will…” Cord hesitated. “Will you return it, milord?”

The bailiff’s lean face grew hard.

“Remember,” Hob said, “it’s an heirloom from his father. In all the world, it’s his only true possession.”

The bailiff grew thoughtful, then nodded. “I will return the ring.”

Cord lifted a leather thong from his neck and handed over a large golden ring. Upon it was the image of a lion. It had been his father’s signet ring.

“This is worth more than ten pennies,” the bailiff said.

“In fact,” said Philip, “it will mightily help pay Sir Guy’s relief.”

The bailiff said, “That would be true if Sir Guy owned the ring. But he doesn’t.” He handed the ring back to Cord.

Philip stared at the bailiff in obvious shock. At last, he blinked rapidly and then asked Cord, “What do you have to say for yourself now, liar?”

The bailiff shook his head. “I don’t believe he lied.”

“Are you daft?” Philip asked. “You saw the ring.”

The bailiff said, “A lie is done in malice, to protect oneself, to cover up a misdeed. The boy simply didn’t remember his ring.”

“You’re wrong,” Philip said.

The bailiff retained his composure. “I have made my judgment. When you asked the boy for items that he could sell, it would be reasonable for him not to consider the ring. For an heirloom is not such a thing. Therefore he didn’t lie. And since Baron Hugh said that if Old Sloat were killed that Cord would become the forester—”

“He swore it by Saint Hubert,” Sir Walter added.

“Oh,” the bailiff said. “Why, if he swore it, then Cord is now the forester.”

“Not so quickly,” Philip said. “That is Sir Guy’s decision.”

“Is it?” asked the bailiff. “Or is it Baron Hugh’s last request?”

“What do you say, Father?” Alice asked Bernard.

Before Father Bernard could speak, Philip said, “I’m the seneschal. I then am the lord of Pellinore Castle until Guy returns. Cord is not the forester.”

The bailiff considered that. “Very well. Cord will not become the forester until Sir Guy returns.”

“And only if Sir Guy agrees to make him forester,” Philip said. None of the other smaller knights said anything to that. “Now, the dog boy must still pay the ten pennies.”

“I’ll pay them in his stead,” Alice said.

“What?” Philip glared at her. “Why do that?”

“Because the dog boy slew Old Sloat,” Alice said. “Because of all of us here, Cord came the closest to saving the Baron’s life.”

“Are you mad?” Philip asked. “Cord cost us the Baron’s life. If not for the dog boy’s wicked news Hugh would still be alive.”

“Nonsense,” Alice said.

“Yes, nonsense,” the bailiff said.

“I think Sir Guy might see it otherwise,” Philip said softly, dangerously.

“That, sir, is a terrible burden to put upon the dog boy,” Alice said. “Since I’ve put up the ten pennies, I wish to see your horrible charge rebuked as soon as possible. Therefore, I’ll take Cord with me so Sir Guy can absolve him tomorrow.”

“What are you saying?” Philip asked.

“Someone must tell Sir Guy this tragic news,” Alice said. “I plan to leave early tomorrow morning.”

Philip stared at her for a moment and then laughed crudely. “You’re staying right here, lass. Do you think I’m fool enough to let you go back to Gareth Castle? Baron Hugh kept you here, so will I. And so, I suspect, will Sir Guy, at least until we can find you a suitable husband.”

“A ridiculous stricture,” Alice said. “I refuse to accept it any longer.”

Philip said sternly, “I order you to stay within the castle until Guy and I return.”

Alice glanced sidelong at the other knights. They would obey Philip, she saw. She cursed under her breath. That avenue was still closed. She fingered her crucifix and happened to glance at Cord. He was pale. Philip would surely poison Guy’s mind against him.

As Cord turned to go, he gave her a nod. She smiled back and suddenly thought of a way to help him. She would have to do this subtly, she realized, needing a method, a way to do it. The way came a moment later, when Hob rose and dipped his jack into an ale barrel.

Alice listened as the conversation moved back to Baron Hugh’s goodness. Toasts were given, pledges to uphold his name made. Father Bernard, however, kept tugging as his lower lip.

“The dues aren’t to be paid for more than a month yet,” Father Bernard said, as much to himself as anyone else.

“Yes, and turning the tenants’ grain, wool and chickens into coin will take longer yet,” said Sir Walter, who had often helped Baron Hugh collect the dues from those who lived in the fief.

“Maybe Guy could take a loan from the Jews,” Philip said.

Father Bernard shook his head. “That is the way of kings and of the highest lords. To owe the moneylenders and pay usury won’t help our new baron in the long term.”

“Who cares about the long term, especially in a time of unrest?” Philip asked. “Grind a loan out of the Jews. Worry about paying them back after we’ve gained loot. Surely, a chance to plunder will come to us. Earl Simon de Montfort will make a mistake sooner or later.”

Father Bernard shook his head.

“Why, what’s wrong with such thinking?” Philip demanded to know.

“This is a peaceful fief,” Father Bernard said. “Let us treat fairly and honestly even with the Jews. Let us build a future not on blood and rapine, but on hard work and prosperity.”

“Where will Sir Guy find the money then to pay his relief?” Philip asked.

“We must pray to God that He shows us,” said Father Bernard.

“He has,” Philip said with a laugh. “The moneylenders.”

Father Bernard nervously tugged his lower lip.

Alice fingered her crucifix, her fine brows pulled down. “The funeral will be in several days?” she asked quietly.

“Excuse me, milady?” asked Father Bernard.

“The funeral,” Alice asked, “when will it be?”

“When Sir Guy arrives,” Philip said rudely.

“And you go to Gareth Castle?” Alice asked.

“Of course,” Philip said.

Alice nodded. “I have a relic from the Holy Land at Gareth. Father Bernard, do you go to Gareth?”

“No, child, I have too much work to do here.”

“Hmmm,” Alice said, her brow furrowed even more.

“Why do you ask, my dear?” Father Bernard asked.

“I wish to pass the holy relic over Baron Hugh’s corpse,” Alice said. “Its power is strong and I felt that it might help him gain entry into Heaven that much more quickly.”

She saw their questioning eyes. “My grandfather brought it from the Holy Land,” she said. “It’s a piece of the True Cross. It’s kept in Castle Gareth’s chapel.”

“And you would consent to have it brought here?” Father Bernard asked in awe.

“Only with your permission, Father,” Alice said.

“You cannot come with me to Gareth,” Philip bluntly said.

“Are you certain, Seneschal?” asked Father Bernard.

“I’m certain,” Philip said.

“Hmmm, well…” Alice said. “If you had someone who has been on Crusade, I would consent to have him carry the relic back.”

“We have no one like that,” Philip scoffed, “and you know that.”

“Ah, but we do,” the bailiff said.

“Who?” asked Philip.

“Yes, who?” asked the concerned Father.

“Sergeant Hob,” the bailiff said.

The assembled host turned and stared at Hob. He poured ale down his gullet. His eyes were red.

“That man was a Crusader?” Philip asked in disbelief.

Hob lowered his jack, a severe frown upon his fleshy face.

“Is that true?” Philip asked.

Hob slowly nodded. Fourteen years ago, he’d gone on Crusade with Saint Louis of France and his knights. It had been the Sixth Crusade, fought almost entirely in Egypt. The city of Damietta had been taken, but in 1249 in the streets of Mansura the crusading host had been smashed and King Louis of France captured and ransomed by the Egyptian Sultan.

“Would you allow Hob to carry the relic back to Pellinore?” Father Bernard pleaded with Alice.

Alice rose and walked over to Hob. The fume of ale was strong about him. While the sergeant was fat, he was also big with broad shoulders. His face was liver-spotted and the veins upon his blob of a nose had broken and webbed long ago. He wore a soiled leather jerkin and stared at her with red-rimmed eyes. Alice knew that something had happened to Hob those many long years ago on Crusade. He never spoke about it, but the something lay upon him like a curse. It was why, he’d once said, that he drank so much. Forgetfulness came with ale and then his heart didn’t beat so heavily in his wicked chest.

“Would you go to Gareth and return with the holy relic?” Alice softly asked him.

Voices stilled as men awaited Hob’s answer. Father Bernard pleaded with his sad eyes.

“This is for Baron Hugh?” Hob asked in his ponderous way.

Alice nodded.

“Then I will do it,” he said.

Father Bernard clapped his hands like a child, while Philip loudly said, “Very well, it’s decided. Hob, you’ll join me tomorrow morning.”

Hob owlishly closed and opened his eyes, then drained his jack.

“Now if you’ll excuse me,” Alice said to the others, “I go to pray for Baron Hugh’s soul. Hob, would you join me? I need to give you your instructions.”

With a grunt Hob heaved himself to his feet. Together, he and Alice left the Great Hall to pray for the soul Baron Hugh de Clare of Pellinore.

Chapter Seven

Early the next morning, before sunrise, Cord fled the tower. He wheedled bread and cheese from the cook in the kitchen and then moved about the yard, waiting.

Unlike larger castles that had a bailey or outer court and a main or inner court, Pellinore Castle had just the main yard. Around it loomed the stout stone walls. The tower stood at the apex of the triangle of walls, with small turrets at the other two corners. The tight yard was packed with buildings. There was a barracks for the sergeants and men-at-arms, an aviary for the hawks and a nearby pigeon loft. There were stables, a small chapel beside the well and along the wall a smithy. There were storehouses, kennels, cattle pens and huts for important peasants. Pigs roamed the yard, and dogs, cats, a few children and peasants going about their tasks. The noise already made it hard to think.

Cord sat against a section of wall and petted Sebald as he waited. The drawbridge hadn’t yet come down, so it was impossible to leave. The key was to stay out of Sir Philip’s way.

Soon grooms hurried to the stable. Horses neighed, and after awhile Tencendur along with other destriers and palfreys stamped forth. A few small sommiers—pack horses—came out too. They were loaded with provisions. At last Cord saw Hob step out of the barracks and trudge to the tower, buckling on his sword belt. Dawn streaked the sky as Cord fell in step with him.

“Good morning, Hob.”

Hob grunted. Sleep lines indented his fleshy face. His thick fingers dug into the corners of his eyes and he popped his jaw as he yawned. He smelled like ale.

Cord liked Hob. The sergeant had taught him to box, wrestle and cast javelins. He’d also shown him how to handle his long knife. Even more than that, Hob talked to him as an equal and he didn’t treat him like a felon’s son.

“I’m in trouble,” Cord said.

Hob grunted again, scratching his belly. He wore the same leather jerkin as he had last night.

“Philip means to see me dead,” Cord said softly. “I think he’s going to tell Sir Guy lies about me.”

Hob stopped and faced Cord. The dog boy was taller and his shoulders just as broad, but Hob was much heavier. The thick face began to move. “You accuse Sir Philip of lying?” Hob asked in a low rumble.

Cord nodded.

Hob massaged his face with his ham-sized hand. “Lad, lad,” he said, “don’t ever say such a thing again. Don’t even think it. It will get you killed.”

“Do you think I’m wrong?” asked Cord.

“What does it matter what I think? Just don’t ever speak like that. To call a knight, the seneschal, a liar….” Hob shook his head. “That’s a foolish thing to do.”

“Letting others lie about me is even more foolish.”

“Then run away,” Hob said.

Cord blinked in amazement. “Run away?” he asked.

“Do it this very morning,” Hob said. “That’s my advice to you.”

“But I’m finally going to be somebody. I’m to be the new forester.”

“You are somebody,” said Hob. “You’re Cord, your father’s son.”

“Yes, a felon’s son,” Cord said bitterly.

Hob laid a gentle hand upon Cord’s arm. “You’re wrong. Your father was a knight, not a felon. Earl Mortimer began the fight between them. Your father was just trying to finish it. His luck was in being the weaker of the two.”

Cord shrugged off the memory, and then said earnestly, “I want you to do me a favor.”

Hob waited.

“Speak to Sir Guy about me. When Philip tells his…. When Philip gives one version of what happened, let Sir Guy know the other version.”

A soft smile stole over Hob’s face.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No, lad. It’s just that you’re the second person to give me such advice.”

“I am?” Cord asked, surprised.

“None of it will help, though,” said Hob.

Cord ignored the sergeant’s pessimism. Others often called Hob ‘the Raven.’ He was known for his gloomy croaks, for his glum tidings and predictions of disaster. Seldom did he smile; mostly he shook his head. He’d said more than once that the reason why he was so certain that God was real was because the Devil was so utterly evident in the workings of men. Despite that, Cord knew that Hob soul’s was gentle and kind. Maybe that was why Hob had turned so gloomy.

“You aren’t listening to me,” Hob said. “I know of what I speak. Run away before it’s too late. Sir Guy isn’t the man his father was. He enjoys inflicting pain. Philip will play upon that.”

“I’m to be the forester, and then I can marry Bess.”

“Philip has a half share in the fulling mill,” Hob said slowly.

“Cuthbert said that if I’m the forester than I can marry Bess.”

Hob stepped closer. “Go see her, lad. I’m certain the rumors have already reached Cuthbert. But don’t be too cross with her, eh? Bess must mind her father and mother.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“Ah, but you will,” Hob said sadly. “That’s the truth, and it’s also a pity. Run away from here, for Pellinore will never be your home.”

“Old Sloat died. I therefore am the new forester.”

Hob clapped Cord on the shoulder before he hurried to the tower for his breakfast.

Dispirited, Cord returned to his spot by the wall. “He’s wrong,” he whispered to Sebald. “I’ll be the forester. The bailiff said so. This time the Raven croaks from the wrong tree.”

Sebald wagged his tailless rump, which made Cord laugh. He shook off his brooding and hurried to the kitchen. The cook pointed to a corner. Cord picked up a bloody sack and ambled to the kennel, ducking through the small entrance.

The kennel was a low-built building, a rickety affair. Inside were many stalls on either side of a long, narrow lane. The most savage castle dogs lived here. If some of these brutes had been at the hunt, Cord was certain that Baron Hugh would still be alive.

“Hello, my beauties!” he shouted.

The brutes bayed joyously.

Boldly, Cord opened each stall and walked in to wrestle with each monster. Some of the dogs growled with mock-seriousness. Cord only shook their massive heads harder and scratched their ears before tossing them a bloody chunk of meat. He loved his hounds. They loved him back.

Cord picked up two buckets and went to the well. Younger dog-boys cranked the handle and poured water into his pails. All of them feared the savage kennel brutes. None had Cord’s knack, and everybody in the castle knew about Cord’s strange ability with the beasts.

Later, he opened the kennel door to cart one last load. That’s when he saw Sir Philip clanking down the tower stairs.

The knight wore polished chainmail and he’d knotted a red-dyed scarf around his neck. Behind Philip followed the rest of the party. Soon, a dozen armed men and Hob mounted up. Another dozen—a cook, some body servants, two archers and the grooms—shouldered their burdens and hurried as Philip’s steed trotted toward the portcullis.

The iron grate creaked as it rose, while beyond, the drawbridge thumped down onto the ground. The horsemen clattered over the wooden bridge as the servants ran after them.

Cord heaved a sigh of relief. He’d feared another encounter with Philip. For at least a day or two, he’d be safe. He went back to the well for his last load and decided that he’d spend the first half of the morning running the savage brutes around the castle.

He leashed the first four and took them through the short tunnel in the gatehouse, then across the drawbridge. The moat below stank. Greenish scum floated on top, while knots of mosquitoes whined all around. In spring and the early parts of summer, the moat almost flooded because of the melting snow and later from the spring rains. As a child, he’d often caught frogs with the others during those times. Everyone ate frogs legs then. Now, in midsummer, the moat was almost at its lowest, and it was scummy and smelly.

Cord slapped a mosquito that landed on his neck and hurried down the hill.

In that direction was Pellinore Village. It was bigger than the East Village, but not by much. The spring that bubbled inside the castle also bubbled up in the village. The largest building, which was on the outskirts, was Father Bernard’s Church.

Cord began his circuit around the castle. Afterward, he ran up the dusty road and back into the kennel. The panting brutes eagerly lapped their water.

As Cord hurried out of the kennel with his next four dogs, Randal, a small, red-haired page, shouted for him to stop. From a safe distance away, Randal told him that Richard requested his presence.

Cord looked around and spotted two dog boys listening to Henri. Cord grinned. He liked the minstrel, a wanderer who’d been at Pellinore for over a month now. Henri owned a medium-sized, shaggy mutt with outrageously large paws that he had taught to walk on his hind legs, to catch sticks out of the air and to bark on command. Although Henri was Norman-born and a tad arrogant about it, he’d warmed to Cord and had told him much about the world. Even better, Henri had given him priceless advice on wooing Bess.

Cord saluted Henri and spoke to the dog boys. They paled, and each gingerly accepted two of the savage brutes.

Cord squatted on his haunches. “Listen you, don’t give Dan any trouble,” he told the first brute, with the massive head squeezed between his hands. He did similarly with each dog, and then he told the dog boys to mask their fear.

They pasted on fake smiles and headed toward the gatehouse.

“How do you do that?” asked Henri. He was slight of build and had a thin dark mustache.

Cord shrugged.

“Teach me, Cord, and I’ll teach you how to make women beg for your touch.”

Cord laughed. He never knew if Henri was serious or if the French-Norman minstrel merely teased him. Sometimes he thought Henri was lonely, at other times he wondered what dark void lived within the minstrel that sent him scurrying about the world like a vagabond.

“Do you doubt my skills?” Henri asked in his French accent.

“I’ve seen how the scullions watch you and giggle whenever you throw them a kiss.”

Henri nodded tightly.

“But I don’t know what to tell you about dogs that you don’t already know.”

“Ah, Cord. I don’t know how to tame savage beasts.”

Cord stepped closer, feeling a bit foolish. He didn’t like to say this, but Henri, he’d understand. Maybe the truth was that he wanted to let another know his secret. Who better to understand him than a minstrel, a teller of love and mighty deeds?

“I suppose there is one thing I do that others don’t,” Cord whispered.

“Yes?” Henri eagerly asked.

“I love my dogs,” Cord said, feeling his ears burn with embarrassment.

Henri’s handsome face fell. “You love them?”

Cord nodded.

Henri considered that. “Not physically, I hope.”

It took Cord a moment to understand what Henri meant. Then his ears burned again, and he didn’t know whether to be angry or ashamed.

Henri gave him a wry smile and clapped him on the back. “I merely jest, Cord. This love, however, what is it?”

“What do you mean?”

Henri made to answer, then shook his head and gave Cord another of his wry smiles. “Go see Richard. He’s asking for you.”

Puzzled by Henri’s reaction, Cord hurried up the tower stairs and told the steward that Richard had asked for him. The tall man waved him on.

Gingerly, because he’d only been on this staircase one other time, Cord walked up instead of running toward the tower’s living quarters. He cleared his throat when he reached the top. One of the servants scowled at him, then ushered him in when another servant said that Richard wanted to see him.

Everyone seemed somber as he entered. Cord tried not to gawk at the tapestries, the rich rug or at the wealth laid about with what seemed to him like disdain. At the sight of the huge curtained bed, however, he stopped and wondered what it would be like to live so. He was acutely aware of the rose scent wafting through the hall, and that he must smell like a dog. He didn’t dare look at his boots, fearing encrusted mud or even dog turds. He cursed himself for being such a fool as not to have cleaned himself first. Then he noticed the burnt flesh smell, and shivered. The barber had no doubt cauterized Richard’s wounds with a hot iron.

“Open the curtain,” came a curt command from within the huge bed.

“Milord, are you certain?” asked the elderly servant.

“Open it!”

The elderly man swung back one of the blue curtains and tied it in place with a golden string.

“Cord!” came the same commanding voice.

Cord stepped closer and saw into the gloom. Richard was propped up with pillows and expensive-looking cushions. His broad face was pale, the sides of his mouth tight, as if with pain. His legs had been re-splinted and the wounds cauterized.

“How are you?” Cord asked.

Richard made a weak gesture. “They bled me before dawn and said I had to stay in the dark.”

Cord nodded. Everyone knew that fresh air and sunshine hindered healing. The curtains had no doubt been pulled so Richard would be protected in the dark and unmoving air. The barber had bled Richard so bad humors could be drawn off. Cord could see that the barber had reset the bones.

“They burned me,” Richard said.

“I didn’t hear anyone scream, so I wasn’t certain.”

“Scream? I didn’t scream.”

“How did you manage that?”

Richard shrugged as if it was of no importance, but Cord could tell that the squire was pleased by the observation.

“The barber said you did a decent job of binding the wounds,” Richard said.

It was Cord’s turn to shrug. “The Good Lord knows I’ve set enough of my dogs’ bones.”

“Yes, that makes sense.”

“What happened, Richard?” Cord blurted. “How did you fall?”

“That’s the strangest thing,” Richard said. “I can’t remember.”

“Truly?”

Richard grimaced. “The last thing I recall was the sound of Baron Hugh’s horn, the racing boarhounds and my crashing after them. The barber thinks the fall may have knocked the memory out of me.”

“How long will you lie abed?”

Richard shrugged, trying not to look worried.

Cord shifted from side to side, not sure what more to say.

“I want to thank you,” Richard said. “The barber said that because of what you did the wounds probably won’t poison.”

Cord heaved a sigh of relief. If the wounds had poisoned, it would either meant amputation or a slow, agonizing death for Richard. “You’re going to heal all right then?”

“The barber says it’s most likely.”

“That’s wonderful news!”

Richard grinned. “I think so too, and I think in large measure it’s because of you. Believe me, Cord, it’s something I’ll never forget. I owe you. And Richard Clark pays his debts.”

Cord nodded with a smile, and he saw that the strain of talking had tired Richard. The squire needed rest more than anything else. He had learned that from his dogs.

“Maybe I should go,” Cord said.

“Yes, I think I’ll sleep.”

Before Cord could say anything more, Richard’s head lolled onto a cushion. A moment later, he snored. The elderly servant materialized and shooed Cord away. Then the servant pulled the curtain, putting Richard back into gloom.

Cord hoped Richard’s legs healed properly. What this world didn’t need was another cripple. He’d never been in a village without seeing limbless beggars or ones who badly limped. Mostly, though, those in need came to the castle or to the nearby monastery. In fact, soon the familiar beggars would chant outside the drawbridge for alms. Lady Eleanor along with Father Bernard’s lay brother would go there and decide who faked and who deserved help. Bread and boiled meat would be given. Cord grinned ruefully. Baron Hugh had always insisted on giving generous alms.

Cord reminded himself to take an extra loaf of bread tomorrow when he went with the bailiff to Rhys’ place. One-Foot Jake always sat on the trail under the big oak tree. Father Bernard taught that many remissions of sins came from giving alms. Even Philip could be generous, especially, Cord knew, when important people rode with him.

He checked on the younger dog boys, looked once more into the kennel and then thought about what Hob had told him.

Sir Philip had a half share in the fulling mill.

That meant Philip had paid half the outlay in order to build the mill. And he had probably also paid a half-share of compensation to Miller Dan. The law said a man couldn’t build a new mill that would take work away from an old mill. If first mill owner agreed, however, compensation money was paid to him.

Cord put on a hat, picked up his walking stick and whistled to Sebald. With his long stride, he left the castle and started down the hill. He was glad to be out and on his way to see Bess. Sebald barked and romped ahead. Cord laughed and ran after him. It wasn’t long before he came to the mill. He ambled to the main door and peered in.

“Cord!” said Cuthbert. He had a black eye and a bruised left cheek. He must have taken a nasty fall.

Cord waved, and said, “I’m here to see Bess.”

Cuthbert nervously moved his sausage-like fingers.

“Is she here?” Cord shouted, wondering how Cuthbert could have been so clumsy.

Cuthbert opened his mouth, turned away suddenly and watched the hammers fall.

Cord stepped in, shouting, “Is she here?”

“I don’t know where she is!” Cuthbert roared without turning around. “Maybe you should go back to the castle.”

“What?”

Cuthbert faced him, his features redder than ever. “Go away! Bess isn’t here!” He lurched to a trough, and he refused to take his eyes off the beaten wool.

Surprised, Cord backed out of the mill. Normally Cuthbert was as friendly as could be.

“No,” Cord whispered.

Could Philip have changed Cuthbert’s mind? Two weeks ago, Baron Hugh had given them permission to marry.

Cord hurried toward the miller’s house. The more he thought through the implications of Hob’s words, the more it felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach. He ran, whispering under his breath, “Not Bess. No, not my Bess.”

The Tanning Village with its customary sour odor came into view. Cord soon saw the miller’s house with its white picket fence. Like the mill, the huge house had a foundation of stone. It had several rooms, too, just as Cuthbert had several servants. In fact, Cuthbert was so rich that he’d taken to wearing fur-lined garments. He had learned to ride and had even practiced with swords. Bess had told him before that her father was intrigued by stories about his father.

“He likes to think of you as a knight’s son,” Bess had told him a month ago.

Cord reached the stout wooden door and hammered on it.

The chief servant, another half-Welsh worker, opened it and frowned. He had clean clothes and several iron rings on his fingers.

“I want to speak to Bess,” said Cord.

“Sorry. Not today, dog boy.”

Cord’s eyes widened. Dog boy, was it? “You listen here,” he said, “I want to speak to Bess.”

“It’s you who’d better listen. She doesn’t want to speak with you.”

“I don’t believe it,” Cord said.

The servant lifted a haughty chin. “Believe what you want, dog boy, but Bess isn’t seeing you.”

“Bess!” Cord shouted. “I want to speak with you. Bess!”

“Go away,” the servant hissed. “Go away or I’ll call the watchman.”

Cord glared at the smaller man. The servant glared back. Suddenly Cord bellowed and shoved the servant into the house, barging in.

“Bess! Where are you, Bess?”

A tiny wisp of a woman stepped into the room. It looked like she’d been crying.

“Bess,” Cord said, striding up to her and trying to take her into his arms.

She slipped away and said, “Leave, Cord. I can’t see you.”

“No,” he said, hurting inside, bleeding, it seemed. “What’s wrong?”

A strong hand clamped down on his shoulder.

Cord turned, knocking the hand away, and glared down at the servant. “If you lay hands on me again I’ll thrash you,” he warned.

The servant, a red-haired man, reached out to push Cord. Cord grabbed the hand as Hob had taught him and twisted so the man cried out. Cord kept twisting and spun the man around, jerking the arm up behind the servant’s back. He leaned down and whispered in his ear, “Go away or I’ll break your arm. Nod if you understand.”

The man gritted his teeth.

Cord twisted harder and hissed, “Nod if you understand!”

The red-haired man groaned as he nodded.

Cord released the hold and pushed the servant. The red-haired man shot Cord a venomous glance. Then he hurried out of the house.

“Bess, talk to me,” Cord said.

Bess stared at him wide-eyed.

“Bess,” he said, stepping up and putting his hands on her shoulders. “I’m going to be the forester. You believe me, don’t you?”

She bit her delicate lip.

“Oh Bess,” he said, the hurt now plain in his voice.

“You’d better run away, Cord. Far, far away so Sir Philip can never find you.”

The bitter words caused him to drop his hands.

“Not you too,” he whispered.

“Trust me in this, Cord. The rumors are you killed Baron Hugh, or that your actions killed him. Sir Philip means to see you hang for that.”

“No,” he said woodenly. “I killed Old Sloat. I’m the forester now.”

“You’re just a dog boy, Cord. Just a dog boy whose father wasn’t a knight but a felon.”

He looked at her puffy eyes and red nose. He ached to hold her.

Her features hardened. “I want you to leave, dog boy!” she said loudly. “Please don’t make me repeat myself.”

Cord turned. The village watchman stood in the doorway. Behind him, with his hands on his hips, stood the red-haired servant. An insane desire to kill both men filled Cord. He reached for his knife.

“No!” Bess screamed, her soft hands on his wrist. “Don’t, Cord,” she whispered. “Don’t, or you’ll hang now instead of having the chance to run. It’s over between us, but don’t let yourself be slain.”

“Over?” he said dully.

“My father and mother say it’s over, so it’s over.”

Cord pulled away. Blindly, almost drunkenly, he brushed past the watchman and servant and fled Cuthbert’s house. Cord ran into the nearby woods.

“Bess!” he howled, and then the tears began to flow.

Chapter Eight

The next day an hour before noon, Cord found himself beside the Iodo River. Although he heard the fulling mill’s clacking water wheel, a bend in the stream and a clump of trees hid the stout building from view.

Sebald, no doubt tired of waiting for his master, lay down and closed his eyes.

Cord hardly noticed as he stared blank-eyed at the rushing stream. A pressure pushed behind his eyeballs, his stomach felt hollow and his arms hung limply.

A branch came bustling down the Iodo. Cord minutely turned his head and watched the bobbing thing. A few leaves still clung to the wood. The power of the Iodo turned the branch in a slow circle as it moved downstream. Suddenly, the wood clacked against a jutting boulder. The blow deflected the branch, but soon the Iodo resumed its control and turned the wood again as it drifted out of sight.

Cord sighed heavily.

Sebald raised his head. Cord didn’t notice. Sebald barked. Cord blinked several times. Sebald barked again, louder. Cord gave him a glance. Sebald wagged his rump.

Cord stirred and tried to slough off his despair. All he wanted was to be the forester of Pellinore Fief so he could marry Bess. Was that asking too much? Once he’d been a knight’s son, but the powerful marcher nobles had destroyed his father’s village and had hanged his father like a common criminal when he’d dared to strike back. Cord wondered if they’d done that because his father had been a Saxon instead of a Norman.

No, not they, but him— Roger Mortimer of Wigmore Castle.

Cord clenched his hands into fists. He’d served Baron Hugh for nine long years, nine years of training the hounds. Because of Roger Mortimer, Baron Hugh had treated him like a peasant. Because he’d been akin to a peasant, a lowly dog boy, Bess’s mother and father hadn’t thought him good enough to marry her. Oh, but if he’d become the forester…. Oh, yes, they had hinted that then he’d be good enough for Bess.

A despairing sneer twisted his face.

‘If Old Sloat is killed,’ the Baron had said, ‘you will be the forester.’ Baron Hugh had even sworn that by Saint Hubert of Liege, his most powerful and binding oath.

His sneer vanished as anger drove away his despair. A grinding rage took its place. Cord clawed up dirt and stones. He hurled the loam into the swift-flowing Iodo River. “No!” he shouted.

Sebald leaped up, with his hackles raised.

Cord panted. His face was red, his shoulders hunched and his body trembling with rage. Maybe he’d lost Bess, maybe he’d even lost the position of forester, but he’d be damned if he’d flee from Philip and allow them to brand him an outlaw. They were taking everything from him. Very well, he vowed here and now to become more than the forester. In his mind’s eye, he saw Old Sloat bloody and dead at his feet. He’d slain the old boar. He’d been victorious. Now others tried to cheat him as they’d always cheated him.

Whining, Sebald pressed against his leg.

Cord glanced down at the huge mastiff. Their eyes met, and some of the rage drained out of Cord. At least someone, even though he was just a dog, cared about him and could tell that he was troubled. It made the world seem less overwhelming, less uncaring.

Cord stripped off his jerkin, yanked off his boots and knife and pants. Naked, he leaped into the mountain stream. He gasped and plunged underwater. He surfaced with another gasp, took a cake of soap out of his kit and scrubbed himself raw.

He waded out. His stomach still felt hollow, but the cold river bite had helped clear his head. He studied his father’s golden ring tied to the leather thong. It lay on his crumpled garments.

“Now it’s mine,” he said.

Cord cut the thong with his knife and showed the ring to Sebald. Despite all they had done to him, he was still of noble blood. Maybe he’d lived like a peasant most of his life, but he was not a peasant. Sir Philip thought to cheat him of being the forester. So be it. Now he was going to reach even higher. He was going to reach for what was even more his by right than the forester position.

He studied the signet ring as he had countless times before. Upon it was the image of a roaring lion, the King of Beasts.

“You and I slew Old Sloat,” Cord told Sebald, “while Sloat slew the Baron.”

Only a knight could have slain the boar, or one who should be a knight. A chill swept through Cord, a heady realization.

“I will become a knight,” he said. He vowed it by Saint George of England as he slipped the golden ring onto his finger. With pride, he examined the lion signet. Fierce determination filled him, and he laughed in a new way. Only then, did he shake Sebald’s wedge-shaped head and don his garments.

***

Cord returned in time for dinner—lunch.

For the folk of Pellinore Castle, and for all of England and Wales, dinnertime was the biggest and most important meal of the day. Since the Baron was dead and Philip had ridden for Gareth Castle, it fell upon Sir Walter to decide where to hold dinner.

Cord strolled over the drawbridge and through the gatehouse, very conscious of the golden signet ring on his finger. He moved toward the sound of ringing steel, walking around the stable and to the small plot of hard-packed dirt beside it. There Sir Walter exchanged blows with a stout lad, a red-faced, freckled boy who wore the same serious expression as the look-alike adult. They wielded blunt swords, practice blades. The boy sweated freely, his mouth open like a landed carp.

Sir Walter swung, missed and stumbled. The lad gave a triumphant shout, clutched his oversized sword with two hands and hewed at his father. Sir Walter twisted and deflected the blow with a sharp clang of iron. The boy cried out in pain as the sword flew from his nerveless fingers.

Fat Sergeant Hob had once taught Cord a similar lesson. Hard blows, after an extended bout, sometimes stole strength from unwary fingers.

The boy shook his hands as he dodged a thrust from his father, then he dove for the sword. Sir Walter obviously pulled much of the power out of his next swing. Even so, the saw-toothed, blunt sword thudded against the lad’s back. He cried out again and sprawled face-first onto the dirt.

“The victory is mine,” Sir Walter said heavily, breathing hard.

Cord knew that the knight pretended to be more tired than he really was. His eldest son was known to be overly sensitive about his lack of fighting prowess.

The boy arose, with tears welling in his eyes. The blow had no doubt been painful. That, however, was an important lesson for a knightin-training. He needed to know how to take a fist to the nose, feel the exquisite pain, the explosion of the fear-making sensation and the blinding tears to his eyes. Then, when he’d tasted the dregs of defeat, then he needed to arise, gird up his courage and lift his sword again. To know the cost of defeat and then have the courage to fight, ah, that was the knightly test.

“Again?” asked Sir Walter.

The boy hesitated, his face still filled with the fear and anguish which sharp pain can cause. Sir Walter tried to hide his disappointment, although Cord spotted it. Even a knightin-training must not hesitate to fight when challenged.

“Yes!” the boy cried. “Again. I challenge you again.”

Sir Walter smiled and clapped the boy on the shoulder. More pain crossed the lad’s face, but he didn’t flinch.

Cord suspected, as he had for some time, that this lad had the right fiber. One day, if he wasn’t maimed during training, he could become a worthy English knight.

A tall steward, who had patiently waited beside Cord, cleared his throat as he stepped forward. “Milord,” he told Walter, “the food will soon be ready.”

Sir Walter wiped sweat from his face and accepted a flagon of beer from his groom.

“The day is lovely,” the steward said helpfully.

Sir Walter nodded. “We’ll eat in the garden today. Please give the order.”

“Thank you, milord,” the steward said. He strode away and began shouting orders.

“Another pass, Father?” asked the boy, the blunt practice sword in his hands.

“No. Enough for now. Go wash, then report to the steward. You’ll take Richard’s place.”

“Yes, Father!” shouted the boy. He gave the ragged sword to his father’s groom. Then he hurried after the steward.

Cord silently applauded Sir Walter’s first decision. If the weather was good, he hated to eat in the castle. Outdoor dining couldn’t be beaten. He hurried to the kennel, checked the brutes there, and then perked up as the dinner-horn blared three times. He said a few quick words to the hounds before rushing out and joining the throng headed through the gatehouse. People jostled one another as they walked quickly. It had been a long time since breakfast. Appetites were keen and the rules of etiquette rather loose.

The throng headed down the hill, turned off the road before the barbican gate, walked through the jousting yard where the baron had always held his tournaments and moved under the apple trees of the garden. In order of rank, they lined up at the wash tables. Servants held cloths so they could dry their hands after a thorough scrubbing. Burly servants meanwhile set down sawhorses while others laid long planks across them. A narrow cushioned bench found itself before the Knight’s Table, while cruder benches went on both sides of the Retainers’ Tables.

Sir Walter and his wife, plump Lady Martha, took the positions of honor at the center of the Knight’s Table. Lady Eleanor still grieved for her late husband, weeping in the chapel for his immortal soul. At Walter’s signal, the other knights and ladies sat. Then the rest of the throng threw themselves down for lunch. Father Bernard said grace and finally the porters were allowed to set down their steaming dishes.

While this wasn’t a feast day, roasted boar proved to be the main course. Old Sloat had been brought from the forest, been butchered and served. Steaming bowls of cooked beets and cabbage were also set on the tables.

“Please begin,” Sir Walter said.

Cord picked up his trencher knife and grabbed the nearest loaf of bread before the stable boy across from him could. He sawed off a thick slice, slapped it down and then poked a beet with his knife. He gnawed on it as he waited for the meat. Finally, a thick slab of pork found itself on his bread plate. He doused it with gravy and threw some hot cabbage beside it. Using his fingers, but cutting the pork with his knife, he ate reasonable slices and chewed with his mouth closed. Richard had told him the rules of knightly etiquette. The stable boy across the table had both his elbows on the plank and had his chunk of pork clutched between his raised hands. He gnawed off huge pieces of meat and chewed with both sides of his mouth.

“Hey, do you think you’re a knight now?” the stable boy brayed, seeing perhaps the ring on Cord’s finger. Meat spewed from his mouth and grease smeared his lips and chin.

Cord shrugged as he sawed off another slice of pork.

The stable boy gnawed at his meat, grunting because he’d taken too much in one bite.

If Richard had been here, Cord was certain the squire would have nudged him and pointed out the stable boy’s bad table manners. Refined nobles were above such grossness.

Sebald, no doubt growing impatient, nuzzled Cord in the back. Cord tossed the huge mastiff a slice of pork, but he didn’t turn around and pet him. To handle animals while sitting at the table wasn’t knightly. Nor did Cord wipe his trencher knife on the tablecloth nor pick his teeth while at the table. Ever since learning the knightly rules of etiquette, he’d tried to follow them.

The stable boy, after drinking a large amount of beer, gathered a gob of spit in his mouth and spat it across the plank, barely missing Cord.

“Even you know better than that,” Cord said.

The stable boy belched. Then he began to devour his trencher—the gravy-soaked slab of bread he’d used as a plate.

Cord put his trencher into his food sack, tying it to his belt. This afternoon he had to go with the bailiff to Rhys’ place. The gravy-soaked bread he planned to give to One-foot Jake who begged beside the old oak tree along the way.

As he sipped beer, Cord happened to notice Sir Walter’s son, the one who would soon be leaving as a squire to a neighboring baron. The lad stood stiffly. Maybe his back still hurt from the blow his father had given him.

The lad had taken Richard’s position at the Knight’s Table. It would be quite some time before anyone took Richard outside. Better to leave him in the healing gloom, Cord knew. It seemed odd without Richard’s bluff frame hovering by the Knight’s Table. He’d been a picture of refinement and an ever-present example of the Baron’s goodness and ability to teach knightly manners.

Sir Walter’s eldest son made the opposite impression. The lad cocked his freckled face, eagerly listening to what the Lady Alice said to Lady Martha, his mother. Martha nodded, while Alice laughed softly. The boy glanced left. He laughed, too, at something Cord couldn’t see. Cord did see the boy make a comment to Alice, who turned in surprise at the squire-in-training by her elbow. The boy spoke again, loudly, and pointed.

Alice blushed.

Sir Walter caught the exchange. He rose, twisted his son’s ear and whispered a reprimand, or so Cord supposed.

Richard would never have so obviously eavesdropped on a noble conversation. Nor would he have interjected a comment unless asked for one. The worst offense, making Alice blush, would have mortified Richard if he’d been the serving squire.

Cord suddenly sat back in wonder.

All this time I’ve had noble blood. Maybe Richard realized that all along. Maybe that’s why he’s taught me so much about knighthood.

Cord smiled, and with renewed curiosity, he examined his ring before taking another swallow of beer.

I am a knight’s son. I, therefore, can someday become a knight.

He abruptly studied Sir Walter’s son again. The lad fidgeted. Then he rolled his eyes as the steward leaned over and said something to Walter.

Cord smiled. Richard had done likewise before Baron Hugh had taken him in hand and trained him in courtly behavior. Squires and knights sometimes spent a lifetime serving more powerful nobles. Unless one knew the rules of etiquette, such service could only bring shame. Boorish behavior could also lose one the hard-to-acquire positions.

Lords and ladies, Cord knew, often showed their high station by the rank of the person who served them. Conversely, a person gained standing by being allowed to serve and help a highly-ranked person. Cord had heard how Baron Hugh once held the stirrup for Earl Mortimer when the other had mounted his horse in the presence of the King. Even better, two years ago the Baron had poured wine into Prince Edward’s cup when the latter had toasted Earl Mortimer’s health. The Baron had bragged about that for months. And because he’d been well-versed in courtly manners, the incident had been one of refinement and therefore true nobility.

Unlike Sir Walter’s son, Richard waited on his lord’s table with perfect grace. The porters brought him the dishes and he bent on one knee in order to hand the food to his superior. Then he stepped back, standing at ease, not laughing at the eaters, not rolling his eyes, and not picking his nose nor spitting or playing with the dogs. Visitors had often extolled Richard’s skillful manners to the Baron, which of course had rebounded onto the teacher.

In fairness to Sir Walter’s son, this was probably his first time at table-serving. Soon he would begin his long years of training in a castle other than his father’s. Everyone knew that a father was too soft on his own blood. Hard knocks and knightly sternness were needed in order to bash home the lessons that a squire needed to learn. Cord envied the boy, but tried not to.

Envy was a sin, and if he were to become a knight, he’d need God’s help. Sinning all the time surely wasn’t the way to gain that help.

Lady Alice clapped her hands.

Along with everyone else, Cord looked up to see what she wanted.

Alice arose, a beauty in mourning white. Her features showed her sadness, and in her hands, which were folded in a prayer-like poise, she held a large silver cross.

“Dear Sir Walter,” Alice said, “may I ask a request of you?”

Lady Martha whispered into her husband’s ear.

Walter nodded to whatever his wife had said. Then he answered Alice. “Please, milady, feel free to speak your mind.”

“Since this is our first meal without our dear departed lord,” Alice said, “I thought perhaps that we could have a moment of silence. Then, I request that Father Bernard say a prayer for the Baron’s soul.”

Murmurs of approval rose.

Alice kissed the crucifix. All knew that now she could only speak the truth.

“While it is true that at first I only remained at Pellinore because of the Baron’s insistence,” Alice said, “in time the baron became a second father to me. He was a bluff and powerful man, but he feared God and protected his people with a vigilance that none could ever fault.” Alice raised her voice. “We will miss you, Baron Hugh. I will miss you.” She lowered her head.

Cord heard those around him saying that she wept for him.

“Truly, the Lady Alice loved him like a father,” said a mason to Cord’s left.

“She mourns him more than any of his knights, that’s for certain,” said the mason’s wife.

“I’ve been wrong about her,” said another woman. “I’ve always heard that she hated the Baron.”

“Hush! What a foul thing to say. Look at her. She’s so lovely, so pure and innocent. No, she loved the baron.”

“I’m not so sure—”

“Look! She wipes her eyes. And now she speaks again. Quiet all of you. Listen!”

The babble died away. Cord, like those around him, strained to hear what Lady Alice would say next.

“Please, dear God,” Alice said loudly, with her eyes closed, “protect Sir Guy as he rides for Pellinore. Protect him from the armies roaming the Marches. And most of all, dear God, give him wisdom and strength as he attempts to pick up the mantle laid down by his glorious father.”

Abruptly, Alice sat down, with her head lowered and her shoulders trembling.

For a moment silence ruled, except for two hounds fighting over a bone. Finally, Father Bernard stood and said a loud amen.

Lady Martha hugged Alice, and everyone saw how she whispered comforting words to Alice. It moved many of the women to tears, and many of the men roughly drained their jacks of ale.

Sir Walter called for their attention, then said, “Henri, play us a song about the Baron.”

The minstrel rose, and in his liquid way he strode to the front of the Knight’s Table. He strummed his lute as he thoughtfully studied the clouds. Suddenly, his sweet voice began the song. It told of a baron who manfully attempted to accomplish his duties. Alas! Death took the baron before his goals could be attained. Now the lord baron, Henri sang, watched over them from within the clouds above. Yes! Even now, he could see the Baron as he smiled down on his people of Pellinore Fief.

Cord and others gazed up at the clouds in awe. A shiver of supernatural dread shot down Cord’s back. Did the Baron watch him even now? If he did, what did the Baron say to the angels? What did the Baron think about?

“The Baron ain’t up there,” the stable boy hissed. “He kicked me in the arse too many times for him to go straight up. I say he’s still in Purgatory.”

A smith cuffed the stable boy across the head and told him to shut his yap.

Cord frowned and studied the clouds anew. Maybe the stable boy was right. Besides, how could Henri see the Baron? Not even Father Bernard had been able to, or the Lady Alice? Surely, because of her sorrow God would grant her the vision before that woman-chasing minstrel.

Someone tapped Cord’s shoulder.

“The bailiff wants you,” said Sir Walter’s eldest son, the one who had taken Richard’s position today.

“Now?” asked Cord.

The lad jerked his thumb at the Knight’s Table. Sir Walter and the bailiff spoke together.

“All right, I’ll be right over,” said Cord.

People rose, some wandering back up the hill toward the castle, others breaking into separate clumps as they gossiped before renewing their day’s work.

Cord checked the tables and tossed a few extra scraps to various hounds, kicked two snarling brutes in order to break up their fight and pushed his way toward Henri. He grabbed the small minstrel’s arm and pulled him away from two serving maids.

“Easy, Cord. I’m not one of your hounds.”

“Sorry,” Cord mumbled.

Henri massaged his arm as he smiled wryly. “What has your temper up, dog boy? Why are you hauling me away from the ladies?”

“Did you really see the Baron?” Cord blurted.

“You mean up in the clouds?”

“Tell me the truth.”

“The truth?” Henri asked. “All you want is the truth? Bah! Why not ask for the moon, or sacks of gold, or a ship full of naked virgins.”

“Then you didn’t see the Baron?”

“Shhh,” Henri said, glancing around as he pulled Cord away from those nearest them. “What are you trying to do? Set me up for a beating?”

“What? A beating? You’re not making any sense.”

“Is that a surprise? I’m the minstrel after all.”

“Everyone was in tears. Even I felt something.”

Henri gave Cord his trademark smile.

“How could you see the Baron when Lady Alice couldn’t, or when even Father Bernard didn’t?” Cord asked.

“Cord, Cord,” Henri said, shaking his head. “Sometimes you’re wiser than a pope. At other times, you’re a simpleton looking for a thrashing. I could see what the guileful Alice couldn’t or the simple-minded Father didn’t because I study hearts.”

Cord frowned, trying to understand.

Henri leaned near and whispered, “The truth, which is what you asked for, is that Baron Hugh is dead. What happened to his soul?” Henri shrugged theatrically. “Up, down, here, there, never, always. Who knows? The priests say they do. But they whore, guzzle and gorge themselves as much as any man. So I don’t know why they should have any inner secrets over us.”

“Henri!” Cord said, outraged by the minstrel’s blasphemous words.

“Ah, I forgot. You pray, tithe and listen to priests with the best of them. As for me….” Henri glanced around, then leaned closer yet and whispered, “Where do souls go when men die? Who knows, really? What I do know is this: Men live on in people’s hearts.” Henri poked Cord in the chest. “There lives the Baron. Yes, right there.” He poked harder. “That’s what I saw when I said the Baron watched us from above.”

Cord tried to speak.

“Yes, dog boy, I saw the Baron peering out of your heart.”

“You’re mad,” Cord whispered.

“Am I? Then why did everyone shed tears at my words?”

Cord shook his head.

“Because I saw the truth, that’s why.”

“I…I don’t understand you, Henri.”

The small minstrel smiled sadly, much of the wit for once drained out of his face. “I know you don’t. But like me, you sometimes see things for what they are. It’s why you control hounds better than any man alive does. You spoke of love the other day, but that can’t be why the hounds obey you so well.”

“No?” Cord asked, feeling better because now they talked about something he understood.

Henri said, “Love is a myth, an illusion, a thing which men play with. Just as I played with the Baron’s memory.”

“No, Henri, love is the treasured something that men and women give.” Thinking of Bess, Cord sighed in the way children do after a long cry. “Sometimes, though,” he said softly, “love is spurned and trampled into the dust.”

Henri shook his head. “There is no love, only lies which people tell each other.”

Cord finally saw the pain in Henri. It shocked and surprised him. He saw the pain in the small minstrel’s posture, in the wry smile, in the eyes which seemed so deep but which were haunted with an almost unbearable affliction. Unconsciously, he reached out and squeezed Henri’s shoulder.

Henri jerked away.

“I…I think you’re a lonely man,” Cord said.

Henri’s mouth twisted with distaste.

“But I’m your friend,” Cord said.

Henri stared rudely, although some of the tension eased out of him. “I have no friends.”

“You have one,” said Cord.

Henri stared in obvious bewilderment. Then he asked softly, “Why would you be my friend?”

Cord thought about it. “Because I like you.”

“I can’t help you win back Bess, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“It isn’t.” But he wondered if that were really true.

Henri searched Cord’s face. “No, it isn’t,” he said in surprise.

“Cord!” the bailiff shouted.

Cord waved. Then told Henri, “I’m off.”

“Yes. Good bye.”

Cord wanted to say more, hesitated, but couldn’t think of anything to say. He felt awkward. At last, he chuckled nervously and strode away.

He left a frowning Henri, who mumbled softly to himself that all of life was a lie. When the two serving maids found him, he’d already put his protective wry smile back into place. Still, he played his game with the maids with less zest than before. Cord’s words troubled him, and he wondered if maybe he wasn’t the fool, not the earnest dog boy who claimed to love his hounds.

Maybe he’d have to stay at Pellinore a little while longer. If there really was truth, love and meaning, then surely it behooved him to find out.

Chapter Nine

The bailiff rode a spirited palfrey, a brown stallion with white forelocks. He sat tall in the saddle, his back straight, his shoulders squared and his head erect. His black hair had a tendency to swing down into his eyes, and his long jaw moved from side to side as he chewed over his thoughts. One hand held onto the reins, the other rested lightly on his sword pommel. As always, the bailiff wore chainmail, with a fine link hood, settled behind his head.

He was darker-skinned than the other Pellinore knights, and his pockmarked features made him look rugged. It was his gray eyes, however, which caused men to cower before him. It wasn’t bulging muscles or a large frame that frightened criminals and outlaws, but the calm assurance that the bailiff wore like a halo.

Sometimes Cord wondered if, in ordering others—peasants, slaves and outlaws—the bailiff hadn’t come to expect people to obey him, and so gained his masterly self-assurance.

The bailiff could handle weapons, but not in a dazzling display as Sir Philip or Baron Hugh could. Sir Walter won more bouts on the jousting yard and Richard had been able to outfight the bailiff on the practice field. Even so, by his plodding certainty, by his willingness to match stroke for stroke against better opponents, by his very unwillingness to admit defeat against better knights, the bailiff had beaten foes that were more skilled and even slain masters of the blade.

Cord trotted beside the bailiff, with Sebald beside him. Cord carried a sack and breathed heavily as they moved up a forested hill. A while ago, he’d given his trencher to One-foot Jake. The bailiff hadn’t said anything, although his thin lips had curved up in a slight smile of approval.

The bailiff now drew rein and dismounted stiffly, tossing the reins to Cord. He stretched his back with a groan, then strode in a circle and shook his legs. “I rode far yesterday,” he explained.

“Are your legs stiffening up again?”

The bailiff smiled sourly. “Age does things to a man’s body that only God in His mercy can halt. You’re still young, filled with vigor and fresh limbed. Be thankful.”

Cord didn’t feel so fresh. He’d also traveled far, if several days ago instead of just one. His traveling, however, had all been afoot, not mounted on a horse like a noble. His legs didn’t have their usual power and his feet still hurt. The cobbler had fixed his boot, but running barefoot several days ago had taken its toll.

The bailiff snapped a twig off the nearest tree and with his thumbnail began peeling bark. He seemed preoccupied, engrossed with a thought.

Cord scratched Sebald behind the ears, waiting.

The bailiff looked up. He began snapping the twig into smaller and smaller pieces. For once in his life, he appeared uncomfortable.

“Is something wrong?” Cord asked.

The bailiff nodded. “I’m troubled about something I’ve heard.”

Cord waited. It wasn’t like the bailiff to beat around the bush. Usually he came straight on like a sword thrust to the guts.

“Ah, you wait and keep silent,” the bailiff said. “Most people talk too much and give themselves away. You’ve depth to you, Cord. I like that, and I admire how you train your hounds. It’s one of the reasons why I told the Baron you’d make a good forester. I still think you’d make a good forester. But despite my blessing, I don’t think you’re going to become one.”

Cord’s stomach tightened. The bailiff was seldom wrong about anything, and he only spoke if he believed something to be true.

“Sir Philip isn’t your friend,” the bailiff said.

“I mean him no ill will,” said Cord.

The bailiff frowned.

“Well, at least I didn’t until a couple of days ago,” Cord amended.

“That’s better. Speak only the truth to me, or don’t speak at all. I have no interest hearing lies.”

“What troubles you, Sir?”

“Did you plan the Baron’s death?” the bailiff asked.

“What? No! How could I possibly plan that?”

The bailiff rubbed his jaw, studying Cord. “I’ve heard rumors, and I heard Philip swear before Saint Hubert that it was your plan to harm the Baron.”

“That’s madness!”

“Do you call Philip a liar?”

Cord opened his mouth. Then he recalled Hob’s warning. He shook his head. “I think Sir Philip loved the Baron. To see him slain by Old Sloat—I think it broke Philip’s heart. In his grief, he lashed out at me. You know as well as I that Sir Philip never had any fondness for me. Why that’s so, I don’t understand—”

“I do,” the bailiff said, interrupting.

“Milord?”

“He hated your father.”

“You knew my father?”

The bailiff turned away, reaching out and snapping off another twig. He peeled part of the twig, then snapped it in two and threw the halves away. “Your father was a tough man, strong and handy with a blade.”

“Why did Sir Philip hate him?”

“Your father defeated Philip once, badly. He gave Philip his first scar, the one across the bridge of his nose.”

“In a fight?”

“In a joust.” The bailiff faced Cord. “It was at a tournament held at Wigmore Castle. Earl Roger Mortimer’s father gave the tournament. Your father and Philip, both newly knighted, tried to win the hand of the same lady. Oh, she was a cunning lass that one. She smiled, flirted and gave many a token to many a knight. When Sir Philip tried to woo her, she laughed at him and said that your father had already won her heart. Philip swore to defeat him in a joust. She said that no man could beat the Saxon.”

“Did she love my father?” Cord asked, drinking up the tale as he would sweet ale.

“I think she enjoyed watching two men fight over her. Philip, even more so as a young man, had a violent temper. In any case, they met the next day on the field. In the first pass, each man splintered his lance against the other’s shield. In the second pass, your father shifted his lance at just the right moment. Sir Philip was sprawled backward onto the dirt. When the judges pried off his helmet, blood flowed from his nose and face.

“The lady only danced with your father that night. She even turned down young Roger Mortimer. We were all jealous. And I was only a page in those days, a young brat awed by his elders.”

The bailiff shook his head, apparently lost for the moment in his memories.

“Is that why Sir Philip hates me?” Cord asked, glad to learn that his father had beaten Philip. He’d known that his father had been fond of the ladies—although his mother had told him that father had always treated her well. She’d died when outlaws had attacked their village.

Cord shook off the memory. It pained him thinking about his mother.

The bailiff said, “Philip hates you for more reasons than that. I don’t believe I know the full story about your father and Philip. I know that you’re the spitting image of your father. You have the same stare, the same width of shoulders, the same odd way with animals. And the girls….” The bailiff laughed softly. “The girls look at you with the same gleam in their eyes.”

Cord thought bitterly of Bess.

The bailiff said slowly, “Baron Hugh, and even more so Philip, often spoke about what a delight it was to have you as his dog boy.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Baron knew your father, although he never hated him like Earl Roger or Philip did. Still, the Baron remembered that your father had Saxon blood, not Norman. It pleased the Baron that a Saxon knight, one as strong and bold as your father, was brought so low that his son served in a Norman castle as a common dog boy. I think Philip enjoyed the thought of that even more than the Baron, although he tried to hide it from us.”

Cord narrowed his eyes into slits. “They mocked me,” he whispered.

“Not you, but your father,” the bailiff said.

Anger burned in Cord. “Why are you telling me this?”

“So you’ll know what you’re up against. Sir Philip means to kill you, or see you killed.”

“Will you let that happen?”

“Not unjustly, no.”

“But otherwise, yes?”

The bailiff looked away, his halo of assurance momentarily shaken.

“Philip never wanted to kill me before,” Cord said. “Why does he now?”

“You slew Old Sloat. Only a powerful and lucky man could do that. The wild boar killed our Baron, and it killed the old forester, too, a tough old man. The person who killed Sloat, that person would be dangerous. Not only that, but slaying Old Sloat has brought you renown. It has made you more than ever like your father.”

Cord digested that.

“Now you wear your father’s signet ring, the ring with the arrogant seal of a roaring lion. You have given Philip cause to fear and hate you. Such a combination means he’ll try to kill you.”

“Why tell me all this? What’s your stake in it?”

The bailiff’s features hardened. He opened his mouth in the manner he usually did before giving a swift rebuke.

Cord knew he’d asked his question too sharply, not in the manner of a lowly dog boy to a knight. But he wasn’t just a dog boy anymore. Didn’t he wear the lion ring?

Whatever the bailiff had planned to say went unsaid. He closed his mouth and thoughtfully rubbed his jaw. “Yes,” he said at last, “I suppose you deserve to know my reasons. Someday I will have to stand before God’s Judgment Seat. Then I will have to give an account of all that I’ve done in this life, show God that I’ve acted fairly. Is it fair for a knight like Philip to know so much about a young man? Is it fair for the knight to hate the young man and want to kill him, all without the young man knowing what he’s up against? By warning you, I’ve balanced the scales.”

Cord thought about that. “Thank you for the warning. Now what do you suggest I do?”

The bailiff shook his head.

“Should I run away as others have told me to?”

“You will be branded an outlaw if you run away before Sir Guy can pass judgment upon your actions.”

“I know.”

“But if you don’t run, Philip will see to it that you’re killed.”

Cord nodded. Philip feared him, or he’d feared his father. But he had slain Old Sloat.

“Why do you grin?”

The bailiff’s question startled Cord. He hadn’t realized that he’d been grinning. He spoke before thinking. He said, “I’m going to defeat Sir Philip.”

The bailiff’s eyes widened. Goosebumps rose on his neck. “By all the saints, your father once spoke those same words. I remember them well.”

Cord’s grin grew.

“No, don’t smile. Your father swung in the end, all his boasts come to naught. You must try to walk a different path or you’ll end up hanging from a tree like he did.”

Cord reined in his heady emotions. “Thank you again, Sir Knight. I appreciate your warning.”

The bailiff nodded.

“Should we continue the journey?”

“A good idea.” The bailiff remounted the palfrey and they continued up the hill. As the trail became steeper, the oaks and beeches gave way to pines and spruces. Cord twice sipped from his beer-skin. The bailiff dismounted every so often and walked the stallion in order to rest him. Together they scaled the tallest hills in the fief.

These rocky hills rose in the fief’s southeast corner, a last bastion before the land settled out into the lowlands that sprawled all the way to the Severn River. The Severn divided the Western Marches from England.

The bailiff and Cord trekked toward Rhys’ place. Rhys was a Welshman who had once done the Baron a decided favor. More than ten years ago, Rhys and his mother had stumbled into Pellinore Castle. The stooped old woman coughed and hacked the entire night. Rhys had tried to help her, but the cough had worsened into a terrible bray of death. At last one of the knights, a man no longer living, had roared at the old crone to shut up or take her useless husk elsewhere.

Young Rhys rose with rage blazing in his eyes.

Only half Welsh and a bastard to boot, his father, it was learned later, had been a Norman man-at-arms who’d raped the old crone in her better days. Rhys had been raised as a Welsh freeman who, unlike English freemen, were never servile, and openly spoke their thoughts even to the greatest. Firm friends, Welshmen made implacable foes. Young Rhys, who knew only the highland Welsh customs, had drawn his dagger and challenged the knight to a duel to the death.

The hall had grown silent, and the old knight had turned red with wrath. The stripling Welshman, surrounded by his blood-foes, hadn’t shown a trace of fear or dismay.

“My lord,” the Lady Eleanor had said to Hugh, “you must not allow this boy to be hurt.”

“He is Welsh and has insulted one of my knights,” had said Hugh.

“No, milord, he is a boy who had the courage to stand up to a boorish insult against his mother.”

Baron Hugh, after further argument, had agreed with his wife. The knight had been made to apologize to the boy and to the old crone.

She’d died that night, but in the Baron’s bed in the living quarters above. Why Lady Eleanor had shown such kindness to a Welsh crone no one had ever learned, although all had agreed that it had been a true act of Christian charity. Everyone had noted how Father Bernard had preached the next morning on the Good Samaritan, using the Lady Eleanor’s example.

The act of kindness had deeply moved young Rhys. The next day, after receiving the Baron’s permission to bury his mother in the fief’s highest hills, he’d told them why they had come to Pellinore Castle. His mother had been born in this fief, although in those days those hills had still been a Welsh stronghold.

Then young Rhys had given his warning. “I will tell you something else, good Baron. Owain ab Ifan marches here even now with a hundred hardy warriors. Owain has sworn to cut out your heart and roast it over an open fire.”

Baron Hugh and Owain ab Ifan had warred over the years and learned to hate each other. Each had done the other much harm.

“What you say cannot be,” the Baron had said. “Only last summer Owain swore a two-year truce with me. He swore it over the Holy Bible and before God, and in the presence of his priest. Because of the sworn truce, I forwent the joy of killing his son who I had captured.”

“All true,” had said young Rhys. “But in your border raid last year you slew his wife while Owain went north to the High Court.”

“His wife? No, impossible. I raided south of Owain’s lands.”

“His wife was visiting the homestead of those you slew. Now, Owain means to roast your beating heart.”

The Baron had gravely studied young Rhys. “Why do you tell me this? Are you a traitor?”

Young Rhys had laughed grimly. “You treated my mother with respect, which is more than Owain did. He called her a harlot. A harlot! She, a Gruffydd! When I tried to stab him, his men disarmed me and then he had me whipped. Someday I’ll kill him.”

The Baron had said no more to Rhys, although he’d kept him by his side for a week. At the end of the week, Owain ab Ifan invaded. He came with a hundred and fifty warriors rather than a mere hundred. The peasant levy had been called out, and all the knights, squires, sergeants and men-at-arms had been readied. In the ambush, a good half of the Welsh invaders died. And Baron Hugh slashed Owain ab Ifan’s knife-arm, crippling his bitter foe for life.

As a reward, the Baron had allowed Rhys the freedom of the fief’s highest hills. There young Rhys could live as a Welshman, raising his cattle and sheep and collecting as many servants as he could afford. In time of war, Rhys brought his Welsh and half-Welsh servants with him. Each of them had been trained in the southern Welsh manner of fighting, as longbowmen.

If the truth were known, none of the Englishmen had ever wanted to live high up in the hills. Crops couldn’t grow well there. But that suited Rhys and his household just fine. A Welshman seldom toiled like a peasant. He was a herder or hunter and loved nothing better than trekking over harsh terrain or wading through impossible marshes. The knightly manner of warfare wasn’t his, either. The Welshman fought afoot, with little or no armor. He shot a bow or used a lance, and in close-order work, a long knife served him better than a heavy sword. When Owain ab Ifan had attacked Pellinore Fief, his unarmored men intended to charge the armored knights. The ambush and the fast raid rather than the set-piece battle were the Welshman’s strong suit. In the Welshman’s wooded hills, the heavily armored knights usually made little headway.

Even so, since William the Conqueror’s time the Welsh had known relentless war and pressure from the adventurous Normans. Before that time, the Saxons had been content to hold the frontiers, since the Saxon by inclination had been a stay-at-home warrior. The Normans who’d invaded England in 1066 had been of a completely different nature. Perhaps the heritage bequeathed them by their Viking ancestors had something to do with their aggressive outlook. Only a few generations ago, Rollo, a Viking chieftain, and his warriors, had settled in Normandy with the French King’s permission. From the mix of French knights and Viking sea-rovers had been produced the restless and supremely confident Normans. The kingdom of Sicily had fallen to a Norman adventurer in William’s day. The people of the Byzantine Empire had constantly cursed the Norman knights who’d raided their productive territory. And many of the first crusaders had been those same restless Normans.

The Anglo-Norman attacks into Wales had started in 1095 under Rufus and had continued in 1114 and 1121 under King Henry the First. The Welsh, who lived in makeshift huts on their mountains, almost always drove their flocks and herds farther west or higher up the hills during the assaults. For hunters and herders, with little agricultural stake in the land, such movements had been easy and frustrating to the Norman conquerors. The moment the large Norman armies retreated, the Welsh herders and hunters returned. Thus it was, that only by building castles and by bringing in Englishmen to till the soil and occupy the newly-made towns that the Normans had been able to hold onto the conquered, eastern river-valleys of Wales. Year after year the struggle continued, each culture at ease in its own terrain, unable to come to the final clinch with its foes.

As the bailiff and Cord climbed upward to Rhys’ place, the pines and spruces began to thin out, giving way to large glades of summertime grasses and colorful mountain flowers. Cord, thinking to spy something, shielded his eyes from the sun. In the distance grazed a flock of sheep. He spotted two shepherds and noticed several long-haired sheepdogs.

The bailiff nodded when Cord pointed them out.

A while later a sharp whistle came from the edge of the nearest clump of pines. A stocky man strode out of the tree-line toward them. He wore rough garments, skins of some sort dyed green. A large bow was slung across his thick chest and a green hood was thrown over his head. Two shaggy hounds trotted beside him.

The bailiff mounted up, while Cord studied the man. It had to be Rhys, although he’d seldom seen the man. Rhys was either off on one of his many forays or content to stay up in his hills. The stocky hunter had a quick stride, confident and sure-footed. Soon Cord saw the shadowed face. Rhys’ head seemed square within the hood, with dark hair and intense eyes, very intense eyes. He had a long nose and a dark forked beard, and seemed older than a man should be in his mid-twenties. There also hung about Rhys a recklessness, a rashness that could be engaged to commit one of those legendary Welsh acts of daring.

He hailed them, raising his right hand. On the thick fingers flashed silver rings. “Bailiff! And the tall dog boy!” Rhys shouted in a commanding voice. “What brings you to my hills?”

Cord whispered to Sebald. The huge mastiff sat on his haunches, although he eyed the shaggy hounds on either side of Rhys.

The stocky Welshman grinned. “What’s wrong, dog boy, afraid my hounds will hurt your Baron’s expensive mastiff?”

“It isn’t that,” said Cord as Rhys stopped before them.

Rhys exposed his teeth as he doffed his hood and then rested his strong hands on his hips. “What is it then?”

“I don’t want to start any dog fights,” said Cord.

Rhys laughed in a way that said he knew that his two hounds would thrash the mastiff.

Cord bristled. He’d only been trying to be polite. “Maybe you’re fond of your tall hounds. Sebald would tear them apart if they fought. And since this your territory, I decided it wouldn’t be right for you to see your dogs killed.”

Rhys laughed even louder than before in what appeared to be merriment. He shook the heads of his two tall hounds and told them to beware of the huge mastiff. He even pointed out Sebald. Then Rhys’ intense eyes narrowed as he stared at Sebald, who Cord had been idly petting.

“You’re no dog boy,” Rhys said suspiciously, his merriment gone.

“Of course he is,” the bailiff said from upon the palfrey.

“Since when did the Baron start handing out gold rings to his servants?” Rhys asked.

“The Baron’s dead,” the bailiff said abruptly.

Rhys didn’t react; he eyed Cord, and Cord’s golden signet ring.

“Did you hear me?” the bailiff asked.

“I did,” Rhys said. He shook his head a moment later. “If you thought to disguise a knight, no…he’s still too young. Is he a squire then? If you thought to disguise a squire as a dog boy, you should have had him take off his golden ring. It ruins the effect, you see.” Rhys grinned again. With his intense eyes and forked beard, it made him seem like the devil of tricksters. “I know of what I speak, bailiff. Too many times, I’ve donned my own disguises. Detail, it all comes down to the tiniest of details, you see.”

“What are you babbling about, man?” the bailiff asked in exasperation. “He’s Cord the dog boy, nothing more.”

“Do you take me for a dim-witted fool?” Rhys asked. “The Baron’s dead, or so you said, and the Western Marches swarm with Prince Llewellyn’s Welsh and you’ve heard rumors. So instead of coming here in good faith, you disguise a squire as a dog boy. What is it? Do you mistrust me?”

“Why are you so leery of us?” the bailiff asked. Then his features shifted. A hooded look came over his eyes. “Ah, you’ve heard something? Is that it, Rhys? You’ve heard something important that’s made you nervous.”

Rhys stroked his forked beard. He appeared not to have heard the bailiff. He looked Cord up and down. “So your dog can kill mine, eh?”

“If I order it,” Cord said.

“You don’t act like a dog boy,” Rhys said slowly. “You’re too bold, too sure of yourself. And then there’s that ring of yours.” He stroked his beard some more. His smile crept back onto his face. “There are only two of you, however. Very well, bailiff. Why not get down off that high horse of yours and tell me what happened to the Baron?”

The stiff and frowning bailiff complied, handing the reins to Cord. The two men sat on some nearby rocks and began to talk in earnest.

The shaggy hounds took the opportunity of their master’s inattention to approach Sebald. With a word, Cord let him up. He held the palfrey’s reins and watched the three dogs sniff each other and piss over the same flowers. The three dogs seemed content with that, none of them willing to start a fight.

Cord glanced at Rhys and the bailiff. Rhys gestured and spoke urgently. The bailiff listened, his back as straight as if he rode in the saddle. Cord wondered at Rhys’ strange insistence that he was only pretending to be a dog boy. He nodded to himself. Others did see him differently now. Slaying Old Sloat truly had made a difference.

It didn’t surprise Cord when Rhys called him over, wanting an exact description of Old Sloat’s last minutes in life.

“It seems I was wrong about you,” Rhys said. “But now I’ve become curious.”

Cord told the tale, although he didn’t say anything about Richard’s broken legs. Rhys’ mentioning of Prince Llewellyn’s hosts left him cautious. It seemed wrong to let anyone know about the weakening of the castle’s defenses.

“So you killed the old monster, eh?” Rhys asked when Cord finished speaking. The Welshman grinned as his eyes blazed. “Dog boy or not, you well deserve a golden ring!”

“It was my father’s ring,” Cord heard himself say.

“Ah!” said Rhys. “Yes, now I remember you. You’re the felon’s son. Then your father was more than a felon, eh?”

Cord bristled.

Rhys waved him down. “I meant no insult…. What’s your name again?”

“Cord.”

“Cord, I meant no insult by my words. That’s what others say about you, is all. Believe me, I know about the whispering of others.”

Cord nodded, accepting the apology. “My father was a knight,” he explained.

“Ah!” Rhys said, leaning closer in obvious interest.

“It’s a long tale,” said Cord.

“Yes, I suppose it would be,” Rhys said. “Maybe some day you could share it with me. I’d be interested to know why a knight’s son who acts like a squire is only a dog boy in Pellinore Castle.”

“He may well tell you why,” the bailiff said, “but not now. I rode up here to speak with you, Rhys, to tell you about the Baron’s passing and that his son will soon be back in Pellinore. I suspect young Sir Guy will want all his knights to make their oaths of fealty to him. Freeholders will also be expected to come to the castle and give their oaths of loyalty.”

“I see,” Rhys said, perhaps a trifle guardedly.

The bailiff added, “The Lady Eleanor also instructed me to bring you bread and salt and some cakes she helped bake herself.”

“She’s very kind,” said Rhys as he accepted the sack of goods from Cord.

“And I remember you said something a few weeks ago about special pups,” the bailiff said. “I brought Cord along to inspect them. If he finds them good enough, and you’re willing, I would like to buy several so I can give them to Sir Guy as a gift.”

“Ah-ha!” Rhys said. “Now I understand why Pellinore’s bailiff graces my hills with his presence.”

The bailiff coughed, and said quietly, “These are the Baron’s hills.”

“Of course,” Rhys said after a short pause. “‘Twas a mere slip of the tongue.”

“Shall we go inspect the pups then?” the bailiff asked.

“Of course,” Rhys said. “But only if you agree to stay for supper.”

“If supper is early,” the bailiff said. “I’d like to be back in Pellinore before dark.”

“Very well,” Rhys said, rising from his rock. “An early supper it will be.” He put two thick fingers into his mouth and whistled loudly. A moment later, a shepherd in the distance whistled back.

“Let’s go,” Rhys said.

Cord held the stirrup while the bailiff mounted up. Then the two Pellinore Castle-men followed Rhys toward his mountain home.

Chapter Ten

Cord wasn’t used to the Welsh manner of homecoming after a hard day’s work. He’d heard of it, but listening to it was another matter entirely.

As two shepherds joined Rhys, the stocky Welshman began to hum. The shepherds, who looked like a father and son team, grinned at each other as Rhys hummed louder and louder. Their grimy faces became less strained, their slumped shoulders more squared. The sheep, which bleated all around them, quickened their pace, and the sheepdogs herded with more zeal.

Rhys suddenly broke into song. His powerful voice started low and built up in tempo and volume. Soon he was booming out one of the myriad songs that come to the Welsh as naturally as breathing. It wasn’t long before the father joined Rhys, and then the son joined, too. All three Welshmen sang with gusto, their voices echoing off the hills and filling the glades and small forests with joyful sounds. Before three songs had been sung, another team of shepherds ambled along. They too joined the merry singers, adding their lusty voices to the mix.

Cord marveled at them, and he delighted in the singing. If he’d known the songs or understood the Welsh language, he would have joined in.

The bailiff, however, said under his breath, “Bah! They’re all Singers.”

The Anglo-Normans had never understood the Welsh love of singing, and had come to call them ‘Singers’ as a term of contempt. The Welsh were just as contemptuous of the Norman lack of poetic talent.

Cord’s weariness lessened as he listened to the singing. He wondered idly if the Norman nobles would walk more, instead of riding everywhere, if they sang more.

The shepherds soon herded their flocks into a large stone corral, which stood beside a low-built barn of wood and woven wattles. Although the fence had been made to last, the barn didn’t look sturdy. The house, a big, sprawling affair a little higher up than the barn, had the same rickety look. It had one floor, a small door and many stuffed-shut windows. Smoke billowed out of the window to the side, while a stand of fir trees cut off the stiff mountain breeze that blew down the hill. The entire place had been built on a small plateau, although both above and below the barn and house the hill sloped steeply.

Cord counted twelve shepherds, about as many wives, a host of children and another handful of servants. It made Rhys’ Place seem large, bigger than any other freeholder’s home he’d been to. Cord knew that the Welsh were unlike his own Saxons or the overlord Normans. Both types of Englishmen lived in settled communities, whether in villages, towns or castles. Seldom did an English family live all alone, without any neighbors less than a stone’s throw away. The Welsh, on the other hand, often built their homesteads well away from others, hidden in some wooden glade or deep in a moor. If Rhys had had any neighbors, the other house would have been built at least a mile or more away.

Servants ran to the bailiff’s palfrey, and soon led him away to the barn where cows lowed.

“Should we look at the pups now?” the bailiff asked.

“Let’s wait till after supper,” said Rhys.

A tall woman in a clean woolen dress strode out to greet them. She had a shock of long red hair, a regal stride and smiles for the guests.

“This is my wife, Sir Knight,” Rhys said with a proud smile. “The Lady Gwen ab Gruffydd.”

The bailiff surprised Cord by taking one of the lady’s clean white hands and like a palace courtier pressing his lips to the delicate skin. “You add grace and beauty to this lonely mountain hideaway,” the bailiff said grandly.

Gwen curtsied, while Rhys, if it was possible, seemed to stand taller and puff out his chest even more than before.

“And this tall man is the boar-slayer,” Rhys told his wife. “He slew Old Sloat, the beast who tragically slew Baron Hugh.”

Gwen’s hand flew up to her mouth, her startling green eyes showing her concern. “The Baron is dead?”

“Alas, yes,” Rhys said. “I had hoped to have you meet him, my love. He was a good man, generous, bold and brave.”

“When is his funeral?” Gwen asked the bailiff. “We must attend.”

“Sir Guy returns from Castle Gareth,” the bailiff said. “In a day, maybe two, the funeral will be held in the castle.”

Gwen moved up to Cord, touching his cheek. “You must be very brave, and a mighty hunter, to have slain this beast which killed your Baron. You are most welcome in our home.”

Cord could barely find his tongue, although he managed to say, “Thank you, milady.” As she turned away, he added, “But I didn’t slay Old Sloat by myself, milady. Sebald helped.”

“Sebald?” she asked.

Cord petted Sebald’s massive head.

“Ah, I see,” she said. “Yes. He is a mighty beast himself.” She turned to Rhys. “You should ask the boar-slayer to stud out his hound. We could use dogs like that up here in the hills.”

“You’re always right, my dear,” Rhys said, taking his wife’s arm. “But at the moment, I’m famished.”

“Then enter within, husband, and let us begin the feast.”

Arm in arm, Rhys and Gwen led everyone into the house. The smoke was thick since supper was still being cooked, but the roasting mutton smelled mouth-watering.

Cord noticed that the sprawling house had been divided into several sections. The divisions were wooden walls, not just curtains. His estimation of Rhys’ wealth rose accordingly.

A tall handsome man who looked a lot like Gwen sat on a stool and strummed a lyre. His long red hair had been pulled back and was now held in place by a golden band. What most impressed Cord was the man’s linen shirt and fur-lined leather jacket.

“This is my brother-in-law,” Rhys said. “Edric the Bard.”

Edric held up a mug of ale. He swallowed a long draught before returning to his lyre.

“He’ll sing for us later,” Gwen said from the fireplace.

“Yes, in order to earn my keep,” Edric said in a melodious voice, plucking a lyre string for emphasis.

“Now! None of that,” Rhys boomed, slapping Edric on the back a trifle harder than seemed necessary. “You’ll have the bailiff and the boar-slayer thinking that Rhys ab Gruffydd makes men earn his hospitality. Such a thing will never be said, or if said, then I’ll hunt the liar down and cut out his tongue.”

Edric grinned, which put deep lines in his face. He appeared to be over thirty, and it was obvious that he’d been drinking. “That was spoken like a true Welshman,” he said loudly.

“Aye, aye,” chorused someone in the rear of the smoky room.

Cord saw Gwen flash her brother a frown. The bard, who also noticed the frown, looked intently upon his lyre as he plucked strings, although it seemed that he secretly smiled.

As Cord sat on a bench at the main table, he felt the Welsh and half-Welsh all around him. It was a subtle feeling, a tension waiting to build or lessen, depending on what happened next. Maybe the bailiff felt it too, for he shook his head when Gwen asked if he’d like to set aside his sword. Rhys tugged his beard at this. Then he shrugged as Gwen shot him a questioning look. The stocky Welsh freeman unbuckled his long knife and set it on a hook on the wall. The shepherds did likewise, until everyone but Cord and the bailiff were unarmed.

“My hounds will give us warning if marauders attempt to invade my house,” Rhys explained to the bailiff. “A year ago, I heard how the ancient Greeks used to go unarmed in their homes. How civilized, I thought to myself. In such a civilized way I’ve now trained my household.”

“I always keep my sword at my side,” the bailiff said gruffly.

“Just like the Viking pirates of old,” said Edric the Bard. He’d arisen, and now sat across the table from the bailiff.

“What do you mean?” the bailiff demanded.

The bard merely gave him a lazy half-smile, his startling green eyes (just like his sister) alive in the smoky gloom.

“Do you call me a pirate?” the bailiff asked.

“You wear your sword like one,” Edric said quietly.

“Enough!” said Rhys, slapping the table. “You’re my guest, bard, but you must treat my other guests with the respect they’re due.”

Edric lifted his fiery eyebrows.

“The bailiff is the Baron’s man,” Rhys explained. “He is also a good and just man himself, and a friend of mine. He will therefore be treated as such.”

“He’s a Norman knight,” said Edric, as if that were an insult.

“Yes,” said Rhys. “The same kind of Norman knight who fought with you and your brethren at Bridgenorth.”

“Bridgenorth?” the bailiff asked. “What’s this about Bridgenorth?”

Rhys gave the bailiff a soothing smile. He sat at the head of the table, the bailiff to his right. Edric sat to Rhys’ left. Cord sat farther down the table, beside the shepherd’s son. Young boys set down wooden cups, while a tall girl poured ale first to Rhys, then the bailiff and then refilled Edric’s mug before going on down the line.

“You spoke about Bridgenorth,” the bailiff said. “Does that have anything to do with Earl Simon’s army?”

“Let us eat first,” said Rhys. “We can talk politics later.”

“But if you have important news—” the bailiff tried to say.

“To Baron Hugh’s memory,” Rhys shouted as he lifted his cup.

Men and women raised their cups, all except for Edric.

“I ask, brother-in-law,” said Rhys, “that you drink to my benefactor’s memory.”

Edric examined his mug. He even took hold of it and twisted it from side to side.

“Baron Hugh was a good man,” Gwen said from the fireplace, as she helped the servers ready the plates.

“How do you know that?” Edric slurred. “I thought you’ve never met him?”

“He helped my husband,” Gwen said. “That’s all I need to know.”

Edric nodded thoughtfully. Then he looked up at the frowning bailiff. Edric lifted his mug. “To this noble Norman baron. May he rest well in his grave.” So saying, Edric quaffed the ale.

Rhys did likewise. So did the bailiff and the rest of the company. Cord smacked his lips. This was tasty ale, very refreshing. He quaffed again.

Under Gwen’s direction, the young boys and the tall girl set down plates of butter, cheese and roasted mutton. Conspicuous by its absence, Cord noted the lack of bread. Welsh people, he’d heard, seldom ate it.

The meal went apace, with small talk, a few jibes and the tossing of meat to the prowling hounds. Gwen, Cord noticed, ate delicately as she sat beside her husband at the head of the table. She engaged the bailiff in conversation, and soon had him smiling.

The bailiff had asked Rhys about Earl Simon’s army for good reason. The Earl’s army terrorized the Western Marches, at least for those who still sided with the King and his son, Prince Edward.

Earl Roger Mortimer, never any friend of Simon’s, had been playing a shrewd and wily game. Although several of his estates had gone up in flames and many of his herds had been slain in order to feed Simon’s host, he hadn’t come out openly against Simon. Baron Hugh, as one of Roger Mortimer’s chief vassals, had kept Pellinore Fief ready for war the entire summer, just in case his valley should be invaded. So far, Roger Mortimer had been content to watch Simon and gauge his every move, waiting for that moment when the Earl overreached himself.

Earl Simon de Montfort had sailed back to England in April 1263. With the death of the old Earl of Gloucester, Simon had taken charge of the reformers. The reformers wished to change the way King Henry ran the kingdom.

King Henry the Third had always been a weak King, ruled by advice from his favorites. The first had been stern old William Marshal, who had never been knocked out of the saddle in any of his five hundred tournaments. Henry had only been ten years old then, and had followed William Marshal’s lead as they’d ousted the French from England. In the last days of bad King John’s reign—John had been Henry’s father—the barons who had forced King John to sign the Magna Charta had asked the King of France to come and be their monarch. With the death of John and the crowning of King Henry the Third, the English, both Saxon and Norman, had rallied to the boy King’s side. Then, after the French had been ousted, William Marshal had died and Hubert de Burgh had become the king’s right hand man. Henry in time had tired of de Burgh, and had had him killed. When King Henry married Eleanor of Provence, he’d come under the spell of her countless French-Provencal relatives. Royal funds had flown out of the treasury and into the pockets of those stiff-necked, haughty Provencals. Eleanor’s uncles, brothers and sisters came to Henry’s court and sapped his will as well as England’s treasury. Ill-conceived wars, fiasco’s where Henry poured out yet more English money to the Pope in order to win for his son the Sicilian Crown, and the gaining of half-brothers from his mother who had married a French noble, all became too much for many of the English barons. Haughty overlords, often Italian or French, ran many an English church, shire and barony. Tempers flared against all the foreigners, and men groaned at the taxes they paid to the King, that were so quickly squandered on frivolous things.

Finally, many of the barons became angry at Henry’s weak rule. They met with him at Oxford, in Parliament, and they wore chainmail to the meeting. There they forced the King to sign the Provisions of Oxford. It insured that English money wouldn’t be wasted on stupid ventures, nor would the King’s inlaws rule the countryside like minor kings.

Even after Oxford, however, these seesaw struggles had surged back and forth. Until at last, the magnetic Simon de Montfort went to Oxford, and marshaled the reformers into an armed host. In their ranks were many young and energetic knights.

Simon took his small, well-trained army of knights and men-at-arms across the Severn and into the Western Marches. At the end of June, they had attacked the Bishop of Hereford, a foreigner of ill-repute and a man known for his hand in the Sicilian Affair. They captured and locked the bishop and his church cannons in Castle Eardisely.

Eardisely was closer to Pellinore Castle than Roger Mortimer’s Castle Wigmore. Baron Hugh had grown nervous with Simon’s army so near. But Simon had taken his force to Gloucester and gained entry into the ancient city. Then, following the Severn River north, he’d either stormed or taken control of the castles on both banks of the river and the few important bridges. Finally, he’d taken the key city of Worcester.

Prince Llewellyn’s Welsh hadn’t been idle. Unlike most years, however, the Welsh had left the Marcher barons alone, most who had joined Simon’s standard. Instead, Prince Llewellyn had concentrated on the King’s Welsh castles, or on those few landlords and barons in the Western Marches who still supported the King. In the North, Prince Llewellyn together with his Welsh ally Madog, had besieged Diserth. News of its fall was still fresh, having only come to Pellinore Castle two days before Baron Hugh’s death. Now only the King’s strong castle at Degannwy stood in the Marches. But it was under siege by Llewellyn and Madog.

All this Cord knew, as many Englishmen who listened to rumors and gossip mongers knew. From Edric’s manner, Cord guessed that something terrible had occurred.

“An excellent meal, my sister,” Edric said as he pushed away his plate.

Gwen smiled in delight.

Edric smiled too, although there seemed something sinister about it. He said, “Sometimes I think you waste your talents on this stay-at-home husband of yours.”

“You’d better be polite,” Gwen told her brother. “If you embarrass my husband, I won’t talk to you for at least a year.”

“But will you cook for me?” asked Edric. “That’s the important thing.”

“Beast,” she said.

“Ah, if you only knew,” Edric said.

She grinned, leaning toward her brother. “You think you’re so mighty, brother dearest. Why not arm-wrestle my man and see if you can match him.”

“Never!” said Edric. “If I’d win, you’d hate me. If I’d lose, you’d think yourself cleverer than I.”

“Of course I’m cleverer,” Gwen said. “I married Rhys ab Gruffydd didn’t I? Where is your mate, brother? Where is your match made in Heaven?”

“Ah,” Edric said with a grin. “My match is here.” He picked up his lyre. “With it I bring Heaven to Earth.”

“At least you boast like the heroes of old,” said Gwen.

“And he drinks like them, too!” Rhys said, causing laughter to ripple among the feasters.

“Yes, and you drink like them,” Gwen echoed. “What I want to know, dear brother, is if your deeds can match the deeds of the heroes of old?”

Edric laughed, although there seemed to be a note of bitterness in it. “The Welsh heroes of old?” he asked. “No, I don’t match them. How could I? In those days Wales stood free, untrammeled by invaders, unshackled by men in iron cocoons.”

The bailiff scowled.

“Maybe I match the heroes of old in the fire for freedom that burns in my belly,” Edric added. “Aye, there I am like them.”

An embarrassed silence filled the room. The bailiff shifted uncomfortably, although Cord noticed that he’d shifted toward the edge of his bench. Maybe he readied himself to jump up and draw his sword, in case something untoward happened.

“My brother-in-law speaks rashly,” Rhys said. “But since he is a bard, and has drunk much today, that is to be expected.”

The bailiff gave a noncommittal grunt.

“He came here under a flag of truce,” Gwen suddenly said, perhaps sensing the bailiff’s intent.

“Truce?” the bailiff asked in surprise.

“Bridgenorth has fallen,” Rhys said slowly. “Edric was there and has brought us the latest news.”

“The Welsh stormed Bridgenorth?” the bailiff asked in horror.

Edric laughed rudely as he tossed down more ale.

Rhys grew pale with anger, perhaps sensitive at this misuse of Edric’s guest-rights. To the Welsh, nothing was more sacred than hospitality. Since Edric had eaten from Rhys’ table and drank his ale, Rhys couldn’t harm him without the gravest of slurs being attached to his name.

“Owain ab Ifan along with other Welshmen besieged Bridgenorth this summer,” Gwen said. “I think they worked in conjunction with Prince Llewellyn, who as I’m sure you know stormed Diserth Castle up North a few days ago. Earl Simon and his army, who have raced up the Severn, came upon Bridgenorth and besieged it on the opposite side as the Welsh. The city soon fell,” Gwen said in a whisper. “Now, Simon controls the bridges, cities and castles along the Severn. Now the Western Marches are his.”

“And what isn’t in Earl Simon’s hands is in Prince Llewellyn’s,” Edric boasted.

The bailiff had grown pale and his shoulders slumped. With an effort, he drained his cup and then looked up. “Are Llewellyn and Simon allies?”

“Not yet,” said Gwen.

“But they parley,” Edric boasted. “Soon, knight, your King will fall, and then we’ll see.”

“See about what?” the bailiff growled.

Edric didn’t answer. He’d seemed to discover a sudden interest in his lyre.

Rhys rose abruptly. His intense eyes burned with rage and his forked beard seemed stiff like an angry dog’s raised hackles. He opened his mouth to speak, his gaze riveted upon Edric.

Gwen touched his forearm.

“He’s drunk,” Gwen said. “Let him sleep it off. In the morning, he’ll leave. I promise you this.”

Edric stood unsteadily, the lyre tucked under his arm. “What should I tell Owain ab Ifan?” he asked Rhys.

The bailiff’s eyes widened at the mention of one of the Baron’s greatest enemies.

Rhys couldn’t contain himself. He spat near Edric’s feet. “That for Owain ab Ifan! Someday I’ll kill him.”

“Should I tell him you spoke so?” Edric asked.

“I demand that you tell him!” Rhys shouted. He stepped near Edric. “Did you hear me, bard? I demand it!”

Edric made a vague gesture, then stepped away from the table and headed toward the door outside. Gwen hurried after him. She whispered into his ear. Soon Edric turned and headed deeper into the house, no doubt to one of the sleeping areas.

The bailiff almost said something, then perhaps thought better and toyed with his cup instead.

Rhys slumped into his chair. In a moment, he rubbed his broad forehead and glanced at the bailiff. “I’m glad for the news of what happens abroad, but the news-bearers sometimes bring ideas of their own.”

The bailiff nodded stiffly.

“Owain ab Ifan still burns against the Baron,” Rhys said. “He longs for his day of vengeance. He longs to be avenged against the Baron’s sword stroke that crippled his knife-arm forever.”

“Edric is Owain’s man?”

“Owain isn’t Edric’s clan chieftain, but I think Edric admires whatever bravery Owain showed at the siege of Bridgenorth. He carried Owain’s message to me. But I know you understand that Owain is and never will be a friend of mine.”

“I believe you,” the bailiff said. “And I understand what it means to have relatives.” He lowered his voice and said, “My mother-in-law, well….” He shrugged.

Rhys gave him a wan smile, although his anger left bitter lines in his face.

“Maybe we should look at the pups,” the bailiff said.

Rhys sighed, nodded and stood up.

Cord followed them outside and past the barn. A boy arose from a pile of hay at Rhys’ shout and followed them out behind the pigsty. Soon the boy held back a shaggy mother-dog with sagging teats.

Rhys pointed out the belly-fat puppies that playfully yipped and barked at them.

Cord grinned, but made no move toward the pups.

“Take a closer look,” the bailiff said.

Cord stepped closer, bent low and petted the puppies as the shaggy mother whined and tried to get at him. The pups all made a mad dash to be under Cord’s hand and nipped at one another’s long ears. Cord laughed and tried to pet them all at once.

Rhys whispered to the bailiff, the bailiff whispered back. “Go ahead,” Rhys said.

“Cord,” the bailiff said, “what do you notice most about the litter?”

Cord studied them. “Ah,” he said, “they have wolf blood in them.”

“Very good,” Rhys said.

Cord shrugged.

“What do you think?” the bailiff asked. “Would these pups make good hunters?”

Cord glanced at the whining mother. She was shaggy and large, and she didn’t like that he played with her pups. But she wasn’t barking at him either, which meant that she was well trained. He studied the pups, petted them and tried to envision them as fully-grown dogs. He’d trained a half-wolf before. It had been a trying experience.

Finally, brushing his hands on his breeches, Cord stood and faced the two men. “They could be trained to attack, yes. But wolf dogs can be dangerous. Usually, they’re very loyal to one person and only to that person.” He shrugged. “If you want my opinion….”

The bailiff nodded.

“I would only use them as bear or boarhounds.”

“Not a wolfhound?” the bailiff asked.

“No. I’d be worried that they’d want to join the pack. When the wolves come around, I’d lock them in the kennel.”

“I see,” the bailiff said.

Rhys inspected Cord anew, clearly impressed.

Cord backed away from the litter and nodded to the boy holding the shaggy mother. She immediately went over and sniffed her brood, then looked up and glowered at Cord. He smiled. She lay down among the pups and let them yip and crawl across her as they played.

“Cord,” the bailiff said, “would you go saddle the palfrey?”

Cord ambled off, walking with the boy who had handled the shaggy mother. As he saddled the palfrey, Cord saw the bailiff speak sternly with Rhys. No doubt, that came from Edric’s dropped hints.

That others had problems eased Cord, although he wished no ill will upon Rhys. Cord sighed. Soon Sir Philip would be back with Sir Guy. He wondered what would happen, and frankly, he wondered how the journey went with Philip and Guy. With Earl Simon and his allies victorious everywhere within the Western Marches, there could be trouble for the new baron.

Chapter Eleven

A day ago, a splendid train of knights, men-at-arms, body servants, cooks and carters set out from Gareth Castle. In the lurching, two-wheeled carts that brought up the rear of this procession sat the entire portable wealth of Sir Guy of Pellinore. He guarded this wealth like a hawk, and he sent out scouts as the splendid train crawled across the countryside. Behind the mule-carts marched a full half of Gareth Fief’s peasant levy. They were stocky men mostly, armed with scythes, flails, mattocks and axes. A number of them had mules whereby they carried extra bread and cheese and skins filled with ale. Most of them shouldered heavy burdens and prayed for the journey’s end so they could return home to their wives and children.

That Sir Guy had demanded this half of the peasants levy to act as trail guards…. The demand had caused noble heads to wag in Gareth Castle. Wiser, and in this case feminine heads, had whispered that whatever it took to ensure Sir Guy’s departure should be welcome. It was their advice that in the end had won over the more vocal naysayers. The selected peasants had been given their orders, and however sullenly, the orders had finally been obeyed.

Sir Philip still didn’t like it. Pack the wealth onto mules had been his advice. Surround them by horsemen and dash for Pellinore Castle. The journey would be over in a day. This method would take three days, maybe even four. That was time enough for a small enemy army to marshal together and swoop down to collect the wealth.

They traveled through a sparse forest of oak and beech trees and endless shrubs. The sun struggled toward noon as a cool breeze kept the horses, mules and a few oxen from overheating. A weedy track provided the only road.

Philip twisted in the saddle and peered back at the two-wheeled carts. They lurched this way and that. The carters aboard them expertly swayed like sailors, while the tarped wealth creaked if it were furniture or clanked if it were metalwork of some kind. All expect for one cart, that is. That cart had wooden bars around it and a wooden top to hold its prisoner. Unfortunately, not even Philip knew the man’s name, nor had he seen the prisoner but for a glance or two. A thick curtain surrounded the bars on the inside. The prisoner lurched about in his prison and in the dark, no doubt cursing whatever grim fate awaited him.

Sir Guy, from the hints, expected the sky to rain gold because of the prisoner.

“Look out,” said Hob, who rode nearby.

Philip faced forward and ducked just in time. The tree leaves merely swatted his face instead of the heavy branch knocking him from the saddle.

“This is an ill-conceived route,” Philip muttered. He wore chainmail armor and the same dyed scarf around his bull neck as the day he’d left Pellinore Castle. Leather hunting gloves clad his hands and his mail coif, or hood, protected his head. A great helmet hung from his saddle pommel in case he should suddenly need it in order to fight.

In such an emergency, he’d whistle for his groom. His groom acted as a squire since Philip didn’t have one. Philip didn’t presently ride his warhorse, but a gentler palfrey. If he needed the warhorse, Philip didn’t want it weary from carrying his heavy, mail-armored bulk. Rather, he wanted his warhorse to be fresh and eager for the fray. The groom, as per custom on a dangerous trail, kept the warhorse to Philip’s right. In this way, Philip knew exactly where to look in order to find his warhorse. He’d practiced thousands of times the maneuver of passing from his palfrey and onto his destrier without bothering to step down onto the ground. Both horses had learned this routine with Philip always passing from the palfrey’s left and onto the destrier’s right.

In fact, so ancient was this particular custom of keeping the warhorse to the right that the word destrier came from the Latin word dexter, or right.

The groom was on his own palfrey. Like a squire, he kept several painted lances ready. He’d long served Philip and seemed to know his master’s wants to a nicety.

Hob only had one horse, a brown stallion grown strong carrying his master’s fat, ale-fueled frame. Hob carried his lance in a holder, resting the butt on his left stirrup. His armor didn’t shine like Philip’s, nor was it as finely crafted or as strong. The sword slung onto his belt, however, was fully as long and as thick as Philip’s sword. Whether the steel was as good or the edges as sharp remained to be seen.

“Should we rest the peasants?” Hob asked as their steeds plodded along together.

“Eh? What?” Philip asked.

“The peasants, milord. If you’ll look back, you’ll see them straggling. I wondered if we should rest them.”

Philip studied Hob closely before he asked, “Is your arse sore?”

“It’s always sore, milord. But that isn’t my concern at the moment. If the peasants are weary then they won’t put up much of a fight.”

Philip showed surprise. “Do you expect a fight?”

“I always expect a fight, milord. The infidels taught me that.”

Philip rolled his eyes. “Infidels, eh? Do you mean Turks?”

“What if thieving Welshmen should drop out of the trees, milord?” Hob asked. “Or what if Earl Simon should ride up and catch us by surprise?”

Philip stared at Hob in surprise, and for a moment, he had to concentrate. He asked crossly, “Must you always croak doom?”

“We cart wealth, milord. To croak doom is wiser than to be ill-prepared.”

Philip shot the carts and the peasant footmen behind them an ugly glance. “You may be right,” he admitted. “But I want to push on as far and fast as possible. Let those farmers walk themselves into the ground. Then maybe Sir Guy will see reason and ride with us to Pellinore.”

“I’m not so sure, milord. Sir Guy’s like a bear with a honey tree. To leave the prisoner in the cart, or to let the prisoner sit upon a mount, I don’t think Guy will do either.”

“Hmmm…. Neither do I,” Philip said.

“So we might as well stop and rest the peasants, milord. Once they’re footsore, nothing will move them.”

Philip doffed his chainmail hood and let the breeze dry off his sweaty bald dome. If the truth were known, he was concerned about this trip and concerned about what he’d learned about Sir Guy. Nothing at Castle Gareth had been as he’d expected. What he’d learned had made him fearful for his future. Then, as he’d carefully considered the ramifications, he’d finally bid his last farewell to his old companion-in-arms, Baron Hugh. More importantly, he’d considered his oath of loyalty to the house of Clare as no longer binding.

The decision still left him uncomfortable.

Long ago, when he’d been young and the ladies had smiled at his good looks, he’d stood before Baron Hugh. At the signal, he’d knelt heavily and put his thick hands into Hugh’s strong palms. The oath of fealty had been spoken: “I am your man, Baron Hugh de Clare. I will serve you, obey your summons to war and help pay your ransom if ever you are captured. I pledge my sword to you, Lord. I am yours to command. By God’s grace and His Son Jesus Christ I swear this to be true.”

Now you’re dead, Hugh. Now I serve no man but myself. For I cannot pledge myself to what your son has become.

Philip shivered. Sir Guy sickened him, and scarred him in a sinister way. Frankly, it wasn’t right that a man in Guy’s condition could stand, let alone ride in the saddle and soon take control of the barony. And that old crone Guy kept near him…. Surely, she was in league with the Devil! Philip spat over his shoulder and muttered an Ave Maria for protection against evil. The old crone was a witch. That had to be it. Surely, she gave Sir Guy potions or chanted incantations over him at midnight to give him strength. Where else but from the Devil could a living skeleton of a man like Guy find the strength to do what he did?

“At least he isn’t a leper,” Philip muttered to himself.

“Milord?”

Philip shook his head, shivering once again. He hated lepers and had a sick dread of leprosy. Whenever he saw a leper wearing his mandatory red hat and gray coat or heard the leper’s horn, Philip took a wide detour or sometimes turned around and rode back the way he’d come. The horrible sores, the stink of corruption and the terrible memories of his mother—Philip dreaded wasting away, dreaded losing his strength and becoming a shell of a knight. To see a leper not only reminded him of what had happened to his mother, but also that one bad accident could lose him everything—as Sir Tostig had almost lost him everything.

Leprosy had struck his mother down. She’d been a stern woman, and had run her husband’s tower with a sure and heavy hand. Alms went there, bags of forged horseshoes here, the cart-fulls of cabbage into the root cellar. All those decisions and more his mother had made with decisive thoroughness. Then, after a week where she’d helped clean the moat, a curious white spot had developed on her brawny forearm. The spot grew, and in three weeks, everyone within the fief knew that she’d contracted leprosy.

Philip had only been a lad of nine then, and his father had seldom been home. He’d loved his mother, and he’d feared her wrath and her sharp, stinging boxes to his ears. Worse, he along with everyone else in the tower had feared her acid tongue.

Leprosy had changed all that.

When her sickness could no longer be hidden, a delegation led by the tower priest had met her by the stable.

“You have leprosy,” had said the priest, a weak man permanently bowed by rickets.

Philip’s mother glared at him, and glared at the men-at-arms and at the smith, the tower mason and at the chief huntsman who’d tried to hide behind the rickets-bowed priest.

“Leave me alone,” she’d said.

The priest had stubbornly shaken his head.

That moment when fear had finally entered her eyes, oh, Philip had never forgotten that. He’d sat upon one of the palfrey’s, ready to go riding with his mother. A terrible haunted look had entered her stern eyes. The tower folk no longer feared her. Well, maybe they feared her, but they feared the dreaded leprosy more.

“You must go,” the priest had said.

His mother had swelled as a cat sometimes does when faced by hounds.

“If you don’t go,” said the priest, “then we’ll force you to leave.”

A moment of rage had given her a last dose of power, but it too had finally wilted under generations of custom. She’d hung her head and let her brawny shoulders sag. That evening she’d left the tower a broken woman, a shell of what she’d been only that morning. She’d been banished to death in life, to one of those lonely, filthy, leper’s cabins hidden in the woods.

Philip shuddered at the memory. In the entire world, he feared nothing so much as to be driven into one of those cabins. He had nightmares about it, and from that, he’d learned to fear any sort of bodily harm.

He automatically tested his right hand, his sword hand. His shoulder constantly hurt, and that caused a twinge of pain to shoot down his forearm and into his hand. He’d never told anybody about the injury. He’d sustained it hunting, when a bear had torn his boar spear out of his hands. Sometimes, when he was alone in the woods, Philip practiced swinging his sword with his left hand, but it wasn’t any good. The right hand would always be his sword hand. To not be the knight he’d once been—he wanted to grind everyone into the ground because of it. He wanted to crush their unharmed hands and stamp out their secretly jeering smiles. He was Sir Philip of Tarn Tower, a warrior-born! To be less than that galled him. It made him want to weep with the terror and unfairness of it. If he could no longer fight—

“No,” he whispered. “I can fight. My shoulder will soon heal. And even if it hurts, it doesn’t matter. My cunning will make up for whatever strength I’ve lost.”

“Milord?” asked Hob, riding closer than before. “Did you say something?”

“What?” Philip snarled, embarrassed at being caught talking to himself.

“I thought I heard you say something, milord.”

“I did,” Philip said, thinking fast. “I asked you if one of those crusading kings hadn’t been a leper.”

“Ah! You mean Baldwin the Fourth,” said Hob, who was known as something of a scholar when it came to the crusading kings and kingdoms. “Yes indeed, Baldwin was called the Leper King. He was a doomed and tragic figure, milord.” Hob warmed to his subject, even allowing himself a ghost of a smile. “Baldwin was the last of Jerusalem’s good kings. He was only a lad of thirteen when his father Almeric died. Baldwin’s fingers dropped off one by one and then his toes. But at Montgisard he inflicted a terrible defeat upon the infidel Sultan Saladin. Not even King Richard the Lion Heart defeated the noble Saladin better. The Leper King at last became too sick to rule his kingdom. When his sister married the Frenchman, Guy of Lusignan, the end was near. Guy striped the many castles and cities of their garrisons and led the Kingdom of Jerusalem horde into the desert where Saladin slaughtered them. In the Third Crusade neither Richard the Lion Heart nor Philip Augustus of France could win back for the Leper King what Guy of Lusignan had lost for him.”

Philip shook his head. To lose ones fingers and toes, to wait as they dropped away, leaving one defenseless and weak…. He wiped sweat off his brow and thanked God that at least Sir Guy wasn’t a leper.

But Guy was wasting away nevertheless. The very fact of that had set Philip to thinking. He, like any wily noble, knew the truth of fiefs and fealty. The truth was this: A fief was a living entity. It either grew or shrank, but it never stayed the same. It either was fed with new additions or was starved as chunks were cut away. During his lifetime, Baron Hugh had proven this truth. Pellinore Fief had only been a middling-sized fief upon Hugh’s rise into the barony. The hills which Rhys ab Gruffydd lived upon had been an early addition to Pellinore Fief. Later, in the fifth year of Hugh’s rule, he’d feuded with a fellow baron. Hugh had handily won the feud and added one of the losing baron’s outlying castles to Pellinore Fief. His greatest acquisition, however, had been Gareth Fief, won from Alice’s father. Old Sire de Mowbray had been forced to pledge fealty to Baron Hugh. In return, Hugh had given him Gareth Fief back, but it had henceforth legally been part of the greater Pellinore Fief. Yet just as a fief could grow, so could it whither away under weak rulers. Philip believed that under Guy, or for as long as Guy lived anyway, Pellinore Fief would shrivel and wither. Right now Pellinore Fief stood at the pinnacle of power and prestige. The baron of Pellinore had become Earl Roger Mortimer’s greatest vassal.

The question Philip kept asking himself was how to use this foreknowledge to best advantage. There had to be a way.

“Look at that,” Hob said, interrupting Philip’s thoughts.

Philip looked where Hob pointed. The rutted track they followed left the woods and dipped down into a grassy glade. At the end of the glade, about a half-mile away, stood a black and sooty grove. The air smelled smoky and felt heavy, and there hung above the blackened grove the feeling of death and destruction.

“That was an apple grove,” Hob said.

Philip knew the area. “Yes,” he said, “the orchard belonged to a landlord who sides with King Henry.”

“Pillagers did that,” Hob rumbled, his dark eyes scanning the terrain. “The feel of murder is heavy there.” He nodded tightly. “Wrongful killing has been done.”

From the rear of the column came shouted orders. Philip saw men-at-arms rally around a man in a red silk coat. The man rode Tencendur. The big white stallion was the largest warhorse here and carried the frail Sir Guy with contemptuous ease. In moments, a cavalcade of horsemen galloped past Philip and Hob. They rode toward the burnt orchard, Sir Guy signaled Philip to hurry the column after the riders.

Philip rode back and shouted orders. Some of the burly peasants moaned at the increased pace and complained about marching through ashes. They quickly wilted when Philip roared at them. He drew his sword and waved it above his head.

As the column crossed the glade, Hob and Philip rode together at its head.

“What do you think Sir Guy plans?” Philip asked Hob.

The sergeant shrugged his fat shoulders.

“He seems to fear something,” Philip said.

Hob grunted in agreement.

Soon the column left the glade and entered the sooty orchard. About halfway into the orchard they saw Sir Guy pacing his steed. Of the others, the cavalcade, there was no sign, although tracks led outward on either side of Guy, to the right and to the left.

“Does he plan to stop here?” Philip asked in wonder.

Sir Guy made urgent motions. He seemed to be gesturing to the old crone who rode in the lead cart. Guy looked agitated.

As they came into hailing range, Sir Guy whispered in a tortured, almost strangled way—his illness had injured his ability to speak. “Look!” he hissed. “Devils! A mighty flock of devils!”

Sir Philip followed Guy’s quivering, pointing finger. Through the burnt branches above flapped a flock of crows. The crows cawed loudly, and seemed to look down on Guy with abnormal interest.

“Those are crows, milord!” Philip shouted. “Crows come to feast upon carrion.”

Guy turned a thin, almost skeletal face Philip’s way. The young baron-to-be looked terrible. He had lank red hair that hung around his sickly face. The cheeks were shallow and the pale green eyes hollow. A feverish light seemed to shine there. He had a sweaty high forehead better reserved for a Churchman than a wasting fighting man. Guy licked chapped lips, and with bony, huge-knuckled fingers, he tugged at the scarf wound around his thin throat.

At least he isn’t a leper, Philip thought for what could have been the hundredth time today. Maybe he’ll conquer this wasting disease.

Philip didn’t believe that. Young Sir Guy was dying. It was just a matter of time. The trouble was, the wretch seemed so terrified of death that he clung to life with the fever of a mad dog.

“Crows?” whispered Sir Guy. “Those are crows I see?”

Despite his loathing for the man, Philip urged his mount closer. The stallion’s hooves stirred the black ashes that lay like dark snow upon the ground.

“Do you see that, milord?” Philip asked, pointing out a bloated corpse hidden in the ashes. Once perhaps it had been a woman.

Sir Guy peered closely as if his eyesight had dimmed. Suddenly, he jerked back as he hissed, “Knave! What joke is this?”

Philip was too perplexed to be angry at being called a knave. He watched in amazement as Sir Guy turned paler than he’d thought possible and then turn a sickly hue of yellow. Guy swayed in the saddle, trembling, although he managed to bring the huge Tencendur closer. More amazed than ever, Philip watched Guy grind his teeth, as his eyes seemed to expand almost out of their sockets.

“I am your liege!” Guy shrieked, his voice cracking from the strain. “You may not torment me with sick jokes!” He snatched the long leather gloves off his belt and struck Philip across the face.

Philip stared at Guy in shock.

A few of the men gasped, Hob among them.

“You struck me,” Philip finally growled. For all his frailty, Guy had slapped hard, the leather gloves leaving a red mark across Philip’s scar-strewn face.

Guy blinked rapidly, and some of the sickly yellow hue left his skin. Some of the shine seemed to have left his eyes, too, and he looked away from Philip.

“You struck me,” Philip said, louder this time. Anger tinged his words.

Guy opened his mouth and worked his lips, but no sounds issued.

“By all the saints above, you struck me!” Philip thundered. He leaned toward Guy and grabbed a fistful of red silk coat. “Stupid bastard!” he roared. “No man strikes me and gets away with it.”

“You-you-you,” Guy stammered in his eerie whisper, desperately trying to say something.

“Leave him be, Sir Knight. He didn’t know what he did. But he just saved us from them black devils.”

Philip’s lips curled, and his huge fingers clenching onto the silk coat unconsciously tightened.

Toward Guy’s warhorse hobbled the old crone, a hag in a miss-match of brilliant colors. She was tiny, with a riot of gray hair and a rumpled face of wrinkles and warts. Huge copper bracelets jangled upon her bony wrists, while in her gnarled left hand she held onto a peeled stick. Green, red, yellow and strips of purple cloth made up her gaudy gown, while old feet kicked up ashes.

“Release him,” the crone said in a surprisingly strong voice, a rough voice filled with the blunt knowledge of the world. She fixed Philip with a stare of hypnotic intensity.

“He struck me,” Philip growled, still holding onto Guy’s jacket.

“He tried to warn you,” she said. “But you shrugged off his warnings. Next time you’d better listen.”

“What warnings?”

She pointed at Guy with her hickory stick. “He saw them black devils.”

“The crows, you mean?” Philip asked.

She turned, and pointed up at the noon sky. The crows flew in a large circle, their caws quite audible.

“Do you see?” she asked. “Them crows search out for souls to steal. That’s cause they aren’t crows, Sir Knight. Them are devils! Devils, I say, searching for a usurer so they can wing his soul down to Lucifer.”

Many of the men-at-arms crossed themselves at her unholy words. The peasants, who stood further back, moaned in fear.

“If you’d continued riding,” the old crone said, closing upon Philip, pointing her peeled stick at him, “then you’d have ridden under their influence. Then maybe them flying devils would have alighted and snatched away your soul!”

Several of the men-at-arms muttered litanies, while peasants grew pale with fright. Hob reached down into his saddlebags and pulled out the relic that he’d been sent to Gareth Castle to fetch. He bowed his fleshy face and whispered prayers up to Heaven.

Philip’s grip loosened, although he hadn’t yet let go of the red silk coat.

“So what was his lordship supposed to do?” the old crone hissed. “Let you lead us into damnation?”

“No!” shouted one of the men-at-arms.

“So he slapped you,” she said. “Slapped you to try and save you.”

Philip curled his lips again. “You slapped me!” he shouted at Guy, shaking the thin man. “If you ever do that again I’ll run my sword through you.”

“Release him!” shrieked the crone, leaping forward like a cat as she swung the stick against Philip’s hand. Her aim was remarkably good.

Philip yelped and snatched back his hand. Then his face turned scarlet. He drew his sword and turned his mount toward the crone.

“If you strike me,” she hissed, “I’ll curse you.”

“Not if I kill you first!” Philip snarled.

“No,” Guy whispered. He, too, drew his sword and turned to face Philip. The horsemen who had come with Guy from Gareth Castle (who had ridden out but had been quietly falling back as the column moved up) drew their swords and urged their mounts toward the huge Pellinore knight.

“You may not harm Aldora,” whispered Guy. “She’s all that keeps me from Death’s door.”

“She’s a witch,” shouted Philip.

“No. She’s a holy woman.”

“She’s bewitched you.”

Guy shook his overlarge head. At least it seemed so perched upon his thin neck. “She sees things that we cannot.”

“It was you, lord, who saw them devils,” Aldora said from behind Tencendur.

Guy smiled savagely. “Yes,” he whispered. “I knew they were devils. That’s why I stopped and sent the others to check the rest of the orchard. The crows flew with too much malice, not as mere carrion-eaters. Their cries grated upon my ears and sent shivers down my spine. I was certain the devils tried to trap us.”

“Ah, lord,” Aldora said, as if impressed. “You’ve a keenness about you. You saved us from harm.”

“There. You see?” Guy asked Philip.

Philip slowly lowered his sword. Yes, Philip saw all right. The old crone was sly, and young Sir Guy was terrified of dying. Well, maybe he’d be frightened too if he had to die so young. But why think of dying? That was a long way off. Old Baron Hugh was dead. Now he could go back to Tarn Tower out by the moors, or he could make friends with this sick skeleton of a man who couldn’t even wear chainmail, and use him somehow.

Philip calculated many things quickly. The fulling mill was only one of those things. Young Sir Guy wouldn’t live forever no matter what the witch did. Who would take control of the fief then? And if it wasn’t him, then maybe he could persuade Guy to give him Alice. Her lands would be enough for his grand plan, one that came to him that very moment. He would build a mighty fief. He, Philip Talbot, would become a baron. He would become Earl Roger Mortimer’s most important baron.

He stifled a gleeful laugh. Power seemed to flow into him because of his decision. Baron Philip! What a grand ring that had. Better by far to remain friends with Guy, or at least learn how to control him as Aldora did, than to fight to the death now. Philip smiled. Even if she was a witch, Old Aldora wasn’t stupid. Maybe she could be made to see reason. Philip sheathed his sword.

“Milord,” he said to Guy, holding out his hand as he controlled his disgust, “you surprised me. Never have I been struck without striking back. But then never did devils in the guise of crows come hunting for my soul. I suppose I should thank you for your vigilance.”

“You aren’t angry with me?” Guy whispered in his tortured way.

“Let me tap your cheeks in order to satisfy my honor, milord, and then we can forget this little incident.”

“Yes, of course,” whispered Guy.

Philip, hiding both his disgust and his gleeful resolve, moved closer with his mount and touched Guy’s checks with his gloved fingers. In his mind, he struck Guy savage blows, killing him, taking his barony from him. He felt a pang of guilt knowing that this was Hugh’s only son. No! This was a freakish skeleton-man, somehow kept alive by the powers of that witch.

“Now you, Aldora,” Philip said, knowing deep within himself that he must conquer her too. “Now you must feel the flat of my sword, although only lightly. I realize that you struck in defense of your lord.”

The old crone eyed Philip and flinched when he touched cold steel upon her neck. Soon Philip sat calmly in the saddle again, even though his stomach churned at being so near Guy.

He asked, “Do we continue on to Pellinore?”

Guy shaded his eyes against the sun, watching the crows. “They don’t seem to be flying farther away,” he whispered.

“Then let us camp here,” Aldora suggested.

Guy appeared not to hear, but soon he whispered, “I think we’ll stop here. Grooms, pitch the pavilion.”

Men hurried to unpack the carts.

“Milord,” said Philip, “shouldn’t we find a greener spot, not in all these ashes?”

“Maybe go back a half mile,” Aldora said quietly.

Guy soon gave the orders to march back a half mile. None of the men-at-arms or peasants grumbled. They all appeared content to put distance between themselves and the frightening flock of crows.

It was only as the main tent went up and most of the mules were tethered that the bad news hit. The scouts returned with news of a large force of horsemen. A second scouting showed that the enemy outnumbered them in the most important category, knights, about three to one.

Chapter Twelve

After the scouts made their second report, Sir Guy staggered out of his huge red tent and whispered hoarse orders. The knights, squires and sergeants mounted up and moved in front of the parked carts. Then Guy motioned to the peasant footmen, who sullenly lined up behind the horsemen.

A groan escaped Guy’s bloodless lips. “I’m ruined,” he whispered. He wrapped thin hands around his boney shoulders, hugging himself.

Philip urged his stallion out of the line of horsemen. “Milord!” he called.

Guy turned haunted eyes upon him.

“If you’ll allow me, I’ll prepare the defenses for you.” He’d seen Guy’s fear and knew that energetic action was needed. An armed mob, which is what the peasant footmen were, fed off a commander’s emotions. Even knights and sergeants could quickly become dispirited at Guy’s antics. Philip wondered if Guy’s sickness had poisoned his mind and therefore his thinking. It would explain much.

Guy bit his lip. Then he turned and whispered urgently to Aldora.

The old crone rattled her bracelets and made strange passes through the air with her stick. She eyed Philip. Finally, she said something to Guy. He laughed sharply. A moment later Aldora joined in, making a harsh, cackling sound.

Before Philip could react, Guy nodded and whispered, “Yes. Prepare the defenses.”

Philip was certain they’d laughed at him. It enraged him. He roared orders at the peasants, sending them into the nearby woods behind them. Then he rode in front of the horsemen and bellowed more orders. He straightened their ranks. Pointing at a keen-eyed squire, he told the youth to take the fastest mount and station himself at the edge of the burnt orchard, the one ahead of them.

“Only return once you see the enemy,” Philip told the squire.

As the youth trotted across the half-mile wide glade, Philip dismounted and strode toward the woods where he’d sent the peasants.

Sir Guy stopped him near the tent. “Shouldn’t we all retreat into the woods?”

Philip shook his head.

“If we’re in the woods, the enemy knights won’t be able to charge us,” Guy whispered.

Philip had fought in forests before. He hated it. Men sneaking up, trees and branches blocking sword-swings. One part of the army would be unable to see the other. He made a face. Forest warfare was confusion and chaos. The peasants would melt away as soon as the enemy attacked. No, he wanted the peasants in a palisade, no matter how crude it was, as much to hem the peasants in as to give them courage to stand and fight. He didn’t care to explain all that to Guy, however. All he wanted was this skeleton-man to get out of his way so he could organize this hodgepodge force into something that could survive the day.

“You should rest, milord,” Philip said. “You look weary.”

Guy limply waved his arm at the parked carts. “All I own is there. If I should lose today….”

Then you’re doubly foolish to have laughed at me, Philip thought to himself. “Rest, milord. When the time comes to fight, I’ll send a squire to inform you.”

Guy nodded wearily, plodding back toward his tent.

Philip breathed easier. Guy sickened him, made him feel unclean. Philip studied the edge of the woods. The peasants half-heartedly swung at the trees. He stamped toward them, making his cape swirl.

“Put your backs into it, you dogs! Chop enough trees and you’ll be safe from the enemy. If you fail, sharp steel will hack into your guts.”

Wood chips flew as the rhythmic thud of axes increased. Soon a man roared “timber” and a gnarled oak tree crashed to the ground. Philip strode there, propelling peasants toward the branches.

“Lop those off, lads. Give me a tree I can use.”

The sweating peasants hewed with a will. One by one, the thick branches fell off the fallen trunk. Philip showed the waiting carters where to haul the biggest limbs for the defensive perimeter. The carters lashed ropes onto the wood and cracked whips. Mules brayed and dragged the heavy branches, which made furrows in the soil. Soon another tree fell. Philip strode there, knowing that his presence made the peasants work harder.

Their initial ardor soon wore off, however, and Philip couldn’t be everywhere at once. Soon it seemed that every peasant stood beside a tree, half-heartedly chopping branches.

Philip strode to the horsemen. They waited in the sunlight where Guy had positioned them, well ahead of his tent and the parked carts. The horsemen sweated in the noon heat and talked among themselves, bragging about what mighty feats of arms they’d soon perform. There were six knights and squires and sixteen sergeants.

“Dismount,” Philip said. “Let your horses rest so they’re strong for the fight.”

“What if the enemy suddenly charges across the glade?” asked a Gareth knight.

“Charge the full half mile?” Philip sneered. “No, we’ll have enough time to mount up. Let the grooms feed the stallions. Then I want all of you to eat and drink. Then go sit under the trees, in the shade.”

Philip marched to the big red tent, to the area in front facing the burnt orchard. It was where the carters had dragged the branches. He drove the cooks, a minstrel, a dwarf and the handful of female camp followers toward the pile. He made sure each had at a dagger and the cooks their hatchets.

“Take the straightest branches and give them sharp points,” Philip told them. “Don’t worry about hacking off twigs or minor branches, either. Just give me stakes that I can plant in the ground.” A few of the cooks complained. Philip cuffed them and told them to obey orders. Then, to ensure that they kept working once he left, he yelled for the youngest squire to come and watch them.

“Don’t let them dally,” Philip said.

“What if they do?” asked the squire, a youth of sixteen.

“Then kick them in the arse!”

The squire grinned with delight, rounding on the cooks and shouting for them to hurry up.

Philip paused beside a food cart, drinking thirstily from an ale skin, and gnawing on salted beef. Then he strode back into the woods. Six felled trees were ready. The carters lashed ropes to the big trunks and began hauling them out one by one. At Philip’s orders, the peasants had left the stubs, giving the trunks a spiked look. He peered across the glade and at the burnt orchard. There was still no sign of the enemy.

How much longer will they give us? Should I rest the peasants or keep them busy? If the enemy shows up now, the peasants might all run away, seeing how they’re already in the woods.

“You, you and you,” Philip shouted. “Take your men back near the tent. The rest of you give me three more trees.”

The selected peasants marched with Philip. He set them to work planting sharpened stakes. He showed them how he wanted the stakes angled.

“If a horseman tries to force his way past these, he’ll impale his mount.”

A few of the smarter peasants nodded in understanding. Philip put those in charge of the others.

He wiped sweat off his face as he showed the carters and the remaining peasants how he wanted the tree trunks laid. The four biggest trunks went out in front. The other two he had laid on the sides. When two more trunks arrived, he had the men put those on the sides as well.

After another twenty minutes of hard work, a knight roared, “The squire’s coming!”

Philip looked up. The youth lashed his mount, galloping across the half-mile wide glade. Almost immediately, Philip saw the enemy host trot out of the burnt orchard.

Philip held himself steady, trying to count the enemy horsemen. Their own ‘army’ contained about eighty men, if he counted everyone including the cooks. The enemy had about two-thirds that. The enemy, however, were all knights, squires and sergeants and were all mounted.

Sunlight glittered off their mail. Tall banners waved, and they moved with confidence.

“It’s Earl Robert de Ferrers of Derby!” cried the keen-eyed squire.

A knight, who’d clanked up to Philip, cursed with fear. “Robert de Ferrers. What chance do we have now?”

“We have plenty of chances,” Philip snarled. “So hide your cowardice and rally the men.”

“Cowardice?” spat the knight.

“Do you fear Robert de Ferrers?”

“When he has so many heavy horsemen behind him I do. All we have is rabble.”

Philip shouted at Hob. He trusted the fat sergeant to fight. He sent Hob into the woods, telling him to return with the rest of the peasants. Then Philip turned back to the knight.

“We can beat Robert de Ferrers. He’s too proud, too filled with ideas of valor and nobility.”

“You’re a fool if you think so,” said the knight. “Robert is a true son of chivalry. Your tiny fort of tree trunks will only make him laugh and spur him on. I know, de Ferrers. It’s said he almost unhorsed Prince Edward in France during tournament season. Only a valiant knight could manage such a feat.”

“Will you run away?” Philip asked the knight.

The knight scowled, putting a hand to his sword hilt.

“No?” asked Philip.

The knight half drew his sword, the slur to his courage angering him.

Philip clapped the smaller knight on the shoulder. “No, you won’t run, old comrade. I can see the determination in your eyes. Go mount your steed and marshal the horsemen over there, to the left side of the tent.”

As the angry knight shouted for his stallion, Philip strode among the footmen, physically grabbing them and putting them behind the tree trunks. “Stand here, soldier, and don’t move! If the enemy draws near, pray to God and hew with all your strength.”

Hob soon herded footmen out of the forest.

A quick glance showed Philip that about a third of those peasants had already run away. He was thankful that Hob had brought him as many peasants as he had. He debated with himself, wondering if he should stand with the peasants by the tree trunks in order to bolster their courage, or mount up and wait with the cavalry. He watched the enemy cavalry. They didn’t seem to be in any hurry to charge across the clearing and attack his simple fort.

Philip stayed among the tree trunks, shouting encouragement to the nervous peasants. Maybe three dozen stakes stood in front of the trunks. It was a paltry number, hardly enough to deter a determined foe. Another dozen stakes and shovels lay where the cooks and camp followers had dropped them. Those people now huddled near the big red tent, moaning in fear and calling out to Sir Guy to save them. Philip shouted at Hob, telling the fat sergeant to shut them up.

“Look at that, lads!” Philip shouted at the peasants around him. “The enemy fears to rush us.”

Peasants peered doubtfully at him.

“The warhorses will impale themselves on the stakes and break their legs if they try to jump our tree trunks,” Philip said. “Then all we have to do is stab fallen knights through their eye slits.”

Some of the peasants muttered. One or two laughed grimly.

“I forgot my spear in the woods,” a man yelled, moving away from the front rank.

Philip drew his sword and roared at the man to hold his post. The peasant wavered. Philip stalked toward him, telling the man that cowardice brought quick death, but bravery eternal life in Heaven. The peasant paled as the tip of Philip’s sword touched his chin.

“What’s it to be?” Philip asked, ready to drive his sword through the man if he chose wrongly.

“I’ll fight, milord,” the peasant whispered.

“Then yank out your knife, fool, and face the enemy!”

The peasant almost cut himself in his hurry to obey.

“Here they come!” shouted another peasant, a burly fellow who gripped his spear with resolution.

Philip turned toward the enemy. The enemy riders had dressed their ranks, forming two lines. The knights and older squires formed the first line, the sergeants the rear one. At a slow walk, the horsemen approached.

“We’re doomed,” a peasant wailed.

Philip strode to the man and slapped him with the flat of his blade. “Start singing the Holy Standard!” Philip roared.

The footmen glanced at him in bewilderment.

“Sing, damn you!” Philip shouted. He began to sing.

At first only Hob sang the martial song with him. Then a few of the braver peasants began singing. The others took heart, and they sang.

“That’s it,” Philip laughed. “Show them that you’re brave.”

He studied the enemy. Big knights in mail armor astride huge stallions loomed before them. Earl Robert de Ferrers’ banner waved proudly over the mailed host: the furrier, rows of wavy lines representing furs. Sunlight glinted upon the shiny armor, polished to a hurtful sheen. The huge stallions snorted and pawed the earth. The array of lances, still pointing skyward, looked like a small forest of pines. Once those lances came down and trumpets pealed….

Sweat slicked Philip’s armpits. His stomach fluttered. He hoped most of the peasants had never been in battle with knights before. A man who didn’t know what could happen, would be braver than one who’d felt the shock of battle.

The singing died down.

Then one of the enemy knights detached himself from the host. He spurred his brown stallion, trotting toward them. He had no lance, but waved a large white cloth. He wore a great helmet and had a huge sword strapped to his side. The stallion seemed to sneer at them, cantering as only a proud warhorse could. The broad-shouldered knight reined in his mount, halting a spear’s throw before the tree trunks. He removed his helmet and revealed an open face with a triangular-shaped red beard and a thick red mustache.

“Earl Robert de Ferrers of Derby sends his greetings!” shouted the knight in a booming voice.

Philip climbed the biggest, steadiest trunk. “Sir Guy of Pellinore gives you his!” Philip roared back.

“Baron Hugh de Clare’s son?” the knight shouted.

“The same!” Philip roared.

The handsome knight steadied his destrier. Then he stood up in his stirrups and waved a red cloth back at his fellows. A trumpet pealed twice from there. The knight put away the red cloth and turned back to Philip.

“My lord demands that you hand over Sir Lamerok of Dun!”

“Who?” Philip muttered. Ah, he thought. Maybe he means Guy’s secret prisoner.

Then Guy stood below Philip, hissing up, “Tell him that if they charge, then I myself will slit Sir Lamerok’s throat.”

“Milord?” asked Philip, surprised to see the frail Guy.

“Tell him.”

Cupping his hands, Philip dutifully did as bidden.

The handsome knight turned his destrier and clattered back to Robert de Ferrers.

“Who is this Sir Lamerok of Dun?” Philip asked, climbing down from the tree trunk.

“Never mind,” whispered Guy, who intently watched the enemy host.

It wasn’t long before the same knight took up his position before the fort again. He shouted, “Earl Robert de Ferrers wishes to parley with Sir Guy.”

“I’d parley with him if I were you,” Philip said.

Guy scowled but nodded.

Philip and the knight soon worked out the details. And when the enemy knights dismounted and camped in the middle of the glade, the peasants cheered lustily. Philip, however, knew that nothing had been solved. But at least he knew now what the enemy wanted.

***

Philip paced inside the tent, his belted sword clattering against his armor. The last peasant hurried out, and one of Guy’s sergeants closed the tent-flap and stood guard outside. Guy himself lay on a cot that the peasants had lifted from one of the carts and brought within. Near the cot stood an ornate table bearing a costly flagon of French wine.

The gaudy bundle of ragged cloth that was Aldora sat on a stool and whispered softly into Guy’s ear. He groaned, throwing one of his thin arms over his eyes.

“Is he ill?” Philip growled, disgusted at this open display of weakness.

Guy removed his arm and looked up at Philip. “Ill?” he whispered, sounding outraged. “You dare to ask me if I’m ill?”

Philip stepped away from the burning eyes, from the haggard countenance that seemed more ghoul than man.

“Rest, Lord,” Aldora said soothingly. “Gather your strength.”

“How can I rest?” Guy asked her. “My enemies have found me. Now they try to use de Ferrers to steal my prize. Oh, Aldora, what shall I do?”

“Why not try fighting,” Philip said, regaining his composure. “We’ve more men than they.”

“We’ve more peasants!” Guy spat. “Not more fighting men.”

Which was true, and Philip knew it. But it galled him to watch a knight, even a diseased and wasting knight, dither so about what to do. Even so, how could one begin to compare a peasant, a serf, a plowman by trade, to a noble bred to arms and battle? Yet that’s what he’d just suggested.

The lowly rustics could toil better, skillfully grow crops, raise pigs, drain ditches and build houses, but fight as well as a knight? The idea was laughable. A peasant used a shovel to dig holes, or swung a scythe when he harvested grain or an axe to chop down trees. But a peasant knew nothing about swinging swords, or about shouting encouragement in the midst of battle. A knight, however, in his suit of mail and with his endless years of training and upon his warhorse…he could face ten such peasants. He could charge into their ranks and lay about him with his mighty sword. The heavy chainmail would turn their puny blows while the knight’s blade slaughtered the peasants like sheep. The other peasants, sprayed with the blood of their comrades, horrified by the screams of the dying, would break and scatter in all directions like mice.

Many factors made the knight superior to other men in battle. His lifelong training gave him hardy muscles used to swinging a sword or aiming a lance. He hewed with calculated cunning, and was inured to savage blows. A cult of valor made it an unpardonable sin to flee from foes. To yearn for close-order work, to hear the crash of steel, the crunch of bones and the screams for mercy, ah, only a man raised on violence could understand that music. Peasants weren’t burdened with this frightening cult. When terror became overwhelming, a peasant ran. When searing pain made one scream, a peasant fled. When warhorses thundered closer and the bristling wall of lances neared, peasants dropped their weapons and sought safety and survival in flight.

The cult of valor gave knights the terrible courage they needed to face other men with naked blades in hand and trade blows with them. This chivalrous code also gave knights a love of combat, a desire for battle. He engaged in countless feuds, assaults and sieges, and when unable to find those, tournaments and jousts had to suffice. Yet for all this martial activity, knights were almost invulnerable in their coats of chainmail. After a battle, the ill-clad peasant footmen suffered the worst causalities. The lightest suit of armor—a hauberk of chain links woven together—weighed at least fifty-five pounds. With the addition of greaves, gauntlets, helmet and shield, a knight was a veritable fortress on horseback. Strong knights, among whom Philip was one, often wore heavier suits of armor yet. With the best sword, one that didn’t break, with the strongest lance, one that didn’t splinter, with the prized stallion, one that didn’t flinch, and with the toughest armor, one that couldn’t be penetrated, the knight added to his valor and to his honed battle-skills. The armor-clad horseman was the deadliest weapon of any medieval army.

Other men scouted, other men foraged, and other men set up the tents, cooked the food, shot the arrows and stood on foot with pikes or axes. And it was other men largely who died horribly in the midst of battle. But if there was one truism in medieval wars, it was this—no one ever seemed to have enough knights. Therefore, other men were still very useful in the awful trade of war.

“We still have more men then they do,” Philip said. “We can always try to bluff our way out. Already the wall of stakes bristles like a hedgehog’s back. Every hour gives us more tree trunks.”

“You want to try and bluff Earl de Ferrers of Derby?” Guy whispered in a scathing tone.

“He’s a youth, a stripling,” Philip said, who hated young men because their looks weren’t marred nor were their limbs worn with age. And this Earl de Ferrers, he was more handsome than most and accounted a mighty warrior, a champion of chivalry, both on the battlefield and in the bedchamber.

“I also am a youth,” whispered Guy.

Philip turned away, silently cursing himself for tripping over his words. It was hard to remember that the scarecrow lying on the cot was a young man. He looked ancient, like a withered fool waiting for death. He needed to win Guy over, not antagonize him.

“Earl Robert de Ferrers is a paragon of virtue and nobility,” Guy whispered angrily. “He’s also been after my prize ever since those Breton pirates told him I’d captured Sir Lamerok.”

Philip moved beside the table, picked up a silver chalice and poured himself wine to hide his interest. Who was this Sir Lamerok of Dun? Why had Guy captured him and kept him in such isolation? And why now did Earl Robert de Ferrers of Derby, an earldom across the Severn and in England proper, journey so far within the Western Marches for him?

“Did the scouts see any pirates?” Guy asked Aldora.

“A few, Lord,” she said.

Philip hid his surprise. He didn’t recall the scouts, or the young squire on lookout, saying anything about pirates. Mailed warriors rode with de Ferrers, not sulking Breton pirates. What was Aldora’s game?

“Was he among them?” asked Guy.

“No, Lord,” Aldora said, stroking his brow. “At least the scouts didn’t see him.”

“We have a chance if he isn’t here,” Guy whispered.

“Whom do you mean?” Philip asked, no longer able to contain his curiosity.

Guy ignored the question. Slowly, like an old man, he lifted his torso off the cot and swung his legs onto the floor. The effort left him gasping. Aldora helped him slip off his linen shirt.

Philip almost gagged aloud. Upon Guy’s naked torso were countless sores, a few oozing a frightful puss and odor. Philip quaffed his wine, then quickly turned away as Aldora dipped a rag into a basin of water and began to sponge Guy’s skin. Philip’s face became overheated and his need to dash out of the tent and breathe fresh air almost became unbearable. He clenched his teeth and willed himself to relax. He’d seen worse, he told himself. Much worse.

“Milord!” the sergeant said through the closed flap, “a knight bearing a white flag rides toward camp.”

“Is it Robert de Ferrers?” whispered Guy.

“Yes, milord. The knight bears the Derby coat of arms upon his shield.”

“Tell our knights to let him pass,” whispered Guy.

“At once, milord,” said the sergeant.

Three of Guy’s knights would act as hostages, riding out to where de Ferrers’ host bivouacked. The three knights gave de Ferrers the needed guarantees that his herald had asked for.

“Help me into this shirt,” Guy whispered to Aldora.

“I’ll go greet de Ferrers,” Philip said.

“Yes, escort him into the tent,” whispered Guy.

Philip hurried out, breathing the fresh air as he nodded to the sergeant on guard duty. He adjusted his sword, dusted off his lambkin cape, and then strode to where De Ferrers cantered toward camp.

The big Derby knight rode with matchless grace. He seemed like an integral part of his warhorse, as if the two had become one, or if they were a two-headed centaur from some pagan legend. Beside de Ferrers rode a fine-looking squire holding aloft the Derby banner.

Philip carefully studied the enemy commander, recalling some of the things he’d heard about him.

Earl Robert de Ferrers wore sparkling armor—it had been polished to such a fine sheen. From his broad shoulders fluttered a white ermine cloak. In the elite circles of England and France, he was known as the Sir Galahad of Jousting. Sir Galahad, the natural son of Sir Lancelot and Princess Elaine, had been the sinless and invincible knight of Arthurian legends who had found the Holy Grail and who had cooled the waters of the Well of Lust. Robert de Ferrers, although not the biggest or the strongest knight in the jousting circles, was said to wield his lance with almost magical skill. His youthful beauty and nearly perfect manners only added to the awe in which others held him. There was also one other way in which he seemed like the legendary Sir Galahad. Robert de Ferrers, a knight-errant in his soul, could be highly impractical in his pursuits. His earldom seldom benefited from his romantic policies. In his impractical pursuits, he also showed great stubbornness.

Sir Robert reined in his mighty warhorse before Philip. With liquid grace, he dismounted, removed his helmet and handed it up to his squire. He had blond, almost platinum-colored hair that curled into ringlets and hung down to his shoulders, the bluest of blue eyes and very fair skin. His face was open and honest, his nose straight and his mouth curved into a friendly smile. It was a smile that reached all the way to his eyes and seemed to radiate from his entire being. Spurs jangled as he strode up to Philip and his sparkling armor clinked. He took off his gloves as he walked and revealed strong hands and abnormally thick wrists. He tucked the supple deerskin gloves into his belt and shook Philip’s outstretched hand.

Although Philip stood taller and outweighed the Earl by a good fifty pounds, he found that de Ferrers troubled him. Everything screamed intimidating perfection. Straight white teeth, flawless skin, supposedly rigid honesty and a family tree that went all the way back to William the Conqueror and even further back to terrible Rollo the Viking, who had first settled in Normandy.

Philip squeezed de Ferrers hand harder than he’d meant too. De Ferrers only widened his smile and applied enough pressure to make Philip’s gesture futile. Suddenly, pain shot down Philip’s shoulder and exploded in his hand. He winced, although he managed to retain enough control over himself not to yank back his hand.

De Ferrers blond eyebrows rose in surprise, for he’d obviously seen the wince. He released his grip and let his smile slip the tiniest bit.

Philip turned away to hide his embarrassment and his sudden dislike for de Ferrers. In his youth, he’d have smashed down a puling knight like this. He knew the truth, and the truth fanned Philip’s dislike into hatred. Although he, Philip, was big and strong, he also carried a fat gut and countless wounds and sprains that had never fully healed. The man before him was limber, young and a master of knightly combat. To fight de Ferrers would be to fight youthful speed and endurance.

Philip turned back to de Ferrers, plastering a fake smile onto his scarred face and launching into chivalric pleasantries. As they walked together toward the tent, Sir Robert asked, “Whose idea was this unknightly tree trunk palisade?”

“Mine,” Philip growled.

De Ferrers was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I see.”

“Do you?” Philip asked. “Do you see that it kept you and your host from attacking us?”

“Hmmm. I suppose that’s one way of viewing it.”

“What other way is there?”

De Ferrers glanced at Philip in genuine shock. “Surely you’re not serious, Sir Philip. I’ve heard of you, and they say you’re brave and have a certain cunning about you in battle. Surely you can see that you’ve hidden behind peasants.” De Ferrers shook his handsome head. “That is unknightly, sir, unlike you, I’m certain.”

“So speaks the earl with the superior host.”

De Ferrers stopped suddenly, facing Philip. “Is that the only problem then?”

“What do you mean?”

Eagerly Sir Robert asked, “If I offer to detach an equal number of horsemen from my host to face Sir Guy’s, do you think he’d agree to meet us in open combat?”

Philip laughed harshly. “What, so you can ambush us with the rest of your force?”

De Ferrers turned red. “Do you accuse me of guile, of base trickery?”

Philip almost said yes. He looked deeply into de Ferrers eyes, however, and saw the only outcome of such a statement. De Ferrers would call him out in such a way that he’d be unable to refuse. And Sir Robert would no doubt kill him. That galled him, galled him deeply. Shame ate into his belly. He said, “No, of course I don’t accuse you of guile.”

Robert de Ferrers nodded coldly and strode once more toward the tent.

After a moments hesitation Philip followed, silently damning his aging body for its injuries. To strike this Earl down in fair combat—Philip ground his teeth together, then forced himself to calm down. He told himself that now more than ever he had to think, to plot, to connive his way out of this tight spot.

Chapter Thirteen

Earl Robert and Sir Philip entered the tent, and Guy rose to greet them. De Ferrers pulled up short at the sight the skeletal Guy. He attempted to smile. A grimace was all he could manage. “Sir Guy,” he said. Then speech failed him.

“We’re pleased that you agreed to a parley,” Philip quickly said, deciding to act as mediator, to show Guy how valuable his services could be.

Still speechless, de Ferrers turned toward Philip.

“Better in times like these for good English knights to talk rather than to spill each others blood,” Philip said.

De Ferrers grunted in a way that could have meant anything. His color finally began to return to his pale-shocked face.

“You have the advantage of more armored horsemen,” Philip said, “We have the advantages of numbers, provisions and a secure camp. Maybe even more importantly, we’re near to both of Sir Guy’s largest castles, Pellinore and Gareth. On the other hand, you, Sir Robert, are far from your lands and deep in unfamiliar territory. How long can you afford to tarry here?”

“As long as necessary,” de Ferrers said bluntly.

“Ah, Sir Robert,” Guy finally whispered. De Ferrers’ initial reaction seemed to have upset Guy. Now he’d recovered. “Welcome, my Lord, welcome.” Guy poured his expensive French wine into two chalices. He nodded to Aldora. She brought de Ferrers the heavily wrought silver cup embossed with hunting-scenes.

Philip moved beside the ornate table and poured his own chalice full of wine.

“To a friendly exchange,” whispered Guy, his hand trembling as he raised his chalice.

De Ferrers sipped delicately, his manners at last reasserting themselves. He savored his sip and nodded in approval. “An excellent vintage, Sir Guy. I commend you on your refined tastes.”

“You’re most kind,” whispered Guy, who clunked his chalice onto the table. Beads of sweat were strung across his brow.

“I also wish to propose a toast,” de Ferrers said. “To wisdom, that she never leave those who need her most.”

The three knights drank again.

Guy cleared his throat.

Before he could speak, de Ferrers said in a quiet, urgent tone, “Sir Guy, I hope you will not think me rude in my noticing that you presently battle an illness. I apologize for my lack of decorum a few moments ago. I didn’t mean to stare like a lowborn peasant. You merely surprised me. But know, sir, that my sympathies go out to you, and I also admire your fortitude. You seem to be in pain, and I can see that you have a fever. Please, sit down, and let me know if there is a medicine or a drink that one of my knights or squires can fetch you.”

“You’re most gracious,” Guy whispered. He sank onto the cot, pulled a linen handkerchief from his red silk coat and carefully dabbed his brow. Aldora hovered nearby, her concern obvious.

“Are you well enough to parley?” de Ferrers asked.

“Yes, of course,” whispered Guy.

De Ferrers nodded thoughtfully, sipping more wine. “My reason for being here, sir, is quite simple. I owe a debt to Sir Lamerok of Dun. I had not thought to see him until I returned to France next year. When I’d heard he’d landed in England, I prepared to greet him in Derby. Alas, for reasons known only to him, he rode into the Western Marches. Then word came to me that he’d been captured, imprisoned in Gareth Castle. I inquired as to the amount of the asked for ransom, fully determined to pay it. You can well imagine my surprise, Sir Guy, when I found that no ransom amount had been set. While I deplore the kidnapping of questing knights, I also realize that certain persons thrive on such base business. I have told myself however that there is a quarrel between you and Sir Lamerok, and thus refused to believe the persons who informed me that you’d imprisoned him out of spite or for pure monetary reasons.”

“None of this has been out of spite or for reasons of false gain,” whispered Guy.

“Are you in the habit of imprisoning questing knights?” de Ferrers asked.

“I assure you, never.”

De Ferrers smiled and took another sip of wine. “That is pleasant news, Sir Guy. Please forgive me for even hinting that your character might be other than noble.”

“Before we speak further,” Guy whispered, “I wish to learn who spoke so basely about me.”

“Certainly,” de Ferrers said. “Breton pirates, those who follow Eustace the Monk.”

Guy coughed suddenly, and only after several long, wet, braying coughs was he able to bring himself back under control. He whispered even more hoarsely than before, “I’m surprised that a knight of your caliber has any dealings with Eustace the Monk.”

De Ferrers smiled sourly. “Who harries the Channel with more zeal, Sir Guy? I can think of no one. Since I am often in France, I have been forced on an occasion or two to have dealings with Eustace. While he is many unsavory things, he has never proven himself a liar. Nor did his men lie when they said you held Sir Lamerok.”

Guy scowled and dabbed his forehead again.

De Ferrers said, “Since your father and I have never been at odds, I’ve decided that battle between us should be avoided. Sir Philip is correct in one particular. Much unrest stirs within England. I thus wish to save my knights for the critical battle, which surely must happen soon now that Earl Simon has so boldly taken control of the Severn.”

“Prince Edward will not let that stand,” Guy whispered.

“You may well be right,” de Ferrers said. “I’ve often ridden against Prince Edward in tournament. Edward Longshanks is surely the tallest and strongest man in England, and in looks, one can only think of his granduncle, King Richard the Lion Hearted. Edward leads his knights with the same kingly dash as old Richard did, and never has Edward been matched at jousting, or with drawn swords.”

“Save perhaps for the times when he’s been matched against you,” Guy whispered.

De Ferrers inclined his head. “You are generous with your compliments, sir.”

“I speak the truth,” whispered Guy.

“In any regard,” said de Ferrers, “I have decided to pay Sir Lamerok’s ransom even though I hold the preponderance of force here. Pray tell me, Sir Guy, what is the amount?”

Guy dabbed his forehead once more.

“You may tell me, sir,” de Ferrers said. “My word is my oath. I am prepared to pay any reasonable sum.”

Guy’s bloodless lips tightened. “I haven’t set a ransom price, Sir Richard, for I have no intention of releasing him…yet.”

Philip was surprised. Here was a golden opportunity to gain the relief money needed to pay Earl Roger Mortimer. Guy could be installed as baron within the week if he wanted. All he had to do was accept de Ferrers generous offer.

“Are those your last words on the subject?” de Ferrers quietly asked.

“They are,” whispered Guy.

De Ferrers shook his head, walked to the ornate table and set his chalice upon it. “That is most unwise, Sir Guy. I and my retainers can defeat you.”

“Try, and I will slit Sir Lamerok’s throat,” Guy whispered harshly.

De Ferrers frowned. “Do you hold a grudge against Sir Lamerok?”

“I no longer wish to discus it,” Guy whispered.

Exasperation filled de Ferrers’ handsome face. “I don’t understand you, sir. I offer you money, within reason, of course. Sir Lamerok hasn’t been in England or in Wales for over ten years. This I know because he told me so himself last year. Your father hasn’t been to France in ages, nor have you, I think.” De Ferrers eyebrows rose. “Ah! Do you move Sir Lamerok by your father’s command?”

“My father is dead,” Guy whispered.

“What?” said de Ferrers.

Philip told the Earl of Derby what had happened to Baron Hugh.

“This is ill news,” de Ferrers said. “A great knight has fallen. I mourn with you, Sir Guy.”

Guy nodded curtly.

De Ferrers said, “It would be a terrible tragedy then for Baron Hugh de Clare’s son to die so soon after his father’s passing. Please, Sir Guy, reconsider your decision.”

With his mouth firmly set, Guy shook his head once more.

“Then prepare to die,” de Ferrers said, his tone more sad than angry.

Guy rose, his eyes betraying fear. “I will slit Sir Lamerok’s throat if you attack.”

“So you’ve told me,” de Ferrers said. “But that would be most unwise, sir. I will defeat your force. Tree trunks and stakes will not make warriors out of peasants. Your few knights and handful of sergeants will also die, and after sullying their honor. Tragic. Very tragic. What will be even worse, Sir Guy, will be your own fate if Sir Lamerok is harmed. I’m afraid that by committing such a base deed as you threaten, that you will gain my wrath. I will tell my men to capture rather than slay you. Then I will hand you over to my hangman. He will heat his knives and make you rue the day you harmed Sir Lamerok.”

“What is Sir Lamerok to you?” Philip asked.

De Ferrers studied him. “I jousted against Sir Lamerok in Paris. He rode with Prince Edward. Alas, our mighty prince unhorsed me. Base sergeants then swarmed, determined to finish me. Sir Lamerok leaped down from his stallion and beat them off with the flat of his sword. His ransom for my person was very fair, and he allowed me to buy back my armor and my favorite steed. Even more, he saved my life from the sergeants. Ever since then I’ve wished to repay his courtesy. Now I have finally discovered the means.”

“Is Sir Lamerok a highly ranked knight?” Philip asked, curious to know more about this Scotsman.

De Ferrers grinned. “Not Sir Lamerok. He was a landless knight, I’ve heard. As a young squire, he read all the works of Chretien de Troyes. From them he learned true chivalry. Since he considered himself a hardy knight, and truly he is so, he took up the noblest sport possible and has fought for five years in almost every tournament in Northern France. Few now care to face Sir Lamerok in joust and risk their life against him. He is an admirable knight, able to quote the romantic lays as well as fight with noble abandon.”

Philip nodded. He was finally beginning to understand de Ferrers’ behavior. Sir Lamerok, like de Ferrers, had fallen under Chretien de Troyes’ spell concerning tournaments.

It had begun almost a hundred years ago. Until then the chansons de geste, epic poems of heroic deeds, had held sway over Western Europe with their endless stories of battles and feuds and their relentless hammering on the theme of loyalty between vassal and lord. The new romances challenged that. They stressed courtly love amidst the court ceremonial, which in essence meant tournaments. Here the storybook knights displayed their strength and courage before their ladies.

The master of this new genre was Chretien de Troyes. His patrons had been Count Henry of Champagne and Count Philip of Flanders. The two counts had had close ties with Eleanor of Aquitaine and her circle of future kings, queens and dukes. All of them lavishly patronized courtly literature and the growing chivalric sport. The arch-romancer, Chretien de Troyes, who wrote Erec, Clieges, Lancelot, Yvain and Perceval, catered to the noble tourneyers. The chivalric sport was written of in glowing terms. Those stories helped give the tournaments greater prestige. The two fed off each other and helped increase knightly interest in both. Knights and their ladies read the romances and tried to emulate their storybook heroes and heroines in nobility, courtly love, and endless tournaments, a time of fetes as well as mock battles.

To host a tournament took was costly. Usually they were held at the great courts, the semi-annual meetings of a king or baron with his vassals. Northern France and the Low Countries were the heart of courtly love and tournaments. Here enthusiasts, both rich and poor, roamed from tournament to tournament. And here the very hardiest knights could make a living out of their passion. For in a tournament, when a group of knights fought in mock combat against another group, great prizes could be won. The victor, one who captured an opponent, took possession of the loser’s armor and warhorse and often ransomed the captive. However, it was still a deadly game in 1263. The jousting often took an ill turn, as men’s blood grew hot. As many as sixty knights had died in one particularly bloody tournament at Neuss in 1240. Usually, however, gross injuries were the worst the knights suffered. That Robert de Ferrers still had his youthful good looks was due as much to his great skill as to plain luck.

Philip couldn’t understand why Sir Guy so desperately wanted to hold on to Sir Lamerok. Nor could Philip understand why Breton pirates had come to de Ferrers, telling him about the captured Scotsman. There was a secret here. It had to be a secret worth money.

“This is your last chance to repent your error,” de Ferrers told Guy.

“You will never free Sir Lamerok,” Guy whispered.

“We shall see, sir,” de Ferrers said. He strode to the tent flap. He turned suddenly, staring at Guy. “Out of deference to your dear departed father, I will give you one hour to change your mind. Then I shall attack, and soon thereafter, you will feed off a dish of heated knives. Consider well, Sir Guy. Good day.”

Earl Robert of Derby thereupon strode out of the tent and back to his waiting squire.

In moments, Guy wept on his couch as Aldora tried to sooth him. He pushed her away and wept louder, his face hidden in his hands.

Philip waited for Guy to regain his composure.

“It isn’t fair!” Guy whispered hoarsely. “Not fair at all!” He began to strike his couch as tears fell from his eyes.

Aldora pawed at him, trying to calm him.

“What is not fair, milord?” Philip asked loudly, deciding that something had to be done. De Ferrers was right; the tree trunks probably wouldn’t save them. It had given them time. Time was now running out.

Guy squeezed his hands into trembling fists. They looked like gnarled lumps attached to sticks. He peered up, his eyes bloodshot, his face flushed, his hair sweaty and lank.

“He dared to give me an ultimatum,” Guy whispered as the tears streaked down his face.

Philip nodded encouragement, even though he couldn’t believe that a man like Baron Hugh had ever sired the thing he saw before him.

“De Ferrers said….” Guy clenched his teeth together. “Oh, Aldora!” he hissed.

“There, there, Lord,” she said, stroking his hair, making soft sounds as she calmed him. “You have still been given your promises and you must still believe them, milord. Much has been taken from you, but much therefore will be given you in the time you have left.”

“No!” Guy whispered, shaking his oversized head. “None of it is true, Aldora. Your master lied to me. Lied!” He raised his bloodshot eyes to hers. “He is the Prince of Lies, after all. He’s cheated me. Cheated!”

“Hush, Lord,” Aldora whispered. “You must never speak so.”

Guy paled, and nodded. “You’re right. I didn’t mean what I said. You know that, don’t you, Aldora?”

“Of course, milord.”

“And he knows that too, doesn’t he?” Guy asked, clutching at her.

“Of course he knows, milord. For he knows all.”

Philip blanched. What terrible wickedness did they speak? Who was Aldora’s master?

Philip, like his ancestors before him, still believed in these strange supernatural beings, but not with the same utter conviction that his forefathers had. He had come to believe that sometimes people pretended to be witches, or have powers that they really didn’t have, in order to gain power in the more ordinary world. Therefore, his fear of Aldora as a witch wasn’t total. Besides, if she had magical powers, he could kill her and then be blessed by Father Bernard once he returned home to Pellinore Castle. That would nullifying any death curses that she’d scream at him if he dared to take a bloody course.

Guy pulled his hands away from Aldora’s and dried his eyes with his silk sleeve. He arose and wandered to the table.

“You’ve already had two cups of wine, milord,” Aldora admonished.

“Can’t I have another?” he asked querulously, his hand on the flagon of costly French wine.

“You mustn’t overtax yourself, milord.”

Guy sighed, putting the chalice back on the table.

“Maybe you should ransom Sir Lamerok,” Philip suddenly said, wondering what Guy’s reaction would be to his suggestion.

“Never!” Guy hissed.

“Milord,” Philip said, “I must ask you to reconsider for several reasons. I’ve already told you the sad state of your father’s treasury. Pellinore Fief is nearly penniless. What funds you yourself bring are your treasury. Earl Mortimer will demand a handsome relief before he allows you to become baron. This relief, or the majority of it surely, you can gain through Sir Lamerok’s ransom. You heard de Ferrers. He’s ready to be generous. The more silver he gives you, the better he’ll feel about his debt to Lamerok.”

Guy sat back on his cot, glaring at Philip, his face set in that stubborn mold which only a de Clare seemed able to achieve.

For the first time, Philip saw something of Baron Hugh in him. A bitter pang filled Philip. He missed Hugh. And this was Hugh’s son, his only son.

“Milord,” Philip said, although with less force than before. “If you don’t ransom Sir Lamerok, then Sir Richard will attack. He is a man of his word. You must not doubt his intentions.”

Guy’s scowl deepened. “I’ll kill Sir Lamerok if de Ferrers attacks.”

“Yes, milord, I’m sure you will. But how will that help you?”

For a moment, Guy looked uncertain. Then he hissed with renewed vehemence, “I must keep Sir Lamerok!”

“Why, milord? Why keep him when it will mean your death, will mean perhaps the deaths of all of us here?”

“No,” Guy whispered, clapping his hands over his ears. “Speak no more about…about….”

“About death?” Philip asked.

Guy screwed his eyes shut. He began to tremble.

“You must listen to me, milord,” Philip said, his voice rising because he could hardly contain his disgust for a knight who quailed at the idea of death. “Your father always faced unpleasant facts. He never lacked—”

Guy opened his eyes to peer intently at Philip. Slowly, he lowered his hands onto his lap. “My father never lacked, what, Sir Philip?”

Philip had already seen his error. “Milord, de Ferrers rides with his choice companions. Hob counted them. Sixty armored warriors wait less than a half mile away. Sixty, milord. We have eight knights or squires and sixteen sergeants, a paltry twenty-four warriors altogether. The peasants, cooks and carters don’t count. Maybe if they were atop turrets or behind parapets, then they could drop rocks or pour heated oil upon the enemy. As it is, after a few of them die, after the rest see their comrades spill their guts and choke out gore….” Philip shrugged suggestively.

Aldora stepped away from the cot as the two knights talked. Her copper bracelets jangled as she sat on a bearskin in the corner. She pulled a basket over and began to rummage through it.

“No, no,” Guy whispered to Philip. “You’ve wisely laid out these tree trunks and planted countless sharpened stakes. The peasants have gained courage from that and will fight like heroes now.”

“If Sir Richard blindly charged, slaying his stallions upon the stakes, then maybe,” Philip said scornfully. “I’m afraid, however, that my defenses are more illusion than fact. It was meant to show the enemy that we would fight. That he would have to dismount and battle afoot—something no knight truly cares to do. Many commanders would carefully weigh the odds before attacking a fortified camp. The commander would know surely, or so I was hoping he’d know, that your castles stood nearby, that any of his wounded would have a long and harrowing journey before they reached a place of safety.”

“None of those facts have changed,” whispered Guy.

“No, milord, they haven’t. But now I have the measure of the enemy commander. The Earl of Derby will fight to his last man. He has laid his honor on the line. He will attack until he’s freed Sir Lamerok or until he’s dead. There is no middle ground with a Galahad like Sir Richard.”

“Then we must kill him,” Aldora said from the bearskin.

Both Philip and Guy turned toward her. She held a black statuette, an ugly idol of a being with horns, a protruding tongue and claw-like hands. She stroked it as one would a choice pet, and the set of her wrinkled, wart-ridden face was determined, almost fierce.

“What’s that?” Philip spat as he grasped his sword-hilt.

“This is the demon that plagues Sir Guy,” Aldora said, holding up the statuette.

Philip drew his sword, looking upon Aldora with disgust, and perhaps with a little fear.

“No, Sir Knight,” Aldora said, although she didn’t look at him. “You shall not harm me.”

“If you’re a witch then I’ll kill you,” Philip said thickly.

Aldora only chuckled as she continued to stroke the demonic idol.

“What do you see, Aldora?” Guy whispered.

“What are you babbling about?” Philip demanded.

Guy, his sickly features for once serene, turned to Philip. “Aldora can see into the future. She’s a seer, a holy woman who wields the White Magic. With her power, she looked into the spirit world and saw which demon bedeviled me. Then she made a statuette of the demon and used, and uses, her power to keep the evil creature at bay. This is why I still live, Sir Philip, still defy the demon who tries to kill me. Alas, his evil has poisoned my blood and brought me to my sad state.”

“She truly is a witch?” Philip asked, not knowing what to believe. Half of him said this was clever fakery. The other half feared, even quailed before a woman with that kind of power.

“No,” whispered Guy. “Aldora is not a witch but the great-granddaughter of Merlin. She can see into the future and into the spirit world.” Guy smiled. “She’s a prophetess.”

Philip’s sword lowered a fraction.

“You must keep Sir Lamerok,” Aldora said in a dull, almost distracted tone. “You must never give him up until he tells you what you must know.”

Guy nodded, entranced.

Philip scowled and ran a hand over his baldness. He stepped closer to Aldora, raising his sword once more.

“Ah,” Aldora said. “I see a path to safety.”

“Tell me,” Guy whispered.

“You must stop de Ferrers,” she droned.

“How?”

Aldora slowly looked up and swiveled her head until she gazed just below Philip’s eyes.

Philip advanced another step.

“No, Philip,” whispered Guy as he tugged on the knight’s sword arm. “We must listen to Aldora. We must use her path to safety.”

Philip growled, “The only safety is in giving up Sir Lamerok.”

“Until I learn what he knows he’ll remain my prisoner,” said Guy.

Philip tried to speak.

“The path—” Aldora shouted, her stick pointed at Philip’s face “—lies through you!”

“Me?” Philip asked, surprised and appalled at her words.

“You know the way,” she said.

“Tell me, Philip,” Guy whispered joyously. “Tell me how we can win past de Ferrers.”

Philip lowered his sword as he heard the hope in Guy’s voice. Until now, Guy had treated him poorly, had barely listened to what he’d had to say. Maybe here was a way to change all that.

“Do you fear to take the path?” Aldora asked in a harsh tone.

Philip stared at her in shock. Could the old bag of bones really be the great-granddaughter of Merlin?

“Oh, dear Philip,” whispered Guy, “save me and I shall owe you a debt of gratitude.”

All at once, Philip saw a way to achieve his goal. He loathed being this near Guy, having him touch and breathe on him. It sickened him. But this was also Baron Hugh’s son. He owed the baron many times over. If he could achieve his goal of winning himself a barony and help his dearly departed friend’s only son—

“Milord,” Philip said, disengaging his arm from Guy as he sheathed his sword. “Maybe there is a way, but it entails much risk. It entails great bodily harm to me. Maybe even my death.”

Guy winced at the mentioning of that horrible word.

“Would you grant me a boon, milord, if I won a way past de Ferrers for you?”

Guy hesitated, glancing at Aldora. She nodded ever so slightly. “What boon would you ask?” asked Guy.

“The hand of the Lady Alice de Mowbray in marriage,” Philip said boldly.

Guy’s eyes narrowed, while Aldora once again gave him one of her tiny nods. Guy slowly softened his features and soon he smiled. With a gesture of friendliness, he said, “Yes. Done, my friend.”

“Milord?” Philip asked.

“I grant you your boon,” said Guy, “provided that I and Sir Lamerok safely reach Pellinore Castle.”

Philip grinned with delight, unable to believe that he’d really achieved the first step of his grand goal.

“Now tell me your plan,” whispered Guy.

“Of course, milord,” Philip said. “I shall joust with de Ferrers, and defeat him, winning passage for ourselves.”

“What?” Guy whispered in alarm. “You can’t defeat de Ferrers. Not in a joust. He’ll kill you. And why would he agree to a joust in the first place?”

“He’ll agree because he’s filled with chivalric nonsense,” Philip said. “And I’ll win because….” Philip forced down his fears and concentrated on his dislike for the valorous Earl of Derby. Any action other than this, would leave him dead or gravely injured, or captured and held for ransom. A duel him a chance for glory and a way to wipe out what he’d seen in de Ferrers’ eyes when he’d winced during the handshake.

He told Guy, “I’ll win because battle is no game to me, but a deadly act of war.” Or I’ll be dead, he told himself. But in that case, nothing else matters.

***

The peasants cheered as Philip heaved himself into the high saddle. Even though he’d been doing this a lifetime, it still proved a difficult task. A knight trained hard so he could move, mount up and wield his weapons while encumbered in armor.

The costly equipment began with a felt jacket, a gambeson. The felt protected Philip from his own armor, from its rubbing away his skin. It also helped absorb heavy blows. Next, he’d slipped on chainmail, his hauberk. It came down to his knees, with slits in front and back so he could sit on his steed. The hauberk was Philip’s primary piece of defensive equipment, the most expensive and the most protective. The hauberk was made of interlocking metal rings: each individually forged, hammered and welded shut. The mail made for flexible armor, able to turn most blows. He wore chainmail leggings to protect his legs, and he wore golden spurs. They were a symbol of knighthood. Squires wore silver spurs.

Philip wore leather gloves plated with strips of metal, his gauntlets. Upon his head, he first wore a leather cap, then a chainmail coif, or hood, which protected his neck, head and chin. Lastly, he wore a great helmet. Drilled holes in front of his nose and mouth allowed in fresh air, while narrow slits before his eyes allowed him to see. His vision was severely curtailed by the helmet, but the protection it afforded was immense. Atop Philip’s helmet was a stuffed, red leather rooster. It helped to identify him in a sea of armored knights. And it was intimating because it made him seem taller and fiercer in a strange medieval way.

Over the hauberk, Philip wore a light cloth, a surcoat. Since the crusades, surcoats had come into style. Originally, they’d been worn to help deflect the terrible Holy Land sunlight and protect the mail from sandblasting grit. Philip’s surcoat was blue-colored with a red rooster emblem in the center.

To swing a sword well, to handle skillfully a lance and even to ride a destrier while heavily armored took years of acquired skill.

Not all of a knight’s protection came from armor. A kite-shaped, leather-covered wooden shield was secured to Philip by a neck strap. Leather handles allowed him to shift the shield as needed. The shield was blue and emblazoned with a crowing red rooster.

All told, Philip’s gear weighed over sixty pounds. It was a fine reason indeed to ride a horse rather than walk.

Besides the golden spurs, one of a knight’s greatest status symbols was his knightly waist belt. It was slung down low on his hips. Attached to Philip’s belt was a blue-painted wooden scabbard. His sword with its gilt-edged hilt weighed a good seven pounds and was thirty-six inches in length. Philip cherished his sword, which bore the same name that Roland had given his sword: Durendal. Baron Hugh had called his sword Joyeuse, the same name Charlemagne had given his. For over twenty years, Durendal had faithfully served Philip. He patted the hilt, knowing that its tempered steel could never fail him, for it never had.

As armor had become more efficient, the style in swords had changed. After the year 1000, the sharp cutting swords of the Franks and Lombards had given way to the heavy blades of the Normans and Flemish. Those swords were meant to bludgeon a heavily armored opponent, to crush his limbs. Great sweeping blows rather than delicate swordsmanship was the preferred combat method. Because of Durendal’s weight and when combined with Philip’s trained strength, he could easily cut an unprotected man in two.

“Here you are, milord,” Philip’s groom said.

Philip accepted a long, heavy lance—the nearly perfect cavalry weapon. His was made out of carefully selected ashwood and colored blue with red barber’s swirls. On the end protruded a terrible spike of Castilian steel. A knight’s grip needed to be equally terrible when he made his strike. This lance hadn’t yet been equipped with the flaring piece of wood that would help a knight keep his hand in place. In 1263, a lance was a straight piece of wood, held in place by a knight’s grip. With the lance couched under his arm and level with his hip, he tried to smash through the enemy shield. The bearer slanted his shield to try to deflect the maiming blow.

For the maximum thrusting power, a knight needed to be welded to his saddle. The high saddle was a heavy wood-leather combination, securely tied to the horse. Both front and rear cantle rose high, from which came the name high saddle. Philip literally wedged himself into the saddle. He was also held in place by hip-hugging acrons that were attached to the rear cantle. Then, at the moment of contact, a knight had to clamp his knees to the horse’s body and try to make himself rock steady.

As he waited, Philip kept telling himself that younger knights were often master swordsmen, able to swing with cunning and great endurance. Older knights didn’t have the same stamina as younger knights. Older knights, with their vast fund of experience, were usually better at jousting. To aim the lance while galloping, to hold the shield at exactly the right deflecting angle and to hold your breath just so, that took year after year of practice to learn properly.

Within his helmet, Philip grinned, despite his fears. He had a plan, a foul, tricky plan. How else could he expect to win?

This is war, he told himself. This isn’t a foolish bit of knight errantry. Either I win and eventually become a baron, or I lose and kiss the needed friendship of Sir Guy goodbye.

“Milord!” shouted his groom.

“I see him,” Philip said, his stomach beginning to churn.

Sir Robert rode from the enemy camp. He was the perfect knight, with a fan of ostrich feathers fluttering on his great helm.

Philip’s doubts flared anew. De Ferrers had surely survived over a hundred such jousts; he would know all the tricks, sleights and deceits.

Philip scraped a dry tongue around the insides of his mouth. Then he shucked off a gauntlet and fumbled at his helmet’s straps.

“Milord, what’s wrong?” asked his groom.

“Get me wine,” Philip said.

“There isn’t time, milord.”

“Wine, man! I want wine!”

The groom blanched and hurried to Sir Guy’s tent. The knights, squires and sergeants lined up behind Philip began to murmur.

Philip tore off his helmet, feeling the fresh air and hearing the murmurs. His men wondered at his hesitation. Damn them. I’m the one daring to face Sir Galahad. No, not Sir Galahad, but Earl Robert of Derby. He’s young, filled with chivalrous nonsense.

Philip grimaced. De Ferrers’ chivalrous nonsense had given him the skills to defeat hosts of knights in just such affairs as these.

Where is that wine?

He glanced back, looking for his groom. He didn’t dare look at any of Guy’s knights or sergeants. He didn’t want them to see the fear in his eyes.

Suddenly one of the horses trotted forward. Upon it sat heavy Hob. “Sir Philip, are you well?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” said Philip. But even to himself his voice sounded hollow.

Hob reined in beside Philip and held up an old piece of the True Cross. It was a dusty piece of wood, as long as Hob’s fat hand. “Touch this, Sir Philip, and pray for victory.”

Philip didn’t dare touch a piece of the True Cross. The knot in his stomach tightened at the mere thought of doing so. He didn’t dare because he planned trickery. He planned to commit a foul blow. The Savior of Heaven wouldn’t honor that.

“What’s wrong?” asked Hob. “Why are you so pale?”

Philip looked over at de Ferrers. The elegant white knight on his huge white horse was halfway to the selected jousting spot. Philip’s guts tightened even more. He winced in pain.

“Sir Philip?” asked Hob.

Just then, the panting groom ran up, with a flagon in his hands. “Milord, your wine.”

Philip took the flagon and threw back his head, letting the red liquid slosh into his mouth and some out the sides of his mouth. He swabbed the wetness around with his tongue, gulped more and smacked his lips at the sweet taste.

A fire loosened the knot in his stomach and shot up into his head. He grinned at Hob before putting the helmet back on. He fumbled with the straps and then slipped on his gauntlets.

“Let’s go,” he said, urging his destrier toward the jousting field.

He concentrated upon de Ferrers. Beside the gallant knight strode his squire. The squire would rush unto the jousting field in case de Ferrers fell. He would help his master regain his feet, not always an easy task in armor. Philip’s groom would do likewise for him. Philip now studied de Ferrers’ lance, and his grin widened. De Ferrers had an eight-foot lance. His own was twelve feet in length. It was easier to aim a shorter lance and it was unlikely to splinter as quickly as a longer one. But a longer lance hit first.

Suddenly Philip desperately wanted to pray for victory. But whom could he pray to? Not to Jesus Christ, not with the deceit that he planned. Maybe he could pray to that little demonic idol which Aldora had held in Sir Guy’s tent.

“Help me win,” Philip prayed. For a moment, fear swept through him. Had he prayed to a demon? If so, and if he died today, surely he would go to Hell.

Just then, de Ferrers’ squire pulled out a trumpet and gave a mighty blast.

With a start, Philip realized that he was at his end of the jousting field, a level area of grass. At the other end waited de Ferrers. Lined up well behind the Earl were his horsemen. Philip knew that Sir Guy’s horsemen were lined up behind him an equal distance away.

“Are you ready, Sir Philip?” shouted the squire.

Philip dipped his twelve-foot lance, which caused a red pennon just below the wicked steel spike to flutter. De Ferrers then dipped his lance rippling a spotless white pennon.

“At my signal let the joust begin!” shouted the squire.

Philip sucked down air, clutched his lance and pulled the reins so his steed knew that battle was about to begin. The big stallion snorted and pawed the earth. This is what the stallion had been trained for.

The squire put the silver trumpet to his lips and blew a mighty peal.

Philip’s gut clenched. He spurred his mighty stallion and dropped his lance into position. The huge warhorse dug his hooves into the sward and began the straight run at the enemy. The jangle of armor, the drum of hooves, the tightness in the belly, the short draughts of air, Philip was hardly aware of them now. He stood in his stirrups, although he was still wedged in his saddle because the stirrups were hung extremely low. He peered through his eye slits at the fast approaching enemy. De Ferrers leaned forward, with his lance couched under his right arm.

Philip laughed then, enraptured with the terrible moment. To kill his enemy—ah, what sweet joy. He was unaware that within his helmet he roared a mighty battle cry.

De Ferrers closed rapidly, his lance aimed straight and unwavering at Philip. Philip shifted his huge pole and angled his shield to meet de Ferrers’ attack. The distance closed with awful speed. Philip shifted his lance again, aiming at de Ferrers’ steed, at the noble creature’s head! If he could kill the horse, he could unseat de Ferrers and then ride him down at his leisure. But to kill the horse was ignoble, a foul in the rules of jousting. It was also a difficult feat. Philip roared, de Ferrers shouted.

Philip gripped the round wood with all his strength. Then Sir Robert used the spike of his lance, deflecting Philip’s weapon just enough. It was a masterful move. Philip knew a sudden, terrible moment of fear. De Ferrers expertly turned Philip’s lance-spike with his shield. At the same moment, de Ferrers’ lance, which had dropped back into position, smashed against Philip’s shield. It was a perfect hit.

Philip felt his shoulder muscle tear and his saddle’s rear cantle snap. He lifted off the warhorse, encased in his iron. He felt horribly trapped as the ground rushed up. With a mighty crash and metallic screeching, he hit and rolled. He groaned. His entire right side was numb. He was only vaguely away of de Ferrers, who slowed his warhorse, turned it and trotted back toward him.

“Help me,” Philip prayed aloud, although with the ringing in his ears he couldn’t hear the words. Whether it was the prayer or Philip’s own sense of urgency, his head cleared and he realized that de Ferrers shouted at him from what seemed like a great height.

Almost Philip rose then. Instead, cunning filled him. He remained as he was. De Ferrers’ stallion came even closer. Philip saw the hooves through his eye slits, even though he lay face-first on the ground.

“Raise your hand if you submit!” de Ferrers shouted.

Closer, Philip thought, just a little closer.

As if hearing him, the enemy stallion neared. Only then, did Philip shout and rise as quickly as he could. He saw de Ferrers sawing at the reins, trying to back up. The lance lowered as de Ferrers tried to club him with it. Philip ignored the lance, drew his sword and stabbed into the stallion’s side with all his strength. The magnificent creature screamed as the long blade slid into him. Philip kept pushing. De Ferrers shouted with rage, but both horse and knight fell. Such was the athletic grace of de Ferrers, however, that he leaped clear of the stallion, although he fell down. Philip yanked his bloody sword out of the stallion’s side, clanked around the dying beast and toward de Ferrers. De Ferrers began to rise as he drew his sword. Philip swung. With a loud, metallic clang, he gave de Ferrers a mighty buffet upon the helmet. De Ferrers fell down. Philip straddled the prone de Ferrers as enemy knights cried foul and rode onto the jousting field.

Philip pried at the dented helmet, tearing it off de Ferrers’ head. An ugly welt had arisen on de Ferrers’ forehead and his eyes were glazed.

“Submit!” Philip roared, holding up his sword. “Submit or I’ll chop off your head!”

De Ferrers stared up at him in shock.

“Submit!” Philip roared again, the heady feel of victory filling him with strength.

“Yes,” de Ferrers whispered. “I submit.”

Chapter Fourteen

Because Philip had not yet returned with Sir Guy, Lady Eleanor waited longer than customary to bury her husband. In the wait, Baron Hugh’s corpse began to rot. The stench, at first a small, ordinary thing, soon became awful.

The body had been embalmed and the heart taken out. The castle butcher, under the prayerful guidance of Father Bernard, had sliced the heart into four equal parts. Each quarter had been carefully wrapped in linen and set in a small stone box. The messengers who went out to the four parish churches where Baron Hugh had been patron, each took one of the stone boxes. At each parish church, the stone box had been buried in remembrance of the Baron.

Baron Hugh had often proudly talked about his holding the patronage of four parish churches. Practically all the non-cathedral churches in England and France had patrons, most of them secular nobility like Hugh, although sometimes the patrons were bishops or rich abbots. As patron, Baron Hugh had received part of each parish church’s tithe, and as patron, he had usually named the new parish priest when a vacancy opened. The overseeing bishop had never declined Baron Hugh’s choices except once.

The selected person, the son of a rich tanner who lived in Pellinore Fief, had failed even the bishop’s simple test. For the bishop had no interest in making an enemy of Baron Hugh and had therefore always administered easy tests. The lad, a good-looking youth with the shoulders of a fighting man, had been able to chant several of the familiar psalms as required by the bishop. However, the lad hadn’t been able to decline a Latin noun or conjugate a simple verb. The lad’s father had quietly gone to Hugh, and together they’d gone to an abbot of noted greed. The rich tanner had paid Hugh, and Hugh had given this worldly abbot a portion of that sum. The abbot had then given the good-looking lad his priestly certificate. Baron Hugh and the lad then went back to the overseeing bishop. By custom, the bishop was supposed to honor any other prelate’s certificate. This bishop had refused, and a terrible fight ensued, with Baron Hugh going so far as to draw his sword as he backed the bishop against his own church wall. The bishop boldly dared Hugh to strike, saying that Hugh would spend eternity in Hell if he spilled innocent blood. Frightened by the threat and admiring the bishop’s courage, Baron Hugh had relented and withdrawn his candidate from consideration.

Now Baron Hugh’s corpse grew ripe in the castle’s chapel despite whatever good or bad he’d done during life. The fully armored men-at-arms who kept a faithful watch around Hugh’s corpse at last complained. Day and night, with over a dozen tall candles flickering around the black-covered corpse, the men-at-arms watched. They made certain the Devil didn’t come, take the dead body and replace it with a cat. And they watched to make certain that no dog raced over the corpse and changed it into a blood-drinking vampire.

At Lady Eleanor’s reluctantly given request, the stone coffin was readied and a waxen death mask made of Baron Hugh’s face. Those knights, priests, squires, ladies, rich burgers, and merchants who could stomach the stench paid Baron Hugh their last respects. Pots of incense, which were burned liberally at the funeral, were put into the stone coffin together with Hugh. The heavy coffin was lugged to the castle graveyard and laid in the earth.

That had happened a day ago, and now Alice wandered about the Great Hall, bored to distraction. Sir Walter and the bailiff had gone to the Tanning Village to put a stop to an ongoing feud. Lady Eleanor and Martha had gone to Pellinore Village to see a newborn baby. Because of Philip’s harsh instructions, Alice still wasn’t permitted out of the castle. She felt like screaming. The enclosed spaces, which she usually avoided by riding briskly in the nearby fields, now squeezed her spirit with their dreariness.

What would Guy’s return bring? Why was Sir Philip taking so long in bringing Guy back to Pellinore? It seemed mysterious, and that made Alice nervous that the two plotted a nefarious scheme.

I have to escape. I have to return to Gareth and take control of my ancestral castle and fief.

She couldn’t just throw a rope over the castle wall at night and slither down. To reach the safety of Gareth’s walls she needed a horse. Even that might not be enough. Parties of armed men roamed the Marches; entire armies, both big and small, roamed the Marches! With Earl Simon de Montfort having sealed off the Western Marches, all those who sided with the King were in peril. She was one of those. Therefore if she were captured…

Better the enemies she knew than those she didn’t.

She sighed, then she bolted upright as a heavy thump and then a loud yell floated down the stairs from the living quarters above.

Idle hounds, the girls sweeping up the old dry rushes and a tottering old man polishing the hunting weapons on the walls stopped what they were doing and stared upward. Finally, the old man mumbled something about poor Squire Richard. The girls, a few years younger than Richard, began talking about him.

Alice kept an eye on the girls, having agreed to supervise them until Martha returned. Their conversation turned her thoughts to the squire.

Surely, he’s even more bored than I am. He could use cheering up.

Suiting thought to action, Alice headed up the stairs. The girls could clean up the Great Hall without her watching them. Martha always hovered above them like a kestrel, pestering them with little quips and old religious rhymes about the punishments meted out to the lazy. Alice’s mother had never been like that, trusting the servants instead to do a good job and rewarding them if they did.

Alice heard another loud groan from above. So she lifted the pleats of her long white skirt and hurried up the stairs.

The living quarters were gloomy. No candles burned and all the shutters were closed. The only light came from the stained glass window, which in the morning when the sunlight shone through it radiated with colorful reds, blues and yellows. The sun had moved on, however, and the outside of the stained glass window was now in the shade.

Alice searched through the gloom, finally spotting movement. As he sat on his rear, Richard dragged himself backward across the stone floor, his splinted legs trailing.

“Richard?”

The burly squire grimaced, then clenched his teeth and dragged himself farther. A suppressed groan slid out of him.

“Richard!” she said, rushing beside him.

He stared at her with glassy eyes, his long, sweaty hair plastered to his head.

“My….” He licked his lips. “My legs hurt. Not enough so they trouble me. But I thought a flagon of wine would help me rest better.”

He’s lying, she realized. Richard never complains about pain. One of his secret joys is that no one can make him yell.

Alice realized what awful pain he must be in. She glanced around. No one else was here. She touched his forehead. It burned and was sweaty. Then she noticed the rancid odor surrounding him.

Maybe the others had left because of him. Therefore, no one had been here to bring him wine.

“Let me help you back into bed,” she said.

“And then you’ll bring me wine?”

“Of course.”

The struggle wearied her. Richard was heavy. Helping him up into the bed was even worse, and it left sweat stains on her dress.

He clenched his teeth as he trembled.

“Wine,” he whispered. “Bring me wine.”

She hurried across the room. Then she wondered if wine was the best remedy. She’d treated fevers before and knew that drunkenness didn’t help. He needed water, lots of water. And he needed to sleep.

This hall is too depressing, she decided.

Alice went to each of the shutters and threw them open. Sunlight filled the hall along with the trilling of nearby robins and larks. A fresh breeze swept away the rancid odor. She found a water jug and brought it to him.

He drank greedily. When he set aside the jug, he muttered, “This isn’t wine. I need wine. Don’t you understand?”

She picked up a cloth and wet it, and began to sponge his face. He soon lay back and closed his eyes, and sighed. Later, she helped him take off his sweat-soaked shirt. Then she began to sponge his chest.

“That feels good,” he whispered.

She smiled, but was appalled at how hot he felt. “I should check your legs,” she said.

“No! Don’t touch them!”

“When did the barber last check your wounds?” she asked, now more worried than ever.

He shook his head.

“Your wounds need to be checked,” she said.

“No! They’re fine.”

“Richard!”

Suddenly he trembled again, and all over his torso and face droplets of sweat oozed out of his skin. He clenched his teeth, but couldn’t control the groan that slid out.

“I have to look at your legs,” Alice told him. “I’m going to look at your legs. Right now, in fact.”

He made a feeble gesture.

Slowly, carefully, she unwrapped the bandage around his right leg. The burn, from the white-hot brand that had sealed the wound, had scabbed properly. Around the burn, the skin was a bruised purple color. Otherwise, everything seemed fine. She re-wrapped the bandage and checked the left leg, and almost threw up. Pus oozed from the infected wound. The stench sickened her.

“Wait here,” she said. She ran down the stairs and returned a short time later with the thin castle barber. He had rotting teeth and an odd way of hunching his shoulders.

He peered at the wound, rubbed his short hands in his dry, rasping way and said, “I need my leeches.”

Alice fetched him his stone jar of leeches. He’d gathered them from the scummy castle moat, she knew. She loathed them. As a young girl, she’d tried to swim in her father’s moat. She’d run screaming to her mother after climbing out and seeing the slimy bloodsuckers attached to her legs. Her mother had peeled them off, chuckling at her hysteria. From that time, Alice had a mortal dread of any outdoor water. Her older cousin, back then, had told her that bloodsuckers were the Devil’s creatures. That if they sucked up enough blood, they would steal your soul. Alice knew better now, or so she thought. Deep within her, though, was still the little girl’s fear and loathing of bloodsuckers.

She had to look away as the barber carefully dropped the leeches onto the festering wound.

“Ah, look at them swell,” the barber soon said in approval. “Good. They’re drinking the poisoned blood, making room for healthy blood.”

Feeling faint, Alice moved near an open window, drinking in the fresh air. Far below, circling the castle, ran Cord the dog boy. He ran easily, as much a part of the pack as any of the bear-hounds. There was such elemental strength to Cord, and tenderness, too. How else could he tame such savage beasts?

Why I am thinking like this? Cord can’t help me. He’s only a dog boy, although he is strong and brave. Then a new thought struck her. Cord had as much reason to fear Philip as she did Guy. So why doesn’t Cord run away? Why don’t I run away? To stay at Pellinore is madness. She shivered, and remembered anew Guy’s weird eyes; the way as a squire, he’d tracked her every move. She’d only been seven then. He’d always tried to touch her, tried to get her alone, away from others.

Why will he be any different now?

Alice folded her arms across her chest as she watched Cord. She needed allies. She needed people to help her get back home. She could do much worse than asking the brave dog boy, the slayer of Old Sloat, to help her. Maybe he’d even come along. The idea of that secretly delighted her, although she refused to admit it to herself.

The barber tapped her shoulder. When she turned, he told her to close all the windows.

“Will Richard be all right?” she asked.

The barber frowned and hunched his shoulders more than before. “He needs sleep,” the barber said. “Lots of sleep.”

“Should I give him wine then?”

“No! No more wine. Just water and sleep.”

“How can I get him to sleep when he’s in pain?”

“Distract him,” the barber said. “Speak to him, play draughts with him. Anything to take his mind off the pain.”

“I understand.”

The barber smiled, exposing his black teeth. “But first of all close all these windows. Ill humors blow in and will poison the wound.”

Alice nodded, closing the nearest shutters. After the barber packed his tools and hefted his stone jar of leeches and left, Alice reopened all the shutters. Too much gloom hurt the spirit, and if Richard were supposed to be diverted from his pain, then cheerful bird songs and sunlight would surely help him more than anything else would.

“Are you feeling better?” she asked as she sat down beside him.

Richard was propped up in the big baronial bed, his splinted legs stretched out.

“I’m still hot,” he said, wiping his forehead. “But I’m thinking better.” He gave her a pasty smile. “I’d still like some wine, though, or a jack of ale.”

“Do your wounds hurt?”

His pasty smile widened.

“That bad, eh?”

“It’ll pass,” he said.

It hurt her to see strong Richard this way. His burly, big-nosed looks always cheered her. He usually whistled and winked at everyone as he went about his duties. Of all the people at Pellinore, he came closest to being like the knights in the romantic stories of chivalry.

“Would you like me to read to you?” Alice asked.

“Thank you, but no,” he said. “What I’d really like is some wine.”

The pain must be really bad, Alice thought. He’s usually not this insistent. How can I get his mind off it? A game! Which game, though?

Alice, like many medieval noblewomen, was better at most board games than men. Chess, the noblest board game of all, was a passion with her, just as it was a passion with Sir Walter’s eldest daughter.

Alice glanced at the chessboard set up by the fireplace. Baron Hugh had often been found there, chin on fist as he contemplated his pieces. Model knights rode horses, all the details carefully carved onto the walrus ivory that had been imported from Cork, in Ireland. Cork was an old Viking town, she knew, settled by Norsemen. Both kings held swords, the queens held drinking horns, while the bishops held their croziers close to their chests. Alice recalled her father’s chess set that had been imported from the East. The Mohammedans despised women, she’d heard, and she believed it because her father’s set hadn’t had a queen, but a phez, a councilor, instead. Nor did her father’s old set have bishops, but the pil, an elephant.

Alice was so good at chess that it had fallen to her to teach the game to Richard. Unfortunately, he had no real facility for it. That wasn’t unusual in younger men. Alice had read the Song of Roland. It depicted one aspect of knighthood perfectly. According to the song, after Charlemagne and his knights had stormed Cordova, they’d rested under the trees. The older knights pulled out their wood-inland chessboards, while the younger men played backgammon. So it was in most castles, the older knights having the greater patience to play chess.

Richard enjoyed backgammon much more than chess. People wagered on it more, and backgammon included the rolling of dice. Dicing! Now Richard loved that more than any game. Alice knew ten different games of dice, some using three or even six dice to play.

“I know,” Alice told Richard, “how about some dicing?”

Interest flickering across Richard’s round face.

“We could even gamble,” she said.

He gave her one of his familiar grins.

“But only for small sums,” she said.

“Yes, fine,” he said, his voice sounding more like the Richard she knew.

“I have some dice in my clothes chest,” Alice said, rising.

“There’s no need for that,” Richard said. He reached under a pillow and pulled out two ivory dice. Then he reached under a different pillow and pulled out a small clay dish and a host of thin wooden pins. There were red, blue and small gray pins.

“Pounds, shillings and pence?” Alice asked.

Richard nodded.

“We’ll only play for pence,” Alice said.

Richard picked up the dice and rolled. He grinned and made his wager. Alice made hers. Richard rolled again, twice, thrice and then lost his bet. He grumbled, but Alice noticed that the pain had left his eyes.

The wooden pins marched back and forth. When he won, Richard laughed. When he lost, he grumbled or cursed under his breath. Then he hit a losing streak and his curses became louder and cruder.

“Richard, please,” Alice said once.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Richard said, scooping up the dice and rattling them. “Place your bet.”

Alice did, a smaller one than before.

“No more than that?” Richard asked crossly. “You’ve got to give me a chance to win back what I’ve lost.”

Alice shook her head.

He blew into his cupped hand. “Come on,” he said under his breath. “You’re my dice, so you’ve got to help me.”

Alice couldn’t help but smile at his antics.

Richard threw the dice into the clay dish, noted the number, then picked them back up and shoved more pins onto the betting pile.

“Richard! Is that wise?”

“Are you betting?” he snapped.

She noticed the sweat on his forehead and the glassiness to his eyes.

“Very well.” She matched his wager.

He rolled again, stared at the losing number, then flopped back onto the pillows and let out a stream of loud and obscene curses.

“What blasphemy is this?” Father Bernard thundered.

Alice and Richard turned in shock to see Father Bernard beside them. His normally pleasant features were twisted with anger. He reached in and snatched up the dice.

“Don’t you know that these are the Devil’s tools?” he asked.

Maybe it was the fever, but Richard said, “What utter nonsense, Father. Dicing is the game of God.”

Father Bernard turned scarlet. Alice tried to signal Richard, but he wasn’t having any of it.

“Don’t we rely upon Providence to determine the outcome of a thing?” Richard glanced from Alice to Father Bernard. “After Judas Iscariot hung himself for betraying Jesus, didn’t the Holy Apostles cast lots to determine whether Justus or Matthias should take his place?”

Father Bernard made a squeak of outrage.

“Or what about Jonah and the Whale, Father? It was by lots that the sailors knew to heave Jonah overboard and save themselves from God’s wrath.”

“Silence!” Father Bernard thundered, pointing a shaking finger at Richard. “I heard you swearing! Don’t you know that Hell will be populated by those who swear because of dicing?”

Richard dropped his gaze.

“That’s right!” Father Bernard said. “And look! I see gambling pins! You wager money on this Devil’s game.”

“We’re sorry, Father,” Alice said.

“And you, a lady,” Father Bernard said. “You know better.”

“Yes, Father,” Alice said. “I was only trying to take Richard’s mind off his pain.”

“Pray to God then,” Father Bernard said, at last lowering his voice.

“I will, Father,” Alice said.

He nodded curtly.

“I’m sorry too, Father,” Richard said.

“Good, that’s better,” said Father Bernard. He ran a hand over his long fleshy face and made a visible effort to soften his features. “I know you’re a good lad, Richard, but your swearing and especially your gambling must stop.”

Richard hung his head, having heard this from Father Bernard many times before.

Father Bernard finally threw up his hands in exasperation. “What am I to do with you? Young people! You’re playthings for the Devil. Here I come to cheer up Richard and I find him gambling.” He studied the repentant squire. “How do you feel, my son? I mean your injuries now.”

Richard raised his head, glanced once at Alice and then told Father Bernard, “I’m burning up, Father, and I can’t sleep.” He began a curse but bit his tongue. “I’ve slept too long and lain abed more than I ever have. I’m bored, Father, and that seems to double the pain.” He wiped his forehead. “What I really need is more wine.”

“No, what you need is something to do,” Father Bernard said. “Doesn’t Holy Scripture teach us that idle hands are the Devil’s workshop? I know you’re feverish, Richard, but if there was something that you could do…. Ah, maybe sharpening and polishing swords, or cleaning Baron Hugh’s suit of chainmail. You could do that while abed.”

Richard shook his head. “The baron’s hauberk is spotless, Father, as are the swords. Even the daggers are sharp enough to shave with.”

Father Bernard laid a gentle hand on Richard’s arm. “Yes, you’re a good squire. I’ve never known you to be lazy or to skip your duties.”

Alice snapped her fingers. “I know. I’ll round up Henri. He can play a song for Richard, or show us tricks.”

Mild interest filled Richard face.

Father Bernard nodded. “Yes, a good idea, Alice. You find Henri while I pray for Richard’s rapid recovery and then listen to his confession.”

Alice arose, smoothed out her dress and hurried down the stairs. She was mortified to have been caught dicing and gambling. She knew Father Bernard seldom gossiped and hoped he’d keep this to himself. She was in enough trouble as it was. If Lady Eleanor or Lady Martha heard about this they’d spend the next several days giving her homilies about the evils of gambling and how a lady was to be pure and of good character. She could endure that, but then she couldn’t use that time to plan and execute her escape.

The good thing about Father Bernard catching them was that maybe Richard would forget about the money he’d lost to her.

Henri, where was he? The minstrel had tried to woo her when he’d first arrived, but then he’d tried to woo every woman in the castle. She was certain there had been nothing truly romantic in his wooing.

There was something odd about Henri, something haunting. He both attracted and repelled her. What made her shy away from him was the way he looked at her. It wasn’t lust. She could endure that. It was the way his eyes seemed to mock her, to look into her soul and see how ugly it was.

She spotted him. He stood by the stable, juggling rag balls for a group of children. Some of the biggest boys were almost as tall as Henri. The minstrel was small, but he moved in such a graceful and liquid way. At times Alice couldn’t take her eyes off him. His dark good looks with his thin mustache and quirky smile, ah, so different from the blond warriors of Pellinore.

She approached him from behind. He spoke to the children, telling a joke, and then he seemed to stagger and almost trip and fall. One of the girls squealed with delight as Henri staggered past her, barely juggling the balls. It seemed that at any moment he’d either lose the balls or fall onto his face. As he did all this he told the joke even faster than before, as if believing that as soon as he fell they’d all leave. One of the boys stuck out his foot as Henri passed. The small minstrel neatly jumped it. Alice marveled at his balance, and at his game. The children were entranced. Henri finally righted himself, finished the joke and juggled each rag ball into his coat. The children clapped with delight. Alice joined them, impressed anew with the small minstrel.

Henri turned at the sound of her claps, and for a moment, it seemed he blushed. He bowed at the waist and swept off his peaked cap with its long ostrich feather. When he straightened, any blush that he’d had was gone from his darkly tanned skin.

“Milady, how can I be of service?” he asked.

The children groaned in disappointment, knowing no doubt that the entertainment was over.

Alice was sorry to interrupt their show, but she needed Henri. “I have a request,” she told him.

Henri’s face lit up as he slid closer.

Alice noticed his lilac odor, wondering what he dabbed on himself to smell so good.

Maybe Henri can help me escape, she thought, not sure why she felt this, but certain about him just the same.

“Yes, a request,” she said, taking hold of his smooth hands. “I need your help.”

Chapter Fifteen

Henri wrinkled his nose. The bedridden squire stank. The baronial bed with its feather mattress, bearskin blanket, embroidered pillows and blue-hanging curtains stank. The rancid odor of sweat clung to everything.

He shrugged philosophically.

“Please, Henri,” Alice said. “Tell us one of your best stories.”

They had taken his shrug the wrong way. He smiled, and allowed himself to nod. Lady Alice clapped her hands and beamed at Richard. Richard didn’t smile back, the pain on his round face telling the reason why.

Henri couldn’t believe he sat here on the bed with the two of them. Alice curled her legs underneath herself and she had spread her dress in a circle. She sat straight, her long blonde hair fanning back over her shoulders. He longed to crush her lips against his, to rip off her bodice and fondle her luscious breasts. She’d be a sweet morsel. He tore his gaze from her long white neck. Like a vampire, he’d first concentrate there, although kissing instead of biting her neck.

Richard crushed cushions with his burly bulk, propped up against the headboard as he was. He breathed heavily and forever mopped his sweaty forehead with a damp cloth. With his splinted legs stretched out in front of him, he looked uncomfortable.

“Tell us an adventurous story,” Richard said.

“I know,” Henri said, feeling reckless and a bit sorry for these two. He knew about the seneschal’s orders concerning Alice. The whole castle knew. “I’ll tell you about the time I saw a unicorn.”

Alice made a face. “There are no such beasts as unicorns.”

“Yes there are,” Richard said.

“Have you ever seen one?” Alice asked.

“I have,” Henri said.

Alice laughed. “You, a minstrel, have actually seen a unicorn? I find that difficult to believe.”

“Your doubt is a challenge,” Henri said. “I accept the challenge.”

Alice shook her head. “Your task is impossible, sir. Unicorns are myths written about by artful liars.”

“Really?” Henri asked. “Then wait here until I return with my proof.” He rose, and despite their protests, he hurried down the stairs. He hurried to his bundle of belongings in the rear of the Great Hall. His dog guarded it, as one of Cord’s dogs protected his bundle. From his belongings, he took a long narrow package.

Why am I doing this? He asked himself as he tucked the package under his arm.

He wasn’t sure why. Maybe after all these years, he wanted somebody else to know why he thought life was a myth, an illusion. Maybe also because he sensed deep needs in them.

It wasn’t long before he sat again on the big bed. They eyed his long and narrow box. Richard even sat forward, his glassy eyes intent.

“What do you hold?” Alice asked.

“Proof,” Henri said.

“Of unicorns?” Alice asked doubtfully.

For an answer, Henri carefully opened the lid. Lying on a velvet cloth was a spiral ivory horn. He handed the box to a transformed Alice.

With her mouth open and her hands trembling, she accepted the polished cedar box and peered at the three-foot horn. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, daring to touch it with her fingertip. “Ivory?” she asked.

“Of course,” Henri said.

Alice handed the box to Richard. The squire couldn’t take his eyes off the horn. “How did the unicorn die?” Richard asked softly, sadly.

“Ah,” Henri said. “Now there lies the tale.” He surprised himself by saying that without the usual bitterness.

Both Alice and Richard looked up, obviously captured by his implications.

With a smile, Henri retrieved his horn, the very thing of myths, of illusions. He didn’t want to be cruel, but their awe showed him that they needed a bucketful of saltwater reality.

“It began in Cologne,” he said.

“The city in the Holy Roman Empire?” Alice asked.

“Yes, in that very German of cities which is on the mighty Rhine River,” Henri said. “Cologne, as you may or may not know, is one of the largest seaports in the world. There, I found seamen who had seen a unicorn. My love, my red-haired lady, had given me a quest. She wanted me to prove my love. She was a baroness and I a lowly squire. Yes, once I was a squire, intended to be a knight, small though I am. My lady taught me much about love, for she was trapped in a world not of her making and I, or so she said, was a release, a joy, a fragrant flower that always brought a smile to her lips. I begged her to flee with me, to steal away to a place where my sword-arm would carve us a kingdom. She told me to return with a unicorn horn first, as a sign that our love was meant to be.”

“These are true words,” Alice whispered, touching his arm.

Henri nodded.

“Are you certain that you wish to share such sorrow with us?” Alice asked.

“I said nothing about sorrow.”

“Your voice betrays you,” Alice said. “And the way you clutch the box as you speak of her tells me about much suffering.”

“Why do you tell us about her?” Richard asked bluntly.

Henri gave them his wry grin. “Is there any wonder here? Alice is trapped, as my lady once was trapped. And I, like you, Richard, was once a poor squire with little hopes of advancement. Maybe in seeing you two I recall what I once was. Maybe I’ve finally found similar souls as my own who can truly understand my tale.”

“You are a poet,” Alice said breathlessly.

“I was also a poet back then,” Henri said, winking. “For like the two of you I read many books on the romantic stories. So when my lady gave me this quest, I took it up with zeal, certain that soon she would be in my arms forever.

“Although I’d grown up in the hinterlands of Normandy, I knew all the old tales about my ancestors, about those grim warriors who came with Rollo to settle in Northern France. I also recalled the stories how the Vikings had sailed across the world, terrorizing everyone. Even when Rollo’s descendants had turned into Normans, the Viking urge couldn’t be stopped. For from Normandy didn’t the Normans conquer Sicily and even England and parts of the Holy Land? Yes, I’m sure you know all those stories too.”

Alice and Richard nodded. For part of the Norman-Viking heritage was knowledge of the wider world, at least to the edge of the Muslim world.

Henri said, “The Vikings of old sailed in their sleek dragon ships deep into far-off Russia where now the Mongols of Genghis Khan rule, a land of wide plains, impenetrable forests and huge rivers. The Vikings also sailed west, far west, to the Faeroe Islands, to Iceland and even to fabled Greenland.”

“The castle chessmen are said to be made from Greenland walrus tusks,” Alice said, interrupting.

Henri didn’t bother to glance at the board. “Do you know what walruses are?”

Alice shrugged.

“Are they like elephants?” Richard asked.

“You know what elephants are?” Henri asked Richard.

“I’ve seen picture of them in books about Alexander the Great,” Richard said. “Alexander defeated King Porus of India when he conquered the world.”

Alexander the Great was considered one of the great paladins of chivalry. While medieval men highly regarded him, they wrote about him as if he’d been a knight, fighting as a knight with stirrups and heavy armor. Much of their knowledge of Alexander was spotty at best.

“So what are elephants?” Henri asked.

“Huge beasts,” Richard said. “The Indians built castles on their backs where archers cowardly hid.”

“So walruses are what?” Henri asked.

“I’ve seen a walrus tusk once,” Alice said thoughtfully, “and I’ve seen an elephant tusk too. Walruses must be smaller than elephants.”

“Very good,” Henri said.

“Do the Greenlanders fight with walruses?” Richard asked.

Henri laughed. “Hardly that. Walruses swim in the water more than they slid across the barren rocks of Greenland.”

Richard blew out his cheeks in disbelief.

“No, don’t doubt me,” Henri said. “I’ve seen walruses, and even before that I spoke to the merchants of Cologne. Walruses are important to them. For you see, the tough skin of walruses make excellent anchor and sail ropes, highly prized by the Cologne merchants because of their market value. And the walrus tusks are ivory, as you already know.”

“It isn’t as good as elephant ivory,” Richard said.

“True, and I heard Greenlanders worrying about the same thing,” Henri said.

“Why were they worried?” Alice asked.

“Because there are very few goods in Greenland that the merchants of Cologne are willing to carry in their great Koggens,” Henri said.

“Their what?” Alice asked.

“That’s the first thing I found out in Cologne,” Henri said. “I thought I’d have to make the journey in one of the old style dragon ships, not knowing that better and bigger ships were used these days. The Koggen is a hundred-ton ship, a huge trading vessel, like a castle that floats. No oars were used, just huge sails that propelled us ever farther north. The days soon grew colder and then longer because the sun took so long to sink into the horizon. The captain, a thin but shrewd German merchant with gray whiskers, told me that in winter it stayed night the entire day through, making up for the long hours of sunlight in summer.”

“Strange,” Richard muttered.

“As we left England behind us and sailed over the open ocean, I began to wonder how the captain knew where to steer,” Henri said. “The captain pointed out a red-faced man who usually stood near the brow, a woolen cloak thrown over his shoulders. He was a Norwegian pilot, a renegade who worked for the merchants of Cologne. The captain told me that by the position of the stars at night, by the various types of birds that flew in the sky, by the fish which the men caught or saw swimming beside the ship, by the currents which like rivers flowed in the ocean, by the driftwood, by the weeds floating in the sea, even by the very color of the water the pilot knew where in the vast ocean we were. For the pilot had been to Greenland before, and had talked with sailors who’d made the run many times. He knew the old legends, the old sea tales and all the needed signs that are handed down from father to son. Even clouds instructed this wizard of a pilot. Yes, I name him a wizard, for how can a man know all these things about nature except that he studied the ancient and forbidden lore of the Vikings. The captain whispered to me as we sipped brandy (for he liked my songs) that iceblink could also tell the pilot where we were.”

“What’s iceblink?” Alice asked.

“The captain said it was a yellowish glare in the sky which shines above an ice field.”

“An ice field?” Richard asked.

“Yes,” Henri said. “In the far North lies a land entirely covered by ice. The light above such land is different than that found above normal land.”

“The far North sounds like a terrible place,” Alice said.

“And yet that is where unicorns live,” Henri said.

Alice laughed uneasily, no longer sounding so sure that unicorns were a myth.

“After a long voyage,” Henri said, “where we passed mountains of ice that floated in the sea—”

Richard snorted rudely. “I have a fever, Henri, but my wits aren’t addled. Who ever heard of ice-mountains that float in the sea?”

“Doesn’t ice float?” Henri asked.

Richard shrugged.

“Of course it does,” Henri said. “Why then can’t a mountain of ice float in salt water?”

“What do you think?” Richard asked Alice.

“You swear before God that this is true?” Alice asked Henri.

“I so swear,” Henri said. “These mountains fall off the vast ice sheets that grow on this barren land. The sound of their falling into the sea, which I heard once, is a terrible thing. The sight of it fills one with fear. And the wave created by this falling mountain is almost enough to swamp small boats.”

“Maybe there really are such things as ice-mountains,” Alice said to Richard.

Richard shook his head in wonder.

“In any case,” Henri said, “we soon came to the east coast of Greenland. Never have I seen a more desolate and barren land. Green had nothing to do with it.”

“So why was it named that?” Alice asked.

“Because long ago its first settler, Eric the Red—”

“A Viking?” asked Alice.

“Yes,” said Henri, surprisingly tolerant of all the interruptions. “Eric the Red had been an outlaw Viking from Iceland. He first discovered Greenland and named it so. The reason, I learned, was so others would be encouraged to come back with him to settle it.”

“I want to hear about the unicorn,” Richard said impatiently.

Henri smiled. “I discovered it during their terrible hunt. Oh, it was a grim and merciless hunt, one that made the slaying of Old Sloat a small thing—even though that was a terrible feat in its own right.”

“What sort of hunt could be more terrible than slaying Old Sloat?” Richard asked.

“Why, the annual hunting of walruses,” Henri said. “But before I speak on that, I should tell you a little about Greenland and its people. The captain told me, as we spent grim days and nights dodging the floating ice-mountains, that in the old days the ice-mountains didn’t float down as far south. He told me that year by year Greenland grew colder. In the days of Eric the Red, Greenland had not been quite as formidable. The fjords didn’t freeze up as soon , nor in winter did the ice come down so far into the grassy fields near the sea. If you can believe this, the seawater began to freeze in late August, while by October the fjords were utterly icebound.”

“Water froze while it was still summer?” Alice said. “How terrible.”

“I agree,” Henri said. “And I suppose so do most other people, for there are only two settlements in Greenland: The East Settlement and the West Settlement. They are hidden deep within tall-walled fjords, sheltered from the arctic winds. There sod-stone houses are built and low sod-stone barns. The growing season is short, but hay and wheat can be grown that feeds the cattle through the lean and bitter winters. Sometimes, when spring returns, the animals have to be carried out to the fields because they’ve become too weak to walk alone.”

“They’re kept in the barns all winter long?” Richard asked.

Henri nodded. “Even so, Greenland has an abundance of wild animals. There are polar bears that provide luxuriant white fur, small silver foxes and reindeer. The sea around Greenland teems with fish of all kinds, along with seals and walruses. There are also, especially in spring and summer, hordes of birds. The Greenlanders feast on eggs during certain times of the year. The most prized bird, however, is the Greenland falcon.”

“Yes!” Alice said, snapping her fingers. “I’ve read Emperor Frederick’s book.”

“On the Art of Falconry?” asked Henri.

“The same,” Alice said. “The Greenland falcon is considered the best hunter in the world. Huge sums are paid for them. They are rare and hard to acquire.”

“Greenland provides its people with these things, but it lacks wood or salt or metal,” Henri said. “The Cologne Koggen was therefore filled with these things, and with grain. The German captain traded briskly and well. However, he wanted more walrus tusks. A ton had been given to the bishop who’d traveled to Greenland with us. It was the Greenlander’s tithe to Rome. Little ivory was left for the captain.

“The Greenlanders who I’d become friends with asked me if I wished to go with them to Nordrsetur. I learned that this was even farther north, where in midsummer the sun hardly ever set. There, I was told, in a great bay were low stone fields upon which the walruses thronged as they raised their young. I agreed, because I’d also been told that ‘unicorns’ might be seen. The men laughed as they said that, but at the time I didn’t understand why.”

“Unicorns thrived in that land of ice and stone?” Richard asked.

“We left in small boats,” Henri said, “ten men to a vessel. The big Greenlanders rowed for several long days, and it was then that I saw and heard an ice-mountain fall into the sea. Our boat was rocked by the wave and freezing saltwater sloshed around our feet. The men continuously grumbled about the colder than normal weather, while the oldest said that in their youth it had been warmer in Greenland. Then at last, we came to Nordrsetur. I’ll never forget the sight.

“There were vast herds of bellowing walruses. They are mighty, brown beasts which are bigger than the biggest pigs and grow tusks out of their whiskered faces. They slide and hump across the stony land because they have no feet.”

“What?” Richard asked in outrage. “That’s preposterous!”

“No,” Henri said. “They have flippers instead of feet, and when in the water they move quickly and with grace. On land, however they lumber and jiggle their vast blubbery bulks like behemoths. Such was their number, strength and viciousness that it was impossible to hunt them on land. No, the hardy Greenlanders harpooned them at sea. These walruses weren’t docile, but fought back. It was a dangerous sport. One boat was sunk, and three men drowned before they could be rescued. We had to rub the survivors because the cold water almost chilled them to death. I marveled at these Greenlanders, that they dared to face the walruses. No knight ever faced a more dangerous foe. To live in that bleak land took courage. It was fit place for the descendants of Vikings.

“Then,” Henri said, his voice becoming softer, “then I saw the unicorn.”

“Among the walruses?” Alice asked.

“In a way, yes,” Henri said, his voice taking a far-off quality. “For you see, the unicorns are whales. Not giant whales, but sleek, black and white-mottled beasts which travel in packs.”

“What?” Richard asked in renewed outrage.

“I tell you the truth,” Henri said. “On the forehead of these whales grows the single spiral unicorn horn that you see before you. The Greenlanders told me that these whales used the horns to break through the ice in winter so they can breathe. And the males used the horns to duel against each other for the females during the mating season.”

“Unicorns are small whales?” Alice asked in disbelief.

Henri lifted his box. “All of Europe has evidence of unicorns. These horns, I mean. The merchants of Cologne and the Greenlanders themselves sell them because of the great price people are willing to pay. The source, however, is not a beautiful horse-like animal, but small whales that are beautiful in their own right.

“The Greenlanders, I’m sad to say, rowed after these whales and harpooned two of them. Then they hauled the poor beasts onto land, butchered them and tore off the great spiral horns. I was appalled. But I bought a horn nevertheless, for such I had promised my fair lady back in Normandy. For such had I gone on my quest.”

“What did your lady say upon seeing the horn?” Alice asked.

Henri couldn’t keep the hurt off his face. He said softly, “She had married another in my absence. Both her lord and she laughed at my foolishness. They mocked me, and then the lord had his servants whip me from his sight.”

“Oh, Henri,” Alice said. “How awful.”

“No,” Henri said, shaking his head. “I learned in the far North that unicorns were myths, illusions if you will. In Normandy, I learned that ‘true love’ was also a myth, an illusion by which we fool ourselves. From that time, I became wise. From that time, I no longer strove to become a knight, but a minstrel instead.”

“Why a minstrel rather than a knight?” asked Richard.

Henri gave a wry smile for an answer. The reason was simple, although he wasn’t going to tell these two. A knight was supposed to fight for justice, or so the stories said. A knight was supposed to protect ladies and help the poor. Where in all of Christendom did this take place? Henri didn’t know, and he didn’t care to take part in yet another illusion. Rather, he mocked himself as he mocked others with his tales. It seemed more honest than pretending to be something that he wasn’t.

Alice took the box and laid it on her lap, studying the ‘unicorn’ horn.

Richard began to pepper the minstrel with questions about the walrus hunt. He wanted all the grisly details. Henri obliged, giving a blow-by-blow account. Richard listened intently, absorbed with the exotic hunting tale.

Henri left nothing out, and he watched as Richard’s eyes finally became heavy. Maybe a half-hour later the big squire began to snore. Alice motioned to him, and the two of them arose and stepped way from the big bed.

“He needs to sleep,” she whispered, pulling the cord and letting the blue curtains fall into place.

“I’d better leave,” Henri said.

“Wait,” Alice said, gently taking hold of his arm and pulling him farther away from the big bed. “I-I have a request.”

Henri raised his eyebrows, hearing the hidden plea in her voice. He wondered if he should try to take her in his arms now. His tale had almost left him too sad to try. His thoughts still lingered on his lost love, on the red-haired beauty that was forever beyond him.

Alice surprised him by saying, “You said before that your lady was trapped. And you also said that I reminded you of her.”

“In your situations, yes, although the two of look very different.”

“Would you have helped her escape her trap?” asked Alice.

“But of course.”

“Then help me escape mine.”

Henri was instantly alert, knowing the price of failure for such a deed. “My lady,” he asked, “why come to me, a mere minstrel?”

“You know why, Henri. No one else will help me escape.”

He’d be a fool to get involved with castle intrigues. He tried deflection. “Wouldn’t Cord the dog boy help you escape?”

“Why do you mention him?” Alice asked suspiciously. “Does he talk about me?”

“It merely seems reasonable to me that he also would want to flee Pellinore Castle. And with your guile….” Henri grinned at the sudden stiffening of her face. “Please, milady. Let us not play useless games. You are wily, this I’ve seen for myself. Maybe you are trapped, but you’ve not let that frighten you. You’ve fought back with the tools at hand. Your greatest tool, other than your beauty, is your ample supply of wits.”

“These are the words that will sweep me off my feet?” she asked scornfully.

“Milady?”

“You accuse me of guile, minstrel. I accuse you of lust. The thought of me being naked inflames you.”

“You speak frankly. I admire that.”

“No, you merely grow more lustful because I speak the way I do. That’s what makes you grin like a self-satisfied cat.”

He stepped closer. “Are you saying that if I give you this help that you will give yourself to me?”

“This I most certainly am not saying, my dear Henri. Whatever happened to your lady to change her I do not want to happen to me.”

“Milady?”

“I will not use men by claiming to love them and then toss them aside like castoff garments.”

“Why disallow yourself one of womankind’s greatest tools?” he asked.

“No! I will not!”

“Very well….” Henri said slowly, disappointed, but admiring her for her noble stand, and for the difficulty of acquiring her. He realized that he would help her. And the wily smile on her face told him that she knew that too.

“Here’s my plan,” she said. “Tell me what you think.”

Chapter Sixteen

The warm wind ruffled Alice’s golden hair. She’d tied it with a thong so it lay in a single braid down her back. Instead of her flowing white dress, she now wore green-colored hunting clothes, long leather wraps around her calves and supple deerskin boots. The warm wind, which snapped the Pellinore banner above her, smelled of freshly mown hay. Far below tiny peasants swung sickles. Two teams of cart and oxen stood near the peasants. Women tied the hay into bundles, while the strongest peasants pitch-forked the hay onto the carts. They mowed the hillside grass as part of their obligation to Baron Hugh, or now to his son Guy.

Alice stood on the castle’s highest battlement, beside the flagpole, peering intently at Pellinore Village. The tiny peasants, clad in their earth-colored clothes and swinging their shiny sickles, lived in that village. Alice watched Pellinore Village for signs of Lady Eleanor and Lady Martha’s return. Her carefully worked plan rested upon them.

The warm wind shifted. The Pellinore banner with its arrogant motto cracked above. Alice felt movement on her arm. She wore a leather gauntlet. Upon the thick deerskin glove perched her falcon, Jael, a merciless bird.

She’d named the falcon after a biblical heroine, one she’d learned about from her father’s old priest at Gareth Castle. Long ago, the ancient Israelites had been ruled over by a bloodthirsty Canaanite king. The king’s general, a mighty warrior and a dreadfully fierce knight (or so Alice had been taught) had awed the Israelites for twenty years with his nine hundred iron chariots and by his terrible valor. At last, God had heard the pleas of the Israelites and sent them a prophetess. The prophetess went to Barak, the greatest Israeli knight, and told him how to defeat the dreadful Canaanite knight. Barak listened, but he was afraid and demanded that the prophetess go with him on this quest. She told him that because of his cowardice the honor of killing the dreadful knight would fall to a woman. According to the old priest, God helped Barak smash the nine hundred iron chariots and slay the enemy warriors. But the mighty enemy general, the dreadful knight who for twenty years had lorded it over Israel, escaped on foot into the desert. He came to a tent where Jael lived. This mighty warrior crawled into the tent, begged for food and water and then told Jael, whose husband was the Canaanite king’s ally, to stand by the entrance and warn him if his enemies approached. Then he fell into an exhausted sleep. Jael, who was an Israelite and remembered her childhood oaths, prayed to God for courage. Taking up simple domestic tools, she crept up to the terrible knight and with a hammer, she drove a tent peg through his brain. Thus, she defeated him who no man ever had or ever would.

Likewise, Jael the falcon struck mercilessly and with brutal precision. In the Eastern style, Jael wore a small leather hood. Gold thread had been wound into the hood and precious pearls sewn on. The hood, which blinded Jael, helped keep her docile. Yellow silk jesses kept Jael tied to the gauntlet lest she suddenly try to fly away. Two tiny silver bells, inscribed with Alice’s name, were affixed to the sturdy legs. Thus when Jael flew one could hear the tinkling and spot her more easily. Also, if Jael should fly away or become lost, searchers could find her more easily if they heard the tinkling. And God help the peasant who found the bird but didn’t return it. The bailiff would enforce the strict laws, which called for a heavy fine or the allowing of the hawk to eat six ounces of muscle out of the offender’s chest.

Like most medieval nobility, the gentlefolk of Pellinore Fief took their hawking seriously.

The warm wind shifted again, gently buffeting Alice’s face. She looked down from Pellinore Castle’s highest battlement. The hay smell was strong. She smiled, and with her index finger, she stroked Jael. She loved her falcon, not least because she’d risked so much to gain her. Normally, she took Jael everywhere with her.

Father Bernard had said that she shouldn’t take Jael to mass, but Sir Philip had on occasion taken his various hawks, as Sir Walter and Lady Martha had taken theirs.

Alice squinted. She saw horses, and the brilliant finery meant that Lady Eleanor rode back to the castle.

Moving quickly, Alice headed for the spiral stairs. She hoped Cord would keep his agreement. She still couldn’t believe what Cord had said when she and Henri had gone to ask for his help. Just thinking about it angered her anew…

***

“There he is,” Alice said, pointing out Cord as he stepped into the low-built kennel.

“Let’s follow,” Henri said.

Alice hung back, suddenly uncertain how to ask for the dog boy’s help. Did she even want to ask his help? What if he refused?

“Let’s go,” Henri urged. “The kennel is the perfect place for us to speak to him in secret.”

“I don’t know,” Alice said.

Henri gave her a shrewd glance.

That angered her. “Come on,” she said, marching to the kennel.

They found Cord tossing bloody chunks of meat to the barking brutes. The dog boy had to bend his neck in order to stand in the kennel. He looked surprised to see them, although when his eyes meet Alice’s he grinned.

She smiled back, certain now that he would help. Standing in these tight quarters, she was more aware then ever of his size. And his shoulders were so broad, especially when compared to Henri’s. And his eyes were so frank and honest, his face—

Stop it!

“Cord, we need your help,” Henri said.

Cord nodded and waited.

“We must ask that whether you agree with what we plan or not that you’ll keep silent about it,” Henri said.

“I’ll betray no one,” Cord said, staring into Alice’s eyes.

“You must swear it,” Henri said.

Cord grinned, lifting one of his big hands. On it shone a golden ring with a lion signet. “I swear by my father’s knightly ring that I will betray no one within the kennel.”

Alice stared at the ring in surprise. It fitted the dog boy’s finger perfectly. She met his blue eyes again. He seemed different, bigger, nobler if that were possible, surer of himself. Her heart beat faster, the thought of them fleeing to Castle Gareth together more alluring than ever.

“Alice plans to escape,” Henri said.

“Ah,” said Cord.

“We need your help,” Henri said again.

Cord stared intently at Alice. “You freely have my help, milady. For didn’t you help me when Philip planned to attack me?”

Alice nodded. She was unaware of the broad smile on her face.

Henri outlined the plan, Cord silently taking it in. The dog boy didn’t seem worried about his part in the deception. Alice began to wonder if she’d still need Henri along. All alone in the wilds with the tall dog boy….

Then Cord was saying, “No, I can’t leave Pellinore.”

Alice blinked in confusion.

“Lady Alice needs protection,” Henri said.

Cord smiled uncertainly and nodded to Alice, although now he wouldn’t meet her gaze. “I would freely help you, milady. And it saddens me to refuse this part of your request. You must understand, however, that if I run away then Philip will think that I’m a coward.” He stood a bit taller, although within the low kennel the effect only made him dip his head more. “I do not fear the Seneschal. I will not run away from him.” He seemed to deflate some. “Of course I will help you all that I can, milady, to escape from the others.”

“You fool!” Henri hissed. “What good is it if she escapes this castle but is then captured by scoundrels?”

“No!” Alice heard herself say. “I need no dog boy to escort me home.” She bitterly regretted the scorn in her voice because of the hurt that filled Cord’s eyes. But she also delighted in the hurt, too. How could he have refused to escape alone with her to Gareth?

“Milady….” Cord said, groping for words.

“Thank you for what help you will give,” she said coldly. “I so appreciate it.” Then she turned and stalked for the door.

“Listen, Cord,” Henri began.

“Minstrel, come along!” Alice commanded.

A moment later, she and Henri left the kennel. He tried to explain Cord’s reasoning. She shook her head and told him that she wasn’t interested in cowardly dog boy excuses, even though she knew that it was brave of Cord to stay to face the much more powerfully placed Philip. Sir Philip would soon see Cord dead.

“I don’t care,” Alice whispered.

“What?” Henri asked.

Alice shook her head, bitterly disappointed in the dog boy.

***

Jael cried out and clutched her wrist, digging sharp talons into the leather gauntlet. Alice slowed and straightened her wrist, then made soft soothing sounds. The moody falcon settled down. Alice descended the stairs at a more leisurely rate after that, soon enough entering the Great Hall.

The servant girls had long ago finished sweeping up the old smelly rushes. They now sat on benches in a corner and sewed garments, waiting for the young boys sent out to the river to return with fresh rushes. The old man with the oily rag stood on a creaky ladder, dusting the antlers of a mighty stag. Henri sat near the fireplace, humming softly as he made a new rag ball.

Alice marched up to him, setting Jael onto a perch left expressly in the Great Hall for that purpose.

“I wish to hear a tale,” she told Henri.

“What sort of tale?” he asked.

“A hawking tale,” Alice said. “I’m bored to tears and yet cannot leave the castle in order to enjoy myself. Your tale must suffice.”

Henri shrugged, putting away the half-made rag ball. “Very well, milady, a hawking tale it will be.”

He launched into his tale. Alice tried to listen, but she was too nervous. So many things could go wrong. Lady Eleanor might not stable her horse right away, but decide to go elsewhere. Or what if Eleanor and Martha listened to Henri’s tale, but that Cord didn’t show up at the proper moment? Even worse, what if all their plans went perfectly, but Eleanor refused the simple request of letting her ride along?

Alice shook her head, pushing her worries aside. She smiled at Henri and forced herself to listen to his tale. He told an interesting story about a giant eagle used to hunt wolves.

The young boys soon returned with bundles of fresh rushes. Together they and the girls spread them out on the Great Hall’s floor. Soon a game of tag ensued. A word from the old man on the ladder put a stop to that. Alice had put him in charge of them.

Where are they? Alice asked herself. She sighed heavily.

Henri winked.

That made her smile. She continued to listen. And then Lady Eleanor and Lady Martha walked in. They were in the middle of a conversation. At the same moment, Sir Walter and the bailiff walked in, both men clinking in their suits of chainmail. Alice’s heart sank. Her plan envisioned just the ladies, not the knights.

“Would you hear more, milady?” Henri asked.

“Yes, yes, continue,” Alice said.

Henri did, raising his voice as he leaped into an exciting scene.

Out of the corner of her eye, Alice saw Sir Walter turn and peer at them. Jael took that moment to screech and shift on her perch. The conversation between the ladies and knights halted. Henri didn’t. He swung his arms wide and bent low on his legs, imitating the giant eagle that swooped down on the story wolf. Alice laughed and clapped her hands.

“Splendid! Splendid!” she cried.

“Ho!” Sir Walter shouted, striding toward them. “What tale is this you tell?”

“Milord,” Henri said with a bow, “I’m relating to the Lady Alice a story of the giant eagle.”

“Why is Jael on the perch?” Sir Walter asked Alice.

“I grow bored, milord,” Alice said. “So much so, I’m afraid, that I changed into my hunting clothes to pretend and climbed the highest turret. Alas, my daydreams lacked color. So I searched out the minstrel that he tells me a good hawking story.”

Lady Eleanor, Lady Martha and the bailiff wandered near.

“Is it a good story?” Sir Walter asked, who loved hawking.

“Why not hear for yourself?” Alice suggested, crossing her fingers as she hid her hands behind her back.

Sir Walter pursed his lips as he tugged off his riding gloves. He slapped them against his leg. Dust flew off.

“It was tiring work today,” the bailiff said.

Sir Walter nodded, and it seemed that he was about to expand on the bailiff’s comment.

Lady Martha piped in, however, saying, “Let’s listen to Henri’s tale.”

Lady Eleanor nodded, sitting down beside Alice. Eleanor looked weary; the lines in her face twice the number since Baron Hugh’s death. She also looked desperate, no doubt afraid to find idle time and thus think about her dearly departed husband.

“Why not?” the bailiff said, also sitting down.

Alice had to force herself not to sigh with relief. In fact, it was very hard just to keep quiet and not launch into praise of Henri’s tale. Henri had told her that in these sorts of gambits one needed to say less rather than more.

“Speak on, minstrel!” Sir Walter boomed.

Henri complied, launching into a zestful tale calculated to entice them to want to hawk.

Alice waited, trying to judge their faces. This might be her last chance to escape before Sir Philip and Guy returned. Too many days had passed, that’s what her heart said. It was an ill omen. Guy would do her no favors, she knew, neither would Philip. She remembered the bald knight’s oath in the forest, with Old Sloat hardly dead. If she could return to Gareth Castle, with Guy the Seneschal gone, then she was certain she could rally her knights. Oh, things would be different then. As the ancient law said: Possession was nine tenths of ownership.

“Milord! Milord!” cried Cord. He came bursting into the Great Hall, several big dogs barking beside him. Cord only needed a moment, and then he rushed toward them. “Herons!” he shouted. “I’ve spotted a flock of herons!”

Herons were one of the fastest prey. Falcons were generally used to fly against them. Since falcons were the most loved, having herons for prey was a prized event.

Lady Martha clapped her hands. “Quickly, let’s gather our birds and hunt them down.”

Eleanor stirred.

“What say you, milady?” Martha said, clamping her hands onto Eleanor’s right arm.

“Yes, why not?” Eleanor said. “Let us hawk.”

“A splendid idea,” Sir Walter said, rising. He clapped Cord on the shoulder. “Get some of your water hounds, dog boy, and meet us at the drawbridge.”

“At once, milord!” Cord said, hurrying out without a glance in Alice’s direction.

“What about me, milord?” Alice asked. At first, she and Henri had wondered if she should just saddle up in this happy event. In the end, they had agreed that she should ask.

“The Seneschal ordered you to stay in the castle,” the bailiff said.

“I know,” Alice said heatedly. “And now I’m bored to tears with nothing to do. Look, I’ll be in your company. What could possibly happen that Philip wouldn’t approve off?”

The bailiff glanced at Sir Walter.

“They’re overdue,” Alice said. “Am I to be a prisoner the rest of my life?”

“Oh let her hawk with us,” Lady Eleanor said. “I’m tired of seeing her mope about the castle.”

Alice’s heart leapt with joy. She could have hugged old Lady Eleanor.

“The Seneschal gave us precise orders,” the bailiff said, if seemingly reluctantly.

“He’s overdue,” Eleanor said.

“Yes, but—”

“No! I am the Baroness!” Eleanor said. She smiled at Alice. “Look at her, all eager to hawk, and Jael ready and eager to catch the herons. She can ride near me. I’ll watch her.”

“Very well, milady,” the bailiff said.

Alice couldn’t believe it. She was actually going to be given the chance to escape. She felt badly for Lady Eleanor’s sake. Yet by what right had they kept her prisoner here these last few years?

Alice coaxed Jael onto her gauntlet. Then she strode to the stable to have her swiftest stallion saddled. Her heart pounded heavily and her mouth was dry. Her chance had come.

Chapter Seventeen

Cord the dog boy ran ahead of the others, leading them down the fief’s major road. It was a narrow, dusty lane with potholes everywhere that led them west through the trees. Still, despite its switchback route, the road took them toward the fief’s single bridge. Alice had instructed Cord to take them there. At least he would do that.

Alice rode in the rear of the lively throng, astride her swiftest stallion, Arthur. He was black with a white rump and had the habit of tossing his proud head and nickering whenever she pulled the reins too tightly. Hence his name, for he acted like a king. He wanted to be at the head of the throng, cantering beside Sir Walter’s big stallion. Both the stallions were palfreys; both, however, seemed to think of themselves as something special.

Sir Walter and the bailiff had changed out of their armor and into hawking clothes: bright finery with fur-lined capes. The women likewise wore finery, with tall cone hats that had scented scarves dangling from the pointy tops. The scarves twisted in the breeze, while the ladies held up their wrists with their favorite falcons upon them.

A knot of servants followed, usually having to trot in order to keep up with the mounted gentry. Some of the servants carried bags, others hawking lures and dummies and others still a few extra birds in case different prey should be spotted. The Chief Falconer, although a peasant, rode an old packhorse in order to keep up with the gentry. He was a wizened dwarf of a man, an inch less than five feet. He had grizzled stubble for hair and a patch over his right eye, long ago lost to an angry goshawk. His father before him had been Pellinore Fief’s chief falconer, as had his grandfather, who had won the post by taming a monstrous sea eagle used later to hunt wolves. The one-eyed Chief Falconer kept up a running commentary to Lady Martha. The plump noblewoman drank in his wisdom. She’d been known to slip him a penny here and there when her birds preformed some extra-special feat. He’d responded enthusiastically and had taken a shine to Lady Martha.

Bringing up the rear of the throng were two mounted and well-armed sergeants. The bailiff had added them, saying that one couldn’t be too careful now that Earl Simon had gained control of the Severn. Because of his wonderful tale, Henri rode a mount. Lady Martha had said that maybe if the minstrel saw their hunt, that he’d make a story out of it. Alice had considered that a godsend, and a good omen for her escape.

What worried Alice was that the first objective had been achieved almost been too easily. She rode Arthur and was now outside the castle. In her saddlebags was salted beef, while two water-skins were wound around her cantle. She wore a long dagger at her belt, had one hidden in her tall boots. While she didn’t have a bedroll, her unstrung bow was secured to the saddle and several strings of catgut were in her pouches. A quiver with twenty barbed arrows slapped against Arthur’s side. Her weapon wasn’t the long Welsh bow so loved by the Southern Welsh, but a small hunting bow. Maybe she should have taken a crossbow. Lady Eleanor had one and she surely would have lent it to her. The crossbow was a deadly weapon that at close range could pierce chainmail, but was heavy and unwieldy. The small bow would be more useful against outlaws and the like, the more probable threat.

Besides, there was no sense in berating herself for not having a crossbow. She had to concentrate on the second goal: That of crossing the toll bridge. Unfortunately, that was up to Cord. He had to convince the others that the herons had moved on from where he’d first supposedly seen them.

Crossing the toll bridge was all-important.

The Western Marches were a mix of small valleys divided by hills and mountains. The merchant routes through the valleys usually followed major rivers. To reach Gareth Castle one could follow the Wye River, which the Iodo River eventually drained into. There was a secondary route, one used by many merchants and pilgrims when they made their yearly journey to Canterbury. This route used Pellinore’s toll bridge. From there one followed a dusty track that led through a pass, over some rounded hills and then down into the Wye Valley.

The toll bridge, which Bridge Village had been built around, was one of the sturdiest bridges in Wales. Usually bridges were rickety affairs of wood, only haphazardly kept up. Pellinore’s toll bridge had a legendary past. It had been built of stones and was a squat arch bridge that spanned the raging and fast flowing Iodo River. The old legend said that the ancient Romans from the dim and misty past had built this bridge. In fact, it had been an important bridge then, for the famed legions that had swept through ancient Wales had used paved roads and stone bridges to out-march the unruly pagans of that time. Apparently, in that time this area had contained a particularly warlike tribe, hence the need for a good stone bridge that would be difficult to destroy.

The toll bridge had been another of Baron Hugh’s sources of income. For a passing traveler, for one on foot, the toll was one groat. For anyone mounted, driving a cart or for a Jew afoot or riding, the toll was more. Pellinore folk could freely use the bridge, although the bridge guards had to first wave them on.

“Dog boy!” the bailiff shouted.

Cord slowed and glanced back.

“Are you truly telling us that you raced uphill all this way to tell us about herons?” the bailiff asked.

“I saw herons!” Cord shouted.

“Yes, but all the way down here?” the bailiff asked.

Alice held her breath. Henri, who rode near, seemed to sit stiffly in the saddle.

The wizened dwarf of a Chief Falconer gave a hearty shout. “Milords! Ladies! Look!”

Three herons flew swiftly over the Bridge Village. Alice and Henri glanced at each other in amazement. Too much good luck too early meant bad luck in the near future.

Cord pointed at the herons. “What did I tell you?”

Cord’s brazenness startled Alice. After all, he’d made up the entire story. Then she smiled. Surely, Cord had been wise enough to tell them about herons he’d seen in the past. He no doubt took them to a place where he’d expected to see herons, or where there would be a good chance of spotting some.

The bailiff shook his head. “You’ve the endurance of your hounds. How else can you run for so long without becoming tired?”

“Do we give chase, milord?” asked Cord.

The bailiff studied the herons, which flew across the boiling Iodo River and toward a stand of marsh about a half mile away on the other side.

“It’s farther than we planned to ride,” the bailiff said.

“Let’s go!” shouted Lady Martha.

The wizened Chief Falconer nodded vigorously and seconded her opinion.

“Onward!” Sir Walter shouted. He touched a prick spur to his palfrey and galloped toward the center of the village. The others followed, many of their birds screeching at the increased pace.

The Bridge Village was the biggest of Pellinore Fief’s villages. Stables stood ready for travelers’ horses and mules, while inns beckoned them to stay and rest or to throw darts and get drunk. Seedy beds where as many as ten customers slept at a time contained hordes of lice and far too many rats and mice for the cats to destroy. The food was good and Baron Hugh had never allowed the innkeepers to overcharge the travelers or to play the more common tricks upon them, such as a harlot stealing a man’s money after he fell asleep, or the seizure of a guest’s baggage, on the pretense that the man hadn’t paid. After Baron Hugh hanged a dishonest innkeeper, the others plied their trade honestly.

The best farmland lay around the Bridge Village, and the most prosperous farmers lived here. Many of the homes were as big and as sturdily built as Old Alfred’s, in East Village. In the center of town, close to the toll bridge, stood a tall stone church, the fief’s biggest. Because of its importance, a wooden wall had been built around the Bridge Village. Houses had been built beyond the wall, but the very center of town, and the toll bridge, were protected after a fashion.

Cord led them through the gate, nodding to the leather-clad swordsmen. The hawking party clattered over the toll bridge. Below, the fast flowing Iodo River shot under the spanning arch.

Alice’s heart began to thud as she crossed the bridge. This was it. There was no turning back…. Well, she could forgo the escape attempt. But what would Henri and Cord think? She wiped her brow, thinking about how she and Henri would be all alone on the road to Gareth Castle. They needed Cord. Too many highwaymen infested these routes, and too many knights and their retainers would be aboard now that the Western Marches seethed with rebellion. The tall dog boy with several of his brutish charges, yes, that would make many men reconsider.

Cord killed Old Sloat, Alice told herself. No one else had ever been able to do that. Not Baron Hugh even though he’d tried countless times, not even huge Sir Philip who had slain many a bear with only a boar spear and while afoot.

“Damn him,” Alice hissed under her breath. Why had she ever asked the dog boy for his help in the first place?

“Are you still game?” Henri asked, who rode beside her.

“Of course I’m game,” Alice said, but truly, she was scared. This was the most hazardous thing she’d ever tried to do. She was escaping from her rightful liege, evil though that liege might be.

No, he isn’t my liege yet. Until Guy pays his relief to Earl Mortimer, he’s not yet the baron. So what I need are stout stone walls and a company of knights and men-at-arms. Then we’ll see whose liege over whom.

“This will be risky,” Alice whispered.

Henri nodded tightly.

The hawking party left the Bridge Village behind and moved toward the marsh. It was soggy ground that abounded with bushes and tall reeds. The trees here had long ago been hewn down for the town’s use.

“Send in your hounds!” Sir Walter shouted.

Cord unleashed two dogs and gave them orders. Barking wildly, they plunged into the marsh and disappeared from view.

Alice, Martha and Eleanor doffed their falcons’ hoods and they ranged themselves in a semicircle. The two knights slipped to the side, giving the ladies the first chance. Behind the ladies waited the servants. The Chief Falconer sat astride his small steed and near Lady Martha. He kept whispering advice, which from her nods she gladly took.

“There!” the wizened falconer hissed.

Alice looked to see where he pointed. Lady Martha shouted triumphantly and threw up her arm as she shouted, “Kill!”

Her falcon snapped into the air as a heron lofted from the marsh. Like an arrow, the falcon flew swiftly, its wings beating the air and its silver bells tinkling.

Along with the others, Alice held her breath as she watched the sleek bird of prey wing toward the heron. Suddenly the heron cried out in fear and veered sharply to the left, increasing its rate of flight. The falcon flew even faster, gaining speed all the time. The heron desperately flapped its long wings. Behind it, the falcon screeched. Then, in a sudden flurry, the falcon’s sharp talons raked the heron as it flew just above the sleek white bird. Mortally stricken, the heron plummeted to the earth. The falcon, giving a victorious cry, swerved and sped down toward its prize.

Lady Martha and the Chief Falconer rode toward the heron that landed in the mucky soil. The wizened falconer climbed off his steed to stand ankle deep in mud as he swung his lure. Attached to it was a piece of fowl. The falcon, which stood atop the dead heron, screeched once more and flew to the lure. The Chief Falconer hooded the bird and put her back on Lady Martha’s gloved wrist.

“The talons are bloody,” Lady Martha said with delight.

“A perfect strike,” the falconer said.

Lady Martha flipped him a penny.

He bowed and said thanks.

“Keep watching,” Sir Walter told Eleanor and Alice.

“No more,” Alice whispered under her breath. “You’re not supposed to flush up any more.” She hoped Cord could remember that. Yet how was he supposed to call in his dogs in their excitement?

The Chief Falconer bagged the dead heron and slogged out of the marsh, his old nag following him. Soon he handed the bag to a servant, while one of his apprentices bent down and wiped the muck off his master’s boots. Only then did the wizened Chief Falconer remount his nag.

“Can’t Cord flush out any more?” Sir Walter asked impatiently.

Alice’s palfrey Arthur nickered and stamped his front hooves. She soothed him, patting his sleek neck as she waited.

The others behind them tried to keep quiet, but it was almost impossible. Two grooms suddenly burst out laughing, only to turn red with embarrassment when Sir Walter glared at them. They’d been telling jokes to pass the time.

Finally, Cord appeared from behind some reeds, his water dogs leashed. The dog boy was muddy from head to toe. He had no doubt followed his dogs into the very center of the marsh.

Alice was grateful for his willingness to see his end of the plan through. Then she became indigent again when she realized that Cord wouldn’t be joining her.

“The lout,” she whispered.

“What’s wrong?” Sir Walter shouted at Cord.

The muddy dog boy cupped his hands and shouted, “The herons have slipped away.”

Lady Eleanor made a most unladylike comment, while Alice scowled and then pretended to pout.

“I wanted Jael to fly,” Alice told the others.

“I know exactly how you feel,” Lady Eleanor said.

“We’re not stopping yet, are we?” Henri asked.

“Of course not,” Lady Eleanor said. “One heron is hardly worth our long ride down.”

Sir Walter nodded in agreement.

Soon Cord reached them. Not only was he muddy, but he stank. His boots squelched as he walked and his clothes hung wetly, which was nothing out of the ordinary. The dog boy was simply doing his regular field duty.

Cord took a somewhat clean handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped mud off his face. “I think more herons might be over there,” he said, pointing to a pond a half mile away.

“You’re just saying that so you can clean up,” Sir Walter said.

Cord grinned, exposing his white teeth in his now dark face. “There’s always that too, milord.”

“Still,” Sir Walter said, “you have a point.” He turned his palfrey and shouted to the throng that they were headed to the pond.

“Say!” Henri suddenly shouted. “Who’s riding the fastest horse?”

“That’s easy,” Cord said, “Lady Eleanor is.”

“Oh my, dog boy,” Alice said, “but I think you’re wrong. The bailiff’s palfrey is the fastest one here.”

“Are you certain?” Henri asked. “I would have thought Sir Walter’s stallion was the fastest.”

Cord dug into his muddy pocket and flushed out two pennies. “I have two pennies to one that says the Lady Eleanor’s palfrey is the fastest one here.”

“You’re on!” Henri shouted.

Lady Eleanor said, “You’re all wasting your time. I have no intention of galloping my steed.”

“Ha!” Lady Martha said, who’d been following the exchange with interest. “That’s because Eleanor knows that her steed isn’t the fastest one here. Mine is!”

“No, that isn’t the reason,” Eleanor said.

Sir Walter joined in, laughing good-naturedly.

“Very well,” Lady Eleanor said. “I’ll race all comers to that barren oak tree in the distance.”

“You’re on!” Lady Martha shouted, taking her tall cone hat from her head and handing it to the Chief Falconer.

“You too, Sir Walter,” Eleanor said.

“My money is on the bailiff!” Alice cried.

He shook his head, until the others called him a coward and he could no longer refuse. Henri dismounted and stood in front of them, telling them that he’d toss a ball into the air to start the race.

“And you sergeants, too,” Henri shouted. “Your horses look quick enough to win.”

The two armored sergeants immediately cantered up, eager for the race.

“Are you ready?” Henri asked. A chorus of shouts gave him the answer. “Very well. Get set.” Henri took in a huge gulp of air and cried, “One, two, three!” He threw up a rag ball and shouted, “GO!”

The knights and sergeants spurred their steeds, as did the two ladies. The bailiff and Lady Eleanor immediately pulled into the lead. The throng of watchers cheered their betters, while Alice quietly watched from high upon Arthur. She was quite certain that Arthur could have beaten any of them in a race. But that wasn’t the point today.

In the end, Lady Martha won, pulling out a victory at the very last.

Cord, Henri, Alice, the Chief Falconer, everyone either rode or walked swiftly to where the racers waited.

“Well done!” Alice shouted as they approached the barren old oak tree.

“Yes!” Martha shouted back to Alice. “I—”

“Over there!” Henri bellowed, interrupting. He pointed in the distance. “I saw a man with a rabbit. He held it by the ears!”

“Are you certain?” Sir Walter shouted.

“He’s a poacher!” Henri roared.

The bailiff instantly spurred his winded palfrey, motioning the two sergeants to follow him. They all thundered after the poor fellow, if indeed he’d ever been there.

The hawking party watched the three men gallop away.

“Now what?” Lady Martha asked.

“We should wait until they return,” Sir Walter said.

“Look!” Cord yelled, who’d been looking around. “I see a fox.” He unleashed his dogs. They too saw the fox and bayed with delight, giving chase.

“Let’s use our hawks!” Alice said.

Lady Martha cheered and spurred after the dogs. In an instant so did Eleanor and Walter. Alice, however, suddenly drew rein and dismounted, checking her palfrey’s hooves.

“Should I check them, milady,” a groom asked.

“No, it was nothing,” Alice said. She petted the sleek neck before remounting. By then it appeared to be too late to follow the others.

“They’ll never catch the fox,” the Chief Falconer said. “Why did you release the hounds?” he asked Cord.

“I misjudged the distance,” Cord said blandly.

The Chief Falconer gave him a squinty glance. The hunters and the hawkers seldom saw eye to eye on anything. Cord, who supplied the dogs for both, was still more in the hunting camp than the hawking. There was little liking between the two of them, although it was more a professional affair than one of personal dislike.

“Well, I suppose we should follow them,” Alice said to the others. She gently urged Arthur toward the small pond. The others followed.

When they reached it, Cord plunged into the pond’s scummy water, washing himself clean. The various packhorses drank, as did several dogs. Soon Sir Walter, Lady Eleanor and Lady Martha returned. Their horses were tired after so much galloping. Cord immediately began to whistle for the dogs he’d released. They trotted in as the bailiff and the two sergeants did. Like the others, their horses breathed heavily and smelled strongly of horse sweat.

Alice sighed, mounting up again.

“Where are you going?” the bailiff asked.

“I thought I saw a flash of heron white,” Cord said, pointing at some bushes in the distance.

Lady Martha eagerly remounted, as did her husband. The three nobles followed Cord and his dogs.

Unnoticed by all but Alice, Henri slipped onto his horse and cantered away from everyone. The plan was that he would meet her later.

Her heart pounded. This was almost it. Everything had worked to perfection. Now—

“Milord,” Cord said, “I think it might be best if you took your hawk over there, around that side of the bushes.”

Sir Walter nodded, heading that way.

“And you, milady, should go near the center area,” Cord said.

The wizened Chief Falconer nodded in agreement. Martha instantly complied.

“You, Alice, should go over there,” Cord said, pointing to the west. He stared up into her eyes. She stared back. She could feel her blood stir and knew that she desperately wanted Cord to join them.

“Good luck,” he said quietly.

“Is that all you can say?”

He blushed, and that surprised her. She hadn’t counted on that.

“I wish you all the best, milady,” he said softly. “Someday, perhaps, we’ll see each other again.”

“Will you be just a dog boy then?”

He drew himself to his full height. “No, milady. Then I’ll be a knight.”

She stared at him in amazement. His ambitions had soared into the heavens. She hadn’t realized he thought of himself so grandly. Then she recalled Old Sloat.

“You’d better start,” he said.

She nodded curtly, turning Arthur away from Cord and away from Castle Pellinore. In a steady canter, she set off for freedom. Hopefully, it would be awhile before the others realized that she was fleeing. Once they did, however, the race would be on. Only their mounts were winded, while fleet Arthur was ready to run for a long time.

Alice passed the bushes were Cord thought he’d seen heron white. In the distance was a forest. She headed that way. Her spine tingled as she rode, but she refused to glance back. That would look wrong. Instead, she concentrated on Jael. She couldn’t very well take the falcon with her. It was time to release her bird of prey as she’d long ago promised the mother.

“You too gain your freedom today,” she whispered to Jael. Slowly, she took off the silver bells and dropped them into a pouch. Then she took off the jesses, slipped off the hood and let Jael ride freely on her wrist. It was an odd sensation. Tears welled in Alice’s eyes. Today ended many things.

“Go, Jael,” Alice said. “Fly away.”

The falcon peered at her, those big dark eyes unblinking. Then Jael turned and gave a piercing cry, and zoomed after a heron that flew out of the bushes where Cord had said one hid.

At that instant, the bailiff gave a mighty, long-distance shout. Alice turned. The bailiff, who was far away, pointed at her. She heard his words float to her. He wanted her to come back. She didn’t, but kept cantering away to freedom. The bailiff urged his stallion after her. So too did the others. Alice spoke to Arthur. He nickered, tossed his head and broke into a smooth gallop.

She saw Sir Walter and Lady Martha dropping behind. None of the other riders had a chance. She skirted the small forest, heading for the dirt trail that acted as the main road for this route. When she could no longer see the others she drew rein and made Arthur travel at a canter. She wanted to save his stamina in case she suddenly needed to gallop again.

She laughed. She couldn’t believe it. At last, after all this time, she was free. Free! Now she had to get to Gareth Castle and convince her former retainers to support her.

If only Cord the dog—no! She wasn’t going to think about him. He’d had his chance. Still, she wondered what would happen to Cord. Would Philip kill him? She hoped not. Then she surprised herself by saying, “I hope you make it, dog boy, and I hope we meet again, soon.”

Book Two

Forward

To be outside the law—to be an outlaw—in medieval times brought savage repercussions. Great or small alike suffered horribly. A sheriff or executioner used the rack, thumbscrews or floggings to wrest a confession from the scoundrel. If the torture succeeded—or even if it failed—the condemned soon dangled by a rope, hanged from the neck.

Sometimes entire communities were declared outlaw. A particularly onerous example occurred at the end of the twelfth century in the south of France. It began in the town of Albi, as the people there sought religious reform. They wished for a return to primitive Christianity as practiced in Acts, in the New Testament. They also recalled tenants of the early Arian heresy of the Visigoths, who had once ruled the south of France. A few of the ideas had also filtered from returning Crusaders from the Holy Land. These ideas came from Manichean thought and an Islamic hatred for images and relics.

The black-robed Albigensian clergy vowed to devote themselves to God and to the Gospel. They swore never to touch a woman, never to kill an animal, never to eat meat, eggs or dairy food, or anything but for fish and vegetables. Their followers renounced the Catholic Church and they greeted fellow perfecti with a triple and reverent genuflection.

The Count of Toulouse, the Count of Foix and the Count of Beziers all joined the Albigensians. After sending many friars and priests to south France, and failing to convince the Albigensians, Pope Alexander III christened the movement heresy. It was 1179 A.D. Stung by the label, the Albigensians called the Church of Rome, ‘The great Whore of Babylon.’ They also called the clergy, ‘The Synagogue of Satan,’ and they said the Pope was ‘The very Antichrist come to Earth.’

For a time, Cistercian and Dominican friars made some headway in south France through gentle persuasion. Then an Albigensian knight slew a papal legate. It was the turning point. In 1209, Pope Innocent III excommunicated the Albigensian leaders and laid the land under interdict—he put them outside the law, making them outlaws. Papal agents preached a European crusade against the Albigensians. They wanted help to put down these outlaws. Many northern knights eager for gold and land gladly took up the challenge.

The chief and greatest Crusader was a French-Norman knight named Simon de Montfort. De Montfort besieged the town of Beziers and demanded that all the heretics—all the outlaws—be driven out to him and his small but efficient army. The town leaders said they would rather fight until they were reduced to eating their children. De Montfort and his knights soon scaled the walls and sacked the city. During the massacre—over twenty thousand people perished—a soul-stung knight asked de Montfort how he could separate the Christians from the heretics. De Montfort is said to have shouted, “Slay them all. Let God separate them!”

De Montfort’s zeal drove him to make a desert of a once productive land, and it gave him many victories. He fell in battle in 1218, and his eldest son Amauri took over. The only other surviving son of the ‘Scourge of the Albigensians’ was another Simon. He was a tall and powerfully built man with the dark good looks of the South. This Simon de Montfort later defied King Henry III of England. In 1263, he gained control of the majority of the Western Marches of Wales.

It was a different era here in Wales from the Albigensian Crusade of Simon’s father. Nevertheless, it had this similarity: it was a bad time to be an outlaw.

-1-

Beautiful Alice de Mowbray fled on a huge black stallion. Fear twisted her belly and doubt gnawed her thoughts. Beneath her, the stallion Arthur thundered upon the packed-dirt trail. Alice looked back, but could see nothing but oaks and beeches and their rustling, shimmering leaves. In front of her the branches whipped past uncomfortably near as she ducked repeatedly. The leaf-scented wind tossed her long blonde hair this way and that.

After two long years of enforced servitude, she fled from Pellinore Castle. Unless she reached Gareth Castle and summoned her retainers, her supposedly rightful liege would force her to marry anyone he desired. She was a prize for her liege’s men, a piece of chattel like a sword or a title. To help her escape that fate, she had her wits, a bow, two daggers and the fastest stallion in all Wales.

She hoped it would be enough.

Alice ducked another branch and eased Arthur into a canter. She wore leather hunting clothes and knee-high boots. They had been made in Paris, the tops flaring down.

Although Gareth Castle wasn’t that far away, she had to travel through several forests and sets of hills. Worse, Wales presently seethed with rebellion and swarmed with armed men. Earl Simon de Montfort and his allies defied the King. Prince Llewellyn of Wales was one of Simon’s allies. Three long years ago, Llewellyn’s Welsh had slain her father and sacked Gareth Castle. Because of Llewellyn’s deed, she rode alone and friendless in a rough and savage land.

Alice laughed to hide her fear. She had strong white teeth and the hope of youth. Even better, she was free and was determined to remain that way. While riding, she lifted her slender bow and strung it with catgut thread. Hers wasn’t a big Welsh longbow, sometimes over six feet in length. She had a three-foot bow made of yew. By her right leg slapped a quiver of barbed arrows.

Alice loved to read. She loved stories, and she loved tales of other lands. Twenty years ago, said the bards, thick-limbed Mongols had swarmed out of the plains of Russia and invaded Poland and Hungry. Batu Khan, grandson of Genghis Khan, led the invincible horde. Neither the Polish knights nor the Teutonic Knights or helpful French cavaliers had been able to stand against the Mongols. Hungry and Bohemia had became deserts, lands principally populated by wolves and crows. The Mongols and their heathen allies had discovered an unbeatable manner of fighting. They wielded small but heavy bows made of horn and sinew, and they could fire their bows while a-horse and with Welsh-like accuracy. Sheets of arrows fell like rain upon their foes, striking enemy rider and horse with dreadful ease.

A good shot with a bow, Alice had often practiced shooting from horseback in her many forays into the woods. Alas! Her skill while mounted and galloping was as good as most Englishman’s: abysmal. Still, her bow gave her confidence.

Some time later, she rode out of the wood and spied the Welsh uplands before her. The grass grew like velvet on the hills. In another hour, she would reach them. Before long, another swath of trees hid the hills from view.

She passed a woodcutter with an axe perched on his shoulder. The woodcutter’s woman led a twig-laden mule. A sparrow tweeted from the twigs as it stole a ride. The man and woman eyed her curiously. But in the manner of folk who spent long hours alone in the wilds, they said nothing. Later she passed two plump merchants lurching back and forth on their cart. A single large horse drew the cart, which creaked at every lurch. They shouted a Christian hello and waved. She nodded and rode on.

Maybe a half-hour later, she stood before a babbling stream. Stones glittered as the water rushed over them. Arthur drank the cool water as she chewed stale bread.

Taking another crunchy bite, Alice studied the large forest before her. The beeches stood tall and straight, motionless. Compared to here, it was dark in there. Shadows and trees made it easier to ambush someone. She could take the long way around to Gareth Castle or she could plunge into the woods like a knight thrusting his sword. Crouching, using a hand, she cupped cold water and sipped. This wasn’t a time for caution, but for luck and hard riding.

She mounted, crossed the stream and soon entered the realm of shadows. The sun no longer beat on her face, but it was almost as hot. The forest air seemed lifeless and muggy. The leaves hung limply and she heard few sounds other than Arthur’s snort now and again.

Time passed, and Alice grew tired of staring into the shadows. Her shoulder slumped as she sat in the saddle, although she kept her hands on the saddle’s horn. Then the stallion’s ears twitched, and a moment later, he nickered. Alice sat straighter as she scanned the trail. Ahead, the dirt path turned to the right, going past a huge old oak tree. She debated plunging off the trial to hide. What if they were outlaws? They might trap her in the denser thickets. Her best chance lay in hard riding.

“Easy, boy,” she whispered to Arthur, stroking his strong neck.

Alice heard jingling seconds before a lone horseman cantered into view. He was a smooth-skinned youth. By his fox-lined cape, he appeared to be a squire. He rode a tired palfrey and wore dusty leathers. An oversized dagger slapped at his side.

Alice almost yanked back on the reins as another horseman appeared. This one wore scale-mail or fish-scale armor, the latter name came because the armor looked like a fish’s scales. Such armor was cheaper than chainmail and easier to forge. Alice knew that an armorer sewed small toe-sized pieces of metal to a leather coat, overlapping the various pieces. Sergeants—horsemen of non-noble blood—generally wore scale-mail. Knights wore the more expensive chainmail.

Alice’s stomach tightened. She recognized the sergeant. He had a brand scar on his left cheek. Welsh raiders had caught him once and had tortured him for over an hour. He was one of the men who had gone with Sir Philip to Gareth Castle. Alice had been certain that Philip would take their new liege on the regular, more open route between the two castles. Surely, the new liege would be carting the majority of his belongings aboard wagons. If Sir Guy was on the trail ahead of her it would mean she had terrible luck.

“Lady Alice?” the sergeant asked, as he drew rein.

The youth ahead of the sergeant swept blond hair from his eyes and frowned at Alice.

She knew then that to ride ahead was to meet Sir Philip. She drew rein, trying to think of something witty that would put them off guard. All she managed to say was, “I’ll tell Sir Walter you’re home.”

As she turned Arthur, the brand-scarred sergeant said, “I thought Sir Philip ordered you to stay in Pellinore.”

With her spurs, Alice pricked Arthur’s sides. He nickered in complaint even as he lurched forward.

“Stop, milady!” the sergeant shouted.

“Run, Arthur!” she screamed, spurring him again.

The squire yelled, too, his voice breaking and cracking. He slashed his mount with a whip, giving chase.

Fleeing, Alice pounded down the trail. This was dreadfully unfair. To have escaped the others and now almost fallen into Philip’s grasp—no! She wasn’t caught yet.

“Halt!” cried the squire. He sounded closer.

Alice twisted around in the saddle. Yes, he gained on her. Arthur was tired, no longer fresh. Did she dare shoot the squire? Her stomach roiled at the idea. She didn’t know the youth, but by the eager look on his face, he was more than willing to capture her and hand her over to Philip or Guy.

She notched an arrow to the catgut string and twisted back enough to aim at him. She wondered fleetingly how Mongols did it. The squire, his blond hair sweeping across his suddenly wide-staring eyes, shouted in alarm. She drew the string, aimed—a passing branch struck her, making stars blossom in her eyes. Her bow and arrow spun away. Her feet slipped out of the stirrups. She tumbled over Arthur’s rump. Then, with a sick thud, she slammed onto the dirt. Air grunted out of her and she groaned in pain.

Hooves drummed on the ground. She felt it through her back. Soon feet thudded beside her as the squire leaped off his mount.

“Milady?” he asked, moving closer.

Alice squinted as her chest ached. She had to escape. Although she couldn’t breathe, she pulled out her boot dagger and lunged up. The youth shouted in rage and he became a blur of motion. Pain flared in Alice’s arm. Her knife spun away. Then he grabbed and twisted her arm, rolling her onto her stomach as he shoved her arm painfully behind her back. Only then did her chest unlock as she sucked down air.

“You tried to stab me,” he said in outrage.

“Let me go,” she whispered.

More hooves thundered toward them. Armor clanked. As the squire hauled her to her feet, she turned and saw huge Sir Philip gallop toward her. His huge bulk and bald dome of head were unmistakable. Behind him followed a host of warriors.

She struggled to free herself, but the squire held her tightly.

“Alice!” boomed Philip from high upon his stallion. “Dearest Alice,” he laughed.

Alice knew she was in terrible danger now. All her plans were bitter ashes of defeat. It would have been better if she’d never tried to escape. For now she’d put herself outside the law.

-2-

Sir Walter crossly questioned Cord the dog boy. Pond water drenched Cord’s clothes and drenched the dogs beside him. Although Cord was as big as a knight, his position had become very precarious.

Cord had called the lords and ladies to the hawking of herons. Then he had led them far from Pellinore Castle. Even worse, Alice de Mowbray had escaped.

“Don’t lie to me, Cord,” Walter said.

“Milord,” said Cord. “I called you because of the herons. You saw them. How was I supposed to know that Alice would dare break Sir Philip’s command?”

Cord kept calm because he knew himself now to be as good as any of them. He’d slain the great boar, Old Sloat. None of the knights had done that. Who then were they to question him? He lied to Sir Walter, but it had been for a greater good, to help a maiden in distress.

Sir Walter squinted. That tightened the knight’s leathery face. Many men had quailed at that look and broken down.

Cord just stood taller, keeping his eyes guileless. Yes, he had helped Alice. If his betters learned that, they’d hang him.

At nineteen, Cord was big with broad shoulders and powerful arms. A heavy Toledo steel dagger was strapped at his side. Only knights or knights-in-training—squires—could carry swords. While Cord’s father had been a knight, his father had been declared an outlaw and hanged from a tree. That made Cord a felon’s son, almost a criminal himself. He’d suffered ten long years at Pellinore Castle, bullied by the men who had craftily engineered his father’s death. Cord held the low station of chief dog boy of Pellinore Castle. Things had been changing lately. He now wore his father’s golden signet ring, a knightly item that portrayed a roaring lion. Cord had vowed to become a knight like his father, and in his heart, he yearned to bring his father’s old enemies to justice.

From upon his stallion, Sir Walter pulled off his right-hand glove. He had long fingers, with the middle fingernail black from an old wound. He flexed his hand before letting it drop onto a stiff riding crop. Maybe he meant to beat Cord with it. Before he could, Walter looked up surprised. He gasped and then barked sharply with laughter that sounded a lot like relief.

Cord turned, and it felt as if someone had dashed icy water on his face. His mouth sagged and a hollowness spread throughout his chest. Alice rode her large palfrey with her hands tied behind her back. Behind her followed Sir Philip and the ravaged Sir Guy in a red silk coat.

Cord shivered fearfully. He hated that, and he tried to control the fear. Maybe he could fool the others, but Philip would see through his actions today and declare him guilty. Cord was certain the Chief Falconer had his suspicions. But one of the unspoken rules of the castle folk, those of non-noble rank, was to let their betters discover such intrigues themselves. That was especially true if the intrigues involved those of noble rank. Sir Guy…Cord didn’t like the glassy look in his eyes. He didn’t like Guy’ sickly features or the evil smirk that played upon the man’s lips. From time to time Sir Guy leered at Alice. Cord had once trained a mongrel with eyes like those. It had been an unpredictable hound, a coward at heart. Then, when one’s back was turned, that’s when the mongrel had been most dangerous.

It would be better, Cord decided, to stay out of Philip’s sight. So as the great throng of men and wagons neared, he slipped among the levy of Gareth peasants that marched with Philip and Guy. The levy had undoubtedly come to insure the safe movement of Guy’s belongings. Since the peasants were afoot and tired, they brought up the rear of the large throng. Therefore, Cord saw Henri the minstrel trot in from the same trail the others had used.

Henri was a small Frenchman with a black spade beard. The small minstrel was pale-faced and tight-lipped. Somehow, he’d avoided Sir Guy on the trial ahead. Cord knew that Alice’s plan had been to meet up with Henri and travel together with him to Gareth.

Cord raised his eyebrows in surprise. Someone like Henri who usually looked out for himself should have fled elsewhere. Why had the minstrel come back?

Henri dismounted, gave the reins to a peasant and sauntered toward Cord. Cord nodded to himself. Soon, they ambled apart from the others.

“I saw the great throng,” Henri whispered. “And Alice never showed up where she promised. Then I wondered—”

“They have her,” Cord said.

“What?” said Henri, clutching Cord’s arm.

Cord pointed toward the van of the throng. On horseback, the nobles headed back toward Pellinore Castle on the hill.

Henri groaned miserably.

“What can we do for her?” asked Cord.

“For now nothing,” Henri said. He was pale and his where like those eyes of a rabbit. “Do the others suspect us?”

Cord told the minstrel how about Sir Walter’s questions. He also told the Frenchman how he was sure the Chief Falconer knew the truth.

Henri chewed on his lower lip. “We’d better not give the Chief Falconer any reason to betray us then.”

“Do you think me daft?”

“Hmmm. What? Oh, no, of course not. Listen. We can’t do anything out of the ordinary. That would make us look guilty.”

“You said nothing would go wrong.”

Henri shrugged moodily. “It wasn’t supposed too. Everything was going perfectly. Ah, don’t look up, but people are watching us. We must join the others.”

For a time, they walked silently and among the others. Cord heard the clank of knightly armor, creaking carts and the tramp of the Gareth footmen. Dark clouds moved across the sky as strong gusts of wind began to blow across the countryside. Henri buttoned his jacket. Old leaves tumbled past Cord’s feet.

Despite his worry for Alice, Cord kept wondering if the soon-to-be-Baron Guy would give him the post of forester. Baron Hugh, Guy’s dead father, had promised him the post.

Despite his plans about becoming a knight, Cord’s innate practicality kept returning to a means of making a living in the meantime. Forester was better than chief dog boy. His only other choice seemed to be that of a mercenary. Frankly, he had no interest in that. As a lowly dog boy, all he’d be able to become as a mercenary would be a footman, a spear-carrier. Spear-carriers were fodder for the swords of knights.

Cord sighed. To become a knight, he’d need money and luck, a lot of both. Never mind all the training he’d have to undergo. It took long years of training to learn how to charge with a lance and fight with a sword while wearing heavy armor. Cord blew out his cheeks. He’d need money to buy a destrier, to buy a chainmail hauberk, a knightly sword, a lance, a high saddle, a helmet, a shield and a mule for carrying provisions. Then he’d need even more money to pay for a groom and for a palfrey for regular riding. Cord shook his head. Where could he possibly acquire that much money?

The only immediate answer was to kidnap a rich lord and ransom him. Too many penniless knights tried just that, however. He would be competing against much better armed and trained outlaws. Even more to the point was how was he supposed to kidnap a well-armed and trained fighting noble, one carefully protected from such an eventuality?

Until he had a real plan, it would be better to be a forester than a chief dog boy. He also wondered about something else. As sinister as Sir Guy, the new liege, seemed, he also didn’t look long for this world.

Once a person had a position such as forester, or chief falconer, or steward, or even head butcher, it was almost impossible to lose that post. Usually, one had to commit a serious crime. A baron, earl, or even king had great power over his people. However, within their spheres of influence the various servitors had great leeway and prerogatives. Higher posts within a castle became hereditary. For instance, Pellinore’s chief huntsman was the eldest son of the former chief huntsman, and the present hangman had received his position after his grandfather had passed away. Because of that, if a lord—be he baron, earl or king—dismissed a higher ranked servitor without good reason the others would become sullen and rebellious. Almost all lords recognized this and acted accordingly. If therefore Cord obtained the position of forester, as a matter of course, the other castle servitors would want him to keep his position even if a new lord didn’t like him. When he took over a fief or castle, almost all lords kept the non-noble servitors in whatever position they’d held. The main exception was if a lord promoted a servant to a better and higher rank.

Henri mounted his horse as they crossed the toll bridge. As dusk neared, the cold wind grew steadily chillier. He took out and wound a scarf around his neck.

“What’s that?” Henri asked, as he pulled the scarf down from his mouth.

“What?” asked Cord. He hardly noticed the weather. Rain, shine or wind he wore his regular leather garments, unless it was snowing. Then he donned a jacket.

“That wagon over there,” Henri said, pointing. “See? It has bars around it and a curtain. I wonder what Sir Guy transports in it?”

In such a manner, Cord and Henri were initiated into Sir Guy’s mystery. The Gareth peasants proved to be a sullen lot, giving few explanations as they hunkered lower against the growing wind. Sir Guy’s sergeants, those he’d brought from Gareth Castle, didn’t even bother to acknowledge Cord when he asked two of them about it. Only as Cord pulled Sergeant Hob aside, up in the castle-yard, did he learn what soon proved to be the extent of their knowledge of the mystery.

The prisoner was Sir Lamerok of Dun, a wandering Scotsman who usually journeyed about the Continent and fought in the major tournaments of Northern France and the Low Countries. Sir Lamerok had crossed over to England earlier this summer. In some manner, he’d fallen in with Breton pirates, or more precisely, he’d fallen in with Eustace the Monk. Eustace the Monk was the most notorious pirate of the English Channel. It was said that he practiced black magic learned in Spain. Those spells apparently allowed him to make his pirate ships invisible. Whatever the truth to that, after leaving bloodthirsty Eustace, Sir Lamerok had headed to Wales. Hob didn’t know how many men had journeyed with Lamerok. The Scots knight had apparently been on a quest, at least according to what Earl Robert de Ferrers of Derby said. At Gareth Castle, Hob had learned that Sir Lamerok had ridden into the castle wounded, having fallen prey to Welsh highwaymen. In Gareth Castle, Sir Lamerok’s squire had babbled a strange tale to Aldora. Aldora looked after Sir Guy. Because of her knowledge of such things, Aldora had tended Lamerok’s squire. An arrow had punctured the squire’s lungs. Because of the squire’s tale, Sir Lamerok had been clapped into irons and taken down to Gareth’s dungeon. Hob informed Cord and Cord Henri that Sir Guy had visibly brightened upon Sir Lamerok’s capture. In some manner, Sir Guy expected Lamerok to make him rich.

Cord told all this to Henri inside the kennel and after supper.

“What’s more,” Cord said, finishing the mystery tale,” Sir Guy refused the ransom that Earl de Ferrers of Derby wished to pay him for Sir Lamerok. Only Philip’s cunning and jousting skills saved them from Earl de Ferrers’ subsequent anger. It seems Philip purchased their safe passage by giving de Ferrers his life.”

“That’s all very interesting,” Henri said, “but none of it helps Alice.”

Cord nodded glumly. He leaned on a wooden railing and idly petted the brute on the other side. A single lantern gave them illumination. The majority of the kennel dogs had gone to sleep.

With his hands behind his back, Henri paced up and down the kennel aisle.

“If only I could challenge Sir Guy or maybe even Philip to a duel,” Cord said. “Then I could win Alice’s freedom for her. Well, only if I could win the duel, of course.”

Henri stopped and stared at Cord in surprise. “Pardon?” he asked.

Cord gave him a sheepish smile. “My father was a knight,” he said softly. “So—”

“A moment please,” Henri said. “Your father was a knight?”

“I thought you knew that.”

Henri slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Sacra bleau! You must tell me more.”

Cord told the minstrel about his father and a little about his determination to become a knight himself. The entire topsy-turvy day had unglued his mouth and his normal hesitation to talk about himself. Besides, there had been few real friends in Cord’s life. He was a felon’s son, after all. Big fat Sergeant Hob was his friend, but Hob was also much older than him and his teacher in many ways. Squire Richard had always been good to him, but Richard was a noble, the baron’s squire, and that had always put a gulf between them. Henri, however, was almost the same age as Cord and a vagabond to boot. Therefore, he didn’t hold any rank over Cord. The two were also in danger together, and perhaps they were the only real friends Alice had.

“Ah,” Henri said. “This explains much and changes everything, my friend.”

“What do you mean?”

Henri began to pace again. “Not yet,” he said. Then his eyes alighted on Cord’s golden ring. “That was your father’s talisman?”

“Yes.”

Henri marched to the door. “We must see what Philip and Guy plan. At least I should do that. Until we know more, you should stay out of sight. Hmmm. Philip will have his hands full the next few days, showing Guy around and explaining the present situation. With the overabundance of Gareth sergeants and peasants, it shouldn’t prove difficult for you to keep out of Philip’s way.”

Cord shook his head. “I must ask Sir Guy about the forester position.”

“Don’t bother, Cord. That hope is doomed to failure.”

“You’re wrong,” said Cord. “Guy has to make me the forester. His father promised me the position.”

With his fingers, Henri preened his thin dark mustache as he eyed Cord. “Very well,” he said at said. “But you should wait until tomorrow morning before you ask. Let the others first forget our part in Alice’s escape. Let them worry about other things before we start intruding.”

Seeing the wisdom in the minstrel’s counsel, Cord glumly agreed. He wanted to ask. He wanted to do it now. Instead, he bedded down in the kennel and soon went to sleep.

-3-

The next morning Cord discovered that Alice had been confined to the upper living quarters of the tower. Two armored sergeants, it was said, stood at the top of the stairs. The castle was a-buzz with the rumors about Alice’s fate.

A flirtatious scullion told Cord that neither of Alice’s former Gareth servants was allowed to see her. Sir Guy, whispered the pretty scullion, had talked about sending Alice to a nunnery. Only the stern rebuttals of Sir Walter and Lady Eleanor had turned Guy from such a course.

With his sack of entrails in hand, Cord left the kitchen scullion and hurried toward the kennel to feed his dogs.

Hob, as he watched a gang of Gareth peasants swab the stable with whitewash, motioned Cord near. Hob wore a greasy leather jerkin and a long heavy sword. His eyes were red and his nose even more so. It was chillier than yesterday. A crackling fire roared in the middle of the yard where hung-over men warmed themselves. Last night the fighting men had drunk heavily, fat Hob chief among them.

“It feels like rain,” grumbled Hob, with his hands tucked under his armpits.

Cord eyed the pregnant clouds and felt the heavy air pressure. Maybe there would lightning and thunder by this afternoon. He loved watching jagged bolts of lightning zigzag across the sky and even more, he enjoyed the powerful thunder that followed. Cord set down his sack of entrails and looked around. No one seemed to be watching them.

Cord asked, “Have you heard about Alice?”

Hob shrugged. Then he scowled and yelled at one of the painters to get a hurry-on. “It’s a damn fool thing to keep these men here,” he muttered. “Guy should let the Gareth people return home.”

“Henri says that Guy wants to impress the outlying knights with his strength.”

“A futile gesture, if it’s true,” Hob said. “The knights will know that these are Gareth folk. Worse, with so many mouths to feed and then feast, the castle stocks will shrink that much more quickly. No, with money being tight and the stocks low, Sir Guy should play it safer.”

Cord glanced at the peasants. They were stocky fellows with ugly scowls. He’d heard that most of them wished to return home immediately. The idea of a feast had mollified them a little, but not much.

As was normal practice, Sir Guy wanted his liegemen to pay him homage as quickly as possible. Therefore, his summons had gone out this morning in the form of riders. In three days, all the knights who had sworn allegiance to Baron Hugh were to present themselves at Pellinore Castle. Here they would be feted, and here, in an opulent ceremony, they would kneel one by one in front of Guy and place their hands in his, pledging fealty to him. Such a show of strength on Sir Guy’s part was important, just as it was important to remind one’s men who their lord was.

“Hob?”

“Hmm.”

“Why doesn’t Lady Alice appeal to the Gareth knights and retainers? Surely most of them would back her.”

Fat Sergeant Hob turned his strange eyes upon Cord. “You’d best keep such questions to yourself, lad. If the wrong ears heard what you just said your head might well wobble off alone in a bucket.”

Cord shifted uncomfortably.

“If I didn’t know better,” said Hob, “I’d think you were concerned about the Lady Alice.”

“But I am!”

Hob sighed and shook his head.

“Aren’t you?” Cord asked.

“Aren’t I what?”

“Concerned for Alice?”

“Why should I be? She’s safe enough up in the living quarters. Richard is always there, as are most of the ladies. Why, what has you in such a state?”

“Well…Lady Alice doesn’t want to be here.”

“Why should that concern you?”

Cord groped for words.

Hob lowered his voice. “Listen, you’re stepping into things that are over your head. If I didn’t know better, I’d believe the rumors that you and Henri helped her escape.”

Cord felt his stomach tighten.

“Fortunately,” Hob said, “the bailiff scoffs at such rumors. Last night he informed Philip that neither you nor Henri did anything out of the ordinary yesterday. I’m beginning to wonder, though.” Hob took off his helmet and scratched his head. “If you’re going to stay at Pellinore, then you need to remain loyal to your liege. Sir Guy is a sickly fellow, but he’s our lord. My advice is to take off that ring and ask Sir Guy for the forester position.”

“Why should I take off the ring?” Cord asked. “It’s mine.”

“It will only antagonize Philip and maybe even Sir Guy. Nobles are touchy about us lower folk taking on airs.”

“My father was a knight,” Cord said stiffly.

Hob shook his head. “Cord, Cord. You’re never going to get anywhere talking like that. Nobody wants to hear such things. I know you, and I know you loved your father. Other folk might think you’re reaching too high.” Perhaps Hob noticed the stubborn set to Cord’s face. He changed tack. “So your father was a knight. Many folk have knightly fathers and never become knights themselves. You must adjust to fate. You’re a dog boy who has a chance to become a forester, slim though that chance is.”

“Baron Hugh promised me the position.”

“Philip hates you,” Hob said.

“I know!”

Hob sighed. “Listen, Cord. If you truly want to be forester, quietly go to Sir Philip and see if you can patch things up. He can talk to Guy for you.”

Cord mulishly shook his head.

Hob put a hand on Cord’s arm and asked quietly, “You spoke to Bess, didn’t you?”

Cord nodded.

“You found out that she wouldn’t marry you, yes?”

“That’s right,” Cord whispered.

“If you could gain Philip’s good graces, then maybe you would be able to marry Bess. Have you thought of that?”

Cord hadn’t. Now he did. Soon he shook his head as he said thickly, “Philip hated my father. Because of that he’ll always hate me.”

Hob rubbed his fleshy face, studying Cord. “You’re in way over head, dog boy. You have enemies much too powerful for you. Run away. It’s your only hope. Speak to that wastrel Henri, maybe the two of you can flee together.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It’s clear to me that the two of you helped Alice in her escape attempt. Unless you want to pay with your head for such foolishness, you must flee. Lad, if you think Sir Philip is slow-witted then the two of you are more foolish than I thought.”

For a time Cord watched the peasants paint. The entire yard was filled with workers, most of them painting, a few sweeping up. The knot around the fire constantly changed as men-at-arms warmed themselves or peasants drank hot broth brought out by serving boys.

“You’re a strapping man, Cord,” Hob added. “You can fight as well as anyone. I should know, I trained you.”

Cord knew that none of the other sergeants could beat Hob at a sword fight. Hob would probably give Sir Philip a tough bout. During the past few years, Hob had taken him into the woods. There, he’d given him gruff lessons in the art of knife and sword fighting. That was one of the reasons why Cord thought sometimes that once Hob had been a knight. Fat old Hob definitely knew one end of a sword from the other. In fact, Hob had taught him the difference between the sweeping broom-style of fighting that most knights used when they wore heavy armor, to the cunning blade work that a knife-fighter used if he wished to win.

Six months ago, Hob had said the strangest thing. “Now you fight with the cunning of a Templar.”

When Cord asked him about it, Hob shook his head and gave him a thorough drubbing with the practice swords.

The only Templars that Cord knew about were the Knights Templars. They were a holy order of monkish knights that primarily fought in the Holy Land against the infidels. These days Templars had penetrated into nearly every royal court, and were known as haughty men. None doubted their valor or their knightly skills. Hob was the furthest thing from a Templar. Could Hob have known Templars in the Holy Land when he’d been on crusade? Had Templars somehow been the reason or part of the reason why Hob was to this day disturbed about what had happened to him while on crusade?

Cord didn’t know.

“Are you listening, lad?” asked Hob.

“What? Yes.”

Hob grunted before he said, “If you should decide to run away, I can have Father Bernard write a letter for you. I’ll sign the letter and you can give it to a friend of mine who will take you on as a mercenary.”

“That’s kind of you.”

“You’ve always been a good lad, a good dog boy. It’s never been your fault that your father died a felon.”

Cord’s face tightened.

Once again, Hob switched tacks. “Listen. I admire Lady Alice and I like her spirit. And I like you too, lad. But her fate is sealed. Sir Guy will give her in marriage to whomever he pleases. Your fate is also sealed, or almost so. To become a knight is not one of those fates.”

Hob’s words made Cord want to swear. He hated their ring of truth and refused to accept the finality of it.

“Slip off that ring of yours,” Hob said, “and bury it deep. Then go see Sir Philip or go ask Sir Guy directly to make you the forester.”

Cord picked up his entrails-sack and wandered to the kennel. Was Alice’s fate truly sealed? Should he go seek out Sir Philip and try to work things out? He recalled the way Bess had told him to leave… Philip had caused that. If he put his tail between his legs and slunk up to the big knight, would the other allow him to marry Bess? Then the bailiff’s tale came thundering back to him. Philip had hated his father. Now Philip meant to kill him, didn’t he?

“I don’t know,” Cord whispered to his dogs. “I can’t decide what to do.”

He touched his ring and even pulled it partway off. If he went into the woods and buried it again…. He nodded and yanked it off and slipped the ring into his pouch. He felt terrible. Hadn’t he slain Old Sloat the boar? Didn’t that make him knightly?

Cord shook his head. Reality said that he was a dog boy. Only fantasy could make him a knight. And wasn’t fantasy and tall tales the realm of minstrels?

He sighed, opened the door and strode toward the tower. He saw Philip marching down the tower stairs. Behind him came skeletal Sir Guy in his red silk coat. At Guy’s elbow walked a small old woman clad in a bright miss-match of colors. Although gray-haired and prune-faced, she walked spryly. Cord figured her for a Welshwoman. She had that feel. All of them hurried down the stairs, for the wind had picked up and the feel of rain had grown stronger.

“I better get this over with,” Cord whispered to himself.

Philip saw him, and perhaps he saw the determination in Cord. The giant knight turned and pointed Cord out to Guy. The lank-haired, sickly noble nodded. They all met at the foot of the stairs.

“Dog boy,” Philip said gruffly, “come closer so our new lord can see who you are.”

Cord inched closer and bowed his head to a squinting Guy. It seemed that the baron-to-be had trouble seeing. Cord also saw the strain in Guy’s manner and he saw how loosely the red silk coat hung on his shoulders. Guy’s tall forehead seemed pointed, the nose decidedly so and the narrow chin sharp and gaunt. The pale cheeks were sunken in and the obviously thin neck was wrapped in a blue silk scarf. Guy held the front of his coat closed against the whistling wind. His fingers looked like spider’s legs.

Philip quietly spoke into Guy’s ear.

Guy whispered to Cord, “Are you the one who led my father to Old Sloat?”

Cord was appalled at Guy’s manner of speech. The sibilant whisper made him seem even weaker. Worse, he was hard to understand.

“Answer your new lord, dog boy,” Philip growled.

“I’m sorry, milord,” Cord said to Guy, bowing his head once more. “Yes, I told your noble father about Old Sloat.”

A ghost of a smile flickered across Guy’s bloodless lips. Then the smile disappeared. It was replaced with a scowl. “Sir Philip has told me much about that day.”

Cord gulped audibly. He obviously had to repair whatever damage Philip had caused him as quickly as possible. “I loved your father, milord. His death was a terrible thing.”

Guy recoiled and his face turned even paler than before. The old crone helped steady him. Then she shot Cord a venomous glance.

Cord didn’t understand. “I-I mean, your father fought valiantly, milord, but Old Sloat was an evil beast. He tore out your father’s throat before any of us could do anything. But I slew the evil monster, milord. I killed Old Sloat.”

“Silence!” Guy hissed. “No more!”

Cord shrank back, not knowing what had caused Sir Guy to become so angry with him. This all seemed sinister, unholy, demented.

Philip said, “Yes, milord, Cord led your father to Old Sloat.”

“Bu-But I didn’t cause your father’s death, milord,” Cord said. “Old Sloat killed him and I killed Old Sloat. I avenged your father’s murder.”

“Stop!” Guy shrieked, stepping forward and slapping Cord across the face.

Cord staggered back, more from his fright at Guy’s madness than any physical pain. He saw Philip smile in glee and he saw the giant knight wipe the smile off his face before anyone else could notice.

“The dog boy’s a coarse lout,” Philip explained. “He thrives off his tales of…. Well, of those things that your lordship would rather not dwell on.”

“Yes, yes,” Guy whispered, his eyes bright with rage.

“Oh,” Philip added, as if it was an afterthought. “The dog boy hopes to become your new forester.”

“Never!” Guy hissed as he glared at Cord. “No, he’ll never become forester. I name Fulk the new forester.”

“Yes, milord,” Philip said with a curt little bow. “I’ll send Fulk to you right away so you can give him the good news. I’m sure it will make the Hunter family quite pleased with you.” Philip strode away, no doubt to find the chief huntsman’s son.

“Milord,” Cord said to Guy, “your father promised me the forester position.”

“Away with you!” Guy whispered haughtily. “Be satisfied that I allow you your head, knave! Now go, before I change my mind.” Leaning on the old crone, Guy shuffled toward three knights talking by the smithy.

Cord stood with his mouth agape, staring after Guy. What had just happened? Philip’s smile said that somehow he’d been maneuvered into doing something Guy hated.

With weakened knees, Cord slumped and sat on the stairs. Before he could decide what to do, lightning rent the sky. A moment later thunder shook the air. A few fat raindrops struck Cord in the face. Wearily he rose. He couldn’t decide whether to go up into the tower or head back to the kennel. The raindrops increased into a sudden shower.

At the next bolt of lightning Cord turned and raced for the kennel. To see Philip with his mocking smile and Guy with his sinister madness—he couldn’t take that now. What he needed was to be with his hounds. Before he reached the small door, the rain fell in torrents and soaked him thoroughly. He didn’t care. All wanted was to be alone in order to think things through.

-4-

The next morning a loud knock woke Cord up with a start. Groggily he arose and shuffled to the low kennel door.

Thickset Fulk stood outside. He wore a woolen hat and seemed to have no neck. He had a pair of the biggest hands that Cord had ever known a person to have. Fulk didn’t speak much, nor did he say anything right off. He inclined his thick head instead.

Cord had always thought of Fulk as a strangler. What else did a man with such huge hands do but wrap them around someone’s throat and choke the life out of them?

“I want no trouble with you,” Fulk finally said in his slow, methodical way.

It was still dark outside, but that was more because of the drizzly sky than the hour. Dawn had arrived, but the heavy cloud-cover meant this would be a dreary day.

“Trouble?” Cord asked, still trying to wake up.

“I’m the new forester,” Fulk said. He didn’t gloat, but simply stated it matter-of-factly.

Cord’s shoulders slumped nevertheless as the blood drained from his face. So this was it. He hadn’t gotten the forester position. Mechanically, he held out his hand and said, “Congratulations.”

Fulk’s huge hand dwarfed Cord’s, even though Cord stood taller than Fulk and was considered stronger.

“Then you aren’t mad?” Fulk asked.

“Not at you.”

Fulk blinked several times before he nodded. He wasn’t the quickest-witted person in Pellinore Castle. His lips moved as he slowly formed his next question. “If you want, I might be able to have you be my helper.”

Cord bit his lip, forcing himself to keep his anger in check. “Thanks,” he finally said. “I’ll think about it.”

“Don’t think long. My father will soon force one of my younger brothers on me, or one of my cousins.”

“Don’t worry,” Cord said.

Fulk rubbed his lips and then added, “Sir Walter and the bailiff will be hunting soon. Venison for the coming feast, you understand. You’re to have your best hounds ready.”

Cord nodded. He was too numb to do much else. The reality of not becoming forester was crushing the little spirit that he had left. Fulk, he was the forester. Big hands Fulk. It was so unjustly unfair.

“Have them ready by the breakfast horn,” Fulk said. Then he turned and trudged through the drizzle toward the kitchen.

Cord shut the door. He’d have to spend the morning tramping through the woods in foul weather.

He suddenly found that couldn’t move. The idea of hunting, of being with the men who would watch him grow old as Pellinore’s chief dog boy filled him with apathy. Maybe old Baron Hugh had loved his hounds more than almost anything else. The old baron had bred his dogs with passion and insightful intelligence. Therefore, being chief dog boy, despite what the bailiff had said about their hidden mockery against his father, hadn’t been so bad. Because of the baron’s love of his dogs and his countless breeding programs, chief dog boy had gained status within the castle servitor hierarchy. With Guy, however, all that would probably change. Chief dog boy would fall in whatever prestige it had once had.

“What am I going to do?” he whispered.

Cord had no idea. Hob had crushed his fantasizes about knighthood and now Sir Philip had crushed all chances of him ever becoming forester. With a weary sigh he moved to a bucket filled with water and splashed his face. He’d better gather a few of the dog boys and choose which hounds he’d use today.

His numbness didn’t leave him in the kitchen as he swallowed tasteless bread. It didn’t leave him in the Great Hall as he dragged his chosen helpers to the kennel and it didn’t leave him as he heard the latest tales about Alice.

Her chests had been smashed open last night and all her coinage confiscated by Sir Guy. It had proved to be a sizeable sum. No doubt, it would help defray the cost of his mercenary crossbowman and sergeants. Sir Walter had protested the action. Guy had merely shrugged. The bailiff had said that his act was unlawful and the chief Gareth knight had been ready to speak sternly. Sir Philip had wondered aloud if Sir Guy wasn’t merely fining Lady Alice. Sir Guy had agreed, saying that this was all a fine for her escape attempt. Sir Guy had also named the chief Gareth knight the new castellan and slipped a costly silver chain and pendant off his neck and onto the knight’s. The bribed Gareth knight agreed to the fine, and despite a withering look from Alice, he had said that her enforced stay here was properly legal. Lady Alice had been left the majority of her clothes, her books but not any of her jewelry. By the look on her face, black rage had filled her, though she spoke to no one.

The hunt proved to be a soggy affair. The drizzle increased at times to a shower and then dropped back to the constant wetness. The knights said little, the huntsmen even less as they huddled under their wet cloaks and the hounds hardly made a sound as they were forced to the chase. At last, in a small clearing, the tall beeches blocking out most of the drizzle, Cord was called forward. Sir Walter told him to hurry up and find some game.

“What do you mean, ‘find some game’?” Cord asked. His numbness had worn away to reveal an ember of anger that burned deep within him. As he’d tramped past wet branches and had been slapped in the face by damp leaves, the ember had ignited his former rage. Whatever apathy he’d felt, had been consumed by his striding after the horsemen.

“Speak to your dogs,” Sir Walter told him.

“I don’t understand,” Cord said.

Sir Walter scowled from upon his palfrey. Like everyone else, he was soaked. His sealskin hood hadn’t helped because gusts of wind kept throwing droplets into his broad face. To make matters worse, his palfrey had become moody and had to be spurred constantly.

“It’s too wet today,” Sir Walter said. “But I know you can make your dogs excited enough so they can find something we can spear.”

“Are you saying the huntsmen can’t track as well as me?” Cord asked.

Sir Walter silently stared down at him.

“Because if that’s what you’re saying,” Cord said recklessly, “then maybe you should see to it that I gain the proper position for my skills.”

“I understand your anger at not becoming forester,” Sir Walter said. “But no matter what your feelings you must watch your tongue.”

“Toward my betters, is that it?”

Sir Walter nodded silently, dangerously.

Sebald, his massive Italian mastiff, nuzzled Cord’s hand and whined.

Cord petted his dog and realized with a start that Sebald sensed something. He turned his back on Sir Walter and made clicking noises. More of the hunting hounds moved toward him. The huntsmen perked up at this and then so did the mounted gentry.

“This way,” Cord said, before plunging into the woods with his hounds.

The day thus didn’t prove fruitless. For they ran down a deer, and a little after one o’clock they returned to the castle.

Cord sneezed as stepped into the kennel with his brutes. He’d been looking forward to changing into dry clothes. He wanted to warm himself inside the Great Hall by the fire.

“There you are,” Henri said. The minstrel rose. He’d been sitting on an upturned bucket reading a book. “I’ve been waiting all morning for you to get back.”

Cord only grunted, moving past Henri to open a gate as he whistled at one of the black boarhounds. The huge beast obediently slipped into the stall. Soon all the hounds were in their places and immediately began to devour the meat preset by their water dishes.

“I took the liberty of feeding your hounds,” Henri said. “I didn’t want you scurrying off to do chores once you finally returned.”

“Thanks,” Cord muttered as he slipped off his wet shirt. He went to a plain wooden chest, opened it and took out his only other shirt. He soon had on dry clothes, minus any shoes or boots, but he was still cold. There were quite a few drafts in the kennel, and the wind whistled in and out of the rickety building.

“You know,” Henri said. “This is the first time I’ve ever seen you cold.”

“How about that,” Cord said. He accepted the loaf of bread that Henri handed him and bit into it. As he devoured the food, Henri began to talk.

“I don’t know if you’ve heard about Alice.”

Cord nodded.

“Then you know that they’ve stolen her money and some of her most expensive clothing. It’s robbery, Cord, plain and simple robbery. I don’t know how the others are standing for it. Frankly, I don’t see how Richard is standing for it. Yes, yes. I know. He’s crippled right now. But you’d think he’d do something.”

“Sir Guy’s his new liege,” Cord said with a full mouth.

“Not truly. Sir Guy hasn’t yet paid Earl Mortimer his relief. Until he does he’s not legally the baron.”

Cord shrugged.

“Oh, it matters all right,” Henri said. “Guy can’t rest secure in his baronage until the earl grants him the title. What if Earl Simon and his army should enter the valley? Maybe Simon would install a new baron instead of Guy. Or maybe if things became too rough, Baron Hugh’s old knights would think carefully about Guy’s lack of title as they sat out events in their towers.”

“How does that concern us?” Cord asked.

“Until the relief is paid it makes Sir Guy’s position uncertain. It means that at the feast some of the knights might be convinced not to give him their oath of fealty. They might especially be persuaded that way by tales of how he’s treating Lady Alice.”

Cord swallowed his last bit of bread and washed it down with water. The minstrel was back in his fantasy world, inventing things that would never happen.

“Listen, Henri. You and I can’t do anything about Alice.”

“What do you mean?” Henri asked.

“Look at us. I’m the chief dog boy. You’re the wandering minstrel. We’re powerless.”

“Powerless? What do you mean, powerless? Lady Alice almost escaped yesterday. I wouldn’t call that powerless.”

“That was yesterday when they were off their guard. Now they’re not. Now we’re only two lowly people again.” Cord shrugged. “Free Alice? No, she’s too carefully guarded now, kept in a strong castle tower.”

“That’s nonsense,” Henri said. “We’re both noble born, not lowly people. Castle tower or not, we can free Alice if we put our minds too it.”

Cord snorted rudely.

Henri’s eyebrows rose. “Where’s your ring?”

Cord patted his pouch.

“Why aren’t you wearing it?”

“Haven’t you been listening? I’m Cord the dog boy.” He threw up his hands. “I can’t even become the forester. Wearing a knightly ring will only anger my betters.”

Henri sat down on the upturned bucket.

Cord began to pace. “I don’t know what to think anymore. My father was a knight, but he died a felon. I’ve grown up as a peasant dog boy. Now the knights of the castle, or the two highest-ranked knights, hate me. If I continue to poke my nose into affairs that are much too high for my concern, what will become of me? I’ll tell you what. I’ll soon be dead.”

“So you’ll let them win?”

“What other choice do I have?”

“You’re a knight’s son, Cord. You told me so yesterday. Your choice is clear: Become a knight.”

“How?” Cord asked, laughing harshly. “Don’t you know that such a thing is impossible?”

“Don’t you know the story of Parzival?”

Cord frowned, then asked, “Don’t you mean Perceval the Gaul?”

“No, I mean Parzival,” Henri said. “Perceval the Gaul was Chretien de Troyes’ knight.”

Cord shook his head.

“Ah,” Henri said, “I keep forgetting everyone’s ignorance here in the Western Marches. Alice would understand, though. I’m sure of that.”

“I suppose I’m too much of a lout to understand,” Cord said bitterly.

Henri sat up. “Then let me correct that. Surely you know the story of the Holy Grail.”

“Of course,” Cord said.

The story was part of the Arthurian legends. As any good marcher knew, King Arthur’s court had been here in the Western Marches as well as in Southwestern England. In fact, King Arthur’s grave was in Glastonbury. In Old Latin the inscription read: Arthur King of the Britons and his wife Gwynevere lie here. Prince Edward had seen the grave, it was said, and had been impressed by it. However, older legends in Wales said that the grave would never be found, until that day that Arthur rose again to protect his people.

The great French Troubadour Chretien de Troyes had first penned the story of the Holy Grail. It had been the last of his many immortal Romances.

The Anglo-Normans who had invaded Britain had loved the stories of King Arthur enough to pass the tales back to France. That had occurred for two critical reasons. Arthur, the historic Arturius, had been a Roman-style cavalryman who had lived in ancient Briton a hundred years after the legions had left and during the dreadful Saxon invasions. Therefore, the historic Arturius had both ridden to battle upon a horse and had hated Saxons. That was just like the Norman knights who had broken the Saxons at the Battle of Hastings. The Bretons in William the Conqueror’s train had also spoken the same language as the Welsh and had held the same bardic traditions. Tales of King Arthur and Merlin and the Knights of the Round Table had soon thereafter been spread back to France and to the romantic writers there.

In Chrétien de Troyes’ last Romance, Joseph of Arimathea had gotten hold of the bowl that Christ had drunk from at the Last Supper. Joseph had then gone to the foot of the Cross and caught in the bowl some of the blood from the crucified Christ. Years later, Joseph’s offspring had brought the bowl with its immortal blood to Britain. There the bowl had been kept in a mysterious castle, kept by a sick and imprisoned king. Only a pure and perfect knight could find the Grail and free the king by asking him what ailed him.

In Chrétien’s original story, Perceval the Gaul searched for and finally found the Grail, carrying it off to heaven. In England, the spotless son of the tarnished Sir Lancelot, Sir Galahad, had done likewise.

However, for all of Chrétien de Troyes’ greatness, he did not give Europe the final and polished version of all the Arthurian legends. Wolfram von Eschenback, a Bavarian knight who gained the patronage of the Landgrave Hermann of Thuringia, had dictated the greatest poem of the thirteenth century. It was said that Wolfram had never learned to read, but had been read to and had had others pen down his spoken words.

To Henri’s mind, who read every piece of poetry to come through his hands, sixteen of Wolfram’s books seemed to have been based upon eleven books of Chrétien’s Conte del Graal. Wolfram had clearly taken Perceval the Gaul and transformed him into Parzival. It was this version of Wolfram’s which became his most famous story and which Henri now referred.

“Yes, I’m sure you know the story of the Holy Grail,” Henri said. “At least you know the English version with Sir Galahad. That you don’t know the German story of Parzival is a shame.”

“Why a shame?” asked Cord.

Henri crossed his legs and leaned back against a post, setting the book he’d been reading on his lap. “It ill becomes me to give you a shortened version of the tale, at least of Parzival’s early life. It’s the part most apropos to you, you understand.”

Cord shrugged, but he was intrigued in spite himself. He’d never known one of the heroes of a Romance to have troubles similar to his own.

“Parzival was the son of a knight,” Henri said. “Unfortunately, before he was born Parzival’s father died in battle before Alexandria. His mother, a young woman, was determined that her son wouldn’t die so young in life as his father. She therefore took him into hiding and kept from him his royal heritage. She never allowed him to be taught the use of arms.

“Young Parzival grew up to be a handsome man, but ignorant of who and what he was. One day, however, he chanced upon two knights in gleaming armor. He thought they were gods and fell down before them, worshipping them. They informed him who and what they were. Parzival immediately decided that he too should be knight, so he set out for King Arthur’s court. He’d learned that the mighty king made men into knights.”

Henri, his eyes wide and shiny, leaned toward Cord and tapped him on the knee. “Don’t you see? You’re just like Parzival.”

“Me?”

“But of course. You’ve lived a simple and ignorant life as Pellinore’s dog boy. In reality, however, you’re the son of knight. You’re strong and handsome, just as Parzival was. Even more importantly you’re not entirely ignorant on the use of arms or of your heritage.”

“Maybe that’s so,” Cord said slowly. “But I’m real, not a person in a story.”

Henri violently shook his head. “All stories have some basis in fact, Cord. The fact is that determined men, especially those of noble blood, can become knights if they so choose and let nothing stand in their way. You, Cord, can be such a man. But you must set your face in that direction and never turn back.”

“How can I possibly become a knight?” Cord asked in a sarcastic tone. “Where is the present day King Arthur who will knight me?”

Henri asked, “Do you truly need a king when you have the Lady Alice de Mowbray?”

“I don’t understand,” Cord said. “Alice can’t knight me.”

“Free Alice and marry her, Cord. Then you’ll have the money you need to buy as many hauberks, swords and destriers as you desire.”

Cord sat back stunned. What Henri said was insane. “I could never marry her. I’m not a—”

“But of course you can marry her,” Henri said, interrupting. “You’re noble born. First, however, you must free her from captivity.”

Cord shook his head. “That’s a base reason to help someone.”

“Nonsense,” Henri said. “It’s a purposeful and helpful reason. There is none better.”

Cord wrung his hands. “This is silly. Firstly, Alice de Mowbray would never consent to marry a dog boy. That’s what I am, you know? Secondly, it’s impossible to free her. She’s stuck up in the tower, guarded by armored sergeants utterly loyal to Guy. Thirdly, no one would ever dub me even if I were able to do all of the other things. So you see, your advice if folly, the fluff of minstrels.”

Henri studied Cord. He finally nodded, then made a sad face and said, “Poor, poor Cord. Oh, poor, little Cord the weakling dog boy. Everybody treats him shabbily. All he can do is crawl on his belly for the evil knights. And if they scowl at him fiercely enough he might even piss himself like a terrified little dog.”

Cord roared as he leapt up and grabbed Henri by the lapels of his coat, hoisting him up against the post. “I’ll break your head for that!”

Henri grinned down at Cord in a frozen smile. “That’s it, dog boy, pummel the little minstrel. That’ll show everyone what a man you are. Yes, that’ll show Philip you’re someone to reckon with.”

Cord snarled, and the kennel dogs barked and growled with rage. But he let go of Henri and turned his back on him. Soon Cord shouted at the hounds, and he even picked up a bucket and threw water at one particular hound that wouldn’t listen to his commands. The hounds quit barking. They’d never see their master like this, and it appeared to scare them.

With the bucket in hand, Cord ground his teeth together at his impotence. He trembled with rage and shame and with the sick knowledge that he couldn’t do a thing about any of it. He almost turned around to beat Henri with the bucket.

Small Henri put his hand on Cord’s shoulder. “Listen to me, Cord,” the minstrel said in a low and intent whisper. “The Lady Alice de Mowbray has strong feelings for you. Believe me, I understand women. If you fan those feelings, you might even be able to turn them into love. She knows you’re a knight’s son. And she was excited before about the idea of you traveling alone with her to Gareth Castle. She took a haughty tone with you only when you foolishly refused to escort her.”

Henri chuckled softly, to himself perhaps. “She thought that she hid those feelings from me. But I’m a minstrel and I understand love, even if such feelings are myths and illusions.”

Cord said nothing, although he stopped trembling. A bit of the impotence seemed to have drained away.

“You’ve lived with a dream, Cord, the dream of becoming a forester and marrying Bess. Now that dream has been shattered. Very well. Let it go, completely. But remember this. While you had that dream you acted decisively.”

Cord still said nothing.

“Why wallow away the rest of life as a dog boy?” Henri asked. “You’re the one who slew Old Sloat. You’re the one who trains fierce hounds better than any man alive. Do you think any lowborn lout could do that? Only a man who is really a knight at heart could do those things. Only a Parzival, you see, could have done all the things you’ve done.”

With a perplexed frown, Cord turned and asked the minstrel, “Why are you so insistent about all this?”

Henri gave Cord a mocking grin. “Aye, why does little Henri believe in all this nonsense, eh? Everything is myth and illusion anyway.” Henri thrust out his jaw. “Maybe I’ve wandered the world because I’ve been searching for the perfect knight and the perfect lady.” He laughed harshly. “I’ve seen treachery, deception, cruelty and downright baseness from so-called nobility. But….” Henri took a deep breath. “I went to Greenland and back for a unicorn’s horn. I went there to find a unicorn to bring back to my ladylove. But I found in Greenland something utterly different. And it all turned into ashes once I went back to Normandy and to my ladylove’s castle. However, for all that I still had a unicorn’s horn.”

Henri stepped up. “Don’t you see, everything isn’t quite myth and illusion. I…I mean…” The small minstrel took another long, slow breath. He no longer peered into Cord’s eyes, but looked off into the distance. “Maybe there is such a thing as good knights. And maybe there really is a Parzival, or a blood and guts human who rises above his situation in life. I…I want to see that. I want to know that there’s more to life than myths and illusions.”

Cord’s thoughts were in turmoil. The minstrel was deeper than he’d realized. It also touched him deeply that such a thinker, such a knowledgeable man strove with him to try to make him achieve something noble. Henri wasn’t just a wandering minstrel, a vagabond who simply chased loose women. No, underneath lay something more.

Something suddenly jarred Cord. “Where did you get that book?”

Henri picked up the book. It was titled, Reynard the Fox. “It’s Alice’s.”

“When did you get it?”

“This morning.”

“You’re allowed up into the living quarters?” Cord asked in surprise.

“I’m summoned in order to tell Richard tales in order to drive away his boredom.”

“Ahhh.”

“I spoke quietly to Alice,” Henri added. “She slipped me the book when I requested it. You see, I told her we’d help her escape.”

“You what?”

“She thinks that we’re going to help her,” Henri said. “She’s desperate. Sir Philip has been making lewd hints to her, and she thinks that Sir Guy has already told Philip that he’ll let him marry her. I told her that I’d need the book in order to convince you that she truly wants our help.”

Cord sat down heavily on an upturned bucket. Slowly, he took his father’s signet ring out of his pouch. Without a word, he slipped it back onto his finger. The moment he did so, he felt grand. It came to him that ever since he’d taken off the ring he’d felt defeated and impotent. Then it came to him as well that when he tried to achieve something, like slaying Old Sloat, like helping Alice escape, like binding Richard’s wounds, that he felt good. But when he did nothing but feel sorry for himself, then he was miserable.

So if I try to become a knight I should feel greater than ever, he thought to himself. When he had been thinking that way before, he had felt great.

He sat straighter, and said, “Let me ask you something. How does one keep up one’s resolve?”

“Ah, an excellent question. Yes, a wise question in fact.” Henri tapped his teeth together, soon saying, “I suppose by telling yourself that quitting won’t be allowed. That no matter what, that you’ll see your decision through.” Henri paused, and then added thoughtfully, “And I suppose by having one single goal. By putting that single, hard to achieve goal up before you and striving for it with all your strength. By making that goal the most important thing in your life. By making the goal you. Yes, that’s how you keep up your resolve.”

Cord laughed, clapping Henri on the shoulder so he staggered the smaller man. “Remind me, before I ask you anything again, that you’re the longest-winded minstrel I know.”

Henri grinned, and there was nothing wry or self-mocking about it. “Do I tell Alice we’re going to help her?”

“Yes.”

“And do you plan on marrying her?” Henri asked.

“As to that I can’t say. But surely if I help her then she’ll turn around and help me. Surely it’s proper to think that way?”

“Yes, very proper,” Henri said.

“I mean, it isn’t grasping or ignoble, is it?”

“No, never,” Henri said. “For it will be in her interest as well to help you become a knight. She’ll need knights more than ever once she’s free.”

“Yes,” Cord said. “I can see that.”

“So what do you plan?” Henri asked.

Cord’s smile drained away, and soon he sat back on his bucket. “Next time you see her,” he said, “you should ask her if she has any ideas.”

“I will. But for now let’s cudgel our wits. Surely we can think of something.”

Cord grunted, which could have meant anything.

-5-

Sir Philip snarled. Guy had been putting him off, saying that it wasn’t yet time to announce the betrothal of Lady Alice de Mowbray to him, Sir Philip Talbot of Tarn Tower. Nor had Philip enjoyed the spectacle of Guy’s sergeants smashing open Alice’s chests. The confiscated silver should, by rights, have belonged to him (or it soon would have belonged to him) not to the sickly scarecrow of a baron-to-be. If that wasn’t bad enough, now he sat in the armory listening to the complaints of Jack Hangman.

Jack Hangman, who was often referred to as Pellinore’s hangman, was a mousy little man with dolefully sad eyes and only wisps of blond hair to cover his baldness. His small shoulders were permanently hunched and his upper lip tended to suck into his mouth as he talked. Years ago a prisoner went berserk and knocked out most of Jack’s upper front teeth. Luckily, a man-at-arms had rushed in and killed the prisoner before more harm could occur. Jack Hangman wore a distinct yellow gown as befitted his station and was one of the most shunned persons in the fief.

Jack was Pellinore’s official executioner. He administered any tortures, was the head jailer, used his heavy, one-sided axe at beheadings and slipped on the rope at hangings. His father had been Pellinore’s hangman before him, and for a wife his father had been forced to marry a different fief’s hangman’s daughter. By custom, and one scrupulously followed in most of Western Europe, hangmen and their children could only marry those from other hangmen families. For all that, food and lodging was assured because of their trade and the work was never backbreaking.

The light was dim down here in the armory, which was on the ground floor of the tower. The only way in and out of the armory was through a trap door that led up to the Great Hall above. A torch gave crackling illumination, while several bundles of spears lay to one side and several caskets of crossbow bolts to the other. In the only other room on the ground floor were vats of boiled and heavily salted pork, barrels of smoked herring and countless tubs of cabbage and turnips. That particular room was the storage room, the food there only to be used in winter or during a siege.

Jack had wished to speak privately with Philip. Philip had consented and now sat on a low-built barrel. The dungeon was below the armory, and was built underground in solid rock. The locked door leading down to the dungeon was hidden in the shadows to Philip’s far right.

“Slow down,” Philip told the excited hangman. “You’re speaking so fast I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

Mousy Jack Hangman nodded quickly, something that was entirely unlike him. Usually he moved deliberately and spoke only in monosyllable sentences. Now his small hands twitched and his mouth quivered with indignation. Thus, as he spoke, he sucked in his upper lip to such a degree that he made his words unintelligible.

“He took away my keys, milord,” Jack lisped, finally slowing his speech enough to be understood. “He said he didn’t want the prisoner’s words scattered throughout the castle. You know me, milord. Old Jack Hangman never speaks to anybody but his wife. I would never repeat secrets the Baron wanted quiet.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure that’s true,” Philip said. “Now what I think—”

“It isn’t right, milord!” Jack interrupted. “He can’t take old Jack’s keys! He can’t keep me out of my own dungeon!” Jack Hangman turned a bright red as a vein on his forehead throbbed and as his voice reached a higher pitch than Philip had thought possible.

“Easy, man. Calm yourself,” Philip said.

“How can I be calm, milord?” Jack sputtered. “I’m the hangman, aren’t I?”

“Of course you are.”

“I’ve never lost a prisoner, milord. Never!”

“I know you haven’t.”

“So why has my dungeon been taken away from me, milord? Why has that damn Gascon been given the keys?”

Sir Philip nodded sympathetically. That stupid fool Guy had gone too far this time. He’d given Jack Hangman’s duties, or that of the dungeon, to his Gascon mercenary he’d brought from Gareth Castle. Didn’t Guy know that one didn’t upset the old castle servitors that way? Of course, it was all because of Sir Lamerok of Dun. Guy didn’t let anyone but Aldora or his mercenary Gascon crossbowman near Sir Lamerok. Philip hated that, too. It had originally been his plan to pump Jack Hangman for information later this week.

“Do you know what I heard?” Jack asked with growing anger. “That damn Gascon has thumbscrews. Thumbscrews, milord!” Jack made an inarticulate hiss of rage. “What good are thumbscrews when we have the best rack for miles around? I tell you, milord, no fief in the Western Marches can match our rack. Baron Hugh bought the very best, and no one can use it as well as me. If Sir Guy wants the prisoner to speak, then the prisoner should be left in my care, not in the damn Gascon’s!” Spittle flew from Jack’s mouth, so great was his excitement.

“I quite agree, Hangman,” Philip said solemnly. “Yes, I quite agree.”

“What are you going to do, milord? You’re the seneschal, and you’re his uncle to boot. Surely you can make Sir Guy see reason.”

“Hmmm.”

“Otherwise….”

Sir Philip raised his bushy eyebrows. “Otherwise what, Hangman?”

Jack wrung his hands and sucked in his upper lip. “Oh, milord, I’m at wits end. I can’t even go into my own dungeon. What’s a hangman supposed to do?”

Sir Philip laid one of his huge hands on Jack’s shoulder. “I’ll settle things. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. You always were a good servant. I know of several times when I heard the old baron say so.”

Tear dribbled out of Jack’s sad eyes. “Bless you, Sir Philip. Oh, bless you. You’re a knight of the old ways. A proper gentlemen, you is.”

Philip nodded compassionately. If done right, with old Jack administering the tortures, he’d soon learn what Guy so desperately wanted to know from Sir Lamerok. Yes, now it was a good thing that Guy had smashed Alice’s chests. For a new lord could only do so many improper things. Surely, he could make Guy understand that.

***

It had finally stopped raining. After two days, Philip was heartily sick of being cooped up in the castle. A moldy wet odor now pervaded most of the tower and at times, a wicked draft had stirred up the latrine smells below, enough so one gagged. Therefore, Philip was glad when Sir Guy followed Lady Eleanor, his mother, out to the garden.

Philip didn’t bother to pin on a cape, chilly as it was, although he buckled on his huge and heavy sword. It clanked satisfactorily as he strode toward the drawbridge. His clanking sword heralded his coming so the busy peasants, the grooms and stable boys, the dog boys and smiths, the pig herders and cow hands, the laughing maidens, the playing children could one and all straighten up as he approached and give him a respectful bow as he passed. He didn’t see the sulking Cord anywhere. He’d noticed that the chief dog boy had stayed carefully out of his way since the incident with Guy. Cord the fool, he’d been so easy to set up. It had been so easy to get him to talk about killing Old Sloat and witnessing Baron Hugh’s death. By now, most of the castle folk knew about Guy’s aversion to such words, about the madness that overtook him when they were spoken aloud.

Philip chuckled as he tramped over the drawbridge and toward the barbican. Cord would never be the forester, nor would he ever marry sweet little Bess Miller. The ghost of Tostig would be crushed with brutal thoroughness. But he mustn’t hurry this. He wanted to make Cord grovel. He wanted to savor each of Cord’s defeats. He wanted the dog boy to know that life was hopeless and that he, Philip, had caused the terrible wreckage.

“Oh, you’re going to suffer, Tostig. You’re going to pay me a thousands times for what you did,” Philip whispered to himself.

He stopped and wiped away the bead of sweat that had popped across his forehead. Maybe it was better not to think about old Tostig. It only made his bad shoulder throb with pain.

Ever since the joust with Earl Robert de Ferrers of Derby, he’d been careful not to use his sword arm. No one knew that something had torn in his shoulder during the joust. No one must ever know, because in time the muscle would heal, wouldn’t it? Yes, yes, it would heal and then he’d be just as powerful and deadly as ever. But until then he’d have to bluff his way through.

Philip drove out thoughts of Terrible Tostig and his look-alike son and concentrated upon what he’d say to Guy. He let the clank and rattle of his big sword sooth his worries as he headed down the hill.

Sir Guy spoke with his mother down in the castle garden. While old Baron Hugh had controlled the castle and ruled almost all its waking actions, Lady Eleanor had ruled the garden.

Philip drank in the fresh morning smell as he squeezed through the bushes that divided the garden from the practice yard. It was always such a joy to leave the tower and stroll in the garden. He moved under tall old elm trees and upon the carpet of lush green grass that Tom the Gardener kept carefully mowed.

Here the castle folk often came to take their noonday meals. Here one could find the chess players, the dicers, the idlers and those who listened to the lute players and the cheerful minstrels. Tomorrow, if the weather held, Sir Guy would hold the feast and dances out here rather than within the Great Hall. To swirl your partner round and round on the green grass and in the shade of the elms instead of in the dank old Great Hall made a world of difference.

Philip saw Lady Eleanor, Sir Guy and Aldora. They spoke to old Tom the Gardener, over by the rows upon rows of flowers. There were thorny roses, lilies and bright marigolds, and there were poppies, daffodils and acanthus.

Lady Eleanor had sent some of her maids into the fields in search of wild hawthorns and wreathe-woodbines, but the time of year wasn’t right. The garden would have to supply the countless garlands and chaplets for the revelers at tomorrow’s feast. To Philip’s eye, there were more than enough flowers for the occasion. Of course, after tomorrow the garden’s flowers would be woefully denuded.

The other half of the garden swarmed with Eleanor’s maidens and peasant helpers. Lettuce, cresses, mint, parsley, hyssop and fennel were being picked, as well as cucumbers, beets and wormwood. Unfortunately, the cherry trees had long ago been picked clean and the apples weren’t yet ripe. The young maidens and their peasant helpers would bring the garden’s delights to the kitchen for the cooks.

Lady Eleanor’s garden was as important to castle life as the armory, stable and aviary. Pellinore Castle would be a duller and lifeless place without it.

Guy, who wore his red silk coat, frowned as his mother talked. She seemed intent upon instructing him about something that he didn’t wish to hear. Philip hung back. Maybe now wasn’t the time to speak with Guy. Small Aldora happened to turn and nod at him. Philip had a sudden inspiration and motioned Aldora over.

She dutifully shuffled toward him. She wore a red-blue dress and leather boots. A tall hat was fixed to her head and hid her gray hair, but her leathery face and crafty eyes belied the outer changes. She was still the witch woman, the supposed granddaughter of Merlin the Magician. Few in the castle knew what to make of her, so they treated her warily, with grudging respect.

Philip had come to understand that Aldora’s hold over Guy was powerful. He hadn’t forgotten the horrible wooden idol of the demon that apparently plagued Guy. Maybe the best way to convince Guy was to have Aldora suggest it to him first.

“Good day, milady,” Philip said.

Aldora smirked. “A good day, milady, is it? Since when have you taken a liking to me?”

“Since I’ve come to recognize your importance,” Philip said blandly. She seemed too wise in the ways of the world to be taken in by smooth talk. He’d decided for brutal honesty. She’d be easier to trick that way; at least more easily tricked than any other way he could think of.

“What do you want Guy to do for you?” she asked, her dark eyes hard and crafty.

“You’ve divined my intentions, Good Aldora. I do indeed wish you to speak with Guy.”

“For your own profit, no doubt.”

“Yes, no doubt,” Philip said. That she was bold and saucy didn’t trouble him. She had a keen mind. And he was sure that she was of gentle blood, at least that of Welsh ancestry. Like many of the lord marchers to the south, he had a good opinion of the Welsh, quite unlike old Baron Hugh and many of the other marcher knights. Besides, Sir Guy wouldn’t live long. He could therefore endure this bold witch and kill her when the day of vengeance and gathered rewards occurred. Or maybe, if he actually gained the baronage, he could be merciful and send her home with a purse full of silver pennies.

“Well, speak your mind,” she said.

“Sir Guy is rash,” Philip began.

“So you’ve noticed. Good. I was hoping somebody would.”

“Beg pardon?” Philip asked in surprise.

Aldora smirked once more. “No, no, Sir Knight, it’s you who wish to speak to me. Please go on.”

Philip steadied himself by taking hold of his sword pommel. This little Welsh witch was full of surprises. He wondered why she’d so freely joined her fate to Guy’s.

“You said he was rash,” she prompted.

“Er, yes,” Philip said. “I’ve just listened to Jack Hangman. He’s quite upset.”

“Because Gaston the crossbowman took his place?” she asked.

Philip nodded. The Gascon mercenary was a dangerous fellow. He was one of those terrible mercenary crossbowmen, the kind bad King John had used before Runnymede and the signing of the Magna Charta. The Genoese were the best crossbowmen, but the mercenaries out of Gascony, the southern French County under King Henry’s sovereignty, were a close second. Neither crossbowmen nor mercenaries were loved in England these days. The crossbow, as the almost unique tool of mercenaries, had gained odium in Merrie England. In the hands of such professionals as Gaston, they could be terrible weapons, able at close range to penetrate the heaviest knightly mail. Gaston the crossbowman, after Aldora, seemed to be Sir Guy’s closest confidante.

“Jack Hangman is upset,” Philip said. “That isn’t good for castle morale.”

Aldora snorted in a most unladylike fashion. “Who loves the hangman enough to stick up for him?”

“It isn’t that,” Philip said. “The others will see this as an attack to their own positions. They’ll wonder when Sir Guy will do the same to them. You must understand, things will not go well for Guy if he continues to keep the hangman out of the dungeon.”

Aldora shook her head. “I can’t help you there. Guy is unmovable when it comes to Sir Lamerok.”

Philip pursed his lips. “Why go to such extremes? Why not let Jack run his dungeon but have Gaston admit the tortures?”

“That’s out of the question. Sir Guy doesn’t want anyone near Sir Lamerok?”

“May I ask you why?”

The humor left Aldora’s wrinkled old face. “Do you think me daft? If you want to know why then ask Sir Guy. On that subject my mouth is sealed.”

Philip pondered that. “No, it won’t do,” he finally said. “Sir Guy is committing too many blunders. Smashing open Alice’s chests and this will make Sir Walter and the bailiff openly grumble. Sir Guy can’t afford that.”

“He has you, the seneschal. Who more does he need?”

“He needs his knights above all,” Philip said. “After that it is wise to keep his men-at-arms happy. Then he must keep his castle servitors content. Believe me, castles have been lost through less.”

“Lost?” Aldora asked.

“This isn’t the wilds, witch woman, where when danger threatens you scamper away like deer. Here men may have to make a stand and hold off Simon de Montfort and his victorious army. Traitors can easily open castle posterns. Ropes can be thrown down in the middle of the night.”

“What are you saying?”

“Guy must have a secure castle, a secure fief. To start taking away the prerogatives of his chief servants is foolish and stupid. He must win people over, not antagonize them. With a civil war in progress it’s more vital than ever.”

Aldora rubbed her chin. “Yes, as you imply, I’m not used to castle life and its customs. I hadn’t thought this.”

“When did you join Guy?” Philip asked.

She waved aside the question. “Perhaps as you say, the hangman can take on his regular duties. However, only Gaston can torture Lamerok. Guy won’t move on that point.”

“That should suffice for now. Yes, that should keep the hangman from openly grumbling.” Philip intended to stride off. Then he paused and eyed Aldora more closely. He decided to play a hunch. “Once Sir Lamerok tells you where the gold is hidden, you’ll need trusty swordsmen to help you carry it back to a place of safety.”

For a moment, Aldora’s eyes widened in surprise. “Who told you—” Then she clamped her mouth shut. “Ah, you’re sly, Sir Philip. Who would have thought it from such a brute of a knight?”

“Consider what I’ve said, and let Sir Guy consider it as well.”

Aldora remained tight-lipped.

Philip grinned, adding, “I think Lamerok is proving too stubborn for Gaston. When you realize you’d have to kill Lamerok to apply enough torture to make him talk, then come to me. I’ve a way for prying secrets out of honorable knights.”

“So have I,” Aldora said in a menacing tone.

“I believe you.” He nodded. “A good day to you, then.”

She hobbled back to Sir Guy.

Philip grinned tightly. It appeared Lamerok knew the whereabouts of hidden gold. Why otherwise hadn’t Guy handed Lamerok to de Ferrers for ransom? It would make sense then why Breton pirates were interested in freeing Lamerok. Maybe the Scottish knight knew the location of piles of gold!

Philip’s grin grew into a bold smile. At last, Lady Luck was shining on him. It was a good feeling, one he planned to enjoy for a long time.

-6-

“Alice says yes,” Henri said. The minstrel had just come from the tower, having been there to tell Richard another tale.

“You’re absolutely certain she’ll be allowed there?” asked Cord. He knelt by the well as he brushed one of the expensive bloodhounds.

“I just said so.”

“You asked her directly?”

“Calm down. Otherwise, people are going to be able to tell something’s afoot.”

Cord couldn’t calm down. He was terrified, so he brushed the bloodhound too hard. She whined. “Sorry, girl,” he whispered. He rose, gave her a pat to let her go and touched a sack tied to his belt. “Come on,” he told Henri.

“Where to?”

“I told the cook I’d catch him twenty frogs. For that, he’s going to give me a flagon of wine. I’m going to use the flagon to bribe Edgar.”

“Whose Edgar?” asked Henri, hurrying to keep up.

“The Steward’s helper.”

“He’s not suspicious?”

Cord shook his head. “I told him I needed it to rope off my hounds, for the watchdogs. I told him Sir George requested it.”

“This Edgar might check your story and find out you’re lying.”

“Edgar’s running too many chores for the Steward to worry about that. Besides, Sir George lost a warhorse two years ago to thieves. It’d be like him to ask for guard dogs.”

They entered the gatehouse, nodding to the men-at-arms on duty. As they slipped toward the moat, Cord noticed that it would soon be dark. Beyond the moat, Sir George and his men erected the big tent Guy had lent him.

The tower’s living quarters was packed with Pellinore Fief’s visiting nobility. Old Baron Hugh hadn’t directly controlled the entire fief. About half the fief had been parceled out to various knights. For instance, Sir Philip of Tarn Tower had a castle in Tarn Fief, which in legal terms was a part of the greater Pellinore Fief. Philip could just as easily lived in his tower as in Pellinore Castle, but for his own reasons he’d chosen ago to live with Hugh. Sir George didn’t have a castle or a tower but a strongly built manor house at the extreme west of Pellinore Fief. He’d been one of Baron Hugh’s lesser vassals. Other such vassals had already arrived at Pellinore Castle and taken up quarters in the tower. The Great Hall was filled with its regular occupants and the Gareth men-at-arms, some of the Gareth peasant levy and the entourages of various vassals. Even the castle yard was being used, with the lowest ranked people sleeping under the stars.

Therefore, Sir George and his retainers had gladly taken Guy up on the use of his big red tent. More people would arrive tomorrow morning and then the castle would be bursting with folk. The weather looked good. And hopefully, for the dance and feast tomorrow, it wouldn’t rain.

Sir George’s men-at-arms hoisted the pavilion in the practice yard, the area where knights jousted and squires charged the quitain. Cord and Henri worked their way to the lowest part of the moat. Already a frog croaked in anticipation of tonight’s chorus. Once the sun set frogs and crickets would start making noise.

Cord pulled off his boots, his breeches and shirt and tested his stick by swishing it back and forth. “Ready?” he asked.

“I haven’t done this since I was a kid in Normandy,” Henri said.

“Bring back old memories?”

Henri nodded glumly.

Gingerly, the two of them parted reeds and waded into the scummy water as they started hunting frogs.

“I still think we should have sounded out some of the Gareth people,” Henri said. “I bet there’s a few who’d have helped us.”

“How would you have asked them?” said Cord.

“Easily. Start a conversation and see how they feel about Alice’s imprisonment.”

“I haven’t heard any of them grumbling about it. And believe me, I’ve been listening for it.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Henri said, as he whacked a frog.

“At the very least it means that they don’t want to be heard grumbling. And if that’s so, then they’re surely not going to trust Pellinore’s chief dog boy enough to spill his guts to him.”

Henri grunted as he swung his stick. “You may have a point.”

“Or maybe the Gareth people don’t care,” Cord said, who opened his sack so Henri could drop in his catch. “Sir Thomas accepted the position of castellan easily enough. And if anyone should have balked at what Guy’s doing to Alice it would have been Sire de Mowbray’s oldest friend.”

“Sir Thomas’ action makes one pause,” Henri agreed.

“It makes me wonder how likely the other Gareth folk will take to Alice, if and when we bring her there.”

“You worry too much.”

Cord laughed sourly. “Only because it’s my head if I fail.” He lowered his stick and stared at Henri. “This scheme is mad. We don’t have a chance.”

Henri clutched Cord’s forearm with a muddy hand. “You’re a stick-in-the-mud Saxon, a plodder. The idea of doing something exciting drives you wild with fear. Lucky for us, Pellinore’s people are the same way. No one will think anyone here is mad enough to do what we’re planning.” Henri grinned. “Even Chrétien de Troyes would be impressed with us.”

Cord made a face.

“You can’t be a plodding Saxon anymore,” Henri said. “Think like a Viking, one of those adventurous pirates of old.”

“How so?”

“We have to dare. We have to tread boldly into the lion’s den. The old Vikings had that kind of courage, and so do the best knights. If we succeed, our names will become bywords in the Western Marches and England. Kings and princes admire such daring because few men have it. Kings and princes will dub such men and make them knights.”

“We hope,” Cord said.

“Bah! Be bold! Be courageous! Tell yourself you’ll only be surprised if you fail!”

“Why do I have the feeling I’m going to be easily surprised tomorrow?”

Henri poked Cord with his stick. “All we have is our boldness. Therefore we have to ram it to the hilt.”

Cord saw the wisdom of that. He grinned, and that eased some of his tension. Why try half way? He was finished in Pellinore. And he was the one who had slain Old Sloat! That was something he was going to tell himself repeatedly until this was over. Ram it to the hilt. Yes, he was going to do exactly that. He was going to rub it in their faces.

“See those horses?” he asked Henri.

Henri nodded at Sir George’s horses. The stables in the castle yard were full, so ropes had been used to fence off an area near the pavilion. There Sir George and his men hobbled their destriers and palfreys. There two of Sir George’s men prowled on duty, mindful of what had once happened to their master.

“We’re going to ride out on those horses tomorrow,” vowed Cord.

Henri clapped him on the back. “Now you’re thinking like a knight: bold, daring and outrageous.”

They climbed out of the moat as the bloated sun sank into the horizon. Cord took the first bucket of clean water he’d brought along and dumped it over Henri. The small minstrel did likewise for him with the second bucket. Then they dried off, put on their clothes and headed back into the castle with their frogs.

“Are you playing for the dance tomorrow?” asked Cord.

Henri nodded before adding, “You should try to dance with as many girls as you can. And smile a lot, and pretend to drink a lot.”

“Why?”

“So later at night if someone sees you in the yard they won’t be suspicious. They’ll have seen you having a good time and assume that you’ve adjusted to not being forester, if they think about you at all.”

Cord stopped Henri. “I’m starting to enjoy this,” he said in surprise.

“You feel alive, yes?”

Cord gave the small minstrel a feral grin and then headed to the kitchen.

-7-

Alice couldn’t sleep. She didn’t toss and turn or clutch her stomach. She didn’t pull her long blonde hair or twirl it around her fingers as she fretted. She didn’t dread the coming marriage with Sir Philip that she’d heard others whispering about, nor had she flinched whenever the awful Guy leered at her. Nor had she shrank back when Aldora tried to give her the Evil Eye. Yes, she considered the tiny pruned-up Welsh woman as Satan’s own. Alice de Mowbray had done none of those things because rage consumed her.

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 him 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 was 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.

Guy made a smooth gesture.

The huge bog-knight Sir Philip Talbot strode upon the Spanish rug and with a clank stiffly knelt upon his armored knees. He placed his huge horny hands with their hairy knuckles in Guy’s slender shaking ones.

“I am your man, Sir Guy,” Philip loudly said. “You are my liege.”

Guy nodded and worked his way to his feet, as Philip did to his. Cord thought to see Philip blanch, but then the giant knight’s face tightened and closed up. Guy clasped Philip and the two kissed on the lips. It was an ancient custom and showed everyone, and both men, that they were on the same plane of friendship. It also dignified Philip’s act of subordination and showed everyone present that it was as a knight that Philip had done homage, not as a servile peasant. It was to gain Philip’s fighting prowess that Guy had accepted the huge knight. Never again would Philip need to do homage, but the next act would be repeated throughout the years.

As Guy sat back, Philip turned and Father Bernard came forward. In the Father’s hands was a black, leather-clad Bible. It was a huge Bible and seemed difficult for Father Bernard to hold.

Philip put his right hand on the Bible and made his oath of fealty. This oath, made on the Holy Word of God, was an act that most lords made their liegemen take each year. It was an oath of loyalty, and because it had been taken in God’s sight, it was more biding than otherwise.

Once Philip had taken the oath of fealty, Sir Guy whispered, “As my man, please accept this token.” Guy nodded to Sergeant Reynard. Reynard solemnly stepped forward and gave Philip a spear with a silver head.

Philip took the spear and made to step back.

Guy raised his hand and the herald said, “Please tarry a moment longer, Sir Philip.”

Philip stopped, standing motionless before his liege.

Guy whispered to the herald. The herald raised his trumpet and blasted a mighty peal. “Hear ye! Hear ye! The honorable Baron Guy de Clare wishes to inform his assembled court that on this day he promises the Lady Alice de Mowbray’s hand in marriage to Sir Philip Talbot of Tarn Tower. The wedding will take place a fortnight from today, and after the wedding Sir Philip will become the Banneret of Gareth Fief.”

A gasp rose from the assembled throats. This was a mighty gift indeed. Cord swayed with shock. Then he searched for a sign from Alice. She hadn’t moved, but stood straight with her shoulders squared. Her face, normally lightly tanned, had turned a pasty white color.

To escape now became paramount. The price of failure would correspondingly be more savage. A simple hanging might not please Philip’s wrath. Cord knew it was within Philip to have him placed on the rack and ‘stretched’ to death for trying to spirit away his betrothed.

“You honor me, milord,” Philip said in a thick voice.

Guy accepted the praise and then motioned subtlety.

Philip stepped back, turned and worked his way toward Alice. Sir Walter now stepped forward to do homage to his lord and then make his oath of fealty.

In this time-honored fashion, Sir Guy bound his father’s old vassals to himself, and Sir Guy made himself in all but name the new Baron of Pellinore Fief.

After all the knights had given homage and taken their oaths of fealty, some of the more important freeholders came forward. Sir Guy gave them no kiss after they’d done homage, but simply accepted them as his men.

Cord wondered if Sir Guy would give Rhys ab Gruffydd the kiss of friendship. Rhys was a Welsh noble and might take it as an insult if he didn’t receive the kiss. Rhys wasn’t a knight, although he probably considered himself a worthy fighting man just the same. The Welsh could be monstrously picky about their rights.

Cord saw the bluff Welshman in the crowd below. Beside him was his beautiful wife Gwen. She wore a fine white linen dress with a golden belt and a fur-lined jacket of silk. Her flaming red hair, kept in a golden net, added to her pale beauty. Beside her, the burly Rhys seemed more like her attendant than her husband. He wore a leather coat, bluff breeches and boots of excellent workmanship. Perhaps in lieu of costly garments he had tied blue silk ribbons to his forked beard. With his long nose and intense eyes and the proud way in which he held himself, Rhys seemed fully as noble as any of the knights. He also wore a thick silver chain over his coat, surely worth as much as many of the knightly garments.

It was already an insult that Rhys hadn’t been called. He was more than a mere freeholder, but a vassal who brought fighting men to his lord’s summons.

The herald at last called out, “Rhys ab Gruffydd of Stony Hills!”

Cord watched the stocky Welshman and his wife work their way through the crowd. Suddenly Rhys stopped. He stared at small Aldora. She touched her bone-white torc and stared back at Rhys as she mumbled.

Rhys whispered to his wife. Gwen crossed herself and took a step back.

Guy motioned to his herald.

The herald, with his deep voice, called out to Rhys, “Why does your wife dishonor your homage?”

Rhys’ intense eyes blazed and his beard seemed to bristle. With his right hand on the hilt of his dagger, he interposed himself between Aldora and his wife.

Guy whispered again.

The herald roared, “What is the meaning of this?”

Rhys pointed at Aldora. “She…she lays the Evil Eye upon my wife! Command her to stop or I’ll cut out her heart!”

Shocked silence filled the hall. Then a roar of fear and bewilderment rose from many throats.

Aldora glared at Gwen. Gwen shrieked and shrank back from Aldora. Rhys ab Gruffydd roared and jerked out his dagger. He launched himself at the tiny Welshwoman. The two sergeants in polished armor fell upon Rhys and bore him to the floor. In moments, they hauled him back up before Sir Guy, each warrior struggling to hold one of Rhys’ stocky arms behind his back.

“Why did you attack Aldora?” the herald shouted.

“You fools!” Rhys roared. He struggled, but the two big warriors held him tightly. “She’s one of the Old Woman of Bones!”

Aldora rose like a snake and pointed a shaking finger at Rhys. “Silence!”

Rhys flinched and struggled even more fiercely than before. The two big sergeants staggered backward with their prisoner but they didn’t let go.

People began to scream.

The herald blew his silver trumpet, and for a moment people listened.

“The Welshman speaks lies!” the herald shouted. “He seeks to defame a friend of Lord Guy’s.”

“I don’t be a lair!” Rhys shouted back, his face red with rage. “I know one of the Old Women of Bones when I lay eyes upon her. She comes from Anglesey, the Isle of Anglesey. Aye, there the last Druids with their bloodstained hands went down. Upon their ruins rose the Old Women of Bones. Ask her! Ask her if they don’t push the heads of sacrificial men into silver bowls and drown them to please their dark devil Teutates. Aye! That’s how they give the souls of the damned to their evil master!”

“Speak no more!” Aldora shrieked.

Rhys ab Gruffydd fell silent, his face no longer red but pale and his body trembling in obvious fear.

Gwen ab Gruffydd didn’t stay silent. She sprang up beside her husband like a she-wolf and pointed a level finger at Aldora. “They chain their prisoners together and use them like cattle in their secret lairs. They search out the old terrors that they may once more bring forth the wicked ways of Taranis, Teutates and Esus. They heap damned souls on pyres and burn them in sacrifice to their hideous masters.” Gwen spat at Aldora, “We know you, Old Woman of Bones! Flee! Run away! Go back to the hole from whence you came, or these good people of God will string you up like the evil witch you are!”

Incredibly, Aldora shrank from Gwen.

“Enough of these lies!” bellowed the herald. Sir Guy had whispered into his ear.

Gwen turned to Guy. “Curse you, Sir Guy, for consorting with witches. Only death can come from that!”

Guy clutched the herald’s shirt and whispered more harshly.

The herald bellowed, “Rhys ab Gruffydd will be thrown into the dungeon for both his and his wife’s lies!”

“No!” Gwen howled. “Don’t leave him for the Old Woman of Bones!”

“The wild woman, this evil witch who has corrupted Rhys ab Gruffydd’s mind, will join him!” the herald shouted. “Tomorrow Sir Guy will hold court and decide what should be done with the two of them.”

“Burn them!” shouted a woman in the crowd.

“Kill the witches!” shouted someone else.

“Kill all three of them just to be sure!” roared a man.

A loud chorus of yells rose up in agreement.

“Silence!” roared the herald. “His lordship will decide tomorrow what should be done. Today, however, is a day of rejoicing. Let there be no more talk of witches or killing. All must now fall silent while Father Bernard prays for our protection.”

The two sergeants dragged Rhys from the Great Hall and to the trap door that led down to the armory and then to the dungeon. With them went the dour Gascon mercenary. All could see that he carried the big dungeon keys on his belt. Two other men-at-arms dragged the raging and now even more beautiful, or at least Cord thought, Gwen ab Gruffydd. Husband and wife would wait out the feast down in the dark, waiting for tomorrow for the trail of witchcraft.

Cord, and perhaps many others here, was certain that the wrong people had been dragged to the dungeon. Aldora was the witch, or the Old Woman of Bones, as Rhys had said. It was an evil title, and Cord no longer wondered what the torc on Aldora’s throat was. It was bone-colored and surely was a bone of some kind. He noticed that Aldora had deftly taken off the torc and hidden it.

Cord shivered with superstitious fear, but he drew calm as Father Bernard prayed for protection from the powers of Satan and his evil minions. Nor did Father Bernard pray quickly. He prayed sonorously, in a commanding voice, and he prayed long enough so people lost their fear of the supposed witches. At last, when Father Bernard was done, calm had returned to the Great Hall.

When the herald shouted that everyone must file out and join Sir Guy on the green for dancing, a loud shout and then applause filled the Great Hall.

-9-

The throng of gentry and commoners drummed over the drawbridge and hurried to the tall elms of the garden. There on the soft green grass, in the morning shade, Sir Guy took the hand of his mother and kissed it.

The throng applauded.

Sir Guy motioned to the herald. Soon the barrel-built gray-hair bellowed the instructions. The assembled folk filed past tables set up with slices of bread and sweet strawberry jam. Even old shepherds and grubby soap-boilers had enough sense not to grab more than two slices and cram them into their mouths. The coming feast would be the proper time for gluttony. Sir Guy simply wished everyone to have some food in them before the furious dancing started. It would still be some time before the main feast. He didn’t want folk fainting on him for lack of food.

Soon the herald blew his trumpet, and with the gentry in front and the common folk behind formed a vast semicircle as they faced the elms. In front of the host stepped Lady Alice de Mowbray and huge Sir Philip Talbot. Henri also stepped forward. He wore fine linen clothes and a bright green cape. Bells were fixed to the outrageously curled toes of his shoes. The bells jingled each time he took a step. In Henri’s hands were his viol and bow.

Small Henri bowed first to Lady Alice, then to huge Sir Philip. “I will play a galliard,” he said.

Alice and Philip nodded.

Henri thereupon slowly sawed his bow across the strings of his viol and began to play a stately and formal tune.

The galliard was an intricate dance, one that only the well-trained nobility knew. Both Alice and Philip preformed the dance with expertise, if a trifle woodenly. They faced once another, and to the music they advanced and bowed and then retired in ever increasingly complicated maneuvers. At last, Philip bowed to Alice for good and took her by the hand, leading her off the green.

The people cheered. Even Cord clapped and whistled with the best of them. The galliard had been well done, better than he’d ever seen. From the concentrated look on Alice’s face, he’d seen that she’d enjoyed the dance. And why not? Dancing was fun, much better than sitting in the tower doing nothing.

Cord found that despite all the dangers that would descend upon him tonight, at the moment, he was excited. He loved feasts and dances. He decided to enjoy himself this last time. After tonight, he’d be a hunted man, maybe never again able to enjoy such a grand occasion.

Sir Thomas, the castellan of Gareth Castle, now stepped forth. Approaching him in her beautiful dress, minus the long train, came plump Lady Martha. Her dark hair had been tucked under her tall cone hat, and everyone could see that she wore dainty white gloves.

Henri now played a faster tune. This was the tourdion. It was similar to the galliard, but the tourdion was faster with more violent motions. Both Lady Martha and Sir Thomas danced well, and the people began to clap in time with Henri’s song. At last, Sir Thomas bowed and took a perspiring Lady Martha back to the table for a glass of wine.

Sir Guy stepped forward again with the herald and opened the dancing to all. There was a general cheer and a rush to grab partners. From now on there would be no trained dancing.

The nobles were given the best dancing area, but the others were allowed to dance as well. When Henri played again, each couple took each other’s hands and began to twirl and dance in a circle. As Henri increased his playing, the dancers stamped their feet and danced faster and harder. It was a laughing, cheering and singing throng that swirled around and around and around with their partner. At last, the music stopped as several couples fell to the ground in an exhausted heap.

People rose and went to the side to recover, while the younger folk shouted for Henri to play again. He bowed and stepped aside for another minstrel. This minstrel didn’t play as well, but soon the dancers didn’t care. They were absorbed with dancing, a passion with most of them.

Cord danced several times, but interspersed his bouts on the green. He didn’t want to exhaust himself so that by tonight he’d be worthless. Still, he recalled Henri’s advice and smiled with the best of them. It wasn’t hard when the castle scullions who had been eyeing him for some time but who had been held back by the knowledge that he wooed Bess now pestered him to dance. It was fun to hold their soft hands, stare into their bright eyes and twirl around and around and around as they laughed.

During one of his breaks, he saw Alice standing to the side and frowning at him. He waved. She merely turned and spoke quiet words to the sitting Richard. Then Sarah the castle scullion ran up to him again, her dark hair a mass of gorgeous curls. She pulled him back onto the green and soon they danced with abandon.

When the minstrel finished, Sarah pushed close to Cord’s and pinched him in the stomach. “Do you want to meet later?” she asked breathlessly, her eyes shining as she stared up at him.

“Where?”

She touched his face and peered even more intently into his eyes. “Why not in the kennel once it’s dark?”

He realized that tonight he was going to rescue Alice and escape with her from Pellinore Castle. He stammered a lame reply.

Sarah took away her hand, soon crossed her arms and stamped her foot. “Do you want to meet or not?”

“Well, I, ah…I’d like too,” Cord said.

“Ohhh!” she said. “What do you mean: I’d like too? Will you or not?”

“I can’t tonight.”

“Why not?”

“I, ah….”

“It’s someone else, isn’t it?” she said angrily.

“Well…yes.”

She glared at him, then turned in a huff and pulled young Daner dog boy onto the green.

Cord turned and almost bumped into Alice. She stood with her arms folded and coolly eyed him.

“You are a busy man, aren’t you?” Alice asked in an acid tone.

“Huh?”

“How many midnight meetings are you going to have before you and Henri come for me?”

Cord blinked several times, trying to gather his wits. He’d already had two glasses of wine between dances, but had told himself that he couldn’t have any more.

“You’re worse than your dogs,” Alice said.

“Hey!” he said. “You don’t understand. Henri told me to make sure—”

“Milady!” big Sergeant Reynard said in his sneering way, moving into their circle. “Sir Guy wants you near him. Now.”

Cord glared at Reynard. He didn’t like the way the big Norman talked to Alice.

Reynard, perhaps sensing Cord’s dislike, sneered and asked, “Are you the stupid dog boy they’re always laughing about?”

Cord took in the sergeant’s chainmail armor and the big sword strapped to his side. He’d heard someone say that Sir Guy wanted his two sergeants to stay sober during the feast. That’s why they were armored. They were to act as sheriffs. Cord took in the mean look in Reynard’s eyes. He’d once had a dog with those eyes, a vicious fighter of a hound, one who’d loved to inflict pain.

Reynard jabbed a finger into Cord’s chest. “I don’t like you looking at me. And if I don’t like something, then I do something about it.”

“Oh, let’s go,” Alice wearily told Reynard.

“Shut your mouth, woman!” Reynard snapped.

“You’re a pig,” Cord said, no longer able to contain himself.

The sergeant’s eyes widened, then he growled low in his throat and threw a heavy fist. In an explosion of pain, the fist caught Cord on his right cheek and staggered him backward. His knees buckled and he almost went down.

Alice shouted in outrage.

Cord barely dodged the next blow that came whistling past his ear. He shot out his hands and grappled the heavy fist, trying to fling Reynard to the ground. Men yelled with joy, shouting “Fight! Fight!” With an oath, Reynard shook off Cord’s hands as he stepped back and put his own heavy hand to his sword hilt.

“None of that,” said fat Sergeant Hob, who had moved up. He put his ham-sized hand on Reynard’s shoulder and spun him around, away from Cord.

“Unhand me, cur!”

“Play elsewhere,” Hob said, giving Reynard a shove that staggered the armored sergeant.

Although Hob only wore festive finery, Reynard gave him a squinty, calculating glance. He finally turned with an oath and grabbed Lady Alice by the elbow, and painfully propelled her toward Sir Guy.

Hob watched the clanking Reynard. With a sigh, he turned to Cord. “You’d better stay away from that one. He’s a killer and will eat you for breakfast and spit you out.”

“I’m not afraid of him,” Cord said.

“You’d better be,” said Hob. “Otherwise you’ll soon be dead.”

Cord shrugged mulishly.

Hob shrugged too then, paused as if he wanted to tell Cord something more, then turned and staggered back to the crowed wine table.

Cord tested his face. It hurt, but nothing was broken or bleeding. He decided he didn’t want to think about it. So he went to the wine table where the bailiff stood with the cook. There in measured cups the cook gave wine to whoever asked. The bailiff was there for those who drank too much. That would be for later during the feast. At the moment, the bailiff and Hob argued.

Cord accepted a cup of wine from the cook, went by the tables and sat on a bench. The blow to the face had taken away his festive spirit. He didn’t like Reynard. The man was a bully and a killer, and he’d manhandled Alice.

Cord quaffed wine and leaned back against a table. That’s when he noticed the yellow-clad hangman pull at Philip’s sleeve. Philip turned and listened to the hangman. To Cord’s surprise Philip called over the dour Gascon mercenary. They talked until the mercenary shrugged. Philip shouted and Sir Guy turned his way. Philip pointed at the hangman. Guy rubbed his face, and nodded. The mercenary had witnessed the nod. He nonchalantly gave Philip the dungeon keys from his belt. Philip turned to the hangman and gave him the keys.

Cord didn’t understand any of it so he finished off his wine and relaxed. Finally, after his face stopped throbbing, he decided to go back and dance.

-10-

As noon approached, the dancing died down. Most of the people were exhausted and lay panting in the shade like dogs. Instead of viol playing, the minstrels began to perform tricks. Henri juggled balls, made them disappear to the oohs of the crowd and then found the rag balls as he pulled them out of the vests of Sir George, Sir Walter and giant Sir Philip. The people cheered, clapped and stamped their feet.

Next two minstrels put on masks and preformed a play, a farce about a lecherous peasant asking his priest for forgiveness. The people hooted with laughter, some of them wiping tears from their eyes. Father Bernard watched stiffly, although he made no move to stop the play. In the play, the peasant made a grievous blunder, trying to kiss a girl when the priest wasn’t looking. The actor-priest gave the peasant such a mighty buffet that the lecherous fellow fell unconscious to the sward. Only then did Father Bernard loosen up as he gave a loud shout of approval.

When Henri stood up and spoke his last line—he’d played the part of the lecherous peasant—the herald blasted his silver trumpet. He declared that it was time to begin the feast. The nobility, he said, would retire to Sir Guy’s red pavilion. The commoners would eat under the elm trees and in the shade on the sawhorses and boards provided.

Cord hurried to a choice spot in the shade, bumping against others as everyone rushed to sit down. He knew the fare wouldn’t be as costly or bizarre, not like what was served in the red tent. Stuffed eels were a favorite with the nobles, as well as pig’s tongues or rooster’s combs. There would be lots to eat today, and the wine and beer would flow freely and endlessly.

The sea of sawhorse tables and benches seemed never ending. Cord saw numberless folk he hadn’t seen in years. He waved too many and joked good-naturedly with others. Only Harold Watchman did he turn away from. After the grand feast, some of the leftovers would be sent to the nearer villages for the poor. The usual beggars at the barbican gate wouldn’t go hungry for at least a week. Of course, those with hangovers tomorrow would be vast. Cord was counting on just that. He kept hearing the bailiff or the cook shout for another tun of wine or for a new vat of beer.

Cord thanked a lass who filled his cup with ale. He tasted it and swirled the rich ale in his mouth, swallowing it with a nod. Godale, he decided. This would be Sir Guy’s very best beer, and would surely be in short supply for the common folk. Godale was double strength beer, nor was it spiced up the way many brewers did these days. Ever since the Crusades, some brewers had begun to fill their drinks with juniper, resin or cinnamon. It destroyed the proper taste, but some folk liked it.

Nearly every castle, monastery or village had its own brewery. The East Village made the best beer in Pellinore Fief, although the Bridge Village made some that was just as good in Cord’s opinion.

Cord finished his godale and wondered how to get more. Then he remembered he wasn’t supposed to get drunk today.

Those who had been tired out by the dancing now threw themselves into the feast. People swallowed amazingly huge chunks of roast venison or fistfuls of rolled cabbage or spiced mutton. The foaming beer, after the jump-start with godale, seemed to disappear into endless caverns. Already the rowdier folk roared out songs as they feasted, or they gave hearty buffets to their friends and laughed as the unfortunates almost choked on their food.

Sergeant Reynard spoke to the bailiff. The bailiff followed him into the red pavilion. No doubt, he’d gone to break up a fight between nobles.

Sergeant Reynard wouldn’t be drunk tonight. Sir Guy paid him double wages to stay sober and alert.

Cord tried not to drink too much himself. But the knowledge that this might be his last day on earth battled against his intentions. He poured every third cup of beer under the table. As long as he did that he wouldn’t become drunk, or so he told himself after his second cup. He devoured roast venison and threw down a vast number of spiced eggs. They were delicious and of course had to washed down by more beer.

A vast good feeling filled Cord. Tonight he’d free Alice and then he’d be off to become a knight. He toasted with the hearty fellows beside him, and barely remembered that this was his third cup again. He dashed the beer down under the table and soaked his boots. He was about to swear, when someone tapped him on the shoulder. Cord turned bleary eyes upon a small minstrel who stood behind him, frowning.

“No more, Cord,” Henri whispered into his ear.

“Sure,” Cord slurred. “I’ll drink no more.”

“I can’t believe this,” Henri said in exasperation. “You’ve already drunk too much.”

“No I haven’t.”

“How many cups have you had?”

Cord had to think carefully. “…Seven.”

Henri swore in French and then urged Cord yet again not to drink. “If you do, then we’re as good as dead tomorrow.”

A loud cheer arose from the red pavilion up the hill.

“What’s that?” Cord asked in bewilderment.

Henri made a face. “The squires are bringing in the big pastry.”

“Huh?”

“Small bird pie.”

“Oh,” Cord said. It would be a huge pastry. Inside it would be countless sparrows, starlings and other little birds. To Sir Guy would go the honor of slicing open the pie to let the live birds flutter out. The tent flap would be closed as the castle falconers let their hawks and falcons wing up into the confined spaces. None of the little birds would survive, but would fall bloody and torn onto the tables. The nobles loved such after-dinner entertainment.

“Bugger off,” an old man growled at Henri, who’d accidentally brushed the old man’s back.

“Leave him be,” said Cord, elbowing the old shepherd. He’d watched the thin old man drink cup after cup of wine, eating only a little of the venison. The fool wheezed through his nose in a manner that irritated Cord.

“What’s wrong with you?” the old shepherd growled at Cord, elbowing him back.

Cord shouted, about to wrestle the old shepherd off the bench and onto the ground. This would be just the thing to end a good feast.

“Cord!” Henri shouted, dragging him off the bench.

Cord allowed himself to be pulled back, even though the old shepherd jeered.

“What kind of fool are you?” Henri said, pulling him aside.

“This is my last day,” Cord said. “I wanted to feast, that’s all.”

“But seven cups of beer!”

“I poured out every third one.”

Henri shook his head.

“I’ll be fine by tonight,” Cord assured him.

“No, that isn’t the point. You’re supposed to be sharp, utterly ready.”

Cord finally stopped as Henri dragged him out of sight of the others. He put his big hands on Henri’s shoulders. “Reynard’s guarding Alice,” he said glumly. “I think he’ll be guarding her all night. And he’s not drinking. Those are Sir Guy’s orders.”

“Yes, so?”

Cord shrugged. “So I wanted to drink before I died.”

“Are you afraid of Reynard?”

Cord puffed out his chest. “I’ll destroy him.”

Henri shook his head again.

That made Cord’s head spin.

“Make yourself throw up. That’ll at least get some of the beer out of you.”

“Throw up?” Cord asked.

“Stick your finger down your throat.”

Cord didn’t like the sound of that, but he realized he’d been foolish.

“Over here,” Henri said, pulling him near Lady Eleanor’s rose bushes.

Cord bent low and stuck his finger into his throat. Soon he was groaning, wishing more than ever that he’d had more self-control.

“It just sort of crept up on me,” he tried to explain.

“I know how that can be,” Henri said.

“I…I kept thinking about tonight, about facing Reynard.”

“You slew Old Sloat, didn’t you?”

Cord nodded.

“Then you can defeat Reynard.”

“With just a dagger?”

“Not any dagger. You’ve told me before that it’s a Toledo steel dagger. And look at the size of it. It’s a short sword really.”

Cord nodded as another loud shout arose from the red pavilion.

“That’s probably the last sparrow to die,” Henri said. “Sir Guy will be wanting the minstrels again. I’d better go. Will you be all right?”

Cord nodded.

“No more drinking, right?”

“Right.”

Henri hurried off, while Cord touched the hilt of his dagger. He’d beaten a mercenary arm wrestling in order to win this dagger. Maybe he’d won it for this very night. He grinned. Maybe God had seen to it that he’d won the dagger for this very night in order to face another mercenary, a killer who enjoyed inflicting pain.

With those thoughts, Cord found himself a lonely spot to lie down. He’d rest a short while, then he’d start preparing for tonight. He felt tired and full, and more than a little groggy. Another cheer sounded from somewhere, but by then he was drifting off to sleep.

***

Cord woke with a groan. He felt awful. His head throbbed, his eyes hurt and his right cheek felt tender. He sat up, and he groaned again as his head spun and his stomach threatened to spew its contents. What had he been thinking, drinking wine and beer in the same day? You weren’t supposed to mix those. He was old enough to know that.

He’d been thirsty dancing, he recalled, and the wine had been good. He tried to think back to what Henri had told him before. He’d seen them water the red wine…now he remembered! Sir Guy liked to see people get roaring drunk. Henri had told him earlier that the liquid being used to water the red wine had been white wine. He must have forgotten that in the excitement of all the lovely girls and the dancing. He’d had several cups of wine before sitting down to eat. Then he’d drunk beer like a fool because the wine had already blurred his thinking.

“Throw away every third cup,” he mumbled to himself as he rubbed his forehead. “What a great idea.”

He peered up at the stars. A new feeling made him rise quickly. He undid his breeches and urinated on Lady Eleanor’s rose bushes. Ah, now that felt glorious. Only after he buckled up his breeches did he hear the singing and clapping from the revelers around him. Good, the feast wasn’t over. He hadn’t slept too long.

He began to wander. The moon was high in the sky, so it had been night for a few hours already. That meant more of the beer in him had burned off.

He yelled as he staggered over a man lying in the grass. Cord barely caught himself in time. He turned. The man snored, not minding that he’d been kicked in the side. Cord checked the grounds and saw many a man and woman passed out, drunk out of their minds.

This was better and better. For this was what Henri and he had hoped for. If there were ever a time that someone could be spirited out of a castle, it would be after a major feast when everyone, or almost everyone, was drunk.

A bonfire roared in the practice yard in front of the red pavilion. Cord wandered that way, listening to the crackling logs and feeling the fire’s warmth. Only then did he realize how cold he was. The evening breeze was chilly. A log popped and sent up a shower of sparks. One spark landed on the red tent, but the dew had already fallen and the spark sputtered and died.

Cord heard singing from in the tent as knights and their retainers roared out camp songs. The words were lewd, so Cord assumed that the ladies had already left for the Great Hall.

A shout made him turn. Two men drunkenly lumbered at each other. They hammered one another for a moment, then fell into a heap and were soon laughing and roaring at the stars together.

A familiar bump in the back of his leg made Cord grin with delight. Sebald, his belly looking very full, had finally found him.

“Have you been sleeping, boy?” Cord asked, giving the huge mastiff a friendly shake.

Sebald wagged his tail.

“Let’s go,” Cord told him.

The two walked past the red tent but didn’t head for the gatehouse. Instead, they continued to circle the castle and the moat. At last, they came to the big tower. It was part of the wall and dominated the skyline. Cord tugged Sebald to some bushes twenty feet from the moat. A small rope and a stake lay at the bottom of a particular bush. Cord pushed the stake into the ground, tied the rope to it and to Sebald’s spiked collar.

“You’re going to wait here,” Cord told him.

Sebald wagged his tail again.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Cord turned to leave. Sebald whined and tugged at the rope.

“No, stay,” said Cord.

Sebald whined and tugged again.

“Stay, Sebald!” Cord said.

The huge mastiff peered at him, and then he lay down and put his head on his paws. He looked downhearted.

“I’ll be back as quick as you can blink,” Cord said. He walked to the drawbridge, nodded to bleary-eyed guards and headed straight for the kennel. He avoided drunken louts by keeping his head down and walking fast. A few men sang lewd songs, but most snored in their blissful state.

The first surprise came when Cord ducked through the low door and stepped into the kennel.

“I knew you’d come,” said a woman.

Cord looked up in alarm. Out of the shadows, with a lantern in her hand, came the castle scullion Sarah. She was a pretty lass, with long dark curls, a small rosebud mouth and a full figure with big breasts and round hips. When they’d danced, he’d stared at her swaying breasts. By the look on her face and her fumy breath, she’d drunk quite a few cups of beer.

She set down the lantern, stepped to him, swung her arms around his neck and yanked his mouth against hers. She pressed her luscious body against his and kissed long and hard.

“Oh, Cord.” She kissed him again and rubbed herself against his groin. Her strong fingers stroked his head as she messed up his hair. He instinctively put his arms around her and hugged tightly, pressing her breasts against his chest and returning her kiss with one of his own.

“Hmmm,” she signed, becoming more aroused than before. She pulled him down so in moments they were both on their knees. Her hands left his head as they roved under his shirt and across his flat belly and muscled chest. “Oh Cord,” she whispered, “make love to me.”

Cord thought he heard the kennel door creak open, and he tried to turn to look. Sarah’s strong fingers left his shirt and clutched onto his hair as she turned his face back to hers.

A loud French curse broke the mood.

Sarah’s hands left Cord’s hair as she made a small squeal of surprise. A dull thwack made her body go slack. Cord held her, but he felt her loosen. He realized she was unconscious. Gently, he lowered her to the floor.

Behind her stood Henri, a leather sap in his hands.

“Why’d you do that?” Cord asked.

“Why?” Henri asked. He swore again, softly, and put the sap away.

“Did you hurt her?” Cord asked.

Henri snorted. “Do you joke? Sarah’s a tough girl. Besides, I’ve done such things before. She’ll be fine.”

Cord bent over her and touched her head. A lump had already arisen on the back of her head. It wasn’t a large lump, but he didn’t like the feel of it. He lifted one of her eyelids to make sure she was still alive.

“Leave her alone,” Henri said, “or you’ll wake her up.”

“You shouldn’t have hit her.”

“No? Then what should I have done? Let you rut with her first?”

“It might have put her to sleep.”

“No,” Henri said, “it would have put you to sleep. A woman like her could go on all night.” Henri shook his head. “You’re the strangest man I know, dog boy. On a hunt, you’re the most serious and intent person there is. On the night of a daring rescue where the life of a fine young lady is at stake, you become drunk and a womanizer.”

“You don’t understand, she was waiting for me.” Cord, despite Henri’s interruptions, quickly explained what had happened.

“Then everything else is ready?” Henri asked.

“Of course,” said Cord. “I just came here for the rope. What about Alice?”

“She’s back in the tower. However, it’s as you feared. Reynard is up there with her.”

“Alone?” Cord asked in alarm.

“Ah, now you’re worried, eh? After you’ve slated your own passions.”

“Is she alone?” Cord repeated.

“No. Richard insisted that he be there with her.”

“Hmmm. That isn’t good. What will we do with Richard?”

“Why do you think I’m carrying this?” Henri asked, showing Cord the sap.

“You’re not going to hammer Richard with that?”

“But of course. How else will we silence him?”

Cord didn’t like it, but he waved it aside for now. “How do we handle Reynard?”

“We kill him,” Henri said.

“That’s all well and good as a plan. How though?”

“You have your short sword,” Henri said. “And I have these.” He showed Cord two throwing daggers.

“Two against one isn’t knightly,” Cord said.

Henri grinned and clapped Cord on the back. “To hear you talk like a chivalrous fool makes me believe more than ever that you’ve the qualities of a knight.”

“I’m serious, Henri.”

“So am I. But if we’re to gain entry into the living quarters we need to be relaxed. If you show strain or undue worry, even these drunken louts will notice. They become like your dogs that way.”

Cord nodded in understanding. He removed a tarp and pulled up a heavy coil of rope, stuffing it into a burlap sack.

“This is it,” Cord said, his mouth dry.

Henri grinned again, although his eyes were mere slits. The small minstrel seemed anything but relaxed. “After you, my friend.”

Cord took a deep breath, glanced once more at Sarah, and then marched to the door with the heavy sack over his shoulder.

-11-

Alice couldn’t sit still. So she paced back and forth in front of the living quarter’s stained glass window. With the simple expedient of breaking the window, one faced the castle’s outer perimeter. By poking one’s head through the supposedly broken window one would peer directly down into the moat. From this very window Cord, Henri and her planned to slither down on a rope to freedom.

So where were they? she asked herself, trying to ignore the constant noise.

The hall was anything but quiet. Richard snored in the baron’s gargantuan bed, the living quarter’s only sleeper. The squire had consumed an amazing quantity of beer and had tried several times in the red pavilion to stand on his broken legs. Only Alice’s alertness and the constraints she’d put on Richard had saved him from further injuries.

There was only one other person in the hall with them. Sitting near the stairs on a stool, with his back against the wall and his muscular legs stretched out before him, relaxed Sergeant Reynard. He still wore his armor. It wasn’t a full hauberk, but a chainmail shirt that barely hung past his waist. The mailed sleeves didn’t quite reach his elbows, nor did it come up in a coif to protect his head. He wore no metal gorget around his neck, but he did wear his big sword and scabbard, tough leather pants and hobnailed boots.

Reynard’s long blond hair hung down to his shoulders, while his blue eyes tracked Alice’s every move. A crafty smile curved his lips into something a wolf would have been proud of. He seemed particularly dangerous tonight, like a deadly beast ready to strike.

“You seem restless,” he said.

Alice ignored him, even though Reynard frightened her. She’d seen him at the feast. He’d stopped a fight between Sir George and Sir Walter by drawing his sword and striking Walter’s weapon. The knight’s sword had crashed to the earthen floor. Alice had a lifetime of observation of fighting men, and she had seen that this man-at-arms knew how to handle a sword. Sir George had tried to take advantage of Walter. Reynard had confidently stepped up, parried a blow and with a cunning swing swept Sir George’s sword out of his hands.

Perhaps the two knights had been drunk, but that shouldn’t have weakened their hand strength. The obvious conclusion was that Reynard was a dangerous swordsman, well chosen by Guy to act as the sheriff of the feast.

Alice wondered how Cord and Henri were supposed to overpower Reynard.

“You seem nervous,” Reynard said.

Alice glanced at him. Two torches illuminated the hall and cast eerie shadows. “I’m to marry Philip,” she said.

“That troubles you, eh?”

“More than you could know.”

Reynard switched his ankles, crossing them right over left. “Philip does have a ponderous belly. He might crush your tender frame when he ravishes you each night.”

“Are you always so courteous?”

“I’ve been considering how life is like a game of dice. You never know whether the dice will roll good or bad, and they never seem to roll good when a lot of coin is riding on the outcome.”

“How profound,” Alice said.

“Fate gave you noble parents,” Reynard said. “I had a strong mother and father and four older brothers who belted me whenever the feeling came upon them. I learned to fight even if the blows rained down harder because of it. By the time I was ten I’d killed my next oldest brother because he thought the knife in my hands was for show.”

Reynard shook his head. “Birth has given Philip noble blood, or so all the other nobles say. So now Sir Philip has the privilege of mounting you and producing more blue bloods, while the likes of me do all the real fighting and bleeding in the world.”

“Are you feeling sorry for yourself?”

Reynard smiled softly. “Maybe it’s time for some of the rewards to go my way.”

Alice felt her belly tighten.

“Everyone’s drunk tonight. Even your protector snores like one dead. Maybe it’s time for me to test your softness.”

The tightening spread to her other muscles. Luckily, Richard had slipped her a dagger earlier. It was a slender knife, hidden in her left boot. If Cord and Henri flailed tonight, for whatever reason, she’d use the dagger on Philip. She could just as easily use it on Reynard.

“Now I appreciate a good tumble as well as the next man,” Reynard said. “But it wouldn’t change life’s imbalance, now would it? And you might even sob your way into Philip’s black heart, enough so that my stay here would end.”

“If you touch my I’ll shout, and Richard will wake up. Then you’ll hang.”

“Possibly,” Reynard said. “But I’ve thought of something else. I saw the way you paled when our sweet baron made his betrothal promise to Philip. Maybe….” Reynard cleared his throat as his blue eyes shone. “Maybe you’d reward the man who took you out of here?”

“Reward how?” Alice asked warily.

“With gold, silver or jewels,” he said. “Or maybe with something else of value.”

“Are you saying you’ll help me escape Pellinore Castle?”

Reynard sat forward. “I’ll escort you to Gareth Castle.”

“You must think me mad. How could I ever trust you?”

“I’d give you my word of honor.”

Alice laughed.

“My word is as good as any man’s!”

“No,” Alice said softly. “I don’t think you know the first thing about oaths and pledges. I think you’re a filthy thief and ruffian. And I think you’re toying with me, either that or you’re trying to take me to a place where you can rape me.”

He stared at her. “You’re a smart girl.” He stood.

“What are you doing?”

Reynard said nothing, merely stepped toward her.

“If you lay hands upon me—”

Reynard’s chuckle stilled her threat. “You’re going to strip, woman, or I’m going to beat you and say that you tried to escape. It will be your word against mine.”

“I’ll have a nun inspect me. She’ll be able to tell I’ve been raped.”

“You’ll be branded a wanton if you do something so silly. People will say you gave into me during the feast and now you’re trying to save your name. No, tonight you’re mine, proud Alice, haughty Alice. Tonight I own you. Tonight you’re going to learn what it means to moan and thrash under a real fighting man.”

He began to loosen the buckle of his sword belt.

For an instant, Alice knew panic.

If she yelled for Richard, it might bring the women in the Great Hall running upstairs. That would ruin every chance she had of escaping tonight. If she gave in to Reynard it would disarm and unarmor him. Cord or Henri could stab him at their leisure. How could she live with herself afterward, however, knowing they’d seen her like that?

Alice backed up, wondering what to do.

***

As if on an errand of slight consequence, Cord and Henri left the kennel and ambled toward the tower. The tall dog boy slouched under his burden. He was certain he’d never have been able to try this except for the courage that the seven beers had given him, even if most of their influence had worn off. Henri followed close behind, his viol and bow in hand as he chattered about trivia.

People stood everywhere, talking, singing and telling lewd jokes. The largest group stood in a circle near the stable. They threw their lusty voices toward the heavens in song.

“Steer away from them,” Henri whispered.

Cord complied as he saw a youth stagger out of the darkness toward them. He recognized the stable boy. He was the one who’d had bad table manners at the dinner after Baron Hugh’s death. Cord slowed.

“Keep walking,” Henri said.

Cord did, and he felt his spine tingle with fear. Any number of everyday silly things could occur that would spoil everything. How was he ever going to explain the long rope in the sack? He had no idea and he desperately hoped no one asked.

“Hey!” the drunken stable boy hollered.

“Don’t look up,” Henri cautioned Cord.

“Hey! You!” the stable boy shouted.

Cord tightened his grip of the sack. He wanted to swing it against the loud fool and knock him out as Henri had done to Sarah. That wouldn’t be wise, however, not with all the people in the yard. He had to think of something else.

“Dog boy!” the drunken stable boy shouted, staggering toward him.

Cord stopped because the stable boy, with a wine bottle in his fist, planted himself in front of him.

“What are you doing?” the stable boy asked in a slur, his wine-breath billowing around Cord.

“The ladies in the Great Hall want me,” Cord said.

“Oh ho!” the stable boy shouted, giving Cord a lewd grin. “They want you, eh? I say that’s good. What do you say, dog boy?”

“That I’m late,” Cord said, trying to step around the stable boy.

The stable boy wasn’t having any of that. The rude youth staggered backward several steps, swigging from his bottle. Then he moved in front of Cord again and shoved him in the chest, making him stop. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” he slurred.

“Is that Mary?” Henri asked.

“Huh?” asked the stable boy, his bleary gaze focusing on the small minstrel.

With a huge grin on his face, Henri moved beside Cord. “I heard Mary whispering about you yesterday.”

“About me?” the stable boy asked in surprise.

“Your name is Much, isn’t it?”

“Damn straight it is, you little twerp!”

“Easy, my friend,” Henri said with a grin.

“Easy, yourself,” Much the stable boy said, shoving Henri in the chest.

Cord couldn’t take any more of this because his fear was as intoxicating as the beers had been before. He swung the bulky bag against the stable boy’s head. The bottle of wine went flying, cracking against stone. Much staggered back several steps and fell in a heap.

The singing by the stable stopped. The sudden silence was eerie and pregnant with danger.

“What’s going on over there?” a man bellowed.

“Much had a fall!” Cord shouted, wincing because he was certain that he’d spoken too loudly, much too nervously. Surely, the others by the stable would come running to investigate.

“A fall?” bellowed the man.

“He tripped,” Henri said. “The stupid fool can’t hold his beers.”

The men laughed at that, several of them poking each other.

“Here, Much, let me help you,” Henri loudly said, bending down in the dark. The stable boy shook his head and slowly sat up.

Cord heard the sand-filled sap hit the stable boy across the head. Much slid back down onto the ground.

“Oh!” Henri said. “It looks like he’s out for the night.”

“The lout!” bellowed a man. “Much never was much of a drinker.”

“No he wasn’t!” Cord shouted, again speaking much too loudly.

“Hurry,” Henri whispered to Cord. “Start walking.”

“I’m no good at this,” Cord whispered, the sack back over his shoulder.

“Untrue, my friend,” Henri assured him. “You’re a quick thinker. You knocked the stable boy down before something unfortunate happened.”

“I’m just glad you have your sap.”

“But of course.”

They marched up the tower’s stairs and through the doors. Before them was the entrance to the Great Hall. To their left was a short corridor and then the trapdoor to the armory and the dungeon below. Cord’s stomach tightened as he worked his throat. He hoped he didn’t have to talk again, because he had no more saliva left and was afraid that he’d squeak like a mouse if he tried to say anything.

“Try to look relaxed,” Henri whispered.

“I am trying,” Cord hissed.

“Then quit frowning,” Henri said. “Be sure to smile.”

Even though it pained him, Cord curved his lips upward, certain that anyone looking at him would know that he was faking the worst smile of his life. Only people in paintings smiled like this.

“Good, good,” Henri whispered. “Keep that up.”

They stepped into the Great Hall. Countless folk and hounds snored along the walls. Around the tables sat women, many, many women. Lady Eleanor and Lady Martha held the places of honor, and many of the women smiled and grinned outrageously. At the moment, Martha told a hawking tale, with the Chief Falconer at her side.

“Head for the stairs,” Henri said as Cord faltered.

Cord nodded sickly. At each step, he was certain one of the women would scream out his name and call him an imposter. The intensity became unbearable.

“Dog boy,” Lady Eleanor said.

Cord froze, and gulped. Slowly, he faced the tables of ladies. His stomach had knotted so badly that he almost groaned aloud. The skin on his face was stretched so tightly that it seemed as if his cheekbones would rip out.

“Dog boy,” Lady Eleanor said, her face wreathed in a huge, wine-fueled smile. “Do come here, dog boy.”

“Milady,” Henri said with a courtly bow. “Squire Richard has asked that we bring him downstairs.”

“Richard?” Lady Eleanor asked.

“Yes, milady,” Henri said.

“How could Richard have asked you that?” Eleanor asked. “He’s upstairs and you’re down here.”

Cord stared at Henri in fear and amazement. Their own words had tripped them up.

Henri chuckled. “Milady, what I meant to say was that your noble son has requested Richard’s presence in the red tent.”

“Ah,” said Eleanor, seeming to lose interest.

Cord saw the Chief Falconer frown and whisper to Martha. Martha laughed, but the wizened old man persisted.

At last, Martha shouted, “What do you hold in the sack, dog boy?”

Cord opened his mouth to speak.

“We have material for a stretcher,” Henri said, clapping Cord on the shoulder and twirling his finger around his head. Several of the ladies laughed.

“Go on, go on,” Eleanor said. “We can’t keep my son waiting. He’s the baron now, you know?”

“Yes, milady,” said Henri. “He’s the Baron of Pellinore Fief!”

Cord lurched forward as Henri dragged him. Sticky fear-sweat trickled down his back. His legs felt leaden. “The Chief Falconer knows!” he hissed to Henri.

“Come along now,” Henri said, tugging Cord harder.

Ladies laughed once more.

Cord blinked sweat out of his eyes as he followed the small minstrel. He couldn’t understand Henri’s unconcern. He himself was ready to roar out in panic and drag out his knife to slay any who came too close. How did the minstrel do it?

To Cord the rest of the walk across the Great Hall seemed never ending. At last, they reached the stairs and began to climb, soon walking up out of sight of the ladies.

Henri immediately sagged against stone, peering at Cord in the semi-darkness.

“What’s wrong?” whispered Cord.

“I have to catch my breath,” Henri whispered. He took off his jester cap. Tonight, he didn’t have any small bells on the ends. Using it, he wiped sweat off his forehead.

“Don’t tell me that you were nervous,” Cord said.

Henri opened his mouth in a silent laugh. “Nervous! I could hardly move.”

“That can’t be true,” Cord whispered in bewilderment. “Back there you seemed unconcerned.”

“Only because I can act, my friend.”

Cord considered that. It calmed him to know that Henri was scared too. In fact, it bolstered his courage. “Let’s go,” he whispered.

Henri gave him a slight nod and straightened, taking the sack from Cord. “You go first. Remember, Reynard is waiting.” All nervousness seemed to have fled him, if he’d really been nervous at all.

Recalling the punch that Reynard had given him and the way the sergeant had manhandled Alice, Cord drew his dagger. The Toledo steel weapon was more like an ancient gladius than a dagger. The gladius had been the fighting sword of the long-dead Roman Legionnaires. Interestingly enough, the Romans had copied the gladius from the ancient Iberians of Spain. That was interesting because Toledo was a city in Spain, famed for the quality of its steel weapons. The Toledo steel blade was razor-sharp, and the bone handle perfectly fit Cord big fingers and wide palm.

He paused as he switched hands, wiping his sweaty right palm on his breeches. Soon he gripped his weapon again with his sword hand. He tried to envision his method of attack, knowing that the last time he’d seen Reynard the sergeant had been wearing chainmail. Could he thrust his dagger through the mail armor? Maybe. With the armor, Reynard had a terrible advantage. If the sergeant also wielded a sword….

“Give me the sack,” Cord whispered.

“Let me carry it, my friend. You need to worry about Reynard.”

“Yes, I know. Now give me the sack.”

Henri shrugged, handing it up.

The spiral stone stairs curved ever higher as they groped in the dark. Soon they saw the flickering shadows from the living quarter’s hall above. Richard’s snores were audible.

“Step no closer,” came Alice’s warning voice.

Reynard’s chuckle followed.

Cord paused for a half-second. Then rage rippled through him. The rage inflamed him with heat and drove away his fears. He barely controlled the battle cry that almost tore out of his throat as he charged up the stairs. He burst into the living quarters and took in the scene at a glance. Richard was sprawled on the big baronial bed, drunkenly unconscious. Alice was backed against the unlit fireplace. Reynard, his sword and scabbard in his left hand, stood two steps from her.

“Fiend!” hissed Cord.

Reynard turned, his eyes widening with surprise and then understanding.

Henri quietly closed the living quarter’s big oaken doors, dropping the bar into place.

With a shing of steel Reynard drew his sword, dropping the scabbard to the floor. “This is sweet, very sweet. I’m about to become the hero.”

Torchlight flickered off Reynard’s polished sword. He advanced with his body held sideways, his big sword held in the en guard position. The confidence shining off his face said it all.

A moment of fear and doubt entered Cord. Sergeant Reynard was a veteran of a hundred fights. He wore mail and had battle-hardened muscles. Worse, he was a master of the blade. Rage, however, coursed through Cord. If not for him Alice would have been raped this very night, maybe even killed afterwards to cover up the crime.

Alice slid behind Reynard, with a dagger above her head. Her face screwed up with rage as she drove the dagger at Reynard’s exposed neck. Something must have alerted the mercenary. At the last moment, he shifted his stance. Alice’s dagger sliced the side of his neck, but it wasn’t a killing blow. He cursed and slammed his elbow into Alice. She grunted and fell backward, the dagger clattering onto the stone floor and out of her reach.

Cord charged. Reynard, with bright red blood flowing down his neck, leaped to the attack.

Cord hurled the heavy sack. Reynard deflected it with his sword. Then he sneered at Cord. Cord crouched in the manner Hob had taught him. Reynard stamped his foot as he charged and rained in several swinging slashes. To the surprise of everyone within the hall, Cord met each ringing blow with the Toledo steel blade. Sparks flew. Steel rang. The shock of each blow coursed up Cord’s arm. He slowly gave ground. Reynard’s arrogance melted away. The blood also continued to drip from his neck and onto his polished armor. He finally growled in rage. Despite the strength of this arm, the speed of his assault and the greater length of his weapon, he couldn’t slip his sharp blade past Cord’s dagger and cut the swift dog boy in front of him.

Reynard took three steps back and half-turned. Alice had crept up behind him again. She hurried behind Cord.

Reynard breathed hard. “Who taught you how to fight?” he asked in wonderment.

“Hob did.”

Reynard wiped his mouth. “You’re good.”

“As are you,” said Cord.

“No,” Reynard said. “I’m better.”

Henri snapped his arm forward. The big sergeant barely dodged the spinning blade.

“Treachery,” said Reynard.

Cord barked laughter and slid forward. His beautiful blade had been notched like a saw, but the Toledo steel had proven its worth. It hadn’t shattered in his hands, even when battered by a heavy battle-blade.

“You’re losing blood,” Cord pointed out.

“I’m going to kill all three of you,” Reynard said. “But you first, dog boy.” He attacked with the point instead of the edge.

Henri’s second dagger spun out of the gloom and clipped Reynard on the forehead, although hilt-first rather than with the sharp point. Reynard blinked. With a ring of steel Cord parried the sword point out of his way. He then slid forward and stabbed low and brutally hard. His blade punched through chainmail and slid up to the hilt into Reynard’s belly. Reynard coughed sharply into Cord’s face, staring at him in shock. Then Reynard’s sword rang against the cobblestones. His knees buckled, but with both his hands, he hung onto Cord.

“You’re a bastard,” Reynard hissed.

Cord stared into the dying man’s eyes.

Reynard grinned, his teeth bloodstained. “But by damn you can fight.” Then his head slumped forward. His grip weakened and he slid down beside his sword.

Cord staggered back, shocked, numbed and dazed. Before he knew it, he was on his hands and knees, spewing his guts.

“Well done,” Alice said.

Cord lifted his eyes upon her. She gave him a wolfish smile, obviously pleased.

“You’re a warrior, a fighter,” she said.

“I’m a knight,” he whispered.

“At least you will be a knight once you’re dubbed,” Henri said, helping Cord to his feet.

“We’ve plenty of work to do,” Alice said briskly. She stood near her bed, taking off her dress. At Cord’s wide-eyed stare, she said, “I couldn’t change in front of Reynard. Now turn around you two, and gather your weapons.”

Cord turned, embarrassed, and stared at Reynard’s corpse. He had no interest in drawing his dagger from the dead sergeant’s belly.

“Take his sword,” Henri whispered, picking up and tucking his throwing knives back in his belt.

Cord took Reynard’s sword and scabbard, belting it on. He’d earned this. Only then, did he reach down and remove his dagger, quickly cleaning and sheathing it.

“Take the armor, too,” Henri urged.

“We don’t have time,” Cord said. “We have to hurry and flee.”

“We have time,” Alice said, striding into their midst. She wore her hawking outfit, boots, leather breeches and jacket. “We can’t leave Pellinore Castle yet.”

“What do you mean?” Cord asked in amazement.

“First we’re going to free Sir Lamerok.”

“You’ve gone mad,” Cord told her.

Alice laughed grimly. “Aye, I’m mad. I’m madder than a hornet and angrier than a she-bear whose cubs have been killed.”

“What is the meaning of this?” Henri asked.

“Haven’t you discovered the meaning?” Alice asked the small minstrel. “Don’t you understand what Sir Lamerok is? Can’t you see that I must free the noble knight from the dungeon?”

“You free the knight?” Cord asked in bewilderment. “How can you possibly free anyone? If you show yourself someone will ask where Reynard is and come up here to find out.”

“I won’t turn the dungeon key,” Alice said. “But it’s my will that Sir Lamerok is freed.”

“What’s she talking about?” Cord asked Henri.

Henri didn’t say anything. He was too busy studying Alice.

“Sir Lamerok is Guy’s special prize,” Alice said. “That’s why I’ll free him.”

“Preposterous!” Henri said. “For any of a hundred different reasons someone will soon come up here.”

“So quit arguing,” Alice said, “for my mind’s made up.”

“No,” Cord said.

“Impossible,” Henri added.

Alice folded her arms and stared at them.

“She isn’t serious,” Cord said, turning to Henri. “It’s impossible to free the knight.”

“I know.” Henri moved to the stained glass window. “Darken the torches, Cord.”

Cord plucked the two torches from their holders and gutted them in the unlit fireplace. Now, only a candle provided illumination. Henri picked up a hammer and tapped the glass along the edges.

“Break it in one blow,” said Cord.

Henri didn’t, but punched out glass along the sides as sweat oozed from his brow. Soon he settled the plate glass window into the room.

“It would be a crime to shatter it,” he told Cord.

Cord used a heavy leather cloth to break glass shards from the window frame. Then he tied his long rope to a stout wooden pole and set the pole against both sides of the open window. He glanced at Henri. Henri looked back at Alice. Soon so did Cord.

Alice stood with her arms crossed as she watched them.

“Are you coming?” Henri asked.

She said nothing.

“This is silly,” Cord said, rushing toward her. “We must flee.”

“We must take Sir Lamerok of Dun with us,” Alice said.

“Do you wish us dead?” asked Cord.

A moment of indecision swept across Alice’s face. “Either we will do this my way,” she said a moment later, “or I’m not coming.”

Cord threw up his hands. He asked Henri, “What should we do?”

“To try to free Sir Lamerok will mean our death,” Henri said.

“Yes. For how can we possibly take the dungeon keys from the Gascon mercenary?”

“I have a plan for that,” Alice said.

Henri snorted.

“Richard and I devised the plan,” Alice said, her face animated. “It’s sure to work.”

“You dream impossibilities,” Henri said with a sharp gesture. “The Gascon is not to be trifled with.”

“Wait a moment,” Cord said. “The Gascon doesn’t have the keys.”

“Of course he does,” Henri said.

“No, I saw Sir Philip and the hangman talking,” Cord said. He explained what he’d seen during the feast.

“Why, this is wonderful news,” Alice said. “Don’t you see? The Virgin is giving us our chance. I’ve been praying to her all during the feast. Now she’s seen to this.”

“No, no,” Henri said. “Your plan is madness.”

“We must flee,” Cord said. “The longer we wait the more chance we have of getting caught.”

“We must first free Sir Lamerok of Dun,” Alice said. “Otherwise I am not going. What are your decisions?”

Once more Cord and Henri glanced at each other.

“You could use your sap on her,” Cord suggested.

Alice stepped back, her hand on her dagger hilt.

“No,” Henri said, shaking his handsome head. “If we want her along we must rescue this Scottish knight for her.”

“But that’s impossible,” said Cord.

“Not if the Virgin Mary helps us,” Henri said.

“How would we do it?”

Alice told them. She ended with, “By the time you’re done, I’ll met you outside the castle with Sebald. And I’ll have Reynard’s armor for you, Cord.”

“Richard won’t agree to any of this,” Cord said.

“Oh, but I will,” Richard said.

They turned around in surprise and found Richard by the nearest bedpost, his face puffy and his eyes bloodshot.

“I didn’t yet do homage,” Richard said, “nor did I take an oath of fealty. That was a mistake on Sir Guy’s part.”

“Are you certain of this?” Cord asked.

“Squire Richard Clark pays his debts,” Richard said solemnly.

“Then we must hurry,” Henri said. “Time runs against us.”

“Agreed,” Alice said. “We’ve much to do before the night is out.”

-12-

“So then the dog boy whined: ‘You kicked me in the butt.’ I told him that of course I had, for he’d been a lazy lout.” With the punch line given to his joke, Philip slapped the table with his huge hands and roared with drunken laughter.

The rest of the bleary-eyed, shiny-faced throng roared along with him. Even Sir Walter, the bailiff and Hob laughed, all friends of Cord. The night was late and the amount of godale and wine consumed was vast. The inside of the red pavilion was one huge fume of alcohol mixed with roasted meat smells and the spilled, minuscule spatters of starlings, sparrows and jays.

Many of the weaker men were already slumped over, snoring, their faces in gravy-stained bread or their hair doused with beer. Torches burned thickly, adding to the heavy fume. Pale-faced Sir Guy sat at the head of the main table. He laughed in his thin way, although he’d drunk very little. Even so, he was near collapse.

“You should retire, milord,” wrinkled little Aldora whispered. She sat at his elbow, a bit away from the table. Only she among the male throng was sober. Only she retained her wits. Her glances of disgust were well hidden, although she often touched her bone torc and mouthed the names of Taranis, Teutates and Esus.

“No, no,” Guy whispered. “I must mingle with my men, with my knights and retainers.” He lifted his wine goblet to his lips. It trembled ever so slightly. “Oh, Aldora, all that you’ve prophesied has come to pass. You are my blessing. You are the reason for my luck and my life.”

“Your lordship is most kind,” Aldora whispered. “But let us not forget the ones below who have made all this possible.”

The wine goblet clunked onto the table. Guy’s strength had fled him at the mention of them. They terrified him.

Aldora smiled secretly as she patted Guy’s horribly thin hand. “Drink up, milord. Feast with your grunting warriors.”

“I should retire,” he told her.

“Whatever your lordship thinks is wisest,” she whispered.

“Milord?” Philip shouted, yet another tankard of godale in his hands. “Why do you make to rise?”

“I grow weary,” said Guy. “I must retire and go to sleep.”

“Nonsense, milord!” shouted Philip. “We must toast you!”

“Aye!” chorused many.

A ghost of a smile flickered across Guy’s pale lips. “Toast me?” he asked.

“You are our baron,” Philip shouted, rising unsteadily to his feet. He lifted his tankard high, sloshing godale over his sleeve. “To our noble baron. May Guy live a long and prosperous life!”

“To Guy!” roared those who were still awake.

Guy turned to Aldora with a smile. He saw her frowning as she touched her bone torc and whispered one of those dreadful names. He shivered with fear.

She looked up, and asked, “How much longer, milord?”

“Soon,” Guy whispered. “We’ll retire soon. Let me finish this last drink.”

“Very well,” Aldora whispered. She’d grown bored with their drunken antics. There was also a premonition, a feeling within her that all wasn’t well. She wanted to speak with Gaston, or even with that braggart Reynard.

“One more drink, milord,” Aldora said, putting a servile tone in her voice. “But then we should retire. For we must make certain that those two dogs you put in the dungeon today die this very night.”

“Yes, yes,” said Guy, who had seen Aldora use her dagger once already on a sacrificial victim. The pagan rite both terrified and pleased him. He both yearned and hesitated to go. First, he must finish his wine. Yes, first he must do that and have more camaraderie with his men. Oh, this was such a grand feeling, to be the one they toasted. He’d never realized how good it felt to be the lord, the one truly in command. It had been so different at Castle Gareth. Here…here they loved him.

“Another toast, milord,” said Philip.

“Yes, another toast,” said Guy.

“But this time you must drink up,” Philip chided.

“I will,” Guy assured him. “I most surely will.”

“Then we must be going,” Aldora whispered at his elbow.

“Surely not until we’ve made our toasts,” said Philip.

A loud chorus of yells backed Philip. While the knights and retainers feared small Aldora, especially after Gwen ab Gruffydd’s words, they also hated the hold she had over Guy.

“Just a few more toasts,” Guy told her.

“But of course, milord,” Aldora said, sensing her mistake. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Philip shot her a triumphant grin. She swore that she wouldn’t forget it.

***

Cord went down the spiral stairs, holding onto Richard’s stretcher. Behind him followed Henri, staggering under their heavy burden.

“Easy,” Richard said from the cot.

“Quit talking,” Henri snarled. “It makes you heavier.”

Cord paused and was almost pushed off balance. “Hold on,” he called.

“What is it?” complained Henri.

“Someone’s coming,” Cord said, seeing candlelight flicker off the walls.

“Whose there?” called a man.

“It’s I, Cord. Who are you?”

“The Chief Falconer.” The wizened old man came into view. He held a candleholder, the yellow flame bright in the darkness. “Lady Eleanor sent me. She wondered what took you two so long.”

Cord snorted, although his belly shriveled up. “You should ask Richard why it took us so long.”

Richard glanced from Henri to Cord to the Chief Falconer. “Well…you see….”

“He wouldn’t wake up,” Henri said.

“That’s it,” Cord said, nodding vigorously. “He was out cold. We had to sprinkle water on his face.”

“And slap him,” Henri said.

“Hard,” added Cord.

“Really hard,” Henri said.

“Yes,” Richard said dryly, “so hard that when I woke up I almost killed the minstrel. He’ll have an ugly bruise in the morning.”

The Chief Falconer grinned.

“Now how about moving along,” Cord said. “I’m getting tired holding up Richard. He’s not light, you know.”

“How fares the Lady Alice?” asked the Chief Falconer, stubbornly keeping his position.

“She’s asleep,” Henri said.

Cord said, “She can’t take many cups of wine before tumbling over.”

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. He 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?”

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 Alice. 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 warhorse, 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 warhorse 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 warhorse forward, using his heels to prod the steed in the flanks. Soon he trotted beside the moat and 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.”

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 warhorse. 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 warhorse. 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 shrugged. “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.

Alice’s mouth dropped open. “You?” she asked in surprise. “The armor is for you?”

“My father was a knight.”

She snorted softly and shook her head. “Cord. Cord. You can’t believe you can simply become a knight by wearing armor and holding a lance.”

“I will be a knight,” Cord said stubbornly. “Come what may, I will be a knight.”

“No, Cord. We must think rationally.”

“I slew Sergeant Reynard.”

“Yes, with our help.”

Cord’s face turned red again, with anger this time. “Help?” he asked.

“I sliced Reynard’s neck and Henri stunned him with his throwing dagger.”

“Bah! I would have slain him anyway. I alone defeated Sergeant Reynard.”

“Do you really believe that?” Alice asked in disbelief.

Cord stood up. He knew he shouldn’t be this angry. “I’ll be a knight, Alice de Mowbray. I’ve already rescued you from bondage, a knight-errant deed. Normally a maiden would be grateful for such a rescue.”

“I am.”

“Maidens, I’ve heard, know how to show such gratitude.”

“What are you saying?”

Cord made an angry sound as he gestured sharply.

“No, speak your mind, Cord. Tell me what you’re saying.”

“This is ridiculous,” Rhys said from the fire. His wife Gwen made an urgent coughing sound and tried to signal him to remain silent. Rhys ignored her as he said, “Cord obviously rescued you, milady, so he could marry you. Are you too blind to understand?”

Alice’s eyes widened. “Is this true?” she asked Cord.

Cord shrugged.

“But you’re a dog boy,” she said.

“No longer,” Cord said tightly, his anger surging anew. “After last night I’ve become a squire.”

“A squire?” Alice asked. “Whose squire? You can’t just be a squire by saying so. You have to be the squire of a knight.”

“He is.”

Cord, Alice, Rhys and Gwen glanced at Lamerok. The big knight sat up. A soft smile was upon his face, which seemed strange because of the wreck of his features.

“Cord is my squire,” Lamerok whispered.

Alice’s mouth dropped open for the second time this morning.

“He is the son of Sir Tostig, one of the finest knights I’ve ever known,” Lamerok said. “Yes. Cord is my squire. So of course you can marry him.”

“I-I just can’t get married!” Alice said, leaping to her feet.

“Of course you can,” Lamerok whispered. “Who is better than the squire who saved you? Who is better than the man who slew your guard in the tower?”

Gwen and Rhys nodded.

“But then that isn’t really my concern,” Lamerok said loftily. “Why you wanted me rescued is.”

It was her turn to blush. “I’ll explain after breakfast.”

“Good enough,” Lamerok said. “I’m famished, and the aroma of those rabbits is driving me mad.”

Alice glanced at the spits. “They won’t be done right away,” she said.

“Soon enough, though,” Rhys said.

“Yes, soon,” Alice agreed. “But there’s time enough so I can speak with Cord.”

Cord eyed her warily.

“Would you step over here?” Alice asked, motioning toward the wolf run.

“Now?” asked Cord, who belatedly remembered Sir Lamerok’s advice.

“Yes, now,” Alice demanded, moving toward the run.

-16-

Cord took Reynard’s scabbard and sword and belted it on. The sergeant hadn’t had a knightly waist belt, but a baldric: a broad leather strap that hung over Cord’s right shoulder and under his left. A big brass baldric buckle shone from Cord’s chest like a medal, while at his hip swung the wooden scabbard and sword. The sword was two edged and heavy, a true battlefield weapon, meant to crush and bash chainmail clad opponents. The long hilt had been wrapped with leather and was held in place by wire. As he walked, the scabbard banged uncomfortably against his thigh. This was going to take getting used too. The clatter of it sounded good, however. It sounded manly, knightly. As soon as he had a chance, he’d file the nicks out of the blade, the ones put there by his Toledo steel dagger.

He followed Alice down the wolf run. He admired the womanly sway of her hips and the precise manner of her steps. Yes, this tall, statuesque Norman lady was somebody he could love. Could she ever possibly love him in return?

She turned suddenly. “How dare you!”

“Huh?”

“To presume I’d marry you simply because you helped me escape.”

“It was Henri’s idea.”

Her fine blonde eyebrows arched high indeed. Her blush deepened and penetrated down to her throat and maybe even farther beyond. Cord was entranced. She was stunning and he desired her.

“Henri’s idea?” she asked tightly, as if under great control.

Cord made a vague gesture, worried now that he’d made a mistake.

“You mean you didn’t want to marry me until Henri thought of it? Is that right?”

Cord, knowing he’d said the wrong thing, now said nothing.

“Or was it simply the idea of becoming a knight that drove you?” she asked.

“I will be knight, Alice. I won’t let Philip, Hugh or Earl Roger Mortimer steal what’s mine.”

“They did steal it.”

“Then I’m taking it back.”

“By marrying me?”

Cord licked his lips and took a step closer. “Why are you angry with me? I faced Reynard for you. Maybe you and Henri helped, but neither of you stood toe-to-toe with him.”

“You did it so you could become a knight. You did it because Philip blocked your marriage with Bess Miller. You’ve done all these things in order to beat Philip.”

“Very well,” he said. “I did those things so I could become a knight and thereby someday defeat Philip. Who plans on killing me, by the way.”

“Then why lie to me?” she snapped.

“I haven’t lied.”

“Then why did you say you did those things for me?”

“…You’re free, aren’t you?”

She nodded.

“So didn’t I do it for you?”

“NO! You freed me to use my money! You’re just like all the others, Dog Boy.”

“I’m a squire!”

She laughed. “What a joke. You hardly know how to sit a horse.”

Cord advanced upon her, almost uncontrollably angry. Then, before he knew what he was doing, he crushed her against him, against the big brass buckle of his baldric. He took a fistful of her beautiful hair and tilted up her head. He kissed her fiercely, mercilessly. She pounded his back with her fists.

“Proud Alice de Mowbray, you’re mine.”

Suddenly she melted against him and returned his kisses with a fierce passion of her own. She hugged his hard body. “Cord,” she whispered.

His head swam with passion, with the wonder of what he was doing. Being a knight meant being bold, he told himself.

After a time he pulled away. “Marry me,” he said.

“I-I don’t know. It’s too sudden,” Alice said. “You might still love Bess Miller.”

“I’ve feelings for her,” he admitted. “I would be a cad if I didn’t. But it’s you I love, Alice de Mowbray. Ever since the day in the forest, I’ve felt that. And you must love me, too. Why else did you ride between Philip and me the day I slew Old Sloat?”

“You truly don’t want to marry me for money?”

He laughed and crushed her against him.

“You reach high for a dog boy.”

His face clouded.

“I jest, Cord. I’ve known for a long time who your father was. Sergeant Hob told me about him.”

Elated, he kissed her again.

“I cannot marry you, however. Until I’m Alice de Mowbray of Gareth Fief I will marry no one.”

“How will you gain control of your fief if you won’t go back?”

“Who said I’m not going back?”

“You did.”

“No,” she said. “I told you that I’m not going back now. First I need knights and money and men-at-arms to take what is mine.”

“How will you do that?”

“Through Sir Lamerok.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Guy thought Sir Lamerok could gain him much gold,” she explained, “but not through ransom. Logically then it would have to be because of something Sir Lamerok knows. We must simply get him to tell us that thing.”

Cord’s eyes widened. “Is this why you told me to free him?”

“Of course.”

A heavy weight filled his heart. “I’m Sir Lamerok’s squire,” he said.

“So he’s said.”

“Is that why you’ve suddenly agreed to marry me?”

She laughed as a fierce, malicious grin spread across her face. “So how does it feel?”

“You plan on using me?

“As you planned on using me,” she said.

Cord blinked in confusion. He turned and made ready to stride away.

Alice grabbed his arm. He paused but he wouldn’t look at her.

“You help me and I’ll help you,” she said. “Do we have an understanding, a pact?”

“None of this is for love?” he asked.

“What is love?” she asked bitterly. If he would have turned to look at her, he might have seen the sorrow on her face, the watery glistening of her eyes. Maybe Alice de Mowbray wasn’t as calculating as she sounded. Maybe conflicting emotion raged in her.

Cord stared at his feet. His chest felt stuffed, heavy, filled with lead. It made it difficult to speak. “I’ll help you. What you do in return is your own affair.”

“So speaks the Saxon who hopes to marry a Norman lady.”

He winced. “Yes,” he said. “So speaks the Saxon.”

“Are you certain about what you’ve said? Or is this merely another hidden ploy?”

Cord walked away and thus never saw how Alice de Mowbray watched him. It might have changed much.

***

“Ah,” Lamerok sighed. “Now that was food. Thank you, Rhys, and thank you, milady, for your hunting skills.”

“You seem invigorated,” Henri said.

“I am, I am,” Lamerok assured him. Even so, the big knight was propped up against a mossy rock. The redness in his eyes had diminished a little, but they were still bloodshot and surrounded by badly bruised flesh.

“Guy’s fare was bad?” Alice asked.

“Terrible,” Lamerok said. “So terrible that I often saved a crumb for bait. Using the edge of my hand I slew the bold rats that tried to take the crumbs.”

“You ate dungeon rats?” Alice asked in amazement.

“Milady,” Lamerok said, “I’ve eaten much worse on a winter campaign in Prussia.”

“Where?” Rhys asked.

“Prussia,” Lamerok said. “I joined the Teutonic Knights on one of their crusades against the pagan Prussians. Aye, they were a vile people and it was a stark and unlovely land.” He shrugged. “The eating of dungeon rats was a small price for strength. Without strength the will rapidly drains away.”

“And why did you need will?” Alice asked.

Lamerok grinned. It was the tough mean grin of a knight who planned to fight to the death.

“Guy refused the Earl of Derby’s offered ransom for you,” Alice said.

“Aye, milady, I know. I was there.”

Alice nodded thoughtfully.

“Should we saddle the horses?” asked Cord.

Alice shot him a frown. Henri rolled his eyes up at the clouds. Rhys and Gwen exchanged surprised glances. Lamerok settled further back against his rock as a soft smile tugged the corners of his lips.

“Where would we head?” Henri asked Cord.

“Away,” said Cord.

“Yes,” Henri agreed. “But away to where?”

“Where do you plan to go?” Cord asked Alice.

“Indeed,” Lamerok asked. “I too am intrigued. For I’ve heard you say, milady, that you don’t wish to go straight to Gareth Castle. You plan to go somewhere else, to a place where you can gather coins and men-at-arms.”

Alice nodded frostily.

“Where is such a place?” Lamerok asked in a guileless tone. “Perhaps it is in a castle where your uncle lives.”

“I have no uncles,” Alice said.

“Ah, but of course you have no uncles,” Lamerok said. “Why otherwise did your liege have the right to marry you off to whomever he chose?”

“May I ask you a question?” Alice asked Lamerok.

“Of course, my dear.”

“Why did Guy imprison you?”

Henri leaned forward, as did Gwen and Rhys. Cord found himself holding his breath. Pellinore Castle had been a-buzz with the mystery.

“We come to the heart of the matter, is that it?” Lamerok asked in his half-mocking tone.

“It is,” Alice said.

“In other words, I should be so grateful for what you’ve done,” Lamerok said, “that I will bare my soul to you five strangers.”

“Hardly strangers,” Alice said. “We are the five who risked our lives to free you.”

“And free yourselves in the process,” Lamerok pointed out.

“Yes,” Alice admitted. “There is that.”

“The reason for my imprisonment is a long tale,” Lamerok said. He grinned at Henri. “And it is an interesting and intriguing tale.”

“You have a minstrel’s attention, sir,”

“Of course I do,” Lamerok said. “For at the end of my tale lies a leprechaun’s pot of gold. Who wouldn’t be interested in that?”

“A what?” asked Cord.

“A leprechaun,” Lamerok said with a laugh. “I’m told he’s a creature of Faire who inhabits Ireland, the bountiful land of shamrocks. If you ever manage to see a leprechaun, you must expend all the effort it takes to capture him. For I’m also told that in order to free himself the leprechaun will take you to his pot of golden treasure and trade it to you for his freedom. He will ransom himself, in other words.”

“And you know the whereabouts of such a pot of gold?” Alice asked softly.

Lamerok asked back, “Why else would Sir Guy refuse the Earl of Derby’s generous ransom if there wasn’t an even greater amount of monies involved?”

Alice smiled at Cord. Cord’s hopes flared. Alice blinked rapidly, as if she’d just discovered herself doing something silly. Her gaze slid from Cord’s as her smile lessened.

“I will admit several things,” Lamerok said. “Then you must make a decision.”

“Very well,” Cord said, when no one else spoke.

“I am a suspicious man,” Lamerok said. “I’ve been through much these past few weeks. I’ve seen my former squire, a man I’ve been with for over twenty years, butchered before my eyes. Aye, they thought they would break me through a heartless deed.” His eyes seemed to glitter. He finally blinked and peered around. “I also lost my cherished freedom, and through their tortures I almost lost the use of my limbs. Those wicked people tried to break my spirit. They almost succeeded, more than I truly care to say.”

Lamerok’s jaws clenched. “I am admitting several things so you may understand me. These people were and are terribly sly, and here I most mean Sir Guy and his horrible witch Aldora. I therefore have asked myself: Could this sly witch have sent good folk into the dungeon to pretend to rescue me?”

“No!” said Cord.

“We are not so base,” Rhys said.

Lamerok held up his scarred hands. “I did not say you were impostors. Perhaps, though, you are dupes. I know not. Nor can you yourselves know, for some time at least. I think that whatever happens, that Guy will track us to the ends of the earth. Maybe his foresters even now watch us.”

Cord glanced about. No, no, he told himself. If any watched them, they would have used hounds to find them this quickly—his hounds. If his hounds tracked him, he would have heard them.

“What decision are you asking us to make?” Alice said.

“Here is my pact,” Lamerok said softly. “You must either take it or reject it. Each day I will tell you part of my story. During those days, we will journey to where I desire, and by feeding me well you will help me recover my strength. If in that time we still remain free and I learn to trust you, then I will share my secret with you. For if you were and are truly brave and did have the luck of Saint George last night, then I will gladly split with each of you….”

Lamerok searched their faces. “I will then share with you the Golden Treasure of Gaius.”

Cord felt a thrill sweep through him. The Golden Treasure of Gaius. That sounded grand, ancient, almost mythical.

“Gaius is a Roman name,” Henri said thoughtfully.

“Your words are hard,” Alice told Lamerok.

“Perhaps they are, milady, but please consider what I’ve been through.”

“No, your words aren’t hard at all,” Cord said, rising. “I understand how cunning ones enemies can be. Baron Hugh and Sir Philip kept me as a dog boy for eleven long years. All so they could abuse me and make a mockery of my father. You have my hand on your pact, Sir Lamerok of Dun, but only if you will teach me how to be a true knight.”

Lamerok grinned. “You are my squire and I your knight.” He shook hands.

“I will agree,” Alice said, watching them. “But your tale must begin today.”

“So near Pellinore?” Lamerok chided.

“You may tell us the tale as we ride,” she said.

“As you wish.”

“Where will we ride to?” asked Cord.

“Deeper into Wales,” Lamerok said.

“Where in Wales?” asked Cord.

“Into Owain ab Ifan’s lands,” Rhys said, with a note of authority in his voice.

The others glanced at him, and missed how Rhys’ wife stiffened.

“Why there?” Alice asked the Welshman.

“Because Owain and his warriors are still at Bridgenorth,” Rhys said. “And because ab Ifan’s lands surround Gareth Fief.” The stocky Welshman tugged his forked beard. “I’ve listened to all that’s been said about Sir Lamerok, the few tidbits people spoke about him before I was thrown into the dungeon.

“They said that you and your squire rode wounded into Gareth Castle. They also said that you had been ambushed in Free Wales. Well, Owain ab Ifan’s lands lie all about Gareth Fief. Perhaps it was in Owain’s lands where you were wounded. In any case, you were surely headed to your somewhere when this wounding occurred. So going to Owain’s territory will take you near there again. What say you, Sir Knight? Does my destination suit you?”

“It does,” Lamerok said.

“Let’s hurry,” Henri said with a shiver. “I’m beginning to agree with Sir Lamerok. I think Guy and his witch will hound us to the ends of the earth. We have what he most desires.”

“Aye,” Alice said.

Cord didn’t like her smile, but he began to understand how much Alice hated Guy.

“You must tell them,” Gwen told her husband. “They deserve to know.”

“Know what?” Lamerok asked.

Cord saw Gwen touch Rhys’ arm and nod encouragingly. Rhys bit his lower lip, doubt filling his eyes.

“Tell them,” Gwen urged.

“If it’s any help,” Henri said, “my curiosity is killing me.”

“Our time is short,” Rhys said bluntly. He gave Lamerok a challenging stare. “I hadn’t wanted to burden you with this, nor the others. Owain ab Ifan marches upon Pellinore Fief.”

“What?” Alice said.

Rhys nodded and asked Cord, “Do you remember Edric, my brother-in-law?”

“I do,” Cord said, recalling the red-haired bard who had drunkenly called the bailiff a Viking pirate.

“He gave me more than one message,” Rhys said. He laughed bleakly, a sharp-edged thing. “I came to Pellinore Castle in order to warn the new baron. Yea, just as I had once warned Baron Hugh, I had returned to warn his son. But before I could pay him homage and give my oath of fealty, my wife and I were thrown into the dungeon. It’s ironic—for he lied by calling us witches. And because of that Baron Guy never learned the truth.”

“What truth?” Alice asked.

“Owain ab Ifan has gained allies,” Rhys said. “Aye, at Bridgenorth the Welsh and Earl Simon’s host worked together. Now, as Owain returns home, he has as an ally in Baron Lambert, one of Simon’s premier knights. Edric warned me, and he tried to persuade me to change my allegiance from the House of Clare and back to my old Welsh lord. I did not then nor do I now. Owain ab Ifan is my enemy, my blood-foe.”

“When were you going to have told us this?” Lamerok asked.

“After we’d gained this treasure,” Rhys said.

“With Owain on our trail?” snapped Lamerok.

“That is why our time is short,” Rhys said. “Owain will not return directly home, but he might send back messengers for more supplies and more battle-worthy lads to join him. There lies our danger.”

“We must warn the folk at Pellinore,” Cord said, alarmed at this horrible news.

Alice gave him a bleak look. “How will you warn them? Return there to be hanged?”

Cord was confused. It was his duty to warn the folk at Pellinore Castle, wasn’t it?

“If they catch us then we can warn them,” Lamerok said. “As for now, we must move.”

“Agreed,” Alice said. “Cord?”

Cord couldn’t speak because he didn’t know what to say. At last, he heaved his saddle onto his destrier. He’d have to think this through. As he cinched the saddle straps under the warhorse’s belly, he wondered just what exactly Sir Guy, Aldora and Philip were doing.

-17-

Philip seethed. Damn the dog boy, and damn Squire Richard Clark. He still couldn’t believe that old Baron Hugh’s squire had helped the others escape. It was simply too much.

“It’s all your fault really,” Richard said, seemingly unconcerned with his fate. Richard’s round face was set in a stubborn mask, his eyes blazing with pride. There wasn’t an ounce of repentance in him, even though he was on trail for his life!

The Great Hall had been cleared early this morning. Now Baron Guy’s knights and men-at-arms sat on benches arrayed before the fireplace. On several chairs sat the most important ladies, Lady Eleanor chief among them. Today she took the place of her son, being his representative. For among the gentry only Baron Guy was absent. He was sick with fever. The wine, the late night feasting and the shock of losing Sir Lamerok had broken him. Whether he would live another day rested upon the merciful will of God. Father Bernard sat upstairs with Guy, praying and fasting over him.

“How can you claim this is my fault?” Philip jeered.

Richard sat on a stool in front of the fireplace, his splinted legs stretched before him. “Several days ago your grudge against Cord upset your reason,” Richard said. The welt under his eye where Philip had struck him last night seemed not to bother him at all.

“What grudge?”

“Cord is the son of Sir Tostig of Barrow. You hated Sir Tostig, therefore you’ve always hated Cord.”

The various knights, men-at-arms and ladies looked worn and haggard as they listened. The feasting—the drinking—had gone too well last night. This morning was the payment.

Richard said, “It started when you made your wicked suggestion that Cord’s hand be struck off.”

“I’ve not forgotten that day,” Philip warned.

“You acted the part of a Turk,” Richard said. “Because of your evil you poisoned the hunt.”

Philip haughtily waved his arm. “You can’t blame me for what happened. It was Cord’s malice.” Philip asked the others, “Can we allow peasants to impudently cut game?”

“Cord isn’t a peasant,” Richard said. “His blood is as noble as yours. Maybe more noble.”

Philip spun round in rage. Like a shambling bear, he advanced upon Richard. “You dare impute my lineage? Only a traitorous dog could speak such a slur.”

“You call me a dog, you who always feared Sir Tostig? No! You’re a coward who used a boy to make himself feel like a man.”

“Silence!” Philip roared, drawing his sword.

“Strike, coward!” Richard spat. “Swing against the cripple. Oh, what a noble knight you are. You make all England proud.”

Philip lifted his sword high to strike.

“No!” shouted the bailiff. “Do not strike!”

“Swing, Turk! Cut off my head and wallow in glory. Only know that Cord the son of Tostig will come hunting. And it’s you he’ll find. He’ll do what Sir Tostig always did to you.”

Huge Philip Talbot bellowed and swung in a mighty arc. Pain flared in his shoulder. It slowed his swing as he aimed at Richard’s neck. Richard, despite his legs, nimbly rolled off the bench and to the floor. The sword swished above him.

The bailiff, Sir Walter and Sir George leaped up. They grabbed Philip from behind. His sword clanged onto the cobblestones. Struggling fiercely, they kept the huge knight from launching himself upon Richard. All the while Sir George hissed into Philip’s ear. At last, Philip quit struggling. He panted like a behemoth.

“Release me,” he said. “I will not kill the traitor.”

“Do you say this on your word of honor and before God?” the bailiff asked. He breathed hard. Although old and well past his prime, Philip was still the strongest Pellinore knight.

“I’ll watch Richard hang like a common felon,” Philip said.

The three knights let go. Huge Philip picked up his sword, rammed it into its scabbard and sat down on the Knight’s Bench. “Let some one else question him. I will no longer stain myself by speaking to such a traitorous scum.”

Richard pulled himself back onto his stool. Hatred shone in his eyes.

“Squire Richard,” the bailiff said as he mopped his forehead with a handkerchief.

Richard gave the lean, ever serious bailiff his attention.

The bailiff wore armor and a judicial frown. Of everyone present, save for Aldora, he was the least hung over. He spoke quietly but with authority. Through his probing, the entire story came to light.

“Cord slew Reynard, you’re certain of this?” the bailiff asked.

“I am.”

“You saw it?”

“Only the end,” Richard said. “I saw Cord step within Reynard’s guard and administer the death blow. It was well done.”

“Cord fought well?”

“Like a knight,” Richard said, giving the glowering, silent Sir Philip a glance.

“It was then that you agreed to help them?” the bailiff asked.

“Milord,” Richard said, “I owed Cord a grave debt. He slew Old Sloat and thereby saved my life.” Richard turned to the knights. “You know Old Sloat’s habits. After slaying Baron Hugh, would Old Sloat have merely run off?”

Sir Walter had the decency to appear uncomfortable. Sir George’s scowl never wavered. Like a sailor on a storm-tossed sea, Sir Thomas glanced at Philip in order to gage the direction of the wind.

“No,” Richard said, answering his own question, “Old Sloat would not have fled. He would have slain my steed and then slain me pinned under it. Cord prevented that by killing the monster. Then Cord’s quick barbering saved my legs, or so the barber told me.”

“I believe you,” the bailiff said.

Philip made a strangled sound, but otherwise remained silent.

Richard continued, “Days later, the Lady Alice discovered that one of my wounds had begun to rot. If not for her timely action, my right leg would have been sawn off. I would have been a cripple for life. So her too I owed a debt.”

“Perhaps that’s true,” the bailiff said. “But you were Baron Hugh’s squire first.”

“I was, and still am, I suppose,” Richard said. “The distinction of being his squire has always made me proud. Baron Hugh was a good man, a splendid knight.”

“Your allegiance now belongs to Baron Guy, since you are now his squire.”

“Allow me to disagree,” Richard said. “I did no homage yesterday. I gave no oath of fealty. Therefore, by the rules of Chivalry, I made no traitorous action because Baron Guy wasn’t and isn’t yet my liege.”

At this revelation, the knights and men-at-arms began to mumble and whisper.

“Is this true?” Eleanor asked in surprise.

“It is, milady,” Richard said.

“Please, good sirs, if I could once more have your attention,” the bailiff called out.

The noise died away.

The bailiff faced Richard. “You believe that last night you paid back your debt to Cord and the Lady Alice?”

“Milord,” Richard said. “I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again. Cord is the son of Sir Tostig. He is noble then, worthy of debts and honors, not merely a lowly dog boy to kick at a whim.”

“His father was hanged like a felon,” the bailiff pointed out.

Richard licked his lips. “Milord, Sir Tostig was hanged like a felon, but did that make him one? Isn’t it truer to say that Earl Roger Mortimer hated Sir Tostig, as Baron Hugh and Sir Philip hated him, enough to hang him unlawfully? Is it not truer to say they hanged him out of spite?”

“No!” Philip shouted. Other knights shouted nay as well.

“Good lords and ladies,” Richard said. “I ask you to hear me out.”

“Let him speak,” the bailiff said in his most authoritative voice.

Once again, the noises died away.

Richard collected himself and spoke earnestly to the bailiff. “These words are for you, good sir. I have known you many years. You are a God-fearing man and a knight of his word. You are honest and truthful. For are you not a judge, and as a judge aren’t you honor bound before God to only deal in truths?”

“This is rhetoric!” Philip shouted. “He seeks to lawyer his way to life.”

“Aye! Aye!” cried Sir George.

“My lords and ladies,” Richard said, “do you fear mere words?”

“When they’re twisted and spat about like a lawyer, yes,” Philip said.

“Then you fear the truth?” Richard asked.

“No,” the bailiff said. “We do not fear the truth. Instead, we demand it.”

“Thank you, milord.”

“Speak on, Richard,” the bailiff said.

“Good Bailiff, I ask you this question before God. By the laws of King Henry the Second, by the laws of England, did Earl Roger Mortimer lawfully hang Sir Tostig of Barrow?”

“The bailiff can’t answer that,” Philip shouted. “He was not there.”

“He wasn’t there,” Richard said. “But the bailiff is a law master. Even more, he’s an honest man.”

“Are you saying that Baron Hugh and Earl Roger Mortimer were not?” Philip asked.

“You three hated Sir Tostig,” Richard said. “Hatred has ways of fueling rage, as your bold swing, Sir Philip, proved so well just awhile ago.”

A man laughed. The others turned to see who it was. Fat Sergeant Hob laughed. He recovered and said, “Please forgive my interruption.”

“Good Bailiff,” Richard said, “answer my question. I am fain to know the truth.”

The bailiff turned to Philip. His lean face was set in its most judicial mold. “Before God I was asked this question. And the truth must be known. For Richard’s life hangs in the balance. No, the hanging wasn’t legal. Therefore, Sir Tostig never became a felon. Therefore Cord has noble blood, not that tainted by felony.”

“You lie!” Philip thundered. He rose and pointed an accusatory finger at the bailiff.

“If I lie, sir,” the bailiff said stiffly, “then face me in mortal combat.”

“A trail by duel,” Sir Thomas said. “That is a splendid idea. Let God decided.”

“No,” Eleanor said, rising and facing the knights. “There will be no trail by duel.” She faced the bailiff. “All here know that you are an honest man. If you believe what you’ve said, then I stand with you and your decision.” To Philip she said, “You are a loyal knight, sir. My husband always trusted you and so do I. But all know that you hated Sir Tostig and his son Cord. Please, sir, allow the matter to rest.”

Obviously wrestling with his emotions, Philip gave Eleanor a curt bow and sat back down.

The bailiff turned to Richard.

Richard said, “I thought as you do, sir. Because of that, I had to pay back my debt to Cord as one noble to another.”

“Agreed,” the bailiff said. “However, that didn’t allow you to help Sir Lamerok escape. No matter of honor drove you there.”

“I disagree, good Bailiff. Since Cord has been wronged these many years, I deemed it proper to give him a prisoner who could help him rise to the knighthood.”

“How so?” the bailiff asked.

“Surely Sir Lamerok will reward the youth who saved him,” Richard said. “How better then by helping him become a knight? All here, I’m sure, have heard of Sir Lamerok of Dun, one of the finest tournament knights of both England and Scotland. Earl Robert de Ferrers of Derby, the Galahad of Jousting, even tried to rescue Sir Lamerok. Surely there is no one more suited to helping Cord becoming a knight than Sir Lamerok of Dun.”

“I see,” the bailiff said. He touched his chin and turned to Lady Eleanor. “What now, milady?”

“You and I shall judge him,” Eleanor said, “and three other good knights.”

“Which knights?” the bailiff asked.

“Sir Walter, Sir Thomas and Sir George,” the Eleanor said. “Only on the condition, however, if that is agreeable with Pellinore’s faithful castellan.”

Philip considered the matter. They would no doubt allow Richard to live, but he might lose his status as squire. Then he could kill Richard later at his leisure.

“I am agreed,” Philip said. “If any need me I shall be in the stable.” He then marched out of the Great Hall and down the steps. His thoughts were in turmoil.

“Sir Philip!”

He turned at the bottom of the stairs and discovered tiny Aldora hurrying after him. What did the witch want now? Despite her haste, she negotiated the steps carefully, using her pealed hazel stick for support.

For once, the dour Gascon crossbowman didn’t hover nearby. He played chess with the bailiff’s daughter up in the living quarters. Last night the Welshman’s arrow had torn the muscle of his left shoulder. Philip had been there when Gaston had been told that he might never regain the complete use of his arm. Instead of raging against fate (as he would have done) Gaston had only smiled more dourly than ever.

“Your eagle has flown,” Philip said, thinking of Gaston.

“Not flown, but resting,” Aldora said in her loud voice. She chuckled wickedly. “Above all else, dear Philip, my eagle knows how to wait.”

“What does he wait for?”

“Blood.”

From under what rock had Guy found this witch? Philip wondered yet again.

“Walk with me,” Aldora said, hobbling past him.

“Nay, Old Woman,” Philip said. “I am not Guy. You hold no demons over me. Seek not therefore to give me orders.”

Her face was a mass of wrinkles, warts and two intensely inky eyes. She focused those on Philip. They were ancient eyes, eyes filled with dreadful power and maybe even black spells.

“Don’t seek to give me the Evil Eye, either,” Philip growled. “I’ve a charm you’ll not like.”

Aldora smirked.

“You’ll not smirk like that when your hoary head rolls in the dust.”

“O Man of Thunder, do not threaten me.”

“What riddle do you speak?”

“No riddle,” Aldora said. “I merely see the spirit of men. Yours is thunder. Aye. Yours is to threaten and storm, to boom out in the night. Yet it is lightning people should fear, not the barking of thunder.”

“Go back and play with Richard,” Philip said. “You both bandy words like a lawyer. They sound fine and mighty, but are meaningless in the face of steel and in the face of men of steel.”

“Words are never meaningless,” Aldora said. “They can stab with deadly power.”

“If you speak of spells, witch, know that I’ve a piece of the True Cross on my person.”

Aldora hissed as she took a step back. “Alice’s?”

“Aye, but it’s mine now. She’s to be my wife. So I’ll keep it for her.”

“Your charm won’t save you,” Aldora said, but some of the power had left her voice.

“Won’t it?” Philip mocked.

Her head bobbed up and down. “Aye, you’re a clever one. Perhaps in my haste I’ve underestimated you.”

“Perhaps.”

Aldora twisted her pealed hazel stick. “I beg of thee, Sir Knight, walk with an old woman that desires your counsel.”

“An Old Woman of Bones?”

Aldora flinched. “Do not speak so, not while carrying a piece of the True Cross.”

Philip laughed triumphantly, therefore missing the glint in Aldora’s ancient eyes. “What counsel do you seek?” he asked loftily.

“O Man of Steel, walk with an old woman that wishes to know how best to placate the ruler of Pellinore Fief.”

“Do you speak of Guy?”

“Nay, not him.”

“Who then rules Pellinore?”

Aldora put a small hand on Philip’s brawny forearm. “Walk with me, Castellan, cousin-uncle to the dying Guy.”

“Dying?”

“I’ve tried several remedies, some of my very strongest, and so has the barber. But there’s a sickness in Guy nothing can cure.”

“Not even one of your dark lords?”

“Not even them.”

Philip rubbed his mouth in order to hide the smile that had leaped unbidden onto his lips. Guy was dying! This was fantastic news. Who would have imagined that the little witch would be the one to give him the glorious information?

“When will he die?” Philip asked, trying to put a note of pity into his voice.

“Walk with me, Sir Knight. I am troubled and must decide what to do next.”

Philip wondered what she wanted. She had used Guy. Did she now plan on using him? He scowled until he recalled the piece of the True Cross. The witch feared the holy relic. And well she should, for there was power in the ancient wood. He was troubled, though. If the relic had power, and she felt it, did that mean she also had power?

“This way,” Philip said as he stepped toward the stable. He walked slowly so the old witch could hobble beside him without strain.

“You are kind,” she said.

“Kindness has nothing to do with this, witch. Tell me what you can offer me?”

“Offer?”

“Don’t bandy words with me, old woman. I know what you’re trying to do?”

“I seek counsel,” she protested.

Philip laughed rudely. “You seek to trick me. You seek to entwine me in your schemes as you did Guy.”

Old Aldora appeared thoughtful. “You are shrewd,” she said at last.

“Never doubt it.”

“But are you wise enough to snatch at a glorious opportunity?”

He scowled at her.

“Wealth untold,” Aldora whispered. “Wealth enough to make you the most powerful baron in the Western Marches. Oh yes, wealth to hire a host, Sir Philip. Wealth enough so you can decide between Earl Simon de Montfort or Prince Edward. Wealth enough to become the king-maker or king-breaker of all England.”

“Anyone can promise wealth,” Philip said, who was intrigued nonetheless.

“True, Sir Knight. Anyone can.”

Philip came to a halt, towering over the small Welshwoman. “If this wealth is so grand, why hasn’t Guy already taken it?”

“Isn’t the reason obvious?”

Philip gave her a searching stare. “Only Sir Lamerok knows where it’s hid?”

A wormy smile spread across her face.

“But you’ve lost Lamerok,” he said.

“And you’ve lost your bride-to-be.”

“Speak plainly,” he growled.

“We should labor together, Sir Knight. You should gather swordsmen and I my secret powers, and together we should hunt down my prisoner and your bride.”

“Your prisoner? Sir Lamerok was Guy’s prisoner.”

“Ah, but who controlled Guy?”

“Not you,” Philip said with a sneer.

She nodded curtly. “You mean: Not last night. And there you speak the truth. I lost control of Guy last night. Because of that he’s dying.”

“Because he wasn’t your pup?” asked Philip.

“No, because I allowed you to kill him.”

Philip’s chest tightened.

She chuckled evilly.

“Speak, witch, before I cut you down.”

Old Aldora threw up her hands and made an imitative sound of thunder.

“You mock me?” Philip asked.

“Quit prattling,” Aldora said. “You bade Guy drink to drunkenness last night. You played upon his love of praise and his inordinate desire for companions. That’s killing him now as surely as Sir Lamerok’s loss. You wished Baron Guy dead because you hated him. I can read faces, Sir Knight. Never forget that. Ah, never forget that I know your inner thoughts.”

“You’re mad,” Philip whispered, hating this devious, crafty old witch.

“We both know I’m not. So let us stop pretending and speak the facts.”

Philip considered his options. As much as he wanted to slay the evil witch here and now, he said, “Go on.”

Her smile made Philip wince. She said, “Guy will take several days to die. He is a fighter, after all, the son of Hugh de Clare. Die, however, Guy surely will. If you and I are far from him when he does die, then neither of us can carry the blame.”

Philip nodded slowly.

“If you and I were to say that we’re chasing Sir Lamerok for the baron, we could gather the needed people to track Lamerok and Alice.”

“And Cord.”

Aldora shrugged. “By the time we recapture Lamerok, or follow him to the treasure, Guy will be dead. Then you and I can split the treasure and go our separate ways.”

Philip rubbed his chin. Aye, this witch had a good plan. Of course, once he had the treasure he’d kill her. Something troubled him, however. “Why do you want this treasure?” he asked.

Aldora exposed a mouthful of rotten teeth. “Who doesn’t want gold?”

“You’re an Old Woman of Bones,” he said.

“So?”

“So I thought witches wanted things other than gold.”

“Sir Philip,” Aldora said, “all people want gold, or what gold will bring them.”

Philip studied her.

“Act, and you can win the world. Delay, and it may be too late.”

Philip knew she was right. “How can you dare trust me?” he asked.

She smiled an ancient, wicked smile. “In my hearing you will make a binding oath, and I will bring my two mercenaries with me on the trek.”

“That will be enough to satisfy you?” he asked, amazed that in the end she was a dupe.

“Surely your word is rock solid.”

“My word is my bond.”

“Then we should leave as quickly as possible,” Aldora said, “and quit worrying about trust.”

“The others may not be willing to join our quest,” Philip pointed out. “Earl Simon’s host is still at Bridgenorth, and many Welsh are there as well. Either could march here. What then?”

“Gather what knights and sergeants you can,” Aldora said. “If more than four agree to join it will be enough. Add dog boys and the best bloodhounds. We’ll need them in order to pick up the trail.”

“Risky,” Philip said. “Now is a time to bar the gate and pull up the drawbridge. Now is not the time to go hunting fugitives. Besides, what about Gareth Castle? What if Alice goes there first?”

“Send Sir Thomas the new Gareth Castellan there,” Aldora said. “He’s a trustworthy man because Guy carefully feathered his nest.”

“Aye,” Philip said. “Those are my own thoughts. Alice would be a fool to go directly to Gareth. And the one thing I know about Alice is that she’s no one’s fool. What about the first problem?”

“‘Tis a risk,” Aldora agreed. “Yet what great thing has ever been gained without risk?”

Philip grunted.

“Speed and surprise will be our tools. Surely Pellinore Castle can hold out against Welsh raiders?”

“Bridgenorth didn’t.”

Aldora shrugged. “If you won’t risk it—”

“I’ll risk it,” Philip growled.

“First you and I must go to the forest and find holly. Then you must set down your piece of the True Cross and make a binding oath.”

“To whom?” Philip suspiciously asked.

“Taranis, Teutates and Esus.”

Philip shuddered. Dare he damn his soul for gold? Then a sly thought came. He’d pledge and then go to Father Bernard and have him absolve him. He laughed inwardly, cheery at the idea of duping this horrid old witch.

As they left the castle, it was difficult to tell which of them grinned more.

-18-

Sir Lamerok’s revival proved more illusionary than real. As mile ran into mile, his head lowered until his chin touched his chest.

“We must let him rest,” Henri whispered. Cord and he rode behind Lamerok. Alice was behind them, while Rhys and his wife took the lead, acting as guides.

Cord had difficulty controlling the destrier. The big warhorse tossed his head and continuously worked the bit forward so he could clamp it with his teeth. When Cord tried to steer the destrier away from the trees the big stallion simply clamped his teeth and ignored his rider. Cord heeled the destrier in the side. He’d seen Richard do that before with restive steeds, although Richard always wore spurs. The destrier promptly turned his head and bit Cord’s foot.

Surprised, Cord twisted his foot out of the stallion’s mouth.

“Now, yank the reins,” Alice called.

Cord did, and he caught the destrier by surprise and forced the bit deeper into the stallion’s mouth, to the area of tender flesh.

“Now draw him to the right, with authority.”

Cord tried. The destrier nickered angrily.

“No! Don’t yank,” Alice said. “Pull with authority.”

Cord drew the reins to the right, strongly but with even pressure. The destrier bucked. Cord cried out, grabbing the saddle horn and clamping his legs around the warhorse’s barrel sides.

“Pull back on the reins,” Alice shouted. “Do it before he works the bit forward.”

Cord couldn’t let go of the saddle horn. The bucking terrified him.

“Hurry,” Alice cried.

The destrier bucked again, enjoying himself.

“Out of the way!” Alice shouted at Henri. The minstrel, a better equestrian than Cord, nimbly moved his mount. Alice’s palfrey slid beside the restive destrier as Alice caught his bridle. “Stop it,” she said. She yanked the bit out of stallion’s teeth and back into his mouth.

“Let go of the saddle horn,” she told Cord.

Cord picked up the reins.

“Watch how I turn my horse,” she said.

Cord did and then he did likewise. To his surprise, the big destrier obeyed him. “Thanks,” he muttered.

Alice smiled sugar sweetly.

He realized she knew horses the way he knew dogs. Control was in confidence, because the horses knew she knew what to do. He wondered if he could fake it, somehow convince the stallion he was a master rider.

“Teach me how to ride,” he suddenly said.

“What?” Alice asked, with a hint of mockery in her voice.

It galled him, but he said again, “Teach me how to ride.”

“Isn’t it rather odd for a squire to be taught by a maiden?”

He blushed.

“Oh, very well,” she said. “Even though you must understand that this in no way changes how I feel about you or what you dared propose.”

“Who said anything about that?”

A muffled laugh came from behind. They both glared at Henri. He arched his eyebrows, as if he couldn’t understand their black looks. “A squirrel just fell from a tree,” he explained.

The destrier, with both Cord’s and Alice’s attention diverted, began to work the bit back toward his teeth.

Alice must have noticed, for she gave Cord a sharp command. The morning went apace as Cord and the destrier learned that Alice was an equestrian of the first order. The lessons ended when Lamerok groaned and almost fell out of the saddle.

Lamerok stubbornly told them he was fine. The pain etched on his face belied his statements. Cord suggested they stop and rest. Alice pointed out that Baron Guy surely followed their trail. Lamerok suggested that they tie him to the saddle and continue. They did and the day wore on. The trees thinned out, and by dusk, they traversed the side of a rocky hill. Crickets chirped and unwary rabbits proved nonexistent. The landscape was bleak and forbidding, the gravely soil littered with black volcanic shale. Here and there, tufts of brown grass sprouted up, surrounded by thorns or thistles.

“We must have food,” Alice said, “if only for Sir Lamerok’s sake.”

“Do you trust me?” Rhys asked.

“We do,” said Cord as the others paused.

“Then await my return.” The stocky Welshman, with his longbow strung over his chest, rode bareback down the hill they’d just climbed.

Gwen dismounted, and when they gave her quizzical stares she explained, “He’s often ridden this route and made friends with the hermits. I suspect he knows where to collect us choice viands.”

In the distance a wolf howled, a lonely and eerie call. It made Sebald growl as his hackles rose. It also made Cord realize how alone they were. There wasn’t any castle to retreat to if events proved too difficult. Here they survived or died. He had vague childhood memories of a different time, when his father and he had been outlaws in the forests near Wigmore Castle. That had been an awful, near starvation time. It had been filled with brutality and had given Cord the grist for many nightmares.

Lamerok groaned as he settled himself against a rock. He was pale, his breathing rapid.

“Do you need a fire?” asked Cord.

“No,” Lamerok whispered, with pain etched on his face. “No fire tonight. We’re too open here.”

The hobbled horses nibbled on the sparse grass. Cord’s stomach rumbled as he picked thorns out of his flesh. He’d uprooted several thistles in order so the horses could better get at the grasses.

As the sun sank into the horizon, throwing a blood-red glow over the land, Rhys returned on his weary mount. He carried a heavy sack and soon divided its contents: Three loaves of coarse bread, a jug of bitter wine, several joints of half-rancid beef and a small, withered apple for each of them.

“Where did you ever buy all this?” Alice asked, impressed.

Rhys tugged importantly at his forked beard. “Here, milady, in the barrens, I am a magician.”

Wolves howled as the sun sank below the horizon. Cord recalled one of Henri’s tales of the old pagan god Odin. The cruel Viking god had two ferocious wolves. From the way the forlorn wolves howled in the distance, it seemed that they were Odin’s and that they feasted upon the sun.

After the meal, Lamerok revived. “This is a bleak place, filled with wolves, thorns, ancient shale and no doubt ghosts from the distant past.” He gave them a bitter smile. “This is the perfect place for me to tell you the first installment of my story.”

“You’re too tired,” said Cord. His premonition that this was a supernatural tale made him hesitant. He wanted the sun up when Lamerok told his tale, either that or a fire. Under the light of a pale moon, when the Devil and his minions were strongest….

“Nay,” Lamerok said, “I can speak for awhile. Then I will sleep and hope that the nightmares no longer drag me back to the dungeon. Of course, you must keep the wine jug near me so I can moisten my lips and keep my throat from drying out.”

Henri somberly said, “It seems that you’ve a minstrel’s tortured soul, Sir Knight.”

“I’ve suspected that all my life,” Lamerok said. “Why else have I been a tourney knight?” He took a swig from the jug. “Ah, in any case, I must begin. The tale is strange and frightful, filled with ghosts, ancient curses, treachery and grim butchery. Where to start, though, that is the question?”

“Why not by telling us who Gaius is,” Henri suggested.

Lamerok pondered that, sipping from the jug as he did. “I will begin in France, at the beginning.” He frowned. “I will begin with the changing of my luck. For that’s what pushed me into this boiling cauldron of confusion. Aye, I think that’s wisest—in a doom-chanter’s way.”

Henri sank against his grounded saddle. “It always starts with bad luck, doesn’t it?”

Lamerok nodded.

Cord found himself in agreement. Hadn’t bad luck scarred each of their lives?

Lamerok began his tale of woe. The tale wasn’t done until five days later. During those five days, Sir Lamerok slowly recovered strength as Rhys continued to provide them with food. At the end of the five days Lamerok could sit in the saddle without the need of ropes, although it seemed to Cord that his eyes had taken on a haunted cast. Although Lamerok no longer slouched, but sat tall as a knight should, it seemed that vultures sat upon his shoulders and whispered gloom only he could hear. At the beginning of the fourth day, Lamerok had recovered enough to teach Cord sword-fighting tricks. The lesson ended, however, when Lamerok discovered that he couldn’t draw Cord’s sword from its sheathe. The pain in Lamerok’s previously ‘stretched’ shoulders wouldn’t allow it. In lieu of sword-tricks, he gave Cord sage advice.

“Fight on foot for now. You’ll be slaughtered if you fight mounted. That isn’t as bad as it sounds. Young knights always do better battling with swords while afoot. It’s the old ones that are the most dangerous lancers. Sword fighting, while armored, is mainly the trick of giving heavy blows and not losing your wind. Jousting is the supreme art of timing, which the old ones have had a lifetime to learn. Do you understand?”

Cord did, entranced to learn such wisdom.

During those five strange days, as the ghost tale came to life, Cord also learned to ride the destrier better. He couldn’t ride as ‘one born to the saddle,’ but the big warhorse no longer fought him.

Henri whispered one night, “Raindrops can drill a hole through solid stone.”

“Do you mean Alice?”

“Be a raindrop, Cord, who never quits, and you’ll have your wife.”

At the end of the five strange days, Cord found that Lamerok’s ghost tale came in two parts. The first part brought the knight in contact with the secret-bearer. The second part was the secret told. Taken altogether, it happened like this:

***

Lamerok accepted Earl Robert de Ferrers of Derby’s ransom and went back to the pavilion of his partner Sir Ector. This happened in France, at the tournament where Lamerok captured de Ferrers.

The partnership between Lamerok and Ector was simple and direct. They collected the spoils taken during a tournament and paid out of their common fund whatever ransoms they needed to buy their freedom. At the end of the year, they split the rewards.

The year was the tournament season from Pentecost to the Feast of Saint John. It brought many noble young bloods to France and the Low Countries. Here the young bloods hoped to build a reputation as they sharpened their war-skills. If a young blood happened to be a firstborn he would tourney in style, which meant freely spent monies. There was silver to minstrels, silver to cooks, to haberdashers, armorers and horse dealers from Lombardy and Spain. The firstborn showed his greatness by his liberality, his grander and costly finery. All the others, the younger sons who would never inherit an estate, they grimly made the rounds in search of lords who admired their battlefield prowess. Or they won wealth through their sword-arm, capturing opponents and winning ransoms.

Custom dictated that a winner took a loser’s destrier, armor and person. Each could be ransomed. Like any form of gambling, tournament season brought glitter and bitter losses, as well as envied winners. The arrogant barons and dukes of France and the Low Countries vied with one another to provide the most glorious feasts and gaily decorated tourneys. Here ladies practiced the art of courtly love, which meant midnight, adulterous rendezvous with amorous knights and knaves. Often these affairs ended with the sword, the rope or the poisoned cup, depending on which lord, knight or lady had grown the horns.

On the selected and dangerous day, the knights divided into two teams. These divisions usually occurred by region. The knights of Brittany joined those of Normandy, while the knights of Picardy joined those from the Ile de France. On that fateful day, Lamerok and Ector had belonged to the party of Prince Edward of England. He had ridden with the crown prince of France.

Lamerok and Ector had hired a clerk, a young priest escaped from his scholastic school at Paris. The clerk kept the books so neither of them cheated. Of course, neither of them could read. Sir Ector, alas, proved himself more avaricious than chivalrous. He railed at Lamerok for naming such a niggardly sum in Earl de Ferrers’ ransom. And he claimed, in a heat of passion, that Sir Lamerok had already pocketed the remainder of the true amount.

Such aspersion could not be borne by a true knight. Lamerok challenged Ector to a joust. Let God decide the merit of such shameful words. It wasn’t a judicial duel, but a fight between drunken cockerels.

Alas, Lamerok slew Ector, his lance-point piercing Ector’s gorget. Blood jetted from Ector’s ruined throat and ended the accusation. After the funeral, and in remorse, Lamerok decided to take Ector’s share of the booty to his father in England. Lamerok thus bid good Prince Edward adieu and rode for the port of Calais.

Two weeks later, with only his grizzled squire Hugo in attendance, Lamerok boarded a leaky barge headed to Bristol. The only other noble passengers proved to be a Norman knight from Sicily and a prelate from Rome. The prelate, a bishop, was a stooped old man with a shiny bald plate and the cunning features of a fox. The knight and his men were to protect the bishop.

Lamerok spoke at length with the bishop. He finally asked him to pray for Ector and his own immortal soul. He learned that the bishop originally came from the Western Marches. Twenty years ago, the bishop claimed, he’d fled Wales and gone to Rome. Now he returned, wishing to view his native land once more.

France dropped from view, while fog hid England’s shore. Then, out of a bank of rolling mist, sailed two huge cogs with black sails. Ragged mobs of cutlass and pike-men swarmed aboard the two ships.

“It’s Eustace the Monk!” wailed the captain.

Lamerok blanched, as did everyone else aboard. All had heard of terrible Eustace. The huge monk had foresworn himself, loving women and wine more than Holy God. Years ago, they’d thrown him out of his order. In retaliation, he’d gathered his noble brothers, cousins and uncles, and had returned to burn the monastery to the ground. Chased from his native lands by outraged folk, Eustace had taken up piracy and some said the black arts. Now he was one of the most successful pirates in the English Channel.

The leaky barge never had a chance. Even so, Lamerok urged the Norman knight from Sicily to fight. They agreed. Alas, knights lacked a seaman’s training. With his two ships, Eustace cunningly swept upon the leaky barge from both sides. Grappling hooks thudded onto the railings and soon pirates swarmed from all directions. Enemy arrows swept the deck. Pirate archers who stayed upon their fore and aft-castles shot down sailors. A mob of pirates soon pulled down the Norman knight. A toothless old pirate ignobly stabbed out the knight’s eyes, killing him. Huge Eustace swaggered up, roaring orders as he clubbed the pirates swarmed over Lamerok.

“He’s good for ransom, you fools,” the huge old pirate bellowed. Because of unlimited wine and good food, Eustace was a mountain of flesh with massive forearms. He wore black silk and had eyes as dark as the coals of Hell.

“And what’s this?” Eustace bellowed. His men twisted the prelate’s arms behind his back.

“Hang him!” shouted the pirates.

Eustace nodded. “Aye, hang him. I hate priests.”

The prelate from Rome wailed in agony, screaming that he was worth more gold than Eustace had ever seen.

“How can this be?” Eustace asked.

The prelate turned foxy and said he could only tell Eustace.

That enraged the pirate, who guzzled wine as he spoke, letting it dribble down his chins. He fell upon the poor prelate, clubbed and kicked him, knocking out his front teeth. Then he roared orders to throw the knight, the squire and the priest into the hold.

Lamerok soon found himself tossed into the smelly underpart of the ship. Wet sand filled the hold, while huge black rats and lice prowled everywhere. Lamerok examined the priest and knew that soon the man would die.

“I must tell you,” the priest whispered, ungluing his bloody eyelids. “Then you must tell Eustace.”

Lamerok marveled at the prelate’s will to live. He wondered if perhaps the man feared Hell or didn’t welcome Heaven enough.

“You’ll tell Eustace, yes?” whispered the priest through his mangled lips and jagged remains of teeth.

“Tell him what?” Lamerok asked.

“The secret of Gaius’ Golden Treasure,” whispered the priest.

“Rest,” Lamerok said. He knew the priest was dying. “Pray to God.”

“Listen,” whispered the priest. “Listen well.” He chuckled in an odd and terrifying way. “Then go tell Eustace that I can barter for my life.”

“Very well,” Lamerok said, wishing to please the dying man.

The priest relaxed and smiled a most hideous smile. From somewhere he gained strength. Such was his power, his will and his story that it wove a strange web around Lamerok and his squire.

“It began with a letter,” whispered the priest. “I’ve read that letter. Ah, I’ve read and pondered it for over two years. Gaius’ ghost has spoken to me and shown me the end.”

Lamerok and Hugo his squire made the sign of the cross. It helped them not at all. Rather, they should have plugged their ears. For here was the story the priest told them:

-19-

In a distant age, the jailers showed Gaius the papyrus sheets. The dying prisoner shook his head. The jailers cursed, and almost slapped Gaius across the face. Weakly, he grinned up at them, blood staining his white patrician teeth. That stilled their muttering. He moved his lips, trying to whisper loud enough so they could hear. One of them finally bent low.

Gaius almost choked on the jailer’s overpowering scent of garlic. By an act of will he forced himself not to cough, which would have brought up more blood.

“Bring me vellum,” Gaius whispered. “…And a hammer,” he added, knowing how crafty the praetor of the II Augusta Legion could be.

The jailers argued for only a moment. The telling point in the end was that Gaius Julius Maximums’ father was a highly ranked senator back in Rome. It wouldn’t be prudent to deny his only son his dying wish, even if that son was a military tribune who had deserted with eight other patrician youths.

Gaius closed his eyes. Every wheezing breath brought him pain. He had almost made it back out of Ordovices territory with a whole skin—back out of the wilds of Wales. A barbarian’s bone-tipped arrow had ended all that. Now, despite everything that the physicians had done, the bone-chip and an un-removable inch of shaft was lodged in his lungs, the reason he was dying.

He prayed to Phoebus Apollo, the god of healing, that he be allowed to linger a little while longer. He had to tell his father what had happened. His secret could help lift the family out of its current troubles and back into the rarified strata of the truly powerful.

As he waited for the vellum—sheepskin turned into parchment by a careful process of scraping, washing, stretching and paring—the legion’s praetor marched into his cell.

The praetor, a wiry bald Roman of forty, bent low and implored Gaius to tell him why nine young patricians, all Italians of the highest quality, had deserted their posts and ridden hard into the wilds of Wales.

Gaius said nothing.

“Why did you alone ride back, Gaius Maximums?” the praetor asked. “Tell me what happened to the others so I may at least write their parents the truth?”

Gaius licked his lips. The truth was terrifying. Their ordeal had been one of horror, desperation and grim ferocity. If only the arrow hadn’t sunk into his back and deep into his lungs. They should have never left their posts, never listened to the intriguing rumors.

The praetor bent lower. “Where are they, Gaius? What happened to your friends, your close companions?”

Gaius stared into the praetor’s eyes. “Dead,” he wheezed. “They’re all dead.”

“How did they die?” asked the praetor, his warm, leathery hands gripping Gaius’ arm.

“A-a curse,” Gaius whispered. Then his midsection lurched upward as terrible pain lanced through his body. He spoke no more, and only revived after the jailers touched his hot skin with a rag dipped in vinegar.

A writing table now stood beside him. On it was vellum, a dispatch packet, wax, a flickering candle and his family signet. He blinked solemnly each time a jailer showed him an item.

“Hammer,” he whispered.

The jailers didn’t need to bend low to understand what he asked for. Instead, they demanded to know why he wanted a hammer. He gave them no answer, only stared at them until they shifted nervously. Finally, one of them ran out, and returned with a hammer.

Only then, did Gaius Julius Maximums clench his teeth and prepare himself for the final struggle. He prayed mightily, although silently, to Jupiter, King of the gods. By his recent actions, he had brought a stain upon his family. This stain he wished to erase, and more than that, he wished to bring honor and fame back to his family, and to make his father proud of what he had done.

His skin burned with the fever that raged through him. His strength seeped away with every breath. Still, he had his will.

With teeth clenched and fists knotted, he lifted his head off the straw-filled cot and then pushed himself upward with his elbows. The jailers stepped back, their mouths agape. Whatever color Gaius had faded away to a deathly white pallor, then turned a sickly hue of yellow. A terrible groan escaped his lips, but now he sat up, his hands clenched at the sides of the writing table.

“Lay back down,” one of the jailers urged, a man not noted for his sympathy.

Gaius stared at him with mad, fevered eyes. That jailer fled. The other stood rooted as Gaius, with a trembling hand, picked up a quill and began to write. As he did, his hand steadied and the yellow hue left his skin. He poured out his story in a process of dipping the ostrich quill into ink and then scratching upon the vellum as one possessed. He wrote in Latin.

After several minutes of watching this performance, the second jailer cried out in what seemed like supernatural dread. He too fled the cell.

If he had been able, Gaius could have stood up and walked away. The solid oak door was ajar. He didn’t even notice the opportunity, so absorbed was he in his final testament. When his strange tale was finished, Gaius sprinkled sand over the ink, waited, then rolled up the vellum and stuffed it into the packet. He heated wax with the candle, poured the liquefied wax onto the packet’s fold, stamped and sealed it with his family signet, an ivory stick with a carefully carved lion image on the end. He waited for the wax to harden. As he waited, his fevered skin once again turned a sickly yellow color. His hands shook as he lifted the hammer. He was terrified that he’d die before his last act was finished.

“Lord Jupiter, help me,” he whispered, with blood trickling from his mouth.

He brought the hammer down against the end of the ivory signet, but not hard enough. He wheezed another wet breath, steadied his shaking hand a final time, and cried out his father’s name as he swung the hammer. The lion carving on the end of the signet broke.

The hammer fell onto the floor. Gaius’ chin slumped against his chest. For a breath or two, he remained unmoving. Then he reached forward and pushed his last note beside the packet.

Done, he tried to lower himself onto the cot. That’s when he coughed a final gout of black blood and crashed to the floor in a heap. He twitched once and died, with a smile on his bloody lips.

The praetor returned an hour later. His mistake was in coming in the company of other ranked officers. The note beside the packet was read. It requested that the sealed packet be taken to Gaius’ father in Rome. The destroyed signet showed the officers that Gaius had desperately wanted only his father to read the letter. If someone broke the wax seal, another Maximums lion would never be stamped upon new wax.

“I must open this,” the praetor told his officers, “and see what fate befell the others.”

“You cannot do such a thing,” said a friend of Gaius’ father. He picked up the packet. “This must be given to the senator sealed, as his only son intended.”

The praetor argued a while longer, but in the end, he gave in to custom.

The packet was sent to Imperial Rome along with other letters, bulletins and dispatches from the II Augusta Legion stationed in Isca, which in centuries to come would be known as Caerleon, Wales.

The Elder Maximums read the tale six months later. It filled him with grief and shame at his son’s evil deed. Yes, maybe the Maximums family could use Gaius’ secret to advantage, but the senator was too proud to stoop so low as to accept his son’s treachery. How had he failed in training the boy? Treachery, and now a vile druidic curse—no, he wanted to stamp such things from the Maximums family. But this was his only son. As much as he wanted too, he could not destroy Gaius’ last and damning letter. So the senator sealed the letter in a clay jar, and along with Gaius’ things he had them mortared into a secret cache in the corner of his wine cellar.

A year later he died, many said of a broken heart.

The years passed, as did the centuries. Riots by the plebes, countless fires and political assassinations brought about by the Praetorian Guards changed the landscape of Rome time and again. The senator’s house withstood it all. The mighty Roman Empire finally split into East and West. Civil wars raged as the dreaded German barbarians knocked at the gates of civilization. Then, on 24 August 410 A.D., Alaric entered Rome and his Goths sacked it. The senator’s house was looted, but no one found the mortared cache in the cellar below. When Gaiseric and his Vandals ransacked Rome forty-five years later, so outdoing Alaric as to give civilization a new name for wanton destruction (vandalism), the senator’s house was almost burned to the ground. Only a timely rainstorm saved it. The Ostrogoths who followed in the wake of these various conquests soon controlled all of Italy. Emperor Justinian of Constantinople sent his two best generals, Belisarius and Narses the Eunuch, to win Italy back to the Eastern Empire. Savage wars, famines and several famous sieges all reduced Rome to a shell of what it had once been. The senator’s old home was at various times a ghost-house, a barn and a grainy. None of this had changed by the time Pope Leo III, on Christmas Day, crowned Charlemagne the new Western Roman Emperor in A.D. 800.

However, the event greatly enhanced the pope’s aura of power. With his increased prestige came the growth of the Vatican in Rome. Over the years, and the centuries, the city began to grow anew.

So it was that in the Year of our Lord 1262, the stone house of the dead senator was hammer-stroke by hammer-stroke destroyed. It was to make way for a new mansion of an important red-hatted cardinal.

The hidden cache was found. The clay jar destroyed. A priest read the incredibly brittle letter. Then it was hidden once again. That priest now lay dying in a cog that belonged to Eustace the Monk.

***

Lamerok stared at Hugo. “Do you believe him?” he whispered.

“What treasure?” Hugo greedily asked the dying priest.

“Gaius and his companions, led by a renegade apprentice druid, slew a coven of master druids and stole their centuries old treasure,” whispered the priest. “They stole their golden gutting knives, their golden blood-bowls and their golden head crushers. The renegade apprentice was slain out of hand because none of the patrician youths trusted him. Then they rode for freedom. Only they hadn’t slain all the druids. One of them must have lived, for soon all the natives gave chase.” The priest wheezed, but he was strong with the power of his tale. It almost seemed that he was filled with a supernatural will, a force that wouldn’t let him quit. “Gaius and his fellows cached the gold in a deep cave, shown them beforehand by the apprentice. Then they caused rocks to slide and seal up the cave.”

In the hold of the pirate ship, the priest sat up. His eyes were wide and staring as he clutched Hugo’s shirt. “There is a curse on the gold, so Gaius wrote. He must be right. Most of his friends died, with arrows in their chests. Finally, only two of them survived, crawling over rocks to flee the natives. That’s when Gaius fell upon his lifelong friend, stabbing him so only he, Gaius Maximums, could reclaim the golden treasure.

“Gaius cut down a native cavalryman and fled. He almost escaped whole, but in the end they put an arrow in his back and into his lungs.”

The priest laughed. “That’s part of the curse. You either die through treachery or with an arrow in your lungs.”

“You’ve not died that way,” Hugo said.

In moments, it became clear to Lamerok that his squire had understood the tale better than he had.

The prelate smiled, blood staining his teeth. Then he whispered to them the secret location of the cave and he told them how to remove the rocks. The Roman lads, it seemed, had been engineers and well understood such things.

Before either Lamerok or Hugh could do more, the trapdoor was flung up. A drunken Eustace roared, “A pox on all priests!” He aimed a crossbow and shot the priest through the chest.

“Now,” Eustace shouted at Lamerok, “we’ll talk ransom prices.”

***

After five days of listening to Lamerok, Cord and the others had learned this much of the story. They were deep in Owain ab Ifan’s land. Castle Gareth lay to the south.

“Where exactly is this cave?” Alice asked.

Once again, they sat in a forest glade, at night, a fire throwing flickering illumination over them.

“You truly wish to know?” Lamerok asked. “Even though the curse will surely kill all of us if I tell you?”

“The Old Woman of Bones,” Gwen said. “Aldora surely serves the same gods those slain druids did.”

Cord shivered with dread. All these days and nights in the wilds, listening to this strange story, had stoked his superstitions. Those druids had been alive during the time of Rome. No, Aldora couldn’t belong to such an ancient cult. It was impossible.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Alice told Lamerok.

“Tomorrow,” Lamerok cryptically said. “Tomorrow you’ll learn the answer.”

-20-

In his nightmare, Cord saw the Welsh raider who Sebald had slain earlier this summer. The mangled raider fought his way out of the earth and lurched toward him. The raider’s clothes were in tatters and his face was a horror of ruined flesh and wriggling worms.

“Owain ab Ifan approaches,” the dead Welshman intoned, his lifeless white orbs peering into Cord’s. “Owain ab Ifan holds the Curse of the Druids in his hands.”

Cord tried to run but his feet wouldn’t respond. Terrified, screams gurgling in his throat, he watched in horror as the dead-man neared.

“Owain ab Ifan approaches,” the raider moaned in his eerie voice, the volume rising.

“Leave me alone!”

“He approaches! And he carries the Curse!” The dead man drew a longbow and aimed a fiery arrow at his chest.

“No!” Cord howled, trying to lift his feet so he could dodge out of the way.

The dead archer grinned and released the string.

“No!” Cord yelled, bolting upright and startling himself from sleep. His heart raced, and he thought to see a strange man staring down at him. The man grinned and bobbed his head. Mortified, certain he was about to die, Cord leaped up and swung groggily. With his racing heart and sleep-drugged mind, Cord couldn’t comprehend it when his hand passed harmlessly through the man. Then the chill of Hell swept through him. A devil or a ghost mocked him. Cord staggered back, about to release a bloodcurdling scream, when suddenly he heard the rustle of leaves as the man bobbed and grinned once more. He looked more closely at the man and deflated with sick relief.

The man was a branch. The bobbing was merely its swaying up and down in the early morning breeze. His nightmare and the strange dawn-shadows had both conspired to play this goblin’s trick upon him.

He glanced at the others, who slept in a circle around the glowing embers of last night’s fire. They all slept except for Henri, who stood guard somewhere out of sight.

His bellow when he’d first woken had no doubt been much quieter than he’d realized. Even so, the nightmare and the branch-man solidified in Cord what had been gnawing at him for the last two days. Normally he wasn’t superstitious. This ancient druidic treasure, however, it was something else entirely.

Without waking the others, Cord went to his saddle and untied a heavy leather sack. Alice had proved true to her word six days ago. She’d taken Sergeant Reynard’s hauberk out of the tower, lowering it through the broken window to the moat below. He’d been unwilling to don the armor before this, much less examine it. After all, he’d slain the former owner. He didn’t like the image of himself as a ghoul who robbed the dead.

You took his sword easily enough, a small voice whispered in him.

Cord shrugged off his conscience. A sword was different. Armor protected. Although distaste filled his mouth, he lifted the cold, shapeless bulk of chainmail.

The hauberk had been fashioned with hundreds of interlocking rings, each separately riveted and linked to several others, forming a double coat of chain mail. Only a direct thrust could break through the well-forged rings. That’s what made a crossbow so deadly. Lances, backed by a destrier’s bulk, also had that kind of power.

Cord examined the broken links. Here his Toledo steel dagger had punched through and stabbed Reynard. He took out a leather thong and cut several pieces. He threaded each piece through several links, using six cords in all. What he needed was an armorer, new rings, an anvil and a hammer in order to fix the hauberk. His barbering would have to do. He went back to his saddle, took the padded jacket Richard had given him and donned it. Only then, did he slip the hauberk over his head and let it slid down like a tunic. The padded jacket kept the rings from pressing into his flesh. If a warrior bashed his sword against him, the quilted jacket absorbed the shock. The mailed sleeves only reached to his elbows and the bottom barely went to mid-thigh. A fully armored knight would have sleeves that reached to his wrists and wear gauntlets. He would also have chainmail hose and a coif, or mail hood.

The term mail came from the French word maille, which meant mesh. Cord belted a girdle around his waist, securing the chain-mesh in place. Finally, he slipped the baldric over his torso and adjusted the sword.

“Well, well.”

Cord turned in embarrassment.

“What have we here?” Henri asked.

Cord shrugged.

“Is it Owain ab Ifan you fear or Philip?”

“Neither,” said Cord. “But the druidic curse.”

Henri laughed silently like a fox. “Surely you don’t believe in fairy tales?”

“In fairies, no, but curses—”

“Bah! It’s all nonsense. Just like unicorn horns are nonsense.”

“How can you say that? You have a unicorn’s horn.”

“This is exactly why I say it.”

“But you have the horn.”

“The horn grows out of a whale’s head. That’s what makes it ludicrous, and more delicious. Cord, Lamerok knows how to weave a story. He knows how to keep us in suspense. But it’s only a tale.”

“His squire died through archery,” Cord said. “As did the Roman prelate. There is an evil curse at work, and I want no part of it.”

“Don’t you see that Lamerok is using that?”

“He’s not.”

“There is a treasure, surely, but one he overheard Eustace the Monk speaking—”

“I don’t want the treasure,” Cord said. “Not the treasure of druids who slew innocents, nor the treasure of traitors who stabbed each other in the back. It’s black gold, Satan’s allure. I’ll have no part of it.”

Henri gave Cord an appraising glance. “I greet thee well, Parsifal, and I’m indebted to thy innocence. Pray, show me how the knights of yore battled for a damsel’s honor.”

“What?”

Henri swept off his hat and made a low bow. “Milord, I thank thee.”

“Are you making fun of me?” Cord growled.

Henri clapped Cord on the shoulder. “Tell Lamerok your resolve, but not the lady. She’ll become suspicious at such nobility and think it simplicity.”

“I mean what I say.”

“Why else do you think I’ve stayed with you?” Henri smoothed his hat’s feather. “Wake the others. We don’t want Owain or Philip catching up.” The minstrel grinned. “Those two are curses I understand, placed on this earth to plague those who are holy.”

“Poke fun at me all you want,” Cord said. “But don’t forget that the Old Woman of Bones is linked to the same devils whom the druids worshipped.”

“I’d start worrying less about curses and more about vengeful knights. If we’re not lucky—Henri shrugged.

***

They rode single file through a ravine. Thorns lined the top and slippery shale the bottom. This was a bleak area, one blasted long ago by cruel winds in summer and blizzards in winter.

With barely room enough, Alice urged her palfrey beside Cord’s destrier. She arched her eyebrows at him. Like all of them, her clothes had become travel-stained and her features become lean and hungry. Food was scarce and water almost as much.

“The hauberk suits you,” she said.

“Thank you, milady.”

“And you’ve learned to ride like a…like a knight.”

Cord dipped his head.

“Soon you’ll have to fight, though.”

“Whom, milady?” he asked.

“Sir Philip or Owain ab Ifan,” she said, “or maybe a host of screaming Welshmen hot for our blood.”

Cord adjusted the baldric, moving the brass buckle toward the center of his chest. “May I speak plainly, milady?”

“Please do.”

“I think this treasure hunt is a fool’s errand. Look how we trap ourselves in a tight place. We should ride for open ground.”

“And go where?”

Cord looked into her eyes. She was a lady, a fighter and a woman who could take care of herself. She was the worthy partner of a knight. Yes, she had title to Gareth Fief, but he wanted her because he admired her. He loved to look and talk with her. She would be a wonderful, strong mother for his children.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

He grinned, and felt silly and bold all at once. “You taught me how to handle my destrier.”

“You’ve learned a modicum of skill. To fight on horseback will take longer to learn.”

“You’re right. But then I’m Parsifal.”

“If you say so.”

“Alice, let’s ride from here. Let’s go to France. I’ll enter tournaments and win the needed money for your men-at-arms. Then we’ll come back to Gareth Fief and take it away from Guy.”

She gave him an unreadable glance. “You’re a dreamer, a man with his heads in the clouds.”

He slapped his hauberk and patted the destrier. “These aren’t dreams, milady. With my sword I’ll carve a destiny for both of us.”

She stared at him.

“I want you to be my wife.”

“For the money my fief can give you.”

Cord shook his head. “I want you because you’re bold, wily and don’t give in.” He smiled. “Consider my proposal. Ponder it deeply. I’ve time.”

She turned away, troubled.

Cord felt grand for the sheer reason that he’d done what he had planned for days now. Yes, to be a knight meant to act on your thoughts. To be a knight meant to be a man of action.

“We need Gaius’ Treasure,” Alice said.

“Do we?”

“You need the treasure in order to be a knight.”

“I have a splendid destrier and a hauberk, incomplete as it is. A knightly sword is mine. Maybe I need a shield, lance and spurs, but those I can purchase elsewhere.”

“You want to be a knight, Cord. A knight needs money in order to live in style, to act as one of his rank should. At this point gaining money should be your chief concern.”

“Lamerok lived as a knight and he gathered money by winning jousts.”

Alice laughed bleakly. “He’s also one of the most powerful knights alive. Not now perhaps…or maybe he is.”

“What?”

“I think Lamerok appears to be in more pain than he really is.”

“You think he’s faking?” Cord asked.

She nodded.

“Why would he?” asked Cord.

“Why else,” she said. “He wants to surprise us when we reach Gaius’ Treasure.”

Cord considered that. He was beginning to believe that the allure of gold poisoned the mind. Maybe that was part of the curse. Since he no longer wanted the gold, it didn’t have a grip on him.

“I want you to test Lamerok,” Alice said. “Ask him to train you. That’s why you’re the squire, after all. Find two sticks, stout sticks, and have him show you a few sword tricks. I don’t think he’ll be able to keep up the pretence as he’s battling with you. Press him. Make him work. Thwack him a few times if you have to.”

Cord shook his head.

“What’s wrong with that?” Alice demanded.

“You’re wily,” Cord said, with admiration in his voice.

Alice blushed.

Cord leaned over and took her hand. “Think about marriage with me.”

“With a Saxon?” she asked with a sneer.

That didn’t daunt Cord anymore. He was going to win this lady as knights did in the stories. In many stories, the lady sneered and belittled the knight, only to be truly in love with him all the while. Besides, hadn’t Henri told him to wear the lady away as constant raindrops did rocks?

“I will prove my love by taking on this quest.”

Alice blinked several times. “You’ve changed quickly.”

“I am Parsifal, milady; and Saxon though I may be I am a true heir to King Arthur’s knights of old.”

***

Cord began by praising Lamerok’s skills. Why, the stories they’d heard of his prowess in France and the Low Countries, what a marvel. Unsurprisingly, Lamerok begged off the idea of practice, saying he still recovered from the dungeon horrors. It was true Lamerok’s face looked battered. Over the past six days, however, the black and blue bruises had faded to ugly yellow marks. The terrible stiffness in the joints had also lessened. Before, Lamerok’s face had screwed up each time he’d moved an arm or shifted a leg. After Alice’s words, Cord watched the knight. That sudden flinch of pain was gone.

“You’re my teacher,” Cord insisted.

Lamerok conceded the point, carefully chewing the last of their coarse bread. Mid-afternoon had fled and now it was a chilly early evening. They were in a small gorge with a stream. Lamerok had suggested they rest here. He promised that tomorrow they’d reach the cave.

“At least show me a few sword tricks,” Cord urged.

Lamerok rubbed his chin. “I’ve seen you filing your sword. It takes days for you to rub out the nicks. Why do you want to mar such work? Besides, I have no sword. Now if I had a sword….”

“I have stout branches,” said Cord. He walked to his saddle and returned with two straight branches. They were heavy and sword-length. With string, Cord had tied a cross-guard to each.

“You’ve been busy,” Lamerok remarked dryly.

“Then you’ll show me?”

Lamerok sighed, slowly working to his feet. “I suppose I can show you a move or two. Not that it will help, mind you. Swordsmanship takes years of practice, not a trick or two.”

Cord nodded.

The others munched on food, sitting around the fire. Alice and Henri diced and whispered together as they ate. Gwen combed her long red hair.

“That you’re wearing armor should help,” Lamerok said.

“Oh?” asked Cord.

“I might hit hard a few times. Just to show you how a knight fights.”

“I’m ready,” said Cord, holding his practice sword rather awkwardly.

“Now I’m still tired and sore,” Lamerok explained, “but I can at least show you how to hold a sword.” He gripped his branch and showed Cord the exact position of his hands. “Yes, that’s it. Now place your feet farther apart. Good. Watch my sword now, keep your eyes there.”

Lamerok’s sword snaked forward, the blunt wooden point aimed at Cord’s chest. Nimbly, with the clack of wood, Cord parried the blow.

“Ah, you do know a move or two. Excellent,” Lamerok said. He swung a few more times.

Cord blocked each blow. He didn’t watch the sword, but the forearms as Hob had taught him. Lamerok swung slowly and the knight seemed tired, but he didn’t sweat. Despite the puffing and complaining, that told Cord Lamerok wasn’t as ill as he claimed.

“Enough,” Lamerok said, letting the blunt sword drop to the ground.

“Are you tired?” Cord asked solicitously.

“Very,” said the knight.

“Let me try a swing on you,” Cord suggested. “It’s something Hob taught me.”

Lamerok sighed. “I’m sure the sergeant meant well, but I’m not feeling good and I’m sure he showed you little of real worth.”

“Pick up your sword,” Cord said.

Lamerok blew out his cheeks, doing no such thing.

Cord tapped the knight’s chest with his practice sword. “Guard yourself,” he said.

“I’ve had enough,” Lamerok said, turning to go.

Cord tapped Sir Lamerok’s cheek and then the other.

“You guard yourself,” Lamerok said, who snatched up his sword.

Now the swings came faster than before. Cord parried each as he recalled what Hob had taught him. For two years, the fat sergeant and he had practiced like this. Hob had always told him that he lacked skill, was too slow and didn’t really understand swords or daggers. Maybe if he practiced harder, well, he could learn a bit. The truth suddenly dawned on Cord. Maybe he was better than he knew. Maybe Hob had always told him he was too slow so he hadn’t gotten a big head. Hob could be like that.

Lamerok’s swings rained faster yet, and harder.

Cord grinned at the knight. They were just as tall and as wide of shoulder. Sir Lamerok, despite his dungeon time, was still the heavier between them.

“Is that all you can teach me?” Cord asked.

Lamerok’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

Cord launched a swift attack, beating aside the knight’s sword and hitting him hard against the side.

“You’re dead!” shouted Cord.

“Guard yourself!” Lamerok shouted. Then the blows rained as the knight forced Cord back. Yet Cord parried the swings. Lamerok crouched low and swung his practice sword in an arc, knocking Cord’s legs out from under him. The knight rushed in and poked the tip against Cord’s throat.

“Now you’re dead,” Lamerok snarled.

Cord’s left leg throbbed painfully. There would be a huge bruise tomorrow. He might even have a limp.

Lamerok wiped sweat from his face. He glanced at Alice. She and Henri watched closely. “Ah, I see,” said Lamerok. He removed the tip from Cord’s throat and gave him a hand up.

“You’re no dog boy,” Lamerok said. “Why have you deceived me?”

“I was a dog boy,” Cord said, limping beside Lamerok as they walked to the fire.

“Impossible,” Lamerok said. “Where did you ever learn to fight like a Templar?”

Alice and Henri learned forward.

Lamerok sat down. “I’ve fought almost everyone, lad. From Hungry to Scotland, I know all the styles. You fight like a Knight Templar. You studied my blows as you parried them. I saw that in your eyes but I refused to believe it. Once you thought you’d gauged all that I could give, you attacked. Templars fight like that.”

“Sergeant Hob taught me everything I know,” Cord said.

“Was he a Templar?”

“I doubt it,” said Cord. “Although…long ago he fought in the Holy Land.”

“I’d like to know more about Hob.”

“Something happened to him in the Holy Land,” Cord said. “It embittered him or cursed him. At least, that’s what he thinks.” Cord shook his head. “I don’t think Hob would want me talking about this.”

“When was he in the Holy Land?” Lamerok asked.

“1249, I think.”

Lamerok nodded. “That was the time of the Sixth Crusade. Saint Louis, the King of France, set sail to Egypt, not to the Holy Land. The Crusaders took Damietta but lost horribly at Mansura. The King of France was captured and ransomed. Many Templars perished in the Egyptian Delta. A few Knights Templars purchased their way to freedom. That should have been impossible because individual Templars are not allowed private funds.”

“You are well informed,” Henri said.

“I’d like to know why you’ve been faking,” Alice said.

“Simple caution,” Lamerok said. “As a man who has made his living fighting, I’ve learned that it’s best if your opponent underestimates you. As I underestimated you,” he told Cord.

Cord grinned.

“Is he really that good?” Henri asked.

Lamerok faced Cord. “You’re good, and I think you can be better. All you need is polish.”

Cord was aglow. Then his leg throbbed. “What was that move?” he asked.

“It’s an old Viking trick. Sweep at the knees when your opponent is concentrating on your torso. It’s not as useful if your foe is nimble. The old Viking sweep is an all or nothing attack.” Lamerok grinned. “That’s how good you are, Cord.”

Cord heartily shook Lamerok’s hand. “Thank you,” he said.

“Aye, you’ll make a good knight, my boy. Just remember what I told you about staying away from jousts. Fight afoot for now and with swords and there are many knights whom you could already defeat.”

“I think we should be talking about the treasure,” Alice said.

“Do you?” Lamerok asked. “I’m more curious about this Sergeant Hob. The man has obviously taught a dog boy the Templar manner of fighting. Templars are usually the vainest of knights. Of all the Knightly Orders, Templars are the most class conscious.”

“What about the treasure?” Alice repeated.

“Tomorrow,” Lamerok said with a tired smile. “At the moment I’m winded and ready for sleep. Tomorrow we’ll pack our bags with gold. I promise.”

-21-

A wolf howled.

“Ah,” Aldora said around a campfire many miles away. “The creature worships its dark master.”

Those who followed Philip on his quest shifted uneasily. They’d ridden hard into this bleak land, the little witch their guide. The hounds, which had been pegged nearby, bayed at the howling wolf. They were the worst of the kennel brutes, savage beasts that loathed their wild cousin. At an angry word from Philip, two dog boys slunk amongst the kennel brutes with sticks and beat them into silence.

“It is foolish to beat the dogs,” Aldora said. “They too must worship the dark one as he strides through the night. To do otherwise will bring their deaths upon them.” She eyed the kennel monsters. “Aye, they’re wild ones themselves and still know the dreadful laws of Darkness.”

Philip shot her an ugly scowl.

Fat Sergeant Hob said, “You speak blasphemy, old woman. Do you hope to frighten us with words?”

Philip laughed. “Yes, that’s exactly her plan.” He was glad the sergeant was here. Maybe the drunkard liked Cord, but the sergeant didn’t scare. That was Aldora’s game, wasn’t it? She wanted them frightened. Strange how an old woman, using words—or were those spells—could upset the men.

Philip stared at the flames rather than into Aldora’s eyes. Thank God for the holy relic, and for Father Bernard. He still had a bad taste in his mouth as he thought about the oath that the witch had made him swear. Luckily, before leaving Pellinore, Father Bernard had absolved him of the oath. Therefore, he was no longer bound to Taranis, the so-called Lord of Night and Despair. In return for swearing, Philip had learned of an ancient druidic treasure. Squire Hugo, it seemed, had babbled strange things in Gareth Castle as Aldora had tried to remove an arrow from his lungs.

Aldora now surprised Philip by saying, “The treasure is near.”

Philip scowled anew. The witch was obviously trying to divide them. Soon he’d put an end to her scheming. Then he’d return to Pellinore Castle and take up the mantle of baron. For surely Sir Guy had died by now. Baron Philip Talbot, that had a lovely ring, all right.

“Did you not know that we seek treasure?” Aldora asked Hob.

Murmuring arose from the men.

“Aye, we seek treasure in this old vale,” Aldora said in a singsong voice. “We root through the Valley of Death, overturning rocks in order to find baubles of gold and pearl. But fear not, for Taranis has given me the key and has opened the way.”

Hob stood, his wine-fueled eyes filled with confusion. “Do you mock Holy Scripture?”

Aldora leaned toward the fire, tossing a handful of what seemed like sand into the flames. The sand hissed and popped, sparkling for just a moment like sword-stroke sparks.

The men moaned in fear and peered at her with dread.

“Listen to me, O Men of Iron. You walk where Taranis treads. This is the Valley of Death. For millennia, Taranis has feasted upon those who thought to sacrifice his children to newer gods. Here is the bloody altar to those in the unseen world. Here—”

“Enough,” Philip said.

Aldora slowly shook her head. “Do you not wonder upon the reason for Hugo’s death, the squire to Sir Lamerok of Dun?”

The men stirred. Despite their fear of her, they were interested in anything about Lamerok.

“Because Sir Lamerok and his squire Hugo dared to tread upon scared ground,” Aldora said, “they awakened the ancient Taranis from slumber. Even Owain ab Ifan knows enough of the old ways to know never to tread here.”

“Owain knows about the treasure?” Philip asked suspiciously.

“Owain ab Ifan knows nothing about the treasure,” Aldora said. “But he knows everything about the Valley of Death.” Aldora peered at the men. “Every Welshmen in these parts knows better than ye. That is why, for now, we are safe from Owain and his raiders.”

“What does that mean?” asked Hob.

“The old woman is mad,” Philip said.

Aldora chuckled. Only dour Gaston smiled at the sound. “You think I speak riddles and madness, eh? Well, the Valley of Death is no riddle. For eons, it has been a killing ground, a bloody altar to Taranis, and to his brother gods Teutates and Esus. Did not King Rufus, the son of William the Conqueror, lose fifty of his bravest knights in the depths of Wales? That took place here! And here, in ages past, the arrogant Romans lost a squadron of their finest cavalry, butchered to the last Latin legionary.”

Aldora searched the men’s eyes. “Do you hear the wind?” She chuckled at their reluctant nods. The wind blew strongly tonight, whistling past the rocks and through the gorge. “I will tell you a secret. That is no wind. Those slain here will march forever in the Horde of the Damned, doing the will of Taranis. It is their eternally damned voices that you hear.”

One of the men-at-arms moaned fearfully. The others watched the small Welshwoman, their eyes seeming to dance as moths around flames.

“Before the Romans, the bold Viking Chieftain Dragar Spear-Slayer died crying like a girl-child, begging to be released to the dreadful Odin.” Aldora smiled wickedly. “‘Tis said the druids stabbed him in the groin and slit his chest like an overripe pumpkin and pulled out his lungs, giving him the bloody eagle that the Northmen so fondly gave to others. Before that….”

Philip’s head swam with fear and loathing. Aldora frightened the men. If she continued they would bolt or their courage would wither, and then he’d never slay Cord and never take Alice for his own. The devil Taranis scared him, enough so he feared stopping Aldora. He’d foolishly sworn a fearful oath to Taranis. But Father Bernard absolved me from the oath, Philip told himself. Somehow, though, that didn’t seem enough for him tonight. He couldn’t rise and make Aldora stop talking. She wove a spell around them. She dominated them with her will.

Philip licked his dry lips as Aldora’s voice droned on. By an act of will, he reached inside his pouch and touched the piece of the True Cross. Nothing happened. He still couldn’t rise.

Panic threatened to overwhelm Philip. For a dreadful moment, he thought that Father Bernard’s absolution hadn’t taken. Then, however, one of his oldest memories came to his rescue. He thought he saw, or could hear, the ghost of Terrible Tostig laughing at him. That forced him to recall how long ago Terrible Tostig had nearly beaten him to death in front of a girl. Rage coursed through Philip. Tostig had returned from the grave, from the hanging tree. He’d returned in the guise of a dog boy.

Consuming rage filled Philip Talbot. If the witch continued to speak, then he’d lose control of his men and then he’d never beat Terrible Tostig.

“Silence!” roared Philip, rising unsteadily to his feet.

Aldora stared at him. The men watched him open-mouthed.

“Speak no more about Taranis!” Philip thundered.

“This is the Valley of Death,” Aldora intoned.

Philip cuffed her, sending the witch sprawling across the ground. He drew his sword, even though pain shot through his shoulder. “Speak about Taranis again, or try to lay a curse upon us, and I’ll chop your ugly head from your shoulders. Then I’ll cut out her black heart and roast it to Satan.”

The small witch cringed like a kicked cur.

“I am the master here!” Philip thundered. He waved his sword, his rage pounding in his brain.

“You are now foresworn,” Aldora whispered.

Philip kicked her in the stomach. Aldora vomited. After wiping her lips, she crawled away into the darkness.

“Turn in,” Philip told the men. He sheathed his sword.

“Well done,” said Hob, clapping Philip on his bad shoulder.

Philip almost groaned, but he nodded instead.

“The piece of the True Cross is powerful,” said Hob.

“Aye.”

Hob smiled and went to his sleeping-skin.

As Philip readied to turn in, he heard the distant wolf once more. The wolf didn’t worship. The wolf merely howled his challenge at the world. For a wild instant, Philip almost threw back his head to howl back. He smiled ruefully. If he did that, the men would be sure to think the old witch had cursed him. Instead, he settled down for the night, hoping that tomorrow would bring him his long sought vengeance.

-22-

After a breakfast of biscuits and water, Cord urged the others to forgo the treasure.

“Are you mad?” Lamerok asked.

“On the contrary,” said Cord. “I respect the power of the curse.”

“What do the rest of you say?” Lamerok asked.

“Curses are meaningless to one whose entire life has been a curse,” Henri said.

Alice agreed with the minstrel.

Rhys inspected his longbow. Gwen watched her man. At last, Rhys said, “This is an accursed place. Few dare enter this gorge. One reason, I suppose, might be the brittle shale. A rockslide could start any time. It isn’t any wonder to me how those Roman engineers caused a cave to seal up. I wonder rather how we’ll ever be able to dig enough shale out of this eon-old tomb.”

“We aren’t there yet,” Alice said.

“True,” Rhys said. “Do you plan on taking us there?” he asked Lamerok.

“I’ve given my word,” Lamerok said.

“Which isn’t an answer,” Alice pointed out. “Yes or no. Are you taking us to the cave today?”

“Do you doubt my word?” Lamerok asked.

Alice laughed sharply. “If I say yes, I doubt it, then I’m sure you’ll explode in a knightly huff and tell me that I’m not worthy to be shown anymore. If I say no, then no doubt you’ll tell me to trust you. Therefore, I’ll not answer your question.”

“Ye gods!” said Lamerok. “Marry this wild cat at your peril,” he told Cord.

“You’ve still avoided answering the question,” Alice said.

“Very well,” Lamerok said with a little bow. “Today I’ll show you the treasure cave, as its location was told to me by the Roman prelate.”

“Like Cord I am inclined toward caution,” Rhys admitted. “Yet perhaps I’ve lived too long among the Anglo-Norman nobles to believe in all the Welsh myths. The truth is I owe a service to Cord. Until my obligation is fulfilled, I’ll go where Cord goes.”

“Cord,” Henri said, rounding on his friend. “We’re headed to a glittering treasure put there centuries ago by a patrician tribune of the ancient Roman Empire. The aura itself will impregnate my mind with songs for years to come. I must go on, and you must too, if only to protect Alice.”

“I need no protection,” Alice snapped.

“What about the curse?” Cord asked Henri.

“You’re a Christian,” Henri said. “Pagan curses can’t harm you.”

“Pagans can hurt Christians,” said Cord. “Otherwise we’d rule the Holy Land from one end to the other, not the infidels. Don’t doubt my Christian sincerity, but the priests tell us that our souls will go to heaven, not that we’ll always be victorious on earth. So if pagans can harm us, then surely their pagan curses can as well.”

“My squire is more amazing by the day,” Lamerok exclaimed. “Not only is he a man-of-arms, but a man-of-rhetoric. Now you must decide. Which will it be?”

Cord shifted from foot to foot. At last, he asked Alice, “What is your decision?”

“Why ask me?”

“Because I go where you go, milady,” Cord said. “How otherwise can I woo you?”

Lamerok clapped his hands. “You are a bold knight indeed.”

Color rose to Alice’s cheeks. She said, “I would at least see the treasure’s hiding place.”

Lamerok laughed sharply.

“Then I will go on,” said Cord. “How much farther?” he asked Lamerok. The gorge was narrow here, with sheer shale sides all around them.

“Do you see that plateau over there?” Lamerok asked.

Across the stream, a rocky shelf stood halfway up the farther cliff-side. Like much of the gorge, thorns and lichen clad the steep approach.

“I see it,” said Cord.

“Upon that shelf lies the cave entrance.”

“What?” Alice said. “We camped under it?”

“Not exactly under it,” Lamerok said.

Alice mounted her palfrey. The others did likewise.

The hillside proved steep. Each of them had to dismount and half-drag their steed up the slippery slope. The sun rose as they breathed harder and as sweat stained their garments. At last, one-by-one, they reached the plateau. It proved to be a small, castle-size area covered by stubborn brush. Nowhere was their evidence of a cave or a rockslide.

“You’ve lied to us,” Alice said.

Lamerok snorted. “What did you expect after hundreds of years, maybe over a thousand years—an easily spotted entrance? I hope not. How otherwise would the treasure have remained hidden?”

“Oh,” Alice said.

Henri considered the cliff.

“What are you looking for?” asked Cord.

Henri didn’t answer. A grin suddenly split his face. “Look to your left. But don’t be obvious about it.”

Cord nonchalantly looked to the left. Tufts of grass grew along the sloping cliff, along with dandelions and clover.

“Do you see it?” Henri whispered.

Cord shook his head.

Henri said out of the side of his mouth, “Don’t you see movement? Over there by the lichen-covered boulder, the one with the dark shadow under it.”

“Do you mean the bat?” asked Cord. A small bat crawled along the boulder and then into the darkness underneath it. “A bat,” he whispered. “That means a cave.”

“Look, a bat!” Rhys shouted. He stood with his wife and Alice and pointed at the lichen-covered boulder.

Henri groaned.

Cord rounded on the minstrel. “You meant to keep that a secret?”

“Yes, so?” Henri asked.

“The gold-madness has bitten you,” Cord said. “The curse is still at work.”

“That’s not a curse, my friend, but simple greed.” Henri clapped Cord on the back. “Not all of us are Parsifal.”

“And that’s that,” Lamerok said, facing them. “The bat is the key.”

“That’s not necessarily true,” Alice said, although her features were flushed. “It could just be a depression under the boulder.”

“You know it’s not,” Lamerok said. “You know that the bats have found the cave and use it as a home.” He laughed and did a little jig. “We’ve found Gaius’ Golden Treasure!” He rushed to Alice, grabbed her hands and danced with her in a circle. “We’ve found the treasure!”

Henri whispered to Cord, “It seems the knight was never as injured as we thought.”

Alice laughed with Lamerok, although she soon pulled her hands away and glanced at Cord.

“Do we dig?” Gwen asked.

Before anyone could answer, Sebald turned.

“What is it, boy?” Cord asked.

Sebald’s hackles rose and a low growl rumbled from his throat.

“What’s wrong with him?” Henri asked.

Cord gave his destrier’s reins to Henri and walked with Sebald to the edge of the plateau. The low growling never stopped. Cord squatted on his haunches, peering back the way they’d come.

“What is it?” Lamerok shouted.

Cord help up his hand for silence. Then he listened. He heard the wind and the screech of an eagle. Hounds, he heard the faint baying of hounds.

“Dogs,” Rhys said.

“What do you mean: dogs?” Lamerok asked suspiciously.

Cord signaled them to keep silent. There was something…his hounds! He rose and strode back to the others.

“What is it?” Lamerok asked, suspicion etched onto his face.

“Do you know those hounds?” Alice asked.

“I do,” said Cord. “They’re the kennel brutes from Pellinore Castle.”

“This is treachery!” Lamerok shouted, clawing out the knife on his belt.

“Don’t be foolish,” Alice said.

Lamerok glared at them for a moment longer. Then his shoulders slumped. “You’re right. Forgive me.”

“It’s the curse,” said Cord.

Lamerok studied him. “You’re gracious, a much better knight than I.”

“Maybe we should be planning what to do next,” Rhys suggested.

“How far away are the hounds?” Alice asked.

Cord listened to the baying, which had increased as they spoke. “By the time we work down the slope…no. It would be foolish to try to outrun them.”

“What do you suggest?” Lamerok said. “Our supplies are miserable.”

“Which they have no idea about,” Henri said.

“Bluff them?” Lamerok asked. “No, you need a better plan.”

“Fight,” said Cord.

Lamerok laughed bleakly.

“No,” Rhys said. “We must do more than fight. We must use guile.” Rhys grinned. “Now I will pay back my debt, for in guile a Welshman is many times the master over an Anglo-Norman.”

“Rhys, what do you plan?” asked his wife.

“Listen,” Rhys said. “Here’s what I suggest.”

-23-

Philip rode in the lead, close behind the hounds. Behind him thundered his cavalcade. The kennel brutes bayed joyously as they kept their noses to the ground.

“They’re close!” Philip shouted.

“Aye,” yelled Hob. Despite his bulk, he rode a strong stallion and kept up in the van.

Philip exalted in the wind whipping past his face. The hunt, the chase, there was nothing closer to his heart. Soon he would ride down Cord. Soon the youth’s red blood would gush because of a fatal sword stroke. Then the curse of Terrible Tostig would be over. After all these years, he could take a girl and rape her to his delight, never having to fear the awful Tostig standing over him.

The hounds splashed across a stream and raced toward a hill. The hill looked steep, and it seemed that it leveled off at the top.

Could it be a trap? Philip wondered. A flash of fear burned in his belly and shriveled his groin. This wasn’t the moment to take chances. He had numbers on his side. It would be wise to use those numbers.

He shouted, sawing back on the reins as he held up his hand. “Halt!” he roared.

Men shouted. Horses neighed angrily. Hooves slid across shale and weapons clattered as saddle leather creaked ominously. The hounds didn’t stop, however, at least those that were free, about half of them. They bayed with evil intention as they scrambled up the steep hill.

“Look!” cried a man-at-arms.

A lone warrior, a mail-armored swordsman, appeared at the edge of the plateau. He whistled sharply. Then he shouted a command at the surging kennel brutes. For just a moment, it seemed that the hounds paused. The moment passed as they barked and bayed with renewed zeal. The lone swordsman didn’t flinch or even bother to draw his weapon. Instead, he planted his feet and put his hands on his hips. Then, in a voice of authority, he shouted at the hounds. An even bigger brute of a hound appeared at the swordsman’s side. This brute snarled at the others.

The impossible happened. The surging kennel brutes, the monsters that all sane men feared, the ones hot on the trail, tucked their tails between their legs and crawled on their bellies toward the swordsman. One by one, they came up to the man and licked his hand. He spoke sternly to them. Then he slapped his side and spoke to them in a friendly tone. They jumped up and crowded him, barking in joy.

“Cord,” whispered Hob.

“What was that?” demanded Philip.

“Cord,” said Hob.

“Aye, who else could do that?” shouted a man-at-arms.

Philip blinked. “He wears mail and has a sword, and he stands so tall.” The fear that had burned in his belly returned. There was something ominous in the swordsman on the hill. It couldn’t be Cord.

The swordsman cupped his hands and shouted, “Are you Castle Pellinore men?”

“It is Cord,” Hob said with a fleshy grin.

Small Aldora made her way forward on a small pony. She glowered up at Cord. “This is a trap,” she said.

Philip peered down at her.

“They mean to trick us,” she said softly.

“We outnumber them,” Philip said.

She sneered at him. “What do numbers have to do with trickery?”

“I have a proposal to make,” Cord shouted.

“Aye, trickery,” Aldora muttered.

Philip cupped his hands and shouted, “What proposal could you give? Why don’t we just ride up and slay you?”

“Come then!” shouted Cord, laughter in his voice.

The men muttered amongst themselves. Soon they all spoke out at once.

“Notice, the slope is slippery and steep.”

“What if more men are up there with him?”

“Aye. Remember his archer friend?”

“I don’t like this. It stinks of a trap.”

“Why is he so confident?”

“It’s obvious. He’ll sic the hounds on us. Damn me, but I don’t relish the idea of charging up there.”

“Silence,” Philip roared. When the muttering stopped and they avoided his stare, he cupped his hands again. “What is your proposal?”

Cord yelled back, “That we fight champion against champion.”

“What are the terms of the duel?”

Cord explained where everyone would stand and how he or she’d do it. Finally, he ended with, “If our champion wins, then you leave. If your champion wins, we’ll give you the location of Gaius’ Golden Treasure!”

“Ah ha,” Aldora cried. “Do it!”

The men once more began to murmur and talk among themselves. They were excited.

“How do you know where the treasure is?” Philip shouted.

“Sir Lamerok told us!”

“Do it,” Aldora hissed. “Agree to his terms.”

Philip gave her a rueful grin. “And who will be our champion?”

“Why, yourself,” she said.

“Thus we learn why you’re so eager to see the duel,” Philip said. “It isn’t you doing the fighting.”

“Do you fear the dog boy?” she asked in bewilderment.

“Of course not.”

“You couldn’t fear Sir Lamerok,” Aldora said. “He’s been too long in a dungeon. Besides,” she said, “I have a plan.”

“Tell me.”

She whispered it him. Philip grinned with delight.

“What do you say?” shouted Cord.

“Yes,” Philip roared, “agreed! Your champion will work his way down here while we retreat.” Philip motioned his men, all twelve of them. They retreated from the hill as per the terms of the duel.

***

Cord watched the enemy. They dismounted, hobbled their horses and sat behind the stream. Even the little witch obeyed the rules.

“They’re ready,” he said.

Lamerok strode forward, wearing Cord’s chain mail and with Cord’s baldric slung across his chest.

“You’re certain that you’re strong enough to beat Philip?” Henri asked.

Lamerok nodded grimly.

“Good luck,” Henri said.

Cord smiled and wished the knight good luck. In his heart, he had grave misgivings. The trick hadn’t been that sly, but it was all they had. The enemy had seen him wearing armor and maybe had assumed he’d be the champion. Lamerok was who Philip, the enemy’s probable champion, would have to face.

Lamerok paused beside Cord. “Are you still worried about the curse?”

“Of course not,” Cord said, although he was, more than ever.

Lamerok clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re a poor liar, Cord. Please don’t start now.”

“Kill him,” Cord said, surprised at his vehemence.

“And cut off his head?” Lamerok asked.

“Yes!” Cord heard himself saying. Only then did he realize how much he hated huge Philip Talbot of Tarn Tower.

Lamerok nodded somberly before he began to work his way down the slope. Shale tumbled from his boots and clattered ahead of him. At the same time, Philip marched across the stream. Philip had full mail armor and a shield. He clanked as he walked.

“He’ll be too slow,” had been Lamerok’s only comment on the matter.

“Do you think there will be treachery?” Cord asked Rhys. They both lay on their bellies and watched the enemy camp.

“We’ve made the customary oaths,” Rhys said. “I don’t—”

“What is it?”

Rhys squinted. “I saw moment to the left. Over there by those boulders.”

A field of boulders arched out from their hill and went part way to the stream. Cord didn’t see any movement. He wondered what Rhys had seen.

Soon Lamerok and Philip cautiously approached one another. That’s when Cord saw the Gascon crossbowman. Sunlight glinted off the mercenary’s bolt. It made it easy to see where he lay on the ground between two boulders. Cord tapped Rhys on the shoulder, pointing.

“He means to assassinate Sir Lamerok,” Rhys hissed.

Cord leaped up and shouted, “Treachery, Sir Lamerok! Beware to your left!”

Lamerok crouched low, scanning all around. Philip retreated, his sword and shield up. A humming bolt slammed into Sir Lamerok of Dun, drilling him in the throat. At the same instant, Rhys’ longbow twanged. An arrow arched the extreme distance between the top of the hill and the boulders. Incredibly, the arrow sank into the crossbowman’s eye. Gaston quivered, then relaxed and died.

“Sir Lamerok!” Cord shouted, leaping down the slope to the stricken knight. The hounds bayed and followed Cord.

Philip stopped retreating. A feral, wicked grin was on his face. He lifted his sword and opened his mouth to speak.

“Oh, that was basely done,” Alice de Mowbray cried from upon the hill. She stood tall, with scorn in her voice. “Base treachery,” she shouted.

Stung but instantly seeing his way clear, Philip turned and pointed his sword at Aldora. “Take her, boys, and gag her. Let no more treachery spew out of the witch’s mouth.”

Aldora screamed with rage and struck the first man-at-arms to touch her. She tried to speak then, but a sergeant cuffed her across the mouth. In moments, the men-at-arms of Pellinore Castle had her gagged and bound.

Philip, with his shield still raised high, shouted up at the hill. “That was not of my doing. It was the witch’s man who did it.”

Aldora struggled and whipped her head from side to side, but the gag prevented her from speaking.

“Lair,” Alice shouted.

Philip sheathed his sword and dug into the pouch on his knightly waist belt. He pulled out a hand-sized piece of wood. “I swear, by this piece of the True Cross, that I had no knowledge of the witch’s treachery.”

“If you are foresworn,” Alice cried, “then you will die.”

A horrible smile filled Philip’s face. “I have sworn. What I say is the truth.”

Aldora no longer struggled, although her baleful gaze drilled into Philip’s back.

“Since treachery was committed by your side,” Alice shouted. “You must turn away and leave us.”

“No,” Philip roared. “The treachery was the witch’s. For that she’ll die. Unless you have another champion, you must forfeit the duel and tell us where the gold lies.”

“Never,” Alice shouted.

“Very well,” Philip said. “Prepare to be assaulted.”

“No,” shouted Cord. He knelt by the dead Sir Lamerok. “I’ll face you.”

Philip shook his head. “No, dog boy, a knight doesn’t fight riffraff. You must give me another knight to face. Otherwise, there can be no challenge.”

“Coward,” Alice de Mowbray screamed down the hill.

“Soon you’ll be my wife,” Philip shouted, with laughter in his voice. “Come on, boys. There’s butcher’s work to do!”

-24-

“No!” thundered Sergeant Hob. He sat upon his stallion like some baleful toad of war. There was in him a grim majesty, an awful power.

Philip glared at him.

Slowly, with both sides watching, hugely rotund Hob urged his steed toward Philip. Hob still wore a stained chainmail hauberk, had a chipped helmet and a cloak marred with gravy and wine stains. His red-rimmed eyes and fleshly face didn’t melt away and reform into a prince’s features. Nothing like that occurred. However, Hob seemed to straighten as he rode across the stream to Philip. His fat shoulders squared back, and while his glob of fleshly neck didn’t disappear, it seemed to harden. The face, more than anything else, took on a stern and commanding mien.

When he reached Philip, Hob held out his hand. He held out his hand like a king, with surety, rightness, and authority.

“Give me the piece of the True Cross,” Hob told Philip.

Philip peered up into those bloodshot eyes. “Are you a traitor?” he asked.

“No, Sir Philip, I’m no traitor.”

“Do you join them?”

“I said I’m no traitor. Do you doubt my word?”

Philip wanted too. Everything about Hob screamed danger. Something grand and therefore terrifying was going on. If he said no, though, Philip had a feeling that Hob would draw his sword and begin fighting.

“What’s your plan?” Philip whispered.

“To speak with the boy,” Hob said.

“And?”

“And hit him,” Hob said.

“Hit him?”

“Hard.”

Philip grinned. “You want a generous portion of the treasure, is that it?”

“The piece of the True Cross, Sir Philip,” Hob said.

Philip still hesitated.

“It is a holy relic,” Hob said.

Philip nodded curtly.

Hob said, “To hold onto a relic, if one has lied upon it, will bring upon one the Curse of God.”

Fear filled Philip. He’d lied upon a piece of the True Cross. To fight now, any kind of fight, could be dangerous. So if Hob was going to take care of Cord by striking him…. Ah, maybe the foolish fat man thought he could save Cord’s life this way.

“Go,” Philip said, giving Hob the wood. “See what you can do.”

Hob’s hand curled around the piece of the True Cross. He kissed it, and he raised it high for everyone to see. Then he urged his stallion forward.

Philip had grave misgivings. Something had gone horribly wrong, but he wasn’t sure what. He watched the fat sergeant rein in before Cord. They whispered together. Cord nodded. Hob turned his steed and faced Philip and the men-at-arms across the stream. He raised his voice and began to speak, all the while holding up the hand-sized piece of the True Cross.

“I am not a lair!” Hob began. “You all know that.”

“Aye!” shouted several Pellinore men-at-arms.

“What I am about to say is my secret of fourteen years.”

Hob had their attention. A hound whined in the silence. A dog boy slapped the hound quiet. Philip bit his lip, not liking this at all.

“For fourteen years I have held onto a terrible, horrible secret,” Hob shouted. “Long ago, in Egypt, I fought in the Sixth Crusade. You all know that. What you don’t know is that I went on the Crusade as Raymond of Lorraine, a Knight Brother and an Undermarshal of the Order of the Temple.”

Shouts of amazement rose up.

Hob waited. When it was quiet again, he said, “Alas! We lost and were captured by the infidels. It was then that I was untrue to my vows. By breaking my vows, I knew that I no longer deserved to be a Knight Templar, no longer deserved to act as a knight. Thus, when I gained my freedom, I sailed to the ends of the earth, to Wales, and took up a lonely life. Alas! I was still too weak. I had wanted to end my days as a hermit, but the allure of the world was too strong. So I took up the trade I knew best, that of warrior. But a knight I would not be, only a sergeant. That was fourteen long years ago.

“Today I take up the mantle of knighthood again. I will not do it to fight you, Sir Philip. I am no longer a traitor. You are Baron Guy’s man and so am I. But….”

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 longer 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 about barefoot, 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.

“The priests tremble before your audacity,” he told me. “They’ve always thought you’ve moved too swiftly. How many times have they begged you to consolidate your gains before you attempt to conquer yet more territory?”

“I know what they think!”

He nodded, and I saw worry in his brown eyes.

That troubled me. My son not only had a knack for tactics, but he had spent long hours with my spymasters. Six months ago, I’d given him permission to sit with me as I spoke with Hasdrubal the Handsome, the most cunning of my sub-commanders, my son-in-law and chief political agent.

“Too many of the merchant lords of Gades fear you,” Hannibal said. “They reminisce about their old days of power, how before your coming they dictated Iberian policy. Some have even mumbled against the needfulness to publicly kneel in your presence.”

“I have made them wealthy beyond their dreams.”

“Your enemies in Carthage sent an envoy three months ago, remember?”

I grunted, understanding his point.

“The envoy has been whispering in their ears,” said Hannibal, “stirring the merchants against you, saying that you will bring the wrath of Rome upon us. A few of the merchants have actually repeated his lies in the marketplace. They say you desire divine kingship in Iberia so you may rule as tyrant in Carthage. I suspect these traitors have corrupted the priests. They use them as their mouthpieces, whispering fear into your mind. They well understand your piety concerning the Oracle.”

Could that be true? I’d always known my time was short. I knew Rome would strike again before Carthage was ready. During these eight short years, I’d forged the Army of Iberia out of wild hillmen, superb individual fighters, recklessly brave and with barbaric notions of loyalty to a person, never to a city or a state. Fortunately, Melqarth was the patron god of this region. As Philip of Macedon and his son Alexander the Great had done, I too had taken clan and tribal superstitions and centered a mystical theology upon me and my offspring. If there was a better way to forge unshakable loyalty in soldiers for their general, I didn’t know it. For them the Barca clan was the favored of Melqarth, his representative on Earth. As I had vastly extended Carthaginian territory in what the Romans called Hispania, power had poured into my hands. The mines in the Silver Mountains, those situated at the headwaters of the Betis River, had given me thousands of tons of purest silver and gold. A third of this wealth had gone to Carthage, to my agents there who kept the rabble firmly in the Barca camp. They and the Assembly of the People were the counterweight against my aristocratic foes. A third of the wealth remained with me, paying for my mercenaries. The last third I’d sent to the Temple of Melqarth and the merchant lords of Gades. I bought temporary loyalty and, perhaps more importantly, I’d purchased information. Thousands each year came in pilgrimage to Melqarth’s Temple in Gades. They came inquiring foreknowledge from the Oracle of the Holy Flame. They sought much but confessed much more, opened their hearts to the barefooted, shaven-headed priests. Through those confessions, the unwed priests had gained intimate knowledge of the goings-on in Iberia, more than even my clever spies had brought me. I trusted the Oracle, treasuring its words, careful to weigh them in light of godly and prosaic revelations.

It was something I’d endeavored to teach Hannibal and his brothers without allowing cynicism to creep in. Certain Carthaginians, my blessed father among them, had discounted the gods as they worshipped silver, gold and precious stones. I wished Hannibal and his brothers to understand such men without becoming like them, and learn to use the power of wealth without being corrupted by it.

“You will not die through treachery,” Hannibal assured me. He shook his head. “There are no assassins in your house, no assassins within your army. Your enemies have corrupted the Oracle and now use it as a dagger against your mind.”

“There are always assassins,” I whispered.

He shrugged in the manner I use whenever dismissing trivia. “The soldiers love you,” he said. “So sleep. Gain strength. Recover.”

My eyes grew wide. “My food,” I whispered. “Someone has been poisoning my food.”

He frowned, hesitated, and said, “I will begin testing it.”

“No!” I said, clutching his wrist. “No. I do not want our foes striking down both you and me together. I will only drink from a well or a river, only eat bread from the common table and fruit I pick off the trees with my own hands.”

Hannibal hesitated again, but nodded shortly. “It will be as you say, father.” He smiled, standing. “Now go to sleep. Rest as I make the rounds.” He strode to the door, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

I wanted to warn him to be careful, but that would only worry him again concerning me. My behavior obviously troubled him. Therefore, I did what had won me many encounters. I practiced trickery, what the Romans called ‘Punic faith.’ I pretended to sleep even as through slitted eyelids I watched my splendid son watch me. At last, he closed the door.

I waited until I heard his footsteps retreat down the hallway. Then I arose, fumbled in the dark until I held my short sword. I eased open the door and crept stealthily through the corridor. I returned to my study, closed the door and jammed wood-splinters under it. By the time an assassin hammered through that, my guards would appear and skewer him.

I opened the grille of a small, bronze stove and from the embers lit a candle. Sitting at my writing table, I picked up the fallen ostrich quill and dipped it into lampblack ink.

The nature of men is to forget. We are sad creatures limited in our ability. Long ago, a Siceliot (as the Greeks in Sicily are called) had told me that the lightest ink was better than the deepest memory. Others have known this.

Ptolemy—the cousin of Alexander the Great and the first Macedonian pharaoh of Egypt—wrote an account of Alexander’s fabulous victories. Ptolemy had been a commander in that army, an eyewitness to the staggering events. Pyrrhus the Great Captain, the Master of Elephants, who fifty years ago defeated Roman and Carthaginian arms in Italy and Sicily respectively, penned a treatise on generalship. Through it, he preserved knowledge of his martial achievements. In my younger years, I had studied Ptolemy’s accounts and Pyrrhus’ lessons, and learned much from each.

Rome’s war against Carthage—the First Punic War—had been the longest, continuous armed struggle in recorded history. The largest naval battle ever fought had been between these two giants of the Western Mediterranean. By wars end the Romans had lost 700 galleys sunk and the Carthaginians nearly 500. But what occurred in Africa before the walls of Carthage was the most horrific. All that I am, all that Hannibal may become, the life or death of Carthage, all harkens back to those two fateful years in Africa. I’d lived through them. I’d been an eyewitness and a grim participant to the horrors and triumphs. Who better than I then to write about those momentous years?

I have another, selfish reason for telling this tale. I drift near the River Styx and have felt Death’s chilly breath upon my neck. Whether an assassin’s blade strikes me down, treachery betrays me or poison withers my limbs, I shall die violently and that soon. The Oracle knows. The priests of Melqarth have not lied. Men’s memories are weak, as I have said. They easily forget. My tale is inked insurance toward the speedy fall of Rome. For I have learned a secret, a potent and powerful truth. It lies in the gladius hispanicus, in the Iberian espasa—and it lies in what I learned those long years ago on the battlefield of Tunes.

Therefore, since my remaining hours are few, I must set the tip of the quill onto parchment and hurriedly scratch out the bitter story of my youth.