|
|
Long ago, in a place called Wales, druids plunged golden gutting knives into human sacrifices. Or they stabbed a slave or criminal in the back. Surrounding him, the druids studied his convulsions. They intently listened to the volume and intensity of his groans. From his manner of dying, and after carefully comparing their observations, the druids foretold the future. In evil times or after a particularly bad omen, the people dragged their tribal chieftain to the site. To appease the gods, the druids slew the chieftain by the fabled triple-death of strangling, drowning and stabbing with the silver spear. When crops failed or when the gods granted an outstandingly stunning victory in battle, unfortunates found themselves crammed into a great wicker colossus. The druids then set this colossus on fire. In religious awe the people crooned as the doomed ones screamed.
The greatest, most outstanding service came at the expense of a captured enemy king. To spill enemy royal blood would anger the gods. So hulking servitors, with their muscles straining, wrestled the king to a golden drowning bowl. There they forced him to his knees. Clutching him by the hair, they bent his head into the water and chanted as the kingly bubbles rose. When the king ceased struggling, the druids broke out into a loud victory song.
Alas for the druids when the Romans came to their shores. Julius Caesar landed on Britain, conquered a little of their land and bragged about his victories in a book. Later the Emperor Claudius invaded with a host of legions and their grim- faced centurions. Fierce battles took place and the druids were driven along with the free tribes into the wilds of Wales. Isca--where modern Caerleon now stands-- became the fortress that housed II Augusta Legion. The legionaries' duty was to keep the unconquered free tribes penned in Wales' rugged fastness.
In A.D. 53 several ambitious young Roman patricians arrived at Isca, finding themselves appointed to the II Augusta Legion and to boring border duty. These young men hankered for glory, for exploits that could be trumpeted in later years when they ran for office back in Rome. Or in lieu of glory they lusted for loot to fund those future political campaigns. The commanding praetor laughed at their ambitions. This was Wales, and the only thing these smelly tribesmen were rich in was hatred.
Then a patrol captured one of those strange druids, one of those religious fanatics that stirred their people to such outrageous resistance. Two of the young men listened as tough-minded centurions tortured the old druid for information. They learned of the incredible treasure kept upon the druid's holy ground, although the praetor mocked the report. The nine youths thought otherwise. They talked among themselves, planned and plotted, and their patrician ambitions whetted their greed to a fever pitch.
So on a dark night the nine Roman youths slipped out of Isca on swift Spanish stallions. They dashed deep into the wilds of Wales, found the holy site and waited until dark. Praying to Apollo and Jupiter, the nine descended upon the druids' place of power. Pilums--dreadful legionary javelins--slew many. Stubby short swords (the famed gladius that had carved Rome an empire) leaped into strong young hands. The silent Romans slid from their stallions and ran to-and-fro among the druids, slashing, gutting and killing. The last druid, the oldest one, an ancient with a long white beard that dangled past his waist, cursed them bitterly.
The nine young Romans circled him. They listened to his curse and laughed in his face. Then, while one of them clutched his beard, the others hacked and slashed the ancient druid to death.
Relieved of his tedious company, the young men groaned under the golden weight of the drowning bowl. They struggled to heave the python coils of silver chains into the plunder-wagon. Upon the mass they clinked the golden gutting daggers, pearls and gem-encrusted neck harnesses.
The heavy wagon hindered their race to the border. Soon howling tribesmen harried them with arrow, javelin and sling-stone. The youths fought back and slew many, but more tribesmen kept joining the religion-besotted throng. By a ruse the Romans momentarily broke away and--engineers to the end--they backed the wagon into a rotted cave and caused it to collapse. Then they rode for their lives. One, two, three died, dragged to Hades by stone-tipped arrows. In the end two of them made it out of the savage land and crossed the Boundary River. That's when the eighth shrieked in surprise as a savage dagger-thrust took him from behind. Gaius Julius Maximus--the ninth--sheathed his bloody blade. He alone now knew the secret location of the cave. Then a distant bow twanged. He grunted, slipped onto his horse and rode alone into the fort at Isca, a black arrow lodged in his lungs. As his life leaked away, he wrote his father in Rome of his dreadful deed and the whereabouts of the cave. He also warned him to beware the druid's curse.
The years fled into centuries. The Old World passed away and a new one struggled to be born. At last, in the Year of our Lord 1263, a man came from Rome. He had found and read that ancient letter and lusted for the treasure. Before he died cruelly in a pirate's hold, the man told a knight about the legend, and the knight sought Gaius' Golden Treasure hidden these long centuries in Wales. The knight died near the hidden entrance, an arrow in his lungs. But at the treasure site occurred another event that fateful day.
Young Cord the dog boy had rescued the Lady Alice from the clutches of Sir Philip and from Pellinore Castle. A strong youth, as tireless as the hounds he kept, Cord had spent a lifetime in Pellinore Castle, mocked by the knights who had hung his father, an outlaw Saxon warrior. Giant Sir Philip had been one of those mocking evil knights, and at the ancient treasure site he sought Cord's death and the Lady Alice's hand in marriage.
But with Cord and Alice rode a guilt-ridden, drunken ex-knight by the name of Hob. Hob reclaimed his privileges of knighthood and by the laws of chivalry dubbed Cord. By this simple but profound act Hob changed the dog boy into a knight. Yet to be called a knight wasn't the same thing as to be able to fight like one. Cord had to earn that himself. As a knight he challenged Sir Philip to a duel to the death, and by the laws of chivalry Sir Philip was honor bound to accept.
Thus before the cursed cave, clinking cold steel, Cord and Philip fought their deadly duel. Each yearned to slay the other. It was cunning and training verses youthful strength and speed. Sir Philip roared and spat foul oaths. Cord smiled grimly, remembering all the years of abuse that he had taken in Pellinore Castle. Then Cord plunged his blade into Philip's heart.
Thus at the cursed cave, with Sir Philip lying dead before him, Cord listened to his companions as they bade him to dig up the buried treasure. But the former dog boy feared the old curse.
"Let the druid's treasure lie," he said.
Cord wanted nothing to do with something so old and evil. And in the end he convinced his friends likewise and forced Sir Philip's leaderless band to obey his wish. They all turned and rode away.
But then none of them, least of all Sir Cord and the Lady Alice, had ever counted upon the awful, drawing power of greed.
Some men are like lions; some are grumpy like bears. Other men act like hounds. Fulk, however, was a jackal. He had fangs, but not much muscle to back them up with. For a man-at-arms in a medieval castle that usually spelled a quick term of service. But Fulk also possessed the jackal's cunning of remaining unhurt in the presence of stronger predators.
Fulk had been the first to join Sir Philip on his manhunt. Sir Philip hated Cord the dog boy. For Cord had spirited away Philip's betrothed, Alice de Mowbray. Whoever married Alice gained her ancestral fief. But when they caught up with the outlaws, Cord challenged and slew Sir Philip in fair duel. Then Cord claimed he was a knight, and Hob had dubbed him, and Alice said she would marry the new knight. Fulk didn't understand any of it, but he threw away the rope he'd planned to give Philip to hang Cord with--when the proper time showed itself, of course. Nobles loved men-at-arms who anticipated their needs, and they usually rewarded them for it, too.
Fulk had slipped behind the others when Philip thudded dead onto the stony ground. He had scuffed his foot across shale, dropped the rope and covered it. He had cheered himself with the fact that there was still the treasure. Yes, now they should take out their spades and dig. He dreamed about the buried treasure the way a jackal dreams of feasting with lions. To rip and gorge with the king of beasts. To not have to scurry in fast, nip a tidbit and then race away with your tail between your legs... Sir Cord had challenged them to fight him man-to-man--he challenged them in order to prove his right to lead them. Fulk had nudged a few of the fellows, whispering in their ears about gratefully given rewards if they could slay this upstart. No one had proved brave enough, damn them. Then Sir Cord dazed them with the news that they were to return empty-handed to Pellinore Castle. Just forget about buried treasure. Fulk grumbled the entire trip home.
What galled Fulk most of all was how Sir Cord and his friends suddenly had money. Well, not right away, only after returning to Pellinore Castle. That smacked of magic and of even something worse, hypocrisy. They could grab loot, but not the likes of ordinary men-at-arms.
Fulk almost choked on the wedding feast thrown in Cord and Alice's honor.
Rain from a summer thunderstorm slashed upon Pellinore Castle. So everyone had been forced into the Great Hall. The fireplace raged and minstrels played their viols atop two shoved together tables. People danced and clapped and bumped against each other in an amazingly packed hall. A swirl of colors, a riot of movement filled the place. Handsome Henri with his wicked and neatly trimmed spade-shaped beard wore a new coat of many colors. As head minstrel he piped his flute with abandon. Fulk hoped he'd slip off the tables, but the nimble minstrel proved too clever for that. Rhys ab Gruffydd the stocky Welsh freeholder with his inky-intense eyes wore a red ribbon on each half of his forked beard. A silver belt and dagger encircled his coat, gifts from Cord and Alice. Cutting the sharpest figure was Sir Cord himself. The new knight wore a golden tabard and blue hose. A silver chain hung from his neck. Handsome, well-muscled, blond like a Saxon should be, Sir Cord laughed and cheered and swirled the scarlet cloak he never seemed to be without these days. Only Alice, the former de Mowbray, out- dazzled Cord. Young like her husband, with flashing eyes and teeth and long blonde hair, she wore a white conical hat with trailing silk and a white pleated dress. Rings weighed down her fingers. Jewels winked from her slender throat.
All wrongs seemed to have been forgiven them, forgotten--no matter that Baron Hugh, his son Guy and huge Sir Philip had each died less than four weeks ago. No matter, no matter, no matter.
Fulk lurched upright from his corner. He wore a plain tunic and hose, a thin man with a greasy face and narrow eyes. Straw-colored hair swept over his forehead. The crooked fingers of his left hand throbbed. Eleven years ago a knight had bashed him to the ground with a sword-stroke. That's when someone with rock-hard heels had crushed his left hand. He still couldn't quite close his hand enough to make a fist. Many men-at-arms would have been broken by despair by such an accident. Fulk simply used his crooked fingers as an excuse for a thousand different chores he didn't have to do, couldn't do. Even pushing a pike or pulling a bow was out of the question. Dagger-work suited his tastes, but not the hand-to-hand fighting kind. He could better use the point to tickle the throat of someone his friends held down. In the past, when they'd been alive, Sir Philip or Baron Hugh had used him when a peasant needed a lesson.
Fulk staggered towards the fun on the wooden table. He bumped and cursed his way through the crowd. He slipped through narrow gaps, trod on a pretty toe or two and shoved a child out of his way. Finally he lurched up so he could reach in the barrel and refill his leather jack. Fat Sergeant Hob ambled near and slapped him on the back.
"How goes it, Fulk?" Hob breathed heavily through his nose, while gravy stains marred his woolen tunic. The cap on his head had been sorely crumpled and its ostrich feather drooped.
Fulk muttered a greeting because Hob was too big and strong to ignore.
Hob slurped down ale, his eyes bloodshot. "A splendid pair, those two."
Surely he meant the new husband and wife. So Fulk pasted on a happy grin and used his elbow to nudge the fat warrior. "You must be happy."
"Aye, aye." Hob dipped his jack back into the ale barrel.
Fulk raised his eyebrows. He wanted to ask Hob where Cord and Alice had suddenly come up with all this money. How did they afford such a feast? Didn't they have to save all the money they had for when they left for Gareth Fief? Thinking about it hurt Fulk's stomach. Treasure, buried treasure, if only he could get his hands on his fair share of gold.
"Are you going with them?" Fulk asked instead.
Hob drained his jack for an answer. Then he wandered away to stare at the fire.
Fulk turned in the other direction, sipping carefully as he walked. Treasure. All he wanted was his fair share of the buried treasure. Surely they planned on digging it up later, the lying bastards.
Fulk shook his head as he burst through the tightly packed throng and slumped beside a hound gnawing a bone. There was space here; the reason Fulk had chosen it. The others didn't dare step on this huge brute with his bone. The dog was Sebald, a mighty Italian mastiff known for his fearlessness and strength. Once Sir Cord had been a dog boy. Now that he'd gained station, he hadn't left his old friends behind. Sebald would be going to Gareth Castle with Cord. As he gnawed on the bone, Sebald glanced at Fulk. Then he ignored the thin man.
Fulk sipped his ale, godale; the very best money could buy. They stinted nothing, these two. Treasure. Buried treasure in the wilds of Wales. But Sir Cord didn't need treasure because...
Fulk snapped his fingers. Of course! The night Cord and Alice had escaped Pellinore Castle they'd been alone in the nobles' sleeping quarters upstairs. Sir Philip's chests had been found smashed. They'd stolen the coinage!
"They threw the sacks outside and buried them," he whispered to Sebald. "And that's why they came back."
Fulk laughed in admiration, then he scowled. Dog boys shouldn't become knights--not even dog boys with a knight for a father. They'd hung his father, so Cord had been a felon's son. Felon's sons didn't become knights. That wasn't...proper. Fulk scratched his chin. Eleven years ago, just before the time he'd had his left hand crushed, Fulk had watched the hanging. Earl Roger Mortimer had given the sentence. The earl hated Cord's father. Thinking about it Fulk kept scratching and rubbing his chin, making it red, almost raw.
A cheer shook the hall. People clapped at something Sir Cord said. He swirled his red silk cape as he bowed.
Fulk scowled, and he drained his jack. Earl Roger Mortimer hated, had hated, Cord's father. Did the earl know about this sudden elevation of his ancient enemy's son? And how would the earl respond to the chance of quick treasure?
Fulk laughed in a yelping sort of way.
Sebald looked up from his bone.
Fulk swallowed his laughter, although he dared grin at the huge hound. Then he used the wall to work his way to his feet. He slipped out the Great Hall and ran into the rain. Treasure. Lots and lots of buried treasure. Surely the earl would let him have his share.
* * *
Cord shook hands, slapped backs and laughed. He'd never been more delighted. He wore his father's lion signet ring. It gleamed in the torchlight. His red silk cape trailed behind him. If he turned it swirled beautifully. Men and women alike noticed him. Everyone noticed him. He was Sir Cord, a knight of the Western Marches.
And yet...there was doubt. They noticed him, but they looked too hard at times. They watched him closely when he danced. Alice had been coaching him all week. Every time he ate or drank or spoke it seemed as if they waited for him to make a mistake so they could laugh and jeer at this bumpkin dog boy who merely pretended to be a knight. He'd quickly noticed that wearing finery awed people, at least the simpler ones. If he wore regular hunting leathers--as he had yesterday-- the servants almost seemed to sneer when he ordered them here or there. But if he swirled his red silk cape, or fingered the silver chain at his throat, they obeyed quickly.
Clothes made the man.
"Sir Cord!" cried a dame.
He turned and held hands with plump Lady Martha. She always spoke with her fingers before her mouth. Her teeth were uncommonly bad. How many countless hunts had he run the hounds before her? She loved hawking, too. But now...
"I wish you luck, Sir Knight," she said, her left hand cupped in front of her mouth.
"Thank you, milady."
She winked at him. "I always knew you were noble. It was your bearing. And how the dogs obeyed you. They ran like serfs to do your bidding."
Cord nodded.
Lady Martha took her hand from her mouth and leaned near. "Treat Alice well," she whispered. She had awful breath, and small brown stumps for teeth.
Cord merely said, "Of course, milady." As a dog boy he'd endured stenches many times worse. Nor were her teeth amazingly bad. Many peasants had no teeth at all.
Plump Lady Martha moved closer still. Worry creased her features. "Treat her very well, young knight. She needs much love."
Cord nodded once more.
Then Lady Martha looked deeply into his eyes.
Cord wanted to shift and look away. What did she search for? What did she see lacking in him? He willed himself to remain smiling.
"They're not going to make it easy on you, Saxon," Lady Martha whispered. "Be ready to give them hell." She squeezed his hands. Then she let go and spun away before Cord could reply.
He knew they weren't going to make it easy on him. Oh, he knew that very well. But a knight stormed through life on the power of his sword arm. Hadn't William the Norman Conqueror taken England from the Saxons in just such manner? Didn't the Marcher Lords of the Western Marches take a little bit more land year by year from the Welsh in just such a way? And Simon de Montfort led his rebellion on the strength of his sword arm and those of his men.
"Hob!" said Cord, clapping the fat sergeant on the back.
Hob turned from the fireplace. His heavy jowls were red and his eyes bloodshot. Sweat slicked his face. The fire was hot and cackled with delight.
Cord pulled Hob away from the flames. His sleeves felt hot. "What's wrong, my friend?"
Hob muttered drunkenly.
Worried, Cord propelled his big friend through the throng. Although he was taller than Hob and just as broad-shouldered, the fleshy sergeant--a non-noble horseman--probably weighed twice as much as he. During his years as dog boy Sergeant Hob had befriended him. He'd taken him out to the woods and taught him the rudiments of wrestling and knife-play. Later came the swordsmanship that had won him his station. Without Hob...Without him none of this would have been possible. And now Hob had shared part of his awful secret with them. Fourteen long years ago he'd been a Knight Templar. Their full title was the "Poor Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon."
The history of the Templars was more than colorful and intimately tied to the crusades.
Fourteen years ago Hob had belonged to the Order of Temple. Fourteen years ago he'd fought in the last great Crusade, the sixth, with King Louis of France. For fourteen years he'd kept silent about a terrible pain or wrong he'd committed then. The pain within had driven him to drunkenness--something awful and unholy for a Templar. Why he'd left the Holy Land he'd not yet said. But there before the hidden druidic treasure, Hob had dared reveal his former station and name. Once, long ago, he'd been Raymond of Lorraine, a knight. He had also been an Undermarshal of the Temple, a Templar of importance. As such he'd dubbed Cord the dog boy and made him Sir Cord the Knight. Thus Philip, by the honor and codes of chivalry, had been forced to duel against Cord.
Cord propelled Hob down the tower stairs. Rain fell in sheets. The two of them covered their heads and staggered across the muddy yard. Hob slipped and almost sprawled into the mud. Cord steadied him, and he scowled as mud squelched from under Hob's boot and onto his fine hose. Then he noticed a big hound beside them. Sebald, a bone clenched in his teeth. Cord grinned, and he kicked open the kennel door. He shoved Hob within. Dogs, huge kennel brutes locked up for the castle folk's safety, growled savagely. Cord strode within, Sebald at his side. Although it had been over three weeks since he'd been here, as soon as they sniffed his scent the hounds bayed in delight.
Cord shouted greetings, calling the dogs by name. They barked louder, their tails thumping against the wooden stalls. He reached for the door to shut it. Frowned.
Rain poured outside. Lightning flashed. A man in the dark led a horse to the gatehouse. He wore a heavy forager's cloak. Cord almost hailed him. Then thunder boomed and the man strode under the gatehouse's stone arch. Cord considered going after him, until he touched his fine silk cloak. It was sodden enough as it was. He kicked the door shut.
"Quiet now!" he bellowed at the kennel brutes. "Settle down."
The beasts did, although they peered through the slats to watch their former master.
"Why did you bring me here, milord?" The dull and stupid look no longer sat on Hob's drunken face. The fat sergeant pushed himself from a post. He fingered Cord's red silk cape. "'Tis wet, milord."
"Never mind that. What ails you, man?"
"Milord?"
Cord buffeted Hob on the shoulder. "None of that now. Tell me what's wrong. Truly."
Hob pursed his lips and strode down the aisle. Rain pelted the roof. Water leaked everywhere. It was dark, wet and cold in the kennel.
A drop hit Cord on the back of the neck. He shivered and stepped aside, wishing his friend would hurry up. Tonight...He grinned in anticipation. Tonight he'd take his wife to bed for the very first time. He rubbed his hands.
"It's a premonition."
"What?" asked Cord. He noticed Hob had staggered back beside him.
"I-I can't define it. There is..." Hob waved his thick arms about. "Something evil coils around us. Like a great London fog it seeps from the darkness."
Cord made a rude sound.
"Nay, no mockery from you, lad." Hob hesitated, before he blurted out, "The truth is I've had strange dreams. Evil dreams."
Cord blinked in surprise that dreams could be the cause of this. "...We all have bad dreams sometimes," he said.
"Sometimes, lad?" Pain creased Hob's fleshy face as he spoke.
Many people drank heavily. Hob was, as the saying goes, a fish. Cord decided here was the reason for his drunkenness. Haunting dreams from the past.
"Do you remember the Holy Land in your dreams?" Cord asked softly.
"Aye, usually I do. But the dreams I speak of have nothing to do with that."
Cord frowned. He didn't understand.
Hob hesitated once more, and then he reached into his jerkin and pulled out a small piece of wood. It was an old gnarly piece, made smooth by the touch of a thousand fingers. Cord peered closely at it. Then he sucked in his breath. Not so very long ago the piece of wood had resided in Gareth Castle's Chapel. Hob had been sent there to fetch it for the Lady Alice, who had been a prisoner in Pellinore Castle. The small piece of wood, a relic, had once been part of Jesus' cross. Everyone knew that because Alice's grandfather had purchased it in Jerusalem when he'd gone on pilgrimage there. It was Gareth Castle's holiest and most precious treasure.
"You shouldn't have that," said Cord.
Hob licked his lips. "The dreams, lad. Ghosts..."
"From the past?"
Hob's thick fingers tightened around the piece of the True cross. "The ghost shrieks at me, lad. It's awful, hideous. He wails as evil men are stabbed in the back. Other men, druids, I think, watch those back-stabbed men thrash on the bloody grass. Or the wretches grunt as thick-limbed brutes force their faces into bowls of water. Bubbles froth..." Hob groaned pitifully.
Cord clutched Hob's arm. "Steady, man."
Hob whispered, "When I carry this to sleep I don't dream."
Cord knew Hob wouldn't be allowed to keep the piece of the cross. It belonged in Gareth Chapel. Yet wasn't it Alice's? And wasn't Alice his wife? Couldn't he thus give away Alice's property as if it were his own? It would be different with a relic, though. He knew that.
A drunken tear welled in Hob's eye. He wiped at it savagely. "They know us now, lad."
The hair on the back of Cord's neck rose. "Who knows us?"
"They won't stay in the ground any longer." Hob violently shook his head. "We never should have gone near it!"
Suddenly Cord understood. Hob meant the ancient druidic treasure, Gaius' Golden Treasure. Cord shivered, wanting nothing to do with the tainted, evil gold. He didn't even want to talk about it--for if the truth were known he'd hated the barren place where the treasure lay buried.
"Keep the relic for now," he told Hob.
"O thank you, milord!" said Hob, embracing Cord.
Cord pried himself free. His friend was very drunk. He snatched Hob's hat off his head--as a change of topic, as it were. He inspected the hat. Hob had already made a mess of it. So he dusted the hat. He smoothed it out and tried to straighten the ostrich feather. Three silver pennies it had cost him. Not that he minded. It gave Hob an air, made him...He wished Hob would go back to calling himself Raymond of Lorraine or the Undermarshal. His insistence on remaining Hob the Sergeant troubled Cord. The Templar Undermarshal had knighted him, not a fat, drunken sergeant--and now one who dreamed evilly. Then he scowled and told himself such thoughts were unworthy of his friend. He put the hat back on Hob's head.
"Will you be ready tomorrow?"
Hob shifted uneasily. "Milord...I don't think--"
Cord poked a thumb against Hob's chest. "You're one of the only loyal men I'll have, old friend. I need you. I need your sword arm."
"Alice has men-at-arms."
"Yes. She has knights who sold her out to Philip. She has men-at-arms who did nothing to aid her in her time of need. Tell me what happens if Owain ab Ifan marches on Gareth Castle. Will Sir Thomas make a deal with him as he did with Philip? I need your wits, old friend. I need someone to teach me how to act like a knight."
"Alice can teach you that."
"Usually. Yes. But I need a man's view, too."
"Henri--"
"Is a good man, and once was a squire." Cord hesitated. "Damn it, man. You were a Templar, an Undermarshal!"
The color drained from Hob's face.
Cord wished he hadn't said that. "Hob, I need you."
Hob fidgeted.
"If this London fog of trouble is coming, then I need you more than ever."
"'Tis no joke!" cried Hob.
Cord cut his hand through the air. He would deal with things he could touch, not with the prattle of dreams and nightmares.
"Gareth Castle lies nearer the treasure," said Hob.
"My situation is too precarious to worry about that."
Hob dropped his gaze. "Aye. I know that, lad. When the earl hears you've been installed in Gareth Castle as its new lord..."
"Which is why I need fighting men I can trust," Cord said, grabbing Hob by the shoulder.
Hob looked up.
"And I have to figure out how to find more money."
Hob's eyes grew round with fear.
"No, not by the treasure," said Cord.
Relief flooded over Hob. His shoulders slumped. Then his eyelids grew heavy. Even by his standards he'd drunk a prodigious amount tonight. He staggered back against the post so it creaked in complaint.
"Easy, Hob."
But Hob was past caring. His knees buckled and he slid down the post, landing with a thump. His chin slumped to his chest. A moment later he was snoring.
Cord retrieved a blanket from his old belongings and put it over the fat sergeant. Then he strode to the door, said goodbye to the kennel brutes and dashed back to his wedding.
Small, sodden Aldora limped up the steep ridge. Rain pelted both her and the stony ground with equal indifference. She leaned heavily on a peeled hazel stick and wore a cloak of many patches and colors. She was old, although she was as sure-footed as any goat. Wrinkles folded over her face and were marred only by warts and badly healed scars. She muttered as she hobbled across the wet hillside, her free hand rubbing a bone torc, a talisman of ancient power. She considered the rain as her own portable water supply. From time to time she stopped, tilted her head back and gobbled several cooling drops.
Aldora now wiped her mouth as wind whipped droplets into her face. She stood on top of a ridge. Across the valley, among a stand of trees, stood a long house of lopped timber. Sheep sheds leaned into the wind and a corral poked from behind the house. Three wagons stood empty in front of the house. Smoke issued from a high window.
Aldora's cracked lips twisted into a smile. Despite her age--and like most Welsh--she had strong white teeth. She followed the Welsh custom of daily rubbing her teeth with green hazel and wiping them with a woolen cloth. She also abstained from hot meals, eating only cold, warm or temperate foods.
Her head bobbed. Yes, yes, she noticed the wagons all right.
She headed down the ridge, poking her way slowly but sure-footedly.
So much had gone wrong, horribly, terribly wrong. Her dark eyes narrowed. Cord the dog boy had much to answer for. She wouldn't forget him. Taranis grant her that one's blood.
Two years of careful nurturing wasted. Two long years of twisting, forming, guiding Baron Guy's thinking. Then came the sweet gift of knowledge of the ancient treasure, brought by a knight who had spoken to an Italian priest. The priest had read Gaius Julius Maximus' letter, a brittle, age-old parchment. In a pirate's hold, the priest had passed the sweet knowledge to the knight. The druid's curse had laid both priest and knight into an early grave. Worse, however, her patron Baron Guy had died, and so had that sly oaf Philip. Even her hired French killers were dead. Everything had been so carefully built up and worked out.
She rubbed the bone torc. Oh, the dog boy thought himself so grand, letting her live. And actually saying she could have the treasure. As if she could dig it up with her old hands and load it onto her back. Ha, ha, that was the joke. Yes. She could see herself lurching up and down these mountains with her wagonload of heaping gold. "Let the Old Woman of Bones have the evil treasure," had said the arrogant dog boy.
She spat on a stone.
Saxons, Normans, each was a pig. They thought they knew so much. They thought the name Wales derived from Wallo, an old general, or from Queen Wandolena. It came from the pig Saxons, from their invasion after the hated Romans departed. The Saxons, in their crude, grunting language, called all foreigners Wallenses. The Saxons had driven her people into this land across the Severn, and then they'd called their victims foreigners, or Wallenses, and from their grunting word came Wales. The Western Marches was Marchia Wallia, while Wales Proper was pura Wallia. The term march came from the Saxon word "mearc," which meant boundary.
Aldora let out her breath. Rage wasn't the answer now. Let the others make their plans and have their little jokes. She rubbed the bone torc harder than before. The old gods Taranis, Teutates and Esus finally woke. They called, and they were angry. She knew her time was short before someone else dug the ancient gold out of the earth. She had to act fast and wisely.
Owain ab Ifan, the chief Welsh warlord of these parts, had returned from the sack of Bridgenorth. There Prince Llywelyn and the arch rebel Simon de Montfort had bearded King Henry's ally. Simon now rode east to London Town. Prince Llywelyn had taken his Welsh back home to Snowdonia. Owain ab Ifan had thus released his booty-laden warriors to their homes. No doubt the warriors boasted endlessly about their exploits to their wives and blood kin.
Aldora nodded sagely. The young in yonder house thus no doubt lusted for adventure. They surely dreamed of the day that they could become part of a chieftain's teulu, or personal bodyguard. Unlike Saxon peasants, who dreaded being called into the militia, any Welsh lad fourteen years or older yearned to pick up a lance and fight. Geraldus Cambrensis--a Welsh-Norman hybrid--had written years ago about these youth. Aldora knew his assessment to be true. "In time of peace, the young men, by penetrating the deep recesses of the woods, and climbing the tops of mountains, learn by practice to endure fatigue through day and night. And as they meditate on war during peace, they acquire the art of fighting by accustoming themselves to the use of lance, and by inuring themselves to hard exercise."
Aldora chuckled to herself. She'd give them hard exercise all right. How to do this..."Taranis," she prayed, "show me a way."
* * *
She reached the door as the rain turned to drizzle and as the sun sank into the horizon. A chill breeze blew across the world. It made the smoke drifting from the high window inviting. She rapped the door with her peeled hazel stick. Dogs barked from within. Children shouted. Then the door whipped open as a man eyeballed her. His red linen tunic and linen drawers proclaimed him a warrior. The scarred knuckles resting on his sheathed dagger-hilt said he'd seen many a fight.
"Welcome, old one," he said. "In the name of Holy Jesus enter."
She bobbed her head, shuffling into the gloom.
In the center of the house stood a circle of stones. Within the circle blazed chopped logs. Men, women and children clustered around the fire. A great iron cauldron hung over the flames, a strong-looking woman stirring its contents.
"Mary," called the warrior, "come wash this grandmother's feet."
Two young girls rushed up, one carrying a wooden basin, another a heated pitcher of water. As Aldora sat on the floor, on fresh rushes, the first girl set down the basin and undid Aldora's sandals. The second girl poured the water into the basin.
Hospitality among the Welsh came second only to their love of the Savior. That Aldora suffered her feet washed told the host that she would stay for the night. If she'd refused she would have merely taken refreshment and then been on her way. It was impossible anyone would ask her what her plans where. Such rudeness would never be borne by the man of the house--which she took to be the warrior in the red linen tunic.
"Please lift your feet, grandmother," said the girl, a bright-eyed creature of nine or ten.
Aldora complied. Then the girl guided her feet into the warm water. Ah...That felt so good. The girl took a cloth and washed her sore old feet. It was good to be among her people again. Perhaps it had been a mistake to try and use the Anglo- Normans.
The door opened with a crash. Three young men in light tunics and woolen cloaks strode within. They bore small javelins, more darts really. The lead youth dangled a dead rabbit by the ears.
"Cadell, boy!" shouted the warrior. "How many times must I tell you not to barge into the house as if you're raiding?"
"I'm sorry, father," said the youth holding the rabbit. He lifted his prize. "Look what I caught."
"Good," said the warrior. "Now go outside and skin it."
"And cut it up quick," said the strong-looking woman stirring the cauldron. "We can add it to the broth."
"Yes, mother!" shouted Cadell. He jerked his head at his two companions. They hurried out of the house as fast as they'd come in.
"He's a good hunter to have caught a hare in this weather," a man by the fire told the warrior.
The warrior grinned before he turned to Aldora. "I'm Roderic son of Tewdwr. I'm pleased you chose my home to stay in. You're most welcome here."
"Of the line of Roderic Mawr?" asked Aldora.
Roderic nodded, a grin touching his lips.
Aldora had only been joking. Now she lifted her eyebrows in admiration. Roderic Mawr, known as the Great, had long ago been king of all Wales. The modern division of the country came from his time, when his three sons divided the kingdom at his death. The Welsh were fond of their genealogies. Any Welsh bard or storiawr worth his salt could recite the genealogies of a noble or uchelwr. Roderic the Great, as any fool knew, drew his blood from Sylvius, Ascanius and Aeneas, and from there in a lineal descent--and carefully codified, of course--all the way back to Adam in the Garden of Eden.
This Roderic with the scarred knuckles was a good representative of his race. He had ropy limbs and a lean body. Active rather than strong, he seemed to possess the energy of a bent Damascus blade that would spring into motion the moment tension was released. Short cut dark hair clad his head like a panther's pelt, while a moustache added dignity to his bearing. He had keen eyes like a hawk and angular features. This was the kind of man who ran up mountains and dashed through swamps. Here stood a lance-man that could charge screaming at a mailed knight on horseback--And turn around and sprint to safety up a rocky slope if the odds proved overwhelming.
With her eyes adjusted now to the gloom, Aldora saw other warriors in the shadows. They worked on arrows or polished wicked looking daggers. None of them owned mail armor. One wore a boiled leather jerkin he'd no doubt taken from a dead Norman man-at-arms. Children swarmed around them. Mothers sewed garments or sliced cheese and cold meats.
All sat cross-legged or squatted on the rushes. There was no furniture in the Norman sense, no tables or chairs. A few chests and butter churns lay scattered around. Here lay one of the secrets of Welsh success against feudal Norman aggression. The Normans with their mailed hosts could drive the Welsh off the land. And so the Welsh went, driving their herds to pastures that were difficult to reach. Soon the Normans wearied of holding empty harsh terrain. Then the Welsh returned, built their flimsy houses and corrals and threw rushes onto the floor.
Not all these warriors lived here in this house, of course. A meeting of some sort had taken place.
Soon supper was served. Aldora nibbled on cheese, sipped milk and spooned the tasty broth with the fresh rabbit. Unlike a Saxon or Norman meal, there was little bread. Watery ale finished off the menu. Roderic and his wife stood the entire time, making sure each of their guests had enough to eat. Two older girls played the harp, and they played beautifully. Only after their guests ate their fill did Roderic and his wife eat. After them the two harp players ate.
By listening to the conversations, Aldora learned these warriors had been at Bridgenorth, all except Roderic and his son. He'd remained out of the fight, and the others considered that a shame, for each said Roderic should have led their clan. He had the cunning and strength of arm to have led them to greater victory. Didn't Owain ab Ifan himself say none could best Roderic at lance play?
"Enough," said Roderic.
For a time they listened to the harps. The girls had a sweet touch.
An older warrior suddenly leaned near Roderic. "With de Montfort's help we could sweep these arrogant marcher lords right out of Wales!"
The others shouted agreement.
"Yes, father!" said Cadell, the young hunter of rabbits.
Roderic merely shook his head as if he'd heard a good joke.
"If we all joined under Llywelyn's banner anything's possible!" cried a man.
"Look at our trophies!" cried a youthful warrior. He held up a jeweled necklace.
Men and women gasped. A young woman clapped her hands in delight.
The warrior tossed her the necklace.
She squealed, putting the jewels around her throat. The firelight winked off the precious stones.
The other warriors and their women thoughtfully eyed the prize.
"A fancy trinket," Roderic told the young warrior. "But my eyes crave sleep!"
A few of the younger people groaned in complaint. But the older women rose and kicked together rushes. Then over the pile they threw down rugs called brychan. The rugs were fashioned out of a coarse kind of cloth. Everyone rose and bedded down together in a circle, their feet aimed at the fire. Aldora lay beside a mother and daughter. Prayers were lifted up to God, and then one by one the people of the house and their guests fell asleep.
* * *
Cocks crowed in the morning. People arose, splashed themselves with water and took a sip. A few ate slices of cheese. Most ate nothing. The boneddigion--the youths who traversed woodlands, scaled mountains threw javelins and shot arrows in training--would only eat when the sun set.
After being blessed by a wandering monk who'd spent the night, shepherds left and took the sheep to their various pastures. Dogs barked joyously as they helped guide the flocks. Some of the warriors and their families said their good- byes and departed. Roderic and his son soon sat on rocks in the sunshine as they fashioned arrows.
Aldora wandered near. She cleared her throat.
Roderic looked up, and smiled. "Grandmother, a good day to you." He scowled at his son. "Boy, can't you greet my guest."
"Good morning, grandmother."
"What a fine stew it was last night," Aldora told the boy.
He perked up.
"The rabbit did it," she said.
Cadell the rabbit hunter grinned. He had red hair and a bright, open face. His skinny limbs already swelled with muscle. Surely he was no more than fifteen, more likely fourteen.
"I have a problem," Aldora told the father.
Roderic lifted an eyebrow.
Aldora smoothly began her lie. She'd cobbled the tale from all the information she'd heard last night. She said, "It began when an awenddyon roared out his song many months ago."
Awenddyon was the name for a very special kind of Welsh soothsayer. Whenever a spirit possessed him he roared out violent, nonsense words. Only a skilful observer could decipher his words.
"I watched the awenddyon closely," said Aldora. "He spoke of an ancient relic from the time of King Arthur. A stone, I learned, the monument to one of Arthur's finest warriors lay buried near Cefullys. A priest blessed Rhys Dha and his men and told them to find this stone and bring it to Glastonbury. There the monument would be set beside King Arthur's and his Queen Gwynevere's tombs."
(Both Geraldus Cambrensis and Prince Edward reported on seeing this gravesite in Glastonbury. In monkish Latin the inscription on the coffin read: "Arthur King of the Britons and his wife Gwynevere lie here.")
Aldora told Roderic, "I joined the expedition."
"You, grandmother?"
"They wanted me to show them the exact spot where the monument lay buried."
Roderic watched her closely.
"Aye, it was an easy journey there," she said. "And we dug up the stone without trouble. But it was bigger than we'd expected."
"Whose stone was it?" asked Cadell.
"Quiet, boy," Roderic said. "Let the grandmother finish her tale."
Aldora grinned at the boy. "It was Gadric's stone, his tombstone, and it was made of marble."
The boy gasped. Gadric was the Welsh name for Galahad.
"The men loaded the stone in the wagon and off we went. But Earl Roger Mortimer learned of us."
"He lost Cefullys Castle to Owain ab Ifan," Roderic said.
"True, true," said Aldora, who had been ready to point that out. "The earl learned of the stone and sent his knights after us. We rode fast, up dale and down. And then the rear axle broke. So they buried the stone, and we fled afoot. Then the earl's men showed up. Two men jumped on the horses and fled. The others turned and charged the knights."
"Hurrah!" cried Cadell.
This time his father didn't quiet him.
"Hurrah indeed," Aldora said with a scowl. "The knights were wretched Gascon mercenaries. They bore crossbows and cut down the lads in a thrice."
"A coward's weapon," said Roderic.
Aldora nodded. "They cut down the lads and chased those who had fled. Only I survived by throwing myself between some rocks and hiding. I shivered as the butchers scoured the site for survivors. Their wet blades hungered for more blood. I heard them say to mark this spot for later. Then they rode off."
Aldora studied Roderic, knowing that most Welsh would instantly want to get this ancient stone, if only to keep it out of the hated earl's hands. She didn't know if Roderic believed her or not. This was a cagey one, surely a sly warrior in the field. No wonder the others had wished him to join them.
"What did you do then?" Cadell asked breathlessly.
"I started walking," Aldora said. "And I've been walking for two weeks. Hiding when I see knights coming. Stopping and resting at good Welsh homesteads like yours when I can. But last night I began to wonder. If we won at Bridgenorth, maybe now is the time to go back and dig up Gadric's stone."
Roderic shook his head. "The sheep need shearing any day now. I must stay."
"Let me go, father," Cadell said.
Roderic glanced at his son.
"I'm fourteen now, and I haven't gone on any quests yet."
"Is this your wish?" Roderic asked Aldora. "To send my son into danger?"
"Oh no, milord," Aldora said. "I would never send your first born into danger. But consider. Earl Roger Mortimer serves the king. He'll be quaking in his castle after Bridgenorth, hoping no one storms his strongholds."
Roderic laughed sharply. "I doubt Roger Mortimer quakes for any man. Still, there is wisdom in your words."
"Father?" Cadell asked hopefully.
"We shall see," Roderic said.
Aldora bobbed her head. She'd planted the seed. Now she must water it. "Where is your wife, milord? I wish to repair my cloak and need some needle and thread." Welsh women, much more than Norman or Saxon women, played a key role in any decision. Aldora, of course, was well aware of that.
Roderic told her to go back inside and check.
* * *
In the evening during supper, Roderic spoke with an old shepherd. The man had sparse white hair and stumps for teeth. His limbs were crooked and gnarled and a patch covered his left eye. But his right eye yet shone. After the meal, Roderic sat with Aldora by the fire.
"How far is this stone?" he asked.
"Three days journey."
Roderic closed his eyes. "And the nearest castle is?"
Aldora knew he meant Norman castle. She said, "Gareth Castle."
"Owain stormed it three years ago," the old shepherd with the eye-patch said. Everyone called him Fish. "Owain and his men tore the castle apart and scattered the stones to the four winds. They cut down old de Mowbray and sent him to hell, although I hear his daughter fled to Pellinore."
"If they tore down the castle," said a boy, "then it isn't the nearest one anymore."
Fish chuckled. "Owain tore it down, old Baron Hugh's son built it back up."
"But he didn't build it as good as it was," Cadell said, beaming because he could add this tidbit.
With his eyes still shut, Roderic asked, "How near is the castle to the site?"
"A day's journey, perhaps less," Aldora said.
Roderic opened his eyes. "You knew that without pondering it."
Aldora cursed herself for such an elementary slip. She must tread carefully, carefully. She shrugged. This one would smell excuses a mile off.
"Mother?" Roderic asked his wife.
Cadell's mother, a good-looking woman of thirty, with long, dark hair, considered Aldora. They'd spoken much today. "Our son can surely go where grandmother goes."
Cadell clapped his hands.
"He is fourteen after all," his mother said.
Roderic pursed his lips. At last he nodded.
"Hurrah!" shouted Cadell. "Adventure!"
Aldora glanced at the boy, almost allowing herself to like him. Then she drove the feeling away, just as she'd driven all her other good feelings away a long, long time ago.
Cord and Alice were having their first fight. The splendid wedding of three days ago had cost many silver pennies. Nor had it stopped there. Cord insisted on buying gifts galore for his friends. There was the ostrich feathered hat for Hob, the costly coat of many colors for Henri, the silver belt for Rhys, a golden comb for his wife Gwen... Perhaps if Alice had been able to keep all of Sir Philip's money that she'd taken--at least keep it just between Cord and her--perhaps then things would have been different. When Alice had hesitated about handing out her hard-won monies, Cord had quickly pointed out that she'd promised the others a goodly portion of her treasure. For forgoing digging up the cursed druidic treasure and for helping them escape Pellinore Castle, Henri, Rhys and Gwen had been offered part of her treasure.
Angered at Cord's liberal ways with her money, Alice had only dug up three of her buried sacks. After the wedding and after splitting the money two coins for her, one for Cord, one for Rhys and Gwen and one for Henri, well, that's when she secretly dug up the last sack, the biggest. Cord found out about it and demanded they split that money too. She told him this sack was all hers. She wasn't splitting it with anybody, not even him. He stared at her. It reminded her of a lost puppy, and that reminded her he'd been a dog boy only a short time ago. That made her wonder if she'd done the right thing marrying him. That made her feel even worse. Thank goodness he finally turned away. She wanted to run after him and tell him, yes, let's split the final sack with the others. Then she recalled the thousands of slights and sufferings she'd undergone here in Pellinore Castle. No! She would keep this money for her own. Thus, because this was the largest sack, she'd managed to keep half the money altogether.
That wasn't what the argument was about. They hadn't actually fought over the last sack. Cord simply spoke no more about it. The many gifts came from his share of the money. The wedding she paid for. The trouble went further than that. Of course upon their return the horses they'd stolen had been given back. Cord thus gave up Sir George's mighty destrier--the name for a huge knightly war- horse. As a knight he must have a horse, that went without saying. But did he need a costly destrier right away? Many knights didn’t have the biggest and the best. Cord demanded it, and he thus bought old Baron Hugh's destrier Tencendur for a hundred marks, a princely sum. He'd also purchased Sir Lamerok's full armor suit. It had been in Pellinore's dungeon. Alice pointed out the mail he owned was good enough. Never! He must have a full suit, just as a good as any baron's or earl's. And Cord had bought Sir Lamerok's battle-blade, an old family heirloom they'd learned. He'd also loved the late Guy's red silk cloak and thus bought it too. He bought palfreys for Hob, Henri and Rhys and of course one for himself. He couldn't ride Tencendur all the time.
As they rode west to Gareth Fief Cord threw up his arms and praised God for his graciousness. He rode the cream-colored Tencendur, who wore barding of boiled leather. Cord wore his full armor of chain mail literally from head to toe. The highly polished armor flashed in the sunlight. A scarf dyed bright with madder was knotted about his steel-encased neck. The quillons of the battle-blade he'd purchased sparkled with jewels. His red silk cape fluttered behind him. Nor did it end there. A much greater train than might have been expected followed him. The former knight Raymond of Lorraine rode behind, with a minstrel, an archer--who brought five of his strongest lads along--several dog boys and a huge pack of dogs (Cord had even had to purchase Sebald). A wandering monk followed, a man Cord had convinced to come and join them at Gareth Castle. And bringing up the rear rode Richard Clark, Baron Hugh's former squire. His legs had healed enough so he could sit a horse and he could limp with the aid of a cane. Cord had given Richard his old armor and sword that he'd taken from the mercenary he'd killed while originally freeing Alice. Cord hadn't sold the items to Richard, but had given them away. It was another sore point with Alice. Richard wasn't his squire--Cord felt he couldn't ask Richard to do that. Nor was he a sergeant, for Richard was of noble blood. Cord had asked Richard to be his master-at-arms. It was something he'd learned about from Henri from one of his many tales. And naturally enough, master-at-arms would be a well-paid position at Gareth Castle.
As they rode to Gareth Fief, Cord proudly told Alice, "No one, I'd wager, has his own master-at-arms."
That's when the argument started. That's when Alice ripped into him the way a good hound sinks his fangs into the flank of a bear. Cord's cache of coins had seriously dwindled. For of course he paid promptly and on the spot for everything. When Alice tried to tell him nobles said they would pay and then held off for as long as possible--
"You mean go in debt? Never!"
"Cord! This can't go on!"
They rode at the head of the train a little beyond the others.
Cord glanced back at his followers.
"No, Cord!" Alice yelled. "Look at me!"
Hob deftly drew rein, slowing his palfrey and thus slowing the others.
Cord, still a bit unsteady on horseback, clicked his tongue and urged Tencendur forward. Alice expertly kept beside him.
"Look at me, Cord."
Cord did. His wife was stunningly beautiful. She wore a rich marten jacket he'd bought for her and held a newly purchased falcon upon her wrist. He'd bought that too. Her long blonde hair had been carefully washed and brushed by a small Irish girl, an orphan he had brought into his household. The girl rode in the wagon in the rear of the train with Alice's two servants.
"Cord, you can't keep spending all your money."
He shrugged. "When my chests are empty we'll use yours."
"No!" she said.
This time he didn’t have a hurt look. "You are my wife," he said.
"I am. And I adore you, Cord. But this wasteful way you spend money." She shook her head. "It must stop at once."
Cord's smile didn't leave his lips, although it grew wooden. "You don't understand," he said at last.
"That you've never had money to spend before and now it flows out of your hands like water? I understand that."
The wooden smile slipped.
Alice looked away. She squeezed her hands together. Why did she say that? She looked back at Cord. "Our money has to last till we take in rents and fees from our fief. And we will always need extra money for a rainy day."
"Alice." He dropped his gaze.
"Milord, please look at me."
He did.
"I don't mean to hurt you, my love."
The look in his face grew stern. "I know what everyone says: That I'm just a dog boy who married beyond his station. But that isn't true. My father was a knight. Yes, the Earl Roger Mortimer had him hung as a common felon. But I'm still a knight's son, a Saxon knight's son. Thus I have two strikes against me. I know how people think. So I must cut a dashing figure so they'll believe I'm a knight."
"You're wrong, milord. It doesn't matter what they think, but what you think."
Cord shook his head. "I must run a castle and a fief. Thus it matters very much what my people think. Alice, Earl Roger Mortimer isn't going to let this stand. At least not without a fight he isn't."
"But you're my lawfully wedded husband. You're the banneret of Gareth Castle."
"I'm a Saxon, dear wife. I'm the son of a felon, and I was just a dog boy a short time ago. No arrogant Marcher Lord like Mortimer will let me be his vassal--at least not unless I can force it down his throat. Worse, though, he hated my father. Why, I don't know. But he did."
Alice digested his words. She finally asked, "What does this have to do with your wasteful spending habits?"
Cord laughed harshly. "Money is good for one thing: gathering warriors to my side."
"But--"
Cord held up his gauntleted hand. "My sword arm won me my station. My sword arm will either be strong enough to keep it or not. Yet I'll need others to fight with me. How can I gather these warriors? That is the question."
"By giving them my money?"
Cord glanced sharply at her. "By being a bold lord," he said. "By being known as liberal-handed with gifts. Aye, not all will join me. But adventurers will. Warriors who live by their sword arms will. And that's just the kind of man I need. Those are the sort who will stand beside me in the day of battle. And don't doubt it, Alice, that day of battle will come upon us sooner rather than later. My father lost because he wasn't ready for his Mortimer. I don't plan on making that mistake with mine."
"I'm not certain, husband."
"Don't forget that Gareth Castle lies closest to the wild Welsh lands."
Alice stiffened. How could she ever forget that dreadful night three years ago? She'd ridden out the back gate, while her father barred the front, his ancestral sword in hand. That was the last time she'd seen him alive.
Cord reached over and touched her arm. "I can't promise you a peaceful life, wife. But I promise you that you'll know your husband is a knight."
Alice bit her lip. Cord spent an awful lot of time listening to Henri and his brash romances of Lancelot and Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. She wanted a brave lord--and Cord certainly was that. But she surely didn't want to go back to her father's robber baron ways. If Cord wasn't careful, that's what his den of adventurers would turn into.
"Forgive me, milord," she said at last. "I spoke too hastily."
Cord gave her a genuine smile. "Tell me more about Gareth Fief, my love." He laughed. "For I think I've already thought of several way to raise our monies and rents from it."
* * *
Cord and Alice led their train of attendants from Pellinore Castle to Gareth Castle. Both strongholds belonged to the greater Pellinore Fief, whose lord had been the late Baron Hugh and then his son Sire Guy. Guy's lordship had lasted less than a week. Baron Hugh had directly controlled a mere half of his fief. The other lands his vassals ran, just as he ran Pellinore Fief as part of Earl Roger Mortimer's Earldom. The feudal system entailed lords demanding homage from their vassal, and then giving their vassals land enough to support a certain number of warriors. The chief warrior, of course, was the knight, the lord himself. But a knight always needed attendants, and this was even truer in Wales than in England.
Unlike the rolling plains of England, Wales or Cambria was a land of high mountains, deep valleys, extensive woods, rivers and marshes. Lightly armed men counted for almost as much in this type of terrain as heavily armored knights. In the open field the knights on their chargers could sweep all before them. Alas, except for South Wales, there was little open terrain--or at least the other kind was always near at hand to run into for safety.
The Western Marches, where the English river-valleys met the Welsh Mountains, had been a land of conflict for time immemorial. Disputes occurred in the borderland as early as the Iron Age. Later the legions of Rome built forts at Chester, Gloucester and Caerleon to pen the wild Welshmen in their inhospitable country. King Offa of Mercia--an eighth century Saxon--built Offa's Dyke along the border that yet stood in 1263.
1066, the year William the Norman Conqueror defeated the Saxons at Hastings, changed everything. The Conqueror yearned to subdue the entire island. The proud Welsh thought otherwise. They resisted with a will, and their harsh land aided their fight. Thus King William created the Marcher Lordships. The borderland he turned into a no man's land. Three tough Norman leaders, Hugo the Wolf, William Fitz-Osborn and Roger de Montgomery, were made into palatine earls. They were given full control of their earldoms. In turn they maintained armed troops in the field and were responsible for holding the Welsh in check. In the rest of England barons needed the king's permission to raise a castle or pass harsh judgements. It was different in the Western Marches. Marcher lords built castles, administered laws, waged wars, established towns and possessed all of the royal perquisites--salvage, treasure-troves, plunder, royal fish and taxes. By 1263 the marcher lords had grown even more powerful. It was said, "the king's writ did not run north of the Wye." The marcher lords ruled in their own right and could wink at the kingly powers. Many political refugees raced to get across the Wye to safety.
Earl Roger Mortimer was prouder, stronger and more willful than most marcher lords. He acted like a mini-monarch, and Pellinore Fief was one of his more important territories. It held the outer center of his lands, and was itself almost in the exact center of Wales. These borderlands contained the densest concentration of motte-and-bailey castles that the Normans had thrown up all over Briton after the conquest. And although these castles were only a short distance away from each other as the crow flies, in actual terms their distance was far.
Thus Cord and Alice led their train up steep hills, through dense woods and skirted a swampy valley. Roger Mortimer was their liege, true enough. But Gareth Castle lay at the edge of his mini-kingdom and in its roughest terrain. It had only been added to the greater Pellinore Fief nine years ago, when Baron Hugh had rescued Alice's father from a Welsh incursion. Till that time Alice's father had run a robber baron's existence, raiding Norman and Welsh alike.
Alas, both Cord and Alice were in for a rude surprise. She pictured the castle she'd fled three long years ago. Cord thought of Pellinore Castle when he pictured Gareth in his mind's eye. Neither had seen what it was. Three years ago the Welsh had dismantled the castle, carting some of the stones away. A third of the fief's peasants had died in an orgy of bloodshed. Another third ran away--although some of those had returned. Sire Guy, as the temporary castellan, rebuilt Gareth Castle in a lazy, slipshod manner mainly because he had so few workers. He'd always intended to fix the castle to its old rugged construction. Maybe if he'd been a healthy man...
* * *
The train broke through the forest, with Cord and Alice in the lead. He rode a palfrey, letting his mighty destrier rest. They moved along a rutted track at the bottom of a valley. Before them stood a hill. Upon the hill sat the castle. Both Cord and Alice drew rein and stared in surprise at the stronghold. No stone walls rose up. Nor was there enough room on top of the hill for both a moat and the castle.
Instead of what each of them had pictured, a crude motte-and-bailey castle greeted them. These had been built a hundred years ago during the Conqueror's time. No one built them now.
Cord turned to Alice.
"Now I know why Sir Thomas didn't join us," she said bitterly.
Sir Thomas had once been her father's best friend. Sir Philip had paid him well to change his old allegiance. While Alice had been a prisoner in Pellinore Castle, Sir Thomas had done nothing to help her. She and Cord had debated how to deal with him. Sir Thomas didn't give them an opportunity to see if they could forgive. He'd ridden off a day after the wedding to parts unknown. Alice secretly felt they should have killed him. He was a proud man. His betrayal would eat at him until rage overtook his senses and he tried to return to kill them.
Cord urged his palfrey forward as he kept staring at the castle on the hill. The motte was a forty-five foot high mound, sixty feet across at the top. Upon it stood a three story stone tower--at least all the stones of old Gareth Castle hadn't gone to waste. A wooden palisade surrounded the tower. Stairs led down the side of the motte to the bailey or the main courtyard below. The bailey had four times the area as the top of the motte. A wooden palisade made of log walls about eight feet high surrounded it. The bank of earth the bailey stood upon made the wall a solid ten feet from a man standing outside the castle and on top of the hill. Within the bailey were stables, barracks and a great house. The great house was also built of stone. It looked more like a modern day manor and even had a chimney. Guy, it seemed, hadn't stinted his living quarters, just the strength of the castle.
Cord cantered beside his wife to question her. Then he turned away as she wept softly. Henri motioned urgently at Cord. Cord sighed and rode near his wife again, patting her on the back.
"There, there," he said.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
He shrugged. Then he looked up at the castle again. Short wooden walls! Earl Roger Mortimer would laugh at any vassal who hid behind such walls. Or what if Owain ab Ifan got it in mind to storm Gareth Castle again? Could one even call this a castle?
Hob cantered near. "A stout place," he said. He took off his ostrich feathered cap and wiped his forehead. "We can hold off an army up there."
Cord stared at his old friend. Then he spurred his palfrey and galloped up the hill. If the castle was in such a poor state, what about the supplies in case of siege?
* * *
Cord had been worried about whether or not he could project a noble presence to his people. They would have heard a former dog boy was now their lord. A whispering campaign could make his rule well neigh impossible. The state of the castle took care of that. The water in the castle well was nearly empty. The salted meat in the storage room was gone but for a handful of herring. Stored grain and flour was nonexistent. As the castle steward showed him each item Cord stormed and cursed with growing rage. The smith cowered at Cord's thunderous glance. Only a few horseshoes stood in his shed and three brittle swords. The head man-at-arms admitted that no boulders had been collected to heave at besiegers. Two moveable towers, to be used as platforms behind the wooden walls, stood broken where they stood. No one had bothered to make new wheels when the old ones broke. Two bows made up the castle complement and there were only forty crooked arrows for them.
Finally Cord roared for all the castle folk to show themselves. Men-at-arms lined up in front, all six of them. A more ragtag useless lot Cord had never seen. None of them had metal armor, just boiled leather jerkins and thin wooden shields. Servants shivered as he strode up and down before them. Some youths held scrawny dogs; the maids were bleary-eyed from weeping. A dozen peasants had the most spunk. They stared sullen-eyed at the ground.
In his chain mail armor and red silk cloak, with his huge clanking sword at his side, his fierce scowl and strong features, Cord looked every inch the noble lord. Sebald sat nearby, and the castle folk stared in shock at the huge hound. He yawned and revealed a mouth of sharp fangs. They blinked in dread.
"This will not stand!" roared Cord. "Today, this moment, we ready Gareth Castle for siege!" Then Cord turned abruptly, his cloak swirling, as he clanked away to the great house.
No one moved. Everyone was shocked at Cord's transformation, both his friends and the castle folk who had been awaiting a dog boy for a master. At last Hob moved in front of the castle folk and dismissed them, although he called for the steward. They put their heads together and began to talk.
* * *
Alice entered the manor. Cord slapped his gauntlets at his armored leg as he stared at a tapestry of a knight slaying a dragon.
"Milord?" she asked.
Cord turned. Rage smoldered in his eyes.
"The steward said the town is better protected."
"Something, at least."
"What are you thinking?" Alice asked.
"Do you trust me?"
"You know that I do."
He slapped his thigh again. "Do you truly trust me?" he asked.
She rushed to him, embracing him. "You are my knight, I am your lady."
He crushed her to him and kissed her fiercely. After a time, he said, "No one will take Gareth Castle. On that I stake my word and my life."
She searched his face. It seemed inconceivable that he'd ever been a dog boy.
Then he kissed her again, and he was certain that his time was short.