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Foreword Chapter One Chapter Two
To be outside the law -- to be an outlaw -- in medieval times brought savage repercussions. Great or small alike suffered horribly. The rack, thumbscrews or flogging brought quick confession, if such were needed. Otherwise a rope for hanging or a razor for throat slitting brought the outlaw his last, earthly reward.
Sometimes entire communities were declared outlawed. At the end of the twelfth century in the south of France and in the town of Albi began a reformed- religion. In part the religion was a return to primitive Christianity, in part it was a memory of the Arian heresy of the Visigoths who had long ago ruled the south of France and in part it was a product of Manichean and other Eastern ideas. The black-robed Albigensian clergy vowed to devote themselves to God and Gospel and to never touch a woman, never kill an animal, never eat meat, eggs or dairy food, nor anything but fish and vegetables. Their followers renounced the Catholic Church and greeted their fellow perfecti with a triple and reverent genuflection.
The Count of Toulouse, the Count of Foix and the Count of Beziers all joined the Albigensian heresy, as Pope Alexander III christened it in 1179. In turn the heretics said the Church of Rome was the great Whore of Babylon, the clergy the Synagogue of Satan and the pope the very Antichrist come to earth. For a time Cistercian and Dominican friars made headway in southern France through gentle persuasion. Then an Albigensian knight slew a papal legate. Thus in 1209 Pope Innocent III excommunicated the Albigensian leaders and laid the land under interdict -- he put them outside the law. Papal agents preached a European crusade to help put down these outlaws, and many northern knights 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 by his small, but oh so efficient army. Beziers' leaders said they would rather fight until they were reduced to eating their children. De Montfort and his knights then scaled the walls and sacked the city. During the massacre (where over 20,000 people perished) a knight asked de Montfort how he could separate the Christians from the heretics. De Montfort is said to have roared, "Slay them all, let God separate them!"
De Montfort's fanatical zeal allowed him to make a desert of a once productive land, and it gave him countless victories. He fell in battle in 1218, and his eldest son Amauri took over. The only other surviving son of the Scourge of the Albigenses was the fifth Simon -- a tall and powerfully built man with the dark good looks of the South. This was the Simon de Montfort who defied King Henry III of England, and who in 1263 had gained control of most of the Western Marches of Wales.
It, just as in his father's era, was a bad time for outlaws.
Beautiful Lady Alice de Mowbray fled on a huge black stallion. Fear twisted her lithe belly and doubt gnawed her thoughts. Beneath her the stallion Arthur thundered upon the packed-dirt trail. Lady Alice looked back, but could see nothing but oaks and beeches. In front of her branches whipped past uncomfortably near, while leaf-scented wind tossed her long blonde hair this way and that.
After two long years of enforced servitude, she fled Pellinore Castle. Unless she reached Gareth Castle and summoned her retainers, her supposed rightful liege would force her to marry anyone he so desired. She had her wits, a bow, two daggers and the fastest stallion in all Wales.
Would that be enough, she wondered.
She ducked a branch and eased Arthur into a canter. She wore leather hunting clothes and knee-high boots. No soft maiden she, but a tireless rider and a keen hunter. Yet...all England and Wales seethed with rebellion and therefore with armed men. Earl Simon de Montfort and his allies defied the King. And Prince Llywelyn of Wales was one of those dreadful allies. It had been Llywelyn's Welsh who had slain her father and sacked Gareth three long years ago. Because of him she rode alone, friendless in a rough and savage land.
Alice laughed harshly. She had strong white teeth and the hope of youth. She was free and intended to stay that way. She lifted a slender bow and while riding 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 from yew. By her right leg slapped a quiver of barbed arrows.
Alice loved reading. She loved stories, and she loved tales of other lands most of all. Twenty years ago, said the bards, thick-limbed Mongols 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 knights had been able to stand against the Mongols. Hungry and Bohemia became deserts, lands now principally populated by wolves and crows. The Mongols and their heathen allies had discovered an unbeatable manner of fighting. They wielded heavy but small 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 rider and horse with dreadful ease.
Alice, a good shot with a bow, had often practiced shooting on 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 the wood and spied the Welsh uplands. In another hour she'd reach them. Before long another swath of trees hid the hills from view.
She passed a woodcutter with an axe over his shoulder and his woman leading a twig-laden mule. They eyed her curiously. But in the manner of folk who spent long times alone in the wilds they said nothing. Later she passed two plump merchants lurching back and forth on their creaking cart. They shouted a Christian hello. She nodded and rode on.
Later she paused and rested Arthur, and allowed herself a crust of bread. Before her stood a large forest. Within its environs an ambush could occur more easily than in the open. She debated with herself. There wasn't a quick way to reach Gareth Castle unless she pressed through the various woods. Mounting Arthur, she decided to trust to luck and hard riding.
The forest air seemed lifeless. The leaves hung limply, while Arthur's horse- odor became overpowering. His ears twitched, and a moment later he nickered. Alice, feeling lonely again, was slow to respond. Then Arthur neighed and shook his head. Alerted, Alice scanned the trail. Ahead it turned to the right. Should she plunge off the trial and see if anyone came? No. If there were outlaws they might trap her in the dense thickets. Her best chance lay in hard riding.
"Easy, boy," she whispered to Arthur.
A lone horseman cantered into view, a youth -- a squire perhaps by his fox cape. He rode a tired palfrey and wore dusty leathers. An oversized dagger slapped at his side.
Alice almost yanked back the reins, when another horseman followed the first. This one wore scale-mail armor. It was cheaper than chain mail armor, easier to forge. An armorer sewed small, toe-sized sheets of metal to a leather coat, overlapping the various sheets. Sergeants--horsemen of non-noble blood -- generally wore scale-mail; knights wore chain mail.
Alice's stomach tightened. She recognized the sergeant by the branding scar on his left cheek. He was one of the men who had gone with Sir Philip to Gareth Castle. Alice had been certain that Sir Guy, her new liege, would use the regular route between the two castles, for surely he'd be carting most of his belongings with him. If he was on the trail ahead of her...
"Lady Alice?" the sergeant said, drawing rein.
The youth ahead of the sergeant swept blond hair from his eyes and frowned at her.
She knew that to ride ahead was to meet Philip or Guy. So she drew rein, saying, "I'll tell Sir Walter you're home." She lied of course. For she'd just escaped from Sir Walter.
As she turned Arthur, the brand-scarred sergeant said, "Hey! I thought Sir Philip ordered you to stay in Pellinore."
She pricked Arthur's sides with spurs.
"Stop, milady!" the sergeant shouted.
Alice shouted at Arthur to go. The squire yelled too and also spurred his mount, giving chase. In sick dread Alice fled. To have escaped the others and now almost fallen into Philip's grasp...She forced herself to remain strong. She wasn't caught yet.
"Halt!" cried the squire.
Alice twisted around in the saddle. 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 him. But wasn't he willing to capture her and hand her over to Philip and Guy?
She put an arrow to the catgut string and twisted enough to aim at him. She wondered fleetingly how Mongols did it. The squire, his blond hair sweeping across his wide-staring eyes, shouted in alarm. She drew back the string, aimed, when a passing branch struck her. Her bow and arrow spun away. Her feet slipped out of the stirrups and she tumbled over Arthur's rump. With a sick thud she slammed onto the dirt. Air grunted out of her.
She groaned in pain.
Hooves drummed. Feet thudded beside her as the squire leaped off his mount.
"Milady?" he asked, moving closer.
Alice squinted. She had to escape. Although she couldn't breathe, she pulled out her boot dagger and lunged. He shouted in rage. Pain flared in her arm. Her knife spun away. Then he twisted her arm painfully behind her back. Only then did her chest unlock as she finally pulled down air.
"You tried to stab me," he said in rage.
"Let me go," she whispered.
More hooves thundered towards them. Armor clanked. As the squire hauled her to her feet, she turned and saw huge Sir Philip gallop towards 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.
"Lady Alice!" boomed Sir Philip from high upon his stallion. "Dearest Lady Alice!" he laughed.
Alice knew she was in dreadful danger. All her plans had now become bitter ashes. It would have been better if she'd never tried to escape. For now she'd put herself outside the law.
Sir Walter crossly questioned Cord the dog boy. Pond water drenched Cord's clothes and the fur of the water dogs beside him. Although as big as any of the knights -- and the one who slew Old Sloat the Boar -- Cord's position was precarious.
He'd called them to the hawking of herons. He'd lead them far afield. And then Alice de Mowbray had escaped. The truth was Cord had helped Alice. But if his betters learned that they'd hang him. A big youth of nineteen, with broad shoulders and powerful arms, he had only his Toledo steel dagger at his side. Only knights or knights-in-training (squires) could carry swords. While Cord's father had been a knight, he'd also been declared outlaw and hung from a tree. That made Cord a felon's son, almost a criminal himself. Ten long years of suffering had given him the low station of chief dog boy of Pellinore Castle. Yet now he wore his father's golden signet ring, that of a roaring lion. Now Cord had vowed to become a knight like his father, even though he lived at the castle of the men who had hung his father.
Sir Walter sat upon his stallion, his lean face one of anger. Then Sir Walter looked up, gasped and laughed.
Cord turned and was thunderstruck to see Alice ride her palfrey with her hands tied behind her back. Behind her followed huge Sir Philip and the ravaged Sir Guy in his bright, red silk coat.
Cord shivered. Maybe he could fool the others, but Philip wouldn't think his actions today innocent. 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, especially if said intrigues involved those of noble rank. Sir Guy...Cord didn't like the glassy look in his eyes, nor did he like Guy' sickly features and the evil smirk that played upon his 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. But when one's back was turned, ah, that's when the mongrel had been dangerous.
Better, Cord decided, to stay out of Philip's sight. So he slipped into the levy of Gareth peasants. They'd come to insure the safe conduct of Guy's countless belongings. Since the peasants were afoot and tired, they brought up the rear of the large throng. Thus it was that Cord saw Henri the minstrel trot in from the same trail the others had used. Henri, a small Frenchman with a black spade beard, was pale-faced and tight-lipped. Somehow he'd avoided Sir Guy. Part of Alice's plan had been to meet up with Henri and travel together with him to Gareth.
Cord raised his eyebrows.
Henri dismounted, gave the reins to a peasant and sauntered beside Cord. They ambled apart from the others.
"Is Lady Alice here?" asked Henri.
Cord told him the bad news and pointed.
In the van the nobles headed back towards Pellinore Castle.
Henri groaned.
"What can we do?" asked Cord.
"For now nothing," Henri said. He was pale, his eyes those of a rabbit. "Do the others suspect us?"
Cord told the minstrel how he'd been grilled, about his suspicions of the Chief Falconer knowing.
Henri chewed his lower lip. "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.
For a time they walked silently, listening to the clank of knightly armor, to the creak of the carts and the tramp of the Gareth footmen. Dark clouds rolled above as strong gusts of wind blew across the countryside. Henri buttoned his jacket. Old leaves blew past Cord's feet.
Cord's thoughts kept alternating between Alice and whether or not the soon- to-be-Baron Guy would give him the post of forester that his father, Baron Hugh, had promised him.
Despite his grand plans about becoming a knight, Cord's innate practicality kept returning to a means of making a living. Forester was better than chief dog boy. His only other choice seemed to be that of mercenary. Frankly, he had no interest in that. As a lowly dog boy all he'd be able to become was a footman, a spear carrier, or in other words, fodder for the swords of knights. If he were ever to become a knight he'd need lots of money and even more luck. Never mind the training he'd have to undergo -- training to learn how to charge with a lance and fight with a sword while wearing heavy armor. In order to buy a destrier, a chain- mail hauberk, a knightly sword, a lance, a high saddle, a helmet, a shield, and a mule for carrying provisions, a groom and a palfrey for regular riding....He sighed. 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'd 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?
So until he had a real plan, better to be a forester than 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, unless of course one committed a serious crime. A baron or 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 were hereditary. Thus 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 to see him keep his position even if a new lord didn't like him. Almost all lords kept the non-noble servitors in whatever position they'd held when he took over -- unless they promoted the servant to a better and higher rank.
Henri mounted up as they crossed the toll bridge. He wound a scarf around his neck. As dusk neared, the cold wind grew steadily chillier.
"What's that?" Henri suddenly asked.
"What?" asked Cord, who hardly noticed 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 manner Cord and Henri were initiated into Sir Guy's mystery. The Gareth peasants proved to be a sullen lot, little given to explanations as they hunkered 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 when Cord pulled 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 thieves, 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 that allowed him to cause his pirate ships to disappear. Whatever the case, after leaving the bloodthirsty Eustace, Sir Lamerok had headed directly to Wales. How many men went with him wasn't known by Hob. Sir Lamerok had been, apparently, on some sort of quest, at least according to Earl Robert de Ferrers of Derby. At Gareth, 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. She'd tended the squire's wounds, his lungs punctured by an arrow. 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 Lady 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 Lady 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!" 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 him 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 the 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. 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. Thus 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. Suddenly his eyes alighted on Cord's golden ring. "Your father's?"
"Yes."
Henri marched to the door. "We must see what Philip and Sir Guy plan. Or at least I should. Until we know more you should stay out of sight. Sir 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 to keep out of Philip's sight."
"But I must ask Sir Guy about the forester position."
"Don't bother, Cord. It's doomed to failure."
Cord stubbornly shook his head.
Henri preened his thin, dark mustache as he eyed Cord. "Very well," he said at said. "But you should wait until tomorrow morning. Let the others first forget our part in Lady Alice's escape. Let them worry about other things before we start intruding."
Cord, seeing the wisdom of the minstrel's counsel, agreed and bedded down in the kennel.
***
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 and about Alice's fate.
A flirtatious scullion told Cord that neither of Alice's former Gareth servants were 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 towards the kennel.
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, Hob chief among them.
"Feels like rain," grumbled Hob, his hands tucked under his armpits.
Cord eyed the pregnant clouds and felt the heavy air pressure. Maybe it 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 checked to see if anyone was listening. He asked, "Have you heard about Lady Alice?"
Hob shrugged, then 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 them 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 safe."
Cord glanced at the peasants, stocky fellows with ugly scowls. He'd heard most of them wished to return home immediately. The idea of a feast had mollified them a little.
As was normal practice, Sir Guy wanted his liegemen to pay him homage as quickly as possible. Thus 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."
"I've wondered why Lady Alice doesn't appeal to these 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 into a bucket."
Cord shifted uncomfortably.
"If I didn't know better, 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 Lady 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 Sir 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 other than that he's our lord. My advice, Cord, is to take off that ring and ask Sir Guy for the forester position."
"Take off my ring?"
"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 tacks. "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."
"Sir 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, "Sir 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."
"Henri?"
"It's clear to me that the two of you helped Lady Alice in her escape attempt. Unless you want to pay with your head for such foolishness, you must flee. For if you think Sir Philip is slow-witted, then you two 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've trained you."
Cord knew that none of the other sergeants could beat Hob at a sword fight. Hob would probably even give Sir Philip a tough bout. During the past few years Hob had taken him out into the woods, at times, and given him gruff lessons in the art of knife and sword fighting. It was one of the reasons why Cord had thought sometimes that 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 was forced to use if he wished to win.
Then Hob had gone and said the queerest thing six months ago. "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 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 rather 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.
"I am."
Hob grunted, then 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.
Hob once again switched tacks. "Listen. I admire Lady Alice and like her spirit. And I like you too, lad. But her fate is sealed. Sir Guy will marry her to whom he pleases. Your fate is also sealed, or almost so. To become a knight is not one of those fates."
Cord didn't like Hob's words, but their ring of truth was overpowering.
"Slip off that ring of yours," Hob said, "and bury it. Then go see Sir Philip or go ask Sir Guy directly to make you the forester."
Cord picked up his entrails sack and wandered over 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...Sir 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. Sir Philip had hated his father. Now Sir 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, even pulled it partway off. If he went out into the woods and buried it again...He nodded and yanked it off and slipped the ring into his pocket. He felt terrible. Hadn't he slain Old Sloat the boar? Didn't that make him knightly material?
He 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 towards the tower. He saw huge Sir 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.
Sir Philip saw him, and perhaps he saw the determination in Cord's manner. 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," Sir 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 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 wrapped in a blue silk scarf. Guy now 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, to be replaced by 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 use 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." Guy, leaning on the old crone, shuffled towards 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, no! 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 he wanted was to be alone in order to think things through.
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, seemed to have no neck, but 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 within. "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, 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 towards the kitchen.
Cord shut the door. So, he'd have to spend the morning tramping through the woods in foul weather.
He suddenly found that couldn't move after he'd turned around. The whole 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. Thus 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 from whatever prestige it had once had.
"What am I going to do?" he whispered.
He had no idea. Hob had crushed his fantasies about knighthood and now Sir Philip had crushed all chances of him ever becoming forester. With a weary sigh he shuffled 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 various chests had been smashed open last night and all her coinage confiscated by Sir Guy. It had proved to be a sizeable sum, and 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. Black rage 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 and told by Sir Walter 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 constantly spurred.
"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."
"Towards 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 towards 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 he stepped into the kennel with his brutes. He'd been looking forward for quite some time 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, accepting the loaf of bread that Henri handed him and biting into it. As he devoured the food, Henri began to talk.
"I don't know if you've heard about Lady 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. Or 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 maybe 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 Lady 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 Lady 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 her if we put our minds too it."
Cord snorted rudely.
Henri's eyebrows rose. "Where's your ring?"
Cord patted his pocket.
"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. Lady 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 story of the Holy Grail had first been penned by the great French Troubadour Chretien de Troyes. It had been the last of his many immortal Romances.
That the Anglo-Normans who'd invaded Britain had loved the stories of King Arthur enough to pass the tales back to France came about 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. Thus the historic Arturius had both ridden to battle upon a horse and had hated Saxons, just like the Normans who had broken the Saxons at the Battle of Hastings did. Also, the Bretons in William the Conqueror's train had spoken the same language as the Welsh and had had 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 Chretien 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 Chretien'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 Chretien 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. For 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 Chretien'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 to.
"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 of 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 a knight, so he set out for King Arthur's court, for he'd learned that the mighty king made men into knights."
Henri, his eyes wide and shiny, leaned towards 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 a knight. You're strong and handsome, just as Parzival was, but even more importantly you're not entirely ignorant on the use of arms nor 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. "Lady Alice can't knight me."
"Free Lady 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, Lady 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 is 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 leaped up and grabbed Henri by his leather jerkin, 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 he 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 stilled their barking. They'd never see their master like this, and it appeared to scare them.
With the bucket still 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."
Cord, with a perplexed frown, 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 and 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: Reynald the Fox. "It's Lady 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 her," 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 pocket. Without a word he slipped it back onto his finger. The moment he did so he felt grand. It suddenly 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. And when he had been thinking that way before he had felt great.
He sat straighter, and suddenly said to Henri, "Let me ask you something."
Henri nodded.
"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, 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 Lady 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.