Guy made a smooth gesture.
The huge bog-knight Sir Philip Talbot strode upon the Spanish rug and with a clank stiffly knelt upon his armored knees. He placed his huge horny hands with their hairy knuckles in Guy’s slender shaking ones.
“I am your man, Sir Guy,” Philip loudly said. “You are my liege.”
Guy nodded and worked his way to his feet, as Philip did to his. Cord thought to see Philip blanch, but then the giant knight’s face tightened and closed up. Guy clasped Philip and the two kissed on the lips. It was an ancient custom and showed everyone, and both men, that they were on the same plane of friendship. It also dignified Philip’s act of subordination and showed everyone present that it was as a knight that Philip had done homage, not as a servile peasant. It was to gain Philip’s fighting prowess that Guy had accepted the huge knight. Never again would Philip need to do homage, but the next act would be repeated throughout the years.
As Guy sat back, Philip turned and Father Bernard came forward. In the Father’s hands was a black, leather-clad Bible. It was a huge Bible and seemed difficult for Father Bernard to hold.
Philip put his right hand on the Bible and made his oath of fealty. This oath, made on the Holy Word of God, was an act that most lords made their liegemen take each year. It was an oath of loyalty, and because it had been taken in God’s sight, it was more biding than otherwise.
Once Philip had taken the oath of fealty, Sir Guy whispered, “As my man, please accept this token.” Guy nodded to Sergeant Reynard. Reynard solemnly stepped forward and gave Philip a spear with a silver head.
Philip took the spear and made to step back.
Guy raised his hand and the herald said, “Please tarry a moment longer, Sir Philip.”
Philip stopped, standing motionless before his liege.
Guy whispered to the herald. The herald raised his trumpet and blasted a mighty peal. “Hear ye! Hear ye! The honorable Baron Guy de Clare wishes to inform his assembled court that on this day he promises the Lady Alice de Mowbray’s hand in marriage to Sir Philip Talbot of Tarn Tower. The wedding will take place a fortnight from today, and after the wedding Sir Philip will become the Banneret of Gareth Fief.”
A gasp rose from the assembled throats. This was a mighty gift indeed. Cord swayed with shock. Then he searched for a sign from Alice. She hadn’t moved, but stood straight with her shoulders squared. Her face, normally lightly tanned, had turned a pasty white color.
To escape now became paramount. The price of failure would correspondingly be more savage. A simple hanging might not please Philip’s wrath. Cord knew it was within Philip to have him placed on the rack and ‘stretched’ to death for trying to spirit away his betrothed.
“You honor me, milord,” Philip said in a thick voice.
Guy accepted the praise and then motioned subtlety.
Philip stepped back, turned and worked his way toward Alice. Sir Walter now stepped forward to do homage to his lord and then make his oath of fealty.
In this time-honored fashion, Sir Guy bound his father’s old vassals to himself, and Sir Guy made himself in all but name the new Baron of Pellinore Fief.
After all the knights had given homage and taken their oaths of fealty, some of the more important freeholders came forward. Sir Guy gave them no kiss after they’d done homage, but simply accepted them as his men.
Cord wondered if Sir Guy would give Rhys ab Gruffydd the kiss of friendship. Rhys was a Welsh noble and might take it as an insult if he didn’t receive the kiss. Rhys wasn’t a knight, although he probably considered himself a worthy fighting man just the same. The Welsh could be monstrously picky about their rights.
Cord saw the bluff Welshman in the crowd below. Beside him was his beautiful wife Gwen. She wore a fine white linen dress with a golden belt and a fur-lined jacket of silk. Her flaming red hair, kept in a golden net, added to her pale beauty. Beside her, the burly Rhys seemed more like her attendant than her husband. He wore a leather coat, bluff breeches and boots of excellent workmanship. Perhaps in lieu of costly garments he had tied blue silk ribbons to his forked beard. With his long nose and intense eyes and the proud way in which he held himself, Rhys seemed fully as noble as any of the knights. He also wore a thick silver chain over his coat, surely worth as much as many of the knightly garments.
It was already an insult that Rhys hadn’t been called. He was more than a mere freeholder, but a vassal who brought fighting men to his lord’s summons.
The herald at last called out, “Rhys ab Gruffydd of Stony Hills!”
Cord watched the stocky Welshman and his wife work their way through the crowd. Suddenly Rhys stopped. He stared at small Aldora. She touched her bone-white torc and stared back at Rhys as she mumbled.
Rhys whispered to his wife. Gwen crossed herself and took a step back.
Guy motioned to his herald.
The herald, with his deep voice, called out to Rhys, “Why does your wife dishonor your homage?”
Rhys’ intense eyes blazed and his beard seemed to bristle. With his right hand on the hilt of his dagger, he interposed himself between Aldora and his wife.
Guy whispered again.
The herald roared, “What is the meaning of this?”
Rhys pointed at Aldora. “She…she lays the Evil Eye upon my wife! Command her to stop or I’ll cut out her heart!”
Shocked silence filled the hall. Then a roar of fear and bewilderment rose from many throats.
Aldora glared at Gwen. Gwen shrieked and shrank back from Aldora. Rhys ab Gruffydd roared and jerked out his dagger. He launched himself at the tiny Welshwoman. The two sergeants in polished armor fell upon Rhys and bore him to the floor. In moments, they hauled him back up before Sir Guy, each warrior struggling to hold one of Rhys’ stocky arms behind his back.
“Why did you attack Aldora?” the herald shouted.
“You fools!” Rhys roared. He struggled, but the two big warriors held him tightly. “She’s one of the Old Woman of Bones!”
Aldora rose like a snake and pointed a shaking finger at Rhys. “Silence!”
Rhys flinched and struggled even more fiercely than before. The two big sergeants staggered backward with their prisoner but they didn’t let go.
People began to scream.
The herald blew his silver trumpet, and for a moment people listened.
“The Welshman speaks lies!” the herald shouted. “He seeks to defame a friend of Lord Guy’s.”
“I don’t be a lair!” Rhys shouted back, his face red with rage. “I know one of the Old Women of Bones when I lay eyes upon her. She comes from Anglesey, the Isle of Anglesey. Aye, there the last Druids with their bloodstained hands went down. Upon their ruins rose the Old Women of Bones. Ask her! Ask her if they don’t push the heads of sacrificial men into silver bowls and drown them to please their dark devil Teutates. Aye! That’s how they give the souls of the damned to their evil master!”
“Speak no more!” Aldora shrieked.
Rhys ab Gruffydd fell silent, his face no longer red but pale and his body trembling in obvious fear.
Gwen ab Gruffydd didn’t stay silent. She sprang up beside her husband like a she-wolf and pointed a level finger at Aldora. “They chain their prisoners together and use them like cattle in their secret lairs. They search out the old terrors that they may once more bring forth the wicked ways of Taranis, Teutates and Esus. They heap damned souls on pyres and burn them in sacrifice to their hideous masters.” Gwen spat at Aldora, “We know you, Old Woman of Bones! Flee! Run away! Go back to the hole from whence you came, or these good people of God will string you up like the evil witch you are!”
Incredibly, Aldora shrank from Gwen.
“Enough of these lies!” bellowed the herald. Sir Guy had whispered into his ear.
Gwen turned to Guy. “Curse you, Sir Guy, for consorting with witches. Only death can come from that!”
Guy clutched the herald’s shirt and whispered more harshly.
The herald
bellowed, “Rhys ab Gruffydd will be thrown into the dungeon for both his and his wife’s lies!”
“No!” Gwen howled. “Don’t leave him for the Old Woman of Bones!”
“The wild woman, this evil witch who has corrupted Rhys ab Gruffydd’s mind, will join him!” the herald shouted. “Tomorrow Sir Guy will hold court and decide what should be done with the two of them.”
“Burn them!” shouted a woman in the crowd.
“Kill the witches!” shouted someone else.
“Kill all three of them just to be sure!” roared a man.
A loud chorus of yells rose up in agreement.
“Silence!” roared the herald. “His lordship will decide tomorrow what should be done. Today, however, is a day of rejoicing. Let there be no more talk of witches or killing. All must now fall silent while Father Bernard prays for our protection.”
The two sergeants dragged Rhys from the Great Hall and to the trap door that led down to the armory and then to the dungeon. With them went the dour Gascon mercenary. All could see that he carried the big dungeon keys on his belt. Two other men-at-arms dragged the raging and now even more beautiful, or at least Cord thought, Gwen ab Gruffydd. Husband and wife would wait out the feast down in the dark, waiting for tomorrow for the trail of witchcraft.
Cord, and perhaps many others here, was certain that the wrong people had been dragged to the dungeon. Aldora was the witch, or the Old Woman of Bones, as Rhys had said. It was an evil title, and Cord no longer wondered what the torc on Aldora’s throat was. It was bone-colored and surely was a bone of some kind. He noticed that Aldora had deftly taken off the torc and hidden it.
Cord shivered with superstitious fear, but he drew calm as Father Bernard prayed for protection from the powers of Satan and his evil minions. Nor did Father Bernard pray quickly. He prayed sonorously, in a commanding voice, and he prayed long enough so people lost their fear of the supposed witches. At last, when Father Bernard was done, calm had returned to the Great Hall.
When the herald shouted that everyone must file out and join Sir Guy on the green for dancing, a loud shout and then applause filled the Great Hall.
-9-
The throng of gentry and commoners drummed over the drawbridge and hurried to the tall elms of the garden. There on the soft green grass, in the morning shade, Sir Guy took the hand of his mother and kissed it.
The throng applauded.
Sir Guy motioned to the herald. Soon the barrel-built gray-hair bellowed the instructions. The assembled folk filed past tables set up with slices of bread and sweet strawberry jam. Even old shepherds and grubby soap-boilers had enough sense not to grab more than two slices and cram them into their mouths. The coming feast would be the proper time for gluttony. Sir Guy simply wished everyone to have some food in them before the furious dancing started. It would still be some time before the main feast. He didn’t want folk fainting on him for lack of food.
Soon the herald blew his trumpet, and with the gentry in front and the common folk behind formed a vast semi-circle as they faced the elms. In front of the host stepped Lady Alice de Mowbray and huge Sir Philip Talbot. Henri also stepped forward. He wore fine linen clothes and a bright green cape. Bells were fixed to the outrageously curled toes of his shoes. The bells jingled each time he took a step. In Henri’s hands were his viol and bow.
Small Henri bowed first to Lady Alice, then to huge Sir Philip. “I will play a galliard,” he said.
Alice and Philip nodded.
Henri thereupon slowly sawed his bow across the strings of his viol and began to play a stately and formal tune.
The galliard was an intricate dance, one that only the well-trained nobility knew. Both Alice and Philip preformed the dance with expertise, if a trifle woodenly. They faced once another, and to the music they advanced and bowed and then retired in ever increasingly complicated maneuvers. At last, Philip bowed to Alice for good and took her by the hand, leading her off the green.
The people cheered. Even Cord clapped and whistled with the best of them. The galliard had been well done, better than he’d ever seen. From the concentrated look on Alice’s face, he’d seen that she’d enjoyed the dance. And why not? Dancing was fun, much better than sitting in the tower doing nothing.
Cord found that despite all the dangers that would descend upon him tonight, at the moment, he was excited. He loved feasts and dances. He decided to enjoy himself this last time. After tonight, he’d be a hunted man, maybe never again able to enjoy such a grand occasion.
Sir Thomas, the castellan of Gareth Castle, now stepped forth. Approaching him in her beautiful dress, minus the long train, came plump Lady Martha. Her dark hair had been tucked under her tall cone hat, and everyone could see that she wore dainty white gloves.
Henri now played a faster tune. This was the tourdion. It was similar to the galliard, but the tourdion was faster with more violent motions. Both Lady Martha and Sir Thomas danced well, and the people began to clap in time with Henri’s song. At last, Sir Thomas bowed and took a perspiring Lady Martha back to the table for a glass of wine.
Sir Guy stepped forward again with the herald and opened the dancing to all. There was a general cheer and a rush to grab partners. From now on there would be no trained dancing.
The nobles were given the best dancing area, but the others were allowed to dance as well. When Henri played again, each couple took each other’s hands and began to twirl and dance in a circle. As Henri increased his playing, the dancers stamped their feet and danced faster and harder. It was a laughing, cheering and singing throng that swirled around and around and around with their partner. At last, the music stopped as several couples fell to the ground in an exhausted heap.
People rose and went to the side to recover, while the younger folk shouted for Henri to play again. He bowed and stepped aside for another minstrel. This minstrel didn’t play as well, but soon the dancers didn’t care. They were absorbed with dancing, a passion with most of them.
Cord danced several times, but interspersed his bouts on the green. He didn’t want to exhaust himself so that by tonight he’d be worthless. Still, he recalled Henri’s advice and smiled with the best of them. It wasn’t hard when the castle scullions who had been eyeing him for some time but who had been held back by the knowledge that he wooed Bess now pestered him to dance. It was fun to hold their soft hands, stare into their bright eyes and twirl around and around and around as they laughed.
During one of his breaks, he saw Alice standing to the side and frowning at him. He waved. She merely turned and spoke quiet words to the sitting Richard. Then Sarah the castle scullion ran up to him again, her dark hair a mass of gorgeous curls. She pulled him back onto the green and soon they danced with abandon.
When the minstrel finished, Sarah pushed close to Cord’s and pinched him in the stomach. “Do you want to meet later?” she asked breathlessly, her eyes shining as she stared up at him.
“Where?”
She touched his face and peered even more intently into his eyes. “Why not in the kennel once it’s dark?”
He realized that tonight he was going to rescue Alice and escape with her from Pellinore Castle. He stammered a lame reply.
Sarah took away her hand, soon crossed her arms and stamped her foot. “Do you want to meet or not?”
“Well, I, ah...I’d like too,” Cord said.
“Ohhh!” she said. “What do you mean: I’d like too? Will you or not?”
“I can’t tonight.”
“Why not?”
“I, ah....”
“It’s someone else, isn’t it?” she said angrily.
“Well…yes.”
She glared at him, then turned in a huff and pulled young Daner dog boy onto the green.
Cord turned and almost bumped into Alice. She stood with her arms folded and coolly eyed him.
“You are a busy man, aren’t you?” Alice asked in an acid tone.
“Huh?”
“How many midnight m
eetings are you going to have before you and Henri come for me?”
Cord blinked several times, trying to gather his wits. He’d already had two glasses of wine between dances, but had told himself that he couldn’t have any more.
“You’re worse than your dogs,” Alice said.
“Hey!” he said. “You don’t understand. Henri told me to make sure—”
“Milady!” big Sergeant Reynard said in his sneering way, moving into their circle. “Sir Guy wants you near him. Now.”
Cord glared at Reynard. He didn’t like the way the big Norman talked to Alice.
Reynard, perhaps sensing Cord’s dislike, sneered and asked, “Are you the stupid dog boy they’re always laughing about?”
Cord took in the sergeant’s chainmail armor and the big sword strapped to his side. He’d heard someone say that Sir Guy wanted his two sergeants to stay sober during the feast. That’s why they were armored. They were to act as sheriffs. Cord took in the mean look in Reynard’s eyes. He’d once had a dog with those eyes, a vicious fighter of a hound, one who’d loved to inflict pain.
Reynard jabbed a finger into Cord’s chest. “I don’t like you looking at me. And if I don’t like something, then I do something about it.”
“Oh, let’s go,” Alice wearily told Reynard.
“Shut your mouth, woman!” Reynard snapped.
“You’re a pig,” Cord said, no longer able to contain himself.
The sergeant’s eyes widened, then he growled low in his throat and threw a heavy fist. In an explosion of pain, the fist caught Cord on his right cheek and staggered him backward. His knees buckled and he almost went down.
Alice shouted in outrage.
Cord barely dodged the next blow that came whistling past his ear. He shot out his hands and grappled the heavy fist, trying to fling Reynard to the ground. Men yelled with joy, shouting “Fight! Fight!” With an oath, Reynard shook off Cord’s hands as he stepped back and put his own heavy hand to his sword hilt.
The Rogue Knight Page 33