“You lost a mastiff,” Lame Jack whispered.
“I know,” Cord whispered back, his stomach turning over.
“You’ve got to win back the baron’s affection or face his coming wrath.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
Jack squeezed Cord’s arm with surprising strength. “You just saved my niece, dog boy. Now I’m trying to save you from losing what you value. Everyone knows you want to be forester, but everyone says a felon’s son should never want such a lawful position. But I’ve just seen your heart today. You’re a good man, dog boy, felon’s son or not.”
Cord swallowed away the sudden lump in his throat.
“I’ll keep Old Sloat busy while you run back to the castle and tell the baron that today he can slay the man-killer. He’s sure to reward the man who brings such good news.”
Seeing the answer to his problems, Cord slapped Lame Jack on the shoulder. He took off his boots, since he couldn’t run in the ruined one, and put them in the food sack hanging from his belt. With Sebald at his side, he walked warily away from Old Sloat. After passing a large oak tree and leaving the boar’s sight, Cord headed for the castle.
Long years of coursing with the hounds had given Cord great stamina and had taught him not to waste himself on a short burst of speed. The castle was three miles uphill. A steady pace would bring him there quickest.
He shook his arms, trying to loosen the cramped muscles.
Old Sloat almost had me
, he thought.
If I’d gone down—Dead! Just as Baron Hugh’s mastiff is dead. Maybe just as my chances of ever being forester are dead
.
Crows jerked Cord out of his reverie. They cried raucously, flapping away from a half-eaten squirrel rotting on the trail.
Sweat stung Cord’s eyes and a spot under his ribs ached. Fear that he’d be too late, that Old Sloat would take himself far away from the field, drove Cord on. He topped an incline, turned left at a lightning-scarred oak tree and jogged onto a lush meadow. In the distance was a horse and rider. They trotted off a forested hill on whose summit perched Pellinore Castle, presently hidden from view.
Cord took his boots out of the sack and waved the sack above his head. The rider must have noticed, because the horse galloped toward him.
It wasn’t long before Cord recognized the horse and rider. The horse, a huge white stallion, galloped with pounding strength. He was Baron Hugh’s prized
destrier
, his high horse or war-horse. Strong, agile and fierce, Tencendur—named after Charlemagne’s famous destrier—was a magnificent animal. He feared nothing, and in the midst of battle, he was trained to lash out with his iron-shod hooves and bite with his strong teeth.
The hooves drummed, the white mane flowed, the fierce eyes centered on Cord. He heard the tiny saddle bells. At other times, the jingling sounded merry. Now it had an ominous tone.
Long ago, Cord had stood frozen in a lane before a charging destrier. A peasant had tried to snatch him to safety, but had tripped instead and had his spine crushed by the murderous hooves. Cord had never forgotten the meaty sound, or the shock in the peasant’s dying eyes.
Destriers terrified Cord. Instead of taking a step backward, however, or to the side, Cord willed his legs to remain motionless.
Richard Clark flashed his strong white teeth at Cord and brought Tencendur to a halt. Sweat glistened on Tencendur’s creamy hide, and the rich, horse-leather odor was strong.
“You’re a beauty,” Richard said, patting the thick neck.
Tencendur did a little high step at the praise. Richard laughed, clearly loving his lord’s horse.
The squire was a beefy, thick-necked fellow who had labored seven years in Baron Hugh’s service. A younger son of one of the baron’s liegemen, Richard had few prospects. The word was that Richard’s knighting was to be delayed yet another year. Until he gained a fief that could sustain a suit of armor, a war-horse, weapons and the freedom from servile labor, Richard would not be knighted.
Cord felt that was unfortunate. For no squire tilted at the
quintain
with more zeal, traded sword blows with the master-at-arms with more fury, boxed, wrestled, hunted, played chess and practiced singing and swimming more than Richard. His declared determination to match Lancelot du Lac, the perfect knight of the Arthurian legends, bordered on fanaticism.
“Speak, Cord! Spill the news that sits so plainly on your face.”
“I’ve seen Old Sloat,” Cord said in a rush.
Richard yelped with glee.
“He killed Senno,” Cord added.
Richard’s round face grew puzzled. “Old Sloat killed one of the mastiffs?” he asked loudly. It seemed Richard could never speak quietly.
Cord gave him a glum nod.
“Was it because of something foolish you did?”
Cord, who trusted the squire, told him what had happened.
Richard rubbed his nose, a big, strong nose that dominated his round face. “You did the right thing,” he said at last, as the wind fluttered his long brown hair.
“Maybe, but will the baron think likewise?”
Richard thought about it before he shrugged.
“I understand,” Cord said grimly. He forced himself to lift his chin and put life into his voice. “But what if the baron slew Old Sloat?”
Richard yelped with glee again. “A splendid idea, Cord! A hunt!” He turned Tencendur with easy skill. “You gather the boarhounds at Old Alfred’s. That will save us from waiting for the castle dog-handlers to run beside us.”
“You’ll only use one pack?” Cord asked in surprise, remembering how easily Old Sloat had killed Senno.
“We’ll use Sebald, too!” Richard shouted.
“Will that be enough?” asked Cord.
“It’s too late in the day for an organized hunt,” Richard shouted, his excitement building. “We have to do this on the quick. You run to Alfred’s and ready the pack.”
“They’re still a little young,” said Cord.
“No matter! Just have them ready. I’ll bring Baron Hugh and his knights within the hour. If he slays Old Sloat, Cord, you’ll probably be made forester before you can sneeze.”
With that, Richard Clark spurred Tencendur. The huge stallion pounded away, the tiny saddle-bells jingling.
Cord blanched at the sight. Rage mingled with fear and combined with loathing. If Baron Hugh saw this...he might go berserk.
Peering around a gnarled oak tree, the sentinel to the forest path, Cord saw the King of Beasts chew on the intestines of dead Senno. That seemed obscene and blasphemous toward the proper order of things. Cord had seen wild boars catch and eat field mice before, and he’d seen them devour carrion: deer, cat, bird—anything really. He knew that many of the peasants’ pigs ate all the refuse they could find. A pig, wild or domestic, ate just about anything. They were a lot like people that way. But to eat a dog, a vicious mastiff bred to attack bears and boars and wolves, no that was wrong. It made Old Sloat seem invincible.
Old Sloat yanked out another loop of intestine and chewed happily, grunting and getting his teeth bloody.
Cord turned away as his fear mingled with hatred. He longed to spear Old Sloat, to right the injustice of Senno’s slaying. He swallowed, and admitted to himself that Old Sloat wouldn’t be easy to kill. Even the knights risked life and limb to chase the wily old boar, the eater of hounds and slayer of men.
Cord eased himself away from the tree, his left hand still bunched in the skin and fur of Sebald’s neck. Sebald, better than any of the other castle hounds, knew what that signified: Stay silent!
Without breaking any twigs or kicking any rocks, Cord and Sebald made a wide detour, using the folds of the land to hide from Old Sloat. Cord knew that to face the old pig now, the strangely regal beast, would be to die.
In time, Cord straightened, sheathed his knife and lengthened his stride. He set a stiff pace for the East Village.
He passed peasants toiling in the various fenced-in fields. Later he saw women drawing water above the ford in the stream, and soon after that, he heard the thud of an axe as a man splintered wood to feed the baker’s oven. By law, the peasants had to bake their bread in Baron Hugh’s oven, which cost them in loaves. The oven stood near the stream. It was a rounded brick-built structure with an iron grate. Crackling wood burned at the bottom of the outdoor oven. The baker tossed in a few more logs. Then, with a leather mitten, he opened the oven door and peered within.
The smell of baking bread made Cord’s mouth water.
He kept striding up a small slope and into the East Village. A small collection of huts, cottages and mazy lanes made up the town. Baron Hugh protected ten such villages. It had been over a year since any Welshmen had made it into the village to do any burning. Last spring, English outlaws had raided the East Village. The bailiff and his men had tracked down five of the outlaws and slain them in their forest hideaway. The others had fled the region.
Despite its small size, the East Village bustled with activity and buzzed with noise. Dogs, cats, chickens, pigs and children roved up and down the muddy lanes, barking, meowing, clucking, grunting and yelling. From somewhere came the sound of hammering. From somewhere else two women sang, while from a third location a grandfather shouted at his supposedly lazy daughter-in-law. Cord saw the parish priest quietly talking to a small boy as a man with a bundle of reeds on his back trudged by on his way home.
Mud squished between Cord’s toes. The lanes always seemed to be muddy. He passed shacks that looked ready to lean over into the mud, and the stench of dung was overpowering. Each home had foul-smelling manure piles. The manure, in spring, was carted out to the fields as fertilizer. At the moment, hens and pigs scratched or rooted in the manure piles or cackled and grunted atop them.
The biggest home belonged to prosperous Old Alfred. It stood near the center of the village. From within came the sounds of barking dogs, a lowing cow and screaming children. Cord tied Sebald to the strongest pole of the fence and slid past the manure pile, avoiding the rush of two piglets.
Before he could knock, Old Maude stuck her head out of the nearest window. “Dog boy! Come in. Come in.”
Cord lifted the latch and opened the heavy door. First cleaning the mud from his feet on the scraper, he walked into a large room with the customary packed dirt floor. Children played, tiny piglets wrestled over a worn carrot and a duck with ducklings stood in the nearest corner. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw several hens sitting on boxes. A hiss caused him to look up. Soot stained everything above shoulder height, while half-wild cats prowled above where hordes of mice infested the thatch roof.
“Alfred is away,” Maude said, working to stitch a torn shirt. “He’s using his cart to carry firewood to the castle.”
“No matter,” said Cord. “I’m here for the boar
hounds.”
Maude smiled, rose and took one of his big hands in her small dry ones. “You acted bravely today, dog boy. I’m sorry I ever thought ill of you.”
Before Cord could speak, a toddler stumbled out of the knot of watching children and hugged his leg.
Maude laughed. “Little Charlotte thanks you for saving her sister’s life.”
Cord reddened as he patted the toddler’s head, more glad than ever that he’d dared face Old Sloat. The little girl smiled up at him. He knew a pang of wanting for children of his own and thought of Bess.
“Here,” said Maude. “A strong man like you is always hungry.” She pushed a sausage into his hands.
Cord thanked her with a grin. His running had made him ravenous. He looked around as he gobbled the greasy sausage.
A black pot hung over the fire in the fireplace, by the smell carrot soup was simmering nicely. In the far corner was a huge bed with a feather mattress that the entire family used at night. If guests came they slept there, too. Cord kept looking. A boy stood on a carefully constructed bench and slipped a hammer into the rack of tools. Maude shouted at the boy when he almost cut his hand on some shears. Then Maude glanced over at an older daughter who wove a basket.
After wiping his hands on his breeches, Cord followed Maude into the cattle-shed part of the house. One of the tiny stalls contained a lowing cow that needed milking. Three other stalls held the pack of shaggy boarhounds, most of who slept. Farther back were mows for hay, while at the very back were the grain-cribs.
One of the boarhounds spotted Cord, wagged his tail and barked a greeting. Others looked up and saw Cord too. Soon they all barked and wagged their tails. He laughed and let them lick his hands.
“They love you,” Maude said, shaking her kerchiefed head. “Anyone else they growl and raise their hackles at. Killed three of our chickens, one of them did.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Cord said.
“No, that isn’t your fault, dog boy. Brutes like these should stay in the castle, not be sent into common homes like ours.”
“This is no common home. It’s a mansion.”
Maude beamed at the compliment. Compared to many of the other cottages in the East Village, it was true. Tiny stuffed straw in his few windows rather than having wooden shutters like Alfred and Maude did. Nor did Tiny have smooth lumber walls, but wattles stuffed with moss and reeds. A strong storm could knock down Tiny’s house, but only a fire would destroy this solid place.
Cord leashed the big boarhounds, petted and spoke to them as he worked. He didn’t want to over-excite them or he’d never be able to handle them all. There were really too many for one man to properly handle. Maybe he should ask some of the peasant boys to help him. Thinking back to the old boar made him shake his head. Today would bring killing. He didn’t want anyone’s blood on his hands. Maybe if some of the bailiff’s men were around, he’d ask them for help. They were trained for killing.
With his big fists knotted around the leashes, Cord said, “Clear the way!”
Maude scurried ahead of him, shooing away children, ducks and piglets. The boarhounds tried to pull him this way and that as he hurried through the house. A cat hissed and chickens cackled with fear.
“No!” Cord shouted. “No!” He clenched his big fists harder and somehow managed to make it through the house without losing any dogs.
“Someone unleash Sebald,” he said.
It was Old Maude who did it. “Good luck,” she said. “I hope you catch the man-killer.”
Cord nodded. Then he was too busy trying to make the pack go where he wanted to worry about anything else. The boarhounds barked and bayed at everything, glad to be out of the stalls. Several times, he stopped to let them raise their legs and piss on posts and fences. The village dogs kept away from the pack, but barked wildly from around corners and behind fences. Sebald moved like an earl, ignoring everyone as he stayed near Cord.
“Hey!” a man bellowed. “What goes on there!”
Cord looked up. Then he yanked at the leashes as he said, “Heel!”
The hounds milled around him, sniffing, peering around. They barked back at the village dogs again.
A coarse-faced, thick-bellied man marched toward Cord. From the chair perched beside the small tavern and the leather jug beside it, Cord figured the village watchman had been snoozing. Harold, the watchman, was one of the bailiff’s men, a peasant-deputy. He reported to the bailiff or to one of his lieutenants when they made their rounds from village to village. Harold was supposed to keep the other peasants from knifing one another and help break up their uglier brawls. His primary task was to insure that East Village wasn’t taken unawares by raiding Welshmen from over the border, or by marauding outlaws.
Harold wore bluish trousers—Baron Hugh’s color—and a dirty woolen shirt that had once been blue. He had a spear perched on his shoulder. Twice a year Baron Hugh handed out blue-colored clothes to those who served him.
“Where’re you taking those hounds, dog boy?”
Harold’s nose had been broken several times and his left eye drooped. He wore a blue cap and sneered at everything as if he thought that whatever anyone told him was a lie.
“You’re making the village dogs go mad,” Harold complained.
“There’s to be a hunt,” Cord told him.
“A hunt? Where?”
“Old Sloat is by the stream near the baron’s field.”
The boarhounds became restless and tugged in several directions. Cord decided to make Harold help him.
“Baron Hugh’s coming quickly,” Cord said, “but without the usual number of dogs and handlers.”
“How do you know that?” Harold sneered.
“I spoke to the squire and he gave me the instructions.” Cord looked down at the restless boarhounds and shouted, “Heel now! Heel!”
A few of the boarhounds lowered their heads as if in shame. The moment Cord looked back at Harold, however, they perked up again.
“I can’t manage all these hounds without help,” Cord said.
Harold laughed as if Cord had told him a good joke.
“Can you help me?” Cord asked.
“Me?” Harold asked in surprise. “What do I look like to you, boy? A felon’s servant?”
The dogs pulled Cord to the side as the insult made his face burn. “Heel! I say,” he thundered at the dogs. “Obey!”
More of the hounds looked down shamefaced. Some of them tucked their tails between their legs.
“They aren’t trained very well,” Harold said with a sneer.
“The Baron wants Old Sloat,” Cord said angrily. “If I don’t get these hounds to the field in time and Baron Hugh fails to kill the boar, I’ll tell him that you refused to help me.”
Harold’s sneer turned into a scowl. Shorter by a head than Cord, he probably weighed just as much. While much of his weight was in his belly, his fleshy arms and shoulders contained a good deal of strength.
“I’m not under your orders,” Harold growled.
Cord shrugged with feigned indifference. “Suit yourself, but I’ll tell Baron Hugh just the same.”
Harold lowered his spear until he held it with both hands. His drooping eye almost closed, while his good eye squinted. “You looking for a beating, felon’s boy?”
Cord controlled his anger and openly laughed in Harold’s face.
Harold’s face tightened and his thick lips curled into the ugliest sneer yet. One of the boarhounds growled. A look of shock filled Harold’s face as he saw the pack eyeing him.
“Are you setting your hounds on me?” he asked, his voice rising.
“Will you help me or not?”
“Those beasts hate me,” Harold said, a whine entering his voice. “They’ll turn on me if I try to take them.”
“No they won’t. Just stop pointing your spear at me, that’s all.”
Harold’s eyes widened. “You’re a devil,” he whispered. “You’ve bewitched these hounds. No dogs watch over their handlers like that.”
“Mine do,” Cord said proudly. He’d long ago learned a simple truth—the hounds returned his love.
“Go on, leave,” Harold said as he stepped back. “Get those hounds out of here.”
“You’d better help me, Harold Watchman.”
Harold looked indecisive.
“You’ll just take three of them,” Cord said, relenting, telling himself that Harold hadn’t meant anything by his insults. “If you take three, I can control the others.”
“Three?” Harold whined.
“Hurry up, Watchman. We don’t want to keep the Baron waiting.”
At last, Harold wilted, although he whispered as he leaned his spear against a fence, “I’ll remember this, you damn felon’s whelp.”