“Walk with me,” Aldora said, hobbling past him.
“Nay, Old Woman,” Philip said. “I am not Guy. You hold no demons over me. Seek not therefore to give me orders.”
Her face was a mass of wrinkles, warts and two intensely inky eyes. She focused those on Philip. They were ancient eyes, eyes filled with dreadful power and maybe even black spells.
“Don’t seek to give me the Evil Eye, either,” Philip growled. “I’ve a charm you’ll not like.”
Aldora smirked.
“You’ll not smirk like that when your hoary head rolls in the dust.”
“O Man of Thunder, do not threaten me.”
“What riddle do you speak?”
“No riddle,” Aldora said. “I merely see the spirit of men. Yours is thunder. Aye. Yours is to threaten and storm, to boom out in the night. Yet it is lightning people should fear, not the barking of thunder.”
“Go back and play with Richard,” Philip said. “You both bandy words like a lawyer. They sound fine and mighty, but are meaningless in the face of steel and in the face of men of steel.”
“Words are never meaningless,” Aldora said. “They can stab with deadly power.”
“If you speak of spells, witch, know that I’ve a piece of the True Cross on my person.”
Aldora hissed as she took a step back. “Alice’s?”
“Aye, but it’s mine now. She’s to be my wife. So I’ll keep it for her.”
“Your charm won’t save you,” Aldora said, but some of the power had left her voice.
“Won’t it?” Philip mocked.
Her head bobbed up and down. “Aye, you’re a clever one. Perhaps in my haste I’ve underestimated you.”
“Perhaps.”
Aldora twisted her pealed hazel stick. “I beg of thee, Sir Knight, walk with an old woman that desires your counsel.”
“An Old Woman of Bones?”
Aldora flinched. “Do not speak so, not while carrying a piece of the True Cross.”
Philip laughed triumphantly, therefore missing the glint in Aldora’s ancient eyes. “What counsel do you seek?” he asked loftily.
“O Man of Steel, walk with an old woman that wishes to know how best to placate the ruler of Pellinore Fief.”
“Do you speak of Guy?”
“Nay, not him.”
“Who then rules Pellinore?”
Aldora put a small hand on Philip’s brawny forearm. “Walk with me, Castellan, cousin-uncle to the dying Guy.”
“Dying?”
“I’ve tried several remedies, some of my very strongest, and so has the barber. But there’s a sickness in Guy nothing can cure.”
“Not even one of your dark lords?”
“Not even them.”
Philip rubbed his mouth in order to hide the smile that had leaped unbidden onto his lips. Guy was dying! This was fantastic news. Who would have imagined that the little witch would be the one to give him the glorious information?
“When will he die?” Philip asked, trying to put a note of pity into his voice.
“Walk with me, Sir Knight. I am troubled and must decide what to do next.”
Philip wondered what she wanted. She had used Guy. Did she now plan on using him? He scowled until he recalled the piece of the True Cross. The witch feared the holy relic. And well she should, for there was power in the ancient wood. He was troubled, though. If the relic had power, and she felt it, did that mean
she
also had power?
“This way,” Philip said as he stepped toward the stable. He walked slowly so the old witch could hobble beside him without strain.
“You are kind,” she said.
“Kindness has nothing to do with this, witch. Tell me what you can offer me?”
“Offer?”
“Don’t bandy words with me, old woman. I know what you’re trying to do?”
“I seek counsel,” she protested.
Philip laughed rudely. “You seek to trick me. You seek to entwine me in your schemes as you did Guy.”
Old Aldora appeared thoughtful. “You are shrewd,” she said at last.
“Never doubt it.”
“But are you wise enough to snatch at a glorious opportunity?”
He scowled at her.
“Wealth untold,” Aldora whispered. “Wealth enough to make you the most powerful baron in the Western Marches. Oh yes, wealth to hire a host, Sir Philip. Wealth enough so you can decide between Earl Simon de Montfort or Prince Edward. Wealth enough to become the king-maker or king-breaker of all England.”
“Anyone can promise wealth,” Philip said, who was intrigued nonetheless.
“True, Sir Knight. Anyone can.”
Philip came to a halt, towering over the small Welshwoman. “If this wealth is so grand, why hasn’t Guy already taken it?”
“Isn’t the reason obvious?”
Philip gave her a searching stare. “Only Sir Lamerok knows where it’s hid?”
A wormy smile spread across her face.
“But you’ve lost Lamerok,” he said.
“And you’ve lost your bride-to-be.”
“Speak plainly,” he growled.
“We should labor together, Sir Knight. You should gather swordsmen and I my secret powers, and together we should hunt down my prisoner and your bride.”
“
Your
prisoner? Sir Lamerok was Guy’s prisoner.”
“Ah, but who controlled Guy?”
“Not you,” Philip said with a sneer.
She nodded curtly. “You mean: Not last night. And there you speak the truth. I lost control of Guy last night. Because of that he’s dying.”
“Because he wasn’t your pup?” asked Philip.
“No, because I allowed you to kill him.”
Philip’s chest tightened.
She chuckled evilly.
“Speak, witch, before I cut you down.”
Old Aldora threw up her hands and made an imitative sound of thunder.
“You mock me?” Philip asked.
“Quit prattling,” Aldora said. “You bade Guy drink to drunkenness last night. You played upon his love of praise and his inordinate desire for companions. That’s killing him now as surely as Sir Lamerok’s loss. You wished Baron Guy dead because you hated him. I can read faces, Sir Knight. Never forget that. Ah, never forget that I know your inner thoughts.”
“You’re mad,” Philip whispered, hating this devious, crafty old witch.
“We both know I’m not. So let us stop pretending and speak the facts.”
Philip considered his options. As much as he wanted to slay the evil witch here and now, he said, “Go on.”
Her smile made Philip wince. She said, “Guy will take several days to die. He is a fighter, after all, the son of Hugh de Clare. Die, however, Guy surely will. If you and I are far from him when he does die, then neither of us can carry the blame.”
Philip nodded slowly.
“If you and I were to say that we’re chasing Sir Lamerok for the baron, we could gather the needed people to track Lamerok and Alice.”
“And Cord.”
Aldora shrugged. “By the time we recapture Lamerok, or follow him to the treasure, Guy will be dead. Then you and I can split the treasure and go our separate ways.”
Philip rubbed his chin. Aye, this witch had a good plan. Of course, once he had the treasure he’d kill her. Something troubled him, however. “Why do you want this treasure?” he asked.
Aldora exposed a mouthful of rotten teeth. “Who doesn’t want gold?”
“You’re an Old Woman of Bones,” he said.
“So?”
“So I thought witches wanted things other than gold.”
“Sir Philip,” Aldora said, “
all
people want gold, or what gold will bring them.”
Philip studied her.
“Act, and you can win the world. Delay, and it may be too late.”
Philip knew she was right. “How can you dare trust me?” he asked.
She smiled an ancient, wicked smile. “In my hearing you will make a binding oath, and I will bring my two mercenaries with me on the trek.”
“That will be enough to satisfy you?” he asked, amazed that in the end she was a dupe.
“Surely your word is rock solid.”
“My word is my bond.”
“Then we should leave as quickly as possible,” Aldora said, “and quit worrying about trust.”
“The others may not be willing to join our quest,” Philip pointed out. “Earl Simon’s host is still at Bridgenorth, and many Welsh are there as well. Either could march here. What then?”
“Gather what knights and sergeants you can,” Aldora said. “If more than four agree to join it will be enough. Add dog boys and the best bloodhounds. We’ll need them in order to pick up the trail.”
“Risky,” Philip said. “Now is a time to bar the gate and pull up the drawbridge. Now is not the time to go hunting fugitives. Besides, what about Gareth Castle? What if Alice goes there first?”
“Send Sir Thomas the new Gareth Castellan there,” Aldora said. “He’s a trustworthy man because Guy carefully feathered his nest.”
“Aye,” Philip said. “Those are my own thoughts. Alice would be a fool to go directly to Gareth. And the one thing I know about Alice is that she’s no one’s fool. What about the first problem?”
“‘Tis a risk,” Aldora agreed. “Yet what great thing has ever been gained without risk?”
Philip grunted.
“Speed and surprise will be our tools. Surely Pellinore Castle can hold out against Welsh raiders?”
“Bridgenorth didn’t.”
Aldora shrugged. “If you won’t risk it—”
“I’ll risk it,” Philip growled.
“First you and I must go to the forest and find holly. Then you must set down your piece of the True Cross and make a binding oath.”
“To whom?” Philip suspiciously asked.
“Taranis, Teutates and Esus.”
Philip shuddered. Dare he damn his soul for gold? Then a sly thought came. He’d pledge and then go to Father Bernard and have him absolve him. He laughed inwardly, cheery at the idea of duping this horrid old witch.
As they left the castle, it was difficult to tell which of them grinned more.
Sir Lamerok’s revival proved more illusionary than real. As mile ran into mile, his head lowered until his chin touched his chest.
“We must let him rest,” Henri whispered. Cord and he rode behind Lamerok. Alice was behind them, while Rhys and his wife took the lead, acting as guides.
Cord had difficulty controlling the destrier. The big war-horse tossed his head and continuously worked the bit forward so he could clamp it with his teeth. When Cord tried to steer the destrier away from the trees the big stallion simply clamped his teeth and ignored his rider. Cord heeled the destrier in the side. He’d seen Richard do that before with restive steeds, although Richard always wore spurs. The destrier promptly turned his head and bit Cord’s foot.
Surprised, Cord twisted his foot out of the stallion’s mouth.
“Now, yank the reins,” Alice called.
Cord did, and he caught the destrier by surprise and forced the bit deeper into the stallion’s mouth, to the area of tender flesh.
“Now draw him to the right, with authority.”
Cord tried. The destrier nickered angrily.
“No! Don’t yank,” Alice said. “Pull with authority.”
Cord drew the reins to the right, strongly but with even pressure. The destrier bucked. Cord cried out, grabbing the saddle horn and clamping his legs around the warhorse’s barrel sides.
“Pull back on the reins,” Alice shouted. “Do it before he works the bit forward.”
Cord couldn’t let go of the saddle horn. The bucking terrified him.
“Hurry,” Alice cried.
The destrier bucked again, enjoying himself.
“Out of the way!” Alice shouted at Henri. The minstrel, a better equestrian than Cord, nimbly moved his mount. Alice’s palfrey slid beside the restive destrier as Alice caught his bridle. “Stop it,” she said. She yanked the bit out of stallion’s teeth and back into his mouth.
“Let go of the saddle horn,” she told Cord.
Cord picked up the reins.
“Watch how I turn my horse,” she said.
Cord did and then he did likewise. To his surprise, the big destrier obeyed him. “Thanks,” he muttered.
Alice smiled sugar sweetly.
He realized she knew horses the way he knew dogs. Control was in confidence, because the horses knew
she
knew what to do. He wondered if he could fake it, somehow convince the stallion he was a master rider.
“Teach me how to ride,” he suddenly said.
“What?” Alice asked, with a hint of mockery in her voice.
It galled him, but he said again, “Teach me how to ride.”
“Isn’t it rather odd for a
squire
to be taught by a maiden?”
He blushed.
“Oh, very well,” she said. “Even though you must understand that this in no way changes how I feel about you or what you dared propose.”
“Who said anything about
that
?”
A muffled laugh came from behind. They both glared at Henri. He arched his eyebrows, as if he couldn’t understand their black looks. “A squirrel just fell from a tree,” he explained.
The destrier, with both Cord’s and Alice’s attention diverted, began to work the bit back toward his teeth.
Alice must have noticed, for she gave Cord a sharp command. The morning went apace as Cord and the destrier learned that Alice was an equestrian of the first order. The lessons ended when Lamerok groaned and almost fell out of the saddle.
Lamerok stubbornly told them he was fine. The pain etched on his face belied his statements. Cord suggested they stop and rest. Alice pointed out that Baron Guy surely followed their trail. Lamerok suggested that they tie him to the saddle and continue. They did and the day wore on. The trees thinned out, and by dusk, they traversed the side of a rocky hill. Crickets chirped and unwary rabbits proved nonexistent. The landscape was bleak and forbidding, the gravely soil littered with black volcanic shale. Here and there, tufts of brown grass sprouted up, surrounded by thorns or thistles.
“We must have food,” Alice said, “if only for Sir Lamerok’s sake.”
“Do you trust me?” Rhys asked.
“We do,” said Cord as the others paused.
“Then await my return.” The stocky Welshman, with his longbow strung over his chest, rode bareback down the hill they’d just climbed.
Gwen dismounted, and when they gave her quizzical stares she explained, “He’s often ridden this route and made friends with the hermits. I suspect he knows where to collect us choice viands.”
In the distance a wolf howled, a lonely and eerie call. It made Sebald growl as his hackles rose. It also made Cord realize how alone they were. There wasn’t any castle to retreat to if events proved too difficult. Here they survived or died. He had vague childhood memories of a different time, when his father and he had been outlaws in the forests near Wigmore Castle. That had been an awful, near starvation time. It had been filled with brutality and had given Cord the grist for many nightmares.
Lamerok groaned as he settled himself against a rock. He was pale, his breathing rapid.
“Do you need a fire?” asked Cord.
“No,” Lamerok whispered, with pain etched on his face. “No fire tonight. We’re too open here.”
The hobbled horses nibbled on the sparse grass. Cord’s stomach rumbled as he picked thorns out of his flesh. He’d uprooted several thistles in order so the horses could better get at the grasses.
As the sun sank into the horizon, throwing a blood-red glow over the land, Rhys returned on his weary mount. He carried a heavy sack and soon divided its contents: Three loaves of coarse bread, a jug of bitter wine, several joints of half-rancid beef and a small, withered apple for each of them.
“Where did you ever buy all this?” Alice asked, impressed.
Rhys tugged importantly at his forked beard. “Here, milady, in the barrens, I am a magician.”
Wolves howled as the sun sank below the horizon. Cord recalled one of Henri’s tales of the old pagan god Odin. The cruel Viking god had two ferocious wolves. From the way the forlorn wolves howled in the distance, it seemed that they were Odin’s and that they feasted upon the sun.
After the meal, Lamerok revived. “This is a bleak place, filled with wolves, thorns, ancient shale and no doubt ghosts from the distant past.” He gave them a bitter smile. “This is the perfect place for me to tell you the first installment of my story.”
“You’re too tired,” said Cord. His premonition that this was a supernatural tale made him hesitant. He wanted the sun up when Lamerok told his tale, either that or a fire. Under the light of a pale moon, when the Devil and his minions were strongest….
“Nay,” Lamerok said, “I can speak for awhile. Then I will sleep and hope that the nightmares no longer drag me back to the dungeon. Of course, you must keep the wine jug near me so I can moisten my lips and keep my throat from drying out.”
Henri somberly said, “It seems that you’ve a minstrel’s tortured soul, Sir Knight.”
“I’ve suspected that all my life,” Lamerok said. “Why else have I been a tourney knight?” He took a swig from the jug. “Ah, in any case, I must begin. The tale is strange and frightful, filled with ghosts, ancient curses, treachery and grim butchery. Where to start, though, that is the question?”
“Why not by telling us who Gaius is,” Henri suggested.
Lamerok pondered that, sipping from the jug as he did. “I will begin in France, at the beginning.” He frowned. “I will begin with the changing of my luck. For that’s what pushed me into this boiling cauldron of confusion. Aye, I think that’s wisest—in a doom-chanter’s way.”
Henri sank against his grounded saddle. “It always starts with bad luck, doesn’t it?”
Lamerok nodded.
Cord found himself in agreement. Hadn’t bad luck scarred each of their lives?
Lamerok began his tale of woe. The tale wasn’t done until five days later. During those five days, Sir Lamerok slowly recovered strength as Rhys continued to provide them with food. At the end of the five days Lamerok could sit in the saddle without the need of ropes, although it seemed to Cord that his eyes had taken on a haunted cast. Although Lamerok no longer slouched, but sat tall as a knight should, it seemed that vultures sat upon his shoulders and whispered gloom only he could hear. At the beginning of the fourth day, Lamerok had recovered enough to teach Cord sword-fighting tricks. The lesson ended, however, when Lamerok discovered that he couldn’t draw Cord’s sword from its sheathe. The pain in Lamerok’s previously ‘stretched’ shoulders wouldn’t allow it. In lieu of sword-tricks, he gave Cord sage advice.
“Fight on foot for now. You’ll be slaughtered if you fight mounted. That isn’t as bad as it sounds. Young knights always do better battling with swords while afoot. It’s the old ones that are the most dangerous lancers. Sword fighting, while armored, is mainly the trick of giving heavy blows and not losing your wind. Jousting is the supreme art of timing, which the old ones have had a lifetime to learn. Do you understand?”
Cord did, entranced to learn such wisdom.
During those five strange days, as the ghost tale came to life, Cord also learned to ride the destrier better. He couldn’t ride as ‘one born to the saddle,’ but the big warhorse no longer fought him.
Henri whispered one night, “Raindrops can drill a hole through solid stone.”
“Do you mean Alice?”
“Be a raindrop, Cord, who never quits, and you’ll have your wife.”
At the end of the five strange days, Cord found that Lamerok’s ghost tale came in two parts. The first part brought the knight in contact with the secret-bearer. The second part was the secret told. Taken altogether, it happened like this:
***
Lamerok accepted Earl Robert de Ferrers of Derby’s ransom and went back to the pavilion of his partner Sir Ector. This happened in France, at the tournament where Lamerok captured de Ferrers.
The partnership between Lamerok and Ector was simple and direct. They collected the spoils taken during a tournament and paid out of their common fund whatever ransoms they needed to buy their freedom. At the end of the year, they split the rewards.
The year was the tournament season from Pentecost to the Feast of Saint John. It brought many noble young bloods to France and the Low Countries. Here the young bloods hoped to build a reputation as they sharpened their war-skills. If a young blood happened to be a firstborn he would tourney in style, which meant freely spent monies. There was silver to minstrels, silver to cooks, to haberdashers, armorers and horse dealers from Lombardy and Spain. The firstborn showed his greatness by his liberality, his grander and costly finery. All the others, the younger sons who would never inherit an estate, they grimly made the rounds in search of lords who admired their battlefield prowess. Or they won wealth through their sword-arm, capturing opponents and winning ransoms.
Custom dictated that a winner took a loser’s destrier, armor and person. Each could be ransomed. Like any form of gambling, tournament season brought glitter and bitter losses, as well as envied winners. The arrogant barons and dukes of France and the Low Countries vied with one another to provide the most glorious feasts and gaily decorated tourneys. Here ladies practiced the art of courtly love, which meant midnight, adulterous rendezvous with amorous knights and knaves. Often these affairs ended with the sword, the rope or the poisoned cup, depending on which lord, knight or lady had grown the horns.
On the selected and dangerous day, the knights divided into two teams. These divisions usually occurred by region. The knights of Brittany joined those of Normandy, while the knights of Picardy joined those from the Ile de France. On that fateful day, Lamerok and Ector had belonged to the party of Prince Edward of England. He had ridden with the crown prince of France.
Lamerok and Ector had hired a clerk, a young priest escaped from his scholastic school at Paris. The clerk kept the books so neither of them cheated. Of course, neither of them could read. Sir Ector, alas, proved himself more avaricious than chivalrous. He railed at Lamerok for naming such a niggardly sum in Earl de Ferrers’ ransom. And he claimed, in a heat of passion, that Sir Lamerok had already pocketed the remainder of the true amount.
Such aspersion could not be borne by a true knight. Lamerok challenged Ector to a joust. Let God decide the merit of such shameful words. It wasn’t a judicial duel, but a fight between drunken cockerels.
Alas, Lamerok slew Ector, his lance-point piercing Ector’s gorget. Blood jetted from Ector’s ruined throat and ended the accusation. After the funeral, and in remorse, Lamerok decided to take Ector’s share of the booty to his father in England. Lamerok thus bid good Prince Edward adieu and rode for the port of Calais.
Two weeks later, with only his grizzled squire Hugo in attendance, Lamerok boarded a leaky barge headed to Bristol. The only other noble passengers proved to be a Norman knight from Sicily and a prelate from Rome. The prelate, a bishop, was a stooped old man with a shiny bald plate and the cunning features of a fox. The knight and his men were to protect the bishop.
Lamerok spoke at length with the bishop. He finally asked him to pray for Ector and his own immortal soul. He learned that the bishop originally came from the Western Marches. Twenty years ago, the bishop claimed, he’d fled Wales and gone to Rome. Now he returned, wishing to view his native land once more.