The Rogue Knight by Vaughn Heppner Read Free Book Online

and held an axe. He often assisted the bailiff, especially in the bloodier affairs. Sir Philip was Baron Hugh’s closest friend for over twenty years. He rubbed a well-veined hand over his bald head. Like the Baron, Philip wore rough hunting garments and dearly loved the chase. Old battle scars crisscrossed his face, while shaggy gray eyebrows gave him the countenance of a bear.
    “Don’t you know that boars are reserved solely for knights?” asked Walter.
    “Yes, milord,” said Cord. “I know that.”
    “Then—”
    “A moment,” said bald Sir Philip. “Dog boy.”
    “Yes, milord?” Cord asked, noticing that Philip swayed in the saddle. Clearly, he was drunk.
    “You know, of course,” Philip said slowly and deliberately, his scars twisting as he spoke, “that Old Sloat killed the forester.”
    Cord nodded. Now he wished he’d told the tale with more humility. Sir Philip had always hated him for some unfathomable reason.
    “Did you wish to avenge the forester’s death?” Sir Philip asked in a soft voice.
    Cord frowned, not knowing what to say, more than a little fearful of Philip.
    “The reasons don’t matter,” Sir Walter said. He lifted his axe, his chainmail sleeve clinking. “Old Sloat escapes deep into the woods and we chatter over trivia. Loose the dogs, I say, and let us kill this brute.”
    “Ah, but reasons do matter,” said huge Sir Philip. “This lad wishes to be forester, yet given half a chance he tries to kill Baron Hugh’s game. Even worse, he lets a costly Italian mastiff die.”
    “Milords,” said Richard, “isn’t this just a matter of a brave lad saving a little girl’s life? We should commend him, and thank him for his courage in coming to tell Baron Hugh that worthy game is afoot. He knew the cost of his actions, yet he’s dared to tell the truth. I, for one, admire his courage and his honesty.”
    “You’re wrong,” Sir Philip said, his scarred face flushed. “He’s a peasant who tried to slaughter the Baron’s game.”
    Harold, who stood directly behind Cord, snickered evilly.
    Cord opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of what he’d planned to say and closed his mouth.
    “He should be whipped for his impertinence,” Sir Philip said.
    Sir Walter shrugged, his chainmail clinking.
    Baron Hugh, having listened to the advice from his councilors, as it was their duty to give him, lowered his boar spear and prodded the mastiff’s bloody corpse.
    “You’ve cost me an expensive Italian hound, dog boy.”
    “Please forgive me, milord,” Cord asked contritely, fearing their belligerent looks.
    “You begin to act as if you think that your blood is noble,” Baron Hugh said.
    Cord lowered his eyes, then his head. He heard Harold snicker again, and it made him clench the leashes with all his strength. His father had been hanged like a common felon, but his father been a knight. A knight!
    My blood is noble .
    “...However,” Baron Hugh was saying, “you saved a little girl. And after considering your options, you ran to tell me of Old Sloat’s whereabouts. My judgment is this.”
    Cord looked up.
    “You will pay me Senno’s purchase price.”
    Cord nodded as he groaned inwardly. Where could he find that kind of money?
    “And today, during this hunt,” Baron Hugh said, “we will let Old Sloat and Saint Hubert decide your fate. If Saint Hubert grants us victory and the cunning old boar is slain, you will be made into my forester. But,” the Baron said, holding up an admonitory finger. “If Saint Hubert frowns upon you and Old Sloat escapes us once more, you will be lashed twenty times in order to remind you that you are a peasant, not of noble blood.”
    Saint Hubert was the huntsman’s saint. Long ago in the eighth century, or so it was claimed, the great huntsman Hubert of Liege came upon a stag who bore between his horns an image of Jesus Christ. The sight had so moved Hubert that he renounced his titles and joined a religious order.
      Cord