The Rogue Knight by Vaughn Heppner Read Free Book Online Page B

asked.
    “Old Sloat must have swum across the river,” said Cord.
    “An old boar like Sloat wouldn’t dive into such icy waters.”
    “An old boar like him is wily,” Cord pointed out. “Old Sloat heard the jingling bells, the olifants and the bloodhounds. He wouldn’t hesitate to swim across the Iodo. Why do you think he’s lived to grow so big? Because he knows when to flee,” Cord said, answering his own question.
    From upon his palfrey, Richard glanced furtively at Cord’s hand.
    “I’m going to find him,” Cord said hoarsely.
    “Of course you are,” Richard said. “We’ll hunt until he’s dead.”
    Cord studied the Iodo River. The water was cold and treacherous. Winter run-off from the Welsh Highlands fed these swift waters. They tumbled later into the Wye, one of the major rivers of Wales.
    Thinking of the highlands and Welshmen made Cord glance upstream. Everyone born in the Western Marches learned to watch for raiders at an early age. Mountain-bred warriors who ran from hilltop to hilltop constantly fought the knights who, since William the Conqueror’s time, had marched ever deeper up the Welsh valleys. From his mountain fastness of Snowdonia in northern Wales, Prince Llewellyn had gained control of almost all of free Wales. King Henry the Third of England quarreled with his barons, and in those struggles, the English gave the Welsh their chance. Prince Llewellyn, piece by piece, stratagem by stratagem, year by year, used the many chances offered him. This summer, with rebellious Earl Simon and his allies galloping back and forth through the Marches storming royal castles and towns, Llewellyn had done better than ever.
    For a time both squire and dog boy listened to the bloodhounds and listened to the huntsmen crash through the woods. The dogs barked in frustration. The huntsmen cursed. The knights, by their shouting, grew restless and angry.
    Baron Hugh, like most nobles, passionately loved hunting. He disdained the taste of ill-fed cattle or garbage-fed pigs. Stags and wild boars, delightful venison, those were the meats he craved. And his boredom vanished when galloping after game. Not even hawking compared to the chase. Only tournaments brought the Baron more joy. But they were such costly affairs. Even worse, since Richard the Lion-Heart’s Decree of 1194, the crown regulated tournaments. There were only five official sites, and one then needed a licensed charter and a personal license to allow one to join in the games.
    “Sloat swam across,” Cord suddenly said.
    “Old Sloat is too lazy for that,” Richard said.
    Cord’s chest tightened. His breathing grew difficult. If the trail wasn’t picked up soon....
    “I’m sorry about your hand,” Richard said.
    Cord shrugged, not daring to let the squire see the rage in his eyes.
    Richard urged his palfrey closer. “Look, Cord, you slip across the Iodo and run for it. We’ll never catch Old Sloat today. Even if we catch him we might not be able to kill him.” Richard paused and then said thoughtfully, “In the forests he’s like a monarch, an invincible king.”
    The constriction in Cord’s chest increased.
    “It’s foolishness to trust your hand to the slaying of Old Sloat.”
    Should he run away? Should he leave the familiar to rush into the unknown? Or should he trust Saint Hubert, who was a French saint?
    Most of the knights of England were descended from William the Conqueror’s French Normans. Many Anglo -Norman knights had only recently lost their French lands during bad King John’s reign. In fact, French was the first language learned by most of the Anglo-Norman knights. Cord’s father had been of old Saxon blood. He didn’t think a French saint would watch over a Saxon.
    “Look at you, Cord,” Richard said. “You’ve got size and strength. Join Prince Edward, or join rebellious Earl Simon. They both need fighting men.”
    Cord shook his head.
    “If you swung at Old Sloat, if you dared to stand up to that charging