Chapter One

Some men are like lions; some are grumpy like bears. Other men act like hounds. Fulk, however, was a jackal. He had fangs, but not much muscle to back them up with. For a man-at-arms in a medieval castle that usually spelled a quick term of service. But Fulk also possessed the jackal's cunning of remaining unhurt in the presence of stronger predators.

Fulk had been the first to join Sir Philip on his manhunt. Sir Philip hated Cord the dog boy. For Cord had spirited away Philip's betrothed, Alice de Mowbray. Whoever married Alice gained her ancestral fief. But when they caught up with the outlaws, Cord challenged and slew Sir Philip in fair duel. Then Cord claimed he was a knight, and Hob had dubbed him, and Alice said she would marry the new knight. Fulk didn't understand any of it, but he threw away the rope he'd planned to give Philip to hang Cord with--when the proper time showed itself, of course. Nobles loved men-at-arms who anticipated their needs, and they usually rewarded them for it, too.

Fulk had slipped behind the others when Philip thudded dead onto the stony ground. He had scuffed his foot across shale, dropped the rope and covered it. He had cheered himself with the fact that there was still the treasure. Yes, now they should take out their spades and dig. He dreamed about the buried treasure the way a jackal dreams of feasting with lions. To rip and gorge with the king of beasts. To not have to scurry in fast, nip a tidbit and then race away with your tail between your legs... Sir Cord had challenged them to fight him man-to-man--he challenged them in order to prove his right to lead them. Fulk had nudged a few of the fellows, whispering in their ears about gratefully given rewards if they could slay this upstart. No one had proved brave enough, damn them. Then Sir Cord dazed them with the news that they were to return empty-handed to Pellinore Castle. Just forget about buried treasure. Fulk grumbled the entire trip home.

What galled Fulk most of all was how Sir Cord and his friends suddenly had money. Well, not right away, only after returning to Pellinore Castle. That smacked of magic and of even something worse, hypocrisy. They could grab loot, but not the likes of ordinary men-at-arms.

Fulk almost choked on the wedding feast thrown in Cord and Alice's honor.

Rain from a summer thunderstorm slashed upon Pellinore Castle. So everyone had been forced into the Great Hall. The fireplace raged and minstrels played their viols atop two shoved together tables. People danced and clapped and bumped against each other in an amazingly packed hall. A swirl of colors, a riot of movement filled the place. Handsome Henri with his wicked and neatly trimmed spade-shaped beard wore a new coat of many colors. As head minstrel he piped his flute with abandon. Fulk hoped he'd slip off the tables, but the nimble minstrel proved too clever for that. Rhys ab Gruffydd the stocky Welsh freeholder with his inky-intense eyes wore a red ribbon on each half of his forked beard. A silver belt and dagger encircled his coat, gifts from Cord and Alice. Cutting the sharpest figure was Sir Cord himself. The new knight wore a golden tabard and blue hose. A silver chain hung from his neck. Handsome, well-muscled, blond like a Saxon should be, Sir Cord laughed and cheered and swirled the scarlet cloak he never seemed to be without these days. Only Alice, the former de Mowbray, out- dazzled Cord. Young like her husband, with flashing eyes and teeth and long blonde hair, she wore a white conical hat with trailing silk and a white pleated dress. Rings weighed down her fingers. Jewels winked from her slender throat.

All wrongs seemed to have been forgiven them, forgotten--no matter that Baron Hugh, his son Guy and huge Sir Philip had each died less than four weeks ago. No matter, no matter, no matter.

Fulk lurched upright from his corner. He wore a plain tunic and hose, a thin man with a greasy face and narrow eyes. Straw-colored hair swept over his forehead. The crooked fingers of his left hand throbbed. Eleven years ago a knight had bashed him to the ground with a sword-stroke. That's when someone with rock-hard heels had crushed his left hand. He still couldn't quite close his hand enough to make a fist. Many men-at-arms would have been broken by despair by such an accident. Fulk simply used his crooked fingers as an excuse for a thousand different chores he didn't have to do, couldn't do. Even pushing a pike or pulling a bow was out of the question. Dagger-work suited his tastes, but not the hand-to-hand fighting kind. He could better use the point to tickle the throat of someone his friends held down. In the past, when they'd been alive, Sir Philip or Baron Hugh had used him when a peasant needed a lesson.

Fulk staggered towards the fun on the wooden table. He bumped and cursed his way through the crowd. He slipped through narrow gaps, trod on a pretty toe or two and shoved a child out of his way. Finally he lurched up so he could reach in the barrel and refill his leather jack. Fat Sergeant Hob ambled near and slapped him on the back.

"How goes it, Fulk?" Hob breathed heavily through his nose, while gravy stains marred his woolen tunic. The cap on his head had been sorely crumpled and its ostrich feather drooped.

Fulk muttered a greeting because Hob was too big and strong to ignore.

Hob slurped down ale, his eyes bloodshot. "A splendid pair, those two."

Surely he meant the new husband and wife. So Fulk pasted on a happy grin and used his elbow to nudge the fat warrior. "You must be happy."

"Aye, aye." Hob dipped his jack back into the ale barrel.

Fulk raised his eyebrows. He wanted to ask Hob where Cord and Alice had suddenly come up with all this money. How did they afford such a feast? Didn't they have to save all the money they had for when they left for Gareth Fief? Thinking about it hurt Fulk's stomach. Treasure, buried treasure, if only he could get his hands on his fair share of gold.

"Are you going with them?" Fulk asked instead.

Hob drained his jack for an answer. Then he wandered away to stare at the fire.

Fulk turned in the other direction, sipping carefully as he walked. Treasure. All he wanted was his fair share of the buried treasure. Surely they planned on digging it up later, the lying bastards.

Fulk shook his head as he burst through the tightly packed throng and slumped beside a hound gnawing a bone. There was space here; the reason Fulk had chosen it. The others didn't dare step on this huge brute with his bone. The dog was Sebald, a mighty Italian mastiff known for his fearlessness and strength. Once Sir Cord had been a dog boy. Now that he'd gained station, he hadn't left his old friends behind. Sebald would be going to Gareth Castle with Cord. As he gnawed on the bone, Sebald glanced at Fulk. Then he ignored the thin man.

Fulk sipped his ale, godale; the very best money could buy. They stinted nothing, these two. Treasure. Buried treasure in the wilds of Wales. But Sir Cord didn't need treasure because...

Copyright © 2002 by Vaughn Heppner