No Dark Place (7 page)

As the young knight rode through the rolling
country north of Winchester, the September forest was filled with white plovers and skylarks, and the chalk stream of the River Itchen flowed gently southward on its peaceful way to the Channel. Philip’s thoughts, however, were not as pleasant as his surroundings.

He was on a fool’s errand. Simon knew it. Philip knew it. Apparently the only one who did not know it was the Lady Isabel.

Philip hoped to God that this priest would be sensible enough to know it, too.

This young man whom Nigel Haslin had produced in the hopes of pushing Guy le Gaucher out of his earldom must be very clever indeed, Philip thought. What a stroke of genius, to say that he did not remember who he was. It was a perfect excuse for not knowing the answers to questions that Hugh de Leon would be expected to know. Philip could almost admire such cleverness, if it were not going to result in such obvious pain to the Lady Isabel.

She must have been scarcely more than a child herself when Hugh was born. And to have spent the last fourteen years locked away from the world, doing penance for some imagined wrong she had done to her son! It did not bear thinking on.

I would like to wring this pretender’s neck
, Philip thought fiercely.
And Nigel Haslin’s as well, for allowing political considerations to bring that woman
pain
.

The afternoon was cool and bright when Philip entered the city of Winchester through the Kings Gate, which lay right beside the cathedral close. He gave a coin to a youngster who was standing in the busy cathedral courtyard and told him to hold his horse. Then he began asking around for Father Anselm.

At last he found the priest saying confessions in a carved booth in the rear of the cool dark church. There were three old women already waiting outside the confessional, and Philip got into line behind them to wait his turn.

The incense Philip had smelled when he first entered the church was overlaid by the overpowering smell of garlic that emanated from the old lady standing in front of him. Philip tried to breathe through his mouth and was much relieved when it was her turn to enter into the confessional booth.

She took forever.

How many sins could one old woman commit? Philip thought impatiently, shifting from one foot to the other in an effort to get comfortable.

The woman who had joined the line behind him heard the clink of his mail shirt and gave a fiercely disapproving snort. Obviously she did not approve of him wearing mail inside the house of God.

Philip folded his arms, bent his uncovered blond
head, and stared moodily at the tips of his dusty boots. He thought that he would have to get the priest to meet him after he was finished here. He was damned if he was going to whisper the Lady Isabel’s commission through a confessional screen.

At last the old lady came out from behind the curtain, blessing herself and already muttering her penance. She passed Philip in a cloud of garlic, and he pushed back the red velvet curtain and entered the confessional himself.

The old lady had left her smell behind.

“Aye, my son,” a soft voice said from the other side of the screen. “You have come to make your confession?”

The priest sounded surprised. Philip thought that he was probably the first male he had seen in his confessional in a while.

“No, Father Anselm,” he said. “I have come in search of you. I have a commission for you from the Lady Isabel de Leon.”

Silence.

Philip waited.

At last, “Lady Isabel?” the disembodied voice said waveringly.

“Aye, Father. It is important. Can we go somewhere and talk?”

“I must remain here for another half an hour,” the priest said. His voice still sounded breathless. “After that I can meet you at the front door of the
cathedral.”

“Very well,” said Philip. “My name is Philip Demain and I will be there.”

As Philip left the confessional, he got a very self-satisfied,
I told you so
kind of look from the old lady who was waiting to go in behind him. Obviously she thought that he was leaving so quickly because the priest had refused to hear his confession due to the fact that he was desecrating the church by wearing armor.

Philip gave her a pleasant smile.

She looked affronted.

He decided he would go and get something to eat before returning to the cathedral to meet the priest.

Half an hour later Philip stood in front of the great carved wooden doors of Winchester Cathedral. With a cup of ale and an eel pie in his stomach, he was feeling a bit more in charity with the world.

The cathedral doors were open to the September sun and a tall priest wearing a long brown robe and sandals came through them. It did not take him long to pick out Philip.

“Philip Demain?” he asked as he came up beside the young knight.

“Aye,” Philip said.

“I am Father Anselm,” came the simple reply.

The priest was as tall as Philip, which was not
something that often happened. Unlike Philip, however, he was very thin, almost emaciated, and his dark eyes had a haunted expression that was not entirely comfortable to look upon. He appeared to be somewhere in his early forties, younger than Philip had expected.

“We can go into the cathedral garden, if you like,” Father Anselm said in a voice that was a little stronger than the one Philip had heard in the confessional.

Philip nodded and followed the priest around the side of the great gray stone church and into the grounds of a small, neat herb and flower garden that lay against the cathedral walls. There was an empty stone bench placed along one of the paths, and the priest led him to it. The three other benches in the garden were filled with people, all of whom were speaking in low voices.

From the garden one had a good view of the two hills that looked down on Winchester, St. Giles Hill, which lay on the east bank of the Itchen, and St. Catherine’s Hill, which lay to the city’s south.

“So,” Father Anselm said, “you have come from the Lady Isabel?”

“Aye, Father, she has sent me with a commission for you.”

The priest nodded. His haunted brown eyes were fixed unwaveringly on Philip’s face. “How…how is she?” he asked.

Philip was surprised, not so much by the question
as by the urgent manner in which it was asked.

“She is well, Father,” he replied after a minute. “She is resident in the Benedictine convent in Worcester and has been there for the last fourteen years.”

The priest wet his lips with his tongue. “Aye,” he said. “I know.” He seemed to make an effort to pull himself together. “So,” he said resolutely, “what commission does Lady Isabel have for me?”

Philip told him. Then he quickly reached out his hand to steady the man, who had gone so pale that Philip was afraid he might faint.

“Hugh?” the priest said. His voice was a mere thread of sound. “Nigel Haslin thinks that he has found Hugh?”

“Aye, Father. He has asked Lady Isabel to send someone to Somerford to verify the man’s identity.”

Older men might refer to Hugh as a boy, but Philip, who was his exact age, never would.

“Can it be possible?” Father Anselm said with palpable wonder. “Could God be that good?” The priest’s great dark haunted eyes lifted toward the sky. “After all these years, can He have actually given Hugh back to us?”

The scent of flowers and herbs was rich in the mild September air. The sun was warm upon Philip’s uncovered head. He felt his face freeze at the priest’s words.

“You must prepare yourself to be disappointed, Father,” he said as gently as he could. “There is little likelihood that Hugh could have survived for all
these years.”

The priest did not even hear him. Instead he clasped his hands together in an attitude of prayer. “Can it be possible?” he repeated in the same wondering voice as before. “At last am I to be given the chance to make up for all the wrong that I did to that boy?”

T
he weeks before Nigel and his following left for the tournament at Chippenham were hectic. Every day the men were out on the practice field, wrestling, tilting at the quintain, practicing their archery and their horsemanship. When they were not using their arms, they were polishing them, or repairing them, or having the smith make them new ones.

The men of Somerford were determined not to be disgraced by their performance at Chippenham. All of Guy’s other vassals and their retinues would be there, and the men of Somerford desired to shine the brightest.

One thing became very apparent, however, as the days went by. It was going to be very difficult to hide Hugh among the large company of Nigel’s men—at least if he was going to take part in any of the exercises.

He was too good. He stood out from the rest of them like a steel sword in the midst of a line of wooden pikes.

Nigel was astonished. He had not expected such prowess from one who was so young and so lightly built.

But Jesu, the boy was strong. And even more impressively, he had the speed and balance of a cat.

He beat all of Nigel’s men at wrestling and archery.

He beat all of them at swordplay.

To see him manage his horse, without reins, with seat and legs only, was a thing to bring tears to a man’s eyes.

“How can I possibly hide him?” Nigel said to his daughter one day as she stood next to him at the edge of the practice field, watching Hugh ride at the quintain.

He hit it perfectly, dead on, ducked so that his body was hanging off the side of his horse, and galloped on.

“You can’t,” Cristen said with amusement.

“I was not planning to bring him to Earl Guy’s notice quite so emphatically,” Nigel said.

“Do you know, Father, I rather think that once we reach Chippenham, what happens to Hugh is going to be out of your hands.”

He gave her a grim look. “You think it is Guy who will be calling the tune?”

“No,” Cristen said, with the same amusement she had shown before. “I think it will be Hugh.”

One of Cristen’s jobs was to procure the provisions and the fodder they would need for moving a large group of men and horses to Chippenham. It was less than a day’s ride to Guy’s castle, but Nigel liked to
bring his own hay for his horses. One year he had been given moldy hay by the earl and he had never forgotten it.

At last, all was in order. All the mail was polished until it shone—helmets, shields, hauberks, swords. All the spears were sharpened. The hay was loaded on the wagons. The men’s clothing was clean and mended (another job that had fallen to Cristen and her ladies). There was no reason at all for Nigel’s men not to make a good show at his overlord’s tournament.

The night before they were to leave, Cristen and Hugh went for a walk down to her garden. She wanted to pack her medicine bag full of remedies, as some of the men always got hurt.

“I cannot believe that there is actually a mêlée at this tournament,” Hugh said as he sat on the bench in the evening twilight watching her work. “At such a time, and in a land threatened by war…” He shook his head. “It is irresponsible.”

“It is always irresponsible to throw away men’s lives in play,” Cristen said severely.

He smiled at her. “Women ever think thus.”

“That is because women are intelligent,” she shot back.

He cocked an eyebrow, continued to smile, but prudently made no reply.

“Lord Guy gets away with the tournament by saying it is part of the town fair,” Cristen said. She put her medicine pouch on the wooden table and
opened it. “But it is not part of the fair at all. The townspeople have nothing at all to do with what happens at the castle.”

“I suppose that Stephen is still hoping to woo Guy to his side and that is why he has not put a stop to it,” Hugh said.

“You suppose right.” Cristen chose a flagon from one of the shelves, checked to see that it was fully stoppered, and packed it carefully in her pouch.

“Another example of Stephen’s weakness,” said Hugh.

Cristen looked up from her packing. “What would you do if you were Stephen and you found yourself in this situation?” she asked curiously.

“I would order Guy not to hold the tournament,” Hugh replied promptly.

“And if he did not obey?”

“Then I would declare that he had forfeited his earldom to the crown.”

Cristen took a brown jar from the shelves. “Guy is not about to hand over Chippenham to Stephen, Hugh.”

“I would bring an army to take it away from him.”

Cristen slowly put down the glass jar and stared at him.

“Stephen cannot have his barons acting as autonomous rulers of their own lands,” Hugh said. “If he allows that, then he is not a king.”

“Chippenham is an extremely well-fortified castle,” she exclaimed.

“There is no castle so well fortified that it cannot be taken.”

She frowned, then began to measure some leaves from the jar into a small bottle. When she had finished, she looked up again at the boy on the bench. The setting sun was shining on his black hair, and as she watched he tossed it off his forehead in a gesture that had become very familiar to her. Her frown deepened. “You obviously have little respect for Stephen. Have you decided that you prefer the empress, then? Would you declare for her if you became the earl?”

He took her question seriously, as he always did, and replied thoughtfully, “Actually, I would probably do the same thing Guy is doing, but for a different purpose. I would stay neutral to try to hold a balance between Stephen and the empress. I would stay neutral to try to accumulate enough power to one day bring about a peace.”

She was not surprised to find that he had obviously been thinking about this.

She lifted her delicate brows. “Then you would act—how did you put it—as an autonomous ruler of your own lands?”

He grinned at her. “Aye,” he said. “I would. Because Stephen wouldn’t have the guts to stop me.” The smile faded. “But I’ll tell you something, Cristen. I wish to God he had.”

Fifty members of Nigel’s household accompanied him to Chippenham. Twenty of the company were
knights; the rest consisted of pages and squires and Cristen and her ladies.

The spirits of the men were high as they rode out of the gates of Somerford under their lord’s blue and white flag. The sun shone on polished helmets and hauberks and shields, and the sheen of the horse’s coats almost equaled the brightness of the men’s armor. The day was chilly, with a wind that whipped color into riders’ faces. The flags flew bravely. The jingle of spurs and armor could be heard all along the road as they passed.

The tournament held by Guy was of a very small scale, numbering in the hundreds, not the thousands such as appeared at the great tournaments in France. Still, it was the only tournament most of Nigel’s knights would ever fight in, and their blood was hot to prove their prowess. A tournament was a quintessential competition of males, performed under the admiring eyes of beautiful ladies, who were present in order to excite the warriors to ever greater heights of valor.

Cristen despised it. Every year since the Chippenham tournament had started, at least one knight had been killed in the mêlée. Even though killing was not the purpose of the fighting, an unhorsed knight was in great danger of being trampled to death by the iron-shod hooves of the powerful destriers the knights rode.

Every year Cristen begged her father not to participate in the mêlée, and every year he told her that
it was his duty to lead his men on the field of honor.

Cristen, who had the job of binding up all the wounds encountered on the field of honor, thought rather that it was a field of fools.

Her opinion, however, was shared by no one else who attended the festivities at Chippenham. Even the ladies watched avidly, not at all put off by the dust and the blood and the danger. In fact, they seemed to love it.

This year Cristen had a new worry to add to all of those she already bore.

Hugh.

What was going to happen when he saw Chippenham again? Would it trigger his memory, as her father hoped it would?

What was going to happen when Earl Guy saw him?

Was Hugh going to be safe?

As with all great castles, a large area outside the walls of Chippenham had been cleared when it was built so that no one could approach it unseen, and it was on this great open field that the tournament was to be held. Hugh was riding next to Cristen when Nigel’s party came out of the woods onto the field and he had his first view of the castle in the distance.

It was an impressive sight. Surrounding the keep was a massive stone battlemented curtain wall with twin gate towers on the wall that faced the field. From these towers, and from the crenelated crests of
four other towers set at the corners of each of the four outer walls, flew a crimson flag displaying the de Leon signature of a golden boar.

Cristen looked at Hugh to see what his reaction to the sight of Chippenham might be.

He was staring at the flag, his face perfectly still.

“The boar has been the symbol of the Earls of Wiltshire since the time of Guy’s father,” she said quietly.

After a moment, he nodded. Then he picked up his helmet, which he had been carrying in front of him on his saddle, and fitted it on his head over his mail coif. The noseguard effectively hid his face from view.

A number of red-and-gold-striped pavilions were set up all along the edges of the field for lodging the tournament guests. The castle itself, even though it was large, was not capable of accommodating over 800 extra people with any degree of comfort.

A single horseman was riding across the field to greet Nigel’s party. Cristen recognized the rider as Guy’s steward, and relayed that information to Hugh.

“He will be welcoming us to Chippenham,” she said. “Then I expect he will have someone show us to our tents.”

Hugh nodded again.

The men and women were lodged in separate pavilions, and Cristen and her ladies were forced to follow the knight who had been sent to escort them. She parted from Hugh reluctantly.

She hated this tournament and wished they had not come.

The inside of the pavilion was as Cristen remembered it from past years. Beds were strewn all over the floor, with silk gowns and fur-trimmed cloaks heaped upon them. Small chests with mirrors and jewelry were placed on the floor next to many of the beds. A group of women had come in before Cristen and her ladies, and they were chattering and primping, making ready to sally forth again.

Cristen was not hungry, but she knew that her father and his men would be gathered around the food being cooked in the castle bailey, and she was anxious to see Hugh again.

The girls Cristen had brought were excited and anxious to leave the pavilion and get out into the crowd. After they had washed off the dust of the ride and attended to their needs, they exited from the tent, where they were met by two of her father’s pages, whom he had sent to keep an eye on them.

“Well, Brian,” Cristen said to the hazel-eyed boy of twelve who had leaped forward as soon as he saw her. “Are you going to escort us to the feast?”

“Aye, my lady,” he said. “Lord Nigel said that we were to make certain that we brought you to him.”

Cristen began to walk across the field, her ladies behind her, the pages on either side of her. The ground was dry under her feet; it had been unusually rainless for the last few weeks. Cristen hoped the weather would hold until the end of the tournament.
One year it had poured, and the horses sliding in the mud had made for even more injuries than usual.

A man crossed in front of her and stopped, forcing her to come to a halt.

“Lady Cristen,” he said, and bowed elaborately. “What a joy to see you again.”

“Sir Richard,” Cristen said sedately.

Richard Evril was one of the chief knights of Earl Guy’s household. Cristen knew that Guy had wanted her to marry him and that her father had refused the match.

The man smiled, showing stained teeth. He was big, with broad shoulders and the beginnings of a paunch showing under his bright yellow tunic.

“Are you going to get some food?” he asked.

“Aye,” Cristen said. “We are meeting my father.”

He offered her his arm. “Allow me to escort you to him.”

Behind the knight’s back, Cristen could see Brian scowling. She could not refuse Sir Richard’s arm without showing extreme discourtesy, however.

“Thank you,” she said, and gingerly laid her small hand on his brilliant blue sleeve.

“You are looking as lovely as ever,” he said jovially as they began to walk across the field.

“Thank you,” Cristen said again. “Tell me, Sir Richard, whom can we expect to see at the tournament this year? Have all the usual vassals come?”

“Indeed, aye,” he returned. And he proceeded to tell her in detail about everyone who was participating.

At last they were walking across the drawbridge that led from the field over a filled moat. The gate towers rose on either side of Cristen, and for a moment she felt panic tighten her stomach.

She could not rid herself of the feeling that she was walking into a trap.

“Sir Nigel is over there, my lady,” Brian said helpfully.

“Oh, good,” Cristen said. She forced herself to smile up at the knight beside her. “Thank you for your escort, Sir Richard, but my pages will take me to my father now.”

He scowled, obviously not pleased with his dismissal.

“I was hoping to sup with you, Lady Cristen.”

Cristen didn’t want him to see Hugh. It was a foolish feeling, she knew. Hugh hadn’t come here to hide, after all. But this knight was too close to Lord Guy. He would notice the resemblance.

“I believe my father was planning to sup with only his own household this evening, Sir Richard,” she said firmly. “Tomorrow, perhaps.”

The man’s scowl deepened.

Brian stepped to her side. “I will escort you now, Lady Cristen,” he said.

She smiled into the boy’s flashing hazel eyes. “Thank you, Brian. Good evening, Sir Richard.”

They crossed the flat bailey to the place where Nigel and his men were gathered around one of the five smoking firepits, where enough meat to feed
almost a thousand people was being roasted. The inner walls and great stone keep of Chippenham loomed above them.