No Dark Place (9 page)

“Who was that boy?” the knight demanded.

She opened her eyes wider. “What boy, Sir Richard?”

“You know who I am talking about,” he replied angrily. “The boy who just won the horsemanship contest. He came to Chippenham with your father.”

“Didn’t you hear his name?” she said in feigned surprise. “He is Hugh Corbaille, the son of Ralf Corbaille, he who was Sheriff of Lincoln before he was killed at the Battle of the Standard last year. Hugh has been visiting us.”

Sir Richard showed his stained teeth in a smile that was not pleasant. “I see,” he said. “And where did your father meet this Hugh Corbaille?”

“I believe you will have to ask him that yourself,” she returned pleasantly. “Now, if you will excuse me, Sir Richard, my ladies and I would like to retire.”

He gave her a narrow look out of flat, slate-blue eyes.

“I will see you later,” he promised. “At the feast in the castle.”

She forced a smile, then turned, beckoned to her ladies, and began to thread her way through the remaining crowd, away from the vicinity of Sir Richard, who she was sure had been an emissary from the earl.

Hugh rode Rufus directly to the stabling area that had been allotted to the men of Somerford.

He was trembling.

It was one thing to have heard that he looked like Guy, but to look into a pair of eyes that were a mirror image of his own…

He had seen the naked shock in those eyes when Guy had seen Hugh’s face. It had been the shock of recognition.

Hugh balanced his new saddle on Rufus’s withers and dismounted. His knees felt weak as he landed on the ground.

One of the squires came running. “I saw your ride, Hugh!” He was panting with excitement. “It was wonderful!”

“Thank you,” Hugh said automatically.

“I’ll take care of Rufus for you,” the boy said. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll get a good rubdown and a nice feed. He deserves it.” The squire patted the arched white neck of the stallion. “He is a splendid horse.”

Hugh lifted down his new saddle and stood for a moment as Rufus was led off. He didn’t know what he should do.

The trembling was getting worse.

He didn’t want to return to the pavilion. He didn’t want to deal with congratulations or with the excitement of the knights of Somerford as they celebrated their victories.

He didn’t want to see anyone.

He wished Cristen was here so he could talk to her.

Several men he didn’t know came up to him as he stood there and began to ask him about how he had trained Rufus. He managed to answer somehow, and then he started to walk in the direction of the pavilion where he knew Cristen was lodged. He was still carrying his saddle.

“Hugh!”

It took him a moment to recognize Nigel’s voice. He looked over his shoulder and saw the lord of Somerford hurrying after him. He stopped.

Nigel came up beside him, followed by two very tall men.

“I have some people who wish to meet you,” Nigel said.

They were not far from the ladies’ pavilion and the only people near them at the moment were a few pages who were scurrying around on errands for their mistresses. Most of the company was still clustered around the obstacle course.

The two big men loomed behind Nigel. One was as young as Hugh himself, and this was the man Nigel introduced first. “This is Philip Demain, Hugh. He is a knight of Simon of Evesham’s.”

With a great effort, Hugh pulled himself together. He looked at the young knight.

Philip’s hair was the color of the sun, his eyes the blue of a summer sky. His shoulders were immensely broad and he was at least five inches taller than Hugh.

Hugh nodded at him.

“And this is Father Anselm.” Nigel’s voice was suspiciously gentle. “He was Lord Roger’s chaplain, Hugh. He knew you when you were a child.”

Hugh stared into the thin, dark face of the hooded man. Great, haunted brown eyes looked back at him.

“Hugh,” the man said hoarsely. “My God, Hugh. After all these years, you have come back to us.”

Hugh had no recollection of ever seeing the man before.

Sweat broke out on his forehead.

“I…” He inhaled deeply and tried again. “I’m afraid I do not know you, Father.”

The priest stepped closer to Hugh and laid a hand on his arm. It took an immense effort of willpower to keep from pulling away.

“I have come as an emissary from your mother, the Lady Isabel,” the priest said.

Hugh pulled his arm away and stepped back.

“My mother was Adela Corbaille,” he said sharply.

The priest was shaking his head. “No, my boy. Your mother is Isabel de Leon.”

The young knight spoke for the first time. His voice was very deep. “You look just like her,” he said. “It’s uncanny.”

Suddenly, Hugh was dizzy.

I will not faint
, he told himself fiercely.
I will not faint
.

He blinked and struggled to control his too-rapid breathing.

Then deliverance arrived.

“Here you are, Hugh,” said Cristen. “I have been searching for you.”

He turned to her. She took one look at his face and knew he was in trouble.

“I need Hugh’s help, Father,” she said to Nigel. “Do you mind if I borrow him for a while?”

There was a moment’s silence while Nigel looked at his daughter. Then he said quietly, “Of course not, my dear. I will see you both later.”

Cristen put her hand firmly on Hugh’s arm and began to steer him away from her father and the two tall men.

Without a word, Hugh turned and went with her.

They walked in the direction of the pavilions, Hugh carrying his new saddle under his left arm, Cristen on his other side. The sun was hot and Cristen stopped in the shade cast by the first pavilion, turned and scanned his face.

“Are you all right?” she asked softly.

He shook his head as if dazed. “His eyes…he does look like me, Cristen. He does.”

She nodded. “I know, Hugh.”

“I didn’t really believe it until I saw him.”

He was standing perfectly still, not even seeming to notice the weight of the saddle resting on his hip.

She reached out and touched his shoulder. The
dazed look left his face and his eyes focused on her. “I don’t remember,” he said. There was anguish in his voice. “I don’t remember the priest, or this place, or Guy, or anything!”

She replied gently, “Perhaps you never will, Hugh. You have lived with that gap in your life for fourteen years. Perhaps you will have to live with it forever.”

“But don’t you see?” he cried. “If it is true, and I am his son, then I must find out what happened. My father was murdered! I cannot just let that go, Cristen. What kind of a man would I be if I just let that go?”

His words struck her to the heart.

“But what can you do?” She had not expected this reaction, and she tried very hard to keep her voice calm. “His death happened fourteen years ago, Hugh. How can you possibly find out the truth of it after so long a time?”

His nostrils quivered. “I have to try. My father was a crusader and he was murdered in his own chapel. I owe it to him to try to find his killer.”

A shadow fell upon them and, startled, they both jerked their heads around. One of Nigel’s squires was standing there.

“Would you like me to take that saddle from you, Hugh?” the boy asked respectfully. “I will put it with the rest of Rufus’ gear.”

Hugh blinked and for the first time seemed to realize that he was holding the saddle.

“Oh, of course.” He grasped the saddle with both hands and handed it over. “Thank you, William.”

“You were splendid, Hugh,” the boy said with a grin. “Everyone is talking about your ride.”

“Are they?” Hugh’s voice was wry.

He and Cristen stood together in silence and watched as William went off with the saddle. Then Hugh drew a deep breath and seemed to gather himself together.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose I…”

His words trailed off.

She looked up at him worriedly. “What is it?”

He nodded fractionally toward the front of the pavilion. “Who is that? Do you know?”

Cristen glanced in the direction Hugh had indicated and saw a solitary knight standing by the water pails that were lined up in front of the pavilion. The man’s face was rigid with barely controlled emotion, and he was staring at Hugh with hard and glittering eyes.

She looked back to Hugh. “I don’t know.”

“I think he is the man who won the wrestling today,” Hugh said. “One of Guy’s knights, I believe.”

Cristen turned and openly gazed at the knight. Realizing that he had been seen, the man bent, picked up a pail of water, and disappeared quickly into the pavilion.

“He probably recognized your resemblance to Guy,” Cristen said.

Hugh was frowning. “Aye.”

Fear caught Cristen by the throat. “He didn’t look very friendly, did he?”

“Perhaps he saw the same thing that Guy did when he looked at me this afternoon,” Hugh said.

“What is that, Hugh?”

In a grim voice, Hugh replied, “Retribution.”

S
upper for all the visiting knights and ladies was held in the Great Hall of Chippenham’s keep that evening. Philip went to the castle with the knights of Somerford while Father Anselm, who would not be able to keep his tonsure covered indoors, stayed behind in the pavilion. Young Brian was to bring him food from the supper that was being served in the bailey for the squires and pages.

As they approached the castle, Philip scanned it with the appraising eye of a potential attacker.

From what he could see, Chippenham’s defenses were formidable indeed. The outer wall of the castle, the curtain wall, had to be at least fifteen feet thick and was reinforced by towers at all the corners. Such a wall would be well able to withstand most available siege artillery, he thought.

The men of Somerford passed between the gate towers, under the raised portcullis, and into the outer bailey. This courtyard contained ample stabling as well as the usual storehouses and buildings for workmen and castle defenders. There was even
enough room in the large bailey to house additional troops, should they be necessary for the castle’s defense.

Nigel’s men crossed the bailey in the direction of the castle’s inner walls. These walls were also built of thick stone, with a second gate barred by another iron portcullis. A square tower stood at each of the four corners of these inner walls.

Inside the second set of walls was the keep, a square, stone edifice, four stories high, with four towers that rose another two stories above the main building.

If ever a castle looked impregnable, Philip thought grimly, Chippenham did. Whoever commanded such a fortress was well nigh untouchable. The only tactic that could force such a bastion to surrender would be the starvation of its defending troops.

Led by Nigel, who had Cristen on his arm, Philip and the men of Somerford walked up the stone ramp that led to the main door of the keep. This door led into the second floor of the forebuilding, a three-story square block that jutted out from the west end of the main part of the castle.

Philip was not unfamiliar with this style of keep. Robert of Gloucester’s castle, which he had visited upon a number of occasions, was built very like Chippenham. The first floor of such a castle was usually given over to storerooms, the second floor to guardrooms, and the third floor to the Great Hall.
The fourth floor and the towers usually held the family solar and bedrooms.

Sure enough, after ascending one flight of stairs, Philip found himself stepping out of the enclosed staircase (which could be defended by a few men against an army) and into Chippenham’s Great Hall.

Trestle tables crowded the floor of the immense room, whose high ceiling had louvered holes set into it to allow the smoke generated from the enormous hearth to escape. The noise level in the hall was already high, as men sat around the tables, drinking ale and reliving the exploits of the day while waiting for the meal to be served.

The seats at the high table were still empty, waiting for the earl and his retinue to arrive.

Nigel and Cristen moved away from the group of Somerford knights to take their places at one of the higher tables with Guy’s other vassals and their ladies. Philip and the rest of Nigel’s men went to find a table at the lower end of the hall, among the knights of the other retinues.

Hugh went with them.

Philip managed to arrange matters so that he was seated next to Hugh when the Somerford men found empty places at one of the trestle tables.

As they took their seats on the bench, Philip turned to Hugh and asked quietly, “Does any of this look familiar to you?”

Hugh’s face was completely shuttered. His profile might have been carved in stone.

“No,” he said.

Philip eyed him curiously. “You really don’t remember anything about your childhood?”

“No,” Hugh said again. This time a telltale muscle clenched along his jaw.

Philip continued to regard the closed face of Isabel’s son.

Hugh might have inherited his mother’s perfectly sculpted bones, but by some strange alchemy of nature, his beauty was completely male.

Hugh’s light gray eyes, which were not Isabel’s, turned and looked at him straightly. “Do I really look so much like her?” he said.

“Aye,” Philip returned. “You do.”

Hugh’s lashes dropped.

“What did Guy say to you this afternoon when he was awarding your prize?” Philip asked.

Hugh shrugged. “He wanted to know who I was.”

He accepted a cup of ale from one of the pages who were circulating among the tables and took a long drink.

“I can imagine that he did,” Philip said with a cynical smile. “He must know what his brother’s wife looks like. Hers is not a face you would easily forget.”

Hugh didn’t reply.

The scent of roasted meat filled the hall even though the food had not yet been brought in. Evidently it had already been carried up to the pantry from the kitchen building. It would not be
served, however, until the earl had taken his place.

Philip took a sip of his ale.

“Did Nigel send word to the Lady Isabel about me?” Hugh asked in a carefully detached voice.

“Aye. She is in the Benedictine convent at Worcester, and has been for the last fourteen years. Since her husband was killed and you were lost, in fact. After she received Nigel’s message, she sent for her brother, Simon of Evesham, and Simon and I went to visit her. I got the task of bringing the priest to Somerford to identify you.” Philip shrugged his big shoulders. “In fact, we didn’t need the priest. I could have done it myself. Anyone who has seen the Lady Isabel would recognize you.”

Hugh was slowly revolving his cup on the table in front of him. Philip could not see his eyes.

“Why did Simon send the priest? Why didn’t he come himself?” he asked at last.

“My lord is anxiously awaiting word from Robert of Gloucester,” Philip said. “We expect to hear news any day now that the earl has landed with his sister.”

The gray eyes flicked around to his face.

“Simon is going to support the empress, then?”

“He is Robert’s man. He will support whomever Robert supports.”

“I see,” said Hugh.

“Whom do you support, Hugh?” Philip asked, trying to sound casual. “Are you Stephen’s man, like Nigel Haslin?”

A large group of knights came into the room, laughing and talking raucously. They began to search among the tables for places to sit.

Hugh watched them absently.

“My allegiance is of no matter,” he said. “My foster father was the Sheriff of Lincoln, and a man to be reckoned with, but I am only the holder of a few small manors. My allegiance can make little difference to either side.”

“It will make a great deal of difference if you are the Earl of Wiltshire,” Philip said bluntly.

Hugh’s eyes were fixed on one of the knights who had just come in.

He said, “Even if I am Roger’s son, I see little chance of claiming my inheritance from Lord Guy. He appears to be well entrenched.”

Philip looked at the knight Hugh was watching. He was a man who looked to be in his late twenties, tall, with distinctive chestnut hair.

“Who is that?” Philip asked curiously.

“I don’t know,” Hugh replied.

At that moment, the knight’s eyes swung toward them as if he felt their gaze. His whole face hardened when he recognized Hugh.

For a brief moment, the two men stared at each other across the noisy room. Then one of the knight’s companions put a hand on his arm to steer him toward a table. He broke the eye contact with Hugh and turned away.

“Judas,” Philip said. “I think you have an enemy there.”

“He does not look like a friend,” Hugh agreed.

“I’d find out who he is, if I were you,” Philip recommended.

Hugh nodded and lifted his ale cup.

A dog’s sharp yelp cut through the noise of the hall. Evidently someone had trodden on his tail.

Philip returned to his original topic of conversation. “If you had the backing of Robert of Gloucester, you might stand a chance of displacing your uncle.”

Hugh took a sip of his ale and did not reply.

“Earl Robert is a fine soldier,” Philip went on. “With him to back you, you would not be powerless.”

“So is Stephen a fine soldier,” said Hugh. He took another sip of ale.

A roar of laughter came from the men seated farther down the table from them.

Philip snorted. “Stephen can fight, I will give you that. He just cannot
keep
at anything for very long. If he decided to support you and besiege Chippenham on your behalf, he would last outside the gates for no more than two weeks. Then he would lose interest and march away.”

Someone shouted a question to Hugh. He shot back an answer, which produced another roar of laughter. Then he turned back to Philip and said regretfully, “You are probably right.”

“He is a usurper,” Philip said firmly. “Matilda is the only legitimate child of our old king. It is she—and her son after her—who should be England’s ruler. Not Stephen.”

“Stephen has been consecrated by the church,” Hugh pointed out. “He was not doing a bad job as king until Robert of Gloucester decided to challenge him.”

“He has not the right,” Philip said stubbornly.

“Both sides have some part of the right,” Hugh said. “To speak true, Philip, I am not overly interested in who has the greater right. I am interested in who will be the better ruler for England.”

The noise in the hall was rising to a riotous level. If the food didn’t come soon, half of the company would be drunk before the feast even started.

Philip was outraged. “You don’t care about justice?” he demanded.

Hugh said, “I care about England. I do not want to see us plunged into a civil war. It will be devastating.”

Philip drummed his fingers impatiently on the table. “Wiltshire is the bulwark that sits between Stephen’s holdings in the east and Earl Robert’s holdings in the west. The loyalty of the Earl of Wiltshire is crucial to both sides in this conflict.”

“I realize that,” Hugh said quietly.

Philip leaned his bright head closer to the ink-black one of the man seated beside him. He lowered his voice. “Come with me to meet Lord Simon,” he said.

Hugh turned toward him, lifting an eyebrow. “So he can try to talk me into asking support from Earl Robert?”

Philip said grimly, “So that he can explain to you how vital it is for you to assume your rightful role as Earl of Wiltshire. So that he can tell you that the Earl of Gloucester will certainly support you, if you in turn will promise to support him.”

Hugh looked faintly amused. “Do you know, Sir Nigel invited me to visit Stephen with him for the exact same reason?”

Philip set his jaw. “Nigel Haslin is not your blood kin. Simon of Evesham is your uncle.”

“Is he?” Hugh said bleakly.

“Aye,” Philip said. “He is.”

At this point there was a blare of horns and Lord Guy, dressed in a splendid tunic of emerald green, entered the hall. A golden-haired woman wearing a purple gown walked beside him, her fingers daintily perched upon his arm. They were followed by a small retinue of knights, among whom was Sir Richard Evril.

“I don’t know what your life has been like for the last fourteen years,” Philip said to Hugh, “but as of this day you must make up your mind to take up the responsibilities you were born to.”

After a tense moment of silence, Hugh replied, “If I am in fact the son of Roger de Leon, then my first obligation is to discover who is responsible for murdering my father.”

Philip stared at the remote, perfect profile of the man sitting next to him, and did not have a reply.

Cristen thought the feast would never end. The tables sagged under the huge amounts of food set upon them. Immense platters of roast pork and roast venison, pheasants, pigeons, swans, peacocks, and larks as well as a wide variety of fish covered the boards. The trenchers that the guests used as plates were of fine white bread, not the usual stale stuff from the day before. The majority of the knights in the hall were being served ale, but at Cristen’s table, wine was the drink being offered and it was being imbibed a bit too freely, she thought disapprovingly.

Even her father was celebrating the Somerford victories by drinking too much.

She fretted that she had not been able to sit with Hugh. He had been deeply upset this afternoon after his double encounter with Guy and Roger’s old chaplain. She was not even able to see him over the heads of the hundreds of men crammed into the noisy hall.

“Sir Nigel.”

Cristen looked around to see one of Lord Guy’s squires standing next to her father.

“My lord would like to speak with you,” the squire said.

Nigel had been laughing uproariously at a joke, but at these words, his face sobered. He rose slowly to his feet. “Of course,” he said.

Cristen watched her father cross the floor to the high table, where a place had been made for him to sit next to Lord Guy. Nigel seemed steady on his feet, she thought, and prayed that he was sober enough to answer Guy’s questions carefully.

There was no doubt in her mind that Guy wanted to know about Hugh.

A man sat down next to her. With a great effort of will, she repressed a shudder of distaste. It was Richard Evril.

“Lady Cristen,” the knight said jovially. “You are looking lovely as always.”

“Thank you,” Cristen said.

“My lord is still curious about the young man who won the horsemanship contest today,” Sir Richard said. “If he has been staying with you, you must know something about him.”

“Is Lord Guy so curious about all the men who won the contests today?” Cristen asked ingenuously.

“He is only curious about the one who bears such a noticeable resemblance to himself,” Sir Richard said grimly. “What do you know about him, Lady Cristen?”

Cristen replied with composure, “He is the lord of several manors in Lincolnshire. His father, Ralf Corbaille, left them to him when he was killed last summer.”

“This Ralf Corbaille—was he the boy’s true father?”

Cristen hesitated. “He was his foster father, I believe.”