No Dark Place

1

The line of knights parted silently as the boy led his bloodstained horse through their ranks, back toward the camp area where the wounded were being attended. The Battle of the Standard was over and won, but the Sheriff of Lincoln had fallen, and it was his body that was laid across the sweaty back of the huge black warhorse the boy was leading through the humid mist of a hot August day.

Men rushed forward to help as soon as the boy entered the encampment, but his face stopped them in their tracks, and it was he alone who reached up for the body of the larger, heavier man laying prone across the high-pomelled leather saddle.

He lifted the dead weight in his arms and stood there for a moment, holding it as if it were a sleeping child.

The black horse blew loudly, breaking the eerie silence of the surrounding men.

Then, “Is he dead, lad?” a voice asked gently.

“Aye,” said the boy. He looked at the man who had spoken. “Take down the flag, Bernard, and spread it on the ground.”

The man obeyed, and the boy stooped and gently laid the body of the only father he had ever known upon the red silk of Lincoln’s flag.

The only evidence he gave of strain from the heavy weight was the fine mist of sweat that broke out upon his brow and the muscle that flickered along one of his high cheekbones.

The sheriff’s men looked grimly down upon the dead face of their leader. His uncovered brown hair was matted with dirt and sweat and blood. The helmet he had worn into battle was gone, nor was he wearing his mail coif. Someone had pushed it off to try to staunch the wound that had killed him.

A fruitless enterprise, obviously, as the man’s whole skull was caved in.

“What happened, Hugh?” one of the other men asked. He spoke in a lowered voice, as if it might be possible to disturb the sleep of the man who lay on the ground before them. “Did you see it?”

“Aye, I saw it,” the boy replied in a careful, steady voice. “Ralf and I were walking back toward the camp together when I stopped to get a drink from a stream. Ralf went on ahead of me, God alone knows why, and the next thing I heard was his shout. I looked up to see four Scots leaping out at him from within a small copse of wood. They had seen that he was alone and unhelmeted, and one of them had a mace.” The boy drew a deep breath. “They were after his sword.”

“Why did you not come to his aid?” a tall knight demanded angrily. “Surely he deserved that much of you!”

Other voices muttered at the speaker to keep quiet, but the boy replied with steely composure, “I was too far away. I ran to help him, of course, but by the time I arrived he had fallen.”

Silence fell as all of the men looked at the body laying before them on the blood-red silk of Lincoln’s flag.

“And did the four who killed him get away, Hugh?” asked the quiet voice of the man named Bernard.

“No,” the boy said simply. “I killed them all.”

The boy was twenty years old and this his first battle, but there wasn’t a man there who did not believe him.

“Why in the name of God did he not have his helmet on?” the angry knight cried.

“The noseguard had been bent and it was in the way of his vision,” the boy replied.

The men stood under the misty sun, regarding with sorrow the fallen body of the sheriff.

Bernard pulled himself together. “We must get him back to Northallerton,” he said. “He deserves a decent burial.”

“Not here,” Hugh said quickly. “I will take him home and bury him next to Adela. That is what he would have wanted.”

One of the sheriff’s men began to say something, but at a look from the boy’s startling light gray eyes, he fell silent.

“All right,” Bernard said quietly. “We will take him home.”

They put the body of Ralf Corbaille on a hurdle and carried him back to the king’s base camp at Northallerton. King Stephen had not been present at this first battle of the civil war that was brewing between him and his cousin, the Empress Matilda. This had been a fight between the northern English, reinforced by some southern troops, and the Scots under their king, David, who was uncle to the empress.

“I will need to have a coffin,” Hugh said to the oldest and most faithful of his father’s knights, Bernard Radvers. They were standing in the hall of Northallerton Castle, where the body of the Sheriff of Lincoln had been laid temporarily to get it out of the warmth of the emerging sunlight. “And I will need a wagon.”

“Lad.” Bernard looked at the boy he had known since he was eight and had first come to live with Ralf. Hugh was still wearing his mail hauberk, but he had taken off his helmet and mail coif and his thick black hair had fallen forward across his brow, almost to the level line of his brows.

His face was expressionless, as armored as his body. If Bernard did not know better, he would assume that the death of the Sheriff of Lincoln meant nothing to this youngster who was looking at him with such disciplined immobility.

Ignoring all the signs that forbade it, Bernard reached out and touched the boy’s bare hand in a gesture of comfort.

Hugh’s face never changed.

At least, Bernard thought, he did not pull away.

“I will see to the coffin,” Bernard said. “Your duty is to see how many other of our men have taken harm.”

At those words, there was a slight change in the gray eyes looking at him so levelly. Bernard understood that Hugh had been so concentrated on his own loss that it was a shock for him to realize that other men might be hurt.

Hugh tossed the ink-dark hair off his forehead and looked again toward the bier. Clearly he did not want to leave, but Bernard had used the authority word, “duty,” and Hugh had been brought up to respond to its imperative call. “All right,” he said reluctantly. “I’ll go.”

But he didn’t move. He just stood there, staring with that slightly out-of-focus expression in his eyes.

“Hugh,” Bernard said gently.

“Aye,” the boy said again. “I’m going.”

Bernard accompanied the boy out into the heat of the bailey courtyard and then stood his ground and watched as Hugh turned and walked away from him in the direction of the great wooden gate. The boy’s head was up and his slim, light body moved forward purposefully under its mail coat.

Dear God, Bernard thought despairingly. What is Hugh going to do without Ralf?

It was then that it happened, the thing that was to change all their lives. A knight of about Bernard’s age was crossing the bailey at the same time as Hugh. As they passed each other, the man glanced carelessly over at the boy, then stopped abruptly. His face was blanched as white as new-fallen snow.

He looked, Bernard thought, exactly as if he had seen a dead man pass by.

As Bernard continued to watch, the knight turned and took a few steps, as if he would follow Hugh, then stopped again. He didn’t move again, just stood there, his eyes glued to the slender figure, who had been joined by a squire leading a horse.

Hugh vaulted into the saddle of his almost purely white stallion and rode through the open gate, heading in the direction of the Sheriff of Lincoln’s camp.

The knight continued to stare after him. He was not wearing armor, and Bernard could see how rigid were his shoulders and back under his sweat-stained shirt.

The hair prickled on the back of Bernard’s neck.

With a great effort of will, he forced himself to move forward to the side of the stricken knight.

The man turned to look at him. He had graying hair and brown eyes and narrow, aristocratic features. “Do you know who that boy is?” he demanded.

Bernard had never heard him speak before, but he knew instinctively that that husky, choked sound was not the stranger’s ordinary speaking voice.

“That is Hugh Corbaille, the son of the Sheriff of Lincoln.” He was relieved to hear that his own voice sounded normal. “Why do you ask?”

The other knight turned again, to stare after Hugh. “The son of the Sheriff of Lincoln?” he said slowly. “If that is so, then why is he the living image of Hugh de Leon, only son of the Earl of Wiltshire, who was kidnapped from his home some thirteen years ago?”

Hugh found few serious injuries among the men Ralf Corbaille had brought with him to the Battle of the Standard. The English had broken the Scots early, and the greatest part of the battle had consisted of chasing the panic-stricken enemy through the fields and woods of misty Yorkshire. Thousands of Scots had fallen, and very few English. The Battle of the Standard had been a rout.

But Ralf was dead.

Why did he go on ahead of me like that?

This was the thought that ran nonstop through Hugh’s mind all the while he was going dutifully around the camp, talking to the men of Lincoln, assuring them that their officers would see them safely home, doing all the things that Ralf would have wanted him to do.

If I had been beside him, this never would have happened. Why did I have to stop to take a drink?

“Is it true that the sheriff has fallen?”

Over and over the question was asked, until Hugh thought that he would surely kill the next man who spoke those words. But over and over again he answered, calm, disciplined, reassuring. “All will be well. See to the wounded. We will be leaving for home on the morrow.”

After what seemed to him an eternity, but was actually only two hours, he was able to leave the camp and return to the castle, where he could keep watch over Ralf as Adela would have wanted.

Bernard was there before him.

“I have seen to the coffin, lad,” said the middle-aged knight, who had been Ralf’s man for more years than Hugh had been alive. “It will be ready by this evening.”

Hugh nodded.

Bernard his mouth, as if he would say something more, and involuntarily Hugh shut his eyes, willing the other man to go away and leave him alone.

There was the sound of a step, and Hugh felt a flicker of relief that his wish was indeed being granted. Then Bernard’s voice sounded next to his ear.

“Let me unbuckle your mail for you and then I will leave you be. It is too hot for you to be wearing armor if you do not need it.”

Hugh stood perfectly still and allowed the older man to play squire, unbuckling the mail hauberk and lifting it over his bare head. When finally he stood there in his sweat-stained linen shirt and leggings, Bernard said gently, “All right, Hugh. I’ll leave you alone now.”

Hugh stood mute as Bernard left the hall. When at last he was alone, he approached the body of the man who was lying on a low makeshift bier in the middle of the room.

It was cooler in the hall than it had been outdoors, but even so the unmistakable odor of death was in the air. Hugh looked down at the face and ruined head of his foster father, and a wave of unbridled fury surged through him.

How could you have done this to me? How could you have gone away and left me like this?

His fingers curled into fists, and for a moment gray spots danced in front of his eyes. He dropped to his knees and lowered his head to ward away the faintness.

Damn you, Ralf.

He gulped air into his lungs, furious at his own weakness.

His eyes fell on the crucifix that Ralf always wore on a chain around his neck. It was a symbol of faith that should be a comfort to Hugh in his hour of need. He knew what the priests would tell him. They would say that Ralf was at peace in Christ, that he had been reunited with Adela, the wife he had so dearly loved.

But none of this was a comfort to Hugh. All he knew was that Ralf had left him and he was alone.

Slowly he reached up his hand and closed his fingers around those of the dead man. Even in the heat of the August day, Ralf’s hand was cold.

This was the hand that had ruthlessly dragged him out of his hiding place that bitter January night and brought him home to Adela. This was the hand that had shown him how to hold a sword, and a bow. This was the hand that had only recently dubbed him a knight.

Damn you, Ralf. Damn you, damn you, damn you. How could you have done this to me?

A shudder passed through his body, then another one. His hand closed more tightly on the cold, unresponsive one of his foster father.

In all these years, Hugh thought in anguish, I never once told you that I loved you.

When Bernard went back out into the bailey after leaving Hugh in the hall, he almost walked into the strange knight whom he had encountered earlier.

“If you don’t mind, I should like to talk to you for a minute,” the man said. His voice sounded more composed than it had several hours ago. It also sounded determined.

Bernard shrugged, trying to conceal his uneasiness. “Go ahead.” He began to walk slowly toward the gate and the man fell into step beside him.

“My name is Nigel Haslin,” the knight said, “and I am here with the men of Robert of Ferrers, from whom I hold one of my manors. My chief feudal lord, however, is the Earl of Wiltshire, and it is of him that I wish to speak.”

“Aye?” said Bernard, terse and wary and anxious not to give anything away. The courtyard was filled with men coming and going on errands for the different lords who had led the English army. Bernard and Nigel Haslin walked side by side through the bustle of purposeful activity, intent on their own conversation.

“That boy,” Nigel said abruptly. “Where does he come from?”

Bernard ran hard, callused fingers through his short, graying hair. “I told you earlier. He is the son of the Sheriff of Lincoln.”

“From birth?” the other man said.

Bernard looked at him somberly and did not reply.

Something flickered in the other man’s brown eyes. “So,” he said. “A foster son, then.”

“In every way that counts, Hugh is the son of Ralf and Adela Corbaille,” Bernard said emphatically. “He will tell you that himself.”

At that, Nigel put a restraining hand upon Bernard’s arm, forcing him to come to a halt. Bernard swung around in annoyance and the two men stood face to face in the middle of the busy courtyard. “And if he is more than that?” Nigel demanded. “If he is in fact the heir to a great earldom-and to vast estates in Normandy as well?”

“That cannot be,” Bernard said emphatically. “Nor would it be fair to put such thoughts into his head. There is already an Earl of Wiltshire. All do know that.”

A menial passed close behind them, carrying two buckets of water from the castle well.

Nigel said, “It is true that Guy de Leon is the present earl. He is younger brother to Earl Roger, the previous lord.” The knight paused and his eyes hardened. “The one who was murdered.”

“Murdered?” Bernard repeated with shock. “I never heard anything of murder.”

Nigel’s expression was grim. “Oh, it was hushed up. But the fact is that thirteen years ago, Earl Roger was stabbed to death in the chapel of Chippenham Castle. And on that same day, the earl’s only son, Hugh, disappeared, believed to be kidnapped by the very man who had murdered his father.”

Bernard’s eyes were stretched wide with horror. “And who was that man?”

Two horses pulling a cart filled with hay came through the open gate of the castle bailey. With one accord, Bernard and Nigel veered out of the cart’s way and headed toward one of the towers built into the bailey wall.

Nigel said, “We think it was a household knight named Walter Crespin. He disappeared from the castle on the day of the murder. Two days later, the deputy sheriff brought his body back to Chippenham. Evidently he had been the victim of outlaws in the forest.”

“And the boy?”

“He was never seen again.” Nigel looked Bernard straight in the eyes. “Until today.”

Bernard shook his head. “You are mistaken. You must be mistaken.” He frowned, causing the weather-scarred wrinkles in his forehead and at the corners of his light blue eyes to score even deeper into his face.

The men walked in silence for a moment. Then Bernard asked reluctantly, “How old was this Hugh de Leon when he disappeared?”

“Seven.”

Once Bernard felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.

Still, he said stoutly, “If the man who took him was killed, it is almost certain that the boy must have been killed as well.”

“So we all thought,” Nigel Haslin said. “But I tell you, that boy in the chapel is the living image of Hugh de Leon.”

“Good God, man!” Bernard said impatiently. “Be realistic.” He raised his hand to acknowledge the greeting of a man who was passing by. “When last you saw this Hugh de Leon he was but seven years of age. Boys change out of all recognition from seven to twenty. You know that! Perhaps there is a faint resemblance between our Hugh and yours, but you are stretching it beyond all reason.”

The other knight shook his head. “Bones don’t change, and I would know those facial bones anywhere. They are the bones of his mother, the Lady Isabel. And the eyes. They are not the sort of eyes that are easily mistaken. They were the eyes of his father and they are the eyes of his uncle, the present earl. Light gray fringed with black.”

“You cannot be sure,” Bernard said, still unconvinced.

“What hand does this Hugh Corbaille use to wield his sword?” Nigel asked abruptly.

A faint brown haze lay in the air of the bailey as the activity of so many men stirred the summer-dry earth underfoot. Bernard stared at the other man through the dust and did not reply.

“The de Leons are always left-handed,” Nigel said. “In fact, the present earl is widely known as Guy le Gaucher.”

Still Bernard did not reply.

“Your Hugh is left-handed, isn’t he?” Nigel demanded.

Bernard stared down at the packed dry earth of the courtyard under his feet.

What if this man is speaking true? What if Hugh really is…?

He bit his lip and said grudgingly, “What do you want to know?”

The hay wagon had stopped at the stable that lay along one of the bailey walls, and two stableboys were beginning to unload it.

Bernard and Nigel reached the cool shadow of the tall wooden tower and stopped.

Nigel said, “How old was Hugh when he came to be fostered in the sheriff’s household?”

“The usual age,” Bernard replied. “Eight.”

“And where did he come from?”

Bernard scowled, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. Should he say? But the story was well known. Nigel would discover it from another, if not from him.

“Ralf found Hugh starving in the streets of Lincoln,” he said at last. “When the boy spoke to him in Norman French, he took him home to his own house. Ralf and his wife had no children, and Hugh became to them the son they had always longed for.”

For a long moment, Nigel was silent, obviously mulling over what Bernard had just said. “And what did Hugh tell Ralf about his past?” he asked finally.

“Nothing,” Bernard replied with palpable reluctance. “He has always said that he cannot remember.”

The brown eyes regarding Bernard widened as Nigel took in the full import of that statement.

“My God,” he breathed at last. Then, speaking urgently, “I must talk to him.”

“This is not the time to approach Hugh,” Bernard said adamantly. “Not while he is grieving for Ralf.”

Nigel inhaled sharply. At last he said, “I suppose I can understand that.” He frowned. “All right, I will give him time to come to terms with his grief, and then I will visit him. Where can I find him?”

“I don’t know if I should tell you,” Bernard said. “I don’t even know if I should have spoken to you about him at all.”

“Don’t you understand?” Nigel demanded fiercely. “If this boy is who I think he is, he is by right the Earl of Wiltshire and Count of Linaux. Surely you would not seek to deny him such a heritage?”

Most of the morning mist had cleared and the sky overhead was a hazy blue. The air was hot and muggy, and the line at the castle well was a long one.

“And how will the present earl and count receive the news of a possible usurper?” Bernard asked shrewdly.

“Lord Guy has only daughters. There is no son to succeed him,” Nigel said. “The way would lie open for Hugh.”

Bernard raised skeptical eyebrows. “Do you really think that because he has no sons, Earl Guy would be willing to put aside his own claim in favor of a nephew he does not know? For that is what Guy would have to do if he recognized Hugh as his brother’s true son. He would have to step aside.”

Nigel’s lips twitched, and he did not reply.

A man on a magnificent black horse attended by a guard of knights rode in through the bailey gate. Stableboys scrambled to take the horses.

Bernard said, “Before he could even think of approaching Guy, Hugh would first have to prove he is who you say he is.”

“He wears his proof on his face,” the other man returned.

Bernard went on as if he had not heard. “And, of course, there is always the possibility that Hugh will not want to prove it.”

Nigel looked at him as if he were mad. “No man would turn his back on such a heritage.”

And Bernard said wryly, “You don’t know Hugh.”