No Dark Place

4

The forest stretched away darkly on either side of the track, but the road itself was wide enough for the late August sun to reach through the trees and reflect off the mail of Hugh and his party of four as they crossed into Wiltshire to begin the final stage of their journey. Purple-red foxglove blossomed along the edges of the road, and the sound of birds flying busily among the deep green branches of the trees accompanied the riders as they trotted steadily along the forest track. The smell of summer was still in the air.

Here and there the mounted company passed small assarts, cut out of the woods by poor farmers willing to work hard for a little land of their own. Otherwise there was just the forest, rich with game waiting to be hunted by some great lord.

What am I doing here?

The thought echoed through Hugh’s mind as he rode his white stallion in the midst of the four knights Nigel Haslin had sent to escort him to Nigel’s home for the visit Hugh had finally agreed to pay.

It had taken him five months to give in. When Nigel had first proposed that Hugh should come to Somerford, he had refused, as he had refused all the subsequent invitations delivered regularly by one of Nigel’s knights.

The last invitation had come on the anniversary of the Battle of the Standard, exactly one year after Ralf’s death. It had caught Hugh at a particularly vulnerable time.

He had thought that after a year, he would be coping better with his life.

He wasn’t. In fact, as the days went by, he felt himself growing more and more disconnected from Keal and the people in it.

For one thing, there wasn’t enough to keep him occupied. He could run Keal, and Ralf’s two other manors, blindfolded with his hands tied behind his back. Bernard had been right when he had said that Hugh was bored. In fact, he was beginning to feel like a sword left to rust in the corner of a castle storeroom.

It had been all right when Ralf was alive. Then they had spent only a part of the year at Keal. The rest of the time Ralf had lived in Lincoln, or traveled the shire administering the king’s justice.

Hugh had gone everywhere with Ralf, had learned everything that Ralf could teach him. He had not needed to serve as a squire in some great lord’s household. He had learned all about being a knight from his foster father, one of the finest men who ever lived.

The steady four-beat thud of horses trotting on dirt sounded in his ears. The escort of unfamiliar knights rode two abreast, before and behind him. The sun shone on the well-kept brown coats of the stallions in front of him.

Why did I agree to go to Somerford?

Hugh drew in a deep breath of the warm, forest-scented air. A small brown bird flew across the track holding a piece of twig in its beak. The twig was larger than the bird.

Hugh drew in another long, steadying breath, and answered his own question.

Because you think it is entirely possible that you might actually be Hugh de Leon, rightful Earl of Wiltshire.

It was a thought that had haunted him ever since Nigel had left Keal in March. No matter how hard he tried to push it away, it kept creeping back into the conscious levels of his brain.

He was afraid to find out about his past. On the other hand, he wasn’t doing very well with his present, and the future looked even bleaker.

If nothing else, he thought, a visit to Somerford would be a diversion. And it had the added advantage of getting him away from Keal.

One of the knights of his escort, the youngest, pushed his horse forward to trot beside Hugh’s.

“We are but a few hours from Somerford,” the knight, whose name was Thomas, remarked cheerfully. “We should be there well in time for supper.”

Hugh forced himself to smile into the round, freckled face that was beaming at him with such good will. “That is good news,” he said.

“We’ve been lucky that the weather has held so fair,” Thomas said next, and Hugh nodded and made a courteous reply.

They were an hour away from Somerford when the headache started. At first Hugh thought it was just the way the sunlight reflected off the mail of the man in front of him that was bothering his eyes. But then the pain moved into his forehead as well.

By the time the walls and high keep of Somerford Castle appeared in the distance, Hugh was in grave distress.

He said nothing to the men of his escort, just loosened his rein and let his stallion follow the other horses as they approached the great wooden stockade that surrounded the castle bailey.

A moat had been dug around the stockade and a drawbridge was let down across it. The guards in the small towers on either side of the bridge shouted a greeting to their fellows as the five mounted horses and one pack horse trotted over the drawbridge, between the high walls, and into the large bailey.

By now the pain in Hugh’s head was like a firestorm. The sunlight hurt him unbearably and all he wanted was to get away by himself into some dark place.

His stomach heaved and he was desperately afraid he was going to be sick.

He clutched Rufus’s mane with sweaty fingers and, balancing precariously, swung himself down from his saddle.

He took off his helmet, hoping that the lessened weight would help his head.

His mail coif felt as if it were grinding into his skull.

“Hugh! How pleased I am to welcome you to Somerford Castle.”

It was Nigel.

Hugh opened his mouth and spoke. What he said must have been relatively sensible, for Nigel smiled and turned to lead the way up the hill and into the keep.

Hugh followed, clammy and shivering and sick, his head thundering with pain.

They entered through a large door, out of the hot sunshine and into a cooler hall.

Hugh shut his eyes.

When he opened them again, a young girl was standing in front of him. “My daughter, Cristen,” Nigel was saying.

Hugh looked down into a pair of enormous brown eyes. They looked back clearly and then a quiet, low-pitched voice said, “You’re ill. What is wrong?”

“It’s nothing,” Hugh said. “A headache. It has made me rather dizzy, that’s all.”

A small hand closed competently around his wrist. “Come with me,” Nigel’s daughter said.

Hugh went.

She took him across the hall, through two doors, and into a small bedroom.

“You must get out of that mail,” she said. “I’ll send someone to help you.”

Hugh clenched his teeth against the bile he could feel rising in his throat. He would not be sick in front of this girl. He would not.

She handed him a bowl.

“Go ahead,” she said practically. “You’ll probably feel better once you clear out your stomach.”

Unfortunately, at this point he had no choice. He gagged, and then the whole of his midday meal came burning up through his throat and into the basin.

When he was finished, she took the mess away from him.

“Here is William,” she said quietly. “He will help you out of your mail. Then get into bed.”

A young boy came forward and Hugh endured the removal of his mail coif and hauberk, his spurs and leather boots. Finally, when he was clad in only his shirt and leggings, he managed to say, “Thank you,” and to crawl mercifully into bed.

The agony did not lessen. If anything, it was getting worse. He shut his eyes against the pale light in the room.

The quiet voice of Nigel’s daughter said, “Try to drink this. It might help.”

He would drink scalding pitch if it would help.

He pushed himself up onto his elbow and swallowed the liquid in the cup she was holding to his lips. Then he lay back down again.

“I have some cold cloths for your forehead,” the girl said.

“Thank you. I’m sorry to be such a nuisance.”

“Don’t be foolish,” she said, and placed something cold on his head.

He shut his eyes again. “Thank you,” he said.

She didn’t reply, but once again he felt her fingers on his wrist. This time she was feeling his pulse.

After a minute, she released his hand and said, “Are you often subject to headaches?”

“No,” he replied in a voice that sounded very far away. “This is the first time.”

“It will pass,” she said reassuringly. “I have seen this kind of headache before and I promise you that it will pass.”

“When?” he asked desperately.

“Within a few hours. Perhaps sooner.”

The pain had begun to throb with the beating of his pulse. How could he stand hours more of this?

“Do you want me to go away?” she asked. “Or do you want me to stay?”

And Hugh, who had thought he wanted nothing more in the world than to be alone, heard himself saying, “Stay.”

The headache lifted two hours later. There was the slight sensation of a hum in his head, and then, suddenly and absolutely, the pain receded and disappeared.

Slowly he opened his eyes. “It’s gone,” he said in amazement.

The girl, who had been sitting beside him, periodically replenishing the cold cloths on his forehead, stood up.

“Thank God,” she said simply.

He moved his head back and forth on the pillow, testing to see whether or not the pain would return.

Nothing.

He drew in a deep, unsteady breath and let it out again.

“You will be all right now,” the girl said. “I have seen these headaches before. When the pain finally goes away, it does not come back.”

She reached out and removed the cold cloth that was still lying on his forehead.

Hugh looked up, and for the first time he really saw the girl who had been taking care of him.

She was young, sixteen perhaps, and she was lovely. Her face was a perfect, delicate oval, her nose was small and straight, her mouth was tender and yet it looked as if it could also be stern. But it was her eyes that caught and held him; huge brown eyes that looked at him with such directness, such honesty.

She looked at him as if she could see into his very soul.

And Hugh, who revealed himself to no one, looked back.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t remember your name.”

“My name is Cristen.”

He swung his feet to the floor and, slowly and carefully, stood up. She was small; the top of her head reached only to his mouth and he was not a tall man. Her shining brown hair was center-parted and hung rain-straight to her waist. It had the texture of fine silk.

“What is the time?” he asked. For some reason, he knew he did not have to make polite conversation with this girl.

“It is late, after nine o’clock.”

He ran his fingers through his hair, which was damp from the cold, wet cloths. “What must your father think of me?”

“He thinks you were sick, and he will be happy to hear that you are better.” She bent to lift a basket full of cloths from the floor. “Would you like me to send him to see you or would you rather wait until the morning?”

Hugh would much rather wait until the morning.

“If he wishes me to come to the hall, of course I will do so,” he said.

She gave him a severe look. “You are not going into the hall tonight. If you wish to see my father, he will come to you.”

“I shall be happy to see him if that is what he would like,” Hugh responded stoically.

She read him unerringly. “Father Adolphus from Malmesbury Abbey is visiting us, so we will begin the day tomorrow with mass in the chapel at seven. I will tell Father you will see him then.”

“Thank you,” Hugh said. He did not try to disguise his relief. “You have been very kind.”

“I will send a boy with water so you can wash,” she said. “Do you wish something to eat?”

He shook his head, astonished that he felt no pain with the movement. “My stomach is still somewhat uneasy.”

“Would you like me to fix you a potion for it?”

“Thank you, but no. I think all that I need is some sleep.”

She nodded agreement. “I shall wish you a good night, then.”

“My name is Hugh,” he said gravely.

At that, she smiled. “Good night, Hugh.”

And he, who so rarely smiled himself, felt his own lips curve in reply. “Good night,” he said. “Cristen.”

Hugh slept deeply and dreamlessly, only waking when a squire came into his bedroom with water and fresh clothes. He put on his linen drawers while he was still in bed and then he rose to wash in the basin of cold water the boy had brought.

After washing, he put on a clean shirt and hose. Over these went a crimson wool surcoat, with Adela’s handiwork embroidered on its hem and the edges of its long, tight sleeves. Around his waist he buckled a plain leather belt and on his feet he slipped the soft leather shoes that were the proper footwear for indoors. He ran Adela’s fine wooden comb quickly through his short black hair, then said to the squire, “Can you direct me to the chapel?”

“It is up the stairs,” the boy told him. “If you will come with me, I will take you.”

“Thank you,” Hugh said, and allowed Nigel’s squire to lead him out of the bedroom and into a room that looked as if it might be the family solar. They passed through another door that took them into the great hall. As he crossed the rush-strewn wooden floor in the wake of the servant, Hugh made himself look around, trying to distract himself from his dread of going into the chapel.

The hall was a large room with decent-sized windows thrown open to the summer air. Colorful rugs hung on the stone walls to keep out drafts. There was a large fireplace set into one wall, and two balls of gray fur lay curled in the rushes in front of the empty grate.

The castle cats were taking a rest from their rodent-catching duties, Hugh thought.

The high table was already in place for the morning’s breaking fast, but the trestle tables for the lesser folk were still stacked along the walls.

The room smelled clean. Adela would have approved, Hugh thought.

“This way,” the squire said, and Hugh put his foot on the sturdy wooden staircase that would take him to the third level of the castle.

He saw the open door of the chapel as soon as he reached the top of the stairs. Servants were filing in, but Hugh scarcely noticed them. He was too busy trying to repress the feeling he always got in his stomach whenever he entered a castle chapel.

“The master and Lady Cristen are already seated in the front,” his youthful escort murmured, and obediently Hugh made his way down the narrow aisle. He stepped into the carved wooden pew next to Nigel.

His host gave him a grave smile and then turned his attention to the altar.

Hugh stared straight ahead, first at the carved crucifix that hung on the wall over the altar, then at the altar itself, covered with an embroidered linen cloth and topped with gold candlesticks and a carved wooden tabernacle.

The too-familiar feeling began to creep over him again: part terror, part anger, part utter desolation.

He was all right in a large church, but in a chapel…

Why do I always feel like this?

Instinctively he knew that he did not want to learn the answer to that question.

The earl was killed in a chapel.

He did not want to think about that, either. It was fruitless to think about that. He couldn’t remember.

The priest had come out onto the altar. He faced the tabernacle, raised his hands and began to intone the prayer that always opened mass: “In nomine patris…”

The congregation, Hugh included, made the sign of the cross.

When mass was finished, Hugh filed out of the chapel with Nigel and Cristen.

“How are you feeling this morning?” his host asked, scanning Hugh’s tense face with narrowed eyes.

“Much better,” Hugh replied. “I apologize for arriving in such a pitiful state.”

“You don’t look well,” Nigel said bluntly.

Hugh’s nostrils pinched together. “I assure you, I am fine.”

The three of them began to descend the stairs to the great hall, where the servants were busily setting up the trestle tables for the morning’s breaking fast.

Halfway down the stairs, they were met by two dogs who came racing to shove their noses into Cristen’s hands. The girl laughed, caressed their heads briefly, then turned to Hugh. “You must allow me to introduce you. This is Cedric,” she nodded toward the shaggy brown mongrel with one torn ear that was pressing against her leg. “And this is Ralf.”

Hugh felt his eyes widen at the mention of the name. He looked at the large, black-and-white, freckle-nosed dog and, unconsciously, his hand went up to encircle the gold cross he had worn around his throat ever since his foster father’s death.

Nigel said with resignation, “My daughter should have a purebred, of course, but these are the dogs she wanted.”

“There is always someone who will take a purebred,” Cristen said briskly. “Cedric and Ralf need me.”

She bestowed one more pat on each dog and then resumed walking down the stairs.

“Cristen rescued Ralf from being drowned in the river when he was a puppy and Cedric came wandering up to the castle walls one night, injured and crying, and she insisted that we take him in.” Nigel’s voice held a mixture of amusement and pride as he spoke of his daughter and her animals.

They had reached the bottom of the stairs and now they began to walk across the hall floor toward the high table. Hugh noticed that Ralf had a noticeable limp.

A servant stepped up to Cristen’s side and she stopped to speak to him. “How is Berta this morning?”

The man smiled at her, revealing two missing front teeth. “She is feeling better, my lady. She wanted to come down to the morning meal but I told her she had best not stir until you gave her leave.”

Cristen nodded. “You did well, Martin. I will go to see her after the breaking of fast.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

Hugh looked with curiosity into the small oval face of the girl who was walking beside him flanked by her dogs. “Are you a doctor then, Lady Cristen?”

She laughed. “No. I merely have some knowledge of herbs, and the castle folk find me helpful.”

“Not just the castle folk,” her father interjected. They had reached the dais by now, and he gestured Hugh to the chair on his right. “Cristen’s skill as a healer is well known in all the surrounding countryside.”

Hugh said, “So that is why you were able to take care of me so ably yesterday.”

The two dogs established themselves with comfortable familiarity behind Cristen’s chair. She said, “If you would like, Hugh, I will show you my herb garden after we have broken fast.”

Hugh looked at her. “I should like that very much.”

Hugh stood before the high table, waiting for Cristen to return from her visit to the sick Berta. The cats were gone from in front of the fireplace and the hall was filled with servants busily scouring the trestle tables and moving them back against the walls so they would not be in the way of the morning activities.

Sunlight slanted in through the open windows on the right wall, dappling the heads of the busy servants.

Thomas, the young knight who had been part of Hugh’s escort, passed in front of him and offered a tentative smile. Grave-faced, Hugh nodded back.

What am I doing here?

It was the thought that had haunted Hugh ever since Ralf’s death. Night after night, he had stood in front of the fireplace at Keal, staring at his own hall, at his own dependents, and the thought had risen in his brain.

What am I doing here?

Accompanying that question was the terrifying sensation that he had been separated from the rest of the people in the room by a wall of ice. He could see them clearly enough, but he could not communicate with them. No matter what he did, he could not break through the frozen wall that isolated him in such desolate loneliness. The despair that welled up inside him at these moments was almost unbearable. One day it would be truly unbearable, and what would he do then?

A warm hand touched his arm.

A white-tipped tail slapped against his leg.

He looked down into a pair of clear brown eyes.

“I’m ready,” Cristen said. “Do you still want to see my garden?”

Hugh inhaled deeply. “Aye,” he said. “I do.”