The Poisoned Serpent

15

At the castle, Hugh introduced Cristen to the sheriff, who gave his permission for her to visit Bernard. It took Cristen less than half an hour to demand that the sheriff remove Bernard from his chill damp cell and put him into one of the castle’s tower rooms, with a charcoal brazier to keep him warm.

“This man is very ill,” she told Gervase severely. “If you want to have a living man to put on trial and not a corpse, you had better do as I tell you.”

Hugh watched with concealed delight as his small, fragile-looking beloved threatened the sheriff with all sorts of dire consequences if he did not move Bernard.

And she did it so nicely, he thought. Cristen was never hostile or aggressive. She just backed you into a corner, and before you knew what was happening, the only way out was her way.

That was how Bernard Radvers came to be tucked into a warm bed in one of the corner towers, his cough soothed by an elixir of horehound and his fever responding to a draught of wine mulled with borage and assorted other herbs.

The only part of Cristen’s assault on Gervase that Hugh did not enjoy was her requirement that the sheriff give her the room next door to Bernard for the duration of his illness.

“I am afraid that his lungs might have been affected,” she told Gervase worriedly. “He must be watched closely.”

Hugh, who had quite other ideas for Cristen during her stay in Lincoln, listened to these words glumly.

She was right, he told himself as he stood with Cristen and Richard in the tower room where she would be staying. If Bernard was as ill as she said he was, his need was greater than Hugh’s. And there was another benefit to her staying in the castle to minister to Bernard. Her vigil would help to convince Guy that she had been telling the truth about her reason for coming to Lincoln.

Hell and the devil, Hugh thought, trying not to scowl too openly. It would be easier to scale a castle wall without a rope than it is to get Cristen to myself.

“I will put my squire at your disposal for the duration of your stay, Lady Cristen,” Richard was saying. “He will be able to procure for you anything you might need.” As he spoke, two of Gervase’s men arrived with another brazier for Cristen’s bedroom and a pallet for Mabel to sleep upon.

Cristen pointed out to the men where she wanted them to place Mabel’s mattress. “You are very kind, Sir Richard,” she said distractedly.

He made a little bow. “I am happy to be of service, my lady. It will not reflect well upon us should we allow a prisoner in our hands to die.”

A mistake, Richard, Hugh thought acidly. You just said that to the wrong person.

Cristen’s fine brows lifted. “I will do my best to keep him breathing for you.”

The sheriff’s men departed, leaving the three of them alone in the room.

Richard said, “It is a shame that Hugh did not inform us sooner about Bernard’s condition. Had we known, he might not have become so very ill.”

Careful! Hugh sent the silent message to Cristen, afraid she might not see the trap.

“Hugh did what he thought was best,” Cristen replied, calmly evading it. “He sent for me.”

“That was wise of him,” Richard agreed. He turned to look at Hugh. “My real regret is that you have so little trust in us that you felt we would do nothing for Bernard on our own.”

“You think I don’t trust you and your father?” Hugh said in astonishment.

Richard looked ineffably sad. “You don’t trust me, at any rate. And I don’t think you like my father because he succeeded Ralf.”

Hugh said, “It always amazes me, Richard, how well you are able to read my heart.”

Faint color stole into Richard’s cheeks. “I had better go.”

“Good idea,” Hugh said.

Richard turned back to Cristen. “Thank you again, Lady Cristen. My father and I appreciate your generosity.”

“She is doing it for Bernard, Richard, not for you and your father.”

Cristen said, “Thank you for your assistance, Sir Richard. I should very much appreciate the service of your squire.”

Richard bowed once more. His cheeks were still a little flushed as he went out of the room.

Left alone, Hugh and Cristen looked at each other.

“I was touched by his concern for Bernard,” she said.

Hugh snorted. “The only person who exists in Richard’s world is Richard.”

He walked over to her and put his arms around her. She leaned against him.

“Try not to let him disturb you so much,” she said softly.

His arms tightened. “Christ, but I wish you didn’t have to stay here.”

“Bernard really is ill, Hugh. I wasn’t exaggerating.”

He sighed. “I know.”

The sound of leather soles scraping against the floor came from the passage, and Hugh dropped his arms and stepped back.

Mabel came into the room. “Thomas told me that you needed me, my lady.”

Hugh felt Cristen’s attention shift away from him. “Aye, Mabel. We have a sick man to look after.”

“I had better go and leave you to your work,” he said resignedly.

Cristen sent him a quick smile, then turned back to Mabel.

Hugh walked out of the room. As he ran lightly down the tower stairs, he decided that he would spend the afternoon paying a visit to Edgar Harding of Deerhurst.

The manor of Deerhurst lay to the south of Lincoln, east of the River Witham. The Harding who had dwelt there during the time of King William had been one of the few Saxons who managed to save his property from the greedy hands of the Norman conqueror. The Hardings had kept their holdings under the rule of William’s sons as well, but now, under the conqueror’s grandson Stephen, land that had belonged to the Hardings for generations had been given away to a Norman earl.

The property that remained to Edgar Harding, however, was extensive and well cultivated. For generations, the city of Lincoln had depended upon produce and fodder from Deerhurst to feed its people and animals during the long winter months.

Hugh had been to Deerhurst several times with Ralf, and so he knew what to expect once he rode in through the palisaded wooden fence that surrounded the enclave. The Hardings had never adopted the Norman style of building, but had maintained instead the old Saxon timber construction and architecture. Instead of a single castle keep, Deerhurst consisted of a series of separate rectangular buildings: the halls, bowers, sleeping chambers, kitchen, and stable of the manor.

Hugh stopped Rufus just inside the open gate and gave his name to the burly man who had stepped in front of him. He asked to speak to Edgar Harding.

The Saxon stared at him suspiciously, then told him to wait. Hugh remained exactly where he was, giving Rufus a loose rein so he could drop his head and stretch his neck.

About a dozen people were scattered around the courtyard, all looking at Hugh. Their expressions were not friendly.

After almost a quarter of an hour, a slender, fair-haired young man came out of one of the buildings and approached Hugh and Rufus. He stopped next to the stallion’s head and said in French, “I am Cedric Harding. I regret that my father is not at Deerhurst at present. May I be of some assistance to you?”

The young man looked to be about Hugh’s age and had a similar build. His words were irreproachably courteous, but there was a wary look in his blue eyes.

Hugh made a quick decision. “Perhaps you can. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

Cedric Harding’s face was perfectly expressionless as he replied, “Of course not. Come inside with me.” He looked at the burly man who had resumed his post at the gate and said in English, “Alfred, take Lord Hugh’s horse and see that he is attended to.” Then, switching back to French to speak to Hugh, “Come with me.”

As Rufus was led away toward the stable, Hugh fell into step with the younger Harding.

“I am my father’s eldest son,” Cedric informed him.

“I am surprised that we have not met before this,” Hugh said. “I grew up in Lincoln as the foster son of Ralf Corbaille.”

Cedric Harding’s blue eyes flashed toward him. “I know.”

Hugh was silent, waiting for an answer to his comment.

Cedric shrugged and said, “My father does not like his household to mingle too closely with Normans.”

Hugh, who thought this attitude was supremely shortsighted, forebore to comment. Instead, he followed Cedric into the largest of the wooden buildings, which he knew from previous visits was Deerhurst’s main hall.

This Saxon edifice was very different from the Norman-built castles to which Hugh was accustomed. The front door of the large timber structure led into a small porch, which served as an anteroom to the main room. This was a large rectangular hall with a long hearth laid in its center. Smoke holes in the cross-beamed roof let out the fumes that drifted up from the roaring fire. A bench ran along the two long walls of the hall, and above the bench was hung an impressive display of weapons: round Saxon shields, throwing spears, thrusting spears, swords, and battle axes. Directly facing Hugh on the opposite short wall of the hall, several carved chairs with arms were placed on a dais. The wooden floor of the hall was swept and bare of rushes.

A handful of men were seated on the side benches. A low stool in front of them held food and ale, and they paused in their meal to look curiously toward Hugh and Cedric as they came in.

Cedric led the way across the floor to the dais. He sat down in one of the chairs and gestured for Hugh to do the same.

“Witgar,” he called toward the group of men, “have one of the women fetch us some ale.”

A man got up and went out the door, and Cedric turned back to his uninvited guest.

Hugh said, “I am investigating the murder of the Earl of Lincoln.”

Cedric’s blue eyes were cold. “My understanding is that the murderer has been caught.”

“The sheriff has arrested someone, but I think he has the wrong man.”

A long minute ticked by as the two young men regarded each other, rather in the manner of two wrestlers assessing each other’s strength. Finally Cedric said, “And what does the murder of the Earl of Lincoln have to do with us here at Deerhurst?”

Hugh spoke blunt words in his softest voice. “It is well known that your father had reason to hate de Beauté. I am simply trying to eliminate as many possible suspects as I can in the hopes of eventually isolating the real killer. If your father can demonstrate he was elsewhere on the night of the murder, he will make my task that much easier.”

“Why don’t you think the man they have is the real killer?” Cedric asked.

Hugh’s relaxed hands were lying palm-down on the carved wooden arms of his chair. “He swears he is innocent and, as he happens to be a friend of mine, I believe him. I am trying to discover the truth before they hang the wrong man.”

Cedric leaned back in his chair and regarded Hugh with palpable irony. “It would be so much nicer if you could hang a Saxon, wouldn’t it?”

“It would be so much nicer if we could hang a murderer,” Hugh retorted. “I have no interest in convicting an innocent man, be he my friend or your father.”

Cedric said flatly, “There is nothing that ties my father to the death of the earl.”

Hugh gazed at one of the spears hanging on the wall to his right. It was a heavy thrusting spear, its head richly inlaid with copper and bronze.

It must be a ceremonial weapon, he thought. You wouldn’t use such a spear in battle.

Slowly Hugh returned his eyes to Edgar Harding’s son. “There might be,” he said. “Your father knew exactly how the earl was killed, and that information has not been made public. I would be interested to learn how he acquired that particular knowledge. I would also like to know where he was on the night Lord Gilbert was murdered. Neither question should pose a problem to an innocent man.”

A woman carrying a goblet in each hand came in from the porch and began to cross the floor in the direction of the dais.

“You requested ale, master,” she said to Cedric in English as she came up to him.

“Thank you, Hilda,” Cedric said. He took both goblets from her and handed one to Hugh. The woman turned and recrossed the floor toward the door.

Hugh took a sip of his ale and waited.

Cedric didn’t drink, but instead looked intently at the liquid in his cup. At last, still staring into his goblet, he said, “I can tell you where my father was on the night the earl was murdered. He was here at Deerhurst.”

“I see,” Hugh said neutrally. “And you remember that clearly?”

Finally Cedric lifted his eyes from his cup and looked at Hugh. “I remember it very clearly. It was the night of my sister’s betrothal and we held a feast right here in the hall. My father presided.”

Hugh held Cedric’s steady blue stare.

“Your father was here all night?”

“He was here all night.”

Hugh said gently, “Well then, that resolves that particular problem, doesn’t it?” He put his unfinished ale on the floor next to his chair and stood up. “Thank you for your assistance, Harding. I will be on my way.”

“I’ll have them bring you your horse,” Cedric returned.

In silence the two young men, so similar in build, one fair and one dark, walked across the hall and went out the door.

Some minutes later, as he was riding back toward Lincoln, Hugh reflected upon what he had learned at Deerhurst.

Cedric Harding had to have been telling the truth about the betrothal feast. He would not dare to alter the date of such an event; too many people were involved in such an affair to make for a successful lie.

On the other hand, Hugh thought, the feast probably started well before dark. He had little doubt that by the time evening fell, most of the men in the hall would have been drunk. It would not have been that difficult for Harding to slip out unnoticed and ride into Lincoln. Everyone would have thought he had gone to his bed to sleep off the excess wine.

How did he know about the stab wound to the heart?

Hugh scowled in frustration. His visit to Deerhurst had left him in the same position he had been in before he went. He had no proof that Edgar Harding had killed the earl, but neither did he have proof that he had not.

In fact, he thought, he may very well have added another suspect to his list. Harding’s son seemed fully as inimical to Normans as was his father.

In his mind’s eye Hugh saw again the cold blue eyes of the young Saxon. Cedric Harding did not appear to be the sort of young man who would flinch from murder if he thought he had provocation enough.

Hugh stared bleakly at the heights of Lincoln Castle in the distance. I am getting nowhere with this investigation, he thought in frustration. If I don’t come up with something solid soon, Bernard is going to hang.