The Poisoned Serpent

1

SOMERFORD CASTLE

December 1139

Cristen was giving haircuts. She had spread a large sheet under a bench in the middle of the great hall, and a procession of her father’s household knights submitted themselves to her ministrations during the course of the winter afternoon. As the last of them stood up, blowing the hair off his nose, she turned to the young man sitting in front of the large fireplace playing chess.

“You next, Hugh,” she said.

Hugh de Leon ran his fingers through his hair as if to assess its length. “My hair is fine as it is,” he said.

“It’s too long. It makes you look untidy.”

Hugh looked affronted.

Thomas, the young knight who was playing chess with Hugh, grinned. “The rest of us had to get Christmas haircuts, my lord. I think it’s only fair that you follow our example.”

“I hate to get my hair cut,” Hugh complained. “The hair always gets under my shirt and itches.”

Cristen flapped the large cloth she had been draping over the knights to keep the hair off of their clothes. “This will stop the hair from going down your neck,” she promised.

“Hah,” Hugh returned. “I’ve heard that before.”

But he got to his feet and moved toward the chair, stepping around the tufts of hair that the shorn knights had left behind.

Cristen raised her comb.

Hugh yelped. “You’re not going to use the same comb on me that you just used on Lionel!”

“Why not?” Cristen demanded. “His hair was clean.”

“I will get you my own comb,” Hugh said.

“I’m insulted,” Lionel called from the bench where he was repairing a link on his mail shirt.

“Adela always told me never to use any comb but my own,” Hugh said firmly.

“Go and get it, then,” Cristen said with resignation.

When Hugh invoked the name of his beloved foster mother, she knew that the subject was closed.

He returned with his comb, handed it to Cristen, and took his place on the bench. She ran the comb once through his thick, straight, ink-black hair, and then she began to cut.

“I can feel the hair going down my collar,” Hugh informed her after she had been working for a few minutes.

“Be quiet,” she replied sternly. “You are worse than Brian.” Brian was her father’s page.

They were interrupted as the door to the hall opened and the lord of the castle, Sir Nigel Haslin, came in.

“Father,” Cristen said with satisfaction. “You are just in time to get your hair cut.”

But her father paid no heed. Striding across the room, he was intent on Hugh, still enthroned on the haircut bench. “I’ve just got word,” Nigel said, “that Stephen has named Gilbert de Beauté to be Earl of Lincoln.”

Cristen stopped cutting.

“De Beauté?” Hugh said in surprise.

“Aye.”

The two men looked at each other soberly.

Resuming her cutting, Cristen asked, “Didn’t everyone expect him to name William of Roumare?”

“William of Roumare certainly expected it,” Hugh said.

“The king obviously decided it was safer to split the power in Lincolnshire between Roumare and de Beauté,” Nigel returned. “We can only hope that this development will not push Roumare and his half brother, the Earl of Chester, into the empress’s camp.”

The civil war between King Stephen and his cousin, the Empress Matilda, the only legitmate child of England’s former king, had been raging since September, when she had landed in England along with her half brother, Robert, Earl of Gloucester. At the moment, the empress’s party was securely in control of almost all the western lands. Outside the west, the country was weakly in support of Stephen.

“What do you know about de Beauté?” Nigel asked Hugh, who had been brought up in Lincoln.

Hugh looked thoughtful.

“Ralf thought he was a nuisance. He seemed always to be involved in some lawsuit or other regarding land.”

“Hmm,” said Nigel through his aristocratic nose. “Well, obviously Stephen thinks he can trust de Beauté’s loyalty more than he can trust Roumare’s.”

“You can get up now,” Cristen said to Hugh. “I’m finished.” She looked at Nigel. “Come along, Father. Time to get your Christmas haircut.”

Nigel sighed. “Oh, all right.”

“Once Lady Cristen starts cutting, no one is safe,” Brian said mischievously.

“That is right,” Cristen agreed. Her large brown eyes regarded her father commandingly.

Nigel took off his cloak and handed it to his squire. “Don’t get hair down my back,” he warned his daughter.

“I won’t,” she replied.

“Yes, she will,” Hugh said gloomily. “I am going inside to change my shirt.”

That evening Nigel retired early to his private solar, leaving the rest of the household singing songs around the fire. He had been brooding in his large, high-backed chair for almost an hour when the door opened and Cristen and Hugh came in.

Nigel took one look at the two young faces and felt a knot form in the pit of his stomach. He knew what was coming.

“May we speak to you for a moment, sir?” Hugh said.

Nigel looked at the young man whom he had known for five months, and whom he had come to love like a son.

“I suppose so,” he said heavily.

Side by side, they moved to stand between him and the glowing charcoal brazier.

“I want to marry Cristen,” Hugh said.

Nigel shut his eyes. When he opened them again, he fixed them upon his daughter.

Her small, delicate face was pale. Her eyes were shadowed.

Cristen knew what he was going to say.

Wearily, Nigel rubbed his hand up and down his face.

“Hugh, if the decision were up to me, I would tell you that there is no one to whom I would rather give Cristen than you. But my daughter cannot marry without the consent of her overlord. Nor can you marry without the consent of your uncle. And I am very sure that Lord Guy will never agree to such a match.”

Hugh’s fine-boned face wore a look that Nigel had seen before. When Hugh looked like that, nothing on earth could move him.

He said, “If Guy does give his consent, will you agree?”

Nigel sighed. “Aye, I will give my consent if Lord Guy will give his.”

Hugh smiled, suddenly looking as young as his twenty-one years. “Thank you, sir.”

Nigel felt impelled to add, “Guy is not going to consent to this match, Hugh. He will want you to make a marriage that will bring more land into the family. The de Leons have nothing to gain from a marriage to Cristen. Somerford already belongs to the Earl of Wiltshire’s honor.”

The smile disappeared from Hugh’s face. His eyes narrowed. “We shall see,” he said.

Once more, Nigel looked at his daughter. His heart ached when he saw the expression in her great brown eyes.

I should have kept her away from Hugh, he thought. I should never have allowed this situation to develop.

But from the moment Hugh had arrived at Somerford, the two of them had been as close as two people who have known each other forever. Nigel, who was accustomed to the way people responded to his daughter, had taken too long to recognize the nature of the attachment between her and Hugh. Sometimes he thought they could read each other’s minds.

“My uncle is attending Stephen’s Christmas Court,” Hugh said. “I will go to see him when he returns to Chippenham.”

“Very well,” Nigel said. Once more, he rubbed his hand over his face. “Then you may spend Christmas with us.”

It was exactly a week after the Epiphany when Hugh entered the great hall of Chippenham Castle, home to three generations of earls of Wiltshire. A group of men and women were gathered in front of the immense stone fireplace, drinking wine and lounging comfortably in chairs and on benches. Noisy talk and bawdy laughter emanated from the gathering.

One of the three pages sitting on the bench along the wall close to the door jumped up and came over to the new arrival.

“My lord,” he said as he recognized Hugh’s face.

“Go and tell Lord Guy that I am here, will you?” Hugh said pleasantly.

The page turned and raced across the hall floor. He went up to the man who was sitting in a large carved chair close to the fire, dropped to one knee, and began to speak. Guy turned his head toward the door and waved to Hugh to come ahead.

Hugh was aware that the raucous laughter had died away as soon as he was announced. He crossed the wide, rush-strewn floor, noting fastidiously that as usual the rushes should have been changed at least two days ago. He approached his uncle and bowed his head to the infinitesimally precise degree of respect that was required.

“My lord,” he said. “It is good to see you again.”

Guy’s startling light gray eyes, the eyes that were so amazingly like Hugh’s, regarded the slim form of his nephew. “It is a cold day for a ride,” he commented.

“Aye,” Hugh returned agreeably. “My feet are freezing.”

“Come to the fire,” Guy said. “Richard, get up and give my nephew your seat.”

Sir Richard Evril scowled, but he got to his feet and moved out of the way so that Guy’s nephew could sit down. Hugh pushed his mail coif back off his head, baring his tousled black hair to the light of the fire.

“Pour Lord Hugh some wine,” Guy said to one of the squires.

The boy came forward with a cup, which he offered to Hugh.

The entire company around the fire was silent, listening to this exchange between Hugh and Guy. Aside from their black hair and gray eyes, the two men bore little resemblance to each other. Guy’s face was heavy, with broad cheekbones and a wide jaw. Hugh’s bones were narrow and finely sculpted. His cheekbones were high, his jaw firm but finely modeled.

Guy was fifty-six years old and had been the Earl of Wiltshire, one of the most powerful men in the kingdom, since the death of his brother thirteen years before. Hugh had returned to the home of his birth only a few months ago, a young man without memory of his past, the owner of several insignificant manors in Lincolnshire.

Given their histories, the amazing thing was that, of the two of them, it was the younger who appeared the more formidable.

Guy turned to the blond, blue-eyed woman seated on a stool next to him. “When Hugh has finished his wine, my dear, you must show him to his room.”

“Yes, my lord,” replied Lady Eleanor, Guy’s hostess, whom he always introduced as his cousin, but whose real position was far less respectable.

“I’m glad you have come, nephew,” Guy said genially. “I have just returned from Stephen’s Christmas Court, and I have something I wish to talk to you about.”

“I have something I wish to say to you as well,” Hugh returned.

Guy grunted. “After you have gotten out of your mail, come to my solar. We can speak there in private.”

Hugh nodded, drained his cup of wine, and stood up.

Lady Eleanor leaped immediately to her feet. “I will show you to your room, Lord Hugh.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Hugh replied courteously. He followed the Lady Eleanor to the wide staircase that led from the great hall up to the next floor, where a group of private bedchambers were located.

Hugh was amused to note that she did not take him to the small room he had been given on his previous visits, but instead showed him to a larger chamber that had a rug on the floor and a fur cover on the bed.

“Thank you, my lady,” he said to Guy’s mistress.

She smiled at him, displaying a pretty dimple and stained teeth. “I will send a squire to help you disarm,” she promised, and left.

Hugh dropped his mantle and gloves on the wooden chest that sat against the wall, and pulled his mail coif off over his head. He was unbuckling his sword belt when someone knocked on the door. “Come,” he called, and a boy of about sixteen entered the room.

“I am here to disarm you, my lord,” the squire said.

“Thank you,” Hugh replied, and stood patiently while the boy undid the laces on his mail hauberk and pulled it over his head. The hauberk was made of leather, with more than two hundred thousand overlapping metal rings sewn on it for protection. Hugh had worn the hauberk as a precaution due to the unsettled times, but he had not worn either the long-sleeved mail shirt or mail leggings that he would have donned had he been dressed in full armor.

He let the squire strip him to his linen shirt and woolen leggings, then washed his face and hands in the water basin the boy had brought him. Once he was clean, he pulled his blue wool surcoat back on over his white shirt, circled it with a soft leather belt, and announced that he was ready to see Lord Guy.

The solar at Chippenham was a much larger room than the one at Somerford. The shutters were closed tightly against the cold January afternoon, and the large charcoal brazier in the middle of the room gave off a warmth that was held within the room by the tapestries that covered the walls. The room contained several handsomely carved chests and two backless benches with beautifully carved arms.

Three chairs with comfortable cushions were placed around the brazier. Seated in one of them was Guy, a fat candle burning on a small table next to him.

“So, Hugh,” he said amicably as his nephew came in. “You are looking well.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Hugh advanced into the room and took the chair that his uncle pointed to.

For a long moment, two pairs of light gray eyes studied each other.

Then Guy leaned back in his chair and propped his legs on an embroidered footstool. “I had an interesting time at Stephen’s Christmas Court.”

“Did you, my lord?” Hugh responded politely.

“It caused quite a furor, let me tell you, when I let it be known that Roger’s son had been found.”

Hugh said nothing.

After waiting a moment, Guy went on, “My brother’s reputation as a hero of the Crusade is still cherished by the men of his generation. I was forced to listen far too many times to the tale of how he led the storming of the gates of Jerusalem.”

A muscle twitched in the corner of Hugh’s jaw, but again he said nothing.

Guy eyed him with a trace of annoyance. “We must make arrangements for you to swear your allegiance formally to Stephen.”

At last Hugh spoke. “I am not overly impressed with the way the king has conducted his campaign thus far.”

Guy scowled. “What does that have to do with anything? If you wish to receive recognition as my heir, you will have to swear allegiance to Stephen. I agree that we might have been able to accomplish more for the family by remaining neutral, but that is not how things have fallen out.” Guy lifted his thick graying eyebrows. “At the moment, it is convenient to show allegiance to Stephen. That does not mean that we cannot change our minds if the times change.”

Hugh’s expression was unreadable. “My foster father taught me that a feudal oath is sacred and cannot be undone.”

“Your foster father was not the Earl of Wiltshire and Count of Linaux,” Guy retorted. “Men like us are not bound by the same laws that bind other men. Remember that, nephew.”

Hugh did not reply, just regarded his uncle thoughtfully.

Guy said, “Now let me tell you of my greatest coup.” He rubbed his hands and smiled with satisfaction. “Gilbert de Beauté, the new Earl of Lincoln, was at Stephen’s Christmas Court. As I am sure you know, Stephen named de Beauté over William of Roumare, and with good reason. If Roumare should control Lincoln, then he and his half brother, Ranulf of Chester, would between them command an important triangle right in the heart of the kingdom. The establishment of such a power base would be just as dangerous to Stephen as the threat posed by Gloucester and the empress.”

Guy’s smile broadened. “But what Stephen has foiled Chester and Roumare from accomplishing, we may be able to achieve for the de Leons.”

Hugh’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Gilbert de Beauté has one child, a daughter. She will bring to her husband vast lands, as well as the earldom of Lincoln.”

Guy’s smile became sharklike. “Gilbert and I spoke extensively while I was at Salisbury. He knew your foster father and said he was very highly regarded in the shire. The foster son of Ralf Corbaille would be a popular choice for the next earl of Lincoln. The added fact that by birth you are not an insignificant Corbaille, but a de Leon, makes your attraction irresistible.”

Hugh’s complexion had gone very white. “What are you saying?”

“Gilbert de Beauté has agreed to a match between you and his daughter,” Guy said triumphantly. “Just think, Hugh! The de Leons will control all of Lincoln and Wiltshire. And those two lordships will also give us command of a string of manors and castles that form almost a solid line between the two shires. We will accomplish what Chester and Roumare could not. It is the de Leons who will sit astride the kingdom, not Chester and his half brother!”

“And that is precisely the reason why the king will never agree to such a match,” Hugh said tersely.

“He has already agreed,” Guy said jubilantly. “Now that you and I have reconciled, Stephen knows that he must offer me something else to keep me attached to him. And so he will buy our loyalty with the Lincoln heiress.”

A white line formed down the center of Hugh’s nose as he said, “The reason I came to see you, my lord, was to ask for your permission to marry Lady Cristen of Somerford.”

Guy stared at him in amazement. “You can’t be serious. Where is the gain for us in a marriage to Lady Cristen? I already control Somerford!”

Hugh said steadily, “I love her.”

“Great men do not marry for love,” Guy snapped. “I did not think I would have to tell you that. You were born to one of the highest positions in all of England. You have a chance to make your family even more powerful than it already is. Love does not enter into the marriage of an earl. You will marry where your duty lies, as the rest of us have done.”

Slowly Hugh rose to his feet. “I see,” he said.

“Don’t be a fool, Hugh,” Guy said. He, too, got to his feet. “You must consider your own self-interest in the matter of a marriage.”

“I will, my lord,” Hugh said. There was a white line around his mouth as well. “I promise you that I will make my self-interest a matter of the utmost priority.”

Guy looked at him warily.

“And my self-interest dictates that I marry the Lady Cristen,” Hugh said.

There was a tense silence.

“Have you gotten her with child?” Guy demanded.

Hugh flushed. “Nay.”

Guy took a step toward his nephew. “Then forget her, Hugh. I will never give my permission for such a marriage. It is ludicrous for you even to contemplate it! You will marry Lady Elizabeth and bring honor to your family.”

Hugh said, “If Cristen was with child, then would you agree to our marriage?”

“I will never agree to such a marriage,” Guy said firmly. “All such an unfortunate situation would mean is that I would be forced to find Lady Cristen a husband quickly.”

Hugh said calmly, “I will never marry Elizabeth de Beauté.”

Guy set his mouth in a grim line as he regarded his nephew. “I made you my heir; I can just as easily unmake you.”

“And I can go to Robert of Gloucester and declare for the empress,” Hugh returned. “I am quite certain that he will promise to back my claim to my father’s earldom.”

There was something strangely compelling about Hugh’s slim figure, his glittering gray eyes. Watching him, it was easy to believe that his father had been the greatest soldier of his time.

“Don’t be a fool, Hugh,” Guy repeated. “You can make Lady Cristen one of your wife’s ladies. You won’t have to give her up.”

Hugh looked at Guy, and involuntarily, Guy took a step back.

Then Hugh turned and strode out of the room.