The Poisoned Serpent

26

A Judgment of God. Trial by combat. Two men fighting each other until death proved which one heaven found guilty. This was one of the most ancient tests for justice, and its validity was recognized by both Church and State.

Once combat had been called for, and accepted, the chief justiciar decreed that it must be accomplished that very afternoon, as he had business back in London and could not afford to be delayed. He announced the dismissal of the witnesses and requested Richard and Hugh to attend him in the sheriff’s office immediately. Then he departed. Gervase and Richard went out behind him.

The discharged witnesses did not leave the armory hall right away, but clustered in small groups, buzzing with excitement and casting speculative looks at Bernard and Hugh, who stood together in front of the justiciar’s table, talking intently.

“Let me be the one to fight Richard,” Bernard was saying to his young advocate. “I am the one who has been accused. I am the logical man to oppose him.”

Hugh looked amused. “Bernard, you are only just arisen from your sickbed. You are hardly in condition to oppose Richard.”

“Then let someone else fight for me. You don’t have to be my champion.”

The amusement died, and Hugh’s face turned deadly sober. “Bernard, I want Richard dead. He is like a snake who drips his venom on everything good that he touches. He killed his brother. He killed Gilbert de Beauté and William Cobbett and John Rye. He seduced and injured Elizabeth de Beauté. And that is just the damage that we know about. I want him dead, and I am the man most likely to accomplish that. So talk to me no more about taking my place.”

There was nothing left for Bernard to say.

Forgive me, Ralf, he thought as he stared into Hugh’s dedicated face. I have done an ill job of taking care of your boy.

A feminine voice tinged with annoyance intruded. “Really, Hugh, do you always have to be so dramatic?” It was Cristen, with Nicholas at her side, come to join them.

“The Judgment of God wasn’t my idea,” Hugh protested. “It’s Richard who wants to be the center of everyone’s attention, not me.”

Cristen’s lips curved into a smile, but Bernard could see that her large brown eyes were somber.

Hugh saw it, too. “Don’t worry,” he said lightly. “I really do believe that God will be on my side this afternoon.”

“Of course He will,” she replied instantly.

“Are you really going to fight him, Hugh?” Nicholas asked in awe.

“I am,” Hugh replied.

Nicholas looked Hugh up and down, his awe turning to worry as he said the words that everyone else was thinking, “But he is so much bigger than you!”

“He may be bigger,” Hugh returned with serenity, “but I promise you that I am better.”

Nicholas smiled, as Hugh meant him to, but the worry did not leave his eyes.

“Lord Hugh.” It was the clerk who had been transcribing the trial. “My lord, the chief justiciar wishes you to come to the sheriff’s office so he may settle the terms of combat with you and Sir Richard.”

Hugh nodded and looked at Cristen. “Go back to Ralf’s house,” he told her. “I will meet you there as soon as I can.”

She nodded, and Hugh turned away to follow the clerk.

Cristen said to Bernard, “What kind of a swordsman is Richard?”

Bernard hesitated, wondering how he should answer. He looked into Cristen’s eyes and realized the impossibility of lying to this girl.

He said, “Richard is one of the finest swordsmen that I have ever seen.”

“This is what I was afraid of,” she replied gloomily.

“I tried to convince Hugh to let someone else take his place,” Bernard said, “but he wouldn’t listen.”

“He never does,” Cristen said. She looked down and encountered Nicholas’s frightened blue eyes. She hugged the child and assured him, “Don’t worry, Nicholas. With all of us praying for him, he will surely win.”

“Aye, my lady,” Nicholas responded stoutly. “I know that he will.”

Hugh was crossing the Inner bail, on his way home from his meeting with the chief justiciar, when he spied Alan Stanham standing all by himself next to the horse stockade. After a moment’s hesitation, Hugh approached the boy.

Alan’s eyes were full of blank misery as they focused on Hugh’s face.

Hugh said, “I am so very sorry, Alan.”

Alan dropped his gaze to the ground and said, his voice stifled, “How did you know that I had seen him in conversation with John Rye?”

“I didn’t know,” Hugh replied. “I just thought it was a good possibility, and I trusted you to speak the truth.”

Still staring at the ground, Alan said achingly, “I betrayed him.”

“He was never what you thought him to be, Alan,” Hugh said. “He is nothing but a brilliant facade that disguises a seething maw of raw ambition.”

Alan looked up, a heartbreakingly haunted look on his boyish face. “He was so good to me.” His voice broke, and he quickly looked downward again.

“Of course he was good to you,” Hugh replied. “You were his adoring disciple. You reflected back to him the image that he wanted to see of himself.”

Rufus was one of the horses turned out in the stockade, and now he spied Hugh and trotted over to the fence to visit.

“So it’s true, then?” Alan asked. “He really did kill the earl and John Rye?”

Hugh stroked Rufus’s soft nose. “It’s true.”

Alan’s eyes searched Hugh’s face. “But how did you know it was Richard?”

“I didn’t know right away,” Hugh replied. “I suspected him, but I also thought that William of Roumare had a strong reason to want the earl dead. And I wondered about Edgar Harding. You yourself were the one to tell me of Harding’s words when he saw de Beauté riding into the city. And then Harding let slip that he knew the earl had been stabbed in the heart. This was not common knowledge and I still don’t know how Harding came to discover it.”

A flare of color showed in Alan’s pale cheeks. He lifted his chin as if bracing himself, and confessed, “He knew because I told him.”

Hugh’s brows lifted.

As a diversion, Alan reached out to pat the crest of Rufus’s neck. “He stopped me in the Bail the morning after the murder. He asked me so many questions and…and I fear I was upset and not as discreet as I should have been…”

He shot a quick glance at Hugh, who said mildly, “Well, that is another mystery cleared up.”

“What I don’t understand is why you suspected Richard and not the sheriff,” Alan said. “The sheriff was the one most likely to be cheating on the taxes. Did you suspect Richard just because you didn’t like him?”

Hugh said gently, “I suspected Richard because I already knew that he was a killer.”

Alan’s eyes grew so large, they seemed to fill half his face. “What do you mean?”

Hugh said, “When he was twelve years old, I saw him kill his brother.”

Alan’s lips opened but no words came out. He stared at Hugh as if in a daze.

Rufus nudged Hugh, wanting his attention again, but Hugh ignored him. “Did you know that Richard once had an elder brother?”

Alan nodded once, convulsively. “Aye. I thought that he drowned.”

“So he did,” Hugh replied grimly. “I saw Richard hit him over the head and push him out of the boat. I was the only witness. To this day even Richard does not know that I was watching. The only person I ever told was Ralf, my foster father, and he commanded me to keep quiet. There was already bad blood between me and Richard and no one was likely to believe such a story coming from me.”

“He killed his brother?” Alan said blankly.

“Richard could never bear to take second place to anyone,” Hugh said.

Rufus nudged Hugh harder and Hugh once more began to stroke his pink nose.

“So that is why you hate him,” Alan said slowly.

“That is why,” Hugh agreed.

In an unsteady voice, Alan said, “I have been telling myself that he was driven to these terrible deeds by his love for Elizabeth de Beauté.”

A stableboy was leading a mare toward the stable, and Rufus flashed to instant attention, his ears pointed straight ahead.

Hugh said to Alan, “Richard Canville is driven solely by ambition and self-love. You should feel no remorse for having testified as you did, Alan. You have done the world a favor by ridding it of a monster.”

Alan swallowed. “We are not rid of him yet.”

Hugh said, “I plan to finish the job this afternoon.” He began to scratch behind Rufus’s right ear, and the stallion lowered his head in bliss.

Alan said steadily, “I shall pray for God to be with you, my lord.”

“Thank you,” Hugh replied. He took his hand away from the horse and regarded Alan’s forlorn face sympathetically. “I fear that neither of us will be overly welcome at the sheriff’s house for dinner.”

Alan managed a small chuckle. “That is what I was thinking.”

“I am meeting Lady Cristen back at my foster father’s house,” Hugh said briskly. “You had better come with me.”

A little brightness came into Alan’s eyes. “I have been wondering where I should go,” he confided. “Thank you, my lord.”

“Benjamin will be glad to see you,” Hugh said, and Alan actually laughed.

The whole of the household was gathered in the solar of Ralf’s town house when Hugh and Alan walked in.

Thomas was the first to speak, demanding imperatively, “What are the terms of the combat, Hugh? Do you fight on horseback or on foot?”

“On foot,” Hugh replied.

Thomas swore. On horseback, Hugh would have the advantage. He and Rufus were so in tune with each other that they functioned as a single unit. No matter how splendid Richard’s black mount may be, Thomas knew he would not be the match of Rufus.

“You should have demanded horses,” he said grimly.

“The chief justiciar is anxious to get back to London,” Hugh said. “He wants this combat ended as quickly as possible.”

“And so no horses,” Cristen said.

“And so no horses…and no armor, either, I’m afraid.”

“What! No armor? Is he mad?”

The indignant exclamation came from Thomas.

Cristen merely turned white. “You can’t wear your mail coat?” she asked.

Hugh shook his head. “No mail, no helmet, no shield. Just a sword and a dagger.”

This was stunning news. A duel such as the one Richard had called for was usually fought by two fully armed men. With the mail protection, it could take the great broadswords almost a full day to so hack and tear and rip at the mail that a man would finally go down with a mortal wound.

Cristen said steadily, “You have God on your side. You will win.”

He gave her a brilliant smile.

“Can you wear a leather jerkin?” Thomas asked practically.

“My understanding was that the less protection we have, the happier the chief justiciar will be,” Hugh said drily. “In fact, I got the distinct impression that he would be delighted if he somehow managed to rid the world of both of us.”

“Well, that is not going to happen,” Cristen said. “I won’t stand for it.”

Hugh looked at her.

“You should eat something,” she said.

“All right.”

Her brow furrowed in thought. “A bowl of stew, I think. Just enough to give you strength, not enough to weigh you down.”

He nodded docilely.

“Come with me to the kitchen,” she commanded.

“I will check over your weapons,” Thomas said. “And I think you should use my dagger. Its blade is longer than yours, Hugh.”

“Very well,” Hugh said.

“Mabel, will you take the children upstairs, please?” Cristen said.

Nicholas opened his mouth to protest, and found himself skewered by a pair of level gray eyes. “Do as Lady Cristen asks,” Hugh said.

Nicholas responded to that look in the same way everyone else did. He obeyed.

“Alan,” Cristen said. “Perhaps you could help Thomas with Hugh’s gear.”

“Of course, my lady,” Alan responded, glad to be given a task that included him in the group.

In less than a minute, Hugh and Cristen were alone in the solar. He held out his arms and she moved into them.

“I have to do this,” he said. He pressed his mouth against her hair and she could feel his lips move.

“I know you do,” she said. “I hate it, but I know you do.”

“I will be all right,” he said. “For all his touted brilliance with a sword, Richard has a flaw, and I know how to exploit it.”

“What is his flaw?” Her face was pressed into his shoulder and her words sounded muffled.

“The same one that he evinces in every other area of his life. He thinks he is invincible.”

She didn’t reply.

He put his hands on her shoulders and held her away from him. “Don’t worry, my love. Richard has called for a Judgment of God, and that is what he is going to get. I am merely God’s chosen instrument.”

“I know that you are, Hugh,” she replied gravely. “I have always known that you are.”

The duel was to be held in the Inner bail, within a rectangular area that William Rotier, acting as marshal in place of the sheriff, decreed should be marked off on three sides by rope. The fourth side was the stone wall that separated the space from the Bail.

Chairs for the chief justiciar and the bishop were placed along one of the short roped-off sides. The presence of the bishop was necessary since a Judgment of God was viewed as an ecclesiastical matter as well as one of civil justice.

A line of knights from the castle guard stood behind the ropes to keep the onlookers from spilling into the dueling area. They were also charged with the duty of keeping the combatants from getting out.

Word had spread through the town like fire in a drought, and it seemed that most of Lincoln had poured into the castle to watch the fight. Most of the citizens were refused entrance to the Inner bail, and had to content themselves with remaining outside the wall, where they could only strain to hear the sound of the broadswords clashing and wait to find out who had won.

Thomas had been horrified when he realized that Cristen meant to view the fight, but nothing he said could persuade her to remain at home. Hugh had left earlier, so it was left to Thomas and Alan to escort her to the castle.

They were admitted to the Inner bail, and Thomas ruthlessly elbowed his way through the crowd, demanding loudly that everyone “make way for Lady Cristen Haslin,” while Alan did his best to shield her from being jostled by the eager onlookers.

Thomas managed to secure her a good viewing place between two of the knights who were guarding the arena perimeter, and he and Alan took up a protective stance behind her.

Hugh and Bernard were standing in the corner of the arena nearest the wall, talking quietly. Cristen looked at Hugh’s slender figure and felt her chest tighten painfully with fear.

Save him, God, she prayed. Please, please, God. Save him.

There was a movement along the wall on the opposite side of the arena, and Richard ducked under the rope and entered the arena alone. As he stood there, looking out over the crowd, the wind blew a hole in the gray sky and the sun shone through, lighting Richard’s uncovered hair to gold and glinting off the polished steel of the broadsword he held in his hand. Cristen thought grimly that he looked like an archangel making ready to go into combat for the Lord.

Behind her, Cristen heard Alan’s breath catch in what sounded like a sob.

Suddenly the whole of the crowd behind them began to shift, and there came angry exclamations and curses as people were once again shoved aside. Cristen turned her head and saw a wedge of armed knights thrusting their way toward the front. In the midst of the knights walked Lady Elizabeth de Beauté. The girl had removed her wimple, and her red-gold hair shone in the sudden sunlight. She saw Cristen, and indicated to her knights that she wished to join her.

Elizabeth’s beautiful face looked tense as she took up her place beside Cristen. Cristen felt sorry for this girl, who had been forced to choose between avenging her father and a lover she adored. Richard’s betrayal must have broken her heart.

Cristen said quietly, “I think it was very brave of you to stand up and testify as you did, Lady Elizabeth. It could not have been easy.”

Elizabeth’s green eyes glittered with what could have been suppressed fury or unshed tears. Or both.

“He killed my father,” she said. “I sat there, and I listened to the testimony, and I saw it clear as day. Richard killed my father.”

“I am afraid that he did,” Cristen said with pity.

“He had dinner with me, and when he met my father in the courtyard after, he lured him into the Minster and he killed him. I saw them walk away together. I saw him lead my father to his death.”

“I am so sorry,” Cristen said gently.

“He played me for a fool,” Elizabeth said, her voice hard. “He lied to me. He told me that he loved me and I believed him. Well, I’ll wager he’s sorry now.”

Cristen stared at her in astonishment.

“I showed him,” Elizabeth said.

“Aye,” Cristen said faintly, “you certainly did.”

“If he had killed my father because he loved me, perhaps I could forgive him. But that wasn’t it at all.”

Cristen was speechless.

“Do you know how I know that?”

Cristen shook her head.

“I said I would run away with him, but he wouldn’t. Do you know what he wanted? He wanted me to beg the king to allow me to marry him. The king was very persuadable, he said. The king would not be able to deny me.” She turned to look at Cristen, and now it was quite clear that it was fury and not sorrow that shone in her magnificent eyes. “He wanted my property and he was afraid that if we ran away together, the king would confiscate my lands. It wasn’t me he wanted. It was my lands!”

Cristen said to Elizabeth, “I am afraid that the only person Sir Richard is capable of loving is himself.”

To herself she thought, And in you he would have found a perfect match.

The blast of a horn caught Cristen’s attention and she turned to look at the man standing a few steps in front of where the bishop and the chief justiciar were enthroned in high-backed chairs. The herald blew another blast, to make certain he had everyone’s attention before he announced into the attentive silence:

“Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye. We are here today to witness trial by combat to prove the guilt or innocence of Sir Richard Canville of the death of Gilbert de Beauté, Earl of Lincoln. Guilt is maintained by Lord Hugh de Leon, who will defend this charge with his body. Guilt is denied by Sir Richard Canville, who will refute the charge with his body. Let God be the Judge.”

The herald stepped back, and William Rotier ducked under the ropes and advanced to the middle of the arena. Hugh and Richard walked to join him, their unsheathed swords in their hands.

Rotier stood stoically between the combatants, a red flag raised above his head. At a sign from the bishop, he brought the flag down and stepped away, leaving the opponents facing each other.

The Judgment of God had begun.

The two men raised their swords. They looked to be an ill-matched pair as they stood in the windy sunshine taking each other’s measure.

Cristen thought that Hugh looked no more than a boy, with his light, slender frame and his black hair blowing in the stiff afternoon breeze. He moved like a boy, too, lithe and graceful, his weight perfectly balanced on the balls of his feet.

Richard, on the other hand, was every inch a man: tall and powerful and supremely confident as he regarded his opponent. Cristen saw his lips move as he said something to Hugh.

In reply, Hugh struck with his sword.

It happened so fast that Richard was not expecting it, and barely had time to get his own sword up to parry the blow. As it was, Hugh’s blade drew blood from Richard’s hand.

Anger showed briefly on Richard’s face, and then he struck back with the full strength of his powerful body.

Hugh parried the tremendous blow, his own sword scarcely dipping in response to the force of Richard’s stroke.

“Jesus,” Thomas said behind her. “Hugh must have wrists of steel.”

The fight went on for what seemed to Cristen an eternity. Without the protection of a shield, each man had only his sword to keep him safe, forcing the fight into a contest of thrust and parry, thrust and parry. Both men gripped their swords with two hands for maximum power, and the echo of the great blades as they fell upon each other was audible even to those packed into the Bail on the other side of the wall.

Every once in a while the combatants’ lips moved as they spoke to each other, gasping out words between the exertion of dealing out and defending against blows.

Surprisingly, the two men appeared to be evenly matched. An astonishing level of strength and power resided in Hugh’s slim body, and Richard’s superior height and weight did not give him the advantage that everyone, Richard included, had expected it to. On the other hand, Richard seemed to be fully as fast as Hugh, and Hugh’s left-handedness caused him no problem.

How could they bear it? Cristen thought. How could their arms take such a pounding and still lift the heavy sword to strike again? How long would it be until one of them was a little too slow to parry and felt the cutting edge of that powerful blade?

She felt sick thinking what such a weapon could do if it fell on unprotected flesh.

The February day had turned cold and windy, but the two men in the arena sweated profusely. For half an hour they had remained in the center of the arena, advancing, retreating, and sidestepping within a relatively small area, neither man able to drive the other one back.

Then, before her horrified eyes, Richard escalated his attack, increasing the rhythm of his strokes, attacking Hugh’s guard with a relentless assault of powerful blows.

After a minute, Hugh slowly began to back away.

“Jesus,” Thomas said in anguish. “Hugh is tiring.”

Richard evidently had come to the same conclusion, for he began to smile. Again and again he struck at Hugh, always attacking, not giving Hugh a chance to launch a blow of his own. Again and again Hugh parried, moving back slowly but inevitably to escape the punishment of the other sword.

Step by step, Richard advanced; and step by step, Hugh retreated. Back and back and back toward the high stone wall, where Hugh would be unable to retreat any farther, where he would be trapped.

Cristen’s nails bit into her palms as she watched Hugh being driven to his death.

Help him, God. God, please help him. Do not let him die. Do not let him die.

Next to her, Alan moaned in distress.

Thomas was muttering, “Come on, Hugh! Come on, Hugh! You can do better than this! Come on!”

The angle of the sun bathed the entire arena in a merciless light. Richard’s hair was dark with sweat and Hugh’s blue tunic was drenched. The breathing of both men was audible in the breathless silence of the packed courtyard.

They were almost at the wall. Hugh had only a few more steps before his retreat would be cut off.

Cristen saw him take a quick look behind, to ascertain just how far he had to go.

That look almost cost him his life as Richard, quick to take advantage of the momentary lapse of attention, struck with all his power. Hugh managed to get his sword up in time to protect his body, but the white sleeve of his sword arm suddenly turned scarlet.

“He’s hit!” Thomas cried in anguish.

This can’t be happening, Cristen thought. I can’t believe that this is happening.

Now Hugh was at the wall. His left arm dangled at his side, useless. With his right hand he raised his sword, ready to parry Richard’s blow. Blood poured from his left sleeve and dripped on the ground. How could he possibly withstand Richard with only one arm?

Richard seemed to tower above his victim as he lifted his sword in both hands for the last time and drove it hard, drove it directly at that single, vulnerable sword arm, drove it at tendon and bone and muscle and flesh, drove it with intent to maim and then to kill.

What happened next happened so fast that it took the onlookers a full twenty seconds to realize what had occurred. As Richard drove at him, Hugh dropped his own sword and ducked under Richard’s thrust.

An aghast intake of breath came from the onlookers. Why would Hugh give up his sword?

Then, to everyone’s astonishment, Richard’s sword clattered from his hand, and he fell to the ground.

And Hugh stood up.

“Jesus,” Thomas said.

“What happened?” Alan cried. “How did Hugh do that?”

It was Cristen who answered in a shaky voice, “I believe he must have used Thomas’s nice long dagger.”