The Poisoned Serpent

2

LINCOLN

January 1140

Gilbert de Beauté was coming to visit Lincoln Castle, and the Sheriff of Lincoln exhorted his garrison to do its best to make a good impression on their new earl.

Lincoln was one of the new earldoms that Stephen had created since taking the throne. The king’s purpose was to have these additional earls shoulder some of the burden of regional defense. In Lincoln, however, the military readiness of the shire had always been the responsibility of the sheriff. It was the sheriff who collected the royal revenues, who commanded the various fortresses and made certain they were fully garrisoned, who took charge of prisoners, who enforced the law. How the new earl would interact with him was a matter of grave concern to Gervase Canville, who had been Sheriff of Lincoln since the death of Hugh’s foster father, Ralf Corbaille.

It was a cold but bright afternoon when young Alan Stanham came quietly into the spartan room on the second floor of the castle that served as the sheriff’s office. The sheriff, a worried frown on his face, sat in consultation with his officer. The boy stopped just inside the door, waiting to be acknowledged.

Finally the sheriff noticed his son’s squire. “Ah, Alan. What is it that you want?”

“Sir Richard sent me to tell you that the earl’s party has been sighted coming down Ermine Street.”

“Thank you, my boy,” the sheriff replied. He turned to his officer. “Well, Bernard, time to get the welcoming party together.”

“Aye, sir,” Bernard Radvers said. Neither man looked particularly enthusiastic. “I will see to it.”

“You may run along, lad,” the sheriff said to Alan, and the youngster gratefully backed out the door and raced across the huge expanses of the enclosed baileys that surrounded Lincoln Castle. He continued along the main town road, through the Newport Arch, arriving on Ermine Street in time to join the collection of townsfolk who had gathered to watch the arrival of their new earl.

Alan was just in time. The earl’s procession was coming up the old Roman road, and Alan and the rest of the crowd peered eagerly in the direction of its approach.

It was a lavish entry, led by three fully armed knights. The winter sun glinted off their helmets and mail hauberks and the gleaming coats of their sleek, well-fed horses. Alan gazed admiringly at them as they passed in front of him, their faces mysteriously hidden from the noisy crowd by the nosepieces of their helmets.

A little space behind the knights, riding in splendid isolation, came a tall, slender man on a large black horse. He wore a magnificent hooded scarlet cloak over his riding clothes, and when he saw the people lined up to greet him, he pushed back his hood to reveal a gleaming head of pure white hair. He raised a hand to acknowledge the townsfolk, who began to cheer lustily.

But not everyone was cheering. “The bastard,” said a low, intense voice on Alan’s right. “May he rot in hell.”

Startled, Alan turned to see who had wished the new earl so ill.

The graying yellow hair of his neighbor gave his identity away even before Alan looked into the grim face. It was Edgar Harding of Deerhurst, a landholder whose property lay just to the south of Lincoln.

The Hardings were well known in Lincoln as one of the few Saxon families in the area who had retained their lands and a portion of their preeminence after the Norman conquest.

“Why, whatever is the matter, Master Harding?” said another man, the town’s goldsmith, standing on the far side of the Saxon. “Why such enmity toward our new earl?”

Harding shot an angry look at the man who had asked him the question. “De Beauté has done injury to my family,” he replied shortly. “There will never be anything but bad blood between my house and his.”

Abruptly the Saxon turned and began to push his way back through the crowd. Alan and the goldsmith watched him for a moment, then turned and looked at each other.

The goldsmith shrugged. “These Saxons,” he said. “Do them even the slightest injury and they never forget it.”

Alan gave a half smile in response, then turned back to the procession.

The three knights who followed the earl were passing in front of him now. Behind them, two more horses paced sedately abreast. Seated on a fat gray palfrey was a middle-aged woman dressed in an elaborate headdress and wearing a fur-lined blue mantle. But it was not the woman who caught and held Alan’s wondering eyes. It was the girl riding next to her.

She was riding an elegant dark gray horse, sitting as light and easy in her saddle as if she had been born there. Even from a distance, Alan could see how beautiful she was. As she drew ever closer, her lovely features and fine white skin became more clearly visible. Spilling out of her fur-lined hood and falling over her shoulder was a great braid of red-gold hair.

“That must be the Lady Elizabeth, Lord Gilbert’s daughter,” a woman next to Alan said.

“Aye. And she’s as pretty as she is rich,” agreed another.

The two women on horseback passed by directly in front of Alan, and for a moment he could have sworn that the Lady Elizabeth looked directly into his eyes. He blinkled, utterly dazzled.

Her eyes were a brilliant green.

Behind the ladies came a procession of grooms who were in charge of two deerhounds and two hawks. More servants led eight fully loaded pack ponies. Bringing up the rear of the procession were three more knights.

Alan stared at the deerhounds and the hawks, and thought that it looked as if the new earl had come to Lincoln more to entertain himself than to inspect the shire’s defenses.

The earl and his daughter were lodged in the bishop’s guest house, while their knights and the rest of the entourage were housed at the castle.

The evening of the earl’s arrival, the Bishop of Lincoln hosted a welcoming party for Lord Gilbert and Lady Elizabeth in the comfortable dining hall of the bishop’s own residence.

Alan attended with his master, Richard Canville, the sheriff’s only son. At a dinner such as this one, a server was required for every plate.

The tables had already been set when Richard’s party arrived. Alan cast an awed look at the immaculate cloth that covered the high table. Each of the places had been set with a salt cellar, a trencher, a knife, white rolls, and a spoon resting on a folded napkin. The required basins and ewers for washing the hands were ready on a table along the wall. As most eating was done with the fingers, cleanliness was a rule strictly observed in good company.

The sheriff was to sit at the high table, but Richard was assigned to one of the trestle tables that had been set up on the floor of the hall. Alan followed his master to his seat and took up his place behind him. Shortly afterward the bishop came into the room, followed by the earl and his daughter. Once more, Alan gazed with dazzled eyes at the exquisite figure of Elizabeth de Beauté.

She wore a long-sleeved tunic of shimmering green samite. Her sleeveless surcoat was a deeper green, and lined with a rich dark fur that to Alan looked like sable. Her glorious red-gold hair was covered with a gauzy wisp of a veil.

Alan thought she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. The knights seated at his table seemed to agree.

“God’s bones,” said the man sitting next to Richard. His voice was reverent. “Will you look at that?”

“She’s to be betrothed, I hear,” the older man on the other side of Richard said.

Richard Canville’s head swung around. “Betrothed? To whom?” A sharp surprise could be heard in his deep, mellow baritone.

“To Hugh de Leon,” Bernard Radvers answered with perceptible satisfaction.

“Hugh de Leon?” the other knight, William Rotier, said. “Do you mean our Hugh? Hugh Corbaille?”

“At one time he was Hugh Corbaille,” Bernard agreed. “Now he is Hugh de Leon.”

“Jesu,” said William, who had known Hugh when he was the foster son of Lincoln’s former sheriff. “That boy is one lucky devil. First he turns out to be the son of an earl, and now he is to marry the prettiest girl I have ever seen.”

“Not to mention the fact that she is also a great heiress,” Richard said dryly. He picked up his wine cup, and Alan hastened to fill it for him. “Are you certain of this, Bernard? I have heard nothing about such a betrothal.”

“I heard it just this afternoon, and from the earl’s own lips,” Bernard said. “He told your father and the bishop, within my hearing, that he and Lord Guy had concluded the arrangements when they met at Stephen’s Christmas Court.”

“Such a marriage is certainly a great achievement for the de Leons,” Richard remarked. “It will give them control of Lincolnshire as well as Wiltshire.”

William gave a short snort. “I wonder what William of Roumare will think about such a match.”

“He won’t like it,” Richard replied positively. “He was furious when he wasn’t named Earl of Lincoln himself. And now-to see the de Leons attaining the supremacy he and his brother hoped to achieve for themselves!” Richard slowly shook his head. “I wonder at Stephen’s consenting to such a marriage. It could be the very thing needed to push Roumare and Chester into the arms of Gloucester and the empress.”

“The king needs Wiltshire,” Bernard replied. “Wiltshire lies on the boundary of Gloucester’s territory, and Stephen cannot afford to lose it. At this point, I should think it would be more important for him to keep Lord Guy loyal than to have the support of Roumare and Chester.”

Richard nodded. “That is an astute observation, Bernard.”

Bernard looked visibly gratified. There was something about Richard, young as he was, that made his approval mean something to a man.

“I wonder what Lady Elizabeth thinks of the marriage?” Richard said next.

“Does it matter?” William replied dryly. “She’ll do as she’s told to do.” He grinned, revealing small front teeth with a distinct gap between them. “Besides, once she lays eyes on Hugh, she’ll be more than happy to obey her father’s wishes.”

“True,” Richard said with amusement.

Bernard said unexpectedly, “I wonder what Hugh thinks of this marriage.”

“Once he meets the lady, he’ll be singing hallelujahs,” Richard said with a laugh.

Bernard, who knew Hugh well, sighed. “Hugh never does what everyone else would do.”

“That is true,” William Rotier agreed. “It’s a strange thought, actually, to think of Hugh married. It’s hard to picture him in relation to another person. He always seemed so…solitary.”

“Perhaps that has changed, now that he has recovered his true identity,” Richard said gently.

“I hope so,” said Bernard, who had been Hugh’s friend as well as Ralf’s. “I hope so very much.”

The bishop’s dinner was a success, but the visit of Gilbert de Beauté to Lincoln went steadily downhill after that. Instead of being pleased and relieved by the obvious preparedness of Lincoln’s defenses, the new earl kept calling for changes.

The sheriff struggled mightily to hold his temper as, one after another, his dispositions came under criticism. It was obvious the earl felt that, in order to demonstrate his authority over the sheriff, he had to assert his own ideas.

His own ideas were not good ones.

On the night before the de Beautés were to leave Lincoln to return to their own castle, as the sheriff was drinking a cup of ale with his son in the solar of his town house, Gervase finally exploded.

“Judas!” he said, slamming his hand down upon the table so hard that the ale cups jumped. “I’ll be damned if I ruin the defenses of this shire just to placate that…that…popinjay! The only things he understands are hawking and hunting. He knows nothing at all of military strategy!”

“There is nothing more dangerous than a fool who doesn’t know he’s a fool,” Richard agreed. His intense blue eyes regarded his father sympathetically. “What can you do?”

“I can disregard his orders,” Gervase said grimly.

“That might work for a while. But what will happen when he finds out?”

Once more, Gervase smashed his fist upon the table. He shook his head in angry despair. “I cannot understand how Stephen came to appoint such an idiot earl of the shire.”

Richard ran his fingers through his short, dark gold hair. “Would William of Roumare have been any better? At least Lord Gilbert will be loyal to Stephen.”

“Hugh would be better,” Gervase said emphatically. “He may be young, but he was raised by Ralf Corbaille. He understands military strategy.”

Richard leaned back in his chair, stretching out his long, muscled legs. Alan was sitting by the fire, tossing a set of dice from one hand to the other and listening to the men. He looked at his master with idolatry in his eyes.

Richard was a splendid-looking young man of twenty-two. Over six feet tall, he possessed a magnificent physique, brilliant blue eyes, and strong, even features. He was a superb athlete. In addition to all this, he had never been anything but kind to the young squire who served him. Alan thought he was the perfect example of what a knight should be.

Richard said regretfully, “Unfortunately, Hugh cannot become earl unless Gilbert dies.”

Gervase scowled.

Richard changed the subject. “I’m hungry,” he announced. “What about you, Father?”

The dark look on the sheriff’s face lightened to one of affection. “You’re always hungry.”

“I missed supper,” Richard said with humorous vindication.

The sheriff turned in his chair to look toward the fireplace. “Alan, will you fetch some meat and bread from the kitchen for Sir Richard?”

Alan scrambled to his feet and hurried on his errand. When he returned, he placed the food in front of Richard, along with a napkin, a spoon, and a trencher.

“Thank you, Alan,” Richard said with his customary courtesy, and reached for his knife to cut the meat.

He frowned as his hand came away from his belt empty.

“The devil,” he said mildly. “I don’t have my knife.”

“You didn’t lose it?” Gervase said in some alarm. He had given Richard that dagger along with his sword when he had been made a knight.

“Nay, I remember now,” Richard said. “I took it off this afternoon when I went into the Minster. I put it down on one of the tables in the vestibule, thinking to reclaim it when I left. I must have forgot it, however.”

One of the bishop’s rules was that visitors must disarm completely before they could enter the church.

“You will be lucky if it is still there,” Gervase said sharply.

“Shall I go and look for it?” Alan asked, stepping forward eagerly.

Richard frowned. “It is dark out, Alan.”

“That is no matter,” returned the enthusiastic squire. “It will take me less than half an hour to get to the Minster and return. I shall be glad to retrieve your knife, sir.”

“Let the boy go, Richard,” the sheriff said. “He’s sixteen years old, not a child. And I do not want you to lose that knife. It belonged to my father before me, and I want you to be able to give it to your own son.”

Richard gave Alan a rueful smile. “Very well. I didn’t mean to treat you like a child, Alan. Forgive me.”

Alan’s return smile was radiant. “There is nothing to forgive, my lord.”

“I am not a lord,” Richard reminded him gently.

“You are to me!” Alan said stoutly, and went to get his heavy wool cloak and a lamp.

It was dark and cold as Alan made his way from the sheriff’s town house on the Strait to the Minster, which was situated just within the castle’s outer walls. The guard on duty at the castle gate grumbled, but let Alan enter when he explained his errand.

The Minster was always open to the faithful, and Alan used the glow from his dish lamp to light his way up the stairs and into the vestibule of the imposing stone church that served as Lincoln’s cathedral.

There, on the small wooden table in the hall, lay Richard’s distinctive dagger. Alan lifted the knife, started to slip it into his belt, then decided that first he would say a quick prayer before he returned home.

He laid the dagger back on the table and pushed open the door that led into the center aisle of the church. His attention was instantly caught by the illumination of another lamp halfway down the nave. He stopped dead, then gasped at what he saw caught in the lamplight.

Bernard Radvers, with a bloody knife clutched in his hand, was kneeling over the recumbent figure of a man.

“Who is there?” the knight demanded, squinting up the aisle toward Alan.

Alan’s heart was hammering but he managed to reply with respectable steadiness, “It’s Alan Stanham, squire to Richard Canville.”

In the light of the lantern, Bernard’s face was hard as iron. “I’ve just found Lord Gilbert de Beauté,” he said. “He’s been stabbed to death. You had better go for the sheriff.”