No Dark Place

10

After the banquet was over, the knights filed out of the Great Hall to return to their pavilions. The mêlée was to be on the morrow, and before they went to sleep all the participants wanted to check once again the fit of each piece of armor and harness, go over hauberks of interlinking rings to make certain that none of the links were weak, inspect helms and sword hilts to make sure the joints were firm, and examine the noseguards on their helmets to make sure they were properly attached.

Hugh went through the same routine as the other men, although he spoke very little and appeared preoccupied. Finally he was able to crawl into his pallet next to the tent wall, where he lay awake for hours, with all of the images of the day flashing compulsively through his mind: Lord Guy, who had looked at him out of such chillingly familiar eyes; the priest, who had recognized him instantly; Philip Demain, who had sworn he was the image of Isabel de Leon.

What could have happened to me all those years ago? Hugh thought in frustration and fear.

What was so dreadful that it caused me to lose my memory?

He had a premonition that he knew the answer to that question. He thought of his reaction every time he entered a castle chapel, and he had a sickening feeling that he might actually have seen his father killed.

I must find out the truth, he told himself as he lay sleepless on his straw pallet, surrounded by dozens of other slumbering knights. If a mere vassal like Nigel Haslin feels it his duty to seek justice for Roger de Leon, then how much greater must be the duty of a son?

For he was Roger’s son. He had to be. The resemblance was clearly too great to be passed off as a coincidence.

Then there was the de Leon flag. The golden boar. It had stirred something in him, some wisp of familiarity.

Or was he only imagining such a response?

Hugh flung a restless arm across his eyes.

The knight on the pallet next to him was snoring loudly.

If I am to fight tomorrow I must get some sleep, Hugh thought desperately.

But it was a very long time before he finally managed to drift into an uneasy slumber.

He awoke to pain.

He lay very still for a minute, listening to the sounds of the other knights in the pavilion as they rose from their pallets and began to dress.

The pain was in the back of his head, not in his forehead as before. It stabbed like a knife every time he moved.

It’s starting again, Hugh thought in panic.

“Come on, Hugh,” Thomas said jovially as he came to stand beside Hugh’s pallet. “Time to get up and prepare for the mêlée.”

Hugh lifted his head. Agony banded his skull from ear to ear across the back of his head.

Very slowly, being careful to move his head as little as he possibly could, Hugh arose and put on his clothes. Then he went out of the tent to look for a page.

The sunlight stabbed his eyes.

“Brian,” he called to the boy, who was bustling past him carrying a well-polished sword. “Will you go and get the Lady Cristen for me? Tell her I am not feeling well.”

The boy’s hazel eyes widened in alarm. “You’re sick, Hugh? But we need you today in the mêlée.”

“Get Lady Cristen,” Hugh repeated desperately.

The boy turned and ran off, the sword still held in his hand.

Hugh stood perfectly still. The pain was beginning to move higher in his head. His stomach was uneasy.

One of Nigel’s knights joined him. “Breaking fast is in the bailey,” he said. “Are you coming with us, Hugh?”

“Not just yet,” Hugh said.

The knight stared at him. “You look very pale.”

“I’m not feeling well,” Hugh said. “Lady Cristen is coming. Perhaps she will have something to help.”

“You drank too much last night,” the knight said with a grin. “Don’t worry, the Lady Cristen will have something for you. I’ve called on her myself in similar circumstances.”

Hugh managed a shadowy smile in response.

He stood there in the brutal sunshine, agony pounding through his head, waiting for her.

The knights left to break their fast.

A few squires scurried around, busy with equipment and with stealing surreptitious looks at Hugh’s immobile figure.

Then, finally, she was there.

“Hugh?”

“My head,” he said, turning it very slowly to look at her out of heavy eyes. “The pain has started again, Cristen.”

“Dear God.” She put her hand on his arm. “Come inside out of the sun.”

Eyes half-shut, he allowed her to lead him back into the pavilion. “Lie down,” she said. “How is your stomach?”

Cautiously, he lowered himself to his pallet. “Uneasy.”

From somewhere, she produced a bowl. “Here. Use this if you have to.” She knelt on the ground next to him and opened up her medicine bag. “I packed my betony potion just in case this happened. I don’t think it will make the headache go away completely, Hugh, but it might help with the pain.”

By now the headache had moved into his forehead and was hammering against his temples with agonizing regularity.

He pushed himself up on his elbow and drank the medicine she gave him. Then he lay back down again, his eyes shut.

“The mêlée,” he said faintly.

“You can’t fight in this condition,” she said.

She was right. At this point, he wasn’t even capable of standing up, much less sitting on a horse.

His stomach heaved.

“Oh, God,” he groaned. “Where is that bowl?”

She handed it to him, and he vomited what was left in his stomach of last night’s dinner.

His head pounded harder.

He lay back down again. Cristen’s gentle hand smoothed his hair off his sweaty forehead.

“I don’t want anyone to see me like this,” he said desperately.

“There’s nowhere else to go, Hugh.”

He groaned.

She said firmly, “No one will bother you as long as I am here.”

He opened his eyes and looked up into her face. His eyes were almost black with pain. “You can’t stay here in the knights’ pavilion!”

“Of course I can stay,” she returned. “The men will be back only to get into their armor and then they’ll be heading for the stables to collect their horses. They’ll be out of here in fifteen minutes. Don’t worry, it will be all right.”

But word had already passed among the Somerford men that Hugh was sick, and after breakfast Nigel came immediately to Hugh’s pallet to ask Cristen what was the matter with him.

She looked up from her place on the ground next to Hugh’s bed. “He is ill, Father,” she said matter-of-factly. “Much too ill to participate in the mêlée, I’m afraid.”

Nigel glanced over her head at Hugh’s face. The boy’s eyes were shut and his face was white and drawn with pain.

“What is it?” he asked his daughter in a lowered voice.

“I’m afraid something he ate last night must have disagreed with him,” she returned. “He can barely stand, Father. You will have to do without him today.”

Nigel scowled. He hated to part with his best knight. He looked again at Hugh’s face and knew he had no choice. The boy did indeed look dreadfully ill.

“You can’t remain here, Cristen,” he said to his daughter gruffly. “We need you at the mêlée in case someone gets hurt.”

“I have every intention of coming to the mêlée, Father,” she said.

Hugh half-opened his eyes and looked up at Nigel. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said.

“It’s not your fault, boy,” the older knight replied bracingly. “But Judas, we shall miss you.”

Hugh managed a faint smile before he closed his eyes again.

Fifteen minutes later, the pavilion was empty once more.

“Is it any better at all, Hugh?” Cristen asked softly.

“I think the medicine is helping,” he replied. His voice sounded stronger and a little color had come back to his face.

“Lady Cristen…”

She looked up to find one of the Somerford knights standing behind her.

“May I talk to Hugh for a moment?” he asked.

Cristen frowned.

Hugh said, “What is it, Geoffrey?”

Cristen rose to her feet. “I have to get dressed for the mêlée, Hugh,” she said reluctantly.

“Go ahead,” he replied. His eyes opened fully and held hers. “There’s nothing more you can do here. And I really do think the medicine is helping.”

She smiled at him, then turned to give an admonitory stare to the young knight standing behind her. “Don’t talk for too long, Geoffrey.”

“I won’t, Lady Cristen,” he replied earnestly.

With palpable reluctance, Cristen left the pavilion to go and array herself in her best finery in order to attend the mêlée.

Philip was glad that Father Anselm had insisted they follow Hugh to Chippenham. This was probably the only chance he would ever get to watch a tournament mêlée, and he was thrilled at the prospect.

Of course, it would have been even better if he could have participated in the fight himself. Unfortunately, it was out of the question for him to ask Nigel Haslin to add an unknown knight to his team, so Philip was forced to content himself with looking on.

This particular mêlée would have two hundred men on each of the two sides, which would be led by Lord Guy’s vassals, each of whom had come to the tournament with a team of twenty knights. These teams had been grouped together by Lord Guy to form two opposing armies. Guy himself had forty knights participating in the mêlée, but he had divided his men so that twenty were assigned to either side, which kept the numbers even.

The action of a mêlée consisted of one side hurling itself upon the other, just as in a real battle. The goal was to unhorse as many knights as possible, to the point where the opposition could no longer hold together and was forced to flee the field in chaos.

Of course, Philip knew that the Chippenham tournament was negligible compared to the great tournaments that were staged in France. There, thousands of men fought on each side, and the field itself was immense, often encompassing a village or a vineyard where opposing knights could be driven and surrounded and made to surrender. Another difference between Chippenham and the French tournaments was that the knights participating in the French tournaments did not do so solely for the honor of their team. They came, as to war, in order to take weapons, harnesses, and horses, and to capture men for ransom. If a knight was skillful enough, much money was to be made in France.

The tournament at Chippenham was for honor only. But the participants took it with deadly seriousness, and the spectators did so as well. The wooden stands were filled with ladies dressed in brightly colored silk and samite, vigorously waving scarves that bore the colors of their teams. Lord Guy presided from the center of the stands, the same golden-haired lady who had been with him the previous evening once more at his side.

Philip was surprised that the earl was not on the field at the head of his own men, but a squire standing nearby told him that Guy never participated in the battle itself.

“He is the judge,” the squire said a little scornfully. “He decides when to separate the sides during the fight, and when the mêlée is over, he chooses the best knight from among the winning team.”

“And how is the winning team chosen?” Philip inquired.

The squire grinned. “Whichever team has the most men still on the field at the end of the day is the winner.”

Philip and Father Anselm had stationed themselves in one of the lists, which were barricades at the side of the field behind which men could seek safety after they had been unhorsed. Any knight who tried to pursue a man into the lists would be heavily penalized.

Philip watched with eager anticipation as the two sides began to line up at the far ends of the open field. He searched for and found the blue and white flag of Somerford among the army to his right, then he trained his keen, farsighted gaze on Nigel’s men as they began to form up into two lines of ten, one behind the other.

Suddenly, Philip frowned.

“I don’t see Hugh,” he said to Father Anselm.

The priest looked in the direction of the Somerford men.

“You’re right,” he said after a minute. “He isn’t there. Unless he is riding another horse?”

“Wait a minute,” Philip said. “Here he comes now.”

As the two men watched, the white stallion that had swept the honors in the horsemanship contest the day before came cantering up to the Somerford team and moved into the place of honor next to Nigel.

The front line was the most dangerous as well as the most honorable place to be. If a knight in the front line was unhorsed, he faced the possibility of being trampled by the horses of his own side, which were directly behind him, as well as by the horses of the opposition.

The two sides continued to form up at the edges of the field, the team of each vassal making a definite unit within the larger group. The individual teams would fight as a company, striving to preserve their formation and to keep their ranks close. In the mêlée, individual honor was less important than holding together with one’s comrades. Victory fell most often to the team that exhibited the most discipline and self-mastery.

Finally it seemed as if the lines of horsemen looming on the far edges of the field were in order.

A page carrying a horn stepped forward from beside Lord Guy and blew a blast upon his instrument.

The horsemen began to move forward.

The ground under Philip’s feet vibrated with the thunder of four hundred horses coming at full gallop. Knights rode side by side, knee perilously close to knee, shield and reins and tilted lance balanced in skillful hands. The lances were the first weapons that would be used. Once they had shattered, which they did relatively easily, the knights would switch to the great broadswords that hung at their belts.

The sun shone on the helmets of the advancing knights and glinted off the polished metal in dazzling sheets of light. The leveled lances flashed and the brightly colored flags of the different teams streamed in the breeze created by the speed of the charging horses. Philip kept his eyes on the knight on the white stallion as he rode shoulder to shoulder with Nigel Haslin in the front line of the Somerford team.

The two sides met in the center of the field with an audible shock of collision. Philip could hear the clash of lance against lance and lance against mail hauberk. Most of the fragile weapons shattered and fell to the ground with the first or second encounter. The war cry of each vassal sounded through the now-dusty air as knights unsheathed their swords and began to hack away.

Unhorsed men were hurled into the air. Riderless horses galloped madly away from the combat, snorting and sweating, frantic to find safety.

After the fight had gone on for a while, the horn that had started the mêlée blasted once more. Slowly, with obvious reluctance, the two sides disengaged and pulled back to their points of origin at the edges of the field, milling around and counting up their losses.

As soon as the mounted knights had retreated, squires dashed onto the field to pull those who had fallen out of the way. If this had been a real war, of course, there would have been no retreat and the unhorsed men would have met certain death under the hooves of the great stallions who were still carrying on the battle.

Five knights were brought into the list where Philip and Father Anselm were stationed. Philip checked the devices on their sleeves and saw that none of them were men of Somerford.

One of the knights was moaning in pain, bent over and clutching his middle. Philip figured he probably had some broken ribs. A second had a broken arm. The other three were merely bruised and shaken.

All had gotten their injuries as a result of being run over by horses.

The two sides were forming up again and all of the men in the lists, even the man with the broken ribs, turned to watch the next encounter.

The horn sounded and on they came again, two great waves of horsemen, long shields on one arm, broadswords in the other. Some of the men had slung their shields on their backs so they had two hands free to swing their swords. They did this because the broadsword was actually more of a concussion than a cutting weapon. While the mail the knights wore protected them from being sliced by the blade, the hauberk of interlinking rings could not prevent a man from having his bones crushed by the powerful blow of a massive broadsword, especially if it was swung two-handed by the knight wielding it.

Each side had lost about a fourth of its men in the first encounter. The remaining knights appeared to have lost none of their ardor for battle, however, and galloped eagerly forward, side by side, until the front lines of one side reached the front lines of the other.

Once again they came together with a loud clanging of swords, of men shouting, of horses screaming as their riders were swept away and they were left to fend for themselves.

Philip tried to keep his eye on the white stallion that carried Hugh. It was difficult, as the trampling of the many hooves had raised a cloud of dust around the entire mêlée. It seemed to him as if the men of Somerford were maintaining their formation in better order than the men of the other vassals, but he couldn’t be certain.

Once again the horn blew. Once again the horses wheeled and retreated to the edges of the field. Once again the squires rushed forth to retrieve the unhorsed men left lying on the field. More men were carried into the list where Philip and Father Anselm were stationed.

It happened on the third charge. Philip, whose eyes were glued to the white stallion, saw the incident very clearly. The two sides met with the now-familiar shock of noise, and Hugh pitched sharply forward over the shoulder of his stallion. He disappeared under the hooves of the horses who were coming behind him.

Philip’s stomach clenched.

“Hugh’s down,” he said to the priest, who was standing next to him.

“Oh no,” said the Father Anselm. “Oh, my dear God, no.”

The white stallion, riderless now, came galloping out of the mass of fighting men and stopped on the edge of the field to look around, as if bewildered. A squire belonging to Nigel Haslin darted out to catch his bridle and lead him away.

Philip watched the fighting with a feeling of helpless horror. It was impossible to find Hugh. He had gone down in the middle of the line and been instantly surrounded. It had happened so quickly that his own men had been past him before they could even realize he was on the ground.

The fighting went on for a much longer period of time than had been allowed before. Finally, when Philip had despaired of Guy’s ever ending the battle, the horn blew again and the now seriously depleted sides retreated once more.

One of Nigel’s squires raced onto the field and began to look through the fallen bodies, searching for Hugh.

Philip felt his blunt fingernails pressing into his palms as he watched the squire’s progress. At last the boy dropped to his knees next to one of the inert bodies. Five seconds later, he stood up again and signaled for help. Cristen came running onto the field to join him. She knelt in the dust next to the fallen knight, totally oblivious of her fine silk gown.

The fallen man did not move.

“Judas,” Philip croaked. “He’s been killed.”

“He can’t be dead,” the priest replied in anguish. “God would not be so cruel, to give him back to us only to take him away again like this.”

“He went off right at the beginning of the charge,” Philip said. Anger shook his voice. “And he went off his horse in a forward motion, Father. I saw it happen.” He turned to look at the priest standing beside him and said, his anger even more evident than before, “He went off as if he had taken a blow from behind, not from in front.”

The priest’s eyes swung around to meet Philip’s. “What are you saying?”

The answer was grim. “I’m saying that Hugh was struck down by someone on his own side.”

The priest stared at him in horror.

The squire who had first reached Hugh was now running across the field in their direction. He reached the list and spoke across the barrier directly to Father Anselm. “Is it true that you’re a priest?”

Father Anselm answered without a moment’s hesitation. “Aye.”

“We have need of you,” the squire said. There were tears in his hazel eyes. “Will you come?”

“Aye,” said Father Anselm once more and, putting his hand on the barrier, he vaulted over it onto the field and strode across the trampled earth in the direction of the fallen man.