No Dark Place

11

It wasn’t Hugh.

That was the first thing Father Anselm saw as he knelt beside the knight lying lifeless on the trampled earth. The bruised young face looking up at him did not belong to Hugh.

“He’s dead, Father,” Cristen said. She was holding the young knight’s hand. “Can you give him the last rites?”

“Aye,” said the priest. “He has not been long on his journey.”

He made the sign of the cross, and all of those in the vicinity dropped to their knees and did likewise.

The serene blue sky looked down peacefully as Father Anselm recited the Latin prayers for the dead over the crumpled body laying so quietly on the bloodstained field of Chippenham. When he had finished, they lifted Geoffrey onto a hurdle and carried him away.

Once the sad cortege was out of sht, the horn blew and the mêlée began once again.

“I saw it happen.”

It was two hours later and Philip was talking to Nigel outside the pavilion where the Somerford knights were lodged. He repeated to Geoffrey’s lord what he had said earlier to Father Anselm. “He went forward over his horse’s shoulder, as if he had received a blow from behind, not before.”

There was a white line down the center of Nigel’s thin, aristocratic nose. He said, “It was my men who were behind him.”

“Guy had twenty men on your side,” Philip said. “Was it possible for one of them to get behind Geoffrey in the rush of the charge?”

Nigel was pale under his tan. “I suppose it could have happened. The third charge was much more disorganized than the first two.” His lips tightened. “His armor was so crushed from the horses’ hooves that it is impossible to tell if he took a sword blow from behind.”

Two of Nigel’s knights walked past, somber-faced. They cast a quick glance at their lord, then went on into the pavilion.

“It was meant for Hugh,” Philip said. “Whoever did this meant to kill Hugh.”

“Aye,” Nigel said. “That is how it must have been.”

“Why wasn’t he there?” Philip demanded. “Why didn’t he fight in the mêlée?”

Nigel replied wearily, “Hugh was ill this morning, and then Geoffrey’s roan came up lame. That would have left our team two men short and so Geoffrey asked Hugh if he could ride Rufus in the mêlée. Hugh said that he could.”

A group of knights belonging to another of Guy’s vassals approached the pavilion, spurs jingling, dusty helmets tucked under their arms. They were laughing and talking in loud voices. One of them pointed to Nigel, and they all respectfully moderated their tones.

“If I thought it was Hugh on Rufus, then you can be certain that others did likewise,” Philip said grimly. “Hugh’s illness saved his life.”

The two men looked at each other.

“Where is he now?” Philip asked.

“I don’t know. He’s not in the pavilion. I just looked.”

“Where have they put Geoffrey?”

Nigel’s eyes widened with enlightenment. “Lord Guy had him taken to the castle chapel.”

“The chapel,” said Philip. “Isn’t that where…?”

“Aye,” said Nigel. He swung around in the direction of the castle. “Let’s go.”

Without hesitation, Philip followed.

He didn’t want to do this, but he had to. He had to see Geoffrey, and Geoffrey was in the chapel.

Because of him, Geoffrey was dead.

Hugh knew that as surely as he knew that Adela had loved him.

Geoffrey had borrowed his horse this morning, and because of that, Geoffrey was dead.

Guy had killed him thinking he was Hugh.

He walked like a sleepwalker, across the torn-up field of Chippenham, through the gate in the immense stone wall, across the outer bailey, and through the gatehouse of the inner walls, the Somerford insignia on his sleeve affording him immediate access to the castle. There had been but one fatality at the tournament, and everyone knew that it was one of Nigel’s men who had fallen.

Oblivious to the eyes that were watching him, Hugh climbed the steep stone ramp that led to the castle entrance. Once inside the small hall, he automatically turned to his left, entered the forebuilding, and began to climb the stairs to the third floor, where he knew the chapel was located.

The familiar sick, frightened feeling began to tighten his stomach.

The stone staircase was cold.

He stepped out onto a wooden-floored landing. Two massive doors confronted him. Both were closed. Without thought, he stepped to the door that led to the chapel and opened it.

Geoffrey’s broken body had been carefully straightened and laid upon a bier in front of the altar. Candles flickered at his head and his feet.

The chapel smelled faintly of old incense and damp.

There was a window in the shape of a half-circle set in the stone wall over the altar. It was open and the late-afternoon sunlight was pouring through it, falling on the altar, which was carved of dark wood and covered with a crisp white embroidered cloth.

Hugh stared at the window and, deep within the recesses of his memory, something stirred.

He began to shiver.

With a great effort of will, he forced himself to walk to the bier and look down at Geoffrey.

My fault, he thought. It’s all my fault.

The shivering grew stronger.

Feelings of guilt.

Of terror.

The image of a man’s body sprawled on the floor, almost in the exact same place where Geoffrey now lay.

Blood.

My fault. My fault.

By now the shivering had grown almost uncontrollable. He couldn’t breathe.

Hugh lifted his shaking hand and smashed his fist against the corner of Geoffrey’s bier. The hair on his forehead stirred with the force of the blow.

The immediate, sharp pain helped to clear his head. He was breathing as if he had run twenty miles.

He forced his eyes to focus on Geoffrey’s quiet face.

Never again would Geoffrey know the simple joys of riding his horse in the autumn sunshine, of singing songs around the massive fireplace at Somerford, of donning his armor and working out on the practice field with his fellow knights. At the age of twenty-three, Geoffrey was dead.

Because of Hugh.

But I am no longer a helpless seven-year-old, Hugh thought grimly as he stared down at the quiet face of the dead young knight. Now I am a man. Now I am someone to be reckoned with. Now I am capable of retribution.

After a few moments, he turned on his heel and left the chapel. Never once did he notice the figure of Father Anselm, on his knees in a darkened corner.

Philip and Nigel met him as he was coming out of the forebuilding.

“Hugh!” Nigel cried. “We’ve been looking for you.”

Hugh’s face was pale, but otherwise he had himself under strict control. “I have just been to see Geoffrey.”

They were standing at the bottom of the stone ramp that led to the castle entrance, and now Nigel glanced around to make sure no one was near enough to overhear them. When he was assured that it was safe, he continued in a low voice, “Philip here saw the whole incident and he is convinced that Geoffrey was hit from behind, not from before.”

Hugh’s expression did not change.

“Do you understand the implications of this, Hugh?” Nigel said. “Only our own men knew that it was Geoffrey and not you riding Rufus.”

“I understand very well,” Hugh said. “You are saying it is I who should be lying dead in that chapel, not Geoffrey.”

“That’s right,” Philip said grimly.

“It was done by Guy’s order, I’m sure of it,” said Nigel. “He had some of his men fighting with us. Both sides were greatly depleted by the third charge. It would not have been difficult for one of his men to have gotten behind Geoffrey.”

“I have little doubt that that is what happened,” Hugh said. “Geoffrey was too good a horseman to have been unseated at the very beginning of a charge.”

His voice was cool. Philip would have thought Geoffrey’s fate was of no consequence to him were it not for the pallor of his self-contained face and the shadows under his eyes.

Of course, they might have been the result of his illness.

“What was the matter with you this morning?” Philip asked abruptly. “You seem perfectly all right now. What was it that kept you from participating in the mêlée?”

The look in Hugh’s gray eyes froze the blood in his veins.

“I was ill,” Hugh said.

Philip, who was a brave man, found that he did not have the nerve to inquire farther.

After a moment of distinctly uncomfortable silence, Nigel attempted to carry on. “Then you were in the chapel just now?”

“Aye,” said Hugh.

He looked at Nigel, his face as cold as winter ice.

Nigel, who wanted to ask if he had remembered anything, found that he couldn’t say anything.

“If you will both excuse me,” Hugh said. “I have something I must do.”

The two men stood and watched Hugh’s slender figure as he made his way across the inner bailey and out between the twin gate towers.

“What do you think happened while he was in the chapel?” Philip asked when Hugh was no longer in sight.

“Something that he doesn’t want to talk about,” said Nigel. “Which means, I think, that he is starting to remember.”

Cristen had also seen Geoffrey go down and she had come to the same conclusion as Philip. The blow that had felled Geoffrey had come from behind and had been intended as an execution.

She said as much to Hugh when he sought her out after he had returned from his visit to the chapel.

“Aye,” he said. “I believe you, Cristen.”

They were walking together along the horse lines, where the hundreds of visiting horses had been picketed to be taken care of by their own grooms. Hugh was going to check on Rufus, and on Geoffrey’s lame roan as well.

“Geoffrey’s death was Guy’s doing, Hugh, not yours,” Cristen said now, quietly.

The black stallion they were passing stamped his rear off leg and swished his tail irritably.

“He was killed because someone mistook him for me,” Hugh said.

“Aye,” she agreed. “Lord Guy recognized you.”

Hugh said in a strange voice, “Evidently he has.”

In reply, she slipped her hand into his.

They walked for another few feet along the line of tethered horses. The great war stallions, tired from their day’s exertions, munched on piles of hay while grooms brushed the dust out of their once shiny coats and picked the dirt out of their hooves.

Gray clouds were blowing in from the west, covering the blue sky of early afternoon. The smell of horses filled the air.

Hugh said in the same strange voice he had spoken with earlier, “I am Hugh de Leon, Cristen, aren’t I?”

“Aye,” she said matter-of-factly. “I believe that you are.”

A groom cursed as one of the stallions swung around on him with bared teeth.

“I think I knew it all along,” Hugh said.

Her fingers tightened around his.

He drew in a long, shuddering breath. “I remembered the chapel.”

“Did you?”

“I remembered the window, at any rate. I remembered the way the sunlight used to come through it. I remembered the way the dust motes used to dance in the air.”

He didn’t want to tell anyone, even her, about the brief vision he had had of a dead man in front of the altar.

He inhaled deeply once again. “So now I must decide what I should do next.”

“The first thing you must do is get away from Chippenham,” she said decisively. “You’re not safe here, Hugh. That has been made abundantly clear.”

With his boot he kicked a wisp of hay that had blown in front of them. “I think I shall go with Philip Demain to pay a visit to Simon of Evesham,” he said. “If Simon formally recognizes me as the son of Roger and Isabel, then Guy will have to pay attention to me.”

“For God’s sake, he has already paid attention to you,” Cristen cried. “He tried to kill you!”

“No.” Hugh shook his head. “He tried to kill an obscure knight who came to Chippenham in the company of one of his vassals. It will be a very different thing for him to try to kill his brother’s son.”

Cristen began to shiver.

He dropped her hand and reached his arm around her shoulders, as if he could give her some of his warmth. “Try to understand. This is something I have to do. If Guy is indeed responsible for my father’s death, then he must be made to pay for it. He already owes a debt for Geoffrey.”

Cristen tilted her head to look up into his face. “Why go to Simon, Hugh? Why not go to your mother?”

He stiffened. “Simon has power,” he said. “Isabel has none.”

A faint line appeared between her delicate brows. “Still…you are planning to go to see her? It will give her such joy to know that you are alive.”

His high cheekbones looked as if they might push out through his taut, pale skin. She was close enough to him to feel that he was trembling.

“I…I can’t,” he said after a while.

“Why not?” she asked softly.

He didn’t answer.

“Hugh?” she said. “Why not?”

“I don’t know,” he returned at last. He stared down at her, his eyes glittering. “I don’t know, Cristen. All I know is that I dare not see her again.”

Guy le Gaucher looked around his packed hall, his eyes searching for one particular figure. When he didn’t find it, he turned and spoke to the man who sat on the far side of the woman whose place was beside him.

“Where is the boy?” he demanded. “For that matter, where are Nigel Haslin and his daughter? I don’t see them anywhere in the hall.”

Sir Richard Evril replied, “Shall I find out?”

“Aye,” said Guy. “Do that.”

Guy sat in brooding silence, drinking his wine and staring at the boisterous scene before him. His golden-haired companion tried to get his attention by leaning against him, but he ignored her.

If that boy has gotten away…he thought in fury.

It took Sir Richard ten minutes to discover that Nigel Haslin and all his knights had departed from Chippenham several hours earlier.

Guy was livid. “What about the body that lies in my chapel? Did they leave it?”

“They must have left it,” Richard said. “Certainly no one saw it being removed. If they had, they would have reported it to me.”

“Go and check,” Guy said.

Sir Richard looked as if he were going to object. The food was being served and he was hungry. One look at Guy’s face changed his mind, however, and without further comment he left the table to go to the chapel.

He was back before Guy had had a chance to take more than a few bites of the roast swan that was on his trencher.

“It’s gone,” Richard said. His veined cheeks were red with anger. “They took the body away and no one reported it to me.”

Guy slammed his hand down on the table and the blonde lady next to him jumped.

“I want that boy back here,” he said in a low, menacing voice. “I don’t want him showing that face around the countryside. If Simon of Evesham gets a look at him….”

“You can always say he is a bastard, my lord,” Richard said reasonably. “It is true that he has the de Leon eyes, but there is no proof that he came by them honestly.”

“You fool,” Guy snarled. “First of all, my dear brother was far too righteous ever to stray from the sacrament of holy matrimony. In truth, the great crusader had the soul of a priest.” Guy’s voice was full of contempt. “He only married to keep me from becoming earl.”

The blonde lady sitting next to him laughed knowingly. “You certainly don’t have the soul of a priest, my lord.”

“Shut up,” Guy said.

She shrank into herself and was quiet.

“Even the holiest of men may be tempted by a beautiful woman,” Richard insisted.

“You don’t understand,” Guy said impatiently. “That boy may have the de Leon eyes, but the rest of his face is a mirror image of my sister-in-law. That is why Nigel Haslin picked him up, of course. He saw the resemblance and thought to use the boy against me. Nigel has always suspected I had something to do with my brother’s death.” He glared at the woman next to him. “Which I didn’t!”

“Of course not, my lord,” she said hastily.

Guy narrowed his eyes in a way that made him look remarkably like Hugh. “I have no intention of turning my honors over to an upstart boy, even if he is my nephew. I will hold what is mine, no matter what it costs to do so.”

“What do you think he is going to do next?” Sir Richard asked.

“I think Nigel will take him to Stephen,” Guy said. He set his jaw angrily. “Which means that I must get to Stephen first.”