No Dark Place

3

When Hugh came back into the house, Nigel and Bernard were gone and the men who were to sleep in the hall were bedding down on the straw pallets that the servants had dragged out from their storage place behind the stairs. Hugh took the candle that had been placed next to the door for him and in silence crossed the mattress-strewn floor and mounted the stairs to the third level.

He felt a great rush of relief when he saw that there was no one in the solar. Bernard and Nigel Haslin had retired to bed; he would not have to face either of them again tonight.

He stood for a moment in the middle of the solar, looking around him by the flickering light of the wax candle he held in his hand.

How empty it was. How desolate. It had felt that way to him ever since Adela died. Even Ralf had not been able to completely fill the emptiness for him.

It still did not seem possible that they were gone, that he would never again feel Adela’s fingers on his cheek, never again hear Ralf’s deep, gruff voice…

Hugh shut his eyes, blotting out the sight of the room that had once been his home.

This had not been the place to which Ralf had brought him on that first night, of course. That had been the townhouse in Lincoln.

Hugh stood alone in the cold, empty solar, and it seemed that he could once again feel the touch of Ralf’s hand, heavy on his shoulder, as the sheriff had dragged his eight-year-old self out of the hiding place he had found against the bitter cold of a winter night. Hugh had struggled mightily, but even though he had learned many dirty tricks during his time on the road, Ralf had known most of those tricks himself. And Hugh had been but eight years of age and weak with hunger, no match for the big, strong Sheriff of Lincoln.

He had cursed Ralf, first in English and then in his native Norman French.

Later he had discovered that it was the French that had stopped Ralf from taking him to the castle, which had been his original intention. Instead, impulsively, the sheriff had taken Hugh home to his wife for the night, to get the boy off the frigid winter streets of Lincoln and to find out who he was.

Adela had taken one look at the filthy bundle of rags that was Hugh and immediately called for a hot bath. Stunned and speechless, Hugh had found himself being scoured and scrubbed and then dressed in the clean clothes that Adela had borrowed from one of the household boys. Then she had sat him in front of the fire and fed him the first hot meal that he had seen in over a month.

He had eaten ravenously.

When Ralf would have questioned him, Adela had told her husband fiercely to hold his tongue. Couldn’t he see that the boy was exhausted?

Then she had taken Hugh upstairs and tucked him into a warm, fur-covered bed in a room that he had all to himself. Before she left, she had bent and kissed him on the forehead.

“Never fret, my lamb,” she had said. “I won’t let any more harm befall you.”

And she never had.

Hugh would have died for Adela, but she had thwarted him by dying first. It was the worst memory of his life: he and Ralf, each of them sitting on either side of her bed, watching as the fever ate her away. She had slipped away in the night without a word to either of them.

He had been seventeen when she died.

Three years later, he had lost Ralf.

The seven months since Ralf’s death had been a torment to Hugh. Losing his foster parents had opened a great chasm of emptiness inside him that he was terrified to contemplate. Even during the years that he had lived with them, he had known deep down that he was balancing precariously on the edge of a precipice. But Adela had kept the terror away. At least, for most of the time she had.

Why can’t I remember?

It was not a question he often asked himself. He had always known that it was safer not to remember. For thirteen years he had been content to live as half a person with half a life. It had been enough that he was the son of Adela and Ralf.

But they were gone now. They had died and left him alone.

Who was he, really? Who had he been before Ralf had found him starving in the streets of Lincoln?

He remembered some of what had befallen him before he reached Lincoln. He remembered the traveling mummers who had wanted to use him in their show. He remembered what one of the men had tried to do to him and how he had escaped from their clutches.

But of the time before that-nothing.

Could what this Nigel had said possibly be true? Could I be this missing Hugh de Leon?

All of his inner self rose up to deny it.

Why am I so sure it isn’t true?

Why am I so afraid?

Is it because I saw my father being murdered? Is that why I lost my memory?

A drop of hot wax trickled down onto Hugh’s hand, bringing him back to his surroundings.

Slowly he walked into his bedroom and began to undress. He had told his bodyservant he wanted no help this night.

He pulled his jerkin off over his head, and bent to unbuckle his boots. As he stood next to the bed in his hose and beautifully embroidered shirt, he shuddered, and it was not with cold.

The bedroom next door was occupied this night, but not with the people he loved.

He stripped off the rest of his clothes and got into his solitary bed.

I don’t know how much more of this loneliness I can stand, he thought desperately as he burrowed his face into the embroidered pillow that Adela had made for him so lovingly.

Perhaps it won’t hurt to speak a little further with this Nigel Haslin on the morrow.

There was no chapel at Keal and consequently the household met for the first time in the hall. The first meal of the day was always a simple one of bread washed down with ale, and then everyone dispersed to their morning chores before they reassembled again at noon for dinner.

“I must be back in Lincoln by evening, lad,” Bernard said to Hugh as the three men sat over their ale cups at the high table.

Hugh had begun to pick up his cup, but now he set it back down again on the table. “Of course,” he said with careful courtesy. “It was good of you to come to see me, Bernard.”

The knight scowled. “I don’t want to leave you here alone again,” he said frankly. “It isn’t good for you.”

Bernard could almost see the shutters come down behind the boy’s light gray eyes.

“This is my home,” Hugh said.

“You may have another home,” Bernard said deliberately. “That is, if you can find the courage to fight for it.”

The boy’s finely cut nostrils quivered with an emotion that could have been either anger or amusement.

“You must be desperate to get me away if you have to resort to insulting me,” Hugh said.

It was amusement, Bernard realized.

“Listen to me, lad,” he said, gripping his ale cup in tense, hard fingers. “The evidence presented here by Nigel is too persuasive for you to turn your back upon. You may very well be who he thinks you to be. You owe it to yourself to pursue the matter further.”

Hugh looked away from Bernard and for a brief moment fixed his eyes on the scoured oak of the table at which the three of them were sitting. His profile gave away nothing. Then, slowly, he turned his head the other way and looked at Nigel Haslin.

“Why have you sought me out?” he asked. “What ill will do you harbor against Guy de Leon that makes you so urgent to see him replaced by an unknown like me?”

Leave it to Hugh to thrust his sword right into one’s most vulnerable spot, Bernard thought with a mixture of humor and resignation.

Nigel, however, did not look dismayed by Hugh’s challenge. He folded his hands on the table in front of him and replied with an air of frankness, “I will be honest and tell you that my chief motive in wishing to see Guy displaced is political. As you well know, the ill wind of civil war is blowing toward us in this land. While it is true that Matilda is the only legitimate child of our previous king, and while it is also true that Henry forced his barons to swear allegiance to her while he was still alive, yet there are many who do not wish to see a woman wear the English crown. Consequently, when the old king died and his nephew, Stephen, seized the crown for himself, most of the barons welcomed him.”

Nigel’s brown eyes flicked across Hugh’s still face.

Hugh looked back and waited.

After a moment, when he realized that Hugh was not going to speak, Nigel forged on. “Matilda knows nothing of us here in England. When she was but a child, her father married her to the German emperor; then, after the elderly emperor died, she was married to Geoffrey, Count of Anjou.”

At the word “Anjou,” Nigel’s voice hardened “Matilda’s husband has no interest in England; he wants to be Duke of Normandy. It was not until Matilda’s bastard brother, Robert, Earl of Gloucester, decided to champion her cause that she even contemplated making a play for the English crown.”

Hugh drummed his fingers impatiently on the table. “All this may be true,” he said, “but what has it to do with me?”

Nigel said flatly, “Stephen needs Wiltshire.”

There was silence as Hugh digested this information. At last he inquired in a mild voice, “Is Guy going to declare for the empress?”

Nigel told him what he had told Bernard the day before. “Guy will declare for no one. He is like the vultures who hover over the dead on a battlefield, hungry to take the pickings for themselves.”

Hugh leaned back in his chair and took a thoughtful sip of ale. “So you are Stephen’s man?”

“Aye,” Nigel returned.

Hugh said, in the mild tone as before, “And to whom do you swear your feudal oath?”

A faint flush stained Nigel’s cheeks. “The Earl of Wiltshire is my chief feudal lord, although I have a manor that lies under the lordship of Ferrers. It was my allegiance to Ferrers that brought me north to the Battle of the Standard.”

Hugh lifted a slim black eyebrow and said nothing.

Nigel’s mouth compressed into a hard, straight line. “You think I am betraying my feudal oath by speaking to you the way I have.”

Hugh took another sip of ale, watched him, and didn’t reply.

“I see I must open my whole mind to you on this subject,” Nigel said.

“I think that might be wise,” Hugh said softly.

Nigel took a long draft of ale, returned his cup to the table, and resumed speaking in a cautiously lowered tone.

“When Lord Roger was found lying in his own blood, in his own chapel, no one doubted for long that it was the knight Walter Crespin who was responsible for the knife thrust that killed the earl. It was soon discovered, you see, that Walter had left Chippenham shortly before the earl’s body was found, taking the heir with him.”

Hugh’s half-lowered lashes concealed the expression in his eyes.

Nigel lowered his voice even more. “I have always wondered at the convenience of the attack that killed Walter,” he said.

At that, Bernard leaned around Hugh to stare at Nigel. “Good God, man. Do you think he was killed deliberately?”

“By himself, Walter had no reason to kill Lord Roger,” Nigel said. “He was but a simple household knight. What would he gain by such a dreadful deed?”

“You think he was working for someone else?” Hugh said.

“I do.”

“And whom do you suspect?”

Nigel replied by posing another question. “Who is the one who gained the most by the death of Lord Roger and the disappearance of his only son and heir?”

“Guy,” Bernard said emphatically. He pounded his fist once upon the table. “By God, you suspect that Guy was behind the death of his brother!”

“Nor am I the only one to have harbored such a thought,” Nigel said grimly.

“There was no proof?” Bernard demanded. “No way of connecting this Walter Crespin to Guy?”

Nigel’s smile held no humor. “Walter was conveniently dead, and it is not possible to question a dead man.”

The two men looked at each other around the still figure of Hugh.

Bernard said, “Walter’s body was returned, but not the body of the boy?”

“That is right. Although I am certain that he was meant to be killed as well, evidently he found some means of getting away.”

At this, both knights fixed their eyes upon Hugh.

His beautiful face wore the still, reserved, utterly unapproachable expression that Bernard had always dreaded to see.

“A very interesting thesis,” Hugh said. “It is a pity that you have no proof.”

“You wear my proof upon your face,” Nigel told him grimly. “No one who sees you can doubt who you are.”

A muscle flickered along Hugh’s jawbone.

“What do you propose I do?” he asked in the same cool voice as before. “Make an appointment to see my supposed uncle and ask him to recognize me as his long-lost nephew?”

Nigel’s aristocratic nostrils pinched together with insult. “I am not so foolhardy as that.”

Hugh’s cold eyes looked at him. “What do you want me to do, then?” he repeated.

“Come with me to the king,” Nigel replied. “If Stephen will recognize your claim, then you will have the legitimacy you need to challenge Guy.”

Once more Hugh raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I rather think that King Stephen will require more proof of my identity than the assurance of one of Guy’s discontented vassals that I look like the dead heir.”

Anger flashed across Nigel’s face, but before he could reply, Bernard cut in.

“The lad is right. There must be more voices than yours to represent his claim to the king.”

Nigel set his jaw. “Then he must go to see his mother. If I was able to recognize him so immediately, she will be even quicker to do so.”

The two men were so involved with each other that neither of them noticed the way Hugh had frozen at Nigel’s words.

“His mother is still alive?” Bernard asked incredulously. “Why didn’t you mention this earlier? Where is she?”

“In the Benedictine convent in Worcester,” Nigel replied. “It is where she has resided since the death of her husband and the loss of her son.” Nigel turned to Hugh and said emotionally, “She will be overjoyed to see you, lad.”

The eyes he encountered were as bleak and cold as the North Sea in January.

“No,” Hugh said.

Nigel’s head snapped up. “What do you mean, no? Are you saying that you won’t go to see your mother?”

“She is not my mother,” Hugh said. “And I won’t see her.”

The two older men stared at him in astonishment.

Hugh stood up. “Why makes you so certain that my loyalty is pledged to Stephen?” he demanded of Nigel Haslin.

Nigel’s voice became louder. “You fought for him at the Battle of the Standard!”

“I followed my foster father to the Standard, as was my duty. But Ralf is dead now.”

Nigel leaped to his feet so that he loomed over Hugh. “You cannot seriously be thinking of declaring for the empress?”

“Stephen once swore allegiance to her,” Hugh pointed out calmly.

“We all did!” Nigel cried. “Her father, the old king, forced us to.”

Hugh shrugged.

“You cannot declare for the empress, lad,” Bernard said. He too had gotten to his feet. “Ralf was Stephen’s man. He had his manors of Stephen. You cannot expect to hold them from another.”

“Perhaps I do not want to hold them,” Hugh said. “Perhaps I would rather give them to you.”

At that, Bernard’s mouth dropped open with shock.

Hugh smiled at him. His smile was so rare that when it came its effect was extraordinary. “You are growing old to be a landless knight, Bernard. Wouldn’t you like to be the lord of Keal?”

Bernard recovered himself. “Don’t be a fool, Hugh,” he said sternly.

“You said yourself that I should get away from here,” Hugh pointed out.

“I meant that you should go with Nigel! In the name of God, lad, how do you think you will support yourself if you give up Keal?”

“I have been thinking that perhaps I might try earning my living at the tournaments in France,” Hugh said. He stepped away from the table. “Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have some business I must attend to.” He put his hand upon the carved back of his chair and asked with belated courtesy, “Will you be staying to dinner?”

Bernard set his jaw. “Aye,” he said. “I will stay for dinner.”

“So will I,” said Nigel Haslin.

“How delightful,” said Hugh.

The two older knights stood on the dais and watched the slender figure of their host as he strode to the door and went outside into the cold March morning.

Alone at the table, they turned to look at each other.

“Was he serious?” Nigel asked incredulously.

Bernard sighed. “One never knows with Hugh.”

“I cannot believe he would prefer Matilda to Stephen!”

“He cannot declare for Matilda and continue to hold Keal and his other manors. He knows that. He was just trying to rile us.”

“He was very quick to mention the tournaments in France.” Nigel was seriously agitated. “It seems to me that he has been thinking about this.”

“He won’t go to France,” Bernard said positively. “Adela would not have liked it, and Hugh never does anything that Adela wouldn’t have liked.”

The last of the breaking-fast tables had been stacked against the wall and all of the men had left the hall. Several serving girls were sweeping up the rushes on the floor.

Nigel rested his hand upon his belt, in the place where his sword would normally hang. He scowled. “Why would he refuse so to see the Lady Isabel?”

“I have no idea.” Bernard gestured that the other man should resume his chair. When both were once more sitting, he asked, “Is there any way we can proceed with this business and leave out taking Hugh to see Stephen?”

“I am not prepared to hand Wiltshire over to the empress,” Nigel replied very stiffly.

“I doubt very much that Hugh knows his own mind about who he will support,” Bernard said. His pale blue eyes fixed the dark gaze of the other knight. “I can tell you this, though. Hugh was raised by the most honorable man I ever knew. He will make his choice based on his judgment as to what is best for the country, not on what is best for himself.”

The serving girls were now sweeping the old rushes into the fire, which flared up with the addition of fresh fuel.

Bernard went on, “From what you have told me of Earl Guy, Hugh is by far the better man.”

After a long moment, Nigel shook his head regretfully. “Hugh simply cannot challenge Guy without the backing of the king.”

“What about the backing of the Church?” Bernard countered.

Nigel’s eyebrows rose. “What do you mean?”

“If Hugh is able positively to name Guy as the man behind his father’s murder, and if he can bring some proof to support his accusation, then Guy will be guilty of fratricide. Under those circumstances, the church will force him to forfeit his brother’s property.”

Nigel made an impatient gesture. “But you have told me that Hugh doesn’t remember anything about his early life.”

“Perhaps revisiting the scenes of his childhood will bring back his memory,” Bernard said. His voice took on a note of gruffness. “Something terrible happened to that boy to make him forget the way he has. In truth, I begin to wonder if perhaps he might have been present when his father was killed.”

“Good God!” said Nigel.

“Aye,” Bernard said. “Such a sight might well cause a seven-year-old to blank out his memory.”

Silence fell as the two men contemplated this harrowing thought.

Finally Nigel said, “What do you want me to do?”

“Convince Hugh to pay a visit to your home. He said earlier in scorn that perhaps you could arrange an interview between him and his uncle. Well…perhaps you can.”

Nigel gave a short bark of laughter. “You want me to introduce Hugh to Guy as his lost nephew? That would be somewhat dangerous, I fear.”

“No, I don’t want you to actually introduce them. I want you to bring Hugh to Chippenham disguised as one of your own knights.” Bernard gave Nigel a piercing look. “You can surely find some reason to pay a visit to Guy?”

“Well, aye…”

“Chippenham was the castle where the old earl was murdered. Isn’t that what you said?”

“Aye. Chippenham has ever been the main castle of the earls of Wiltshire. It is where Hugh grew up.”

“Then take Hugh there. It is possible that once he has returned to the scenes of his childhood, he will begin to remember things.”

“Things that will lead to the truth about his father’s murder?”

“Perhaps,” said Bernard somberly.

After a minute, Nigel let out his breath in a long sigh. “We could try it, I suppose.”

Bernard’s eyes went to the door through which Hugh had exited a few moments before. He nodded slowly.

“The question is: How I am going to get him to agree to visit me?” Nigel said. “You must admit that he has proved markedly uncooperative thus far.”

“He might agree to a visit if we give him time,” Bernard said. “If he has actually been thinking of going off to the French tournaments, he is desperate to get away from here.”

“He is not going to be easy to hide,” Nigel warned. “Once Guy gets a look at his face, he will recognize him as Roger’s son. We may very well be placing Hugh in grave danger.”

The scent of herbs drifted to their nostrils as the serving girls began to sprinkle fresh rushes around the hall.

“He will be in worse danger if he remains here,” Bernard said bleakly. “If we set him to unraveling a thirteen-year-old mystery, it will at least have the benefit of occupying his mind.”