No Dark Place

8

When Philip and Father Anselm finally reached Somerford Castle on a warm September evening, they found it virtually deserted.

“They are all gone to the tournament at Chippenham,” the men at arms who were manning the outer gate told them.

Philip knew about the tournament, but he hadn’t realized that it was going to interfere with his mission.

“Here’s a coil,” he said to the priest, who was riding beside him on the horse Philip had rented for him in Winchester. “I hadn’t counted on this.”

“Has the boy known as Hugh Corbaille gone to Chippenham with Sir Nigel?” Father Anselm said to the men at the gate.

“Aye,” one replied. “All the knights went. And Lady Cristen and her ladies as well. It’s a great tournament, you know. All of Lord Guy’s vassals participate.”

“Hugh will bring home prizes, too,” the other man at arms said approvingly. “He’s that good.”

The pretender had evidently wormed his way into the good graces of the entire castle, Philip thought sourly.

Father Anselm looked at Philip. “Then we must go to Chippenham as well.”

Philip frowned. “Is that wise, Father? Would it not be better for us to await their return here at Somerford?”

“No,” the priest said positively. “The Lady Isabel must not be kept in doubt for any longer than is necessary.”

Philip couldn’t disagree with that. The sooner she discovered that this man was not her son, the sooner she would regain her peace of mind.

“All right,” he said. “But it is too late to start for Chippenham now.”

“You can spend the night at Somerford,” one of the gatekeepers said promptly. “Lady Cristen would never turn away a priest.”

“Very well,” Philip said. “Thank you, that is what we will do. And in the morning we will leave for the tournament.”

The grounds in front of Chippenham were ablaze with color when Philip and Father Anselm rode out of the surrounding woods the following afternoon. Men and boys and horses were scattered everywhere on the dry, packed earth of the tournament field. Striped pavilions glowed in the sun, and the scarlet flags of the Earl of Wiltshire vied in brilliance with the colors of the flags of all of Wiltshire’s vassals.

On the section of the field nearest to the woods, a quintain had been set up and, one after another, boys were tilting at it recklessly. Hoots or cheers greeted the results, depending on how successful each contender was.

A large number of boys appeared to be hitting the ground as they misjudged their hits and the quintain swung back and swatted them out of the saddle.

The part of the field nearest to the castle walls had been roped off and set up as an obstacle course, which a single horse and rider were attempting to negotiate. Wooden stands had been erected along one side of the course, and this was where the ladies were sitting. The brilliant colors of their gowns and veils glowed in the golden September sunshine.

Philip signaled to a squire who was leading a horse across the field in front of them. “Hey there! Can you tell me where I might find Sir Nigel Haslin?”

“Most of the knights are watching the horsemanship contest,” the boy replied.

Philip looked at the crowds of men standing around the roped-off obstacle course. Then he turned to the priest at his side. “Would you know this Nigel if you saw him, Father?”

“I think so,” the priest said.

They dismounted, found a page to hold their horses, walked across the dry and dusty field to the crowd around the obstacle course, and began to search for Nigel. Both men were dressed in plain riding clothes, and Father Anselm wore his hood pulled up to cover his tonsure. The church had banned all tournaments, and if it was seen that he was a priest they were sure to attract the kind of attention they did not want. As it was, two men of their unusual height were noteworthy enough.

They found Nigel ten minutes later, standing with a group of his men near the stands that held the ladies.

“Sir Nigel,” Father Anselm said.

Nigel’s head swung around.

“The Lady Isabel de Leon sent me,” the priest said softly. “My name is Father Anselm. I was Lord Roger’s chaplain and I knew Hugh well when he was a child.”

Nigel’s brown eyes searched the priest’s face. “I think I remember you.”

Father Anselm bowed his hooded head. Then he glanced at Philip. “This is Philip Demain. He is a knight of Simon of Evesham’s. He fetched me from Winchester and brought me here.”

Nigel’s brows had snapped together at the mention of Simon’s name. He was well aware of Isabel’s brother’s allegiance to Robert of Gloucester. “I see,” he said stiffly.

“We are here to see if Father Anselm can identify this man you have taken up as Lady Isabel’s son,” Philip said coolly. “Once we have done that, we will be on our way again. In the meanwhile, if you will allow us to pass as members of your retinue, we would be grateful.”

“Of course,” Nigel said, even more stiffly than before. “Although I must say, I hardly expected that you would follow me to Chippenham.”

“I do not wish to keep the Lady Isabel waiting any longer than she must,” Father Anselm said. “You can imagine her anxiety.”

Nigel’s aristocratic face softened. “Of course. Of course.” He gestured toward the obstacle course. “Hugh is riding in the competition. You will have to wait until he is finished before you can meet him.”

Philip crossed his arms over his chest, spread his legs a little and settled himself to watch the man and horse presently on the field.

“We will wait,” he said.

He watched while six men and horses went through the obstacle course, to the accompaniment of encouraging cheers from the knights of their retinues.

They had varying degrees of success. One horse-and-rider combination came to grief at the small bridge that was decorated with many strings of fluttering flags. Every time the knight brought his horse up to the start of the bridge, the stallion would shy away. After three such refusals, the pair was disqualified.

A second contestant had trouble with the series of three small, brightly painted jumps, which had a multitude of flags hanging off their standards. The horse went over the first jump, but stopped dead in front of the second, snorting and pawing and shaking his head. The knight circled him around and headed him at the first jump again, and this time he refused that. The knight tried again, with the same results. He was disqualified.

A third contestant got across the bridge and the jumps, but failed to get his horse through the tunnel that had been made from what looked like an immense circular barrel. It was dark inside the tunnel, and the horse refused to enter. They were dismissed.

Three of the contestants made it around the entire course. The horses walked in places, in places stopped and looked as if they would refuse, but, with some verbal and physical encouragement from their riders, eventually they obeyed and went on.

Then a man on a roan stallion came onto the course.

The men around Nigel all cheered.

“He’s one of ours,” Nigel said to Philip. Turning toward the field, he called, “Come on, Geoffrey. Show them how the men of Somerford can ride.”

The roan trotted out onto the course and went through the maze delineated by the first set of barrels.

Philip, watching, thought that this pair was having the best ride of any that he had seen. The roan was slow and cautious, but he kept going forward. He stopped at the bridge and looked long and hard at the flags, but when the knight pricked him with a spur, he went. He hopped over the jumps one at a time, not in one fluid motion, his nose almost on the rails, he was looking so hard, but he went. He walked through the barrel as if he were treading on eggshells, but he went.

The men of Somerford were delighted.

“Our lord won the archery contest earlier,” one of them confided to Philip. “And one of our knights came in third in the wrestling. If we can win the horsemanship, the men of Somerford will have taken the day.”

“Well, from what I have seen, that was certainly the best ride yet,” Philip said courteously.

Privately, he thought that he could have done better, but he was prudent enough to hold his tongue.

“Of course,” another man said, “Hugh has yet to come.”

“And when shall we have the joy of seeing him?” Philip said with lethal courtesy.

“Right now,” came the reply, and Philip turned his eyes to the horse-and-rider combination coming through the opening in the ropes that was the start of the obstacle course.

The horse was a white stallion, not overly large but muscular and very fit-looking. The rider did not look to be overly large, either. His face was hidden by the noseguard on his helmet.

The horse paused for a moment, then began to trot forward.

His step was springy and forward. His ears were pricked with interest. The man on his back carried his sword in one hand and his shield in the other and rode in the way of all knights, legs straight down under him as if he were standing on the ground. His mail glittered in the sun.

The horse trotted smoothly through the different lines set up by the barrels, his hind legs stepping well up under him, his back swinging with relaxation. Still keeping the same steady pace, he approached the bridge and, without a moment’s hesitation, trotted over it. There were more barrels, this time set up in circles, and the stallion veered perfectly left to enter between them.

There was no sign of movement on the part of the rider. Other men had kicked, had used their spurs, but this rider sat perfectly quietly. To all outward appearances, the horse was acting on his own.

Then they were at the jumps. The stallion trotted forward. He leaped the first. The rider stood a little more in his stirrups, but otherwise did not change position. The horse, still holding the same steady pace, jumped the second and then the third pole. He turned at the end of the line and headed toward the tunnel.

As he approached the strange circular barrel, for the first time he showed a sign of nervousness. His ears, which had been pricked forward, flicked back toward his rider twice.

They reached the edge of the barrel, where the horse had to step up onto the wood and commit himself to going through.

Philip thought he saw an infinite hesitation on the part of the white stallion. His front feet touched the wood, then his back feet, and then he was trotting through, a little more quickly, perhaps, than he had been trotting before, but nevertheless trotting.

Back out again into the sunlight, there was only one more formation of barrels, a figure eight, to go through, and they were finished.

For a moment there was silence in the audience. Then it was as if everyone let out a collective breath. And then came the cheers.

Despite himself, Philip was impressed. It took an extraordinary kind of communication between rider and horse to get an animal to perform like that. Philip wasn’t fool enough to think that the horse had done it on his own.

“We’ve won! We’ve won!” the man behind him was exulting. “No matter how much the judges might want to give the prize to another, they cannot do it. Not with that kind of performance!”

Philip agreed. No one else had come close to that ride.

Evidently, the judges agreed also. Three more knights rode after Hugh, but it was an anticlimax and everyone knew it. It took the judges exactly two minutes to come to their decision.

Lord Guy himself stepped onto the field from his place in the front row of the stands to award the prize-a handsome new saddle.

“Hugh Corbaille of Somerford, come forward to accept your prize!” the knight who accompanied the earl blared forth.

From amidst the crowd of horsemen waiting by the opening in the ropes, a lone rider came into the ring. The white stallion glistened in the sun, his muscles moving smoothly under his polished coat. Just before they reached the earl, the man on his back lifted his hands to remove his helmet. He was not wearing his mail coif, and his uncovered black hair shone in the brilliant sunlight. He stopped the white horse in front of Lord Guy. The two men looked at each other.

Beside him, Philip heard the breath ratchet in Nigel Haslin’s throat.

Philip looked at the face of the man on the white stallion and felt his heart kick once, hard, against his ribs.

He had wondered what a male Isabel would look like. Now he knew.

“Jesu,” he heard the priest beside him mumble, as if in prayer. “It is Hugh.”

It had to be, Philip thought blankly. The man wearing that face had to be Isabel’s son. There could be no other explanation for such a resemblance.

He turned his eyes to the earl, who was standing in front of the white stallion, flanked by a knight and a page holding the saddle. Guy was staring at Hugh as if he was seeing a ghost.

Hugh sat his horse like a statue, and looked back.

A rustle of uneasiness ran through the crowd. The noise seemed to break the spell that was holding Guy frozen, and he stepped forward. He put a hand on the white stallion’s bridle and looked up at his rider. His lips moved.

Hugh answered.

“Dear God,” Nigel breathed. “What can they be saying?”

“I imagine he wants to know who the hell Hugh is,” Philip said.

Then Guy signaled to the page, who came forward to present the saddle to Hugh. He leaned from his horse to lift it in his arms. He nodded to Guy. Then, as if on his own volition, the white stallion backed up and whirled, and the two of them cantered off the field.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Then, “Judas,” Philip said. “That was a scene.”

“I must find Hugh,” Nigel said, and he began to push his way through the crowd.

“Let’s go,” Philip said to the dazed-looking priest at his side, and the two tall men followed close upon the heels of the lord of Somerford.

Cristen didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.

“Did he have to be quite so dramatic?” she grumbled as she got to her feet and prepared to leave the stands with her ladies.

“Lady Cristen!”

She shut her eyes for a moment in dismay. When she opened them again, there was Sir Richard standing in front of her.

“Who was that boy?” the knight demanded.

She opened her eyes wider. “What boy, Sir Richard?”

“You know who I am talking about,” he replied angrily. “The boy who just won the horsemanship contest. He came to Chippenham with your father.”

“Didn’t you hear his name?” she said in feigned surprise. “He is Hugh Corbaille, the son of Ralf Corbaille, he who was Sheriff of Lincoln before he was killed at the Battle of the Standard last year. Hugh has been visiting us.”

Sir Richard showed his stained teeth in a smile that was not pleasant. “I see,” he said. “And where did your father meet this Hugh Corbaille?”

“I believe you will have to ask him that yourself,” she returned pleasantly. “Now, if you will excuse me, Sir Richard, my ladies and I would like to retire.”

He gave her a narrow look out of flat, slate-blue eyes.

“I will see you later,” he promised. “At the feast in the castle.”

She forced a smile, then turned, beckoned to her ladies, and began to thread her way through the remaining crowd, away from the vicinity of Sir Richard, who she was sure had been an emissary from the earl.

Hugh rode Rufus directly to the stabling area that had been allotted to the men of Somerford.

He was trembling.

It was one thing to have heard that he looked like Guy, but to look into a pair of eyes that were a mirror image of his own…

He had seen the naked shock in those eyes when Guy had seen Hugh’s face. It had been the shock of recognition.

Hugh balanced his new saddle on Rufus’s withers and dismounted. His knees felt weak as he landed on the ground.

One of the squires came running. “I saw your ride, Hugh!” He was panting with excitement. “It was wonderful!”

“Thank you,” Hugh said automatically.

“I’ll take care of Rufus for you,” the boy said. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll get a good rubdown and a nice feed. He deserves it.” The squire patted the arched white neck of the stallion. “He is a splendid horse.”

Hugh lifted down his new saddle and stood for a moment as Rufus was led off. He didn’t know what he should do.

The trembling was getting worse.

He didn’t want to return to the pavilion. He didn’t want to deal with congratulations or with the excitement of the knights of Somerford as they celebrated their victories.

He didn’t want to see anyone.

He wished Cristen was here so he could talk to her.

Several men he didn’t know came up to him as he stood there and began to ask him about how he had trained Rufus. He managed to answer somehow, and then he started to walk in the direction of the pavilion where he knew Cristen was lodged. He was still carrying his saddle.

“Hugh!”

It took him a moment to recognize Nigel’s voice. He looked over his shoulder and saw the lord of Somerford hurrying after him. He stopped.

Nigel came up beside him, followed by two very tall men.

“I have some people who wish to meet you,” Nigel said.

They were not far from the ladies’ pavilion and the only people near them at the moment were a few pages who were scurrying around on errands for their mistresses. Most of the company was still clustered around the obstacle course.

The two big men loomed behind Nigel. One was as young as Hugh himself, and this was the man Nigel introduced first. “This is Philip Demain, Hugh. He is a knight of Simon of Evesham’s.”

With a great effort, Hugh pulled himself together. He looked at the young knight.

Philip’s hair was the color of the sun, his eyes the blue of a summer sky. His shoulders were immensely broad and he was at least five inches taller than Hugh.

Hugh nodded at him.

“And this is Father Anselm.” Nigel’s voice was suspiciously gentle. “He was Lord Roger’s chaplain, Hugh. He knew you when you were a child.”

Hugh stared into the thin, dark face of the hooded man. Great, haunted brown eyes looked back at him.

“Hugh,” the man said hoarsely. “My God, Hugh. After all these years, you have come back to us.”

Hugh had no recollection of ever seeing the man before.

Sweat broke out on his forehead.

“I…” He inhaled deeply and tried again. “I’m afraid I do not know you, Father.”

The priest stepped closer to Hugh and laid a hand on his arm. It took an immense effort of willpower to keep from pulling away.

“I have come as an emissary from your mother, the Lady Isabel,” the priest said.

Hugh pulled his arm away and stepped back.

“My mother was Adela Corbaille,” he said sharply.

The priest was shaking his head. “No, my boy. Your mother is Isabel de Leon.”

The young knight spoke for the first time. His voice was very deep. “You look just like her,” he said. “It’s uncanny.”

Suddenly, Hugh was dizzy.

I will not faint, he told himself fiercely. I will not faint.

He blinked and struggled to control his too-rapid breathing.

Then deliverance arrived.

“Here you are, Hugh,” said Cristen. “I have been searching for you.”

He turned to her. She took one look at his face and knew he was in trouble.

“I need Hugh’s help, Father,” she said to Nigel. “Do you mind if I borrow him for a while?”

There was a moment’s silence while Nigel looked at his daughter. Then he said quietly, “Of course not, my dear. I will see you both later.”

Cristen put her hand firmly on Hugh’s arm and began to steer him away from her father and the two tall men.

Without a word, Hugh turned and went with her.

They walked in the direction of the pavilions, Hugh carrying his new saddle under his left arm, Cristen on his other side. The sun was hot and Cristen stopped in the shade cast by the first pavilion, turned and scanned his face.

“Are you all right?” she asked softly.

He shook his head as if dazed. “His eyes…he does look like me, Cristen. He does.”

She nodded. “I know, Hugh.”

“I didn’t really believe it until I saw him.”

He was standing perfectly still, not even seeming to notice the weight of the saddle resting on his hip.

She reached out and touched his shoulder. The dazed look left his face and his eyes focused on her. “I don’t remember,” he said. There was anguish in his voice. “I don’t remember the priest, or this place, or Guy, or anything!”

She replied gently, “Perhaps you never will, Hugh. You have lived with that gap in your life for fourteen years. Perhaps you will have to live with it forever.”

“But don’t you see?” he cried. “If it is true, and I am his son, then I must find out what happened. My father was murdered! I cannot just let that go, Cristen. What kind of a man would I be if I just let that go?”

His words struck her to the heart.

“But what can you do?” She had not expected this reaction, and she tried very hard to keep her voice calm. “His death happened fourteen years ago, Hugh. How can you possibly find out the truth of it after so long a time?”

His nostrils quivered. “I have to try. My father was a crusader and he was murdered in his own chapel. I owe it to him to try to find his killer.”

A shadow fell upon them and, startled, they both jerked their heads around. One of Nigel’s squires was standing there.

“Would you like me to take that saddle from you, Hugh?” the boy asked respectfully. “I will put it with the rest of Rufus’ gear.”

Hugh blinked and for the first time seemed to realize that he was holding the saddle.

“Oh, of course.” He grasped the saddle with both hands and handed it over. “Thank you, William.”

“You were splendid, Hugh,” the boy said with a grin. “Everyone is talking about your ride.”

“Are they?” Hugh’s voice was wry.

He and Cristen stood together in silence and watched as William went off with the saddle. Then Hugh drew a deep breath and seemed to gather himself together.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose I…”

His words trailed off.

She looked up at him worriedly. “What is it?”

He nodded fractionally toward the front of the pavilion. “Who is that? Do you know?”

Cristen glanced in the direction Hugh had indicated and saw a solitary knight standing by the water pails that were lined up in front of the pavilion. The man’s face was rigid with barely controlled emotion, and he was staring at Hugh with hard and glittering eyes.

She looked back to Hugh. “I don’t know.”

“I think he is the man who won the wrestling today,” Hugh said. “One of Guy’s knights, I believe.”

Cristen turned and openly gazed at the knight. Realizing that he had been seen, the man bent, picked up a pail of water, and disappeared quickly into the pavilion.

“He probably recognized your resemblance to Guy,” Cristen said.

Hugh was frowning. “Aye.”

Fear caught Cristen by the throat. “He didn’t look very friendly, did he?”

“Perhaps he saw the same thing that Guy did when he looked at me this afternoon,” Hugh said.

“What is that, Hugh?”

In a grim voice, Hugh replied, “Retribution.”