The Poisoned Serpent

10

THE MANOR OF LINSAY

Having regained his composure and feeling somewhat rested, Hugh left the town house where he had lived with his foster parents and returned to the sheriff’s. There he washed, changed his clothes, and reclaimed his horse to ride to Linsay, the manor that John Rye held in knight’s fee from the bishop.

Patches of lighter sky showed here and there where the cloud cover momentarily thinned, but overall the early sunshine had turned to gray. Hugh followed Ermine Street through the city and out into Lincoln Fields, the meadows and farmlands on the north side of the city walls that belonged to the town.

The winter fields that stretched before Hugh were bare and brown, but he remembered how green and gold they looked under the summer sun. Each freeman of the town held and farmed four to six acres of this open land, and in the warm months the fields were ripe with wheat, barley, rye, oats, vetches, peas, and beans.

The town’s hay fields were bare as well. Hugh recalled how Ralf had been forced to restrict the number of livestock a freeman could graze on the common pasture because the town possessed only one hundred acres of meadow on which to grow hay, the only forage available to Lincoln’s animals through the winter.

Hugh might not have been reared to manage the great estates and vast lands he had been born to, but he had learned very young what it meant to administer a large city. Ralf had been more than a mere law enforcer when he had been Sheriff of Lincoln. His competence, his honesty, and his sense of justice had made people turn to him to solve all of the town’s problems. In everything but name, Ralf Corbaille had been Lord of Lincoln. Hugh had learned more than just the knightly arts from his foster father. He had learned the skill of governing.

He passed beyond Lincoln Fields into the bare, frozen countryside. He had been told that John Rye’s manor lay seven miles to the northwest of Lincoln, near to the hamlet of Kestven. Hugh took the path to the village, planning to ask directions to Linsay once he arrived in Kestven.

The hamlet lay in a valley that in summer would be a vista of green fields and ploughed farmland but that today looked bare and cold under the gray February sky. Hugh stopped Rufus at the first cottage he came to, where an elderly woman was feeding chickens in her front yard.

He dismounted and stood at the log fence that separated the yard from the road. “Good afternoon, mistress,” he said. “I wonder if you could tell me the way to Linsay.”

The woman straightened up and automatically rubbed the small of her back as if it ached. She turned where she was standing and regarded Hugh at the fence.

“If you bear right at the end of the village, there is a road that will take you straight there,” she said at last. At her feet, the chickens pecked industriously in the dirt, searching for their food.

Hugh smiled. “Thank you, mistress.”

She smiled back, showing toothless gums, and went back to her chores.

Hugh put his toe in his stirrup, swung up into his saddle, and continued on the single road that went through the hamlet, which consisted of a few modest huts and livestock pens. At the end of the village, the road forked and he turned right.

He had ridden for less than a quarter of an hour when he reached a stockade fence surrounding a manor, which he took to be Linsay. It looked to be about as large as his own manor of Hendly, the third-largest of the properties that Ralf had bequeathed to his foster son.

The gate that led into the courtyard was shut and appeared to be unattended. When no one answered his shout, Hugh dismounted, walked to the tall timber door, and banged on it. He received no reply, but thought he heard scuffling noises within. Holding Rufus’s reins, he gave the gate a slight push.

To his surprise, it swung open.

What is going on here? he thought. Cautiously he pushed the door wider so he could have a view of the yard inside.

In the middle of the deserted courtyard stood a girl and a boy. The girl was holding a large stick, which she evidently had been using to play with a light brown mastiff by her side. Upon seeing the stranger, the huge dog flattened his ears and lunged toward him.

Hugh didn’t move.

The girl screamed, “Benjamin. Stop!”

The dog halted two feet away from Hugh and growled low in his throat.

“Hello there, fellow,” Hugh said mildly, and very slowly stretched out his hand.

The children came running up, their feet pounding on the dirt of the courtyard.

Suspiciously, Benjamin sniffed Hugh’s proferred hand. His head was enormous. After a moment, the dog’s tail wagged back and forth. Once.

“Good boy,” Hugh said.

The boy took a firm hold on the thick hair of the dog’s ruff.

Rufus, who liked dogs, pricked his ears and bent his head to sniff the mastiff.

The dog flattened his ears and growled.

Rufus lifted his head and blew through his nose.

The boy, who looked to be about eight, took a stronger hold on the dog. “Who are you and what do you want?” he demanded of Hugh.

“My name is Hugh de Leon and I am in search of John Rye,” Hugh replied easily. “Can you tell me if he is here?”

The little girl answered in a high, clear voice, “Papa isn’t at home right now.”

“Iseult!” the boy hissed warningly.

The girl’s eyes, which were the exact same blue as the boy’s, sparked with anger. Mud was caked on her boots and on the hem of her cloak. Her untidy black hair was spilling out of its braids. She looked about five.

“You are always scolding me, Nicholas,” she complained. “I didn’t say anything wrong.”

“Your brother thinks that you don’t know me and that perhaps it isn’t wise to let me know that your father isn’t here to protect you,” Hugh replied. He looked gravely into the suspicious blue glare of the boy. “I mean you no harm,” he said. “I only came to have a word with your father. I am alone.”

He turned his head to glance around the deserted courtyard, then he looked back at the children. “Shouldn’t there be someone at the gate?”

Iseult said sadly, “Everyone ran away when Mama got sick.”

Hugh glanced toward the stone hall that was the manor house. “Your mother is sick?”

The boy looked at his feet. “Aye,” he muttered.

Benjamin lay down, evidently deciding that the children were safe, and the boy released his hold on the dog’s neck.

“Who is looking after her?” Hugh asked.

“Edith is,” Iseult said helpfully.

Hugh frowned. “Perhaps I had better talk to this Edith. It sounds as if she might need some help.”

The two children could not disguise their relief.

“I think perhaps you are right,” the boy admitted.

“May I put my horse in your stable?”

“Aye. There is no one to look after him, though. All the grooms ran away.”

“I will look after him myself once I have seen Edith,” Hugh said.

The two children and the dog accompanied Hugh to the empty stable, where he unsaddled Rufus and put him in a bare stall with a bucket of water. They left the dog in the stable and went toward the house, which was of a type prevalent among the Normans. In this popular design, the stone hall was raised on a storage cellar, which could be entered by a doorway in one of the side walls. The door to the main part of the house was reached by an external staircase made of wood.

“You have pretty eyes,” Iseult said to Hugh as they climbed the stairs to the front door.

“Thank you,” Hugh replied gravely.

“Iseult!” her brother commanded. “Don’t be rude.”

Hugh regarded the boy, whose hair was as black as his own. “It was a compliment,” he said.

The boy flushed, pushed open the big front door, and gestured for Hugh to precede him inside.

They entered a long narrow lobby, which was enclosed by the timber partitions that separated the stone hall into two rooms. The children led Hugh through the door on their left, into the room that was the manor’s great hall.

A niggardly fire was burning in the fireplace; otherwise the room showed no sign of occupation. The rushes on the floor looked dirty and gave off an odor that made Hugh’s nostrils pinch together.

“Iseult,” Nicholas said, “go and tell Edith that someone is here who wishes to talk to her.”

Hugh realized with a mixture of amusement and approval that the boy had no intention of leaving him alone.

Without answering, the little girl ran back toward the lobby. Hugh was familiar with this type of house and knew there would be a solar on the other side of the lobby, and over the solar, a loft with private bedrooms.

It was some minutes before Iseult returned, accompanied by a heavyset middle-aged woman with gray-blond hair and pale blue eyes. She was dressed in brown homespun and looked exceedingly weary.

“This is the man I told you about,” Iseult said in English.

Hugh smiled reassuringly at Edith and spoke to her in the same language. “My name is Hugh de Leon and I have come from Lincoln in search of John Rye. The children tell me he is not here, but you appear to have trouble, and if there is anything I can do to help you, I will gladly try.”

Edith said, “Run along, children, and let me talk to the gentleman.”

The boy scowled. “I’m not a child! I know Mama is very sick. You don’t have to keep trying to hide things from me, Edith!”

Hugh looked at Edith’s weary face and said quietly, “Take your sister outside, Nicholas. I will talk to you later.”

Nicholas’s eyes searched Hugh’s. Then he nodded curtly and held out his hand. “Come along, Iseult. We had better go and let Benjamin out of the stable.”

The children went out, and Hugh turned to the serving woman. “Shall we sit down?” he said kindly. “You look worn out.”

She nodded and moved to one of the benches that was pulled up in front of the meager fire. Hugh sat on a bench opposite her.

“So,” he said, still in that gentle tone. “What is going on here?”

The woman spoke English with a thick Lincolnshire accent, but Hugh had grown up hearing such speech and understood it effortlessly.

“Three days after Sir John left Linsay, Lady Berta got sick,” Edith said. “I thought she had the smallpox. She had a high fever and her face broke all out in spots.”

Hugh had rather suspected something like this. The threat of smallpox was more than enough to scare away a household.

“Have there been other cases of smallpox in the area?” he asked.

“None that I know of,” Edith replied. “At any rate, news of Lady Berta’s illness soon spread around the manor, and one by one, everyone ran away-the men Sir John had left to protect us, the serving maids, the grooms. Everyone.”

Hugh looked grim. “Why did you remain?”

Edith looked down at her lap and did not reply.

“Edith?” Hugh said.

The woman shrugged her broad shoulders. “I took care of Lady Berta when she first come down with the fever, so by the time the spots come out, I reckoned I was sure to catch it. I could not bring such a terrible sickness back to my family, so I stayed.”

Hugh regarded her gravely and did not reply.

Edith looked up from her lap. “The strange thing is, my lord, now I am not sure if Lady Berta has the smallpox after all.”

Hugh lifted his brows. “Why do you think that?”

“She is getting better, my lord, and the spots seem to be fading. They never turned into pustules, the way the smallpox do.”

The fire was almost out, Hugh noticed. He would have to do something about it. “That is unusual,” he agreed.

“I don’t know what it is, but I do not think it is the smallpox,” the woman repeated.

Hugh stretched his legs in front of him and regarded his boots. “You said that Lady Berta became ill after her husband left?” he asked casually.

“Aye, my lord.”

He glanced up at her. “She was not ill when he returned from his duty at Lincoln Castle?”

Edith looked surprised. “Nay, my lord. She were fine then. She did not get ill till three days after he left to go to Roumare.”

Hugh’s expression never changed.

“Oh, did he go to see his cousin, then?”

“Aye, my lord. He went the very next day after he returned from Lincoln, and my lady did not get ill till later. He would never have left his son here if he knew of Lady Berta’s illness.”

Hugh forebore to comment upon the implication that Rye would not have shown the same concern for his small daughter.

Instead, he smiled into the woman’s worn face. “You have been magnificent, Edith, but I rather think you could use some assistance. If you like, I will remain here at Linsay and do what I can to be of help.”

The woman looked almost pathetically grateful. “I confess I would feel safer if there was a man around. As things stand now, we are completely unprotected. And God knows these times are dangerous.”

“That is settled, then,” Hugh said. He stood up. “You must let me know what you need: wood, water, meat…”

“I didn’t mean for you to work for us, my lord,” the woman protested, clearly horrified by the thought. “Just your presence will be a comfort.”

“Nonsense,” Hugh returned briskly. “I was brought up by a very careful housewife and I can assure you, Edith, I know my way about a house and a kitchen.” He sniffed and looked around the hall. “The first thing I am going to do is get rid of these disgusting rushes.”

Edith’s pale blue eyes regarded him with fascination. “You are?”

“Aye. The children can help me.”

For the first time since she had come into the room, Edith smiled. “It will be good for them to have something to do. I have kept them away from their mother and I know they have been fretting.”

“I can think of a number of things we can do around here,” Hugh said, recalling the unkept state of the stable.

“How…how long do you think to stay, my lord?” Edith asked timidly.

“I won’t desert you until your master returns,” Hugh promised.

The woman heaved a great sigh of relief. “Thank you, my lord! You are very kind.”

“Not at all,” Hugh replied a little grimly. “Now, let me go and find those children.”

Three days later John Rye finally returned home. Lady Berta was sitting up, much recovered, and Hugh and Edith had stripped all the rugs off the walls of her bedroom and taken the blankets off her bed.

It had been Hugh’s idea to air out the rugs and blankets. Adela had been a great believer in the cleansing benefit of fresh air and sunshine.

He and the children were in the process of hanging these articles out in the cold sunshine when the master of Linsay came riding up to his manor and found the gate locked against him. He yelled to be let in.

Nicholas recognized his father’s angry shout. “It’s Papa,” he said to Hugh. He dropped the rug he had been holding and ran to unbar the gate.

As soon as the wooden door swung open, a brown horse, shaggy with winter hair, came trotting into the courtyard. John Rye scowled down at his son. “What the devil is going on here?” he demanded loudly. “Why was the gate locked?” He looked around. “And where is everyone?”

Hugh left the rugs and began to walk toward the horseman in the courtyard. Iseult stayed close beside him.

“Papa always yells,” the little girl confided in a worried voice.

Nicholas was trying to explain things to an angry Rye, who was not listening. Instead, he was glaring suspiciously at the approaching Hugh.

“Who the devil are you?” the manor’s owner demanded as soon as Hugh was within twenty feet of him.

Hugh moved a little closer to the horseman, then stopped. He looked into the man’s angry blue eyes and said softly, “My name is Hugh de Leon.”

The effect of these simple words was galvanic. Rye’s eyes bulged and his mouth dropped open.

“Hugh de Leon?” he echoed in utter astonishment.

“That is what I said,” Hugh returned composedly.

Nicholas shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. “Hugh has been helping us, Papa,” he said. “Mama got sick and everyone ran away. Then Hugh came.”

John Rye ignored his son, nor did he ask after his wife’s health. Instead, he said to Hugh in a hard voice, “What the devil are you doing here?”

Iseult slipped her small hand into Hugh’s. He gave it a quick, reassuring squeeze.

“I came to see you, Rye,” he answered, “but when I arrived I found that, except for a single serving maid, your wife and children had been abandoned. I thought it would be best for me to remain with them until you returned.”

Rye gave a bark of scornful laughter. Then he swung down from his horse. Holding his reins in his hands, he looked around. “Where are the grooms?”

“They ran away when they thought Mama had smallpox,” Nicholas replied steadily.

His father went rigid. “Smallpox? Jesus wept, why didn’t you tell me? Is there smallpox in the manor?”

Rye looked over his shoulder at the gate, as if he would like to ride right out.

Hugh said ironically, “You can relax, Rye, you are perfectly safe. It seems that it wasn’t smallpox after all.” He lifted a mocking eyebrow. “I’m sure you will be relieved to know that your wife is almost completely recovered.”

John Rye grunted. Then he handed his horse’s reins to his son. “Take care of Jake,” he commanded. “I want to have a few words with Lord Hugh.”

Nicholas shot Hugh a troubled glance. “All right, Papa.”

Hugh looked down at the little girl standing so close beside him and said gently, “Go along with your brother, Iseult. Your father and I want to talk.”

She nodded, and the sleek braids that Hugh had plaited that morning bounced on her shoulders. “All right, Hugh.”

“Shall we go inside?” Hugh said to Linsay’s owner.

Without answering, Rye headed purposefully in the direction of the stone hall.

The two men walked into a sweet-smelling room that was strewn with fresh rushes and herbs. A fire was roaring in the fireplace and the shutters had been opened to let in the sun.

John Rye looked around in bewilderment as if he did not recognize his own hall. Then he strode toward the fireplace and the chairs and benches that were set in front of it. He did not sit down, however, but stood holding his hands out to the welcome heat of the flames.

Hugh crossed the floor more slowly and sat in one of the two armchairs.

John Rye turned around and scowled at his guest.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he said sarcastically.

Hugh did not reply.

The other man spread his legs and crossed his arms over his broad chest. “All right,” he said with belligerence. “You had better tell me what you are doing here.”

“I thought I already told you,” Hugh replied softly. “I came to see you.”

Rye’s scowl deepened. “What about?”

Hugh’s eyes were steady before Rye’s truculent stare. “I am inquiring into the death of Gilbert de Beauté. In order to make a thorough investigation, it is vital that I speak with all the knights who were serving in the castle guard at the time that he was killed. I tried to see you in Lincoln, but I was told that you had taken early leave of your duty.”

At that, John Rye’s eyes slid away from Hugh’s.

Hugh continued, “I was told that you had to go home because your wife was sick.”

“Well,” Rye blustered, “so she was!”

He was still refusing to look at Hugh.

“Aye,” Hugh said, “but she did not become ill until after you left Linsay to pay a visit to William of Roumare.”

“She was sick before that.” Rye’s eyes suddenly swung back to confront Hugh’s as he recognized the trap he had just fallen into. “Who said I went to see Roumare?” he demanded.

Hugh ignored the question and continued to pursue his own line of thought. “That is not what I have heard. According to her serving maid and your children, Lady Berta enjoyed perfect health until she became ill with a fever three days after your departure from Linsay.”

Rye set his jaw. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that it is despicable to question a man’s children behind his back?”

Hugh regarded him with detached curiosity. “What made you so anxious to leave Lincoln that you cut your guard duty short, Rye? Your wife wasn’t ill. What was it?”

John Rye moved away from the front of the fireplace and flung himself into the chair that faced Hugh’s. For a long moment, he stared at Hugh broodingly. “Oh, all right,” he finally admitted. “I went to see Roumare. I knew he would want to know what had happened to de Beauté and I thought he might look kindly upon the person who brought him such welcome news.”

A log fell off the fire onto the hearth and Hugh got up to push it back.

“You did not leave Lincoln until several days after de Beauté’s death,” he said as he gave the log an expert kick. “Surely Roumare had heard the news before you reached him.”

Dark red flushed into Rye’s face. “I thought I would take a chance on being first.”

With the log safely back where it belonged, Hugh returned to his chair. “I don’t believe you,” he said.

Rye’s face grew even redder. “You tell me, then,” he demanded. “Why do you think I went to see Roumare?”

“What do I think?” Hugh repeated thoughtfully. “I think you went to see him about the death of the Earl of Lincoln, all right, but it was not to take him the news.”

Rye’s lips tightened. His eyes looked suddenly guarded. “What was it for, then?”

“I think you know who killed Gilbert de Beauté, and it was not Bernard Radvers,” Hugh replied.

The only sound in the hall was the roaring of the fire.

The wary look in Rye’s eyes did not change. Finally he said, “And what if I do know something? What would such information be worth to you?”

Hugh dropped his gaze to hide the surprise he did not want to betray. This was not the answer he had expected. “What do you think it is worth?” he said slowly.

“A lot of money,” Rye returned. He showed his teeth in a sharklike smile. “More money than you have access to, Lord Hugh.”

“The kind of money that a man like William of Roumare can pay?” Hugh said.

Rye’s smile died.

“If you have information pertinent to the earl’s murder, you had better tell it to me,” Hugh said briskly.

“I know who killed Lord Gilbert all right,” Rye retorted stubbornly. “It was Bernard Radvers. And I’ll tell you something else, my lord. He killed the earl for you.” He pointed an accusing finger at Hugh. “Bernard wanted Hugh de Leon to be the next Earl of Lincoln and that is the reason he killed the man who was standing in your way.”

Hugh said wearily, “If Bernard wanted me to be the next earl, he would have waited until after I was wed.”

“Bernard miscalculated,” Rye said.

Hugh stood up. “I think rather it is you who have miscalculated, John Rye,” he said. “William of Roumare is not the only one with money to spend for information. Think on that, and if you want to talk to me, you can find me in Lincoln.” He turned and strode across the sweet-smelling rushes to the doorway. “Please make my farewells to your lady wife.”

Nicholas and Iseult were waiting for him in the courtyard. As soon as he came out the main door of the hall, they ran to meet him.

“You aren’t leaving, are you?” Iseult asked anxiously.

“I am afraid that I must,” Hugh replied, fastening his cloak.

The little girl’s lower lip trembled. “I don’t want you to leave. I like you, Hugh. Please, won’t you stay with us for a while?”

Hugh paused and looked into the child’s blue eyes, then said with quiet patience, “Your mother is well now, Iseult, and your father is home. They will look after you better than I ever could.”

“No they won’t,” she replied tearfully. “They never talk to me like you do. All they ever do is tell me to do things.”

Hugh squatted on his heels so he was on the same level as the child. “I’m sorry, little one, but I can’t stay. I don’t belong here.”

Her lip trembled again.

“Don’t be a baby, Iseult,” Nicholas said.

Still on his heels in front of Iseult, Hugh turned his eyes to the boy, who said manfully, “I am sorry you must go, Hugh, but I understand. Thank you for helping us these last few days.” Nicholas’s back was straight as a lance. His eyes were perfectly steady.

Hugh turned back to Iseult. “Nicholas will look after you, little one,” he said.

She sniffled. “He doesn’t know how to braid my hair.”

“You will soon have serving maids to do that for you.” Hugh rose to his full height.

“Will we see you again?” Nicholas asked, not quite able to hide his hopefulness.

“Someday perhaps,” Hugh returned.

“When I grow up, Hugh, I am going to marry you,” Iseult announced.

At that, Hugh smiled and flicked a gentle finger along her round, apple-blossom cheek.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Nicholas reprimanded his sister.

“A knight never calls a lady an idiot,” Hugh said gravely.

Nicholas sighed and took his little sister by the hand. “Thank you, my lord,” he said formally. “I hope we will see you again one day.”

“I hope so, too,” Hugh returned. And he headed for the stable to collect Rufus.