No Dark Place (10 page)

“Who was his true father, then?” Sir Richard asked sharply.

“I do not know,” she said.

Sir Richard’s slate-blue eyes narrowed. “Are they large manors?” he said.

Cristen stared at him in confusion.

Sir Richard repeated impatiently, “These manors owned by Hugh Corbaille—are they large?”

“Oh,” Cristen said. “No, I don’t believe they are very large.”

“Then he is not a candidate for your hand?”

Cristen stared at the heavy knight repressively. “This is not a subject that you ought to be discussing with me, Sir Richard.”

The knight’s pudgy cheeks flushed with anger. “Come, girl, don’t play the innocent with me. Before you set your heart on a handsome face, let me remind you that your father must have the permission of his overlord before you can wed. And I doubt very much that Lord Guy will give his consent for you to marry a man who owns but a few small manors in Lincolnshire.”

He said the word
Lincolnshire
in the same tone as he would have said
pigsty
.

“And how many manors do you own, Sir Richard?” Cristen asked sweetly.

The broken veins in the knight’s nose turned a brighter red. “Don’t get saucy with me, my girl.”

“It was you who wished to sit beside me, Sir Richard,” Cristen replied.

She willed him to go away so she could turn her attention to what was transpiring between her father and Lord Guy at the high table.

“You have grown impertinent, Lady Cristen,” the knight said grimly. “It is not a pretty thing to see in a young girl. Your husband will have to teach you some manners.”

“If my conversation does not please you, you have a remedy,” Cristen said tartly.

The knight surged to his feet. “Very well. But you will regret speaking to me with such a lack of respect.”

The lord of Minton Castle, who was sitting on Cristen’s other side, turned, gave Sir Richard a hard look, and said, “Is everything all right with you, Lady Cristen?”

Cristen gave him a reassuring smile. “Aye, my lord.”

After shooting her one more angry look, Sir Richard left, returning to the high table to make his report to Lord Guy.

“I don’t like that man,” Fulk of Minton said.

“Neither do I,” Cristen replied.

The man on the other side of Fulk reclaimed his attention by asking a question about the next day’s mêlée.

Finally Cristen was able to turn her eyes to the high table. She was in time to see her father get to his feet. Nigel recrossed the crowded floor and resumed his place next to her. He looked as if the
conversation with Guy had rendered him completely sober.

“What did Lord Guy want?” she asked in a low voice.

He put his mouth close to her ear, so only she could hear his reply. “He wanted to know about Hugh, of course.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him that I knew nothing about the boy other than the fact that he was the foster son of Ralf Corbaille. I told him that if he wanted an explanation of Hugh’s startling resemblance to the de Leon family, he would have to talk to Hugh himself.”

“Father…” Cristen’s voice was not quite steady. “Father, Hugh still doesn’t remember anything about his childhood. Perhaps he never will.”

“I think he remembered the flag,” Nigel said. “He may not admit it, but I think he did.”

“Oh, God,” Cristen said despairingly. “What have we done, bringing him here to this place?”

“I am trying to give him back his life, Cristen,” Nigel said.

Cristen stared at the uneaten food on her trencher, and did not reply.

A
fter 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 shoul
der with Nigel Haslin in the front line of the Somerford team.