No Dark Place (11 page)

The two sides met in the center of the field with an audible shock of collision. Philip could hear the clash of lance against lance and lance against mail hauberk. Most of the fragile weapons shattered and fell to the ground with the first or second encounter. The war cry of each vassal sounded through the now-dusty air as knights unsheathed their swords and began to hack away.

Unhorsed men were hurled into the air. Riderless horses galloped madly away from the combat, snorting and sweating, frantic to find safety.

After the fight had gone on for a while, the horn that had started the mêlée blasted once more. Slowly, with obvious reluctance, the two sides disengaged and pulled back to their points of origin at the edges of the field, milling around and counting up their losses.

As soon as the mounted knights had retreated, squires dashed onto the field to pull those who had fallen out of the way. If this had been a real war, of course, there would have been no retreat and the unhorsed men would have met certain death under the hooves of the great stallions who were still carrying on the battle.

Five knights were brought into the list where Philip and Father Anselm were stationed. Philip checked the devices on their sleeves and saw that none of them were men of Somerford.

One of the knights was moaning in pain, bent over and clutching his middle. Philip figured he probably had some broken ribs. A second had a broken arm. The other three were merely bruised and shaken.

All had gotten their injuries as a result of being run over by horses.

The two sides were forming up again and all of the men in the lists, even the man with the broken ribs, turned to watch the next encounter.

The horn sounded and on they came again, two great waves of horsemen, long shields on one arm, broadswords in the other. Some of the men had slung their shields on their backs so they had two hands free to swing their swords. They did this because the broadsword was actually more of a concussion than a cutting weapon. While the mail the knights wore protected them from being sliced by the blade, the hauberk of interlinking rings could not prevent a man from having his bones crushed by the powerful blow of a massive broadsword, especially if it was swung two-handed by the knight wielding it.

Each side had lost about a fourth of its men in the first encounter. The remaining knights appeared to have lost none of their ardor for battle, however, and galloped eagerly forward, side by side, until the front lines of one side reached the front lines of the other.

Once again they came together with a loud clanging of swords, of men shouting, of horses screaming as their riders were swept away and they were left to fend for themselves.

Philip tried to keep his eye on the white stallion that carried Hugh. It was difficult, as the trampling of the many hooves had raised a cloud of dust around the entire mêlée. It seemed to him as if the men of Somerford were maintaining their formation in better order than the men of the other vassals, but he couldn’t be certain.

Once again the horn blew. Once again the horses wheeled and retreated to the edges of the field. Once again the squires rushed forth to retrieve the unhorsed men left lying on the field. More men were carried into the list where Philip and Father Anselm were stationed.

It happened on the third charge. Philip, whose eyes were glued to the white stallion, saw the incident very clearly. The two sides met with the now-familiar shock of noise, and Hugh pitched sharply forward over the shoulder of his stallion. He disappeared under the hooves of the horses who were coming behind him.

Philip’s stomach clenched.

“Hugh’s down,” he said to the priest, who was standing next to him.

“Oh no,” said the Father Anselm. “Oh, my dear God, no.”

The white stallion, riderless now, came galloping
out of the mass of fighting men and stopped on the edge of the field to look around, as if bewildered. A squire belonging to Nigel Haslin darted out to catch his bridle and lead him away.

Philip watched the fighting with a feeling of helpless horror. It was impossible to find Hugh. He had gone down in the middle of the line and been instantly surrounded. It had happened so quickly that his own men had been past him before they could even realize he was on the ground.

The fighting went on for a much longer period of time than had been allowed before. Finally, when Philip had despaired of Guy’s ever ending the battle, the horn blew again and the now seriously depleted sides retreated once more.

One of Nigel’s squires raced onto the field and began to look through the fallen bodies, searching for Hugh.

Philip felt his blunt fingernails pressing into his palms as he watched the squire’s progress. At last the boy dropped to his knees next to one of the inert bodies. Five seconds later, he stood up again and signaled for help. Cristen came running onto the field to join him. She knelt in the dust next to the fallen knight, totally oblivious of her fine silk gown.

The fallen man did not move.

“Judas,” Philip croaked. “He’s been killed.”

“He can’t be dead,” the priest replied in anguish. “God would not be so cruel, to give him back to us only to take him away again like this.”

“He went off right at the beginning of the charge,” Philip said. Anger shook his voice. “And he went off his horse in a forward motion, Father. I saw it happen.” He turned to look at the priest standing beside him and said, his anger even more evident than before, “He went off as if he had taken a blow from behind, not from in front.”

The priest’s eyes swung around to meet Philip’s. “What are you saying?”

The answer was grim. “I’m saying that Hugh was struck down by someone on his own side.”

The priest stared at him in horror.

The squire who had first reached Hugh was now running across the field in their direction. He reached the list and spoke across the barrier directly to Father Anselm. “Is it true that you’re a priest?”

Father Anselm answered without a moment’s hesitation. “Aye.”

“We have need of you,” the squire said. There were tears in his hazel eyes. “Will you come?”

“Aye,” said Father Anselm once more and, putting his hand on the barrier, he vaulted over it onto the field and strode across the trampled earth in the direction of the fallen man.

I
t 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 remem
bered 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?”