No Dark Place (2 page)

“That cannot be,” Bernard said emphatically. “Nor would it be fair to put such thoughts into his head. There is already an Earl of Wiltshire. All do know that.”

A menial passed close behind them, carrying two buckets of water from the castle well.

Nigel said, “It is true that Guy de Leon is the present earl. He is younger brother to Earl Roger, the previous lord.” The knight paused and his eyes hardened. “The one who was murdered.”

“Murdered?” Bernard repeated with shock. “I never heard anything of murder.”

Nigel’s expression was grim. “Oh, it was hushed up. But the fact is that thirteen years ago, Earl Roger was stabbed to death in the chapel of Chippenham Castle. And on that same day, the earl’s only son, Hugh, disappeared, believed to be kidnapped by the very man who had murdered his father.”

Bernard’s eyes were stretched wide with horror. “And who was that man?”

Two horses pulling a cart filled with hay came through the open gate of the castle bailey. With one accord, Bernard and Nigel veered out of the cart’s way and headed toward one of the towers built into the bailey wall.

Nigel said, “We think it was a household knight named Walter Crespin. He disappeared from the castle on the day of the murder. Two days later, the deputy sheriff brought his body back to Chippenham.
Evidently he had been the victim of outlaws in the forest.”

“And the boy?”

“He was never seen again.” Nigel looked Bernard straight in the eyes. “Until today.”

Bernard shook his head. “You are mistaken. You must be mistaken.” He frowned, causing the weather-scarred wrinkles in his forehead and at the corners of his light blue eyes to score even deeper into his face.

The men walked in silence for a moment. Then Bernard asked reluctantly, “How old was this Hugh de Leon when he disappeared?”

“Seven.”

Once Bernard felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.

Still, he said stoutly, “If the man who took him was killed, it is almost certain that the boy must have been killed as well.”

“So we all thought,” Nigel Haslin said. “But I tell you, that boy in the chapel is the living image of Hugh de Leon.”

“Good God, man!” Bernard said impatiently. “Be realistic.” He raised his hand to acknowledge the greeting of a man who was passing by. “When last you saw this Hugh de Leon he was but seven years of age. Boys change out of all recognition from seven to twenty. You know that! Perhaps there is a faint resemblance between our Hugh and yours, but you are stretching it beyond all reason.”

The other knight shook his head. “Bones don’t change, and I would know those facial bones anywhere. They are the bones of his mother, the Lady Isabel. And the eyes. They are not the sort of eyes that are easily mistaken. They were the eyes of his father and they are the eyes of his uncle, the present earl. Light gray fringed with black.”

“You cannot be sure,” Bernard said, still unconvinced.

“What hand does this Hugh Corbaille use to wield his sword?” Nigel asked abruptly.

A faint brown haze lay in the air of the bailey as the activity of so many men stirred the summer-dry earth underfoot. Bernard stared at the other man through the dust and did not reply.

“The de Leons are always left-handed,” Nigel said. “In fact, the present earl is widely known as Guy le Gaucher.”

Still Bernard did not reply.

“Your Hugh is left-handed, isn’t he?” Nigel demanded.

Bernard stared down at the packed dry earth of the courtyard under his feet.

What if this man is speaking true? What if Hugh really is…?

He bit his lip and said grudgingly, “What do you want to know?”

The hay wagon had stopped at the stable that lay along one of the bailey walls, and two stableboys were beginning to unload it.

Bernard and Nigel reached the cool shadow of the tall wooden tower and stopped.

Nigel said, “How old was Hugh when he came to be fostered in the sheriff’s household?”

“The usual age,” Bernard replied. “Eight.”

“And where did he come from?”

Bernard scowled, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. Should he say? But the story was well known. Nigel would discover it from another, if not from him.

“Ralf found Hugh starving in the streets of Lincoln,” he said at last. “When the boy spoke to him in Norman French, he took him home to his own house. Ralf and his wife had no children, and Hugh became to them the son they had always longed for.”

For a long moment, Nigel was silent, obviously mulling over what Bernard had just said. “And what did Hugh tell Ralf about his past?” he asked finally.

“Nothing,” Bernard replied with palpable reluctance. “He has always said that he cannot remember.”

The brown eyes regarding Bernard widened as Nigel took in the full import of that statement.

“My God,” he breathed at last. Then, speaking urgently, “I must talk to him.”

“This is not the time to approach Hugh,” Bernard said adamantly. “Not while he is grieving for Ralf.”

Nigel inhaled sharply. At last he said, “I suppose I can understand that.” He frowned. “All right, I will give him time to come to terms with his grief, and then I will visit him. Where can I find him?”

“I don’t know if I should tell you,” Bernard said. “I don’t even know if I should have spoken to you about him at all.”

“Don’t you understand?” Nigel demanded fiercely. “If this boy is who I think he is, he is by right the Earl of Wiltshire and Count of Linaux. Surely you would not seek to deny him such a heritage?”

Most of the morning mist had cleared and the sky overhead was a hazy blue. The air was hot and muggy, and the line at the castle well was a long one.

“And how will the present earl and count receive the news of a possible usurper?” Bernard asked shrewdly.

“Lord Guy has only daughters. There is no son to succeed him,” Nigel said. “The way would lie open for Hugh.”

Bernard raised skeptical eyebrows. “Do you really think that because he has no sons, Earl Guy would be willing to put aside his own claim in favor of a nephew he does not know? For that is what Guy would have to do if he recognized Hugh as his brother’s true son. He would have to step aside.”

Nigel’s lips twitched, and he did not reply.

A man on a magnificent black horse attended by a guard of knights rode in through the bailey gate. Stableboys scrambled to take the horses.

Bernard said, “Before he could even think of approaching Guy, Hugh would first have to prove he is who you say he is.”

“He wears his proof on his face,” the other man returned.

Bernard went on as if he had not heard. “And, of course, there is always the possibility that Hugh will not want to prove it.”

Nigel looked at him as if he were mad. “No man would turn his back on such a heritage.”

And Bernard said wryly, “You don’t know Hugh.”

R
alf Corbaille’s manor of Keal lay in Lincolnshire, a part of England Nigel Haslin was not overly fond of. The fen country of Lincolnshire might be beautiful to those who lived in it, but to a Wiltshire man like Nigel, the endless, flat, watery expanses were not only unattractive, they were a nuisance to travel across.

It was March 1139, seven months after the Battle of the Standard. Time enough, Nigel thought, for Hugh to have recovered from his grief. Time enough for him to be setting his sights upon the future.

The weeks and months had also given Nigel a chance to think more clearly about the wisdom of resurrecting a possible heir to the earldom of Wiltshire. He had been so stunned to see Hugh at Northallerton that he had acted instinctively in talking to Bernard Radvers. The last seven months had given him a chance to consider whether or not he would be wise to proceed in this matter, or if it would be more sensible simply to pretend that he had never seen the boy at all.

As Nigel well knew, Guy de Leon would not be at all happy to find that his nephew had miraculously risen from the dead. Furthermore, he would be furious with the vassal who dared to sponsor such a claimant.

On the other hand, there were many reasons why Nigel would like to see Guy replaced as his overlord.

For one thing, he strongly suspected that Guy had been involved in the death of his elder brother. Nigel had held his former lord in high regard and would very much like to see his murderer punished.

He also gravely disapproved of the dissolute way in which Guy lived.

And finally, he did not approve of Guy’s refusal to declare his support for the king.

In short, Guy was the complete opposite of the brother he had succeeded. Roger de Leon’s name had rung through all of the Christian world for his deeds during the late Crusade. It was Roger who had led the attack upon the gates of Jerusalem, the attack that had won the Holy City back from the infidels. Under Roger, Chippenham had been a model of morality and propriety. Roger, Nigel was certain, would have upheld his feudal oath to his overlord, King Stephen, and not been solely on the lookout for his own advantage.

Nigel would far rather owe his own feudal duty to Roger’s son than he would to Guy.

And then there was Isabel.

What would it mean to her to know that her son was still alive?

When Bernard thought of her, and all her beauty, hidden away in that convent for the last thirteen years, his heart lifted with the hope that Hugh’s return might also mean the return of his mother to the world.

It was late in the afternoon of a cold, blowy day when the party from Wiltshire finally saw the stockade fence of Keal rising in the distance. Gray clouds raced across the wide East Anglia sky as Nigel and the five men of his household guard who were accompanying him approached the manor.

By the time they reached the open gate, a man had moved to bar their way. The sentry was dressed in the leather jerkin and cross-gartered leggings of a man-at-arms and he wore a sword at his side.

Nigel identified himself and stated that he had business with Hugh Corbaille, whose manor he believed this to be.

Nigel was told to wait in the courtyard while the sentry informed his master of the new arrivals. Before he left the courtyard, however, the sentry signaled to two of his fellows to come and stand by Nigel’s party.

Security was not taken lightly at Keal, Nigel thought approvingly.

While he waited, he looked around, judging the quality of the property. As was customary in such establishments, barns and byres lined the inside of
the stockade fence, all of them looking to be in very good repair. The house itself was also built of timber. Most of it was two floors high, but attached to the main block was a three-floor section that looked as if it was a more recent addition.

Oddly, even though night was coming on and the air was chill, all the window shutters on the third floor were open.

The front door of the manor swung open and a man came out. It did not take Nigel long to recognize Bernard Radvers.

Bernard crossed the courtyard and came to a halt in front of Nigel’s horse. “So,” he said. “You have come.”

“I said I would,” Nigel replied calmly. “Is the boy within?”

“He has ridden out, but I expect him back shortly.” Several stableboys came running at Bernard’s signal. “You and your party must come inside,” he said courteously. “You are weary and in need of refreshment.”

Nigel dismounted gratefully and followed Bernard to the stairs that led up to the main door of the house. As in so many buildings of this type, the living quarters were on the second floor, as the first floor was used for storage.

Bernard pushed the door open and led Nigel and his following into the chief room of the manor, the hall.

The first thing that struck Nigel’s senses was the fresh, fragrant scent of the room. He looked down
and saw that the herb-strewn rushes on the floor looked as if they had been freshly laid that day.

He sniffed appreciatively.

Bernard smiled. “Adela, Ralf’s wife, was always a meticulous housekeeper. Hugh was brought up in an immaculate house, and clearly he has seen to it that Adela’s ways are still followed.”

Nigel nodded and let himself be led forward to the large fireplace in which two massive logs smoldered comfortably. A young boy came from the far side of the room to help him remove his mail coif and hauberk. In the far corner, his guards were also being helped out of their heavy mail garments.

He and his men had made the ride from Wiltshire in full armor, a precaution he always took when traveling in these unsettled times.

A boy brought cups of ale for Bernard and Nigel, and Bernard gestured his guest to one of the heavy carved chairs that were placed near the fireplace. The two men sat down on the comfortable cushions Adela had embroidered, sipped their wine, and regarded each other a little warily.

“Are you part of this household, then?” Nigel asked after he had gratefully swallowed his first draft of ale.

Bernard shook his head. “I am part of the garrison at Lincoln Castle still. I had business in this part of the county, though, and took the opportunity to stop by to see Hugh. I arrived but yesterday.”

Nigel leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs toward the pleasant warmth of the fire.
“Have you told him aught of what passed between us at Northallerton?”

“No.” Bernard’s pale blue eyes regarded him mea-suringly. “I was not sure if I would ever see you again.”

“Well, as you see, I have come.”

Bernard took a sip of ale and looked steadily at Nigel over the top of his cup. “Why?”

Nigel made an impatient gesture. “We have been over this ground before, I think. I have come because I believe this boy may be the heir to the earldom of Wiltshire.”

Slowly, Bernard revolved his pewter ale cup in his hands. “I have done some investigating of the present earl since last we spoke,” he said. “He is not a man likely to open his arms wide to a long-lost nephew desirous of usurping his place.”

“I know that,” Nigel returned calmly. “On the other hand, if King Stephen himself recognizes Hugh as Roger’s son, then Guy will have no legal claim to the earldom.”

Bernard gave the other knight a long, level look. “Why should Stephen want to recognize Hugh?”

“Stephen knows that Roger was murdered. Perhaps Hugh will be able to tell the king who was responsible for that heinous crime. If it was Guy…well, Stephen will not allow a murderer to continue on as one of his earls.”

“You forget one thing,” Bernard said. His steady eyes regarded Nigel over his wine cup. “Hugh will
not be able to name the murderer. He does not remember anything that happened to him before he came to Ralf.”

Nigel looked skeptical. “Does he really not remember, or is he just saying that?”

“Believe me,” Bernard said with absolute finality. “He really does not remember.”

Silence fell as Nigel contemplated this statement.

Finally he said, “Well, even if Hugh cannot point a finger at Guy, there is still ample reason for Stephen to take up his cause.”

“I don’t see why,” Bernard said.

Nigel leaned a little forward in his chair, trying to communicate his sense of urgency. “Stephen needs Wiltshire. If Hugh will promise to stand with Stephen, and if we can present some reasonable evidence that he is indeed Earl Roger’s lost son, then I have no doubt that the king will support his claim over Guy’s.”

Bernard looked thoughtful. “Why should Stephen be so eager to get rid of Guy? Is he going to declare for Matilda?”

Nigel leaned back in his chair. “Guy will declare for no one,” he said bitterly. “He will sit on the edge of the battle and, like a scavenger, look to grab up every scrap of the leavings for himself.”

Before Bernard could reply to this harsh comment, the hall door opened and Hugh came into the room. His step was quiet, nor had the door made any
noise when it opened, but every man in the hall was instantly aware of his presence.

It always amazed Bernard to see how effortlessly the boy could command attention.

There had been the faint murmur of voices in the hall before Hugh’s entrance, but silence fell as the boy crossed the rush-strewn floor toward the two men seated before the comfortable fire.

Bernard felt his stomach twist as once again he beheld the too-thin face of Ralf ’s beloved foster son. Until yesterday, he had not seen Hugh since they had buried Ralf last summer, and he had been profoundly shocked to see that thin, nervy face, those shadowed gray eyes. He thought the boy looked as if he were at the end of his tether.

I knew it would not be good for him to be alone here
, Bernard thought now grimly.
There are too many memories at Keal
.

But there were few alternatives for Hugh. He had inherited Keal as well as Ralf’s two other, smaller manors, and this was where he was supposed to be.

Bernard said composedly, “Hugh, this is Nigel Haslin of Somerford Castle in Wiltshire. He has traveled a long way in order to speak to you.”

Outside it must have begun to rain, because there was a fine mist of drops on Hugh’s black hair. He unfastened his cloak and stood there in a leather jerkin and beautifully embroidered shirt. Bernard recognized Adela’s talented workmanship.

A young boy came on quiet feet to take the damp cloak and put a cup of ale into Hugh’s hand.

Hugh didn’t drink, just stood there looking at Nigel, waiting.

Nigel shot a quick glance at Bernard. “This is not business that ought to be discussed in front of others,” he said.

Hugh frowned.

“It’s important, lad,” Bernard assured him. “Why don’t you take Nigel upstairs to the solar and talk to him there?”

For a long moment, Hugh didn’t reply. At last he said softly, “Very well,” and, without looking at either man, he turned and led the way to the stairs that went from the hall up to the third level of the addition.

There were two doors at the top of the stairs and Hugh opened one, which led into a large comfortable room with tapestry-covered walls and heavy, carved, cushioned furniture. At least the room would have been comfortable, Nigel thought, if all the windows had not been open to let in the cold, damp, rainy air. There was no fireplace in this room, just a tiled hearth place in the center that contained an unlit charcoal brazier. The floor was swept bare.

Hugh made no move to invite him to sit but stood there in silence, waiting.

Nigel looked at the beautiful, wary face in front of him.

He had to be Isabel’s son. Those cheekbones…that mouth…

Nigel took a deep breath and began to speak. The minutes went by like hours as Bernard waited for the two men to come back downstairs. But when Nigel finally returned to the hall, he was alone.

“Well?” Bernard said urgently as the other knight joined him in front of the warm fire.

Nigel’s mouth was tight. “He doesn’t believe me. He says it cannot be true.”

Bernard heaved himself to his feet. “Was he upset?”

“Who knows?” Nigel said. “That is a boy who shows nothing on his face. All I can tell you is that he was adamant that he cannot possibly be the son of Roger, Earl of Wiltshire.”

“You told him about the resemblance? About the left-handedness?”

“Of course I told him those things,” Nigel responded impatiently. “He didn’t listen. All he would do is deny it.”

“Let me talk to him,” Bernard said.

“He is where I left him,” Nigel said a little bitterly. “He dismissed me out of hand.”

Slowly Bernard climbed the stairs to the next level, bracing himself for what he was going to find. He owed it to Ralf to do his best for Hugh. He just wished he knew what the best thing was.

Hugh was standing in the middle of the room, staring down at the empty brazier, when Bernard came in.

The room was freezing. Without comment, Bernard went around closing the shutters.

“Adela would have had the brazier lit and the shutters closed,” he said to Hugh’s back.

“I told them to air it out today. I never sit here anymore,” Hugh said.

The solar had been the gathering place for the family that no longer existed.

Bernard glanced toward the two doors that opened off the solar. They led to two bedrooms. One had belonged to Ralf and Adela and one had belonged to Hugh. From the previous night, Bernard knew that Hugh still used his bedroom. Privacy had always been of paramount importance to him.

Bernard said, “What did you think of Nigel’s story?”

At that, Hugh swung around to face him. “How long have you known of this?” he demanded.

“He saw you at Northallerton and approached me,” Bernard said.

“Why did you tell him about me?” Hugh asked furiously. “Why did you tell him about my memory?”

Bernard had been prepared for shock. He had not been prepared for this anger. “Hugh,” he said carefully. “Think. It may just be possible that you are this
Hugh de Leon. At any rate, you cannot dismiss the possibility out of hand.”

“Aye, I can. I am Hugh Corbaille. I do not want or need to be anyone else.”

Nigel refused to flinch before the flame of Hugh’s anger. He said as reasonably as he could, “Before you were Hugh Corbaille you were someone else. You know that. I know that. Why is it so impossible that you were not this lost boy?”