No Dark Place (8 page)

The meal on the first day of the tournament was always informal. Lord Guy’s pages, dressed in scarlet surcoats with gold trim, were circulating with heaping platters of oxen, boar, venison, lamb, rabbit, and all kinds of fowl. Other pages were going around with flagons of wine. There was fine white bread as well, and sweets.

“Cristen!” Sir Nigel roared, waving a hand in which he clutched a piece of meat on a bone.

Cristen came up beside him. “Hello, Father.”

“Was that Richard Evril I just saw you with?”

She sighed. “Aye, unfortunately.”

“He insisted on escorting the Lady Cristen, my lord, but I stayed right behind her,” Brian said.

“Good lad,” Nigel grunted. “I don’t like that man.”

“What man?”

It was Hugh, coming up behind her.

“Richard Evril,” Nigel said. “He is one of Guy’s chief knights; he’s been with him forever. Guy wanted to marry him to Cristen, as a matter of fact, but I refused.”

Hugh looked revolted. “That old man? How disgusting.”

“It is very common for older men to marry young girls,” Nigel said repressively. “You must know that, Hugh.”

Hugh was looking across the packed courtyard, trying to locate Sir Richard, but the knight had disappeared. He turned back to Cristen. “Was he the man who tried to kiss you last year?” he demanded.

“No,” Cristen said gloomily. “That was someone else.”

“You had better stay by me,” he ordered. “It seems you are in some danger in this place.”

“It’s because everyone drinks too much,” Cristen said. She eyed the flagon of wine in Hugh’s hand.

“It’s my first,” he said austerely.

He certainly looked sober, Cristen thought. He had taken off his mail like the rest of the men and was garbed in a dark green overtunic with an undertunic of dark blue. The air was warm from the heat of the fires, and he had opened the laces at his throat, revealing the cross and chain he always wore. His eyes were somber.

“What do you want to eat?” he asked her now. “I’ll get it for you.”

“Some of the fowl, I think,” she said. “And a little bread.”

Hugh stepped away from her and lifted a hand to a circulating page. The boy, who had been simultaneously signaled by two older men, came to Hugh’s side immediately.

“The lady wishes some fowl,” Hugh said.

The boy offered Cristen his platter of meat. She chose what she wanted, smiled, and thanked him. He ducked his head and rushed off to answer other summonses.

Nigel offered his daughter a cup of wine. She shook her head. “I’ll share Hugh’s.”

A smile dented the corner of Hugh’s mouth. “Don’t you trust me?”

“It is not that at all,” she said repressively. “It is that I cannot hold my meat and bread and a cup of wine at the same time.”

“Hmmm,” he said.

“What events will you enter tomorrow, Hugh?” Nigel asked.

“What is on the program?” Hugh replied.

“There is a horsemanship competition, and wrestling, archery, and tilting at the quintain. The last is more for the squires than for the knights, however.”

Hugh offered Cristen a sip of his wine.

“What is the horsemanship competition?”

Cristen took a dainty swallow and returned his cup to him.

“They set up an obstacle course with barrels, gates, a bridge, that sort of thing. Everything is hung with brightly colored flags, which makes it a bit scary for the horses. Last year Guy even had a few small jumps.”

“It doesn’t sound too difficult,” Hugh said.

“No, well, the difficult part is that you have to carry a sword in one hand and a shield in the other and tie your horse’s reins on his neck.”

Hugh’s straight black brows rose. “Ah. That does make it more interesting.”

“You and Rufus would probably do very well in that competition, Hugh,” Cristen said.

She liked the horsemanship competition. It was fun to watch, and no one got hurt.

“Aye,” Hugh said. “We might.”

She gave him a hopeful look. “It’s much cleaner than the wrestling.”

He looked amused. “Aye, I imagine that it must be.”

“Shall I enter you for the horsemanship, then?” Nigel asked.

“Why not?” Hugh said lightly, and Cristen breathed a sigh of relief.

“Can a knight enter more than one competition?” Hugh asked.

“Of course,” Nigel said. “They take place one after the other—except for the tilting at the quintain, which goes on all day.”

“Do you participate yourself, sir?” Hugh asked courteously.

“Aye,” Nigel said. “I like to compete in the archery.”

Nigel was a very fine bowman.

He gave Hugh a wry look. “Will you do the archery as well, Hugh?”

Hugh was better than he was.

The boy shook his head. “If you are going to compete, then I will cheer for you.”

Nigel, who had won the archery for the last four years, was a little embarrassed at how grateful he was for that response.

After supper was finished, all of the knights and ladies and squires and pages retreated to their tents
for a good night’s rest. Or at least, that was what they were supposed to do.

In reality, the ladies’ tent was busy all night long, as women went in and out, keeping the assignations they had made during suppertime. Lying awake, her sleep disturbed by all the coming and going, Cristen wondered bitterly if any of Guy’s vassals could boast of a faithful wife or daughter.

What terrible marriages they must have
, she thought sadly. She herself had been fortunate in being the product of one of the few happy unions that she knew of. In fact, it often seemed to her that women of the lower classes, whose marriages were made for compatibility and not for land, had a better life than the women of the aristocracy, who all too often were married to much older men with whom they had little or nothing in common.

She thought of Sir Richard, and shuddered.

Thank God she had a father who cared about her happiness. She was well aware that most girls were not in such a fortunate situation.

If I were married to Sir Richard, maybe I would cheat, too
, she thought grimly.

Unbidden, her thoughts turned to Hugh. What was going to happen on the morrow?

W
hen 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.