The Poisoned Serpent (20 page)

Ralf Haywood stepped into the space that had been left empty between the two sides. He did not come all the way into the center of the street, however, but stood near the shoemaker’s stall and tossed the ball high in the air into the middle of the street.

The two teams surged forward to catch it.

As the mass of men stood on the ground, shoving for position, their eyes and hands uplifted toward the descending ball, a figure sailed into the air over the men and swatted it toward the first of Hugh’s offensive formations.

As Alan watched in fascination, Hugh came down
horizontally, landed on three men, and disappeared from sight.

A roar went up as the men defending Hubert got the ball to him and began to move up the Strait, easily bulling their way through the line that Richard had posted for defense.

They had progressed a full eighty yards before the rest of Richard’s team caught up and began to slam into them in deadly earnest.

Over the noise of the crowd, Alan heard Hugh’s voice calling calmly, “Throw it.”

Hubert threw, but his throw was short, and the ball was batted away by one of Richard’s knights. With a roar, the rest of his teammates came running to protect him. The direction of the ball reversed as Richard’s team began to push its way south. All that stood between the opposing team and the goal were the two castles Hugh had posted for defense.

They won’t be able to hold
, Alan thought as he tried to see what was happening over the heads of the men surrounding him.

A roar went up from the men around the ball.

“What’s happening?” Alan screamed frantically to the men in front of him.

“It’s a pileup,” one of his teammates shouted back. “One of our men got to the carrier and knocked him down. Everyone else has piled on.”

Minutes passed while the sheriff tried to peel off the kicking and pounding men on the pile to see who on the bottom had the ball in his hands.

Finally another roar went up.

“
We have it!
” the men in front yelled back to Alan. “
One of our knights recovered the ball!
”

“Get ready,” someone else warned. “It will be coming back our way.”

“Hugh is going to throw it,” someone else said. “Get ready.”

A roar went up from the crowd along the sides of the street.

“He’s got it to Hubert!” one of Alan’s wall knights shrieked. “Get ready to move back if Hubert’s castle can run the ball up the street.”

The thud of players running sounded like a herd of horses, Alan thought. Richard’s men must be racing forward to get in front of the ball.

“Back!” Alan’s defenders began to shout. “Back up to give them room to move.”

Alan followed the movement of his men as they advanced up the street.

“Stop!” one of the knights shouted.

Alan looked up and saw the ball arching in toward him. He stepped to his left, leaped into the air, and caught it.

A roar of approval went up from the surrounding men. Alan grinned and hugged the ball to his chest, and prepared to follow his defenders as far as they could take him.

They made good progress for almost a hundred yards. Then his protective walls began to crumble. Men went down under the onslaught of Richard’s team. Alan lifted the camp-ball and cocked his arm. Just before he threw, he saw Richard coming at him in a diving lunge.

The look on his face was murderous.

Alan released the ball and went down under a bone-crunching tackle.

He lay still, groaning and fighting for breath. Richard’s weight lifted off him almost instantly and Richard was gone, leaving Alan facedown in the dirt of the road, trying to breathe.

A voice said, “Are you all right?”

Alan groaned again and managed to roll over. He looked up into Hugh’s filthy face.

“I…I think I just had the breath knocked out of me,” Alan managed to croak.

“You had better get over to safety on the side of the street,” Hugh said. “I’ll get someone to take your place.”

“Nay,” Alan said grimly. “I’ll be all right.”

Hugh held out a hand and pulled the squire to his feet. Alan was relieved to find that nothing felt broken. He stood still for a moment, still fighting for breath. Then he said to Hugh, “Let’s go.”

Hugh gave him a blazing smile, turned and ran down the street in the direction of the game. Alan, absurdly buoyed by that brilliant look, followed at his heels.

The camp-ball game went on for another hour. Richard’s team recovered the ball three more times, but each time there was a greater distance between the players and their goal. And no matter how far they managed to advance, they never seemed to make back the ground that they had lost on Hugh’s team’s previous drive.

Slowly but relentlessly, Hugh’s castles advanced toward the Bail wall.

Alan had the ball in his hands twice more during the course of the game, and both times he managed to throw it successfully to Thomas Mannyng, the thrower in the last castle. It was Thomas who was the one who finally got the ball to Richard’s goal and claimed the victory.

Jubilation roared through the winning side. Alan found himself showered with compliments about how he had handled himself and about how accurately he
had thrown the ball. The wild celebration culminated with the team lifting the five ball carriers on their shoulders and marching with them down the Strait, accompanied by cheers from the onlookers.

It was the best day of Alan’s life.

He was still perched high above the crowd on the shoulders of his defenders when he saw Hugh break away from the mass of men and begin to race on ahead of the victory parade. He was followed by a tall, thin man whom Alan recognized as one of the sheriff’s constables.

It was a good half hour before the party in the street began to break up. Its dispersal was hastened by the grim news that one of the players, John Rye, had been found stabbed to death.

T
he body of John Rye lay beneath a linen cerecloth in the mortuary chapel of the Minster. The light from the candles set at his head and feet flickered on the faces of the Bishop of Lincoln, the Sheriff of Lincoln, and Hugh de Leon as they stood talking together in low voices.

“It had to be an accident,” the sheriff said. He rubbed his forehead as if it ached. “Someone must have been wearing a knife at his belt and, in the rough and tumble of the pileup, it cut through its sheath and stabbed Rye.”

“The fellow with the knife might not even have realized what happened,” the bishop said.

“Have you been able to discover who among the players was wearing a knife?” Hugh asked.

“Not surprisingly, no one will admit to wearing a knife,” Gervase said wearily. “And no one remembers seeing anyone else wearing one, either. I shall continue to ask questions, of course, but to be honest, I have little hope of finding the man responsible for this tragic accident.”

Hugh stood staring down at the covered body in
front of him. “I take it, then,” he said, “that neither of you thinks there is any possibility that this was done deliberately?”

Both older men looked surprised by the question. It was Gervase who finally answered Hugh by posing another question.

“Why should anyone want to kill John Rye?”

The candles at the foot of the coffin flickered over Hugh’s expressionless face. “He may have had an enemy we don’t know about.”

The sheriff made an impatient gesture. “Perhaps. But even if someone did want him dead, this is surely a very chancy way to go about accomplishing a murder. To kill a man in front of dozens of people! Really, Hugh, it makes no sense.”

“I should think it a very clever way to kill a man,” Hugh returned. “In the crush and confusion of the camp-ball game, no one would think it was unusual for Rye to fall down. The murderer could do the deed and be away before anyone realized that something was wrong.”

The bishop’s long, noble fingers adjusted the white stole he wore around his graceful, aristocratic neck. “That may be so,” he said in his sonorous voice, “but why should anyone want to kill a man like John Rye?”

“I can’t help but wonder if this stabbing might be related in some way to the stabbing of Gilbert de Beauté,” Hugh replied.

The sheriff and the bishop stared at him in annoyance.

“That’s ridiculous,” the bishop snapped. “What connection can possibly exist between the Earl of Lincoln and a mere knight like John Rye?”

Hugh returned steadily, “Once we find the answer
to that question, my lord, we will have caught a murderer.”

The bishop haughtily lifted his nose and looked dismissively at Hugh. “You are being absurd.”

Gervase agreed. “I know you will do anything to save Bernard, Hugh, but this is a bird that will not fly. There is simply no way to connect de Beauté with a man like Rye.”

Hugh’s mouth set into a hard, strict line. He did not reply.

Silence fell as the three men stood side by side, contemplating the outline of John Rye’s body under his cerecloth.

Finally the bishop said, “I suppose I shall have to find someone else to hold Linsay Manor. Perhaps you might be able to suggest a few names to me, Sheriff.”

Hugh frowned. “Linsay will not go to Rye’s son?”

The bishop’s nose elevated once more. “Linsay belongs to the Bishopric of Lincoln, Lord Hugh. John Rye’s son is much too young to serve out the feudal duty required as a fee to hold the land, so naturally I will have to give the manor elsewhere.”

Gervase said, in the manner of a man concluding a discussion, “Certainly I can suggest some names to you, my lord.” He turned to Hugh. “I will continue to make inquiries among the players and spectators as to who might have been wearing a knife, but I doubt I will learn anything more.”

“It was a tragic accident, nothing more,” the bishop pronounced. He stepped away from the candlelit body as if to leave, then stopped and looked at the sheriff. “Have you sent anyone to bring the sad news to Rye’s wife? She will have to decide where she wants him buried.”

“I am sending a man first thing in the morning,” the sheriff replied.

“I will ride to Linsay for you,” Hugh volunteered.

The bishop looked at him with suspicion.

The sheriff said, “You don’t have to do that, Hugh.”

“Rye’s wife and children know me,” Hugh explained briefly. “It will be better if I am the one to go.”

The bishop and the sheriff exchanged a glance, then Gervase shrugged. “Very well. If that is what you want.”

“It is what I want,” Hugh said.

“Just be sure you don’t further upset the lady with talk of murder,” the bishop said sharply.

Hugh did not reply.

“Did you hear me, young man?” The bishop’s voice grew louder. “I do not want to hear any more talk of murder.”

“I hear you quite clearly, my lord,” Hugh returned. “I will not speak of murder again.” He paused. “Until I have proof.”

The bishop grunted. “Well, that is something you will never have.” He was a tall man, and when he drew himself up to his full height he was very impressive—a fact of which he was well aware. “Good night, Sheriff,” he said to Gervase.

“Good night, my lord.”

Without speaking again to Hugh, the bishop walked regally out of the chapel.

“You put his back up,” Gervase said to Hugh.

“I don’t think it was the suggestion of murder that offended him as much as it was the suggestion that the murder of a mere knight could in some way be connected with the murder of an earl,” Hugh returned cynically.

The sheriff sighed. “You may be right. The bishop
comes from a very noble family, something he never forgets.” He touched Hugh’s arm lightly. “Come, you and I had better be going as well.”

Hugh nodded, and the two men left the chapel, closing the door behind them on John Rye and his eternal sleep.

The streets of Lincoln were quiet as Hugh made his way alone toward the sheriff’s house. The only activity in town seemed to be at the Nettle, where a number of the camp-ball champions were getting noisily and rambunctiously drunk.

Gervase had excused himself from accompanying Hugh, saying that he had a few things to see to at the castle before he returned home.

Hugh walked past the uproarious waves of sound cascading out of the Nettle and continued on down the Strait. He checked his stride slightly as he perceived someone coming out of the Danesgate and turning in his direction. The sky had cleared and the full moon glimmered off hair so fair, it looked like silver in the pale moonlight. It was Cedric Harding.

“Harding,” Hugh said as the young man came abreast of him. “I did not know you were in Lincoln.”

The young Saxon stopped, showing no surprise at being addressed. He must have recognized Hugh before Hugh spoke.

“I did not know that I had to apprise you of my every move,” Cedric replied. His words were sarcastic, but his voice was surprisingly mild.

Hugh ignored the comment and regarded the moon-bleached face of the man standing beside him. “Did you come for the fair?”

“Aye. My father wished to sell off some of his sheep, and so we took a stall at the livestock market.”

“I saw the stall,” Hugh said. “I did not see you, however.”

“I was not standing about hawking the sheep, if that is what you mean,” Cedric said. “I came in early this morning to make sure that our men got home all right.”

A roar of laughter came from a group of men who had just exited the Nettle.

“Come and have a drink with me,” Hugh said. “The Nettle is still open for business.”

To Hugh’s surprise, Cedric accepted, and the two young men made their way back up the Strait to the door of Lincoln’s most popular inn.

The noise hit them first, then the smell. Apparently more than one reveler had not made it to the door before becoming sick.

As they walked in, a jubilant shout went up from the men standing packed shoulder to shoulder in front of them.

“Hugh! It’s Hugh himself, lads. Let’s hear it for our captain!
”

“Good God,” Hugh muttered under his breath.

“Apparently you are the hero of the hour,” Cedric said into his ear. There was amusement in his voice.

Hugh did not advance any farther, but shot a few quick, sharply funny comments at several of the revelers crammed into the inn’s main room. Then, as the room roared with laughter, he said to Cedric, “Let’s get out of here.”

“Gladly,” Cedric said. “It stinks.”

Before the men could even realize that he was leaving them, Hugh was out the door.

“Whew!” he said, waving his hand in front of his face as if to waft away the smell.

“That was pretty disgusting,” Cedric agreed. “My father’s house is not far from here and it’s a lot quieter.”

“Lead the way,” Hugh said.

The Harding town house was of the old-fashioned wooden style with a straw thatched roof. Cedric and Hugh entered directly into a large main hall, which had a log fire burning on the central hearthstone. Three men were asleep on the wooden bench that lined the wall.

Cedric led Hugh to the fire and invited him to sit in one of the two high-backed chairs that were placed before it. Then he said he would fetch some wine and disappeared through a door in the far wall of the hall.

Hugh sat in silence, listening to the snoring of the sleeping men and the crackling of the fire, and wondering why Cedric Harding had agreed to talk to him.

Cedric came back into the room carrying two cups of wine in his hands. He gave one to Hugh, then took the chair next to him.

“So,” Cedric said, regarding Hugh with interest. “There has been another death in Lincoln.”

“Aye,” Hugh returned. “The sheriff has ruled it an accident.”

“Do you think it was an accident?”

Hugh shook his head and took a sip of wine, noting that it was very good.

“Why don’t you think it was an accident?” Cedric asked.

“I find two deaths by stabbing within two months of each other to be a little strange,” Hugh returned.

Cedric tilted his wine cup and thoughtfully regarded the liquid in its depths. Without looking at Hugh, he said, “I think I ought to tell you that my fa
ther did not come into Lincoln for the fair, so if you think that this is another murder, you can eliminate him from your list of suspects.”

Hugh was silent, digesting the fact that apparently Cedric had wanted to talk to him in order to establish an alibi for his father.

“He didn’t come in to oversee the stall?” Hugh asked.

Cedric shook his head. “He is ill, as a matter of fact. My mother has made him keep his bed these last three days.”

Hugh watched Cedric’s face. “And he can prove that, I suppose?”

“My mother has been taking care of him, along with her serving women.” Cedric lifted his eyes from his cup and stared at Hugh a little truculently. “If a Norman will accept the word of Saxon women, that is.”

“A Norman always accepts the word of a lady,” Hugh replied gravely.

Cedric rested his head against the straight back of his chair. “I watched the camp-ball game today,” he said.

Hugh, who had been in the process of lifting his wine cup for another sip, stilled. “Were you by any chance present when John Rye was killed?”

“As a matter of fact,” Cedric said, “I was.”

Hugh put his cup down. “Will you tell me what you saw?”

“Why not?” Cedric said lightly. He shifted slightly in his seat. “The accident happened when one of the men on your side knocked aside an opposition pass. The ball went flying off, and in a second a whole pile of men were jumping on top of it, trying to gain control. One of the men in the pile was John Rye.”

“Who else was in the pile?” Hugh asked sharply.

“At least thirty men from both sides were involved,” Cedric said. “It took the sheriff and his men a long time to disentangle them. When they finally got to the bottom of the pile, they found one of your men clutching the ball. He immediately jumped to his feet, threw it, and the game started up again.”

“What of Rye?”

“He was left behind, lying on the ground. No one stopped to see how badly he was injured, so after everyone else had run off up the street, I went out to look at him.”

“You were the one who discovered he had been stabbed?” Hugh said, clearly startled.

“Aye. He was lying on his back in the dirt, and when I put my hand behind him to lift him a little, it came away covered with blood.”

A tense white line formed around the edges of Hugh’s nostrils. “Was he dead?”

“He was still breathing, but he was not aware.”

“Was there anyone else around?”

“There was no one else in the street. An old woman who had been watching the game from inside her house came out when she saw me kneeling over Rye.” Cedric’s blue eyes were sober. “We tried to stop the bleeding, but he died before we could get him out of the street. Then I sent for the sheriff.”

“Who was the woman who helped you?” Hugh asked. “I should like to talk to her. Perhaps she saw something that will be of use.”

Cedric shrugged. “I don’t know her name. She lives in the house with the yellow shutters between the Patchmingate and the Danesgate.”

Hugh nodded and reached for his wine. He took a long swallow.

“It was most probably an accident,” Cedric said.
“Men were clawing and kicking, trying to get to the ball. A knife worn at someone’s belt could easily have slid into another man’s back.”

“If you think that, then why did you take such pains to tell me that your father was not in town?” Hugh countered.

Cedric raised silver-blond eyebrows. “Because I had a feeling that you might jump on Rye’s death like a hound on a scent. As indeed you have.”

Hugh didn’t reply.

Cedric took a sip of his own wine and regarded Hugh over the rim of his cup. “The camp-ball game was very interesting,” he said. “I almost bet on Canville’s team to win. He had all the strongest men on his side.”

Along with horse racing and wrestling, the yearly camp-ball game was the biggest betting event in Lincoln.

“Almost?” Hugh said.

Cedric smiled. “I finally decided that brains would prevail, and I bet on you.”