The Poisoned Serpent (22 page)

“Isn’t it?” Hugh replied woodenly.

“These poor children,” Lady Elizabeth said. “Why, they are orphans!”

Alan felt Nicholas’s small, sturdy body stiffen.

“Fortunately, they have friends,” Hugh returned coolly. “Now, if you don’t mind, we had better be on our way.”

Iseult stirred in Hugh’s arms and opened sleepy blue eyes. She made a sound of alarm when she saw the strangers.

“It’s all right, sweetheart,” Hugh said to her gently. “You’re with me.”

“Oh,” she said. “Hugh.” She nestled against him again and closed her eyes.

“Lady Elizabeth and I will ride on ahead of you,” Richard said. “Shall I alert Lady Cristen that you are coming?”

“Do that,” Hugh returned. “Tell her that I’ll meet her at Ralf’s house.”

“Very well.” Richard said something to Elizabeth, who nodded, and then they both cantered off.

Hugh put Rufus into a walk so as not to disturb the sleeping Iseult, and the two horses and one dog traveled slowly on.

C
risten was waiting at Ralf’s house when Hugh and Alan and the children rode up. After a flurry of introductions, Hugh left Nicholas and Iseult to her competent care and rode back to the castle to make arrangements to have Lady Rye’s body brought into Lincoln. She would be buried from the Minster along with her husband.

Cristen took one look at the shocked, exhausted children Hugh had turned over to her and immediately sat them down for a meal of hot soup and bread. Alan wondered how long it had been since last they ate. He joined them at the table, and approved of the way Cristen allowed the children to eat in silence while she and Alan talked together of ordinary things.

She even put a bowl of food on the floor so that Benjamin could join in the repast. The huge mastiff slurped noisily right behind Nicholas and Iseult, and Alan sensed that the presence of their dog was a comfort to the bereaved children.

“What would you like to do next?” Cristen said to the children after they had hungrily finished second helpings of the soup.

Two pairs of blue eyes gazed at her with dazed bewilderment.

“Where is Hugh?” Iseult whispered at last.

“He has gone to the castle to see about having your mother’s body brought to Lincoln,” Cristen said practically.

Both children continued to gaze at her. Neither said a word.

Cristen leaned comfortably back in her chair and said conversationally, “Did you know that Hugh’s foster father used to be the Sheriff of Lincoln? Hugh grew up in this very house we are sitting in now.”

“I didn’t know he grew up in Lincoln,” Nicholas said, showing the first spark of interest Alan had seen in him. “My father said he came from Wiltshire, that he was to be the next earl there.”

Iseult sat up more alertly in her chair as well. Alan thought that Hugh seemed to be the one topic capable of rousing the children’s attention.

Cristen craftily fed them more information. “Hugh’s real father was the Earl of Wiltshire, but when he was very young, about your age, Nicholas, he was stolen away from his home by robbers. He managed to get away from them and make his way to Lincoln, where he was found by Ralf Corbaille, the sheriff. But the shock of being kidnapped caused Hugh to forget his past, and he was unable to tell the sheriff anything about himself. So Ralf adopted Hugh and brought him up right here in Lincoln as his own son.”

Both children were gazing at Cristen with their eyes stretched wide and their mouths open.

“Hugh was kidnapped?” Iseult said in a hushed tone.

“Aye.” Cristen’s own eyes were steady and honest. “It was a terrible thing that happened to him. But he
was lucky enough to find a new family who loved him very much. And he loved them—even more than he loved his first family, I think.”

The children continued to stare at Cristen, faces grave, eyes solemn. Alan waited cynically for her to tell them that the same happy fate awaited them.

“So you see,” she said, “Hugh knows how you must be feeling right now. A terrible thing has happened to you as well. But he will help you. And so will I.”

Nicholas blinked. Then he nodded slowly.

Benjamin belched loudly.

Iseult giggled.

“I am so glad you brought your dog,” Cristen said. “I have been missing my own dogs very much. A house without a dog is such an empty place.”

“What kind of dogs do you have, Lady Cristen?” Iseult asked curiously.

“I’m afraid that neither one of them is as handsome as Benjamin,” Cristen said, “but I love them dearly.” And she launched into a detailed description of her dogs and how she had rescued each of them from abandonment. The children listened with rapt attention.

“Now then,” Cristen said when she had finished the saga of her beloved animals, “we must decide what to do next. You can have a bath and put on clean clothes and then, if you are tired, you can have a nap and wait for Hugh to come home. Or, if you like, we can go up to the castle ourselves and find him.”

“Find Hugh,” both children replied in unison.

“Right away,” Nicholas added.

“All right,” Cristen said briskly. “Then that is what we will do.”

Alan looked at the bedraggled children. Nicholas
had smudges of ash on his face, probably from rubbing it after trying to fix the fire. And Iseult’s long hair was more a tangle than a braid.

“Perhaps a bath would be in order first?” he suggested.

Nicholas frowned.

“Nay,” Iseult said stubbornly. “Find Hugh first.”

“Baths can come later,” Cristen agreed. “If you have finished eating, we will go up to the castle and look for Hugh.”

Cristen made sure the children were warmly dressed, and they left the house on foot to walk to the castle through the streets of Lincoln, where just yesterday their father had been killed.

Until now, John Rye’s death had seemed an unfortunate but insignificant event to Alan—an unlucky accident that had marred the otherwise splendid camp-ball game. But now, as he looked down at the tangle of black hair on Iseult’s small round head, he saw it for what it really was: a tragedy.

Every human life touches someone else’s
, he thought.
John Rye might have been unimportant in the worldly scheme of things, but his death has changed his children’s lives irreparably
.

What were these children going to do? Alan worried. Surely, there had to be some surviving relative somewhere who would take them in. Even if they had no aunts or uncles, their parents must have had cousins who would care for them.

Unfortunately, Nicholas and Iseult were that most expendible of commodities: well-born children who had no fortune. The only feasible future for Nicholas was to earn his living as a knight in some lord’s household. And Iseult, if no one could be found to marry
her, would end up in a convent, if one could be found to accept a girl with no dowry.

To Alan, the idea of having no relatives was utterly terrifying. He had always known that as a younger son he would have to support himself by his sword. He had known when he left his father’s home to serve as squire to Richard Canville that he probably wouldn’t be going back there to live ever again.

But still, his mother and father and eldest brother were
there
. If the worse ever came to the worst, and he had nowhere to go, they would take him in.

Nicholas and Iseult did not have that security. Until a relative could be found, Nicholas and Iseult had only Hugh.

Alan had to acknowledge that it had been kind of Hugh to take the children in. He had understood that it was important for them to be in a home with someone they knew and trusted. They would have panicked if they had been thrust into a convent.

As their small party entered into the Bail, Nicholas’s gaze was fixed on the towering heights of the castle rising above them. Alan smiled, remembering his own awe the first time he beheld Lincoln Castle.

“It’s bigger than I thought it would be,” Nicholas said in a low voice.

“It is one of the biggest castles in the kingdom,” Alan responded.

“My father served his knight’s fee here every January,” Nicholas said, a note of pride in his voice.

Iseult whimpered. “I’m tired. When are we going to find Hugh?”

Cristen glanced at Alan, who immediately bent and scooped the little girl up in his arms. “We’ll find him very soon,” he said bracingly. “I’ll carry you for a little, shall I?”

She put one small arm around his neck. “Thank you, Alan.”

Her little body rested against him so trustingly. Alan smiled into the small face so close to his. “You’re a very brave little girl, Iseult. Do you know that?”

A dimple flashed in her cheek. “I am?”

“Aye. You are.”

“I like you, Alan,” Iseult said. “You’re nice.”

Alan felt absurdly pleased by the compliment.

When finally they reached the castle, it was to discover that Hugh was with Bernard. Even though Bernard was much better, Cristen refused to allow the children to go into the sickroom. Instead, she took them upstairs to Lady Elizabeth’s apartment and sent Alan to inform Hugh where they were.

“John Rye was killed by the same man who killed de Beauté. I’m sure of it.”

Alan heard Hugh’s voice as soon as he opened the door to Cristen’s bedchamber. Hugh was speaking softly, but with such clarity that Alan couldn’t mistake his words.

Next there came the rumble of Bernard’s deeper, less-clear baritone.

Alan stopped as if he had walked into glass. After a moment, he quietly closed the door behind him. Moving on silent feet to the partially open door that led into Bernard’s room, he took up a position that was out of view and prepared to listen.

Hugh’s voice was even clearer this close up. Alan listened as he told Bernard, “I think that John Rye had dangerous information about the earl’s murder and he tried to use it to extort money from someone. Instead of paying up, however, the man killed Rye. If it was the same man who killed de Beauté—and I think it
was—he wouldn’t hesitate at another murder. He got rid of the man he sent to deliver his message to the earl fast enough.”

“You may very well be right,” Bernard replied. From this closer vantage point, Alan could hear the man’s deep voice more clearly. “John Rye tried to get William of Roumare to pay for his information and was unsuccessful. It would only be natural for him to turn next to the actual man who did the deed.”

“So I think,” said Hugh tersely.

Bernard began to cough. Alan heard movement in the room and the sound of water being poured.
Hugh must be offering Bernard a drink
, he thought. Finally, when Bernard had recovered his breath, he said, “Well, your first suspicion appears to have been the right one. William of Roumare was behind the death of de Beauté all along.”

This comment was met by silence. Alan’s brain was in a whirl as he tried to understand this sudden introduction of William of Roumare into the picture. He frowned in concentration as he tried to sort out what he was hearing, so that he could relay it correctly to Richard.

Finally Hugh said, “If Roumare was involved, Bernard, then why didn’t he buy off Rye?”

“Exactly what information do you think Rye offered him?” Bernard countered.

“John Rye was in the castle serving out his knight’s fee at the time of the murder. I am guessing that he saw who gave the groom the message that summoned you to the Minster. After the groom turned up murdered as well, Rye must have realized that he had a valuable piece of information. That is when he left Lincoln with the excuse that his wife was ill and went to visit his cousin, Roumare.”

Alan was concentrating so intently on the conversation in Bernard’s room that he scarcely remembered to breathe.
But why would William of Roumare want to kill the Earl of Lincoln?
he thought in confusion.

“It seems to me that if Roumare was indeed involved in the earl’s murder,” Hugh went on, “he would have bought off John Rye. Instead, he turned him away.”

Bernard replied matter-of-factly, “He turned him away because he knew there was nothing concrete that could connect the murderer to him. There can be little doubt that Roumare was the one who paid the assassin, but I will wager you that he did it in such a way that he would not be implicated. That is why he would not bribe Rye to keep quiet.”

“That could be what happened,” Hugh conceded, but he did not sound convinced.

“It must be what happened,” Bernard said firmly. “Roumare is the only man with sufficient motive to want de Beauté dead. The whole kingdom knows he wants to be the Earl of Lincoln, and now that de Beauté is dead, he probably will be.”

So that is it
, Alan thought, enlightened. It made sense, he thought, mulling this new information over in his mind. Roumare was a much more likely culprit in the earl’s death than was Bernard Radvers, who had gained nothing by the death of de Beauté.

“Unfortunately, I have no proof of any of this,” Hugh was saying grimly.

“It doesn’t matter,” Bernard replied. “We have only to bring forth before the chief justiciar the information you learned from Rye, and establish the possibility that Rye may have been murdered by the same man who killed the earl. That information will save me, Hugh. I was under arrest when John Rye was killed.”

“I suppose,” Hugh said discontentedly.

Bernard grunted as he shifted in the bed. “Don’t look so gloomy, lad! You’ve done what you promised. You’ve saved my life. I should think you would be rejoicing.”

“I will rejoice when you are declared innocent,” Hugh returned.

Suddenly his voice sounded much closer. Alan flattened himself against the wall, afraid that Hugh had moved nearer to the doorway. “I would feel happier if I could be certain that these murders really were connected to Roumare,” Hugh confessed. “As it is…I simply am not convinced.”

“
If
? What do you mean, if?” Bernard sounded oddly angry. “Who else besides Roumare could possibly have benefited from the death of the earl?”

Hugh didn’t reply.

“Hugh.” Bernard’s voice was sharp and worried. “Please don’t tell me you are still trying to fix the blame on Richard Canville!”

Alan felt as if someone had punched him hard in the stomach. His fists clenched at his sides, and his nostrils widened as he sucked in air.

Richard?
he thought.
How could anyone, even Hugh, possibly suspect Richard?

“I haven’t eliminated him,” Hugh said. His voice seemed to come from right next to the door.

Bernard raised his voice as if talking to someone across the room from him. “If you try to cast suspicion on Richard, you will make yourself a laughingstock. I know you don’t like Richard. Perhaps you even have cause for not liking Richard. Perhaps Richard is not quite as perfect as everyone thinks he is. But he is not a murderer, Hugh! For God’s sake, what reason would he have to murder the Earl of Lincoln?”

“Do you remember that I told you Edgar Harding came to me and accused the sheriff of embezzling from the market stall rents?”

“Aye, I remember.” Bernard sounded cautious.

“Well, I have proof that Harding was right.”