The Poisoned Serpent (7 page)

“I am sorry, my lord,” he said to Richard, hastily snatching up a napkin to blot up the spill.

Hugh’s eyes, wearing a noticeably ironic expression, moved from Alan to Richard.

“How many times have I told you that I am not a lord, Alan?” Richard said tranquilly.

The look of idolatry in the squire’s eyes as he gazed at Richard was unmistakable.

Hugh said, “In his heart, you are always a lord, Richard.”

Alan flushed. It was what he felt, but Hugh’s tone of voice had made the sentiment sound ridiculous.

For a moment, the two young knights stared at each other. Hostility showed clearly in Hugh’s cold eyes, but Richard only looked sad.

Gervase said, “There is no need to humiliate the girl by saying that you were going to refuse her, Hugh. Ob
viously the whole situation has changed with the death of her father. She will be in the wardship of the king now, and he may very well decide to bestow her elsewhere. Under the circumstances no one will expect your betrothal to go forward.”

Hugh removed his gaze from Richard and looked at his host. Then he sighed. “All right, sir. I will go to see the Lady Elizabeth.”

“Good lad.” Gervase nodded his approval.

“Who is in charge of her household?” Hugh asked.

“The knight in charge is a man called Gaspar Meriot. There are nine knights in all that make up the household, and several ladies to attend the Lady Elizabeth. Not to mention the grooms and the body servants.” Gervase made a comical face. “Thank God Meriot had the sense to send home the hounds and the falcons.”

“All of these people are housed in the sheriff’s apartment?” Hugh asked with amazement.

“The ladies have the apartment,” Gervase said. “The knights are living in the guard room of the castle.”

Hugh looked curious. “What is she eating? Surely she is not partaking of the same food as the garrison.”

Dainty, delicately sauced food was not the main staple served up from the castle kitchen.

“I provided her with my own cook,” Gervase said.

Hugh looked at his host’s face for a moment, then said with amusement, “She sounds like a perfect nuisance.”

All of a sudden, Richard laughed. “I doubt that you’ll feel that way, Hugh, once you have seen her.”

A
fter breaking fast, Hugh rode to the castle with Gervase and Richard. The morning streets of Lincoln were as Hugh remembered them—filled with people. The weather outside might be cold, but the small, dark houses that most of the residents of the town inhabited were almost as chilly as the outdoors and considerably less appealing than the brisk fresh air and sunshine.

The Strait was lined with open-fronted booths, which formed part of the ground floor of many of the shopkeepers’ homes. Hugh recognized most of them from the days when he would return home from school and Adela would send him out to make a purchase for her.

Ralf had employed both a man and a woman to help his wife with keeping the house, but when they resided in Lincoln, Adela had always done the cooking herself. With such a small household, she had not deemed it prudent to hire servants they did not need.

Gervase had a cook, however. And Richard had his own squire.

Hugh regarded the tall, muscular black stallion that
Richard was riding and rated him as being extremely expensive.

Interesting
, Hugh thought.

The three men on horseback crossed the bridge spanning the protective ditch that ran all around the outside of the Roman wall forming the outer boundary of the castle grounds. The men on duty at the gate greeted the sheriff and his party, and the three of them rode through.

The Bail was almost as filled with people as the city streets had been. Groups of townspeople were streaming to the Minster, where mass would begin in a few minutes. The market stalls set up along the far wall were doing a less brisk business than the church.

“Who rents the castle stalls?” Hugh asked Gervase.

“Local craftsmen and farmers,” Gervase replied. “It’s a good location for those who don’t have shops in town.”

“May I ask what inspired you to allow merchants in the Bail?” Hugh asked with innocent curiosity.

“I needed the money they bring in,” Gervase returned a little grimly. “After the empress landed in England last September, I had to increase the garrison knights’ pay from seven to eight pence a day. I needed to find the extra funds somewhere, and renting part of the Bail as market stalls has answered the problem very nicely.”

Rufus was looking around curiously, as if he remembered this place, and Hugh patted the stallion’s thick, arched neck.

“Why did you need to raise the knights’ pay?” he asked.

“You know what has been happening in England since the king’s right to the throne has been challenged,” the sheriff replied impatiently. “Great lords
such as William of Roumare and the Earl of Chester are gathering small armies of men to themselves.” Gervase threw Hugh a disgusted look. “Why, just this past month, the Bishop of Ely himself revolted against the king!” He shook his head. “If I want to keep my men, I must pay them.”

“That makes sense, I suppose,” Hugh agreed.

The men reached the east gate of the inner walls through which they entered the castle’s large Inner bail. Inside, a dozen or so horses wandered around the stockade searching for the last wisps of hay from their breakfast. A few men were sitting in front of the wooden huts that housed the castle guard, enjoying the sun and mending harness. In one corner of the yard a group of men practiced their archery, and in another corner a wrestling match was going on.

The sheriff and his companions rode toward the stables, and grooms came running to take their horses. The men proceeded on foot toward the steep wooden staircase that would take them from the Inner bail to the shell keep that enclosed the top of the motte.

Before they had reached the steps, however, Gervase was accosted by a knight who began to talk to him in a low, staccato voice that bespoke urgency.

When the knight had finished speaking, the sheriff said to Hugh and his son, “Go along without me. There is something I must see to first.” He turned away to accompany the knight back toward the east gate, leaving Hugh and Richard alone.

Hugh said to his companion, “Go ahead, Richard, you don’t need to escort me. I am perfectly capable of finding my way around the castle by myself.”

“You want to get rid of me,” Richard said resignedly.

“You are, as always, wonderfully perceptive.”

Richard thrust his fingers through his hair in a gesture of frustration. “Hugh,” he said. “Can’t we bury whatever ill will there might have been between us when we were boys? We’re men now—men who have a great deal in common. I can see no reason why we cannot be friends.”

“Can’t you?”

Richard’s gaze was steady on Hugh’s face. “Nay, I can’t.”

Hugh shrugged. “Fine,” he said. “Let’s be friends, then. And now, if you will excuse me, I should like to renew my acquaintance with some of my father’s old knights.”

Richard made as if to reach out and touch Hugh, then quickly suppressed the gesture. “Certainly,” he said, and smiled. “Shall I go and prepare the Lady Elizabeth for your visit?”

“Why don’t you do that?” Hugh said. And he turned away, leaving Richard to climb the stairs alone.

Hugh went directly to the area where the butts were set up, where he had spied William Rotier conducting archery practice.

As soon as William saw who was approaching, his face split into its gap-toothed grin. “Hugh! It’s grand to see you, lad. I heard you had come to Lincoln. Is it about this business of Bernard?”

“Aye,” said Hugh as he walked up to the stocky, wide-shouldered man. Hugh was not tall, but William was even shorter than he.

At that moment, the man whose turn it was to shoot let fly his arrow. It missed the circle drawn in the middle of the butt by a good foot. Derisive cries came from the rest of the participating knights.

“Do you know if John Rye is still in Lincoln, William?” Hugh asked.

William looked at him with surprise. “John Rye? What do you want with him?”

“I want to talk to him.”

“Well, I’m afraid you’re out of luck, lad. He’s already left.”

Hugh frowned. “Knight’s fee duty is for a full month. His obligation shouldn’t have ended until last night.”

“He actually left three days ago,” William said. “He got a message from home that his wife was ill, and he asked the sheriff if he might shorten his duty by a few days so he could be with her. Gervase agreed.”

“I see,” Hugh said quietly.

As he stood for a moment, a slight frown between his brows, a flaxen-haired boy stepped up to the shooting line, his bow in hand.

“Isn’t that Richard Canville’s squire?” Hugh asked William.

“Aye. Richard has him take archery practice with the knights of the guard. He’s a good lad, is Alan Stanham. Everyone likes him.”

The two men fell quiet as the boy lifted his bow. It was shorter than the six-foot-long bows of the men, but even so, it was not an easy draw. Alan pulled back his string and let his arrow fly. It buried itself in the butt two inches outside the circle.

“Well done,” William called. “You’re improving, lad.”

For the first time, the competing knights noticed Hugh.

“Come and try a few rounds with us, my lord!” someone called good-naturedly. “Robert here wants to shoot against you!”

Robert was acknowledged to be the best archer in the castle guard. He had joined the guard after Ralf’s
death and did not know the sheriff’s foster son. He looked at Hugh’s slender frame and tried unsuccessfully to disguise a contemptuous sneer.

The rest of the men laughed delightedly.

The boy, Alan, stood quietly, listening with a grave face.

Hugh said, “I don’t want to interrupt your practice.”

“You won’t be interrupting us, we’re almost finished,” William Rotier said heartily.

The rest of the men yelled noisy encouragement.

Hugh sighed. “All right, then.” He walked toward the shooting line.

Robert once more regarded Hugh’s slim figure. “If you wish to use the boy’s bow, you are welcome to do so, my lord,” he said with condescending generosity.

Hugh glanced at Alan, then shook his head. “No, thank you. I will borrow Henry’s.”

With a huge grin, one of the knights came forward and handed his bow to Hugh. It was a good one, made from a single stave of mountain yew, with a string of beeswax-impregnated flax.

The draw weight of Henry’s bow, as everyone knew, was close to a hundred and fifty pounds. It was made for a very strong man.

“Would you like to go first, my lord?” Robert asked.

“If you like,” Hugh replied carelessly, and stepped up to toe the line. He stood for a moment, his arms lowered, and then he began to raise the bow, all the while pushing the stave and pulling the string to bring the bow into a position of full draw. For the briefest of moments, he stood in the classic position of the archer, string near his ear, his head framed by the bow and the string. Then he let the arrow fly.

It buried itself in the dead center of the target circle.

The men who knew Hugh cheered with delight.
Robert and Alan and a few others who did not know him stared in astonishment.

Hugh lowered the bow and turned to Robert. “Your turn,” he said pleasantly.

Robert scowled and stepped to the line. He waited while Alan removed Hugh’s arrow; then, slowly and deliberately, he raised his own bow, drew it, and shot.

His arrow landed in the exact same place Hugh’s had hit. Robert grinned with relief.

“We’ll just keep on doing it until one of us misses, shall we?” Hugh asked.

Once more, he stepped to the line and shot. Once more, the arrow hit the center of the circle.

Once more, Robert scowled and followed him. Once more, Robert hit dead center and grinned in relief.

Hugh went again, then Robert. Then Hugh again. And then Robert missed the center by an inch.

The knights of the guard, who did not appear to be overly fond of Robert, cheered Hugh vociferously.

Hugh smiled at his opponent. “You are very good,” he said.

Robert looked at Hugh as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “You’re stronger than you look, my lord,” he muttered at last.

“Try wrestling with him and you’ll find out just how strong he is!” one of the men boasted.

Hugh looked amused, and beckoned to Henry to retrieve his bow. Then he cast his gaze upward toward the castle keep, and suddenly his face lost all expression. Raising his hand in a gesture of farewell, he turned away and began to cross the Inner bail toward the stairs.

Elizabeth de Beauté was sewing in the solar of the sheriff’s austere apartment when her prospective hus
band was announced. Lady Sybil, her nursemaid-companion-chaperone, put down the shirt she was embroidering and said, “So. At last we are to meet this young man whom your father chose for you.”

Elizabeth took another dainty stitch in the tapestry spread on her lap. She was very much aware of the ramifications of her father’s death. She knew that this marriage was not likely to happen now, and she did not regret that.

The girl had never wanted to marry Hugh de Leon. Still, she looked at the solar door with curiosity, interested to see up close the man who might have been her husband.

The slender young man she had watched yesterday walking beside Richard came quietly into the room. He wore a simple blue wool tunic with a plain red mantle swinging from his shoulders. His hair was uncovered, and she noted how black it was.

“My lord,” Elizabeth said steadily. “How good of you to come to see me.”

Hugh crossed the room until he was standing in front of her chair. He bowed his head. “My lady. I am so very sorry for your loss.”

The expression on his face was reserved, and his gray eyes held none of the astonished delight that Elizabeth was accustomed to seeing in the eyes of men when they first beheld her.

She felt a flash of annoyance. She was every bit as beautiful as he, and she expected tribute.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said graciously. “It has been a difficult time.”

He nodded, and looked politely toward Lady Sybil. Elizabeth introduced her companion.

Hugh greeted the lady-in-waiting courteously, and Sybil invited him to sit with them.

Moving warily, rather as if he found himself trapped in a cage with two wild animals, Hugh took the armed, backless bench that Sybil had offered.

The three of them gazed at one another. The winter sun pouring in the open window fell on Elizabeth’s hair, turning its red-gold beauty into a glorious flame. She tossed her head a little, to call attention to it.

Hugh said to her, “My lady, do you think it is wise for you to remain in Lincoln? Would it not be better for you to return home, where you will be safe?” He glanced around the room, which lacked tapestries for the walls and was sparsely furnished. “Not to mention more comfortable,” he added.

“A very sensible comment, my lord,” Lady Sybil said heartily, “and one that has been made by others besides yourself.”

Elizabeth’s long green eyes flashed. “I am not leaving Lincoln until I am certain that my father’s murderer has been convicted and punished,” she stated firmly.

Hugh did not look as if he admired her filial loyalty. He just kept regarding her with that reserved look on his face, and asked, “Why?”

Her back stiffened. “It seems perfectly natural to me, my lord, that I should be interested in seeing my father’s murderer brought to justice.”

Her voice was heavy with sarcasm.

“Of course you desire to see justice done,” Hugh said agreeably. “What I actually meant was, what do you think you can achieve by remaining in Lincoln?”

Elizabeth glared at the man who had been her father’s choice for her husband. He was looking at her with a detachment Elizabeth found odd and bewildering.

And this man had almost been betrothed to her!

She lifted her chin and said, “I wish to be there watching when Bernard Radvers hangs.”

No emotion showed in those cool gray eyes. Not shock. Not respect. Not admiration. Not distaste.

“I see,” he said.

The short, uncomfortable silence that followed this remark was broken by Lady Sybil.

“You must realize, my lord, that the death of Lord Gilbert will necessarily mean a halt to any wedding plans between you and the Lady Elizabeth.”