“Very well,” Simon said resignedly. He looked at Philip. “The situation is thus. Thirteen years ago my sister’s husband, the Earl of Wiltshire, was killed in the chapel at Chippenham. That very same day, her son, the heir to the earldom, disappeared. We believe he was kidnapped by the man who killed the earl. Several days later, the body of the kidnapper was returned to Chippenham, the apparent victim of outlaws on the road, but nothing has ever been heard of Hugh.”
Philip had always known that there were strange circumstances surrounding the death of the previous Earl of Wiltshire, but he had never heard the full story before.
“Jesu,” he breathed. Then, remembering that he was in a convent, “I beg your pardon, my lady.”
Isabel said nothing.
Simon grunted. “The Lady Isabel has just received word from one of the Earl of Wiltshire’s vassals, a man named Nigel Haslin, that he has discovered a boy whom he thinks may be my nephew, Hugh. Nigel has asked the Lady Isabel to send someone whom she trusts to see if he can identify him.”
“And is there such a man?” Philip asked.
“Aye,” Isabel said. “The priest who was chaplain at Chippenham during the years that Hugh was a child.” Unmistakable pain deepened the lines in her face. “He knows my son well. He will know if this boy is indeed Hugh.”
Philip said diffidently, “How old was your son when he was kidnapped, my lady?”
“Seven,” Isabel said.
Philip hesitated, glancing at Simon. Simon’s face was stoic, giving nothing away.
“Boys of seven can change beyond recognition in thirteen years,” Philip said gently. “It is entirely possible that it will be impossible to say for certain whether this boy is your son or no.”
Isabel shook her head sharply. “Bones don’t change,” she said, “and Hugh looked just like me.”
After a moment, during which he tried in vain to picture a male Isabel, Philip asked, “What do you wish me to do?”
“Father Anselm is presently serving in the cathedral at Winchester,” Isabel said. “I want you to escort him to Nigel Haslin’s home of Somerford Castle, where he can meet with Hugh. Father Anselm will know if this boy is truly my son.”
“But my lady…” Philip looked once again to his lord, and once again encountered that stoic, unhelpful face. Simon clearly did not approve of this plan, but just as clearly he was going to go along with it.
Philip began carefully, “If this boy is indeed your son, as he claims to be…”
At that Simon finally spoke. “You don’t understand, Philip. The boy makes no such claim. It is Nigel who thinks he is the heir to Wiltshire.”
Now Philip was thoroughly bewildered. “You have the right of it, my lord. I don’t understand.”
“This Hugh was the foster son of the Sheriff of Lincoln,” Simon explained. His voice took on a noticeably sarcastic note. “Evidently the sheriff found him starving in the streets of Lincoln when he was a child and took him in. He told the sheriff that he did not remember who he was.”
Philip stared. “He did not remember?”
“That is what he said. That is what he still says.”
“It is perfectly possible that he is telling the truth,” Isabel said sadly. “There is no reason for him to want to remember, and many reasons for him to need to forget.”
“I find it hard to believe that one would forget that one was the Earl of Wiltshire and the Count of Linaux,” Simon said grimly. “I don’t want you to get your hopes set upon this boy, Isabel. It is most likely that he is some clever pretender playing on Nigel Haslin’s desire to rid himself of Lord Guy.”
Isabel bowed her head and said softly, “For fourteen years I have done penance for my wrongs to my son, and for fourteen years I have prayed that he would be returned to me. Perhaps God has finally answered my prayers.”
Simon made an impatient gesture. “All right, Isabel. We will send the priest to look at this boy. But I want you to promise me that if Father Anselm returns to you and says that he is not Hugh, you will accept the priest’s judgment.”
Isabel’s beautiful face was very pale. “Father Anselm wants Hugh to be alive as much as I do,” she said. “I will believe what he tells me.”
Philip traveled to Winchester by himself. Over his hauberk he wore a simple brown surcoat, and if he was stopped, the story he had prepared was that he was a knight in the service of Nigel Haslin. Winchester was a city that was firmly in the grasp of King Stephen; the Bishop of Winchester was in fact Stephen’s brother. It would not be conducive to Philip’s health for anyone to find out that he was a knight of the household of Simon of Evesham. All knew that Simon was going to declare for Earl Robert and the empress.
This was another reason that Simon had sent Philip to escort the priest and had not come himself. Philip’s face was unknown in Winchester; Simon’s was not.
As the young knight rode through the rolling country north of Winchester, the September forest was filled with white plovers and skylarks, and the chalk stream of the River Itchen flowed gently southward on its peaceful way to the Channel. Philip’s thoughts, however, were not as pleasant as his surroundings.
He was on a fool’s errand. Simon knew it. Philip knew it. Apparently the only one who did not know it was the Lady Isabel.
Philip hoped to God that this priest would be sensible enough to know it, too.
This young man whom Nigel Haslin had produced in the hopes of pushing Guy le Gaucher out of his earldom must be very clever indeed, Philip thought. What a stroke of genius, to say that he did not remember who he was. It was a perfect excuse for not knowing the answers to questions that Hugh de Leon would be expected to know. Philip could almost admire such cleverness, if it were not going to result in such obvious pain to the Lady Isabel.
She must have been scarcely more than a child herself when Hugh was born. And to have spent the last fourteen years locked away from the world, doing penance for some imagined wrong she had done to her son! It did not bear thinking on.
I would like to wring this pretender’s neck, Philip thought fiercely. And Nigel Haslin’s as well, for allowing political considerations to bring that woman pain.
The afternoon was cool and bright when Philip entered the city of Winchester through the Kings Gate, which lay right beside the cathedral close. He gave a coin to a youngster who was standing in the busy cathedral courtyard and told him to hold his horse. Then he began asking around for Father Anselm.
At last he found the priest saying confessions in a carved booth in the rear of the cool dark church. There were three old women already waiting outside the confessional, and Philip got into line behind them to wait his turn.
The incense Philip had smelled when he first entered the church was overlaid by the overpowering smell of garlic that emanated from the old lady standing in front of him. Philip tried to breathe through his mouth and was much relieved when it was her turn to enter into the confessional booth.
She took forever.
How many sins could one old woman commit? Philip thought impatiently, shifting from one foot to the other in an effort to get comfortable.
The woman who had joined the line behind him heard the clink of his mail shirt and gave a fiercely disapproving snort. Obviously she did not approve of him wearing mail inside the house of God.
Philip folded his arms, bent his uncovered blond head, and stared moodily at the tips of his dusty boots. He thought that he would have to get the priest to meet him after he was finished here. He was damned if he was going to whisper the Lady Isabel’s commission through a confessional screen.
At last the old lady came out from behind the curtain, blessing herself and already muttering her penance. She passed Philip in a cloud of garlic, and he pushed back the red velvet curtain and entered the confessional himself.
The old lady had left her smell behind.