The other knight turned again, to stare after Hugh. “The son of the Sheriff of Lincoln?” he said slowly. “If that is so, then why is he the living image of Hugh de Leon, only son of the Earl of Wiltshire, who was kidnapped from his home some thirteen years ago?”
Hugh found few serious injuries among the men Ralf Corbaille had brought with him to the Battle of the Standard. The English had broken the Scots early, and the greatest part of the battle had consisted of chasing the panic-stricken enemy through the fields and woods of misty Yorkshire. Thousands of Scots had fallen, and very few English. The Battle of the Standard had been a rout.
But Ralf was dead.
Why did he go on ahead of me like that?
This was the thought that ran nonstop through Hugh’s mind all the while he was going dutifully around the camp, talking to the men of Lincoln, assuring them that their officers would see them safely home, doing all the things that Ralf would have wanted him to do.
If I had been beside him, this never would have happened. Why did I have to stop to take a drink?
“Is it true that the sheriff has fallen?”
Over and over the question was asked, until Hugh thought that he would surely kill the next man who spoke those words. But over and over again he answered, calm, disciplined, reassuring. “All will be well. See to the wounded. We will be leaving for home on the morrow.”
After what seemed to him an eternity, but was actually only two hours, he was able to leave the camp and return to the castle, where he could keep watch over Ralf as Adela would have wanted.
Bernard was there before him.
“I have seen to the coffin, lad,” said the middle-aged knight, who had been Ralf’s man for more years than Hugh had been alive. “It will be ready by this evening.”
Hugh nodded.
Bernard his mouth, as if he would say something more, and involuntarily Hugh shut his eyes, willing the other man to go away and leave him alone.
There was the sound of a step, and Hugh felt a flicker of relief that his wish was indeed being granted. Then Bernard’s voice sounded next to his ear.
“Let me unbuckle your mail for you and then I will leave you be. It is too hot for you to be wearing armor if you do not need it.”
Hugh stood perfectly still and allowed the older man to play squire, unbuckling the mail hauberk and lifting it over his bare head. When finally he stood there in his sweat-stained linen shirt and leggings, Bernard said gently, “All right, Hugh. I’ll leave you alone now.”
Hugh stood mute as Bernard left the hall. When at last he was alone, he approached the body of the man who was lying on a low makeshift bier in the middle of the room.
It was cooler in the hall than it had been outdoors, but even so the unmistakable odor of death was in the air. Hugh looked down at the face and ruined head of his foster father, and a wave of unbridled fury surged through him.
How could you have done this to me? How could you have gone away and left me like this?
His fingers curled into fists, and for a moment gray spots danced in front of his eyes. He dropped to his knees and lowered his head to ward away the faintness.
Damn you, Ralf.
He gulped air into his lungs, furious at his own weakness.
His eyes fell on the crucifix that Ralf always wore on a chain around his neck. It was a symbol of faith that should be a comfort to Hugh in his hour of need. He knew what the priests would tell him. They would say that Ralf was at peace in Christ, that he had been reunited with Adela, the wife he had so dearly loved.
But none of this was a comfort to Hugh. All he knew was that Ralf had left him and he was alone.
Slowly he reached up his hand and closed his fingers around those of the dead man. Even in the heat of the August day, Ralf’s hand was cold.
This was the hand that had ruthlessly dragged him out of his hiding place that bitter January night and brought him home to Adela. This was the hand that had shown him how to hold a sword, and a bow. This was the hand that had only recently dubbed him a knight.
Damn you, Ralf. Damn you, damn you, damn you. How could you have done this to me?
A shudder passed through his body, then another one. His hand closed more tightly on the cold, unresponsive one of his foster father.
In all these years, Hugh thought in anguish, I never once told you that I loved you.
When Bernard went back out into the bailey after leaving Hugh in the hall, he almost walked into the strange knight whom he had encountered earlier.
“If you don’t mind, I should like to talk to you for a minute,” the man said. His voice sounded more composed than it had several hours ago. It also sounded determined.
Bernard shrugged, trying to conceal his uneasiness. “Go ahead.” He began to walk slowly toward the gate and the man fell into step beside him.
“My name is Nigel Haslin,” the knight said, “and I am here with the men of Robert of Ferrers, from whom I hold one of my manors. My chief feudal lord, however, is the Earl of Wiltshire, and it is of him that I wish to speak.”
“Aye?” said Bernard, terse and wary and anxious not to give anything away. The courtyard was filled with men coming and going on errands for the different lords who had led the English army. Bernard and Nigel Haslin walked side by side through the bustle of purposeful activity, intent on their own conversation.
“That boy,” Nigel said abruptly. “Where does he come from?”
Bernard ran hard, callused fingers through his short, graying hair. “I told you earlier. He is the son of the Sheriff of Lincoln.”
“From birth?” the other man said.
Bernard looked at him somberly and did not reply.
Something flickered in the other man’s brown eyes. “So,” he said. “A foster son, then.”
“In every way that counts, Hugh is the son of Ralf and Adela Corbaille,” Bernard said emphatically. “He will tell you that himself.”
At that, Nigel put a restraining hand upon Bernard’s arm, forcing him to come to a halt. Bernard swung around in annoyance and the two men stood face to face in the middle of the busy courtyard. “And if he is more than that?” Nigel demanded. “If he is in fact the heir to a great earldom-and to vast estates in Normandy as well?”
“That cannot be,” Bernard said emphatically. “Nor would it be fair to put such thoughts into his head. There is already an Earl of Wiltshire. All do know that.”
A menial passed close behind them, carrying two buckets of water from the castle well.
Nigel said, “It is true that Guy de Leon is the present earl. He is younger brother to Earl Roger, the previous lord.” The knight paused and his eyes hardened. “The one who was murdered.”
“Murdered?” Bernard repeated with shock. “I never heard anything of murder.”
Nigel’s expression was grim. “Oh, it was hushed up. But the fact is that thirteen years ago, Earl Roger was stabbed to death in the chapel of Chippenham Castle. And on that same day, the earl’s only son, Hugh, disappeared, believed to be kidnapped by the very man who had murdered his father.”
Bernard’s eyes were stretched wide with horror. “And who was that man?”
Two horses pulling a cart filled with hay came through the open gate of the castle bailey. With one accord, Bernard and Nigel veered out of the cart’s way and headed toward one of the towers built into the bailey wall.
Nigel said, “We think it was a household knight named Walter Crespin. He disappeared from the castle on the day of the murder. Two days later, the deputy sheriff brought his body back to Chippenham. Evidently he had been the victim of outlaws in the forest.”
“And the boy?”
“He was never seen again.” Nigel looked Bernard straight in the eyes. “Until today.”