A third contestant got across the bridge and the jumps, but failed to get his horse through the tunnel that had been made from what looked like an immense circular barrel. It was dark inside the tunnel, and the horse refused to enter. They were dismissed.
Three of the contestants made it around the entire course. The horses walked in places, in places stopped and looked as if they would refuse, but, with some verbal and physical encouragement from their riders, eventually they obeyed and went on.
Then a man on a roan stallion came onto the course.
The men around Nigel all cheered.
“He’s one of ours,” Nigel said to Philip. Turning toward the field, he called, “Come on, Geoffrey. Show them how the men of Somerford can ride.”
The roan trotted out onto the course and went through the maze delineated by the first set of barrels.
Philip, watching, thought that this pair was having the best ride of any that he had seen. The roan was slow and cautious, but he kept going forward. He stopped at the bridge and looked long and hard at the flags, but when the knight pricked him with a spur, he went. He hopped over the jumps one at a time, not in one fluid motion, his nose almost on the rails, he was looking so hard, but he went. He walked through the barrel as if he were treading on eggshells, but he went.
The men of Somerford were delighted.
“Our lord won the archery contest earlier,” one of them confided to Philip. “And one of our knights came in third in the wrestling. If we can win the horsemanship, the men of Somerford will have taken the day.”
“Well, from what I have seen, that was certainly the best ride yet,” Philip said courteously.
Privately, he thought that he could have done better, but he was prudent enough to hold his tongue.
“Of course,” another man said, “Hugh has yet to come.”
“And when shall we have the joy of seeing him?” Philip said with lethal courtesy.
“Right now,” came the reply, and Philip turned his eyes to the horse-and-rider combination coming through the opening in the ropes that was the start of the obstacle course.
The horse was a white stallion, not overly large but muscular and very fit-looking. The rider did not look to be overly large, either. His face was hidden by the noseguard on his helmet.
The horse paused for a moment, then began to trot forward.
His step was springy and forward. His ears were pricked with interest. The man on his back carried his sword in one hand and his shield in the other and rode in the way of all knights, legs straight down under him as if he were standing on the ground. His mail glittered in the sun.
The horse trotted smoothly through the different lines set up by the barrels, his hind legs stepping well up under him, his back swinging with relaxation. Still keeping the same steady pace, he approached the bridge and, without a moment’s hesitation, trotted over it. There were more barrels, this time set up in circles, and the stallion veered perfectly left to enter between them.
There was no sign of movement on the part of the rider. Other men had kicked, had used their spurs, but this rider sat perfectly quietly. To all outward appearances, the horse was acting on his own.
Then they were at the jumps. The stallion trotted forward. He leaped the first. The rider stood a little more in his stirrups, but otherwise did not change position. The horse, still holding the same steady pace, jumped the second and then the third pole. He turned at the end of the line and headed toward the tunnel.
As he approached the strange circular barrel, for the first time he showed a sign of nervousness. His ears, which had been pricked forward, flicked back toward his rider twice.
They reached the edge of the barrel, where the horse had to step up onto the wood and commit himself to going through.
Philip thought he saw an infinite hesitation on the part of the white stallion. His front feet touched the wood, then his back feet, and then he was trotting through, a little more quickly, perhaps, than he had been trotting before, but nevertheless trotting.
Back out again into the sunlight, there was only one more formation of barrels, a figure eight, to go through, and they were finished.
For a moment there was silence in the audience. Then it was as if everyone let out a collective breath. And then came the cheers.
Despite himself, Philip was impressed. It took an extraordinary kind of communication between rider and horse to get an animal to perform like that. Philip wasn’t fool enough to think that the horse had done it on his own.
“We’ve won! We’ve won!” the man behind him was exulting. “No matter how much the judges might want to give the prize to another, they cannot do it. Not with that kind of performance!”
Philip agreed. No one else had come close to that ride.
Evidently, the judges agreed also. Three more knights rode after Hugh, but it was an anticlimax and everyone knew it. It took the judges exactly two minutes to come to their decision.
Lord Guy himself stepped onto the field from his place in the front row of the stands to award the prize-a handsome new saddle.
“Hugh Corbaille of Somerford, come forward to accept your prize!” the knight who accompanied the earl blared forth.
From amidst the crowd of horsemen waiting by the opening in the ropes, a lone rider came into the ring. The white stallion glistened in the sun, his muscles moving smoothly under his polished coat. Just before they reached the earl, the man on his back lifted his hands to remove his helmet. He was not wearing his mail coif, and his uncovered black hair shone in the brilliant sunlight. He stopped the white horse in front of Lord Guy. The two men looked at each other.
Beside him, Philip heard the breath ratchet in Nigel Haslin’s throat.
Philip looked at the face of the man on the white stallion and felt his heart kick once, hard, against his ribs.
He had wondered what a male Isabel would look like. Now he knew.
“Jesu,” he heard the priest beside him mumble, as if in prayer. “It is Hugh.”
It had to be, Philip thought blankly. The man wearing that face had to be Isabel’s son. There could be no other explanation for such a resemblance.
He turned his eyes to the earl, who was standing in front of the white stallion, flanked by a knight and a page holding the saddle. Guy was staring at Hugh as if he was seeing a ghost.
Hugh sat his horse like a statue, and looked back.
A rustle of uneasiness ran through the crowd. The noise seemed to break the spell that was holding Guy frozen, and he stepped forward. He put a hand on the white stallion’s bridle and looked up at his rider. His lips moved.
Hugh answered.
“Dear God,” Nigel breathed. “What can they be saying?”
“I imagine he wants to know who the hell Hugh is,” Philip said.
Then Guy signaled to the page, who came forward to present the saddle to Hugh. He leaned from his horse to lift it in his arms. He nodded to Guy. Then, as if on his own volition, the white stallion backed up and whirled, and the two of them cantered off the field.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then, “Judas,” Philip said. “That was a scene.”
“I must find Hugh,” Nigel said, and he began to push his way through the crowd.
“Let’s go,” Philip said to the dazed-looking priest at his side, and the two tall men followed close upon the heels of the lord of Somerford.
Cristen didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.
“Did he have to be quite so dramatic?” she grumbled as she got to her feet and prepared to leave the stands with her ladies.
“Lady Cristen!”
She shut her eyes for a moment in dismay. When she opened them again, there was Sir Richard standing in front of her.
“Who was that boy?” the knight demanded.