The knight’s pudgy cheeks flushed with anger. “Come, girl, don’t play the innocent with me. Before you set your heart on a handsome face, let me remind you that your father must have the permission of his overlord before you can wed. And I doubt very much that Lord Guy will give his consent for you to marry a man who owns but a few small manors in Lincolnshire.”
He said the word Lincolnshire in the same tone as he would have said pigsty.
“And how many manors do you own, Sir Richard?” Cristen asked sweetly.
The broken veins in the knight’s nose turned a brighter red. “Don’t get saucy with me, my girl.”
“It was you who wished to sit beside me, Sir Richard,” Cristen replied.
She willed him to go away so she could turn her attention to what was transpiring between her father and Lord Guy at the high table.
“You have grown impertinent, Lady Cristen,” the knight said grimly. “It is not a pretty thing to see in a young girl. Your husband will have to teach you some manners.”
“If my conversation does not please you, you have a remedy,” Cristen said tartly.
The knight surged to his feet. “Very well. But you will regret speaking to me with such a lack of respect.”
The lord of Minton Castle, who was sitting on Cristen’s other side, turned, gave Sir Richard a hard look, and said, “Is everything all right with you, Lady Cristen?”
Cristen gave him a reassuring smile. “Aye, my lord.”
After shooting her one more angry look, Sir Richard left, returning to the high table to make his report to Lord Guy.
“I don’t like that man,” Fulk of Minton said.
“Neither do I,” Cristen replied.
The man on the other side of Fulk reclaimed his attention by asking a question about the next day’s mêlée.
Finally Cristen was able to turn her eyes to the high table. She was in time to see her father get to his feet. Nigel recrossed the crowded floor and resumed his place next to her. He looked as if the conversation with Guy had rendered him completely sober.
“What did Lord Guy want?” she asked in a low voice.
He put his mouth close to her ear, so only she could hear his reply. “He wanted to know about Hugh, of course.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him that I knew nothing about the boy other than the fact that he was the foster son of Ralf Corbaille. I told him that if he wanted an explanation of Hugh’s startling resemblance to the de Leon family, he would have to talk to Hugh himself.”
“Father…” Cristen’s voice was not quite steady. “Father, Hugh still doesn’t remember anything about his childhood. Perhaps he never will.”
“I think he remembered the flag,” Nigel said. “He may not admit it, but I think he did.”
“Oh, God,” Cristen said despairingly. “What have we done, bringing him here to this place?”
“I am trying to give him back his life, Cristen,” Nigel said.
Cristen stared at the uneaten food on her trencher, and did not reply.
10
After the banquet was over, the knights filed out of the Great Hall to return to their pavilions. The mêlée was to be on the morrow, and before they went to sleep all the participants wanted to check once again the fit of each piece of armor and harness, go over hauberks of interlinking rings to make certain that none of the links were weak, inspect helms and sword hilts to make sure the joints were firm, and examine the noseguards on their helmets to make sure they were properly attached.
Hugh went through the same routine as the other men, although he spoke very little and appeared preoccupied. Finally he was able to crawl into his pallet next to the tent wall, where he lay awake for hours, with all of the images of the day flashing compulsively through his mind: Lord Guy, who had looked at him out of such chillingly familiar eyes; the priest, who had recognized him instantly; Philip Demain, who had sworn he was the image of Isabel de Leon.
What could have happened to me all those years ago? Hugh thought in frustration and fear.
What was so dreadful that it caused me to lose my memory?
He had a premonition that he knew the answer to that question. He thought of his reaction every time he entered a castle chapel, and he had a sickening feeling that he might actually have seen his father killed.
I must find out the truth, he told himself as he lay sleepless on his straw pallet, surrounded by dozens of other slumbering knights. If a mere vassal like Nigel Haslin feels it his duty to seek justice for Roger de Leon, then how much greater must be the duty of a son?
For he was Roger’s son. He had to be. The resemblance was clearly too great to be passed off as a coincidence.
Then there was the de Leon flag. The golden boar. It had stirred something in him, some wisp of familiarity.
Or was he only imagining such a response?
Hugh flung a restless arm across his eyes.
The knight on the pallet next to him was snoring loudly.
If I am to fight tomorrow I must get some sleep, Hugh thought desperately.
But it was a very long time before he finally managed to drift into an uneasy slumber.
He awoke to pain.
He lay very still for a minute, listening to the sounds of the other knights in the pavilion as they rose from their pallets and began to dress.
The pain was in the back of his head, not in his forehead as before. It stabbed like a knife every time he moved.
It’s starting again, Hugh thought in panic.
“Come on, Hugh,” Thomas said jovially as he came to stand beside Hugh’s pallet. “Time to get up and prepare for the mêlée.”
Hugh lifted his head. Agony banded his skull from ear to ear across the back of his head.
Very slowly, being careful to move his head as little as he possibly could, Hugh arose and put on his clothes. Then he went out of the tent to look for a page.
The sunlight stabbed his eyes.
“Brian,” he called to the boy, who was bustling past him carrying a well-polished sword. “Will you go and get the Lady Cristen for me? Tell her I am not feeling well.”
The boy’s hazel eyes widened in alarm. “You’re sick, Hugh? But we need you today in the mêlée.”
“Get Lady Cristen,” Hugh repeated desperately.
The boy turned and ran off, the sword still held in his hand.
Hugh stood perfectly still. The pain was beginning to move higher in his head. His stomach was uneasy.
One of Nigel’s knights joined him. “Breaking fast is in the bailey,” he said. “Are you coming with us, Hugh?”
“Not just yet,” Hugh said.
The knight stared at him. “You look very pale.”
“I’m not feeling well,” Hugh said. “Lady Cristen is coming. Perhaps she will have something to help.”
“You drank too much last night,” the knight said with a grin. “Don’t worry, the Lady Cristen will have something for you. I’ve called on her myself in similar circumstances.”
Hugh managed a shadowy smile in response.
He stood there in the brutal sunshine, agony pounding through his head, waiting for her.
The knights left to break their fast.
A few squires scurried around, busy with equipment and with stealing surreptitious looks at Hugh’s immobile figure.
Then, finally, she was there.
“Hugh?”
“My head,” he said, turning it very slowly to look at her out of heavy eyes. “The pain has started again, Cristen.”
“Dear God.” She put her hand on his arm. “Come inside out of the sun.”
Eyes half-shut, he allowed her to lead him back into the pavilion. “Lie down,” she said. “How is your stomach?”
Cautiously, he lowered himself to his pallet. “Uneasy.”
From somewhere, she produced a bowl. “Here. Use this if you have to.” She knelt on the ground next to him and opened up her medicine bag. “I packed my betony potion just in case this happened. I don’t think it will make the headache go away completely, Hugh, but it might help with the pain.”