One of the three pages sitting on the bench along the wall close to the door jumped up and came over to the new arrival.
“My lord,” he said as he recognized Hugh’s face.
“Go and tell Lord Guy that I am here, will you?” Hugh said pleasantly.
The page turned and raced across the hall floor. He went up to the man who was sitting in a large carved chair close to the fire, dropped to one knee, and began to speak. Guy turned his head toward the door and waved to Hugh to come ahead.
Hugh was aware that the raucous laughter had died away as soon as he was announced. He crossed the wide, rush-strewn floor, noting fastidiously that as usual the rushes should have been changed at least two days ago. He approached his uncle and bowed his head to the infinitesimally precise degree of respect that was required.
“My lord,” he said. “It is good to see you again.”
Guy’s startling light gray eyes, the eyes that were so amazingly like Hugh’s, regarded the slim form of his nephew. “It is a cold day for a ride,” he commented.
“Aye,” Hugh returned agreeably. “My feet are freezing.”
“Come to the fire,” Guy said. “Richard, get up and give my nephew your seat.”
Sir Richard Evril scowled, but he got to his feet and moved out of the way so that Guy’s nephew could sit down. Hugh pushed his mail coif back off his head, baring his tousled black hair to the light of the fire.
“Pour Lord Hugh some wine,” Guy said to one of the squires.
The boy came forward with a cup, which he offered to Hugh.
The entire company around the fire was silent, listening to this exchange between Hugh and Guy. Aside from their black hair and gray eyes, the two men bore little resemblance to each other. Guy’s face was heavy, with broad cheekbones and a wide jaw. Hugh’s bones were narrow and finely sculpted. His cheekbones were high, his jaw firm but finely modeled.
Guy was fifty-six years old and had been the Earl of Wiltshire, one of the most powerful men in the kingdom, since the death of his brother thirteen years before. Hugh had returned to the home of his birth only a few months ago, a young man without memory of his past, the owner of several insignificant manors in Lincolnshire.
Given their histories, the amazing thing was that, of the two of them, it was the younger who appeared the more formidable.
Guy turned to the blond, blue-eyed woman seated on a stool next to him. “When Hugh has finished his wine, my dear, you must show him to his room.”
“Yes, my lord,” replied Lady Eleanor, Guy’s hostess, whom he always introduced as his cousin, but whose real position was far less respectable.
“I’m glad you have come, nephew,” Guy said genially. “I have just returned from Stephen’s Christmas Court, and I have something I wish to talk to you about.”
“I have something I wish to say to you as well,” Hugh returned.
Guy grunted. “After you have gotten out of your mail, come to my solar. We can speak there in private.”
Hugh nodded, drained his cup of wine, and stood up.
Lady Eleanor leaped immediately to her feet. “I will show you to your room, Lord Hugh.”
“Thank you, my lady,” Hugh replied courteously. He followed the Lady Eleanor to the wide staircase that led from the great hall up to the next floor, where a group of private bedchambers were located.
Hugh was amused to note that she did not take him to the small room he had been given on his previous visits, but instead showed him to a larger chamber that had a rug on the floor and a fur cover on the bed.
“Thank you, my lady,” he said to Guy’s mistress.
She smiled at him, displaying a pretty dimple and stained teeth. “I will send a squire to help you disarm,” she promised, and left.
Hugh dropped his mantle and gloves on the wooden chest that sat against the wall, and pulled his mail coif off over his head. He was unbuckling his sword belt when someone knocked on the door. “Come,” he called, and a boy of about sixteen entered the room.
“I am here to disarm you, my lord,” the squire said.
“Thank you,” Hugh replied, and stood patiently while the boy undid the laces on his mail hauberk and pulled it over his head. The hauberk was made of leather, with more than two hundred thousand overlapping metal rings sewn on it for protection. Hugh had worn the hauberk as a precaution due to the unsettled times, but he had not worn either the long-sleeved mail shirt or mail leggings that he would have donned had he been dressed in full armor.
He let the squire strip him to his linen shirt and woolen leggings, then washed his face and hands in the water basin the boy had brought him. Once he was clean, he pulled his blue wool surcoat back on over his white shirt, circled it with a soft leather belt, and announced that he was ready to see Lord Guy.
The solar at Chippenham was a much larger room than the one at Somerford. The shutters were closed tightly against the cold January afternoon, and the large charcoal brazier in the middle of the room gave off a warmth that was held within the room by the tapestries that covered the walls. The room contained several handsomely carved chests and two backless benches with beautifully carved arms.
Three chairs with comfortable cushions were placed around the brazier. Seated in one of them was Guy, a fat candle burning on a small table next to him.
“So, Hugh,” he said amicably as his nephew came in. “You are looking well.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Hugh advanced into the room and took the chair that his uncle pointed to.
For a long moment, two pairs of light gray eyes studied each other.
Then Guy leaned back in his chair and propped his legs on an embroidered footstool. “I had an interesting time at Stephen’s Christmas Court.”
“Did you, my lord?” Hugh responded politely.
“It caused quite a furor, let me tell you, when I let it be known that Roger’s son had been found.”
Hugh said nothing.
After waiting a moment, Guy went on, “My brother’s reputation as a hero of the Crusade is still cherished by the men of his generation. I was forced to listen far too many times to the tale of how he led the storming of the gates of Jerusalem.”
A muscle twitched in the corner of Hugh’s jaw, but again he said nothing.
Guy eyed him with a trace of annoyance. “We must make arrangements for you to swear your allegiance formally to Stephen.”
At last Hugh spoke. “I am not overly impressed with the way the king has conducted his campaign thus far.”
Guy scowled. “What does that have to do with anything? If you wish to receive recognition as my heir, you will have to swear allegiance to Stephen. I agree that we might have been able to accomplish more for the family by remaining neutral, but that is not how things have fallen out.” Guy lifted his thick graying eyebrows. “At the moment, it is convenient to show allegiance to Stephen. That does not mean that we cannot change our minds if the times change.”
Hugh’s expression was unreadable. “My foster father taught me that a feudal oath is sacred and cannot be undone.”
“Your foster father was not the Earl of Wiltshire and Count of Linaux,” Guy retorted. “Men like us are not bound by the same laws that bind other men. Remember that, nephew.”
Hugh did not reply, just regarded his uncle thoughtfully.
Guy said, “Now let me tell you of my greatest coup.” He rubbed his hands and smiled with satisfaction. “Gilbert de Beauté, the new Earl of Lincoln, was at Stephen’s Christmas Court. As I am sure you know, Stephen named de Beauté over William of Roumare, and with good reason. If Roumare should control Lincoln, then he and his half brother, Ranulf of Chester, would between them command an important triangle right in the heart of the kingdom. The establishment of such a power base would be just as dangerous to Stephen as the threat posed by Gloucester and the empress.”