The wind blew Hugh’s hair across his forehead and he pushed it back out of his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was patient. “Master Harding, the sheriff of Lincoln, like all other sheriffs in the kingdom, must account for his financial dealings to the king. Twice a year Sir Gervase must justify all his accounts at the Exchequer board. If there was some discrepancy, I can assure you that the king’s officers would have found it out by now.”
“Don’t be a fool,” Harding said contemptuously. “Canville doesn’t report half the income from these stalls. It goes straight into his own pocket.”
One of Cristen’s braids blew across Hugh’s arm. He glanced down at her, then turned his attention back to the Saxon. “And what would you like me to do, Master Harding?” There was no anger in his voice. It was perfectly neutral.
“I want you to expose him” the Saxon returned passionately. “I want the rents on these stalls lowered to a reasonable sum. And I want the opportunity to open one myself!”
Hugh surveyed the line of market stalls in silence. Without turning his head, he said to Harding, “How do you know what these merchants are paying the sheriff?”
“I asked them,” came the contemptuous reply.
The wind sent a stray glove blowing past them.
“All right,” Hugh said. “I shall look into the matter.”
“Good,” the Saxon replied with the first sign of satisfaction he had shown since the interview began. “Your father was the only honest leader this shire has ever had. De Beauté was a thief and so is Canville.”
“De Beauté was a thief?” Hugh said in surprise.
“Aye, a thief,” Harding returned emphatically. “Let me tell you, he richly deserved that deadly stab he got in the heart. We shall probably end up with Roumare as our next earl. He’s a thief, too, but at least he doesn’t covet my lands.”
On that note, Edgar Harding of Deerhurst spun on his heels and stalked away.
Hugh remained looking after him, brow furrowed. At last Cristen broke the silence. “Do you think he is speaking the truth?”
“He might be,” Hugh said. “God knows, Gervase would not be the first sheriff to skim money off the top of the shire’s revenues for himself.”
“Master Harding was certainly upset that he had not been given a market stall in the Bail.”
“Aye,” Hugh returned absently, staring down at a long brown hair that had become attached to his red wool sleeve.
Cristen pulled her hood up against the wind. “Do you know what enmity lay between Harding and Gilbert de Beauté?”
Hugh tucked her braids securely into her hood. Then he told her about the land feud between Harding and de Beauté and about how the king had ruled in favor of de Beauté.
“It happened five years ago, but evidently it still rankles,” he concluded. “Ralf always said that if there was one thing Edgar Harding knew how to do well, it was nurse a grudge.”
They began to walk in the direction of the gate.
“Did Harding perhaps hate de Beauté well enough to kill him?” Cristen asked.
“I don’t know,” Hugh replied soberly. “But I will tell you this, Cristen. I can’t help but wonder how Edgar Harding came to learn that Gilbert de Beauté was stabbed in the heart.”
13
Lady Elizabeth had been right about Hugh wanting Cristen to himself. He would send for Thomas and Mabel shortly, he told himself as he guided Cristen through the side streets of Lincoln toward Ralf’s house.
“I am trying to picture you growing up here,” Cristen said as Hugh turned into the Patchmingate. She looked around at the mix of stone and wooden houses that lined the street. “How did you spend your days when you were a child?”
“I went to school until I was sixteen,” he replied. “After that, Ralf took me with him to the castle.”
Cristen looked at him curiously. “What school did you attend?”
“I went to the Minster school here in Lincoln.”
She nodded thoughtfully.
“The education was quite rigorous,” Hugh said. “We studied the usual trivium, Latin, rhetoric, and dialectic, but we had the quadrivium as welclass="underline" arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and music.”
“It sounds more like an education for a clerk than a knight,” Cristen commented.
“Ralf was a great believer in education,” Hugh explained. “He was not born into the baronial class, you see, but he was fortunate enough to go to school at Saint Mary-le-Bow in London. He did so well that he caught the eye of the old king, who took him into his household. Henry appreciated Ralf’s ability and his loyalty, and eventually gifted him with three manors and appointed him Sheriff of Lincoln. Ralf always said that his brain was as important in gaining him his success in life as were his military skills.”
It was less chilly here in the town, with the houses to buffer the wind from the street, and Cristen pushed her hood off her head. “What kind of boys went to school with you?” she asked.
“All kinds,” he replied. “There were boys who were studying to be clerks, naturally, but a number of the sons of the town’s freemen also attended.”
Two small boys chasing a stuffed leather ball dashed out in front of them from between two houses. Their high-pitched shrieks filled the air.
Hugh said, “There were also a few younger sons of the local barons.”
The ball rolled in front of Hugh’s feet and he picked it up and threw it back to the children. He shot a quick, sideways look down at Cristen. “Richard Canville was one of them.”
“Richard Canville?” Cristen glanced up at Hugh’s contained profile. “Richard Canville is not a younger son.”
“He was once. His elder brother died.”
“Oh.”
A faint frown puckered her delicate brows. She glanced once more at Hugh’s unrevealing face.
“It was Richard Canville who rescued us yesterday afternoon,” she said. “We arrived at the castle very late in the day with no lodgings reserved. Thomas was furious with me for refusing to spend another night on the road. When we saw Sir Richard and Lady Elizabeth on their way to evening service, Thomas stopped him and asked if he knew where we might find you.”
Hugh said, “Richard has the happy facility of always being in the right place at the right time.”
Cristen’s frown deepened. “You don’t like him,” she said.
Silence from Hugh.
Finally he replied. “No, I don’t.”
They had reached the street where Ralf’s town house was located and Hugh turned onto it. Cristen followed.
“Why don’t you like him?” she asked.
He didn’t answer.
They walked halfway down the block without talking. They were almost at Ralf’s town house when he stopped and looked at her. “What did you think of him?”
“I have only met him briefly,” she returned. “I haven’t really had a chance to form an opinion.”
“Everyone likes Richard,” Hugh said.
“Then why don’t you?” she repeated.
His face wore its most shuttered expression. It was not a look he often showed to Cristen.
“He tells people it’s because I’m jealous of him,” Hugh said.
“Ah.” The soft syllable was long and drawn-out.
Hugh stared straight ahead. “He tells people a lot of things about me. All very regretfully, you know. It saddens him unbearably that I won’t be his friend.”
“I see,” said Cristen quietly.
At last she said, “I imagine you must have been competitive when you were boys.”
“Richard would compete with me for the air that I breathe,” Hugh said.
“He’s bigger than you are,” she said.
Hugh’s eyes narrowed. “Eventually I learned to compensate for that.”
“Men,” said Cristen, and shook her head.
A woman came out of the house they were standing in front of, carrying a market basket over her arm. She glanced at Cristen and then at Hugh, and a broad smile broke like a sunrise across her face.