That was the first thing Father Anselm saw as he knelt beside the knight lying lifeless on the trampled earth. The bruised young face looking up at him did not belong to Hugh.
“He’s dead, Father,” Cristen said. She was holding the young knight’s hand. “Can you give him the last rites?”
“Aye,” said the priest. “He has not been long on his journey.”
He made the sign of the cross, and all of those in the vicinity dropped to their knees and did likewise.
The serene blue sky looked down peacefully as Father Anselm recited the Latin prayers for the dead over the crumpled body laying so quietly on the bloodstained field of Chippenham. When he had finished, they lifted Geoffrey onto a hurdle and carried him away.
Once the sad cortege was out of sht, the horn blew and the mêlée began once again.
“I saw it happen.”
It was two hours later and Philip was talking to Nigel outside the pavilion where the Somerford knights were lodged. He repeated to Geoffrey’s lord what he had said earlier to Father Anselm. “He went forward over his horse’s shoulder, as if he had received a blow from behind, not before.”
There was a white line down the center of Nigel’s thin, aristocratic nose. He said, “It was my men who were behind him.”
“Guy had twenty men on your side,” Philip said. “Was it possible for one of them to get behind Geoffrey in the rush of the charge?”
Nigel was pale under his tan. “I suppose it could have happened. The third charge was much more disorganized than the first two.” His lips tightened. “His armor was so crushed from the horses’ hooves that it is impossible to tell if he took a sword blow from behind.”
Two of Nigel’s knights walked past, somber-faced. They cast a quick glance at their lord, then went on into the pavilion.
“It was meant for Hugh,” Philip said. “Whoever did this meant to kill Hugh.”
“Aye,” Nigel said. “That is how it must have been.”
“Why wasn’t he there?” Philip demanded. “Why didn’t he fight in the mêlée?”
Nigel replied wearily, “Hugh was ill this morning, and then Geoffrey’s roan came up lame. That would have left our team two men short and so Geoffrey asked Hugh if he could ride Rufus in the mêlée. Hugh said that he could.”
A group of knights belonging to another of Guy’s vassals approached the pavilion, spurs jingling, dusty helmets tucked under their arms. They were laughing and talking in loud voices. One of them pointed to Nigel, and they all respectfully moderated their tones.
“If I thought it was Hugh on Rufus, then you can be certain that others did likewise,” Philip said grimly. “Hugh’s illness saved his life.”
The two men looked at each other.
“Where is he now?” Philip asked.
“I don’t know. He’s not in the pavilion. I just looked.”
“Where have they put Geoffrey?”
Nigel’s eyes widened with enlightenment. “Lord Guy had him taken to the castle chapel.”
“The chapel,” said Philip. “Isn’t that where…?”
“Aye,” said Nigel. He swung around in the direction of the castle. “Let’s go.”
Without hesitation, Philip followed.
He didn’t want to do this, but he had to. He had to see Geoffrey, and Geoffrey was in the chapel.
Because of him, Geoffrey was dead.
Hugh knew that as surely as he knew that Adela had loved him.
Geoffrey had borrowed his horse this morning, and because of that, Geoffrey was dead.
Guy had killed him thinking he was Hugh.
He walked like a sleepwalker, across the torn-up field of Chippenham, through the gate in the immense stone wall, across the outer bailey, and through the gatehouse of the inner walls, the Somerford insignia on his sleeve affording him immediate access to the castle. There had been but one fatality at the tournament, and everyone knew that it was one of Nigel’s men who had fallen.
Oblivious to the eyes that were watching him, Hugh climbed the steep stone ramp that led to the castle entrance. Once inside the small hall, he automatically turned to his left, entered the forebuilding, and began to climb the stairs to the third floor, where he knew the chapel was located.
The familiar sick, frightened feeling began to tighten his stomach.
The stone staircase was cold.
He stepped out onto a wooden-floored landing. Two massive doors confronted him. Both were closed. Without thought, he stepped to the door that led to the chapel and opened it.
Geoffrey’s broken body had been carefully straightened and laid upon a bier in front of the altar. Candles flickered at his head and his feet.
The chapel smelled faintly of old incense and damp.
There was a window in the shape of a half-circle set in the stone wall over the altar. It was open and the late-afternoon sunlight was pouring through it, falling on the altar, which was carved of dark wood and covered with a crisp white embroidered cloth.
Hugh stared at the window and, deep within the recesses of his memory, something stirred.
He began to shiver.
With a great effort of will, he forced himself to walk to the bier and look down at Geoffrey.
My fault, he thought. It’s all my fault.
The shivering grew stronger.
Feelings of guilt.
Of terror.
The image of a man’s body sprawled on the floor, almost in the exact same place where Geoffrey now lay.
Blood.
My fault. My fault.
By now the shivering had grown almost uncontrollable. He couldn’t breathe.
Hugh lifted his shaking hand and smashed his fist against the corner of Geoffrey’s bier. The hair on his forehead stirred with the force of the blow.
The immediate, sharp pain helped to clear his head. He was breathing as if he had run twenty miles.
He forced his eyes to focus on Geoffrey’s quiet face.
Never again would Geoffrey know the simple joys of riding his horse in the autumn sunshine, of singing songs around the massive fireplace at Somerford, of donning his armor and working out on the practice field with his fellow knights. At the age of twenty-three, Geoffrey was dead.
Because of Hugh.
But I am no longer a helpless seven-year-old, Hugh thought grimly as he stared down at the quiet face of the dead young knight. Now I am a man. Now I am someone to be reckoned with. Now I am capable of retribution.
After a few moments, he turned on his heel and left the chapel. Never once did he notice the figure of Father Anselm, on his knees in a darkened corner.
Philip and Nigel met him as he was coming out of the forebuilding.
“Hugh!” Nigel cried. “We’ve been looking for you.”
Hugh’s face was pale, but otherwise he had himself under strict control. “I have just been to see Geoffrey.”
They were standing at the bottom of the stone ramp that led to the castle entrance, and now Nigel glanced around to make sure no one was near enough to overhear them. When he was assured that it was safe, he continued in a low voice, “Philip here saw the whole incident and he is convinced that Geoffrey was hit from behind, not from before.”
Hugh’s expression did not change.
“Do you understand the implications of this, Hugh?” Nigel said. “Only our own men knew that it was Geoffrey and not you riding Rufus.”
“I understand very well,” Hugh said. “You are saying it is I who should be lying dead in that chapel, not Geoffrey.”
“That’s right,” Philip said grimly.
“It was done by Guy’s order, I’m sure of it,” said Nigel. “He had some of his men fighting with us. Both sides were greatly depleted by the third charge. It would not have been difficult for one of his men to have gotten behind Geoffrey.”
“I have little doubt that that is what happened,” Hugh said. “Geoffrey was too good a horseman to have been unseated at the very beginning of a charge.”
His voice was cool. Philip would have thought Geoffrey’s fate was of no consequence to him were it not for the pallor of his self-contained face and the shadows under his eyes.