Bernard shook his head. “You are mistaken. You must be mistaken.” He frowned, causing the weather-scarred wrinkles in his forehead and at the corners of his light blue eyes to score even deeper into his face.
The men walked in silence for a moment. Then Bernard asked reluctantly, “How old was this Hugh de Leon when he disappeared?”
“Seven.”
Once Bernard felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.
Still, he said stoutly, “If the man who took him was killed, it is almost certain that the boy must have been killed as well.”
“So we all thought,” Nigel Haslin said. “But I tell you, that boy in the chapel is the living image of Hugh de Leon.”
“Good God, man!” Bernard said impatiently. “Be realistic.” He raised his hand to acknowledge the greeting of a man who was passing by. “When last you saw this Hugh de Leon he was but seven years of age. Boys change out of all recognition from seven to twenty. You know that! Perhaps there is a faint resemblance between our Hugh and yours, but you are stretching it beyond all reason.”
The other knight shook his head. “Bones don’t change, and I would know those facial bones anywhere. They are the bones of his mother, the Lady Isabel. And the eyes. They are not the sort of eyes that are easily mistaken. They were the eyes of his father and they are the eyes of his uncle, the present earl. Light gray fringed with black.”
“You cannot be sure,” Bernard said, still unconvinced.
“What hand does this Hugh Corbaille use to wield his sword?” Nigel asked abruptly.
A faint brown haze lay in the air of the bailey as the activity of so many men stirred the summer-dry earth underfoot. Bernard stared at the other man through the dust and did not reply.
“The de Leons are always left-handed,” Nigel said. “In fact, the present earl is widely known as Guy le Gaucher.”
Still Bernard did not reply.
“Your Hugh is left-handed, isn’t he?” Nigel demanded.
Bernard stared down at the packed dry earth of the courtyard under his feet.
What if this man is speaking true? What if Hugh really is…?
He bit his lip and said grudgingly, “What do you want to know?”
The hay wagon had stopped at the stable that lay along one of the bailey walls, and two stableboys were beginning to unload it.
Bernard and Nigel reached the cool shadow of the tall wooden tower and stopped.
Nigel said, “How old was Hugh when he came to be fostered in the sheriff’s household?”
“The usual age,” Bernard replied. “Eight.”
“And where did he come from?”
Bernard scowled, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. Should he say? But the story was well known. Nigel would discover it from another, if not from him.
“Ralf found Hugh starving in the streets of Lincoln,” he said at last. “When the boy spoke to him in Norman French, he took him home to his own house. Ralf and his wife had no children, and Hugh became to them the son they had always longed for.”
For a long moment, Nigel was silent, obviously mulling over what Bernard had just said. “And what did Hugh tell Ralf about his past?” he asked finally.
“Nothing,” Bernard replied with palpable reluctance. “He has always said that he cannot remember.”
The brown eyes regarding Bernard widened as Nigel took in the full import of that statement.
“My God,” he breathed at last. Then, speaking urgently, “I must talk to him.”
“This is not the time to approach Hugh,” Bernard said adamantly. “Not while he is grieving for Ralf.”
Nigel inhaled sharply. At last he said, “I suppose I can understand that.” He frowned. “All right, I will give him time to come to terms with his grief, and then I will visit him. Where can I find him?”
“I don’t know if I should tell you,” Bernard said. “I don’t even know if I should have spoken to you about him at all.”
“Don’t you understand?” Nigel demanded fiercely. “If this boy is who I think he is, he is by right the Earl of Wiltshire and Count of Linaux. Surely you would not seek to deny him such a heritage?”
Most of the morning mist had cleared and the sky overhead was a hazy blue. The air was hot and muggy, and the line at the castle well was a long one.
“And how will the present earl and count receive the news of a possible usurper?” Bernard asked shrewdly.
“Lord Guy has only daughters. There is no son to succeed him,” Nigel said. “The way would lie open for Hugh.”
Bernard raised skeptical eyebrows. “Do you really think that because he has no sons, Earl Guy would be willing to put aside his own claim in favor of a nephew he does not know? For that is what Guy would have to do if he recognized Hugh as his brother’s true son. He would have to step aside.”
Nigel’s lips twitched, and he did not reply.
A man on a magnificent black horse attended by a guard of knights rode in through the bailey gate. Stableboys scrambled to take the horses.
Bernard said, “Before he could even think of approaching Guy, Hugh would first have to prove he is who you say he is.”
“He wears his proof on his face,” the other man returned.
Bernard went on as if he had not heard. “And, of course, there is always the possibility that Hugh will not want to prove it.”
Nigel looked at him as if he were mad. “No man would turn his back on such a heritage.”
And Bernard said wryly, “You don’t know Hugh.”
2
Ralf Corbaille’s manor of Keal lay in Lincolnshire, a part of England Nigel Haslin was not overly fond of. The fen country of Lincolnshire might be beautiful to those who lived in it, but to a Wiltshire man like Nigel, the endless, flat, watery expanses were not only unattractive, they were a nuisance to travel across.
It was March 1139, seven months after the Battle of the Standard. Time enough, Nigel thought, for Hugh to have recovered from his grief. Time enough for him to be setting his sights upon the future.
The weeks and months had also given Nigel a chance to think more clearly about the wisdom of resurrecting a possible heir to the earldom of Wiltshire. He had been so stunned to see Hugh at Northallerton that he had acted instinctively in talking to Bernard Radvers. The last seven months had given him a chance to consider whether or not he would be wise to proceed in this matter, or if it would be more sensible simply to pretend that he had never seen the boy at all.
As Nigel well knew, Guy de Leon would not be at all happy to find that his nephew had miraculously risen from the dead. Furthermore, he would be furious with the vassal who dared to sponsor such a claimant.
On the other hand, there were many reasons why Nigel would like to see Guy replaced as his overlord.
For one thing, he strongly suspected that Guy had been involved in the death of his elder brother. Nigel had held his former lord in high regard and would very much like to see his murderer punished.
He also gravely disapproved of the dissolute way in which Guy lived.
And finally, he did not approve of Guy’s refusal to declare his support for the king.
In short, Guy was the complete opposite of the brother he had succeeded. Roger de Leon’s name had rung through all of the Christian world for his deeds during the late Crusade. It was Roger who had led the attack upon the gates of Jerusalem, the attack that had won the Holy City back from the infidels. Under Roger, Chippenham had been a model of morality and propriety. Roger, Nigel was certain, would have upheld his feudal oath to his overlord, King Stephen, and not been solely on the lookout for his own advantage.
Nigel would far rather owe his own feudal duty to Roger’s son than he would to Guy.
And then there was Isabel.
What would it mean to her to know that her son was still alive?
When Bernard thought of her, and all her beauty, hidden away in that convent for the last thirteen years, his heart lifted with the hope that Hugh’s return might also mean the return of his mother to the world.