The priest surprised Philip by jerking upward to a sitting position. “He wants to find Lord Roger’s murderer?”
Philip replied in a reasonable voice, “It’s only natural that he should feel that way, Father. He is the man’s son, after all.”
Father Anselm reached out in the dark and closed his fingers around Philip’s arm. “He mustn’t,” he said hoarsely. “Tell him to leave it alone. Roger is dead and nothing can bring him back. Tell Hugh to leave it alone!”
The priest’s long fingers were pressing into the hard muscles of Philip’s upper arm.
“Don’t you understand the necessity of such a search?” the young knight said, lifting his right hand to pry those painful fingers away. “If Hugh can prove that Guy was involved in the death of his own brother, then the church will take Roger’s honors away from Guy. A murderer is not allowed to benefit from his crime, and fratricide is one of the worst crimes that one can imagine.”
“I understand the consequences of such a search far better than you,” Father Anselm said darkly. “Hugh must leave the manner of Roger’s death alone. Let him seek to win his earldom in some other way.”
The priest’s fingers loosened of their own accord and dropped away from Philip’s arm.
“What do you know that you are not telling?” Philip demanded harshly. “Do you know who killed Lord Roger?”
The priest flopped back down on his mattress. “Everyone knows who killed Lord Roger. It was Walter Crespin, the same man who kidnapped Hugh.”
“If that is true, then why are you so adamant that Hugh should investigate the matter no further?”
The priest groaned. “Ask me no more about this, Philip.”
Slowly, Philip lowered himself back onto his own mattress. “Hugh is unlikely to stop his pursuit of the truth just because I tell him to,” he said.
Silence fell. Philip was just drifting off to sleep when Father Anselm said, “Is Hugh going to visit his mother?”
“Of course he will visit his mother,” returned Philip sleepily.
“Then I will come with you to Evesham,” the priest said. “My duties at the cathedral will have to wait a little longer.”
13
Nigel rode to the manor of Bradley the following morning, to bring the news of their son’s demise to Geoffrey’s family. Geoffrey’s mother was heartbroken, but Geoffrey’s father took the news philosophically. Geoffrey was a younger son, and in the feudal world of the twelfth century, younger sons were expendable, particularly when there were five of them.
Then, too, Geoffrey had lived at Somerford since he was eight years of age. Nigel probably knew him better, and mourned him more deeply, than did his father.
Consequently, Geoffrey’s father’s decision to leave his body where it was came as small surprise to anyone. As soon as Nigel returned to Somerford from Bradley, he went into Malmesbury and made the necessary arrangements for the funeral. The following day, the family and the knights of Somerford filled the abbey church to say their reverent farewells to the young man who had been one of their own.
Cristen knelt in the first pew, with her father on one side of her and Hugh on the other. After communion, she bowed her head, the host still held devoutly on her tongue, and prayed with heartfelt fervor. Her prayer was not for Geoffrey, however, who was safe now with God, but for Hugh, whom she knew was in deadly danger.
Dear Lord, give Hugh the wisdom to do what is the right thing in this tangle that faces him. Guide him and be ever close by his side. Give him the strength to face whatever it is that must be faced, and most of all, Dear Lord, keep him safe. Amen.
They came out of the church into a gray, overcast day. The weather matched the mood of the mourners as they followed Geoffrey to the churchyard, which was situated just outside the walls of the abbey, and saw his coffined body lowered into the freshly dug earth.
Thomas was crying. One of the older knights put an arm around the young man’s shoulders to comfort him.
Nigel’s head was bowed. His face was lined with grief.
Hugh’s face was perfectly shuttered. He stood a little apart from the others, watching as the gravedigger threw shovelfuls of earth on top of Geoffrey.
Cristen’s heart ached for him, but it was to her father’s side that she went.
“It’s time to go,” she said.
He turned to her wearily. “Aye.”
He took her arm and began to walk away from the grave. The rest of the knights followed behind them.
“Hugh,” she heard one of them say.
“I’m coming.” Hugh’s voice sounded close to normal, but not quite.
“It’s not your fault, Hugh.” It was Thomas speaking, his voice recognizable even though it was clogged with tears. “I was the one who suggested that Geoffrey ask to borrow your horse.”
Evidently Nigel’s knights had also come to the conclusion that Geoffrey’s death had not been accidental.
“Next we will be blaming poor Rufus.” Hugh’s voice sounded closer and Cristen knew that he had finally joined the rest of the knights.
One of the other knights asked, his tone cautious, “Is it true that you are the lost son of the old earl, Hugh?”
After the briefest of pauses, Hugh’s reply drifted to Cristen’s ears: “It seems that I am.”
Thomas said, “Well, if ever you want help in dislodging Lord Guy, you have only to call on me.”
“And me!” said another voice.
A chorus of “And mes” followed as Nigel’s knights eagerly pledged themselves to avenge the death of their comrade.
Nigel murmured to Cristen, “It seems that I am losing the loyalty of my own household guard.”
Oddly enough, he didn’t sound angry about such a defection; on the contrary, he sounded pleased.
Hugh left for Evesham the following day. Cristen said her farewells in the family solar.
She did not want to see him ride away.
“I’ll be back. You know that,” he said. He was holding both her hands in his own hard, calloused grasp.
“I’ll be here,” she replied simply.
He hesitated, then bent and kissed her on the forehead.
A squire opened the solar door.
“Sir Nigel sent me to tell you that the horses are waiting, my lord,” he said.
Cristen saw the surprise flare in Hugh’s eyes at the title the squire had bestowed upon him.
“Word has evidently spread through the ranks,” she said with a smile. “It’s their way of saying that they’re on your side.”
He nodded abruptly, squeezed her hands once, and dropped them.
“I won’t say good-bye,” he said.
“If you need me, send and I will come,” she said.
His mouth quirked. “I always need you,” he said, turned on his heel, and walked swiftly out of the room.
It rained during the whole ride to Evesham. Hugh huddled under the hood of his cloak and remembered the terrible headache that had attacked him when he had first arrived at Somerford.
Please, God, don’t let that happen now, he prayed.
There would be no Cristen at Evesham to take him in charge and hide him away.
The miles fell behind them and his head remained clear. Philip Demain and Father Anselm rode with him, and he was enormously grateful that neither of them tried to talk to him about anything but the exigencies of the journey.
It was late in the afternoon when Philip said, “Evesham is just a few miles away.”
Fifteen minutes later, their small cavalcade ascended a gently sloping, grassy, treeless incline, and there before them, looming out of the rain and the mist, was a large gray stone castle. Like Somerford, it had obviously once been a motte and bailey castle that had been converted into something more substantial by using local stone. The thick walls that surrounded it were broken up by five towers.