It was late in the afternoon of a cold, blowy day when the party from Wiltshire finally saw the stockade fence of Keal rising in the distance. Gray clouds raced across the wide East Anglia sky as Nigel and the five men of his household guard who were accompanying him approached the manor.
By the time they reached the open gate, a man had moved to bar their way. The sentry was dressed in the leather jerkin and cross-gartered leggings of a man-at-arms and he wore a sword at his side.
Nigel identified himself and stated that he had business with Hugh Corbaille, whose manor he believed this to be.
Nigel was told to wait in the courtyard while the sentry informed his master of the new arrivals. Before he left the courtyard, however, the sentry signaled to two of his fellows to come and stand by Nigel’s party.
Security was not taken lightly at Keal, Nigel thought approvingly.
While he waited, he looked around, judging the quality of the property. As was customary in such establishments, barns and byres lined the inside of the stockade fence, all of them looking to be in very good repair. The house itself was also built of timber. Most of it was two floors high, but attached to the main block was a three-floor section that looked as if it was a more recent addition.
Oddly, even though night was coming on and the air was chill, all the window shutters on the third floor were open.
The front door of the manor swung open and a man came out. It did not take Nigel long to recognize Bernard Radvers.
Bernard crossed the courtyard and came to a halt in front of Nigel’s horse. “So,” he said. “You have come.”
“I said I would,” Nigel replied calmly. “Is the boy within?”
“He has ridden out, but I expect him back shortly.” Several stableboys came running at Bernard’s signal. “You and your party must come inside,” he said courteously. “You are weary and in need of refreshment.”
Nigel dismounted gratefully and followed Bernard to the stairs that led up to the main door of the house. As in so many buildings of this type, the living quarters were on the second floor, as the first floor was used for storage.
Bernard pushed the door open and led Nigel and his following into the chief room of the manor, the hall.
The first thing that struck Nigel’s senses was the fresh, fragrant scent of the room. He looked down and saw that the herb-strewn rushes on the floor looked as if they had been freshly laid that day.
He sniffed appreciatively.
Bernard smiled. “Adela, Ralf’s wife, was always a meticulous housekeeper. Hugh was brought up in an immaculate house, and clearly he has seen to it that Adela’s ways are still followed.”
Nigel nodded and let himself be led forward to the large fireplace in which two massive logs smoldered comfortably. A young boy came from the far side of the room to help him remove his mail coif and hauberk. In the far corner, his guards were also being helped out of their heavy mail garments.
He and his men had made the ride from Wiltshire in full armor, a precaution he always took when traveling in these unsettled times.
A boy brought cups of ale for Bernard and Nigel, and Bernard gestured his guest to one of the heavy carved chairs that were placed near the fireplace. The two men sat down on the comfortable cushions Adela had embroidered, sipped their wine, and regarded each other a little warily.
“Are you part of this household, then?” Nigel asked after he had gratefully swallowed his first draft of ale.
Bernard shook his head. “I am part of the garrison at Lincoln Castle still. I had business in this part of the county, though, and took the opportunity to stop by to see Hugh. I arrived but yesterday.”
Nigel leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs toward the pleasant warmth of the fire. “Have you told him aught of what passed between us at Northallerton?”
“No.” Bernard’s pale blue eyes regarded him mea-suringly. “I was not sure if I would ever see you again.”
“Well, as you see, I have come.”
Bernard took a sip of ale and looked steadily at Nigel over the top of his cup. “Why?”
Nigel made an impatient gesture. “We have been over this ground before, I think. I have come because I believe this boy may be the heir to the earldom of Wiltshire.”
Slowly, Bernard revolved his pewter ale cup in his hands. “I have done some investigating of the present earl since last we spoke,” he said. “He is not a man likely to open his arms wide to a long-lost nephew desirous of usurping his place.”
“I know that,” Nigel returned calmly. “On the other hand, if King Stephen himself recognizes Hugh as Roger’s son, then Guy will have no legal claim to the earldom.”
Bernard gave the other knight a long, level look. “Why should Stephen want to recognize Hugh?”
“Stephen knows that Roger was murdered. Perhaps Hugh will be able to tell the king who was responsible for that heinous crime. If it was Guy…well, Stephen will not allow a murderer to continue on as one of his earls.”
“You forget one thing,” Bernard said. His steady eyes regarded Nigel over his wine cup. “Hugh will not be able to name the murderer. He does not remember anything that happened to him before he came to Ralf.”
Nigel looked skeptical. “Does he really not remember, or is he just saying that?”
“Believe me,” Bernard said with absolute finality. “He really does not remember.”
Silence fell as Nigel contemplated this statement.
Finally he said, “Well, even if Hugh cannot point a finger at Guy, there is still ample reason for Stephen to take up his cause.”
“I don’t see why,” Bernard said.
Nigel leaned a little forward in his chair, trying to communicate his sense of urgency. “Stephen needs Wiltshire. If Hugh will promise to stand with Stephen, and if we can present some reasonable evidence that he is indeed Earl Roger’s lost son, then I have no doubt that the king will support his claim over Guy’s.”
Bernard looked thoughtful. “Why should Stephen be so eager to get rid of Guy? Is he going to declare for Matilda?”
Nigel leaned back in his chair. “Guy will declare for no one,” he said bitterly. “He will sit on the edge of the battle and, like a scavenger, look to grab up every scrap of the leavings for himself.”
Before Bernard could reply to this harsh comment, the hall door opened and Hugh came into the room. His step was quiet, nor had the door made any noise when it opened, but every man in the hall was instantly aware of his presence.
It always amazed Bernard to see how effortlessly the boy could command attention.
There had been the faint murmur of voices in the hall before Hugh’s entrance, but silence fell as the boy crossed the rush-strewn floor toward the two men seated before the comfortable fire.
Bernard felt his stomach twist as once again he beheld the too-thin face of Ralf ’s beloved foster son. Until yesterday, he had not seen Hugh since they had buried Ralf last summer, and he had been profoundly shocked to see that thin, nervy face, those shadowed gray eyes. He thought the boy looked as if he were at the end of his tether.
I knew it would not be good for him to be alone here, Bernard thought now grimly. There are too many memories at Keal.
But there were few alternatives for Hugh. He had inherited Keal as well as Ralf’s two other, smaller manors, and this was where he was supposed to be.
Bernard said composedly, “Hugh, this is Nigel Haslin of Somerford Castle in Wiltshire. He has traveled a long way in order to speak to you.”
Outside it must have begun to rain, because there was a fine mist of drops on Hugh’s black hair. He unfastened his cloak and stood there in a leather jerkin and beautifully embroidered shirt. Bernard recognized Adela’s talented workmanship.
A young boy came on quiet feet to take the damp cloak and put a cup of ale into Hugh’s hand.