The last invitation had come on the anniversary of the Battle of the Standard, exactly one year after Ralf’s death. It had caught Hugh at a particularly vulnerable time.
He had thought that after a year, he would be coping better with his life.
He wasn’t. In fact, as the days went by, he felt himself growing more and more disconnected from Keal and the people in it.
For one thing, there wasn’t enough to keep him occupied. He could run Keal, and Ralf’s two other manors, blindfolded with his hands tied behind his back. Bernard had been right when he had said that Hugh was bored. In fact, he was beginning to feel like a sword left to rust in the corner of a castle storeroom.
It had been all right when Ralf was alive. Then they had spent only a part of the year at Keal. The rest of the time Ralf had lived in Lincoln, or traveled the shire administering the king’s justice.
Hugh had gone everywhere with Ralf, had learned everything that Ralf could teach him. He had not needed to serve as a squire in some great lord’s household. He had learned all about being a knight from his foster father, one of the finest men who ever lived.
The steady four-beat thud of horses trotting on dirt sounded in his ears. The escort of unfamiliar knights rode two abreast, before and behind him. The sun shone on the well-kept brown coats of the stallions in front of him.
Why did I agree to go to Somerford?
Hugh drew in a deep breath of the warm, forest-scented air. A small brown bird flew across the track holding a piece of twig in its beak. The twig was larger than the bird.
Hugh drew in another long, steadying breath, and answered his own question.
Because you think it is entirely possible that you might actually be Hugh de Leon, rightful Earl of Wiltshire.
It was a thought that had haunted him ever since Nigel had left Keal in March. No matter how hard he tried to push it away, it kept creeping back into the conscious levels of his brain.
He was afraid to find out about his past. On the other hand, he wasn’t doing very well with his present, and the future looked even bleaker.
If nothing else, he thought, a visit to Somerford would be a diversion. And it had the added advantage of getting him away from Keal.
One of the knights of his escort, the youngest, pushed his horse forward to trot beside Hugh’s.
“We are but a few hours from Somerford,” the knight, whose name was Thomas, remarked cheerfully. “We should be there well in time for supper.”
Hugh forced himself to smile into the round, freckled face that was beaming at him with such good will. “That is good news,” he said.
“We’ve been lucky that the weather has held so fair,” Thomas said next, and Hugh nodded and made a courteous reply.
They were an hour away from Somerford when the headache started. At first Hugh thought it was just the way the sunlight reflected off the mail of the man in front of him that was bothering his eyes. But then the pain moved into his forehead as well.
By the time the walls and high keep of Somerford Castle appeared in the distance, Hugh was in grave distress.
He said nothing to the men of his escort, just loosened his rein and let his stallion follow the other horses as they approached the great wooden stockade that surrounded the castle bailey.
A moat had been dug around the stockade and a drawbridge was let down across it. The guards in the small towers on either side of the bridge shouted a greeting to their fellows as the five mounted horses and one pack horse trotted over the drawbridge, between the high walls, and into the large bailey.
By now the pain in Hugh’s head was like a firestorm. The sunlight hurt him unbearably and all he wanted was to get away by himself into some dark place.
His stomach heaved and he was desperately afraid he was going to be sick.
He clutched Rufus’s mane with sweaty fingers and, balancing precariously, swung himself down from his saddle.
He took off his helmet, hoping that the lessened weight would help his head.
His mail coif felt as if it were grinding into his skull.
“Hugh! How pleased I am to welcome you to Somerford Castle.”
It was Nigel.
Hugh opened his mouth and spoke. What he said must have been relatively sensible, for Nigel smiled and turned to lead the way up the hill and into the keep.
Hugh followed, clammy and shivering and sick, his head thundering with pain.
They entered through a large door, out of the hot sunshine and into a cooler hall.
Hugh shut his eyes.
When he opened them again, a young girl was standing in front of him. “My daughter, Cristen,” Nigel was saying.
Hugh looked down into a pair of enormous brown eyes. They looked back clearly and then a quiet, low-pitched voice said, “You’re ill. What is wrong?”
“It’s nothing,” Hugh said. “A headache. It has made me rather dizzy, that’s all.”
A small hand closed competently around his wrist. “Come with me,” Nigel’s daughter said.
Hugh went.
She took him across the hall, through two doors, and into a small bedroom.
“You must get out of that mail,” she said. “I’ll send someone to help you.”
Hugh clenched his teeth against the bile he could feel rising in his throat. He would not be sick in front of this girl. He would not.
She handed him a bowl.
“Go ahead,” she said practically. “You’ll probably feel better once you clear out your stomach.”
Unfortunately, at this point he had no choice. He gagged, and then the whole of his midday meal came burning up through his throat and into the basin.
When he was finished, she took the mess away from him.
“Here is William,” she said quietly. “He will help you out of your mail. Then get into bed.”
A young boy came forward and Hugh endured the removal of his mail coif and hauberk, his spurs and leather boots. Finally, when he was clad in only his shirt and leggings, he managed to say, “Thank you,” and to crawl mercifully into bed.
The agony did not lessen. If anything, it was getting worse. He shut his eyes against the pale light in the room.
The quiet voice of Nigel’s daughter said, “Try to drink this. It might help.”
He would drink scalding pitch if it would help.
He pushed himself up onto his elbow and swallowed the liquid in the cup she was holding to his lips. Then he lay back down again.
“I have some cold cloths for your forehead,” the girl said.
“Thank you. I’m sorry to be such a nuisance.”
“Don’t be foolish,” she said, and placed something cold on his head.
He shut his eyes again. “Thank you,” he said.
She didn’t reply, but once again he felt her fingers on his wrist. This time she was feeling his pulse.
After a minute, she released his hand and said, “Are you often subject to headaches?”
“No,” he replied in a voice that sounded very far away. “This is the first time.”
“It will pass,” she said reassuringly. “I have seen this kind of headache before and I promise you that it will pass.”
“When?” he asked desperately.
“Within a few hours. Perhaps sooner.”
The pain had begun to throb with the beating of his pulse. How could he stand hours more of this?
“Do you want me to go away?” she asked. “Or do you want me to stay?”
And Hugh, who had thought he wanted nothing more in the world than to be alone, heard himself saying, “Stay.”
The headache lifted two hours later. There was the slight sensation of a hum in his head, and then, suddenly and absolutely, the pain receded and disappeared.
Slowly he opened his eyes. “It’s gone,” he said in amazement.
The girl, who had been sitting beside him, periodically replenishing the cold cloths on his forehead, stood up.