They made good progress for almost a hundred yards. Then his protective walls began to crumble. Men went down under the onslaught of Richard’s team. Alan lifted the camp-ball and cocked his arm. Just before he threw, he saw Richard coming at him in a diving lunge.
The look on his face was murderous.
Alan released the ball and went down under a bone-crunching tackle.
He lay still, groaning and fighting for breath. Richard’s weight lifted off him almost instantly and Richard was gone, leaving Alan facedown in the dirt of the road, trying to breathe.
A voice said, “Are you all right?”
Alan groaned again and managed to roll over. He looked up into Hugh’s filthy face.
“I…I think I just had the breath knocked out of me,” Alan managed to croak.
“You had better get over to safety on the side of the street,” Hugh said. “I’ll get someone to take your place.”
“Nay,” Alan said grimly. “I’ll be all right.”
Hugh held out a hand and pulled the squire to his feet. Alan was relieved to find that nothing felt broken. He stood still for a moment, still fighting for breath. Then he said to Hugh, “Let’s go.”
Hugh gave him a blazing smile, turned and ran down the street in the direction of the game. Alan, absurdly buoyed by that brilliant look, followed at his heels.
The camp-ball game went on for another hour. Richard’s team recovered the ball three more times, but each time there was a greater distance between the players and their goal. And no matter how far they managed to advance, they never seemed to make back the ground that they had lost on Hugh’s team’s previous drive.
Slowly but relentlessly, Hugh’s castles advanced toward the Bail wall.
Alan had the ball in his hands twice more during the course of the game, and both times he managed to throw it successfully to Thomas Mannyng, the thrower in the last castle. It was Thomas who was the one who finally got the ball to Richard’s goal and claimed the victory.
Jubilation roared through the winning side. Alan found himself showered with compliments about how he had handled himself and about how accurately he had thrown the ball. The wild celebration culminated with the team lifting the five ball carriers on their shoulders and marching with them down the Strait, accompanied by cheers from the onlookers.
It was the best day of Alan’s life.
He was still perched high above the crowd on the shoulders of his defenders when he saw Hugh break away from the mass of men and begin to race on ahead of the victory parade. He was followed by a tall, thin man whom Alan recognized as one of the sheriff’s constables.
It was a good half hour before the party in the street began to break up. Its dispersal was hastened by the grim news that one of the players, John Rye, had been found stabbed to death.
20
The body of John Rye lay beneath a linen cerecloth in the mortuary chapel of the Minster. The light from the candles set at his head and feet flickered on the faces of the Bishop of Lincoln, the Sheriff of Lincoln, and Hugh de Leon as they stood talking together in low voices.
“It had to be an accident,” the sheriff said. He rubbed his forehead as if it ached. “Someone must have been wearing a knife at his belt and, in the rough and tumble of the pileup, it cut through its sheath and stabbed Rye.”
“The fellow with the knife might not even have realized what happened,” the bishop said.
“Have you been able to discover who among the players was wearing a knife?” Hugh asked.
“Not surprisingly, no one will admit to wearing a knife,” Gervase said wearily. “And no one remembers seeing anyone else wearing one, either. I shall continue to ask questions, of course, but to be honest, I have little hope of finding the man responsible for this tragic accident.”
Hugh stood staring down at the covered body in front of him. “I take it, then,” he said, “that neither of you thinks there is any possibility that this was done deliberately?”
Both older men looked surprised by the question. It was Gervase who finally answered Hugh by posing another question.
“Why should anyone want to kill John Rye?”
The candles at the foot of the coffin flickered over Hugh’s expressionless face. “He may have had an enemy we don’t know about.”
The sheriff made an impatient gesture. “Perhaps. But even if someone did want him dead, this is surely a very chancy way to go about accomplishing a murder. To kill a man in front of dozens of people! Really, Hugh, it makes no sense.”
“I should think it a very clever way to kill a man,” Hugh returned. “In the crush and confusion of the camp-ball game, no one would think it was unusual for Rye to fall down. The murderer could do the deed and be away before anyone realized that something was wrong.”
The bishop’s long, noble fingers adjusted the white stole he wore around his graceful, aristocratic neck. “That may be so,” he said in his sonorous voice, “but why should anyone want to kill a man like John Rye?”
“I can’t help but wonder if this stabbing might be related in some way to the stabbing of Gilbert de Beauté,” Hugh replied.
The sheriff and the bishop stared at him in annoyance.
“That’s ridiculous,” the bishop snapped. “What connection can possibly exist between the Earl of Lincoln and a mere knight like John Rye?”
Hugh returned steadily, “Once we find the answer to that question, my lord, we will have caught a murderer.”
The bishop haughtily lifted his nose and looked dismissively at Hugh. “You are being absurd.”
Gervase agreed. “I know you will do anything to save Bernard, Hugh, but this is a bird that will not fly. There is simply no way to connect de Beauté with a man like Rye.”
Hugh’s mouth set into a hard, strict line. He did not reply.
Silence fell as the three men stood side by side, contemplating the outline of John Rye’s body under his cerecloth.
Finally the bishop said, “I suppose I shall have to find someone else to hold Linsay Manor. Perhaps you might be able to suggest a few names to me, Sheriff.”
Hugh frowned. “Linsay will not go to Rye’s son?”
The bishop’s nose elevated once more. “Linsay belongs to the Bishopric of Lincoln, Lord Hugh. John Rye’s son is much too young to serve out the feudal duty required as a fee to hold the land, so naturally I will have to give the manor elsewhere.”
Gervase said, in the manner of a man concluding a discussion, “Certainly I can suggest some names to you, my lord.” He turned to Hugh. “I will continue to make inquiries among the players and spectators as to who might have been wearing a knife, but I doubt I will learn anything more.”
“It was a tragic accident, nothing more,” the bishop pronounced. He stepped away from the candlelit body as if to leave, then stopped and looked at the sheriff. “Have you sent anyone to bring the sad news to Rye’s wife? She will have to decide where she wants him buried.”
“I am sending a man first thing in the morning,” the sheriff replied.
“I will ride to Linsay for you,” Hugh volunteered.
The bishop looked at him with suspicion.
The sheriff said, “You don’t have to do that, Hugh.”
“Rye’s wife and children know me,” Hugh explained briefly. “It will be better if I am the one to go.”
The bishop and the sheriff exchanged a glance, then Gervase shrugged. “Very well. If that is what you want.”
“It is what I want,” Hugh said.
“Just be sure you don’t further upset the lady with talk of murder,” the bishop said sharply.
Hugh did not reply.
“Did you hear me, young man?” The bishop’s voice grew louder. “I do not want to hear any more talk of murder.”
“I hear you quite clearly, my lord,” Hugh returned. “I will not speak of murder again.” He paused. “Until I have proof.”
The bishop grunted. “Well, that is something you will never have.” He was a tall man, and when he drew himself up to his full height he was very impressive-a fact of which he was well aware. “Good night, Sheriff,” he said to Gervase.