There was silence in Bernard’s room. Alan looked longingly at the door leading from Cristen’s room into the passageway. He should leave while there was still a chance he would not be discovered eavesdropping.
But he couldn’t seem to tear himself away.
Bernard broke the silence. “What of Edgar Harding, Hugh? He certainly hated de Beauté. And he had that piece of information about the single stab wound to the heart that killed the earl. Perhaps Harding himself was the murderer and then he told you this information about the market stall cheat just to throw suspicion on someone else.”
Alan remembered that he had unexpectedly met Edgar Harding the morning after the murder, and his heart jumped.
“I suppose it is possible,” Hugh said, “but Edgar Harding has people who will swear that he was at Deerhurst on the night the earl was killed.”
“Are these people to be believed?”
“I don’t know,” Hugh replied frankly. “But Harding also appears to have a defense for the day that John Rye was killed. His son told me that his father was at home, ill, in bed, and being attended to by his wife and daughters.”
“Hmm.”
There came the sound of a stool being pulled across the wood floor. Hugh must be sitting down, Alan thought.
“On the other hand,” Hugh said, “Cedric Harding was here in Lincoln on Wednesday. In fact, he was the man who discovered that Rye had been murdered.”
There was a little silence as Bernard digested this piece of information. Then he replied, “Why would Harding’s son want to kill the earl?”
Hugh sighed. “Edgar appears to have passed all of his extreme prejudices down to his offspring. Cedric hates all Normans, and in particular, he hates the Norman who robbed the Hardings of their land. Perhaps he was the man whom Rye saw talking to the groom that night.”
“That’s pretty far-fetched,” Bernard said.
“Aye,” Hugh agreed readily. “It is.”
“The fact of the matter is, all of this is speculation. You have no proof of anything,” Bernard said.
“I know that, Bernard,” Hugh replied irritably.
“Then our best hope is to cast doubt upon the sheriff’s case against me. I think your testimony about what John Rye told you will do that quite satisfactorily.”
Hugh didn’t reply.
Alan, realizing that he had heard all that was going to be said, decided that it was time to leave. He had actually taken a step when Hugh came into the room through the connecting door. He looked Alan up and down and said pleasantly, “What an interesting time you must have had, Alan. Do you have any comments you would care to add to the conversation?”
Alan’s cheeks and ears were scarlet as he made his way down the tower steps, Hugh’s last contemptuous words ringing in his ears. Now, run away like a good little spy and report everything you heard back to Richard.
Of course, it had been Alan’s intention to do just that, but something in the way Hugh had regarded him made him feel uncomfortable.
He called me a spy and he was right, Alan thought shamefacedly. I am someone who listens to other people’s private conversations and reports them back to someone else.
It was the first time it had occurred to Alan that what he was doing might not be considered honorable. He had never looked at it that way before. Why?
Because Richard asked me to do it.
The answer was immediate. If Richard, his idol, his perfect model of a knight, had told him to do it, then it must be all right.
But Hugh had made Alan feel besmirched. Dirty. Like a spy. What would Hugh think of him if he knew that Alan had listened to his conversation with Cristen? Alan shuddered at the thought.
He tried to work up some anger against Hugh for treating him so contemptuously, but it was difficult. It was too easy for Alan to see the situation from Hugh’s point of view. He couldn’t find it in himself to blame Hugh for being angry.
Richard shouldn’t have asked me to spy for him, Alan thought soberly. It wasn’t right.
It was the first time in his life that he had ever had a critical thought about his lord.
As the sound of Alan’s footsteps died away, Bernard looked from where he was lying propped against his pillows toward the young man standing by the single small window in the tower bedroom. “For how long did you know that he was there?” he asked.
“I heard him come in,” Hugh replied. He turned toward Bernard, one of his hands resting, fingers spread out, on the stone windowsill.
“How did you know that it was Alan?”
“I knew it was Alan when he stopped to listen. Richard has been using him to spy on me.”
Bernard frowned in bewilderment. “Then why didn’t you accost him immediately?”
“Because I have a feeling that Alan knows things that could be very helpful to us,” Hugh replied. “I wanted to see if I could shake his faith in Richard a little.”
Bernard shook his head in a decisive negative. “You can’t. Alan worships Richard.”
“I know he does. But Alan is a bright youngster. Even more important, he has a sense of honor. Once his eyes have been opened, I think he will begin to see things as they really are, not as Richard has made them seem.”
Bernard pushed himself until he was sitting upright in the bed. “For God’s sake, Hugh, why do you dislike Richard so intensely? It is not like you to bear such bitter enmity over a childhood rivalry.”
Hugh turned his back on Bernard and looked out the tower window. He said nothing.
Behind him, Bernard persisted. “There has to be some reason. I know he used to bully you when you were young, but as you grew, you more than got your own back on him. So why?”
Hugh stared down at the small group of men-at-arms who were walking from the keep walls to the castle. Still facing the window, he said, “I never told this story to anyone but Ralf.” He turned to face the man in the bed. “I am only telling you now because it bears on your own situation.”
Bernard said, “You know I can keep a quiet tongue in my head, lad.”
Speaking in an ordinary, matter-of-fact voice, Hugh said, “I saw Richard murder his brother.”
Bernard’s mouth dropped open in shock. He stared at Hugh, his bushy eyebrows twin marks of astonishment, and didn’t say a word.
“I was there,” Hugh repeated. “I saw it happen.”
Bernard closed his mouth and found his voice. “What happened? And why didn’t you ever say anything?”
Hugh’s face was bleak as he replied, “Because no one would have believed me.”
Bernard leaned back against his pillows, suddenly looking very tired. “Tell me.”
Hugh stared down at his linked hands as if they held the answer to Bernard’s question. He began to speak in a carefully expressionless voice.
“As you know, Simon was Gervase’s eldest son and, as is customary, he remained at home while Richard was sent to the Minster school in Lincoln.” Hugh opened his hands and then linked them together again. “About once a month, Simon used to come into Lincoln to visit Richard. He was a nice boy, Simon. A kind boy. He loved his brother.”
Hugh fell abruptly silent.
“I remember Simon,” Bernard said encouragingly. “He was a nice boy. He was only fourteen when he died, I believe. He drowned in the Witham, I remember.”
Hugh looked up. “Aye. There had been a lot of rain that spring, and the river was running very high. Simon and Richard took a boat out, the boat capsized, and Simon drowned.”
Bernard frowned as he cast his mind back to the past. “Richard tried to save his brother, Hugh. I remember that someone told me he himself nearly drowned, diving over and over trying to recover Simon’s body.”
“That is what most people think,” Hugh agreed.
Bernard’s pale blue eyes narrowed as he remembered something else. “Didn’t you go to Richard’s assistance? I seem to remember that you helped him recover the body.”