No Dark Place Read Free

eyes to score even deeper into his face.
    The men walked in silence for a moment. Then Bernard asked reluctantly, “How old was this Hugh de Leon when he disappeared?”
    “Seven.”
    Once Bernard felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.
    Still, he said stoutly, “If the man who took him was killed, it is almost certain that the boy must have been killed as well.”
    “So we all thought,” Nigel Haslin said. “But I tell you, that boy in the chapel is the living image of Hugh de Leon.”
    “Good God, man!” Bernard said impatiently. “Be realistic.” He raised his hand to acknowledge the greeting of a man who was passing by. “When last you saw this Hugh de Leon he was but seven years of age. Boys change out of all recognition from seven to twenty. You know that! Perhaps there is a faint resemblance between our Hugh and yours, but you are stretching it beyond all reason.”
    The other knight shook his head. “Bones don’t change, and I would know those facial bones anywhere. They are the bones of his mother, the Lady Isabel. And the eyes. They are not the sort of eyes that are easily mistaken. They were the eyes of his father and they are the eyes of his uncle, the present earl. Light gray fringed with black.”
    “You cannot be sure,” Bernard said, still unconvinced.
    “What hand does this Hugh Corbaille use to wield his sword?” Nigel asked abruptly.
    A faint brown haze lay in the air of the bailey as the activity of so many men stirred the summer-dry earth underfoot. Bernard stared at the other man through the dust and did not reply.
    “The de Leons are always left-handed,” Nigel said. “In fact, the present earl is widely known as Guy le Gaucher.”
    Still Bernard did not reply.
    “Your Hugh is left-handed, isn’t he?” Nigel demanded.
    Bernard stared down at the packed dry earth of the courtyard under his feet.
    What if this man is speaking true? What if Hugh really is…?
    He bit his lip and said grudgingly, “What do you want to know?”
    The hay wagon had stopped at the stable that lay along one of the bailey walls, and two stableboys were beginning to unload it.
    Bernard and Nigel reached the cool shadow of the tall wooden tower and stopped.
    Nigel said, “How old was Hugh when he came to be fostered in the sheriff’s household?”
    “The usual age,” Bernard replied. “Eight.”
    “And where did he come from?”
    Bernard scowled, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. Should he say? But the story was well known. Nigel would discover it from another, if not from him.
    “Ralf found Hugh starving in the streets of Lincoln,” he said at last. “When the boy spoke to him in Norman French, he took him home to his own house. Ralf and his wife had no children, and Hugh became to them the son they had always longed for.”
    For a long moment, Nigel was silent, obviously mulling over what Bernard had just said. “And what did Hugh tell Ralf about his past?” he asked finally.
    “Nothing,” Bernard replied with palpable reluctance. “He has always said that he cannot remember.”
    The brown eyes regarding Bernard widened as Nigel took in the full import of that statement.
    “My God,” he breathed at last. Then, speaking urgently, “I must talk to him.”
    “This is not the time to approach Hugh,” Bernard said adamantly. “Not while he is grieving for Ralf.”
    Nigel inhaled sharply. At last he said, “I suppose I can understand that.” He frowned. “All right, I will give him time to come to terms with his grief, and then I will visit him. Where can I find him?”
    “I don’t know if I should tell you,” Bernard said. “I don’t even know if I should have spoken to you about him at all.”
    “Don’t you understand?” Nigel demanded fiercely. “If this boy is who I think he is, he is by right the Earl of Wiltshire and Count of Linaux. Surely you would not seek to deny him such a heritage?”
    Most of the morning mist had cleared and the sky overhead was a