The Poisoned Serpent Read Free Page A

Lincoln Castle, and the Sheriff of Lincoln exhorted his garrison to do its best to make a good impression on their new earl.
    Lincoln was one of the new earldoms that Stephen had created since taking the throne. The king’s purpose was to have these additional earls shoulder some of the burden of regional defense. In Lincoln, however, the military readiness of the shire had always been the responsibility of the sheriff. It was the sheriff who collected the royal revenues, who commanded the various fortresses and made certain they were fully garrisoned, who took charge of prisoners, who enforced the law. How the new earl would interact with him was a matter of grave concern to Gervase Canville, who had been Sheriff of Lincoln since the death of Hugh’s foster father, Ralf Corbaille.
    It was a cold but bright afternoon when young AlanStanham came quietly into the spartan room on the second floor of the castle that served as the sheriff’s office. The sheriff, a worried frown on his face, sat in consultation with his officer. The boy stopped just inside the door, waiting to be acknowledged.
    Finally the sheriff noticed his son’s squire. “Ah, Alan. What is it that you want?”
    “Sir Richard sent me to tell you that the earl’s party has been sighted coming down Ermine Street.”
    “Thank you, my boy,” the sheriff replied. He turned to his officer. “Well, Bernard, time to get the welcoming party together.”
    “Aye, sir,” Bernard Radvers said. Neither man looked particularly enthusiastic. “I will see to it.”
    “You may run along, lad,” the sheriff said to Alan, and the youngster gratefully backed out the door and raced across the huge expanses of the enclosed baileys that surrounded Lincoln Castle. He continued along the main town road, through the Newport Arch, arriving on Ermine Street in time to join the collection of townsfolk who had gathered to watch the arrival of their new earl.
    Alan was just in time. The earl’s procession was coming up the old Roman road, and Alan and the rest of the crowd peered eagerly in the direction of its approach.
    It was a lavish entry, led by three fully armed knights. The winter sun glinted off their helmets and mail hauberks and the gleaming coats of their sleek, well-fed horses. Alan gazed admiringly at them as they passed in front of him, their faces mysteriously hidden from the noisy crowd by the nosepieces of their helmets.
    A little space behind the knights, riding in splendid isolation, came a tall, slender man on a large blackhorse. He wore a magnificent hooded scarlet cloak over his riding clothes, and when he saw the people lined up to greet him, he pushed back his hood to reveal a gleaming head of pure white hair. He raised a hand to acknowledge the townsfolk, who began to cheer lustily.
    But not everyone was cheering. “The bastard,” said a low, intense voice on Alan’s right. “May he rot in hell.”
    Startled, Alan turned to see who had wished the new earl so ill.
    The graying yellow hair of his neighbor gave his identity away even before Alan looked into the grim face. It was Edgar Harding of Deerhurst, a landholder whose property lay just to the south of Lincoln.
    The Hardings were well known in Lincoln as one of the few Saxon families in the area who had retained their lands and a portion of their preeminence after the Norman conquest.
    “Why, whatever is the matter, Master Harding?” said another man, the town’s goldsmith, standing on the far side of the Saxon. “Why such enmity toward our new earl?”
    Harding shot an angry look at the man who had asked him the question. “De Beauté has done injury to my family,” he replied shortly. “There will never be anything but bad blood between my house and his.”
    Abruptly the Saxon turned and began to push his way back through the crowd. Alan and the goldsmith watched him for a moment, then turned and looked at each other.
    The goldsmith shrugged. “These Saxons,” he said. “Do them even