Rhuddlan (101 page)

From Haworth’s position, he could not see
Hugh. For all the men and horses strewn around a small area, it was
eerily quiet. Haworth dismounted and started to run to the spot
where he’d last seen the earl but was stopped in his tracks by a
strange sound. At first he thought the stag, which was lying legs
spread apart on the path before him, was not yet dead but he saw no
movement from the body and the noise continued until he realized it
was Gilbert le Loop laughing.

Not six yards from the carcass he found the
huntsman and Hugh entangled on the ground. Gilbert was laughing so
hard it was apparent he couldn't move, which meant that Hugh, whose
face bore a look of amusement, was trapped beneath him. Haworth
stood over them and lashed into the young man. “Are you out of your
mind, le Loop? What kind of lunacy was that? You might have killed
the earl! You might have killed all of us!”

Gilbert collected himself and got to his
knees. He reached a hand to Hugh and together they helped each
other up. “I did give fair warning, Sir Roger,” he said. “I did say
the Young King was fearless and magnificent.” His eyes came to rest
on the fallen stag with a reverential expression. “I did not
lie.”

“No indeed!” Hugh seconded firmly. He slapped
Haworth’s back companionably. “No harm done, Roger! Of course, we
may never find my mount…”

“I believe if I hadn’t brought you down, my
lord, that horse would have thrown you when he bolted,” Gilbert
said.

“So, Roger? A lucky escape.”

“I’ll send someone after your horse,” Haworth
said a little stiffly. He felt disgruntled. Gilbert’s deliberate
manipulation of the hunt, no doubt intended all along to make him
look like a hero, had put everyone in danger yet he was the only
one who minded. William and the two Aymers trotted up and
dismounted hastily, falling over themselves to congratulate the
huntsman and ogle the dead animal.

He’d have to return to the clearing to find a
groom to send after Hugh’s horse, which was probably closing in on
the castle by now. As he turned away, he could hear Gilbert
describing how he had waited until he’d judged the moment perfect
to hurl the javelin. There came the sound of dogs barking
frantically. The beaters had returned. As he put his foot in the
stirrup and swung himself into the saddle, Haworth glanced back a
last time at the hunting party. Gilbert’s mouth was still moving
although now it was difficult to hear what he was saying because of
the clamor of the hounds. He was bending over the carcass and had
produced a long knife. The blade glinted very briefly in a shaft of
sunlight filtering through the tree tops and Haworth squinted.
Impatiently, he pulled his horse’s head around and touched his
spurs to its flanks.

Despite the mildness of the day, the hall
remained full after the heavy main meal. The rain Haworth had felt
since the morning and Gilbert had predicted now seemed imminent to
everyone. The sky had turned a thin white, with the orange disk of
the sun showing plainly but dimly. At the dais, the two Aymers and
William pressed their case onto Hugh in voices unrestrained by
drink and the flush of the successful hunt. Haworth, at the end of
the table, paid scant attention although he was annoyed. One of the
reasons the viscount had given Hugh for the hunt was because he
suspected the king’s spies in Hugh’s household; spies Henry might
have placed, in the guise of knights or servants, after the
Rebellion. He and his half brothers had wanted a private
conversation. Now listen to them, Haworth thought sourly; if the
king himself was anywhere in Normandy, he would be able to hear
their plotting without the expense of paying spies.

Abruptly, he left his place. The hall was
crowded but everyone moved out of his way as he walked through it,
pausing once or twice to exchange a word with soldiers who greeted
him. His side ached; he thought it was strange how he felt more
pain after being still for a time, as when he slept or sat down to
a meal, than during some strenuous physical activity. He rolled his
right shoulder to try to relieve the stiffness.

The air outside was thick and moist and a
steady wind blew in from the west. Haworth looked up into the sky.
There would be more than a mere rain; he sensed a storm. The worst
possible ending to a bad day: stuck in a hall all night with the
men from Aquitaine and their silly wives. He would excuse himself
early and go to bed.

“Sir Roger! Sir Roger!”

His eyes focused on the figure hurrying
across the ward towards him, one arm upraised to catch his
attention and the other holding a tan bundle. It was Gilbert le
Loop. He hadn’t seen the boy since the killing as he had waited in
the clearing for the hunters to return and Gilbert had remained
behind with his men to do a preliminary butchering, but his
displeasure with him had eased. The huntsman suffered from an
abundance of self-assurance, ebullience and the need to show-off
but these were the faults of youth and sooner or later the world
would take him down a peg. Haworth halted but said nothing.

Gilbert stopped a small distance from him.
His expression was like a dog’s, hopeful but wary. “I’m happy to
meet you, Sir Roger,” he said.

Haworth frowned slightly. “Why?”

The young man took a step forward. “Because
my lord told me you were angry with me,” he said. “And I wanted to
apologize to you and present you with this.” With a dramatic flap,
he unloosed the bundle in his arm and shook out the hide of the
stag, perfectly recognizable but for its lack of hooves and head.
Gilbert had to hold the top with his arms reaching high and even
then the bottom trailed a little on the ground.

“Is this the Young King?” Haworth asked
unnecessarily, but he was so surprised at such a gift that he
couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Gilbert’s head peeked around the hide. “Yes,
Sir Roger. The hide belongs to the one who brings down the beast,
so it’s mine to give. I hope you will accept it. I’ll have it
scraped and cured and tanned, of course. I just wanted you to see
it in near its proper size. It will shrink with the working.”

Haworth put out his hand and touched the
rough hairs. “This is a fine hide, huntsman. You would do better to
give it to the earl. He might reward you in some way.”

Gilbert lowered his arms and started to roll
up the hide. “I’ve no need to gift my lord, Sir Roger, and it was
he who suggested I offer it to you. I respect his word. I know I’m
fortunate to hold the position I have at my raw age and it’s at his
sufferance I do so. Will you accept this token?”

Refusal would have meant slighting Hugh as
well as Gilbert le Loop but that thought didn’t enter Haworth’s
mind at the time. It was a combination of the huntsman’s youth and
hopeful eyes which made Haworth feel parentally magnanimous and
when he nodded his acceptance and spoke his thanks, he provoked a
transformation of Gilbert’s expression into delight, which he
couldn’t help but respond to with his own crooked smile.

Haworth awoke with a start and touched a hand
to his cheek. It was wet. He frowned, confused. Had some melancholy
dream awakened him? He couldn’t remember…Then he felt the splash of
water on his face again and realized the rain he’d expected all day
had finally arrived and was spattering in through the unshuttered
windows.

He reached out to his right but the other
side of the bed was empty. Now he was fully awake. He sat upright.
By the scant light of the lamp he’d left by the door, he could see
that Hugh had not yet joined him; the sheets were smooth and
undisturbed. He thought it was perhaps earlier than he imagined but
another glance at the lamp, almost sputtering from dwindling fuel,
told him it was early morning—past time for Hugh to be with him. It
was evident the earl had never come up to his chambers after
supper.

Haworth’s grip tightened on the mattress. If
Hugh was not with him at this hour, then he was with someone
else.

In the years since Robert Bolsover’s death,
Haworth had felt that Hugh was pulling away from him. In
consequence, he’d done everything he could think of to make himself
indispensable in Hugh’s life, culminating in that near-fatal clash
with the Bastard’s men at Llanlleyn. He’d thought that almost
losing him had finally opened Hugh’s eyes, especially as the earl
had never been so attentive and so caring in the sum of their years
together as he had been in the last three. It was Hugh himself who
had put that idea in Haworth’s head; how many times had he gently
run his fingers along the red, puckered scar or kissed it as if
amazed at this tangible proof of Haworth’s undying loyalty and
steadfast commitment to him?

Perhaps he had not been as vigilant as he
ought to have been. Perhaps the earl’s kindness and outward
devotion had made him too relaxed in his position to sense if Hugh
was restless and looking for someone new.

A few weeks earlier, Haworth had also
awakened to find Hugh was not in bed beside him. For a little time,
he hadn’t been concerned, thinking Hugh might have gone to the
garderobe or in search of wine or something to eat, but Hugh had
not returned. Haworth had pulled on clothes and gone to the hall,
but couldn’t find him. He’d gone back to the chamber, resolved to
stay awake until Hugh appeared, but when, a little before dawn, the
earl had finally walked in, stripped himself and eased into bed,
Haworth hadn’t spoken a word. For some reason he couldn’t quite
articulate even to himself, he’d had the feeling he wouldn’t want
to hear the answer to any question he might ask.

But tonight, after a day of curtailed meals,
a day spent in the company of people he disliked and a day whose
weather had given him a nagging ache in his side, he wanted to know
the truth. He deserved to know the truth! He got out of bed and his
feet touched mats dampened by the rain coming in through the
windows. He picked up the clothes he’d flung over the table before
he’d gone to sleep and pulled on a tunic and leggings. He thrust
his wet feet into his boots and laced them with quick, practiced
fingers. His eyes went automatically to his sword and he hesitated.
Then his jaw tightened and he scooped up the weapon and his belt.
By the time he had reached the hall, he had wrapped the belt around
his hips and stuck the sword in a loop on his left side.

The hall was dark and mostly quiet. There
were the usual soft noises of people sleeping and here and there a
couple sat close together and whispered, their bodies blending in
the grainy dimness into one large, huddled lump. Haworth judged the
easiest route to the outer doors and took it, his stride sure and
brisk.

Because the night was warm, the doors had
been left open. There was a small half-circle of wet stone where
the rain was spattering in and Haworth halted abruptly. He’d
forgotten about the rain. Across the ward, he could see it falling
hard and fast against the backdrop of the torchlight flickering in
the covered guard towers.

“Do you need something, Sir Roger?” a voice
asked.

His head spun to the left. In a small alcove
by the doors, out of range of the rain, two men-at-arms stood.

“You don’t want to go out in this weather,”
the second man added. “We can get whatever you want.”

He hesitated again. But he wanted to know!
“Actually,” he said calmly, “I’m looking for the viscount.”

Was it his imagination or did the two men
exchange an uneasy glance? “We saw him leave just before the rain
started,” the first man said. “He rode out of the castle. Unless he
came through the postern, he hasn’t returned.”

“But there’s no problem, Sir Roger!” the
second man assured him in a voice so full of false cheer that
Haworth knew the two men knew everything. “He said he’d be back
before dawn.”

Haworth stepped close to the men. “Where did
he go?”

“He didn’t say—”

Haworth’s hand flew out and grabbed a fistful
of the man’s shirt. He pulled the guard towards him. “Where did he
go?”

“He didn’t say, Sir Roger!” the first man
said nervously. “But the rumor is he visits the huntsman.”

Haworth released the other man and stepped
back, staring at the two of them. Blood throbbed in his head and he
could hardly breathe. “Bring me a horse and have the gate opened,”
he said in a tight voice. When neither man moved, he barked, “Do
it!” and the two of them hurried out.

By the time Haworth reached Gilbert le Loop’s
dwelling at the edge of the forest he was soaked, although he
scarcely noticed. His mind was churning with fragments of sentences
the huntsman had spoken in apparent innocence but which now seemed
to have incriminating significance…“I have no need to gift my
lord…”“My lord told me you’re invincible…” The implication that he
and Hugh spoke often. He remembered le Loop’s hand on Hugh’s
shoulder and his dramatic leap onto Hugh and the way he’d pinned
the earl on the ground…And how had he been so blind to the obvious?
Gilbert was young and blond, brash and arrogant—the very qualities
to which Hugh had ever been susceptible.

He drew up at the gap in the low stone wall
delineating the huntsman’s compound. For someone of his age and
status, Haworth thought, Gilbert lived finely. The wall enclosed a
timbered house, several outbuildings, a substantial kitchen garden
and a row of small fruit trees on its inner side. He sat for a
moment, considering the number of people who might be inside the
house but couldn’t remember le Loop speaking of companions or
servants. Perhaps a woman to clean and cook for him—perhaps his
mother yet lived. If he had brothers they would probably be
younger—otherwise he wouldn’t have been the one to take his
father’s position. Haworth absently wiped a drip of rain off his
cheek. He decided potential interlopers were a negligible factor
and urged his horse through the opening in the wall.