The Reckoning - 3 (13 page)

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interrupted activities. Nell's scribe held out a parchment sheet for her inspection. "This is the letter we'd just begun, my lady, the one to Prince
Llewelyn of Wales."
Nell scanned it to refresh her memory. "Write as follows, Baldwin: 'It gladdens my heart to be able to tell you that my son Amaury has succeeded in clearing himself of any complicity in the Viterbo murder. The Bishop and chapter of Padua, the doctors at the university, iand the friars all gave sworn testimony that Amaury had not left the cny since October, and that on the day of the killing, he was confined to bed with a raging fever. This satisfied Charles and the French King, would have satisfied all reasonable men. But friends at the French court tell me that Edward is still not convinced, is still vowing to exact vengeance upon Amaury, too. I cannot say this surprises me, Llewelyn, for' " "My lady!" Durand reeled to a stop in the doorway, gasping for breath. "That English squire of Lord Bran'she's riding up the road from the village!"
Nell's hand clenched upon the table's edge. "And my son?" Durand shook his head. "No, my lady. The lad is alone."
HUGH had traveled more than a thousand miles, including a rough sea crossing from Genoa to Marseilles. But the last hundred yards of his journey were the hardest of all. The Countess was awaiting him in the priory gateway, flanked by Ellen and Juliana, and the hope on their faces pierced Hugh to the heart.
For weeks, he'd been rehearsing what to say. But now that the moment had come, he found himself utterly at a loss.
Nell watched as he reined in, slowly swung from the saddle to kneel before her. He was deeply tanned, tawny hair shaggy and windblown, seemed years older than the eager-eyed boy who had accompanied Bran to Montargis six short months ago; she could even detect the beginnings of a shadowy blond beard. He looked up at her in mute misery, and Nell knew what he had come to tell her. Without need of words, she knew.
"My son is dead," she said softly.
HUGH had been wandering about the priory grounds like a lost soul, not knowing where to go, what to do. For nearly two months, he'd had his quest to sustain him, his determination to bring word of Bran's death to Montargis. It had served as a lifeline, something to cling to even in the depths of despair. Now it was gone, and he felt bereft all over again, felt like a compass without a needle.
He would have liked to offer up a prayer for Bran's soul. But Nell

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was in the church, and he was loath to intrude upon her private grieving.
jsjor did he want to return to the great hall, unwilling to run the gauntlet again of so many curious eyes. He ended up on a bench in Nell's garden. The air was heavy with honeysuckle, the sun hot upon his face. He could not summon up energy to seek the shade, though, sat there as the afternoon dwindled away, aimlessly shredding rose petals and dropping them into the grass at his feet.
He supposed he ought to be thinking of the morrow, making plans of some sort.
But he could not rouse himself from this peculiar lassitude. He felt numbed, so hollow it hurt.
"How far away you look." He'd not heard her light tread upon the grass, and he jumped at sound of Ellen's voice, scrambled hastily to his feet.
Ellen waved him back onto the bench, and then startled him by sitting down beside him. She looked pale, but composed. They sat in surprisingly companionable silence until, as if reading his mind, Ellen suddenly said, "I
cannot cry. Mayhap it's because I'd be crying for myself, not for Bran." She saw his head swivel toward her, and smiled sadly. "How could I mourn on Bran's behalf after what you told us? How could I wish him back in such pain?"
Hugh could not argue with that. "Will your lady mother be all right?" he asked shyly, acutely aware of Ellen's perfume, the silky sweep of her lashes; he'd never been so close to a lady of rank before.
"Grief is an old adversary of my mother's, too familiar to catch her off guard. It is Juliana I fear for, Hugh. She loved my brother very much."
Hugh nodded, not sure what she wanted from him. She was regarding him steadily, and he found himself thinking that she had beautiful eyes, not green as he'd once thought, but an uncommon, goldflecked hazel. "Hugh . . . Juliana has been weeping all afternoon, is like to make herself sick. She needs comfort. I hoped you might be able to give it to her."
"Me? How?"
"Can you not think back, try to remember something Bran might have said? A
word, an act, anything to reassure Juliana that she was in his thoughts. If you but prodded your memory . . ."
"My lady, I ... I do not know. Lord Bran was so ill in those last days ..."
Those hazel eyes were fastened unwaveringly, hypnotically upon his face. "Not even words spoken in fever?" she suggested, but Hugh reluctantly shook his head.
"No, nothing like that." He frowned in thought, then grinned.
Wait, I do remember! On our second day in Siena, he bought a moon-
8 one brooch in the Campo, asked me if I thought Juliana would fancy

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it. Of course it got left behind when we had to flee Viterbo, but it was very pretty, shaped like a heart. Do you think it would console Lady Juliana to know that?"
"Oh, yes, Hugh, I do!" Ellen cried, and then embarrassed, astounded, and delighted him by kissing him on the cheek. "Come," she said, "I'll take you to
Juliana now." Catching his hand, she pulled him to his feet. "A heart-shaped broochthat is perfect, Hugh! Is it true?" I "Lady Ellen, of course it is!"
Astonishment was giving way to inAgnation. "I would not lie!"
Ellen knew there was less than four years between them, but at that moment she felt old enough to be his mother, older in ways she hoped he'd never learn. "I
did not mean to offend you, Hugh," she said soothingly. "If not for you, my brother might have died alone" And then, to her dismay, tears were clinging to her lashes, and she could not blink them back in time. "I'm going to be selfish, after all," she said and spun away from him.
Hugh's instinct was to follow, to try to comfort. But she was too proud to cry upon his shoulder as Juliana might have done. He thought of her mother's solitary church vigil, thought of Bran's consciencestricken silences. Ellen had said grief was a familiar foe to the de Montforts. It was also one to be fought in private, and, understanding that, Hugh stood where he was, watching as Ellen fled the garden.
HUGH hesitated, then moved into the chapel. "Madame? You sent for me?"
Nell nodded. As she stepped into the light cast by his lantern, he felt a surge of pity, for she looked ravaged, her eyes puffy and shadowed, her skin ashen. "I wanted to see you alone," she said, "for there is something I must know, and only you can tell me. Hugh, did my son truly die in God's grace? Did he agree to be shriven, to" She saw the shock on his face and her breath stopped. "Jesu, no!"
"Ah, no, Madame, you need not fear! He was shriven, I swear it! You just took me by surprise, for he did indeed refuse at first. But he did not persist in such madness. Madame, I would not lie to you."
Nell had caught the altar for support, and Hugh waited until she regained her composure. "My lady . . . however did you guess?"
"It was not second-sight, Hugh. That is the one crime my enemies have not accused me ofwitchcraft." Her smile was so wry, so like Bran's, that Hugh winced. "I knew my son, as simple as that. Bran was ever one for doing the wrong thing, always for the right reasons."
Sifting through his own memories, both the good times and the bad, especially those last doomed weeks, Hugh had to agree with Nell's assessment of her son.
"He tried to send me away when he was first

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stricken with the ague," he confided, and Nell drew back into the shadows.
"You have told me how my son died, and I thank you for that, Hugh. Now I would have you tell me why. I would hear about Viterbo." She saw him flinch and said swiftly, "No, lad, I do not mean the killing. I only wish I knew less of that, not more. I want you to tell me what happened that morn, ere they found Hal in that church."
Hugh did, as conscientiously as memory's inevitable distortions would allow.
"Bran made no attempt to defend himself," he concluded quietly, "not even when
Guy accused him of killing Earl Simon and Harry. That was so cruel; I'll never forget the look on his face, never. Then Guy demanded to know if he would fail the Earl at Viterbo as he had at Evesham, and held out his sword. Lord Bran
... he took it, Madame. He never said a word, just took it. . ."
In the silence that followed, Hugh began to have qualms about his candor. In his indignation, he'd almost forgotten that Guy was Nell's son, too. But then she said, very low, "Guy has much to answer for."
With that, Hugh was in heartfelt agreement. He thought of what Ellen had told him about Amaury, and thanked God that Bran had never known. He thought of
Nell, whose sorrows had only begun with Evesham. She'd borne seven children, and now four were dead and one was outlawed. And he thought of Ellen, who was once more a dubious marital prize. Just a few months ago, her prospects had seemed almost as bright as in the days of her father's glory. But it would take a brave man, indeed, to wed Ellen now, the sister of Edward's mortal enemy.
It was not until Nell repeated his name that he came out of his reverie, hastily offered an apology. "You did ask me . . . what, Madame?"
"Bran told me that you'd been educated by the Evesham monks. I assume then that you can read and write?"
"Yes, my lady, I can," Hugh said, with pardonable pride, for that was not so common an accomplishment. She was looking at him expectantly, and so he continued self-consciously, baffled by her inexplicable interest in his education. "I studied arithmetic, too, but in all honesty, I'm not good with numbers, cannot seem to keep them in my head. But I am better with languages.
In addition to French, I speak English and some Latin, and I picked up a useful amount of Tuscan during our months in Italy."
Nell nodded approvingly. "You obviously are familiar with horses."
"Yes, my lady. I learned to ride whilst my lord father was still alive."
"I do not suppose that Bran had a chance to begin teaching you how to handle a sword?"
"No, my lady. He gave me a few lessons on the road, said my schooling would begin in earnest after we'd met with the two Kings at

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Viterbo ..." Hugh faltered, so great was his regret for what might have been.
Nell came toward him. "We shall remedy that forthwith. I have spoken to Sir
Olivier de Croix, the captain of my guards, and he is willing to take you on as his squire, if that be your wish."
Hugh's eyes widened. "If I wish? Oh, my lady, I"
"Wait, Hugh, hear me out. Ere you decide, I want you to know tjat you have a choice. If you would rather return to England, I will arrange for your passage and give you a letter to take to a Yorkshire knight, Sir John d'Eyvill. He was a friend of Bran's, and if I ask it of him, I am sure he will accept you into his service. Or you may stay here at Montargis. Sir Olivier is an exacting taskmaster, but a fair one. Give him but one-half the loyalty you gave Bran, and he'll be content. Let him teach you what you need to know, serve him well, and when you come of age, I will see that you are knighted. If then you wish to remain with my household"
"My lady, nothing would give me greater joy!" Hugh was staring at Nell in awe.
No one had ever been kinder to him than Bran. And now this! He yearned to pledge her his honor and his life, to swear to serve her and her family as long as he had breath in his body, but he feared to make himself ridiculous, feared that she might laugh at a raw boy making a knight's vow.
Reaching out, Nell took his hand, her fingers cool and smooth in his. "You did not forsake my son," she said, and he saw that her eyes were brimming with tears. "How, then, could we forsake you?"
6
ACRE, KINGDOM OF JERUSALEM
June 1272
/\LL day the sky had shimmered in a haze of heat, a bleached-bone shade neither white nor blue. Now the sun was flaming out, a fiery-red sphere that looked as if it were haloed in blood-

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As Edward watched, it sank into the sea. For a moment, the waves churning shoreward were capped in sunset foam, and then the light was drowned, dusk settling over the land with breathtaking suddenness, a curtain rung down at play's end. Where there had been smeared crimson streaks, Edward could see the first glimmerings of stars.
But twilight had not cooled the air. It was sweltering, almost too hot to breathe; Edward felt as if he were inhaling steam. Sweat was chafing his skin, stinging his eyes, and even the luxury of wine chilled with Lebanese snow could not assuage the desert-dryness of his throat. This Thursday in mid-June was Edward's thirty-third birthday; so far it had brought him little joy.
The royal castle known as the Citadel was situated in the northern quarter of the city. Acre lay spread out below him like a chessboard, for all the roofs were flat, and many of the narrow streets were vaulted in sun-shielding stone.
At this height, he had a spy's view of the inner courtyards of Acre's wealthy merchants, could see the silvery spray of private fountains, the silhouettes of palms and other tropical trees, and beyond, the darkening sapphire of the bay, the superb harbor that was the city's lifeblood. It was a sight alien and exotic, vibrantly alive, seductively compelling to most menbut not to Edward.
Acre was a busy port, the capital of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. It was also, by all accounts, one of the world's most sinful cities. Prostitutes sauntered brazenly along its dusty streets, compering with beggars and vendors for the attention of passersby. Pickpockets and thieves were more discreet, but just as numerous, for Acre was a penal colony of sorts; foreign criminals were sometimes given the choice of prison or service in the Holy Land. But it was not the presence of felons and harlots that irked Edward. It was the sight of infidels mingling freely with Christians, for thousands of Arabs dwelled within the walls of this crusaders' city.
The "Franks," those native-born Christians of European descent, were disturbingly complacent about such fraternizing. It was Edward's opinion that the torrid climate had sapped their crusading fervor, made them indolent and too receptive to Saracen guile. How else explain their willingness to let the enemy live in their very midst?
Edward's sojourn in the Holy Land had been a disillusioning experience.
Although he was neither a romantic nor an idealist, he had still believed in the chivalric myths of a holy quest, had envied men like "is celebrated great-uncle, Richard Lionheart, and Simon de Montfort, "Jen who'd worn the white crosses of crusaders, fought the infidel in the cradle of Christendom.
Cv, uPon his arrival in Acre, those epic sagas of gallantry and stian martyrdom soon lost their lustre. Reality was far grittier, far