Joan Wolf - The Poisoned Serpent

“Thank you, Alan,” Hugh said gently. “You may return to your seat.”

Alan did not look at Richard as he took his place in the middle of the benches.

“My lord, next I would like to ask Nicholas Rye to come forward as a witness,” Hugh said.

Nicholas looked very small as he came forward to stand in front of the chief justiciar. His brown hair was neatly combed and he wore a serviceable blue cloak around his shoulders. He appeared to be more composed than Alan had been.

“My lord,” Hugh said, “this is John Rye’s son, Nicholas. He has some information that I believe is important.”

In a voice that he unsuccessfully tried to make sound kindly, the justiciar said, “What have you to tell us, Nicholas?”

Nicholas’s little-boy voice was clear. “My lord, I overheard a conversation between my father and my mother before my father left to go into Lincoln for the last time. They were talking together in front of the fire in the great hall, and I was sitting nearby pulling burrs out of my dog’s coat. They knew I was there. I did not mean to eavesdrop on them…”

For the first time, Nicholas looked a little worried.

“I understand,” the chief justiciar said crisply. “You may continue.”

“Aye, my lord. Well, Papa was talking to Mama about something he wanted to sell. I remember that he said, ‘I should have gone to him right away instead of trying my luck with Roumare.’”

Richard made a small movement, which he instantly controlled.

“I remember that, my lord, because my father had just come back from a visit to Lord William of Roumare and we had needed him at home,” Nicholas said.

The justiciar shot a piercing look at Hugh.

Nicholas continued, “Well, Mama said that such information could be dangerous and Papa should be cautious. Papa laughed and said he knew how to take care of himself. He said he was not going to be greedy. He would only ask for enough to buy our own manor and not be dependent upon the bishop’s knight’s fee any longer.”

The room was thick with attentive silence.

The justiciar said, his voice sharp, “Did you hear your father mention the name of the man whom he was going to see?”

“My lord, at first I only heard him say ‘the sheriff…’”

A gust of wind blew through the room, as if dozens of held breaths had been let out simultaneously.

Nicholas went on, “But then he said the name ‘Richard.’ He said it several times, my lord. I thought the sheriff’s name must be Richard, but now I know that Richard is the name of the sheriff’s son. Papa must have said ‘sheriff’s son’ and I did not hear the second word.”

The benches erupted.

Holy Mother of God , Bernard thought. Holy Mother of God .

The justiciar called for quiet. When silence had finally been achieved, he turned to Richard.

“Sir Richard,” he said. “What have you to say to these charges?”

Anger filled Richard’s intensely blue eyes. “What do you expect me to say, my lord?” he replied. “This evidence has been produced by children whom Lord Hugh has insidiously influenced. They would say anything he asked them to say.”

“Alan Stanham is your squire,” the justiciar pointed out.

“He is my squire, but Hugh chose him to be one of the mainstays of his side in the camp-ball game. Then he deliberately humiliated me in front of Alan during an arrow-shooting contest. Poor Alan.” Richard’s voice took on a note of reluctant compassion. “He has been suborned away from his true lord by a clever manipulator.”

“And what about the testimony of Nicholas Rye?”

“Perhaps you do not know this, my lord, but after the death of both their parents, Hugh took Nicholas and his sister to live with him. Poor little orphans. I imagine Nicholas is so grateful to Hugh that he would say anything Hugh asked him to.”

“That’s not true!” Nicholas said indignantly.

Richard regarded him with pity.

“I spoke the truth, my lord!” Nicholas said to the justiciar.

“My lord,” Richard said reasonably. “Hugh has long held a grudge against me. I do not know what I ever did to him to provoke it, but you may ask anyone who knows us both and you will hear that Hugh has always hated me.” He shook his head in sorrow. “But I never thought that he would carry that dislike so far as this.”

“So you deny the testimony of Alan Stanham and Nicholas Rye,” said the justiciar.

“I do, most emphatically, deny it.”

“My lord!” The voice came from behind Bernard, and he turned to see Alan standing in front of his bench.

“My lord, I believe that if you question the silversmith, he will uphold my testimony,” Alan said steadily.

Richard regarded his squire with compassion.

“These witnesses have certainly brought forward information that must be further investigated, Lord Hugh,” the justiciar said. “But the evidence is strongly suborned by the fact that I can see no reason for Sir Richard to desire the Earl of Lincoln to die.”

Hugh began to say, “I think we must-” when he was interrupted by a feminine voice from the benches.

“My Lord Chief Justiciar, I believe I might have something to add to this testimony.”

It was Elizabeth de Beauté.

The attention of the entire room riveted on the girl.

Richard stood motionless.

“Would you care to come forward, my lady?” the justiciar said.

Slowly Elizabeth came into Bernard’s view. She passed so close to him that he could have reached out and touched her mantle. Then she halted in the open space between the benches and the table where sat the chief justiciar and the sheriff. She kept a distance between herself and Richard.

“My lord,” she said in a low voice, “on the night that my father was killed, I went to my bedchamber immediately after Sir Richard Canville had left us. The single window in this room looks directly out on the front courtyard of the bishop’s guest house. The shutters were still open and I went to the window to close them. Before I did so, however, I looked out.”

She paused, and Bernard could feel the hardening of attention in the room.

“My lord, I saw my father meet Sir Richard in the courtyard and then the two of them walked around the side of the bishop’s house and out of my sight.”

Bernard began to breathe again.

“Why did you never mention this, my lady?” the justiciar asked sternly.

Elizabeth raised a hand to touch her wimple. “I did not think it had any bearing on my father’s murder, my lord. You must realize that this meeting occurred almost a full hour before my father’s body was found.”

Hugh said matter-of-factly, “And now you know that your father was probably killed very shortly after the time you saw him with Sir Richard.”

Elizabeth’s eyes were intensely green. She had not once looked at Richard, and she did not do so now. “Aye.”

“Did you ever mention to Sir Richard that you had witnessed this meeting?” the justiciar asked.

“I did, my lord.”

Bernard found himself physically straining forward, and forced himself to relax. Elizabeth continued, “Sir Richard told me that my father had said he was going to the Minster to pray. Of course, I thought that he had gone to the Minster in response to the false summons of Bernard Radvers.”

“You never suspected Sir Richard of complicity in this matter?”

Color flushed into Elizabeth’s face and suddenly she seemed very young. “I did not, my lord.”

The justiciar’s voice softened. “Is there any particular reason for you to have shown so much faith in Sir Richard?”

“I was going to marry him,” Elizabeth replied.

A moan came from Lady Sybil. The sheriff, who had been staring at his hands folded on top of the table, jerked his head up and looked at his son.