Chapter Four
Hugh stormed through his old house—such as it was. The three-room residence was smaller than he remembered, the furniture rougher and the linens course. Abrasive, just like Swaffham. A small town with sparsely cobbled, cramped streets and not enough amenities where a man could get lost. Or, better yet, not be seen when he didn’t want to be.
He had never intended to return to this town of his childhood. A town he had been forced to travel to when his dying mother had written to his errant father and begged him to care for his son.
And so, at the age of five, Hugh had been carted off by travelling strangers. He had left Shoebury knowing he was leaving his mother, knowing he would never see her again. Knowing he was travelling to the care of a man who had never wanted him in the first place.
His father, Clifford of Swaffham, a knight impoverished, had been an abusive drunk. Many a night Hugh had dreamed he still lived in Shoebury with his mother—only to awake to cold and hunger. Many a time he’d thought it would have been better to be left alone in the streets without a parent.
Why his father had agreed to take him, he had never known. To this day Hugh didn’t know if he hated his father or Swaffham more. The tiniest comfort he hoped for upon his arrival was Bertrice’s food, and that held no flavour.
He rubbed the grit from his eyes. Even with her ankle healing from a recent break, Bertrice’s food was better than fine. It was his mood that wasn’t. He wanted to crack the clay cup in his hand, but he tipped it to his mouth and downed the ale instead.
Had nothing changed? Even his need to drink remained the same. He knew from experience that there wasn’t enough ale in all the land to hide his thoughts from himself, and if he drank much more he’d wouldn’t be able to keep his thoughts to himself.
Maybe if he poured out all his secrets he’d be rid of their poison.
The thought of finally being free of their crushing weight sent a mad euphoria through him—before hard reason dropped like an axe.
Laughing bitterly, he poured more ale into his cup. Pouring out his secrets would never happen. If it did, he’d be free—but only of his own head.
He renewed his pacing, stifling walls and bitter memories assaulting him from every cobwebbed dusty corner. At Edward’s court he shared his room with four other knights, but his suite was generous, its linens and wall coverings fine and warm in colour and purpose.
He kicked one of the thinly plastered wooden walls and a shifting of dust hit his shoe and hose. There wasn’t a scrap of colour or warmth in this hovel.
He shook the dust off in disgust. He regretted telling Bertrice not to clean the rooms. She had been insistent, but his bitterness at returning had tainted everything. Now he could see that if he was to spend time here, he’d have to make this hovel hospitable. Pampered soft bastard that he was.
Not that courtly pampering had made him any kinder, or any more of a gentleman. He was an unscrupulous man in a merciless predicament.
He’d been ordered by King Edward to find the keeper of the Half-Thistle Seal. Because private information had been leaked from the King’s chamber, Edward had lost a military surprise he’d been strategizing for months.
The Scots had not come as quickly to heel as the King had demanded since he’d won at Dunbar, and Balliol was now at the Tower of London. Since July, the King had relentlessly ordered nobles and clansmen to swear him fealty. Adamantly established sheriffs and governors to enforce his rule.
But that wasn’t all Edward had done. He’d also launched spies to infiltrate and report that his orders were being completed.
Hugh was such a spy. His skill with sword and strategy had been noted, but not exemplified.
Hugh had had the honour of gaining the King’s attention earlier this year, in April, after the death of the King’s favoured knight, Black Robert.
Secrets. Hugh was good at keeping and discovering them. He was good at reporting to the King. He had all the information Edward could ever need, but not everything he wanted to know.
For one, Black Robert was not dead, and was in fact Hugh’s closest friend and currently living on Clan Colquhoun’s Scottish soil while married to a Scot.
As for the second secret—Hugh didn’t need to travel anywhere to find the keeper of the Half-Thistle Seal. Hugh merely needed to look in a mirror or in the purse strapped tightly to his waist. The small seal had been pressing heavily since it had been hidden on the inside of his tunic. A metal thistle cut in half. One for him. One for Robert. Made so that Hugh could inform Robert of the King’s whereabouts and of any royal decrees that might affect Clan Colquhoun.
How had Edward discovered the Seal so soon? Only a few messages had been sent. Necessary to warn his friend of the King’s movements. Secretive, but innocent, and certainly not enough to start a war. Merely enough to save lives.
So many lives. The English...the Scots. How long could he protect both? Did it matter?
Ah, yes, it did—and that brought him to his third and definitely most perilous secret: Alice.
A joke on him since he was ordered to pay close attention to the Fenton family. Of all the families in all the land that the King had ordered him to spy on it had to be—
Three sharp blows to the weakened door had pieces of chipped plaster falling to the floor. Turning sharply, Hugh sloshed the ale in his cup as he watched the inconsequential door withstand the pounding. His sole concern was who might be visiting this time of night.
Only Bertrice knew he was in the town. He wanted it that way—wanted to give himself at least a day before he had to face everyone. Face what he had to do.
Another bang on the door...another swirl of dust.
‘Hugh, open the damn door—it’s freezing outside.’
Hugh recognised the voice, unlatched the door and stepped away as a tall, thick giant of a man stormed into the tiny house and stamped his feet to dislodge the snow that had settled on him.
Blowing on his hands, the man turned. ‘It’s not much warmer in here.’
‘I can open the door for you to leave and find warmer accommodations,’ Hugh replied, latching the door and turning to Eldric, a man he had known since they’d fostered at Edward’s court.
‘I think I’ll take my chances in here,’ Eldric replied.
‘Are you sure about that?’ Hugh replied, assessing one of his oldest friends—one he had not seen for many years.
Many young squires had been shoved into the same room back then. There had been nothing to differentiate Hugh from the rest of the boys Edward fostered, but even then Eldric had been huge. Everyone had wanted to be his friend and his partner.
Having known too many tormentors in the past, Hugh had steered clear—which had only got him noticed by Eldric.
It hadn’t taken long for Hugh to realise that Eldric wasn’t like the children in his past. For one, his friend had whistled—a habit that would have been mercilessly mocked if Eldric had been a hand span shorter. The other thing was that he was always at ease with his place and with everyone around him. From a lowly servant to the King, Eldric took every meeting with a happy outlook.
Such an outlook on life had intrigued Hugh. Growing up in Shoebury and then in Swaffham he had thought his life sheltered though he’d always known his family’s past darkened him. He knew it for certain when he heard Eldric laugh with an ease he could never manage.
However, there was nothing at ease about his friend now—and he guessed it wasn’t only the cold that caused the certain tenseness to his friend’s shoulders and expression.
‘What are you doing here, Eldric?’
Eldric pointed to the flagon still on the table. ‘Is there any left?’
Hugh knew better than to turn his back to fetch another cup. ‘Not much.’
Eldric’s gaze took in Hugh’s dust-covered boots, his travel-worn breeches and wrinkled tunic. ‘I can tell that.’
Hugh knew he was hardly in courtly dress and had drunk deep. But that was his own business, not this town’s nor his childhood friend’s. Years had passed since he’d seen him, and yet even though Eldric had scarcely been in his presence, he knew exactly how to challenge him.
In these small confines, there was only one way to accept such a challenge.
Turning his back, Hugh fetched another cup and flipped it over in front of Eldric, so that dust, plaster and insect remains fell to the ground.
Without so much as a telling tic, Eldric accepted the cup and poured the rest of the flagon’s ale into it.
Hugh’s humour lifted. Regardless of the unanswered question of why Eldric was in Swaffham, there was some of the same man he had known. Eldric was indeed still at ease with his world.
‘As to why I am here...’ Eldric shrugged. ‘You have to know news of your presence in this town has spread.’
Gossip. He might have underestimated the power of the small town. ‘I arrived today. I thought myself alone for tonight, but that’s not what I meant.’
‘Ah, you mean why am I in Swaffham?’
Hugh gave a curt nod. ‘Not exactly your home town.’
‘I’ve got cousins here now. And, though it is yours, I never thought you’d return.’ Eldric took a sip and eyed the empty flagon. ‘How can you be still standing?’
‘I am my father’s son.’
Eldric scanned the room’s sparse furnishings. ‘You weren’t exaggerating about your past.’
‘And were you about yours?’
Eldric sighed, his expression resigned. ‘Come, this is a gloomy conversation.’
‘Without any answers being revealed. It’s late, and I’m tired.’
‘Well, then, I’ll get to the point. I am like you...as you most likely would have guessed by now...if not for the strength of that ale.’
To cover his surprise, Hugh turned to sit. There was only one other chair in the room—his father’s chair, but Hugh had broken that long ago though the remains stayed in the corner.
Hugh didn’t know if he was more surprised that jovial Eldric was a spy or that he had disclosed it. He had heard that Eldric was commissioned, but had thought it only a rumour.
‘Edward sent you here?’
‘No, I’m on a...detour.’
‘Personal?’ Hugh asked.
Eldric gave a small smile.
Hugh didn’t expect an answer, but sometimes the most obvious questions slipped into answers.
‘Are we friends?’ Eldric said.
‘Yes,’ Hugh replied, surprised that the answer came easily despite himself knowing better. Maybe there was still some of that sheltered and naive boy in him yet.
Eldric nodded, as if Hugh had answered some other question not asked. ‘Good to know.’
Hugh sensed that there was more to say, and he intended to wait. After all, he knew about keeping secrets. If he pried too deeply Eldric would do the same. With his silence, it appeared Eldric knew a score of secrets—as did Hugh. Could it be possible that Eldric was a friend in truth? There was only one way to find out.
Shifting in his seat, he said, ‘I would think Edward would know better than to employ you to carry and catch secrets. It’s not as if you can hide.’
Eldric let out a startled laugh. ‘You’d be surprised how easy it is to hide in plain sight. People don’t equate my handsome stature with intelligence.’
‘Your intelligence must be all you’re relying on!’
Eldric did laugh then. ‘I may not have bested you, but my sword arm is still longer than yours.’
Hugh drained his cup. ‘Longer, but not sharper.’
‘Sharp enough. And in these quarters you couldn’t escape even with that footwork you learned from...’ Eldric’s voice faded and he shook his head. ‘Sorry, I heard the news.’
The unsaid name hung between them. ‘Black Robert’ of Dent—Edward’s favoured knight and Hugh’s mentor.
Hugh had been just as surprised as Eldric when Robert, who had been older and already making a name for himself, had taken him under his wing to train him.
Hugh had readily accepted, even knowing that Robert trained hard, and he had been pushed to do the same. Through that time Hugh had tormented himself, wondering if Robert knew of his shame because of his father’s drunkenness and lost honour.
But Robert surely had to have done, because nothing was truly a secret at Court—which had made Robert’s sullying himself with Hugh’s family reputation all the more startling.
Of course Hugh had heard of Robert’s own rumoured history. How he might not be legitimately-born, which shouldn’t be possible given his knighthood. Still, the vague rumour had persisted and surrounded Robert, despite Edward’s affection for him and his alliance with a Welsh Marcher Lord.
Hugh hadn’t cared. He was grateful for any kinship with the formidable knight, and had continued to follow Robert’s prescribed training even when he left Court.
When he had seen his friend again Robert had been a changed man, but they’d stayed close.
‘I heard you were the last who saw him.’ Eldric shook his head. ‘Still can’t comprehend how the bastards got him.’
‘He went off alone,’ Hugh supplied. ‘And he was just a man.’
‘A legend.’
Even more so now in death.
A death that the English mourned, but that Hugh knew was a lie.
Secrets and more secrets.
Robert was still alive, and married into a Scottish family. And if he was found he would be formally executed.
Hugh, who held his secret, would most likely be murdered on some abandoned road, his body left to rot in a forgotten wood.
He had made a vow that day to Robert, on Scottish soil, that he would never tell the King or his fellow man that Robert still lived. A solemn vow. A traitorous one, as well.
Hugh didn’t care. The only thing he cared about was his friendship with Robert, and that he’d take to his grave...wherever that was to be.
However, that didn’t mean he wanted to die any time soon, and Eldric merely mentioning Robert was a threat.
‘What are you doing here, Eldric?’ he repeated.
Eldric kicked at the dirt on the floorboards. ‘Attending a dinner tonight. It’s St Martin’s Day.’
Holidays. Celebration. Hugh wasn’t in the mood for merriment.
Standing, he signalled to the door. ‘I shouldn’t keep you, then.’
‘I came to take you with me.’
Hugh bit back a telling curse. Wanting no company, he’d purposefully kept quiet about his arrival. He’d wanted one night to wallow in self-pity upon being forced to return here. One night to drink as if copious amounts of ale in this hovel didn’t hold bitterness.
But that was not why he wanted to curse. It was because Eldric had been invited to a traditional dinner and he could bring a guest.
‘How long have you been here?’
‘Weeks.’
‘Weeks’ meant he had been here before the King had sent him. If Eldric was a spy, it didn’t have anything to do with him and Alice.
So perhaps it was true that he’d came on a detour. But no detour took that much time in a town the size of Swaffham.
‘Weeks’ meant something else. Friend or no, Eldric wasn’t on any mere detour. Even if it was futile, Edward had sent Hugh here on a mission to find the Half-Thistle Spy, and he didn’t like any interference. Eldric being here for weeks was definitely an interference.
Of course Eldric could have lied about his time spent here, and hadn’t, which should go in his favour. But there were too many coincidences that Hugh didn’t like.
He also didn’t like it that his flagon and his cup were empty.
‘The fare will be delicious at the mayor’s house,’ Eldric said.
The mayor’s house meant Alice. The one woman he shouldn’t see. Not in the state he was in. Not ever.
Knowing his going could only be a trap, Hugh answered, ‘Why not?’