No Dark Place by Joan Wolf Page B

for cattle and horses, grooms’ living quarters, and workshops for the skilled craftsmen who served the castle.
    Nigel maintained a guard of resident knights, but Hugh thought that this castle was more a home than it was a military bastion.
    All that might change with the coming war.
    Unlike the inner wall surrounding the motte, which was made of stone, the outer wall of the bailey was constructed of the original wood. Hugh remembered passing over the outer moat and through the bailey drawbridge yesterday. He didn’t remember anything else.
    As they walked along, Cristen was greeted respectfully by each homespun clad workman they passed.
    No, it was more than respectfully, Hugh corrected himself. It was fondly.
    “My garden is this way,” Cristen said to him as she led the way toward a part of the bailey that was blocked off by a five-foot-high wooden fence. Hetrailed after her like one of her dogs as she led the way into her private domain.
    The first thing that struck Hugh as he walked through the gate was the heady, aromatic fragrance of the herbs. He looked around and saw row upon row of plants, all neatly laid out one after the other. Along the far wall of the garden there grew a profusion of rosebushes that were in full bloom. He could smell their perfume mixed in with the herbs.
    Adela had loved roses.
    Against another wall there stood a small wooden shed.
    Cristen saw him looking at it. “The shed is where I dry my herbs and make my medicinal potions.”
    “You are young to be so knowledgeable,” Hugh said.
    “The garden was actually started by my mother. She was interested in herbs and healing and she passed her knowledge along to me.”
    She tipped her head up to smile at him. This morning she wore her hair plaited into two long braids and her sleeveless blue outer tunic was worn over a long-sleeved robe of red. It was too warm for a cloak.
    “I need to boil up another cough mixture for Berta, if you don’t mind waiting,” she said.
    “Of course not.” He followed her to the shed and looked inside. Dried herbs hung from the roof and shelves lined the walls. They were filled withbottles, some already filled and stoppered, some still open, waiting to be filled. A small charcoal brazier stood near the door, and there was a bench along the wall beside it.
    “Pull the bench into the sun and sit down, Hugh,” she said. “This won’t take very long.”
    He did as she suggested and watched her as she competently crushed some ingredients together and put them in a bottle with wine and honey.
    “Most frequently I use crushed almonds and chestnut leaves for coughs,” she said. “As Berta seems to be responding well to the mixture, I won’t try to change it.”
    Hugh sat in silence, feeling the warmth of the sun on his back and shoulders. The shed and the garden seemed very peaceful, and he felt some of the chapel-induced tension begin to drain away. The dogs stretched out in the sun behind him.
    Cristen took tinder and flint from its place on a shelf, lit the charcoal brazier, and placed the flagon she had filled on the heat. Then she came to join him on the bench.
    “Have you ever met the Earl of Wiltshire?” Hugh heard himself asking.
    “Aye,” she returned. “I have met him a number of times.”
    Hugh gazed fixedly at the flagon on the brazier in front of him. “Tell me,” he said, “is it true that I look like him?”
    She answered matter-of-factly, “You have hiseyes, Hugh, but the rest of his features are heavier than yours, more massive.”
    He continued to stare at the flagon. “Your father thinks I am the boy who was kidnapped from the castle thirteen years ago.”
    He did not know why he was talking to this girl like this, but for some reason he felt comfortable with her.
    “I know,” she said.
    At last he turned to look at her. “Why did he invite me here, Cristen? What does he hope to gain by it?”
    She smoothed her hands along the fine blue wool of her outer tunic. “Justice, I