‘Do not drink anything,’ advised Father Adrian from outside, although it was already too late. Geoffrey felt as though his insides were on fire, and it was difficult to breathe. He could not see, his eyes blinded by tears. Then the terrible burning eased and he found he could draw breath again.
‘God’s teeth!’ he spluttered. His lips were numb and there was a foul taste in his mouth that made him want to be sick. ‘Have you poisoned me?’
‘You are not supposed to gulp it like ale,’ said Elgiva with a disapproving frown. ‘It is to be sipped and savoured. What a waste!’
Geoffrey set the cup on the hearth, feeling an odd weakness in his legs, while the liquid continued to scald his stomach.
‘You do not remember me, do you?’ said Elgiva through the gloom. ‘I gave you salves when you were injured in childish play.’
After the Devil’s brew he had just downed, Geoffrey’s mind was a blank about her salves. ‘It was a long time ago. Are you a witch?’ he asked.
‘I prefer “wise woman”. “Witch” conveys the wrong impression. I know the plants of the forest and people come to me for advice. They go to Father Adrian, too, but they prefer me because I do not force them into penance for honest mistakes.’
‘I also do not know how to make women un-pregnant, or how to render a man potent in the marriage bed!’ called Adrian caustically. ‘However, when they are in distress, it is God’s comfort they crave, not a mouthful of that stuff I use for cleaning my pigsty.’
‘I imagine there is room for both,’ said Geoffrey, before they could argue. ‘I do not suppose Isabel came to you with her problem, did she? For the child that might have been Henry’s?’
‘I could not say,’ replied Elgiva, but she looked away. Geoffrey heard voices outside, followed by a laugh. Father Adrian had met some parishioners, and was no longer listening.
‘When did she come?’ he asked.
She regarded him coolly. ‘Perhaps I should not have invited you here. You are too quick. Poor Isabel. By the time she summoned me, it was already too late and the girl-child she carried was lost.’ She tipped her head to one side. ‘If I gave you a potion to bring Ralph back to her, would you make sure he drank it?’
‘Only if you assure me it will kill him in the process.’
Elgiva cackled her amusement. ‘He is a headstrong man, so my elixir of mandrake will have to be a powerful one, or it will not work.’
‘Mandrake?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘I thought that was poisonous.’
‘Only in the wrong hands. It can cause vomiting and purging.’
‘Do you know Eleanor de Bicanofre? She is a wise woman, too.’
‘No, she is a witch,’ corrected Elgiva. ‘I hear she is missing, which is a bad thing. With women like Eleanor, it is always best to know where they are.’
Geoffrey recalled the laughing eyes when Eleanor had removed the splinters from his arm. She had done him no harm, and he did not like the way people maligned her. ‘She is all right.’
Elgiva pursed her lips. ‘You and Hugh are the only ones who think so. He is smitten, and it is to her credit that she has not pushed him over a cliff. I wonder what she is planning with him this time. The last time they went missing was September.’
‘That is when Henry died.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Elgiva, meeting his eyes. ‘I saw them in the woods about a week before his murder. It is rumoured that she put a curse on Henry.’
‘Why would she do that?’
‘He pulled off her veil in a drunken rage. He claimed it was accidental; she says otherwise. But she was angry, because it showed her jaw had been blown off during a demonic experiment.’
‘So, you consider her a suspect for Henry’s murder?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Because even if she did not wield the dagger herself, she chanted evil charms?’
Elgiva took a sip from her cup. ‘I do not know who dispatched your brother – his killer made sure there were no witnesses, although Jervil heard them talking. Later, Jervil told me Henry cursed everyone with his dying breath, including Joan. Henry predicted you would come and expel her, and subdue Goodrich with a mailed fist.’
‘Is that why people are suspicious of me? Henry’s deranged ramblings?’
‘They do not know what to expect!’ called Father Adrian, listening once again. ‘Perhaps it is my fault. I preached hard against the Crusade, and my descriptions of Jerosolimitani as blood-drenched, lust-craven thieves were powerful.’
‘Jervil is dead,’ said Geoffrey to Elgiva, not deigning to address the priest’s prejudices. ‘He was strangled after selling a dagger to Baderon. He was paid in silver, but that had disappeared when I saw his body.’
‘You had a rummage, did you?’ asked Elgiva wryly. ‘Perhaps you are not so different from Henry, after all. But tell me about this dagger. What did it look like?’
‘There was a ruby in its hilt.’
‘A ruby?’ asked Elgiva. ‘The Black Knife Joan gave Father Adrian contained an emerald.’
‘It did,’ agreed Father Adrian. ‘In that case the dagger Jervil sold Baderon was not the one I had in my church. It was not the one that killed Henry, either – so Jervil’s transaction with Baderon can have nothing to do with your brother’s death.’
‘I think it was exchanged in Joan’s bedchamber,’ explained Geoffrey. Jervil had the real one; you did not.’ He turned his attention to Elgiva. ‘How well did Jervil know Baderon?’
Elgiva grinned, pleased to show off her knowledge. ‘Joan used Jervil as a messenger, because he was a good rider. He often visited Monmouth when she needed to communicate with Baderon.’
Geoffrey rubbed his chin. It seemed obvious that Baderon or one of his knights had killed Jervil, either so he could never tell anyone that Baderon had the murder weapon, or to retrieve the silver Baderon had paid for it. And Margaret was murdered because she had witnessed the killing. Or was that too simple an explanation?
‘Can you tell me any more about Henry?’ he asked.
‘I cannot list all the folk who bore him a grudge,’ said Elgiva. ‘We would be here all day. There was not a man, woman or child on Goodrich’s estates who did not hate him.’
‘But none of these owned a jewelled dagger,’ Geoffrey pointed out. ‘And if they had, they would not have left it behind.’
‘True,’ admitted Elgiva. ‘That narrows your list. But you still have Caerdig, Corwenna, Ralph, fitzNorman and Isabel. Margaret also disliked Henry, because of what happened to her niece. Then there are Baderon’s knights. Not Baderon himself, though.’
‘Why not?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘Too indecisive,’ replied Elgiva. Geoffrey dismissed her opinion; Baderon’s indecision was not a good enough reason to strike him from the list.
‘I do not think it was Baderon, either,’ said Father Adrian. ‘He and Henry treated each other with respect, and were on better terms than one would have imagined – especially given Henry’s callous rejection of Hilde.’
‘You say no one from Goodrich killed Henry, because the dagger was such a fine weapon,’ said Elgiva. ‘However, Joan and Olivier like to entertain, and many of their visitors are wealthy. Some are so rich that they might not miss a jewelled dagger, if it were “borrowed” by a servant.’
‘You think a servant stole the blade and used it to kill my brother?’
Elgiva shrugged. ‘Why not? Jervil detested Henry, and so did others. Many would have willingly stabbed him. And do not forget Joan and Olivier, either. They struggled to protect Goodrich from Henry’s depredations. So ask yourself why they are so determined to let his murder lie?’
It rained that afternoon, bringing those who had gone hawking home earlier than expected. Joan lit additional fires, and the whole castle became hot, stuffy and uncomfortable. The conversation was mostly about the upcoming entertainment at Bicanofre. Walter and Agnes were delighted at the prospect, while Baderon intimated that they were likely to be disappointed. Maliciously, Seguin and Lambert exaggerated Bicanofre’s charms to the point where the Bishop’s family could not help but be disappointed. Geoffrey grew tired of the lot of them, and climbed the spiral stairs until he reached the battlements.
It was peaceful away from the hubbub, and he did not mind the drizzle that blew in from the west. He leant his elbows on the wall, and for some reason Margaret’s husband came to mind. He recalled a skirmish in which they had fought near each other, and Robert had screamed her name several times. It was a pity, Geoffrey thought, that he would never enjoy such a marriage, but would be obliged to take a woman who would rather have someone else – or no one at all.
He heard footsteps and turned to see Durand, wrapped in a thick, well-oiled cloak and wearing a hood to protect his golden mane. He looked angry.
‘Baderon has the manners of a peasant,’ he snapped. ‘He has just informed me that manors in Suffolk are inferior to those in Gloucestershire.’
‘Did you goad him?’
Durand glared. ‘I said Suffolk is fertile, and my land is worth three times his.’
‘Then it is not surprising. No man likes to be told his estates are worthless.’
‘But it is true,’ said Durand sulkily.
‘Perhaps,’ said Geoffrey, not wanting to argue with Durand, either.
‘You seem preoccupied,’ said Durand after a while.
Geoffrey nodded. ‘Did I tell you I met Margaret’s husband on the Crusade?’
Durand shook his head, and his spiteful face softened. ‘I know people do not respect me – I am different from other men – but Margaret was always kind. If I can help you to catch whoever snuffed out her life, ask. I promise I will not use it as a lever to persuade you to help me with other investigations.’
Geoffrey stared at him in surprise. It was not often his old squire was sincere, and even more rare that he liked someone enough to be touched by a death. ‘I think she saw Jervil killed, and was murdered in her turn, so she could not tell anyone what she had witnessed.’
‘Perhaps she saw the villain placing the knife in Jervil’s dead hand – his non-dominant hand, as you so quickly established. That must have been what happened. She would have run to raise the alarm, had she seen the culprit actually strangling Jervil.’
‘So, to find out who strangled her, I need to know who killed Jervil. But he was wary and suspicious – and would have been even more so after receiving a purse of coins. Why did he relax his guard? I looked at his hands, and there were no marks on them. Why did he not fight back?’
‘Perhaps he was hit on the head and stunned first.’
‘I saw no bumps, but it is possible.’ Geoffrey smiled: it was good to have someone of Durand’s intelligence and insightfulness to talk to, because it helped clarify his own thoughts. ‘We are right to assume Jervil was killed first, are we not? It is not possible that Margaret was strangled, and then Jervil dispatched to ensure his silence?’
Durand shook his head. ‘She was worried about Isabel. I imagine she went to the stables looking for her and surprised the culprit while he was covering his tracks.’
Geoffrey supposed he was right. He told Durand all he knew about the deaths, and then outlined his thoughts about Henry. Unfortunately, however he presented the facts, it was difficult to see how Baderon could be innocent. It was a pity, because Geoffrey liked him more than the other suspects.
‘I do not see Baderon strangling his victims in a dark stable,’ he said, somewhat lamely.
‘I am not so sure.’ Durand was thoughtful. ‘He is smug, opinionated, vacillating and weak – exactly the kind of character who kills in the dark. And ask yourself why he was prepared to pay Jervil for this ruby dagger. There is only one conclusion: Baderon stabbed Henry, and left the knife behind in his panic. That is the only reason he would have been prepared to buy it.’
Geoffrey was forced to concede that Durand’s deductions made sense.
The clerk continued. ‘Then, not trusting a thief to keep his silence, Baderon followed Jervil to the stables and strangled him. It was a good opportunity to retrieve his money, too. Then, as he was placing the knife in Jervil’s hand – to make the murder look like self-defence – Margaret came in.’
‘Damn!’ muttered Geoffrey, although he had reasoned much the same himself. ‘This scenario fits the facts. It is a shame: Baderon cares about his people and is not a bad man.’
‘Not all killers are cold-hearted,’ said Durand. ‘I have met enough – mostly through dealings with you – to know they can be charming. And if Baderon had stopped with your brother, I would have advised you to look the other way – no one seems to have liked him and it is generally agreed that Goodrich is better off without him. But he has struck three times now.’
‘I cannot accuse Baderon with the “evidence” we have. It is mere speculation.’
‘You may never get it,’ warned Durand. ‘He is clever, and has Seguin and Lambert to help him. You must be careful, or you may find you are next in line for a death without witnesses.’
‘I am under the King’s protection. His agents will investigate if I am murdered.’
‘But that will not do you any good. You must not be complacent. I am glad Roger is here: you need your friends around you when you do not know your enemies.’
‘Can I count you among my friends?’ asked Geoffrey.
Durand smiled. ‘We have not always seen eye to eye – you consider me a coward because I abhor violence, while I think you are a lout. Yet there is a bond between us, and you can rely on me. But I must go. We are invited to hear the “singers with balls” at Bicanofre, and I must fetch a clean tunic and scarlet . . . what does he want?’
It was Bale. The squire saw Durand and Geoffrey standing together, and his heavy features creased into a scowl. ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded jealously.
‘Talking,’ replied Durand stiffly. ‘Not that it is your affair.’
Bale took a threatening step forward. ‘I am his squire now, and he does not need you wriggling around. Clear off. If I catch you near him again, I will slit your throat.’
Durand turned to Geoffrey, outraged. ‘Will you let him talk to me like that?’
‘What is the matter, Bale?’ asked Geoffrey, declining to take sides.
‘Lady Joan says to tell you that people are getting ready for Bicanofre. She wants you to go, too, so you can have a good look at Douce.’
‘I had better go, or they will leave without me,’ said Durand, pushing past Bale more vigorously than necessary. Geoffrey reached out to stop Bale from retaliating, feeling the raw strength in the man’s arm as he did so.
‘Do not listen to anything he tells you, sir,’ said Bale venomously. ‘He is a snake, and you can never trust a snake. Would you like me to slip into his room tonight and slit-’
‘No,’ said Geoffrey firmly. ‘Not tonight and not ever. I do not want a squire who murders people while they sleep.’
Bale looked suitably chastised. ‘Very well,’ he said stiffly. ‘But if you change your mind . . .’
‘Mother Elgiva thinks you may have murdered Henry,’ said Geoffrey to Joan, as they sat with Olivier in the hall that evening. He wore the green tunic she had given him, and was translating an Arabic text, afraid that he would forget the language unless he practised – as he had forgotten much of his Welsh. He supposed it would not matter unless he returned to the Holy Land, but he had nothing better to do: Roger had disappeared with Helbye, and the other guests were at Bicanofre. Geoffrey had declined the invitation.
‘Many people do,’ said Joan, unperturbed. ‘I even received messages saying I had done the right thing.’
‘But Henry was not murdered,’ said Olivier wearily. ‘He killed himself. Men do odd things when they are soaked in drink.’
Geoffrey watched his diminutive brother-in-law. ‘Did I tell you about the dagger?’ He saw the reaction he had expected and felt a twinge of satisfaction tempered with unease.
‘What dagger?’ asked Joan, concentrating on her sewing.
‘I hardly think daggers are a subject to discuss before we retire,’ said Olivier primly.
‘The dagger that killed Henry,’ said Geoffrey to Joan. His discussion with Durand had helped him clarify more than Baderon’s involvement in Henry’s death, and he felt it was time to put some of his suppositions to the test. Olivier regarded him with wary eyes.
‘What about it?’ asked Joan, squinting at her work.
‘It had a ruby,’ said Geoffrey, still looking at Olivier. ‘The one Father Adrian sold in Rosse – that had been under his altar these last three months – had an emerald.’
Joan was puzzled. ‘But the dagger we found in Henry had a red stone.’ Suddenly, her hands flew to her mouth, and she gazed at her husband in horror. ‘Oh, no! Once I had made up my mind to get rid of it, I wanted it gone as soon as possible. I opened the chest and took out the cloth without looking inside. Oh, Olivier! I gave Father Adrian the dagger you inherited from your father. That had an emerald in the hilt.’
She looked stricken, but Geoffrey did not think she should be. ‘It was not a mistake. You took the right cloth to Adrian.’
She looked at him, then turned back to Olivier, who would not meet her eyes. ‘I do not understand.’
‘I exchanged them,’ said Olivier in a low voice. ‘I did not think you would notice. I tore Adrian’s holy cloth in half, and put the ruby dagger in one part and my emerald knife in the other. I left the green knife behind and removed the red one.’
‘But why?’ asked Joan, bewildered.
‘You kept a suicide weapon in our bedchamber,’ said Olivier with a shudder. ‘It was evil, tainted, and I hated having it near us. I did not want the servants accused of stealing if I removed it, nor did I want you to think me a weakling for itching for it to be gone. So I substituted my father’s for the real one.’
‘And, a few weeks later, Joan donated the false one to Father Adrian,’ concluded Geoffrey. ‘By then, it was too late to exchange them, or you would have done so. So what did you do with the red one?’
‘It was cursed,’ said Olivier in a whisper. ‘I did not want it near my wife.’
‘I understand that,’ said Geoffrey impatiently. ‘But where-’
‘You do not understand!’ cried Olivier, uncharacteristically irate. Geoffrey was startled: Olivier had never shouted at him before. ‘I mean it was cursed. Literally. By a witch.’
‘Eleanor?’
Olivier nodded. ‘I heard her. My horse threw me when I was out riding one day, and I was looking for it when I stumbled across her. Because I was embarrassed about losing my mount, I decided to hide until she had gone. She knelt at the Angel Springs and uttered incantations.’
‘Over the ruby-hilted dagger?’ asked Geoffrey.
Olivier nodded again. ‘She dripped blood over it while she spoke some diabolical language.’
‘A Black Knife,’ said Geoffrey, recalling what Torva and Jervil had told him.
Olivier took a hearty gulp of wine and continued in a shaky voice. ‘Quite so: a Black Knife. I was curious, so when she had gone I crept forward and had a look. There was a dead frog with it, and blood everywhere. I ran for my life.’
‘You were afraid of a dead frog?’ asked Geoffrey incredulously.
‘It was more than that!’ cried Olivier. ‘You have not been to the Angel Springs, or you would not say such things. While she was muttering, there was a wind . . .’ He faltered, and Joan hugged him.
‘Olivier and I have few dealings with witchcraft,’ she said quietly. ‘It is to his credit that he was frightened by what he saw.’
‘Not frightened,’ objected Olivier with as much dignity as he could muster. ‘Unsettled. And that is why I did not want that ruby knife in our bedchamber. I sensed it was dangerous – especially after Henry killed himself with it.’
‘Did you know there are dead birds hanging in our stables?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘In the stall where Henry died. There is blood, too – his, I suspect.’
Both seemed surprised. ‘I ordered the place cleaned,’ Joan said. ‘But I never checked to see if it was done.’
‘The stables unnerve me, too,’ acknowledged Olivier. ‘Ever since Henry. But I will order it all removed tomorrow. I expect the servants bought counter-spells to ward off Henry’s restless spirit.’
‘Who collected the Black Knife from the Angel Springs?’ Geoffrey asked, noting the way Olivier would still not meet his eyes – the little knight had known about the dead birds and condoned their presence, although he would not admit it in front of Joan.
Olivier shrugged. ‘The next time I saw it, it was in Henry’s corpse.’
‘So, that is why you were so shocked at finding the body!’ said Joan. ‘You had seen the dagger before and knew it was cursed. I wondered why you were so horrified. Why did you not tell me?’
‘It did not show me in a good light,’ said Olivier stiffly. ‘I had abandoned an evil thing in the forest, and it killed your brother.’
‘What happened after you took it from your bedchamber?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘I did what I should have done the first time. I destroyed it – not long after Henry’s death, we rode to Bicanofre, and on the way I dropped it in the ford.’
‘You did dally by the river,’ recalled Joan. ‘I assumed you were nervous about going to confront a possible murderer.’
‘Did you think it might be Ralph, then?’ asked Geoffrey.
Joan shrugged. ‘He and Henry had argued the day Henry died. But speaking to him was a formality at the time, because I believed Henry had been killed by Bristol merchants. When I finally learnt he had not, there seemed no point in stirring up the matter.’
‘Henry was a vile man,’ said Olivier vehemently. ‘Not worth the trouble.’
‘He broke Olivier’s arm,’ elaborated Joan. ‘I was not there when it happened, or a Black Knife would not have been necessary.’
‘He did not break it,’ argued Olivier. ‘It was bruised. And I could have bested him, but he was drunk and imbued with a diabolical strength.’
Geoffrey sincerely doubted Olivier could have done anything of the sort. Henry was strong and had been trained to fight, while Olivier was better with military theory than its practice.
‘So, you see?’ said Joan. ‘It is better to let the matter lie. Henry did so much harm that I cannot find it in my heart to condemn his killer. That is between the culprit and God.’
‘It was premeditated,’ pressed Geoffrey. ‘Someone was so determined to have Henry dead that he asked Eleanor to provide a charmed knife.’
‘You still do not see!’ cried Olivier, agitated. ‘There was no murder: the Black Knife found its way to Henry, because that is what such things do. Then he used it to kill himself. Eleanor is guilty of issuing the curse, but that is all. Henry killed himself!’
‘Jervil heard someone talking to him,’ insisted Geoffrey.
‘Jervil heard Henry, and assumed someone was with him,’ corrected Olivier. ‘Henry was drunk – talking to himself. He was doubtless stricken by his sins, and was trying to make a confession.’
‘I was told he was cursing,’ said Geoffrey.
Olivier smiled without humour. ‘That was a tale Jervil invented when pressed for details. Any sensible person will tell you his story became more elaborate each time. Unfortunately, now he is dead, you cannot demand the truth.’
Later that night, not ready for sleep, Geoffrey prowled the hall, drawing uneasy glances from the servants. The torchlight was too poor for reading, and he could not concentrate anyway. He was tempted to seek out Roger and Helbye, but suspected they would be intoxicated, and there was nothing more tedious than being sober with drunkards. Meanwhile, Olivier and Joan had retired early, so were unavailable for conversation.
Geoffrey saw Torva playing dice with the cook and his assistant. They scrambled to their feet when he approached, but he smiled to reassure them and gestured for them to sit. They did so reluctantly, and he became aware that the hall was very quiet. Everyone was pretending to be absorbed in some task, but all were paying attention.
Geoffrey studied the dice players carefully. Peter the cook was large, fat and oily and wore an apron thick with grease, while Torva’s pinched features reminded Geoffrey of a rat. Peter’s assistant, Ynys, was thick set and fair-headed. The eyes of all three were wary, and Geoffrey recalled how Father Adrian had described Jerosolimitani. He also remembered that Henry had assaulted Torva, Peter and Jervil on the night he died. He dropped to one knee and indicated he wanted to join their game, hoping to put them at their ease.
‘What will you bet?’ asked Peter, alarmed. ‘We do not have silver.’
Geoffrey revealed a handful of raisins, part of a gift he had brought Joan from his travels. She adored them, although he thought there was little nastier than a raisin.
‘And there are plenty more where these came from,’ he said confidently, intending it as a joke.
No one smiled, and he was startled to see they had taken him seriously.
‘High stakes, then,’ murmured Torva, regarding the raisins with some trepidation.
Peter took a deep breath and looked Geoffrey straight in the eye – the first time he had done so. ‘In that case I wager fifty dried peas against ten of your raisins.’
He bent his head to concentrate, and they played in silence, except for the statements necessary for the game. Geoffrey soon had a pile of peas and a horseshoe to add to his fruit, and Torva was becoming exasperated by a run of bad luck. It was difficult to cheat with their dice, so Geoffrey could not even lose to win their trust. As his winnings mounted, he realized that he was giving them even more cause to resent him.
‘Six raisins for these peas,’ said Torva, with such a serious expression that Geoffrey was tempted to laugh. He suspected it would be a mistake. The entire hall was now watching, and the atmosphere was tense. People stood close behind, hemming him in, and it occurred to him that his brother might have been caught in a similar situation – surrounded by hostile minions who wanted him dead.
Ynys leant forward as Geoffrey tossed the dice, and his sheathed dagger pressed into the knight’s shoulder. Someone else took a step closer, too, pushing Geoffrey off balance, so he was obliged to use his hands to steady himself. He wished he had not dispensed with his armour. He had a knife, but so did virtually everyone else, and he could not hope to fight them all. He began to think that he had made a foolish mistake. Ynys moved forward again, and the pressure of the weapon against Geoffrey’s shoulder became painful. Was this what had happened to Henry? Stabbed in the hall, then carried to the stable? He rested his right hand on his thigh, ready to draw his knife if he detected a hostile move.
‘Move back!’ shouted Torva, when he saw Geoffrey shoved again. ‘You are putting him off.’
There was an instant relief in the press around Geoffrey’s back, and he felt a little easier.
‘But I cannot see,’ objected Ynys. He stepped forward again, and this time the dagger jabbed hard enough to hurt. Geoffrey was unable to suppress a wince.
‘Ynys!’ snapped Peter. ‘Watch what you are doing! If you damage his new tunic, Lady Joan will be vexed.’ Ynys stepped back smartly, and Peter addressed Geoffrey in a softer voice. ‘What will you wager?’
‘Twenty raisins.’ There was an appreciative murmur around the hall at Geoffrey’s boldness.
‘Twenty!’ breathed Peter. ‘That would be quite a win for me.’
‘Raise, him, Peter!’ called one of the shepherds. ‘Tell him you want twenty-five.’
There was a growl of encouragement and a small cheer when Geoffrey added another five fruits. First Peter, then Geoffrey, rolled the dice, and there was a groan of disappointment when Geoffrey won. Peter handed Geoffrey three nails and an awl, and declared he could afford to lose no more. His game was over, although the onlookers begged him to continue.
‘I will wager against him,’ declared Torva, chin jutting forward with determination and a good deal of hostility. ‘Who will lend me something?’
Several items were dropped in front of him, including a buckle from Ynys’ shoe, a bundle of feathers that might have been a charm and several wads of dried meat. The crowd pressed forward again, and Geoffrey began to perspire. Making it look casual, he rested his hand on his dagger.
‘All this,’ said Torva, gesturing to his haul, ‘for thirty raisins.’
Geoffrey nodded without bothering to argue. He wanted the game to be over, so people would either leave or launch the attack he sensed was imminent. The waiting was unbearable, and his head was beginning to pound. It was impossible to look at everyone at once, and he had no idea who would be the first to strike.
He rolled first, but his score was low. He was surprised to hear one or two sighs of sympathy; a few people were on his side. Torva threw, but his score was lower still, evoking a loud moan of disappointment. The atmosphere crackled, and all Geoffrey wanted to do was lose, sensing it was the only way to escape alive. But for the time being, there was nothing to do but continue playing.
The game seemed to go on forever, and the tension made Geoffrey’s neck tight. His legs ached from crouching, but he did not dare move, afraid that coming to his feet would be considered hostile. Slowly, he wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.
‘All this against your last two peas,’ he said, indicating his pile of trinkets. There was a collective gasp of astonishment, and then absolute silence while Torva gazed at him open-mouthed.
‘You would risk all that for two peas?’ he asked in disbelief. ‘All of it?’
If he had not felt so fraught, Geoffrey would have laughed. But he simply nodded.
‘Are you sure?’ asked Peter worriedly. ‘There are a lot of raisins here, along with Ynys’ charm, the promise of three chickens and a good deal more. It is a lot to lose.’
Geoffrey nodded again, and drew an appreciative murmur from the crowd.
Torva shrugged, and then grinned. ‘Well, I have nothing to lose,’ he said, throwing the dice. It was a high score, but no one cheered.
With a prayer that his tally would be lower and the ordeal would end, Geoffrey threw the dice, then gaped in horror when he scored the highest amount possible. There was a brief silence, then Ynys gave a whoop of delight and pounded him on the back. Others joined in, and Geoffrey scrambled to his feet. But the hands that thumped him, although vigorous, were not hostile, and he could see glee in the faces around him. Torva elbowed people out of the way and grabbed his hand.
‘You are a brave man,’ he said with a grin. ‘What nerve! Anyone would think you wanted to lose. You have entertained us royally this evening.’
Geoffrey forced himself to smile back, feeling relief wash over him. He eased backwards until he was against a wall, feeling safer with no one behind him. He glanced at the people who clamoured around, pressing winnings into his hands, and wondered what they knew about Henry’s death. Torva was still laughing at Geoffrey’s last gamble, but there was a hard core in him that was unsettling. Fat Peter was grinning, too, but his eyes were watchful. And there were others, too – men who worked in the stables, sculleries and storerooms – strong, sober fellows who had tasted his brother’s fists.
‘I cannot take these,’ said Geoffrey, who did not want rusty nails, charms and promises of livestock. However, he did not want to offend anyone by refusing their treasures, so he added, ‘I will win them all back from you next time, anyway.’
There was more laughter, and people stepped forward to reclaim what they had lost. He was particularly pleased when the feathered charm was one of the first things to be retrieved.
‘Henry would have kept the lot,’ confided Ynys. ‘He did not play by our rules.’
‘It is the game that is important,’ explained Peter, when Geoffrey looked blank. ‘We never keep our winnings, because that would be gambling, which Father Adrian tells us is a sin.’
Geoffrey supposed he had had a lucky escape with his ‘generosity’.
‘Here are your raisins,’ said Ynys, pressing them into Geoffrey’s hand. ‘They are all there.’
Geoffrey pushed them in his purse, thinking he would throw them in the river the following day. They had been through numerous grubby hands, and he did not imagine that Joan would eat them now. Peter exchanged a glance with Torva, then indicated that Geoffrey was to sit with them near the embers of the fire, while the rest of the servants, still chattering and laughing, went about the business of hauling straw mattresses from the pile in the corner and distributing blankets.
‘You trust us,’ stated Peter.
Geoffrey was a little startled, because he did not.
Torva nodded. ‘You did not count the raisins, like Henry would have done. You believed us when we said they were all there.’
‘My mother always told me never to speak ill of the dead,’ began Peter in the kind of voice that suggested he was about to do just that. ‘But your brother was a nasty man.’
Geoffrey nodded, but said nothing, hoping his silence would encourage them to say more.
‘No one here killed him,’ added Torva. ‘I know you think otherwise, but you are wrong. This is a small manor, and we would have known by now.’
‘Olivier believes Henry committed suicide,’ Geoffrey said, to encourage speculation.
Torva shook his head. ‘The wound could have been self-inflicted, but it is unlikely. It was driven in with considerable force, by someone strong.’
‘Or someone angry.’ Geoffrey knew from experience that it did not take powerful arms to stab a man in the stomach.
‘Lots of people were angry with Henry,’ said Torva.
‘I am sorry Jervil is dead,’ said Geoffrey. He was tired of beating around the bush, so spoke bluntly. ‘But he went to Dene to sell Baderon a dagger with a ruby in its hilt. It was the weapon that killed my brother, the one Olivier threw in the river.’
They gazed at him. ‘How do you know that?’ asked Peter uneasily.
‘It does not matter,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Why did Baderon want this weapon?’
Torva and Peter exchanged another glance and then Torva gave a heavy sigh. ‘The ruby knife was Baderon’s. He wanted it back.’
Geoffrey finally felt he was getting somewhere. ‘But why now? It is months since Henry died.’
‘Because of you,’ said Peter, as if the answer were obvious. ‘Henry’s death was all but forgotten, but then you started asking questions. Baderon knew it was only a matter of time before you learnt Henry was killed with a ruby dagger, and that he had owned such a thing. By buying the weapon, he could deny it.’
Geoffrey had so many questions, he barely knew where to begin. ‘How did Jervil get the knife when Olivier had thrown it in the river?’
‘Because the Black Knife did not stay in the water,’ explained Torva. ‘We do not know how – perhaps Olivier did not hurl it as far as he thought – but it came back again, like the cursed thing it was. It appeared one day in the stables – where it had killed its victim.’
Geoffrey was sceptical. ‘It does not have legs to walk or wings to fly. So, how-’
‘It was a Black Knife,’ insisted Torva forcefully. ‘They always return. It brought itself back to the stables, where Jervil found it. It is what these things do, unless they are properly de-cursed.’
‘How do you “de-curse” one?’ asked Geoffrey.
Torva pursed his lips, as if Geoffrey were remiss for not knowing. ‘The man who commissions a Black Knife must destroy it – as soon as his victim is dead. If he fails to do so, it increases in power and starts to look for other victims.’
Peter nodded. ‘It is six months since Henry’s death, so the Black Knife is very strong – Baderon will not want it to do more damage. Since it was not with Jervil’s body, we must assume Baderon has it and will have to de-curse it. Of course, it is much easier to lay a curse than to break one.’
‘How did Jervil become involved?’
‘He told Baderon the dagger had reappeared and offered to sell it to him,’ explained Torva. ‘Baderon agreed, but insisted the exchange be in secret. But then you decided to ride for Dene, and Jervil was afraid you had guessed his plan. You almost overheard him telling me about it.’
‘Baderon said it was imperative that no one from Goodrich should witness the exchange,’ added Peter, ‘on the grounds that it would look bad.’
‘He was right,’ said Geoffrey grimly. ‘It does. And they did not manage the transaction very discreetly. The King saw them.’
‘Jervil may have been careless,’ acknowledged Peter. ‘He wanted the Black Knife passed to Baderon and the silver in his purse as quickly as possible.’
‘So it was Baderon who killed Henry,’ concluded Geoffrey, sorry Baderon had stooped so low as to stab a man deep in his cups.
‘No,’ said Peter, with certainty. ‘He did not, although I cannot speak for his knights.’
Torva agreed. ‘I do not trust Seguin and Lambert. It is only a matter of time before Corwenna encourages them to do us serious harm. But Baderon did not hurt Henry.’
‘You sound very sure,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Why?’
‘Baderon had too much to lose if Henry died,’ replied Torva. ‘They had an arrangement.’
‘What kind of arrangement? Henry marrying Hilde?’
‘Hilde would never have taken Henry,’ said Peter. ‘All I can tell you is that Baderon and Henry signed a document to their mutual advantage. I saw them doing it, and made my mark as a witness.’
‘What did this document say?’ asked Geoffrey. Father Adrian had also mentioned an agreement, while Baderon himself had said that there were ‘other ways’ to secure truces, and that he and Henry had ‘irons in the fire’.
‘I could not read it,’ said Peter. ‘I am a cook, not a scribe. They were both very pleased, though, and made many toasts to each other and the futures of both estates.’
Geoffrey wracked his brain for a solution, but none came. ‘When was this?’
‘Early September,’ replied Peter. ‘Three weeks before Henry’s death. I know you are sceptical – so are we, because we do not know the whole story, either. But Baderon was the last man who would kill Henry, because he needed him alive.’
The following morning Geoffrey woke early and considered what he knew. He had been informed that Baderon could not be Henry’s murderer, because of some secret arrangement. It was not a marriage, because Henry had hoped for Isabel. Or was that the problem – Henry had offered himself to Hilde, but had reneged for Isabel? Of course, the servants did not think so, and try as he might, Geoffrey could not imagine what Henry and Baderon might have devised. The Lord of Monmouth was still at Bicanofre, but would be back soon; Geoffrey resolved to ask him.
However, just because Baderon wanted peace did not mean Seguin and Lambert – fuelled by ambition and Corwenna’s hatred of Goodrich – felt the same. Geoffrey believed Torva and Peter were right when they said it was only a matter of time before they harmed the whole region.
He shifted into a more comfortable position, aware that people were moving in the hall below, and that he was likely to earn a reputation as a lie-abed if he lingered there much longer. But there were still many questions in need of answers – the most pressing, who had killed Jervil, and why was Baderon so determined to retrieve the dagger if he was not Henry’s killer?
Geoffrey’s thoughts turned to Duchess Sybilla. Walter had owned a pot of mandrake, although Geoffrey doubted its contents had killed Sibylla. Geoffrey had also discovered that Agnes knew about mandrake, and that she had courted the friendship of Eleanor. Eleanor was now missing. Could she be dead? And was Agnes telling the truth about her and Eleanor’s disagreement?
Knowing that he would solve nothing by lounging around, Geoffrey rose and went to the garderobe. He stared at the shelves that concealed the passage to the woods. He still had not asked Joan whether it was intact, and knew he was being remiss. If Goodrich came under attack, it might be a vital part of a plan to protect it. He took a deep breath and pushed the hidden door before his courage failed. It swung open, revealing a black, sinister slit with dusty steps. It was draped with cobwebs, and just looking at it made the bile rise in his throat.
‘Where does that go?’ whispered Bale from behind him, making him spin around in alarm.
Geoffrey pressed a hand over his thudding heart. ‘You must stop creeping up on me like that, Bale, or one of us is likely to die. It leads to the woods. I cannot remember where exactly.’
Bale’s eyes gleamed. ‘I might have known cunning old Godric Mappestone would have installed something like this when he raised Goodrich. Shall we explore it?’
‘I am not going down there,’ said Geoffrey firmly. He saw Bale’s surprise, but did not want to confess his weakness about such places. ‘Another time – I have work to do today.’
He pushed past the squire, and headed for the hall, to see if there was any breakfast. Bale followed, chatting about Olivier’s hawks, and Geoffrey saw that he was not in the least bit puzzled by his master’s disinclination to investigate the tunnel. Durand would have smelt a rat in an instant and set himself to learn why Geoffrey had bolted. Geoffrey smiled. Perhaps there was an advantage in having a servant who was not quite so sharp after all.
Torva nodded affably when they met near the stairs, while Peter, hauling a vat of pottage from the kitchens, gave Geoffrey a grin. Several others acknowledged him with waves, and he began to hope the game had been worth the aggravation – at least some servants no longer seemed to think that he was Henry’s more violent brother.
Tables bearing food were ready, although there were not many takers – most guests had either returned to Goodrich late, or had slept at Bicanofre. Joan and Olivier were on hand to make pleasant conversation, although the only person to arrive so far was Giffard. The prelate had declined to waste an evening on ‘singers with balls’.
‘You kept us awake last night with your noisy revelry,’ said Joan, when Geoffrey sat beside her. ‘What in God’s name were you doing to cause all that cheering and groaning?’
‘Nothing in God’s name,’ muttered Giffard. ‘I imagine he was gaming.’ He pronounced the last word as though it was a sin tantamount to sodomy.
‘He would not do that,’ said Joan. ‘He knows I do not allow it.’
Peter gave Geoffrey an enormous wink behind her back and tapped the side of his nose. But Geoffrey did not like the notion that he was part of a conspiracy.
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘we did play a game of chance, but Father Adrian says it was not gambling because no one kept his winnings.’
Joan glared at him, unconvinced. ‘If you do it again, I shall not be pleased.’
Geoffrey felt like telling her he would do what he liked in his own house, but did not want to quarrel. He seldom gambled anyway, so it was not something he would miss. He nodded acquiescence, and she turned to make sure that Giffard had enough food.
‘You should not have confessed,’ muttered Peter, ladling pottage into his bowl. ‘We would not have told on you, not like we would have done Henry.’
Geoffrey supposed this represented an improvement in relations, and hoped they would not degenerate again if he were to discover that one of the servants had killed his brother. There was a clatter of hoofs outside, heralding the return of more guests from Bicanofre, so Joan and Olivier hurried to greet them, leaving Geoffrey and the Bishop alone.
‘What have you learnt?’ Giffard asked. ‘Has anyone confided in you yet? You do not have much time. Agnes fluttered her eyelashes at the King, and he is certain to take her to Westminster. Then she and Walter will be beyond my control.’
‘It is not looking good,’ Geoffrey admitted. ‘I am uneasy that she has gone to Bicanofre, where Eleanor lives. Eleanor knows a lot about poisons, although Agnes claims they are no longer friends. However, I am not sure I believe her.’
‘But Eleanor is missing,’ Giffard pointed out. ‘Probably dead in the fire. She is not at Bicanofre.’
Geoffrey thought about the charms at the Angel Springs, and was certain that Eleanor would not have been killed in a fire that had been planned there. Moreover, since Eleanor kept her face veiled, she could be walking around openly and no one would know. He wondered whether to tell Giffard that his nephew had owned mandrake, but decided it would serve no purpose.
‘Joan told me a messenger came to you yesterday,’ he said instead. ‘Did he bring good news?’
Giffard smiled at last. ‘There is one silver streak in the dark clouds around me. The King asked the Archbishop of York to consecrate me, and York agreed. I shall have God’s blessing for my work.’
‘That is good news,’ said Geoffrey, knowing it meant a great deal to his dour friend.
‘I would like you to come. The ceremony will be in St Paul’s Cathedral in London, and two other bishops – Salisbury and Hereford – will be blessed at the same time.’
Geoffrey was torn. The cathedral was said to be a fabulous building, and he longed to visit it, but he did not want to see the King. He promised to think about it and headed outside, so the servants could clear the hall. Giffard followed, yawning.
‘You should sleep more,’ Geoffrey advised. ‘And pray less.’
‘I will,’ said Giffard, a little irritably, ‘if you cease staying up with the servants and making so much noise.’