Geoffrey left the hall and ran down the wooden stairs to the bailey. It was a fine day, and he felt his spirits soar. He rubbed his hands, trying to decide whether to go riding or to see if Roger fancied some swordplay.
‘You will be busy this morning,’ said Durand by way of greeting. ‘As your guests trickle back from Bicanofre, I assume you will be on hand to greet them.’
‘Do you think I should?’ asked Geoffrey, feeling his ebullience slip. ‘Joan and Olivier are here.’
‘You cannot delegate everything,’ said Durand. ‘It is unfair to them – and insulting to your visitors. I am always available when guests honour me with their presence.’
Geoffrey reluctantly resigned himself to a morning of duty. Only then did he notice that Durand was pale and his eyes heavy from a lack of sleep.
‘Did you enjoy yourself last night?’ he asked, assuming Bicanofre was the cause of the man’s shabby appearance.
Durand winced. ‘I was grossly misled. The singers were toneless and I can toss and catch balls better than those so-called jugglers. If that is the level of “entertainment” I am to expect here, then I must increase the pace of my investigation.’ He closed his eyes and fanned his face with his hand, looking like an elderly nun.
‘Do not expect nights of wild debauchery when you are with me,’ warned Giffard sternly, as he joined them. ‘My household retires to bed with the sun, and rises early for religious devotions. There is no levity.’
Durand looked alarmed that his sojourn in Winchester might not be as much fun as anticipated, and he swallowed hard. ‘Really?’ he asked in a small voice.
‘Did Geoffrey keep you awake, too?’ asked Giffard pointedly. ‘People returned very late from Bicanofre, but they did not make nearly as much noise as he did. I am used to the quiet of the cloister, where the only sounds are men breathing and bells announcing holy offices. I find it hard to sleep through illicit games of dice.’
‘I agree,’ said Durand ingratiatingly. ‘I saw a good many such games when I was in his service – especially with Roger – but last night was particularly jubilant.’
‘Here come more of your guests, Geoffrey,’ said Giffard, turning at the sound of hoofs. ‘Baderon, his knights and Corwenna.’
‘I am surprised she is here,’ said Durand. ‘She ranted long and hard about how the Mappestones should be destroyed. Baderon tried to silence her, but it needed a stronger voice than his.’
‘Baderon is a God-fearing man, but he should take a stand against his knights – and Corwenna, too,’ said Giffard. ‘Their outspokenness will only lead to trouble.’
Geoffrey only hoped that Goodrich would not bear the brunt of it. He went to greet his guests, staying away from Corwenna.
‘Do not worry,’ whispered Olivier in his ear. ‘I will not allow Corwenna anywhere near Joan.’
Geoffrey gave a tight smile, thinking that if Corwenna decided to do harm, the likes of Olivier would not be able to stop her. Olivier read the thought, and his expression soured.
‘I will not attempt to fight her, so you have no cause to look dubious. My skills lie in other areas: Corwenna is unlikely to strike when Joan is surrounded by people, so that is how I shall protect her – how I have protected her all the years you were away fighting wars. Joan will not be alone for an instant while Corwenna is here.’
Geoffrey saw that he had underestimated his brother-in-law. ‘I am sorry, Olivier. I did not mean to doubt you. I am sure Joan is safe in your care.’
‘She is,’ replied Olivier coolly. ‘So I will look after her, and you can look after yourself. Corwenna is more keen to kill you, because it will mean the end of Goodrich’s hopes for an heir. It is a good thing Sir Roger is here, because you might need him.’
The hall was busy all morning, as guests returned. Geoffrey was amused by their different reactions to Bicanofre’s amusements. Baderon was polite, claiming them to have been an ‘interesting diversion’, but his knights were brutal, describing the performers as ‘lumbering peasants with rough voices’. Corwenna had enjoyed herself, although she thought that next time Wulfric should consider including a rendition from a Welsh bard. She recited a passage from a particularly bloody epic to demonstrate what they had been missing.
‘She is a fine woman,’ Seguin said, standing with his hands on his hips. ‘She rides better than most men and handles her weapons like a knight. You should see her with a battleaxe!’
‘She has an axe?’ asked Geoffrey warily.
‘Your mother was fabulously skilled with an axe, so do not look disapproving,’ snapped Seguin. ‘And your sister is said to be no mean fighter, too – especially compared to that husband of hers.’
‘Are you insulting my sister?’ demanded Geoffrey.
Seguin shook his head impatiently. ‘I am praising her, man. I like a woman who can hold her own, and Joan and my Corwenna can do just that: they are hard, strong and uncompromising. When we are married, I shall be able to leave Corwenna in charge of my estates, and they will be in one piece when I return – just as Joan does for you.’
Geoffrey supposed he was right, although he did not relish the prospect of meeting Corwenna if she were armed with as formidable a weapon as an axe.
When Geoffrey helped Isabel from her horse, she was silent and sad, going straight to the room allocated to her and her father. She barely acknowledged his greeting, and he could tell from the redness around her eyes that she had been crying.
‘Ralph?’ he asked of fitzNorman, as they watched her flee to solitude.
The old warrior grimaced. ‘He barely spoke to her last night and refused to sit near us.’ He looked hard at Geoffrey and cleared his throat. ‘I see you have taken my advice.’
‘I have?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘I told you to forget Margaret’s murder, lest her penchant for men become common knowledge, and you have complied. I am obliged. I loved my sister, and do not want her good name soiled.’
‘I would never soil her name,’ said Geoffrey pointedly, thinking it was a good deal more than her brother was currently doing.
‘Good,’ said fitzNorman. ‘I do not like folk going against my wishes.’
Geoffrey did not want to make polite conversation with people he did not like, so he remained outside, enjoying the feel of the sun on his face. To keep himself busy, he went to the stables and removed the dead birds. Then he took a broom and scrubbed away the bloodstains, not caring that it was menial work. When he finished, he sat next to Durand on a wall near the kitchens.
‘Where are Agnes and Walter?’ Geoffrey asked.
‘Agnes captured Ralph’s attention last night, so boy and mother are doubtless still with him, enjoying his “witty” company. The fellow is a beast – and not just for his treatment of Isabel. I am not keen on women, but I do like her.’
Geoffrey eyed him askance. ‘Do I take it Ralph upset you in some way?’
‘He is rough with his servants, unkind to his dogs and he hogs the latrines when his guests are waiting. He also humiliated his priest when the poor man said grace last night – almost reduced him to tears with his criticism. I am no lover of bastard Latin, but when one is in remote areas full of sheep, one should expect no better. I was obliged to intervene and say the prayer myself.’
It was a damning statement coming from Durand, who was neither kind nor patient. He was always mocking parish priests for their low education, and if he had defended one, then Ralph’s behaviour must have been particularly cruel.
The clerk’s eyes gleamed with sudden malice. ‘I think I might ask Ralph to read us some poetry this evening, since he claims he is good at it. I shall let him embarrass himself with what is sure to be a paltry rendition, then step forward and demonstrate how it should really be done.’
‘Yes, do that,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Do you want some books? I have several in my chamber.’
Face shining with the prospect of mischief, Durand hurried away, obviously intending to select a particularly difficult text. He stopped when Corwenna said something to him, and Geoffrey saw him shake his head. She grabbed his arm, but he pulled away with a gesture of impatience and continued his journey towards the hall. Geoffrey frowned, wondering what she had wanted. Whatever it was, he was certain she had not been successful.
‘There is a face to curdle milk,’ said Hilde, coming to stand next to him. ‘But then, what can you expect from a woman who thinks watching six oafs tossing old apples is fun?’
‘I understand she was the only one who enjoyed herself last night,’ said Geoffrey.
Hilde chuckled. ‘Certainly Ralph should not have boasted about the quality of his minstrels when we were in Normandy. I suspect he was appalled when Wulfric invited us to hear them, thus exposing him as a liar. It is always better to be honest, even when the truth is painful.’
Geoffrey fully agreed. ‘The King ordered me to investigate the murders of Jervil and Margaret, but I am not sure where to begin,’ he said. ‘I do not suppose you have any ideas?’
Hilde sat next to him, shooting him a sympathetic glance. ‘I heard about that – and I heard fitzNorman advise you against it. Do not go against him, Geoffrey. It would be rash.’
‘Who? The King or fitzNorman?’
‘FitzNorman,’ said Hilde impatiently. ‘I am hardly likely to recommend you flaunt the King’s orders, am I? I do not want him to seize Goodrich. He would not be an easy neighbour.’
‘FitzNorman thinks Margaret was in the stables with Jervil for . . .’ Geoffrey trailed off, not liking to state the case too bluntly, out of his respect for Margaret.
‘For what?’ asked Hilde. He watched her expression turn from puzzled to incredulous. ‘He told you they were there together? That his own sister would seduce an uncouth servant?’
‘He did not say seduce exactly . . .’
‘What is wrong with the men in these parts? First there was Henry, a stupid brute. Then there is Ralph, an unmannerly pig. And now fitzNorman spreads that sort of tale about a good woman.’
‘I think I was right with my first assumption: Margaret was killed because she witnessed what happened to Jervil. If I learn who murdered Jervil, then I will have Margaret’s attacker, too. Do you know anything that might help?’
‘Nothing I have not already told you – and I was fond of Margaret, so I would like to be of assistance. Jervil was a thief, but Joan was patient with him, hoping kindness would cure his sticky fingers. I have no idea why he should have been in Dene. Did Joan send him with a message?’
‘He went to sell a dagger to your father,’ said Geoffrey, deciding to be honest. ‘They were seen.’
Hilde stared at him. ‘Then your witness is wrong. Jervil knew my father, certainly, because he delivered messages to us from Joan. But they did not have the kind of relationship where my father would buy anything from him. Jervil was a thief, and anything he brought to sell would almost certainly be stolen.’
She sounded very certain, and Geoffrey saw that there was no point in pressing her further. Either she knew about the ruby knife and was not going to admit it, or she was ignorant of the affair. Regardless, pursuing the matter would be a waste of time. Geoffrey abandoned the discussion, although he was determined to ask the same questions of Baderon as soon as he could.
‘Have you found Hugh?’ he asked instead.
She fiddled with a ring on her finger. ‘No. He has disappeared before and turned up safe, but I will only be easy when he is home. People think I am foolish to fuss, but he is my brother.’
‘It is not foolish at all,’ said Geoffrey gently. ‘And if I can help, please ask.’
Hilde smiled and he saw that she had pretty eyes – pale honey-brown, just a little darker than the curls that escaped from the scarf-like veil covering her head and neck. Suddenly there was a flurry of activity heralding the arrival of two servants from Dene. Hilde was after them in a trice, Geoffrey forgotten, as she demanded news of Hugh. Geoffrey hoped the man would be found soon, and that there would not be yet another death.
Geoffrey decided to speak to Baderon as soon as possible. He hovered in the yard, waiting for an opportunity, but Seguin and Lambert were with their master, and showed no sign of leaving. Since he did not want to interrogate Baderon while his knights listened, Geoffrey had no choice but to wait. He did so reluctantly.
While he kicked his heels, he heard someone shout his name. He looked up to see Roger striding towards him. The big knight looked pale, and his eyes were watery.
‘Had a good time, did you?’ asked Geoffrey wryly. Roger always gauged good times by how dreadful he felt the following day – the worse he felt, the better the occasion.
Roger grinned. ‘Helbye knows how to entertain – more than the Lord of Bicanofre, judging by the comments I have heard this morning. Did you go?’
‘I stayed here and won a pile of dried peas from the servants.’
‘Exciting!’ remarked Roger caustically. ‘I do not like it here, Geoff. That Welsh woman keeps scowling at me; Baderon’s louts insult me in low voices – just soft enough so I cannot hear and challenge them; fitzNorman threatened to wring my neck if I helped with your investigation; and Joan thinks I am a bad influence on her husband.’
Geoffrey regarded him in alarm. ‘You are not leaving, are you?’
‘I have business in Rosse.’
Geoffrey nodded, although he was disturbed. If ever he needed the comforting presence of Roger, it was now, and he was sorry that his friend felt compelled to leave. He doubted Roger had anything to do in Rosse – unless it was finding a tavern with willing wenches – and Geoffrey knew that he was just uncomfortable and wanted to be away.
Roger slapped his shoulder and set off to where his squire waited with his horse. ‘Just a few days, Geoff, I promise. And then I will be back.’
‘You are going now?’ asked Geoffrey, startled by the haste. ‘At least have something to eat first.’
But Roger shook his head. ‘The sooner I go, the sooner I will return.’
And then he was gone, leaving Geoffrey staring after him in dismay. He turned to the activity in the bailey, where his guests were gathering for a day of hawking, and considered saddling his own horse and following Roger. But to abandon his investigation would deliberately flout the King’s orders, and Henry was not a forgiving man.
The prospect of continuing to play host depressed him, and he could foresee days filled with unpleasantness. Suddenly, it no longer seemed important to talk to Baderon, and he felt an urgent need for solitude. He started towards the stables, thinking to take a lone ride.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Giffard, following. ‘Hunting with Roger?’
‘Roger is not going hunting,’ said Geoffrey, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. He took a deep breath and pulled himself together. He was behaving like Ralph – petulant, because something had happened that he did not like. He grabbed his saddle and strapped it on, aware of the animal’s pleasure at the prospect of a gallop. ‘I am going to exercise my horse.’
‘You are not going hawking? I hear Olivier has some excellent birds – not that I would know about such things – and virtually everyone is going with him.’
‘Good,’ said Geoffrey, grateful that Olivier was prepared to be hospitable.
‘I shall join you, but I do not feel like mounting an overpowered beast,’ said Giffard, strolling the length of the stables to inspect what was present. ‘But here is a donkey. I shall ride that.’
Before Geoffrey could point out that ambling by the side of a plodding mule was not what he had in mind for his warhorse, Giffard had taken possession of the hapless beast. His long legs touched the ground on either side, and it snickered malevolently at the weight. But it was a feisty little animal and shot across the bailey towards the gate as soon as it was out of the stables, Giffard hauling for all he was worth on the reins. Geoffrey followed quickly, fearing an accident.
The donkey kept up gamely when Geoffrey cantered, then outstripped him when he reined in to pass through a muddy stretch. It reached the top of a mound not far from the castle, then did an immediate about-turn and raced home as though the hounds of Hell were after it, Geoffrey in anxious pursuit. They arrived breathless and a good deal sooner than Geoffrey had anticipated – he had wanted to be out all day, not just a few moments.
‘It is good it was not this thing that carried Our Lord into Jerusalem,’ Giffard muttered, straightening his legs and allowing the donkey to walk out from under them. ‘The triumphal Palm Sunday procession would have happened so fast that most people would have missed it.’
Geoffrey dared not laugh, lest Giffard had not meant to be amusing; the grim bishop was not a man to jest about religion. He was about to change the subject when there was a sudden yell, and people arrived in the bailey. It was Agnes and Walter, and even from a distance he could see that something was wrong. Agnes held herself stiffly, while Walter was frightened. Geoffrey was not entirely pleased to see Ralph with them, then felt the first stirrings of unease as Agnes flung herself from her horse and came tearing towards the Bishop.
She hurled herself at Giffard’s feet and began to cry, grasping the hem of his habit. Walter stood behind her, biting his lip, looking as though he might cry himself. Ralph joined them.
‘You must help me, my Lord Bishop!’ Agnes howled. ‘You must, or I am undone.’
‘My child!’ exclaimed Giffard, moved by her distress. ‘What is the matter?’
‘It is Hugh,’ said Agnes, raising a tear-streaked face towards Giffard. ‘Baderon’s son.’
‘What about him?’ demanded Geoffrey.
‘He is dead,’ wept Agnes, keeping her eyes on Giffard. ‘And his father is sure to blame me.’
‘Or me,’ added Walter. ‘And that would be worse, because I have my whole life in front of me, while you are already old.’
Agnes scowled at him, then resumed her appeal to Giffard. ‘You have always been a friend, so be one now. Tell Baderon it was not me who stabbed Hugh and left him dead at the Wye ford.’
Agnes’ words created quite a stir among the guests who had gathered to go hawking, although Baderon and his knights were not among them, and neither was Hilde. Joan told Geoffrey that they had gone into the forest at Hilde’s insistence, to again look for their missing kinsman.
‘Why would Baderon think you killed Hugh?’ asked Geoffrey. His first instinct upon hearing the news and witnessing Agnes’ reaction was to assume that she had. Why else would she be so alarmed?
‘Because I was there!’ Agnes cried, refusing to look at anyone except Giffard. The prelate laid a calming hand on her head. ‘There are those who accuse me of killing Duchess Sibylla, just because I happened to be in her chamber the night she died.’
Giffard’s hand dropped away. ‘Were you? Then did you?’
‘Of course not! There are others you must ask about that.’ Agnes’ eyes slid towards Walter, but then returned to Giffard. ‘You must believe I had nothing to do with Hugh’s death!’
‘How do you know he is dead?’ asked Durand. His practical question calmed the buzz of speculation that had broken out among the crowd.
‘His body was at the river,’ replied Walter. ‘It is all bloody and wet.’
‘Was Eleanor there, too?’ asked Geoffrey, wondering whether there was a second nearby.
‘Eleanor!’ exclaimed Walter, grasping a ready-made solution with relief. ‘She killed Hugh! They went missing together, so it must have been her. She tired of him and stuck a dagger in his heart.’
Geoffrey watched Agnes consider the possibility, her small, delicate features hard and calculating. ‘Eleanor might be the culprit,’ she said slowly. ‘However, it was not us, and you must protect me if Baderon and his knights try to say it was. All we did was find the body.’
‘That is what happens when you have a reputation for murder,’ said Durand unfeelingly. ‘It comes back to haunt you at inconvenient times.’
It was obvious that a fear of comments like Durand’s was exactly what had thrown Agnes into such paroxysms of alarm. She grabbed Giffard’s hand, kissing his ecclesiastical ring.
‘Please, my Lord Bishop,’ she sobbed. ‘You must believe I am innocent of bringing about any death. Pray over me, then you will see I have God’s favour. He will strike me down if I am guilty. But when He does not, you will see I am telling the truth.’
‘Be careful, Mother,’ said Walter in alarm. ‘Think about what you are saying.’
Agnes shot him a look that might have killed him, too, if eyes had been weapons. ‘Join us,’ she ordered. ‘Come and prove your innocence.’
Walter swallowed hard and looked away, a reaction that did not escape Giffard. The Bishop’s hands shook when he rested them on Agnes’ head and began to pray. Geoffrey saw the look of triumph that flickered across her face, and, recalling the views she had expressed about religion, suspected that Giffard’s God held no terrors for her. Walter kicked at a stone, uncertain of what to do, and Durand backed away, pulling Geoffrey with him.
‘What are you doing?’ Geoffrey demanded.
‘She is committing a grievous sin,’ hissed Durand. ‘Surely you saw the looks that passed between her and Walter? Neither is innocent, and they are challenging God. I do not want to be close when divine lightning forks from the sky and strikes them.’
He spoke with such conviction that Geoffrey took another step away.
‘She is lying,’ Joan remarked as she passed Geoffrey on her way to the hall, disgusted with the entire spectacle. ‘She may have convinced Giffard that she had nothing to do with Sibylla’s death, but she does not fool me.’
‘Nor me,’ said Durand. ‘I do not like the fact that she flew here so quickly, protesting her innocence about Hugh, either. It smacks of a felon committing a crime then dashing to claim sanctuary.’
Geoffrey remembered his manners, aware that he ought to make some hospitable gesture, even to guests like Agnes, Walter and Ralph. He offered them wine and indicated that they should precede him into the hall.
‘That is a good idea,’ said Walter, pushing past him. ‘I have had a nasty shock and need something to calm my nerves. It is not every day I see a murdered man.’ He crossed himself, adding in Italian, ‘The fruits fall from the bushes like thunder.’
‘Murdered?’ queried Durand, following the party inside. ‘You said he was stabbed.’
Ralph took the best seat at the hearth and then waved a peremptory hand to indicate that he wanted a drink. Torva obliged in his own time, making sure he received the dregs. The others came to stand around him.
‘Stabbing generally means murder,’ Ralph said in surprising support of Walter. ‘It is not an outrageous conclusion to draw.’
‘My brother was stabbed,’ Joan pointed out. ‘But Olivier believes he did it himself. Being stabbed does not necessarily imply someone else struck the blow.’
‘It does in this case,’ said Ralph tartly. ‘The wound was in his back.’
‘Tell us from the beginning,’ ordered Geoffrey, ‘How did you come to find him?’
‘What authority do you have to question us?’ demanded Ralph.
Geoffrey hesitated. Ralph was right: he had no authority. But Durand stepped in.
‘You can tell Sir Geoffrey now, or you can tell the King when he arrives,’ he said coldly. ‘His Majesty dislikes vassals who allow murders to go unremarked, and if you interfere with Sir Geoffrey’s attempts to identify the culprit, I shall make sure he knows about it.’
‘My mother and I found Hugh when we were on our way from Bicanofre,’ said Walter sullenly, while Ralph fumed silently. ‘We left later than everyone else, because my mother had been enjoying Ralph’s company.’
‘He was showing me his collection of silk hats,’ elaborated Agnes smoothly, as more than one person shot her speculative looks.
‘Silk hats?’ asked Geoffrey in disbelief.
Agnes glared at him, and Ralph was on his feet. ‘You dishonour a good lady’s name with your suspicious tone!’ he snapped. ‘What do you infer?’
‘He was inferring nothing,’ said Joan, also standing. Ralph sank down again when she took a step towards him. ‘It is your hostile manner that makes us not want to believe her.’
Ralph became piqued, but continued the tale. ‘Agnes and I were longer than we intended with the hats, and only became aware of the time when Douce disturbed us.’
‘They did not appear at breakfast,’ added Walter. Geoffrey saw that he was jealous of the time his mother had spent with Ralph and was determined to make them suffer. ‘And this examination of headwear began the previous night, so Ralph must have a lot of hats.’
‘Where were you all that time?’ asked Geoffrey, supposing Ralph and Agnes had lingered under the blankets while the other guests had returned to Goodrich. Or had they? It was equally possible that one had slipped out and stuck a knife in the hapless Hugh, although he could not imagine why. Unless, of course, Hugh had witnessed something sensitive during the fire at Dene, and someone had decided to silence him for it.
‘I slept in Bicanofre’s hall,’ replied Walter sullenly. ‘But I kept myself to myself and spoke to no one. I was not in the mood for idle chatter.’
Geoffrey was sure he was not, while his mother frolicked in bed with Ralph. But his lack of an alibi was unfortunate nonetheless.
‘Why did you not accompany them?’ Giffard demanded of Ralph. ‘It sounds as though it was your fault they were delayed.’
‘Because Douce was fretting about Eleanor,’ said Ralph curtly. ‘And I was obliged to calm her. I followed as soon as I could.’
‘When we reached the ford, we spotted someone lying face-down in the shallows,’ continued Walter. ‘I thought it was a peasant at first, who had fallen in a drunken stupor and drowned. I dismounted to look and recognized Hugh. There was a great bloody wound between his shoulder blades. We started back for Bicanofre for help.’
‘We met on the road,’ finished Ralph. ‘I begged a cart from Walecford and arranged to have the body taken to the village church.’
Geoffrey was thoughtful. Others had returned earlier than Agnes and Walter, and if the body had been at the ford then, they would have seen it first. He concluded that Hugh had been killed not during the night, but some time that morning.
‘Who do you think is responsible for Hugh’s death?’ he asked.
Ralph’s expression was spiteful. ‘That is for you to find out, King’s man. All I can say is it was not me.’
‘It must have been Eleanor,’ said Agnes, ‘as Walter suggested. She is missing, too, and we all know the kind of thing she does when alone in the forest.’
There was a general murmur of agreement. ‘I am afraid it is true,’ said Ralph. ‘My sister is in the habit of disappearing into the woods on occasion, and she does have a penchant for un Christian activities.’
Geoffrey gazed at him with dislike. He felt sorry for Eleanor, having a brother who thought nothing of tossing her to the wolves on the whim of his latest lover. It was clear that he was besotted with Agnes, who no doubt intended to keep him that way until she no longer needed a protector.
‘But you can see why we are worried,’ Agnes was saying to Giffard. ‘I have been accused of murder ever since I arrived, so I am the obvious scapegoat here.’
‘Baderon will want someone hanged,’ agreed Ralph.
‘Baderon does not hang innocent people,’ declared Joan, casting an icy glance towards fitzNorman, to indicate the same could not be said of him. ‘If you have done nothing wrong, you have nothing to worry about.’
‘Hugh was his only son,’ said Ralph. ‘He will lash out at anyone available. And do not think you are immune from his wrath, Geoffrey. I shall point out that it is easy to kill a man on Goodrich land, then dump the body elsewhere.’
Geoffrey met his gaze evenly. ‘But it would not be true.’
Ralph shrugged. ‘Perhaps not, but it will make him think twice about accusing Agnes. Or me.’
‘So,’ Geoffrey surmised, treating Ralph with the contempt he deserved by ignoring him. ‘Hugh disappeared after the fire, only to appear stabbed at the ford. Eleanor is still missing, which may mean she is the culprit, but which may equally mean she is dead, too. We should look for her, if for no other reason than she might need help.’
‘I will go,’ offered Giffard. ‘I will ride that donkey to the forest and try to find her.’
‘I do not suppose the killer left his knife in Hugh, did he?’ asked Geoffrey hopefully. Knives were distinctive, and finding the murder weapon might result in an early solution.
‘Yes,’ came the unexpected reply from Walter. ‘It was still in his back when we found him – before we rushed back towards Bicanofre for help.’
‘It was a horrible thing,’ said Agnes with a shudder. ‘A long dagger with a ruby in its hilt.’
‘But someone stole it,’ finished Walter. ‘By the time we returned, it was gone. A greedy peasant must have grabbed it.’
Geoffrey was unconvinced by Walter’s claim – local people would recognize Hugh and would appreciate the danger of stealing a murder weapon. Even the greediest would think twice, since it would be distinctive and difficult to sell. It occurred to Geoffrey that the killer might have been nearby when Walter and Agnes had stumbled on the body, and had retrieved his dagger after they had gone. Or were they lying? It was no secret that Henry had been killed with a similar blade, so perhaps they had described it to create confusion, and thus divert suspicion from themselves.
Geoffrey travelled the short distance to Walecford to inspect the body himself. He took Durand with him, because Bale was helping Peter in the kitchens, using his sharp knives to slice onions. He tensed when he saw Corwenna and Seguin behind them, wondering if they intended to ambush him, but they turned left at the first fork in the road, while he went right.
‘She is going back to Llan Martin,’ explained Durand. ‘She has been telling everyone she will not wait at Goodrich to be stabbed by Mappestones. The King ordered her to stay here, but clearly she considers herself exempt from the commands of a king.’
Geoffrey was thoughtful. ‘I heard her tell Seguin that Henry will not reign for much longer.’
‘I heard her, too,’ said Durand. ‘The woman is mad to make such statements in the earshot of loyal subjects.’
Hugh was no more attractive in death than he had been in life, his jaw hanging open and his eyes glazed slits. Geoffrey asked Durand to stand guard at the church door, to tell him if anyone was coming, then began his examination. He quickly learnt that Hugh had been killed by a single stab wound to the back. The weapon had made an oval injury, with sharp V-shaped incisions at the top and bottom. It told Geoffrey that its blade was double-edged, a killing weapon rather than an everyday knife.
He inspected Hugh’s hands and arms, looking for marks to indicate that he had fought his attacker, but there was nothing. Then he examined Hugh’s head, to check whether he had first been subdued, and came across a lump. Finally, he assessed his neck, and was startled to see the clear imprint of fingers. Geoffrey sat back on his heels. It seemed to him that someone had hit Hugh on the head, hard enough to stun him, and then strangled him. The knife wound had merely been for show.
He frowned as he considered further. According to the King, the ruby-hilted dagger should be in Baderon’s possession. Did that mean Baderon had killed his own son? Or had someone in his household murdered Hugh, using the weapon Baderon had been to such pains to acquire? But who? One of his knights, on the grounds that their master would have more property to give away with the lawful heir dead? Or Hilde, so she would inherit all?
‘What are you doing?’
The appalled voice behind him made him jump violently. Unsure of how to reply, he said nothing. He glanced angrily at Durand for letting Hilde past in the first place, but Durand only shrugged, to convey that he had been unable to stop her. Geoffrey’s spirits plummeted further still when he saw that Hilde was not alone: Baderon and Lambert were with her.
‘No!’ groaned Baderon, dropping to his knees. ‘Not Hugh!’
‘Who did this?’ Hilde demanded coldly. ‘And what are you doing here? Joan sent word to tell us Hugh was found, but she did not warn us that ghouls would be poring over his poor corpse.’
‘Hugh is wet,’ said Baderon in a strangled whisper. ‘Why is he wet?’
‘Because he was found in the ford,’ explained Durand.
‘Stabbed,’ said Hilde. ‘Or so we were told. Where is the knife?’
‘Actually, he was strangled,’ said Geoffrey, pointing at the bruises. ‘He was probably subdued with a blow to the head and then had the life choked out of him. The stabbing seems to have been an afterthought.’
Hilde stared at him. ‘How do you know?’
Geoffrey took a deep breath. ‘Agnes and Walter claim they saw a ruby-hilted knife embedded in Hugh. It was stolen by the time they fetched help.’
Horror flickered briefly in Baderon’s eyes. ‘Ruby hilted?’
‘Like the one used to kill my brother,’ said Geoffrey, watching him. Alarm replaced the shock on Baderon’s face. Geoffrey glanced at Hilde, but could read only grief, while Lambert was impassive and watchful.
Baderon swallowed hard. ‘I did own such a weapon, but it was stolen months ago. I doubt that killed Henry or Hugh.’
Geoffrey pressed on. ‘You were seen buying one from Jervil on the eve of the fire.’
Baderon’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who told you these lies?’
‘I thought you were becoming our friend,’ said Hilde, hurt plain in her voice. ‘I told you before that your witness was mistaken. What are you trying to infer from his lies? That we killed Henry – and now have murdered my own dear brother?’
‘He just wants someone to blame for Henry’s death,’ said Lambert to Baderon. ‘Now he will tell the King you did it – and that you killed Hugh, too.’
‘You bastard!’ exclaimed Baderon, and there was a ringing sound as he drew his sword, and Lambert did likewise. ‘I will kill you!’
Baderon lunged towards Geoffrey, but the younger, quicker knight had no trouble jumping out of the way. He drew his own weapon, and put a pillar between himself and Baderon and Lambert, to gain a moment to speak.
‘We can fight if we must, but before we do, be aware that the King saw you buy the dagger from Jervil, and I am investigating at his request. I now know a similar weapon killed Hugh, and I would like your explanation.’
Baderon froze. ‘The King saw me with Jervil?’
Geoffrey nodded. ‘And several of Goodrich’s servants say you were buying what was originally yours – that Jervil had retrieved it for you.’
Baderon’s sword clattered from his hand, and his shoulders sank. Hilde ran to him, putting her arm around him. Lambert remained armed, however, and Geoffrey stayed behind the pillar.
‘This cannot be right,’ said Hilde to her father. ‘We had nothing to do with Henry’s death. He deserved to die, but it was not at our hands. Tell him!’
‘Henry was murdered with a dagger I owned,’ said Baderon, raising a white, anguished face towards Hilde. ‘I was uneasy when I first heard the description of the weapon that had killed him – the one Olivier told me Eleanor had cursed – but no one connected it to me, and I saw no need to complicate matters by mentioning it.’
Hilde’s protective hug loosened. ‘Your blade murdered Henry?’ She sounded shocked.
Baderon nodded. ‘I knew as soon as I met him that Geoffrey would investigate – and that he would be more thorough than the others. Peace is important to me, and I did not want the dagger to spoil our chance of friendship. So, I asked Jervil to get it back before Geoffrey could identify it as mine. I intended to destroy it, to be free of its evil.’
‘Why ask Jervil to help you?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Why not Joan or Olivier?’
‘What could I say to Joan?’ cried Baderon. ‘My dagger killed your brother, and I would like it back now, please? That was exactly what I wanted to avoid. I want peace, not a feud.’
‘I would have listened to your explanation,’ said Geoffrey reasonably.
‘Yes, and then you would have attacked us,’ said Lambert.
Baderon took no notice of his knight and continued to address Geoffrey. ‘Perhaps you would, but I had already asked Jervil for help. He was good at getting hold of things. He told me he followed your priest to Rosse and bought it from the silversmith – although I suspect he actually stole it. He sold it to me the night of the fire.’
Geoffrey said nothing, but Jervil had lied to Baderon – the weapon that Father Adrian had sold in Rosse was Olivier’s heirloom, not the blade that had killed Henry.
‘And the King saw you,’ said Hilde. She regarded her father in dismay. ‘Could you not have made this transaction in secret? I know you are innocent, but others may not.’
Baderon glanced at Geoffrey with a face that had aged ten years. ‘I did not kill Jervil, lest you accuse me of that, too.’
‘Was this the dagger Seguin gave you?’ asked Lambert. ‘The one intended as a sign of his fealty?’
Baderon nodded. ‘I appreciated the gesture, but the knife was too garish for my tastes. I did not even notice it was missing until I heard about the blade that killed Henry. Then I looked for it – and found it gone. I thought long and hard, and the only time it could have gone missing was at the Feast of Corpus Christi, last June. We had invited our neighbours to celebrate with us. One of them must have taken it.’
‘Whom would you suspect?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘It could have been anyone,’ replied Lambert. ‘Wulfric, Ralph, Eleanor or Douce from Bicanofre; Henry, Joan and Olivier; fitzNorman, Isabel and Margaret. A host of servants.’
‘Was Jervil there?’ asked Geoffrey.
Hilde shook her head. ‘Joan would not let him come, because he had sticky fingers.’
‘Your brother came, though,’ said Baderon. ‘He ruined the occasion for everyone with his rude manners and inflammatory comments. If he had been killed then, it would not have surprised me. But the knife was stolen instead by someone who intended to kill him with it later.’
‘That means his murder was premeditated,’ said Geoffrey. ‘For three months!’
‘Yes, but not by my father,’ said Hilde firmly. ‘He has not killed Henry, Hugh, Jervil or anyone else. All he did was lose a dagger and try to get it back so you would not think badly of him.’
Geoffrey rubbed his chin, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. ‘I believe you, but there are still many unanswered questions. For example, if you bought this knife from Jervil, then how did it come to kill Hugh? And where is it now?’
‘I do not know,’ said Baderon. ‘I assumed it was lost in the fire, but I was wrong to think it could be destroyed so easily. Its curse continues. How many more people will it claim before it is sated?’