Geoffrey thought about Elgiva’s discovery regarding the poppy juice while he lay in bed. It proved that someone had badly wanted Jervil to die and had given him a soporific to ensure he did so. It also indicated that the groom had died before Margaret. But who was the culprit? He supposed Baderon was still his prime suspect, followed by Hilde, Seguin and Lambert, because they had the best reasons for wanting Jervil silenced. And then there was Ralph, whose manor was poor, and so would have coveted the silver Jervil had earned. Or was the villain Eleanor, so conveniently missing – unless she was dead, of course?
Although Geoffrey was bone-weary, sleep would not come, so he lit a candle and picked up the book Elgiva had given him. He found the page on mandrake, struggling to make out the tiny words and swearing when hot wax dripped on his fingers. Eventually, he doused the candle and closed his eyes. He was still dwelling on what he had read when the door opened and someone crept into the room and made himself comfortable on a straw mattress.
‘Bale?’ he called.
‘It is Durand; Bale is bedding Douce in the stables. Did I wake you? I was trying to be quiet.’
Since Durand did not sound sleepy, Geoffrey relayed everything Elgiva had told him, feeling a need for his former squire’s sharp wits.
‘The villain is Baderon,’ said Durand immediately. ‘He had the most to gain from Jervil’s death, as we have reasoned before. There is not only the fact that he would get his silver back, but he could be certain of silence. And it has been well worth his while.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘I mean he has already employed the weapon at least twice since he bought it.’
‘But the victims have been his son and his friend. They are not men he wanted dead.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Durand. ‘Hugh was a half-wit, and maybe Baderon did not want an imbecile as his heir. And who can blame him? Meanwhile, Seguin was a brute, and perhaps Baderon regretted giving him so much power by betrothing him to Corwenna – the woman who has brought the region to the brink of war, when he has been striving for peace. Perhaps he killed Seguin in a futile attempt to prevent what has happened anyway.’
Geoffrey leant on one elbow. It was true. Baderon had been proud of the alliances he had forged and was convinced they would bring stability. But they had achieved the opposite, and now Baderon was powerless to control the monster he had created.
‘And do not forget that Hugh was found where Olivier disposed of the Black Knife,’ Durand went on. ‘Olivier thought he was destroying the thing, but it escaped from the river via Jervil. Now Jervil is dead, and Baderon’s only son is murdered at that exact same ford.’
‘That must be coincidence,’ said Geoffrey, although he was aware of the uncertainty in his voice. Was it possible? Had Hugh been strangled elsewhere and brought to the ford to make a point about the Black Knife?
‘You need me to guide you through these mazes of intrigue,’ said Durand smugly. ‘I am a much better companion than Bale.’
‘Bale saved me from the fire,’ said Geoffrey, suspecting that Durand would have let him burn.
‘I am not physically brave,’ admitted Durand. ‘But I have far more valuable assets. But you should sleep if you are to turn a rabble into an army tomorrow.’
Geoffrey tried to reassess the clues that rattled around his head, but he was almost instantly lost to the world. It seemed only moments later that he was woken by an urgent hammering and shaking of his shoulder. His first thought was that Goodrich was under attack, and he staggered to his feet, sword in hand. He found that he was weak and disorientated, and barely able to see.
‘Never mind weapons!’ shouted Durand. ‘Help me with the flames, before we are roasted alive.’
It took a moment for Geoffrey’s befuddled mind to grasp what was happening. There was a fire in the mattress next to his bed, which had filled the room with smoke. He saw Durand flapping furiously with a blanket to smother the flames. Then the clerk darted to the window and threw the shutters wide, before pushing Geoffrey towards them. The thumping at the door grew louder.
‘We cannot jump,’ said Geoffrey. ‘It is too far down.’
‘Just breathe the clean air,’ ordered Durand. ‘The blaze is almost out.’
And then it was over. Durand doused the remains of the fire with a bowl of water, and the blaze hissed into nothing. Durand waved the blanket in an attempt to usher the smoke through the window, then the door flew open and Joan stood there, Olivier behind her.
‘What happened?’ she cried. ‘I told the servants not to light a fire in your hearth, because you complain about the stuffiness. How did this come about?’
‘The fire was not in the hearth,’ said Geoffrey, coughing. ‘It was in the bed.’
‘We should have bolted the door,’ said Durand. ‘We assumed we were safe, but the castle is full of people who do not like you. We should have anticipated the attack.’
‘You mean it was started deliberately?’ asked Joan, aghast.
Durand nodded, pointing at kindling still on the mattress. ‘We are lucky I woke when I did, or we would have burnt to cinders – and the whole castle with us.’
Olivier inspected the blackened mess. ‘We could not open the door, because someone did something to make it stick. I suspect someone did mean you harm, Geoff. Do not forget what happened with Dun’s saddle the other day.’
Geoffrey stared at the damage. Who would want him dead? Someone in Baderon’s pay – or Corwenna’s – to make sure he did not fight against them? Ralph, because he detested him? The same arsonist who had started the blaze at Dene – Eleanor, perhaps? One of the servants? Walter and Agnes, to prevent him learning the truth about the Duchess’s murder?
‘What woke you?’ he asked Durand when no answers came.
‘The smoke made me cough myself awake. I saw what was happening and set about dousing the flames. I yelled for your help, but you were dead to the world. Did you drink much wine last night?’
‘None,’ replied Geoffrey.
‘Well, it is over now,’ said Durand. He kicked the mattress and then hauled it to the window, where he tipped it out. ‘It will be cold, but we should leave the shutters open. I do not want to be suffocated by residual fumes.’
Awkwardly, Joan patted Geoffrey’s arm, then she gave Durand a shy smile as she left. ‘I would have been without a brother if you had not acted so quickly.’
Durand pursed his lips after she and Olivier had gone. ‘You should have listened to me in the first place, and then this would not have happened. You endangered me as well.’
Geoffrey was puzzled. ‘Listened to you about what?’
‘About the dangers of the Black Knife,’ snapped Durand. ‘It is here, in your chest, and now an attempt has been made on your life.’
Geoffrey was too tired to begin an argument about the efficacy of curses. He shot Durand a wan smile instead. ‘Thank you. I shall not forget what you did tonight.’
‘Good,’ said Durand. ‘Because neither shall I.’
An innate soldierly sense woke Geoffrey about an hour before the first streaks of dawn touched the hills. He rose immediately, hauled his mail tunic over his head, followed by his padded surcoat, a pair of boiled leather leggings with metal links sewn on for additional protection, his newest helmet and a mail hood that protected his neck and throat. It was the heaviest armour he owned, and that morning he was imbued with the sense that he would need it.
The servants were preparing breakfast in the hall, and he begged a goblet of watered ale and a piece of bread before striding into the bailey. His dog stood at his side with its ears pricked. It uttered a low whine, and Geoffrey stood stock-still, listening. He closed his eyes to blot out what he could see: Helbye walking towards him, faint lights on the battlements, the silhouette of walls against the night sky. And then he was certain.
‘Sound the alarm!’ he yelled. ‘Bale! Order the servants to their battle stations, and tell Torva to keep anyone not fighting inside the hall, out of the way.’
Olivier hurried to his side. ‘What is wrong? We are not under attack!’
‘We will be,’ said Geoffrey grimly. ‘There are horses in the woods to the west, and I can smell cooking fires. They are readying themselves. Tell Peter to prepare food as quickly as possible.’
As he sped away to oversee his troops, Geoffrey hoped it would not be their last meal. Soon, all was action. Villagers were issued arrows and staves, and stationed around the wooden palisade, augmenting the soldiers assigned to the fighting platforms. Geoffrey’s tiny unit of mounted men mustered in the bailey, looking nervous. He gave Joan and Olivier several more orders and rode out, flanked by Helbye and Bale. He heartily wished that Roger was there.
As first light began to illuminate the black countryside, Geoffrey took a small path that led south. His meticulous survey of the surrounding land told him exactly where the enemy would gather and how they would attack. He would not have chosen the west himself, because the hills were thickly wooded and thus unsuitable for the sort of warfare he was sure Corwenna and her raiders had in mind. However, the river lay to the east, and he supposed she did not relish the prospect of being trapped against it, should her attack fail.
Warning his men to move as quietly as possible, he eased around the foot of the nearest hill, then cut around its southern flank to turn north again. They dismounted and then began scrambling up it, cutting behind the enemy forces. The sound of curses, swords clanking on armour and cascading stones sounded like thunder to him. He increased the pace, hoping to launch an attack before the would-be invaders heard them. He arrived at the top of the hill, sweating and breathless, just as the sun’s first rays appeared.
Smoke curled through the tops of the trees, and he heard voices and the snicker of horses. He could smell bread, too, telling him they were still eating – they intended to wait until full light before making their move. His party eased down the hill, and he arranged his cavalry into two lines, then climbed on his horse. He drew his sword and raised it above his head, looking both ways until he was sure that he had the attention of every man. Then, screaming a battle cry learnt from the Saracens, he plunged forward.
The camp erupted in confusion. The men were eating, and their weapons were not readily to hand. Some fled, unwilling to be slaughtered by wheeling swords, but others stayed. Geoffrey killed two who faced him; one of whom released an arrow that soared across his shoulder and narrowly missed Bale. Then the assault disintegrated, with Geoffrey’s horsemen surrounded by enemy foot soldiers who hacked at their legs and saddles.
‘Back!’ Geoffrey yelled, hoping his men would remember what he had drilled into them the previous day. ‘Fall back! Now!’
He was relieved when they obeyed, breaking off the attack and swinging around to follow him. He glanced behind and saw, as he expected, whooping raiders following, sensing a rout. He waited until they were strung out, then wheeled his horse around hard and bore down on them again, using a tactic that had proven successful for Norman armies in the past: feigning flight, so pursuers were scattered and unable to fight as a unit. The invaders stopped in horror when they saw that they had rushed into a trap. The few who tried to fight were quickly dealt with, and Geoffrey rode for the camp itself. One of the first people he saw was Caerdig, kneeling next to his servant Hywel. There was a gaping wound in Hywel’s shoulder, which Geoffrey knew would be fatal. He saw Bale set off after the fleeing Welsh and yelled for him to come back.
‘I can get more of the bastards!’ cried Bale. He was smeared in blood from head to toe, and there was a ferocious gleam in his eyes.
‘Not in the woods. They will drag you off your horse and kill you.’
Bale was pale in the dawn light. ‘This is the first time I have taken a man’s life. It feels . . . unreal.’
‘Yes,’ acknowledged Geoffrey. ‘I was sick the first time I engaged in battle.’
‘I did not say I was sick,’ said Bale. ‘I said it is unreal. But it is not unpleasant, and I shall be happy to do it again.’
It was no place for such a discussion. Geoffrey turned to Caerdig.
‘Stop this,’ he said, when Caerdig looked up at him with an anguished expression. ‘I do not want to fight, and neither do you.’
‘We can defeat them!’ yelled Corwenna, appearing from nowhere and grabbing her father by the arm, as if she intended to shake her courage into him. ‘Most of our warriors escaped – we will win.’
‘We will talk,’ countered Caerdig harshly. ‘Call off your attack, Geoffrey, before any more of my men are slaughtered.’
As soon as Caerdig indicated that he wanted an end to the skirmish, Geoffrey called his men to order. He feared that it might be difficult to stop such raw recruits from killing once they started, and he was relieved when they did as they were told. He left Helbye in charge, with orders to call him if the raiders showed signs of regrouping, then he went to Caerdig. Hywel was already dead.
‘This should not have happened,’ Geoffrey said, dismounting. ‘What were you thinking?’
Caerdig shook his head. ‘I knew it was a mistake.’
‘Coward!’ shrieked Corwenna, throwing herself at her father with flailing fists.
‘She will see you all dead,’ Geoffrey said to the men who hurried to restrain her. ‘Lock her away where she can do no more harm.’
Still screaming, Corwenna was dragged off. ‘Goodrich is doomed. You have not won.’
Geoffrey’s blood ran cold when he understood what she was saying. He had been a fool to fall for such an obvious ploy.
‘Baderon’s men will attack our front while you assault us from behind?’
‘It was a stupid idea,’ said Caerdig bitterly. ‘We are raiders, ill equipped to tackle Norman horsemen. You had better go and face him. I do not think his heart is in this conflict, either, but Lambert and Corwenna have recruited war-like villains from both sides of the border with the promise of loot and grain. They are a bloodthirsty, undisciplined rabble, strengthened with Baderon’s professional troops. Together, they represent a formidable force.’
‘Do I have your word that you will not fight again?’ asked Geoffrey, reaching for his reins. ‘You will go home?’
Caerdig nodded. ‘We should never have left it in the first place.’
Geoffrey did not wait to hear more, knowing that Caerdig would not break his promise. Yelling for his men to follow, he climbed into his saddle and turned his back on the broken bodies in the clearing. One of his men had a cut arm, but they had otherwise executed a massacre with no loss to themselves. They rode fast towards Goodrich.
It was not long before the wooden palisade came into view, and he saw smoke issuing from inside. Fire arrows had been deployed, and he hoped the flames were being doused with the water and sand he had ordered to be placed around the bailey the previous day. Arrows showered in both directions, and it was obvious that the engagement had reached a stalemate: the attackers could not broach the walls, but the defenders could not drive them away.
‘Into the trees!’ he ordered his men. ‘Quickly.’
‘Will we attack?’ asked Helbye doubtfully, surveying the enemy with a practised eye. ‘Baderon’s horsemen alone outnumber us three to one.’
Geoffrey’s look silenced him – he did not want the men thinking the odds were insurmountable. He led the party along a forest track until they reached the place where he would have launched an assault against Goodrich. It comprised a spit of woodland that swept close to the castle and afforded good cover. Now he was going to attack the attackers.
‘Break off the moment I say,’ he whispered, lining up his men. ‘It is even more critical this time, because these are horsemen you are fighting, not foot soldiers.’
He waited until Baderon’s men were engaged in a futile swoop against the palisade, then he launched his own charge, feeling his throat crack as he screamed his war cry. Then he was out of the trees and thundering towards the enemy. Geoffrey saw the enemy scatter in alarm, then realize too late that they needed to meet his attack in formation. Baderon tried to rally them, but they were slow to obey. Geoffrey’s force slammed into them, and several went down immediately. Geoffrey engaged Lambert with a vicious blow to the chest, then swung hard with his shield, so the knight was forced to fall back. Then he recalled his men, watching with satisfaction as Lambert made the assumption that he was running because of inferior numbers. The enemy started to pursue with gleeful whoops.
He wheeled around when he felt Lambert’s troops were sufficiently strung out, and the tight formation of his own riders cut through them like a knife through butter. Bale was riding hard towards Baderon, a savage smile on his face and a couched lance in his hand. Baderon fumbled for his sword, but Geoffrey knew he would be too late. Geoffrey spurred his horse forward, and managed to come between them, raising his own shield just in time. Bale’s lance shattered under the impact, and so did Geoffrey’s shield. The blow was so violent that Geoffrey was hurled from his saddle. He staggered to his feet, cursing his reckless chivalry – a knight on foot was heavily disadvantaged, and Baderon was riding towards him. Geoffrey met his eyes and prepared to fight.
‘Retreat!’ yelled Baderon, wheeling away. ‘Back!’
And then the skirmish was over, leaving one of Geoffrey’s men severely wounded, and a number of Baderon’s dead on the grass. Those who had been unhorsed fled for their lives, while Geoffrey’s men whooped as they harried them, stopping only to claim riderless ponies as spoils of war.
Geoffrey arrived in Goodrich to the adulation of its inhabitants, who were even more pleased when informed by Helbye that Geoffrey’s military masterpiece was against a much larger force. Tempered by the knowledge that one of their soldiers was coughing his last and three archers had been wounded, elation was still the order of the day.
‘It is not over,’ said Geoffrey, his voice hoarse from yelling. ‘Caerdig will not fight again, but Baderon and Lambert will.’
‘They will not,’ predicted Olivier confidently. ‘They have seen what we can do. You should have seen Joan direct the archers on their first attack!’
Geoffrey winced. ‘I should not have left you to chase raiders in the woods.’
‘You should,’ countered Joan. ‘We can repel an invasion from one direction, but not two. Had Caerdig attacked at the same time as Baderon, we could not have coped.’
‘We need more arrows,’ said Geoffrey, quickly turning his thoughts to the future. ‘Tell the children to retrieve as many as they can.’
‘Man the gate!’ a guard yelled. ‘They are coming again!’
‘Already?’ groaned Geoffrey. He had hoped there would be more time.
‘Twenty horsemen!’ shouted the guard, as Geoffrey climbed to the main gate’s fighting platform to see for himself. ‘And they appear a damned sight better than the last lot.’
Indeed, they did. They carried lances and rode in a tight formation, suggesting they were experienced in battle, and their weapons and armour appeared to be well tended, even from a distance. Geoffrey’s heart sank, thinking such a force would make short work of his amateurs. Then he saw the leading horseman, and his spirits soared.
‘Open the gate,’ he ordered. ‘It is Roger.’
‘When Helbye told me about Baderon’s alliances, I thought things might turn nasty,’ said Roger, clattering into the bailey, before dismounting and clasping his friend’s shoulder. ‘So I recruited a few men to lend us a hand. I came back as fast as I could.’
‘You are just in time,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Is that why you left? To rally troops?’
Roger nodded. ‘There was no point telling you, because you would have tried to talk me out of it – not wanting me bloodied in your war, or claiming you do not have the funds to pay twenty mercenaries. But I am a wealthy man – I have not told you yet about my “visit” to Normandy, have I? I can afford to be generous to a friend.’
‘Where did you find them?’ asked Geoffrey. Roger’s warriors looked rough, cold and ruthless.
‘Hereford. I tried Rosse, but it was full of farmers, so I was obliged to travel farther afield, which is why I was longer than intended. What do you think?’
Geoffrey nodded his approval, and for the first time he started to believe there was a chance of success. Then Roger noticed the battle-stained horses being rubbed down and the swords being cleaned of blood.
‘We are too late!’ he cried in disappointment.
‘You are in time,’ countered Geoffrey. ‘We fended off one attack, but Lambert and Baderon will not make the same mistakes twice. They were overconfident, and we took advantage of them, but it will not happen again.’
‘The news that a large force is gathering to attack Goodrich travelled all the way to Hereford,’ said Roger. ‘Lambert has amassed an army comprising not only half-starved, desperate Welshmen who have decided to test Baderon’s declarations of friendship, but many mercenaries, too.’
‘At least Caerdig is no longer among them,’ said Geoffrey. ‘His heart was never in it, nor is Baderon’s.’
‘It is Corwenna’s doing,’ said Joan angrily. ‘Damn her ridiculous taste for vengeance!’
‘If Caerdig keeps her under lock and key, the attack may lose impetus,’ said Olivier hopefully. ‘She is the one who is firing them up.’
‘She and Lambert,’ said Geoffrey. ‘But Caerdig will not be able to keep her quiet for long.’
‘This army you say has gathered,’ Joan asked Roger, ‘just how large is it?’
‘Several hundred, by all accounts,’ replied Roger.
‘Baderon,’ said Joan bitterly. ‘You say he does not want to fight us – and he held his hand this morning when he could have cut you down – but he still has a lot to answer for. He paid Jervil to get the Black Knife, so it stands to reason that he had Jervil killed.’ She shook her head, attempting to come to terms with the fact that the man who had been a guest in her home should now be trying to raze it to the ground. ‘He and Henry are the cause of all these problems.’
‘Why Henry?’ Geoffrey asked.
‘His arrangement with Baderon,’ explained Joan. ‘Peter the cook said he mentioned it to you, so there is no point in trying to hide it any longer. There is a rumour that Henry made a secret pact with Baderon – he was to marry Hilde, but then he reneged and went after Isabel instead. That is why Baderon has turned against us so bitterly.’
‘But Peter and Torva said the arrangement was not a marriage,’ said Geoffrey, recalling that Baderon had also hinted as much.
Joan sighed. ‘They cannot know what it entailed – Peter witnessed the agreement, but could not read it. A marriage between Hilde and Henry is the only thing it could have been.’
Roger grimaced. ‘Life is very complicated here. Things are so much simpler in the Holy Land.’
‘Will you watch the castle, Roger, and direct the defence if another attack comes?’ Geoffrey asked, walking towards his horse.
Roger nodded. ‘But what will you be doing?’
‘Trying to stop this at its source,’ answered Geoffrey. ‘I am going to speak to Baderon.’
Father Adrian applauded Geoffrey’s determination to bring an end to the dispute, but he was the only one; Joan, Olivier and Roger believed he was needlessly risking his life. Geoffrey declined Roger’s offer of company; although it would have been comforting to have a friend at his side, the northern knight’s blunt tongue was a danger to delicate negotiations. He rejected Bale’s offer for the same reason, and refused Olivier’s because the man looked terrified. He rode out of the castle alone, taking Dun – he wanted to save his own warhorse lest he needed it later.
Geoffrey crossed the ford and rode north to the flat terraces near the river, where he imagined Baderon would be camped. He carried a white pennant on his lance, hoping it would prevent him from being shot at first sight. The forest was eerily quiet, which told him that men were hidden in the trees. Eventually, he reached the first of Baderon’s patrols. The captain of the guard saluted him, before wordlessly leading him to the camp.
Geoffrey was horrified when he saw the size of Baderon’s army. Roger had been right: there were several hundred men sitting round fires or tending shaggy ponies. Some were clearly Welshmen, exploiting the opportunity to acquire grain to feed their villages, but more had the slovenly, undisciplined appearance of men who sold their services for a few coins and the prospect of plunder. The rest were Normans, distinctive in their mail and conical helmets. Appalled, Geoffrey knew that Goodrich could not withstand such a force for long. The guard took him to a tent, shouting in Norman-French that a messenger had arrived. Geoffrey dismounted and waited.
‘Have you come to surrender?’ asked Lambert, emerging from the tent with a scowl. He gestured to his troops. ‘You should: you cannot defeat us.’
‘Where is Baderon?’ asked Geoffrey.
The next person to emerge from the tent, however, was Corwenna.
‘It is Geoffrey Mappestone!’ she exclaimed, pulling a dagger from her belt. ‘This is better than I hoped. We shall send his head back to Joan – that will show her what we think of her attempts to negotiate.’
‘Tempting, but unwise,’ said Lambert laconically. ‘It is not how these things are done.’
‘Hywel was killed this morning,’ she hissed. ‘And my father is a broken man, refusing to fight. Do not talk to me about what is right!’ She spat on the ground at Geoffrey’s feet, and there was a murmur of approval from those nearby.
Baderon emerged at last, with Hilde behind him. Hilde wore a mail tunic over her kirtle and a hefty sword strapped to her side.
‘You should not have come,’ Hilde said. ‘You have risked your life for nothing, because there can be no peace. These men will not disperse until they have the spoils they have been promised.’ She glared at Corwenna.
‘It is true,’ said Baderon hoarsely. ‘Either their food supplies are low and they need an excuse to take cattle and grain, or they have been promised plunder in return for their services. Neither faction will agree to leave empty-handed.’
‘They will be disappointed,’ warned Geoffrey. ‘Our livestock have been hidden, and there are men standing by to fire the granaries if we are overrun. And Goodrich has little to please mercenaries – it is not a wealthy estate. Tell your men that. It may make them less willing to squander their lives when they will have nothing in return.’
‘I am in an impossible position,’ said Baderon. ‘I wanted alliances with my Welsh neighbours, but it has all gone sour. I do not understand-’
‘We shall send Geoffrey’s corpse to Joan,’ interrupted Corwenna imperiously. ‘Then we shall burn Goodrich and slaughter every one of its inhabitants. I do not care about cattle, grain and loot. I just want to see blood spilt to avenge my murdered husband.’
Geoffrey addressed Baderon. ‘Corwenna’s vengeance will cost you dearly. Many men will die – including those who should be planting crops for next year. Your people will take nothing of ours with you; Joan will see to that.’
‘I am sure she will,’ said Hilde. ‘I would do the same in her position.’
‘No grain?’ asked one of the Welsh captains, struggling to understand the Norman-French.
‘Every granary will be fired the moment you appear,’ replied Geoffrey, speaking Welsh to ensure he understood. ‘You will not have a single kernel.’
This caused considerable consternation, and Geoffrey saw the extent to which hunger drove some of them.
‘He lies,’ Corwenna said with contempt. ‘Normans do not destroy grain.’
Geoffrey did not need to press his point: the Welshmen had understood him perfectly. He addressed them directly. ‘We have corn aplenty, and we are prepared to share it with you – but only if you retreat by this evening.’
‘Do not listen,’ hissed Corwenna. ‘He will wait until you have disbanded, then destroy you one by one. And you will see none of his corn. I know what the word of a Mappestone means.’
‘Goodrich helped Llan Martin through lean times last year,’ said one of the captains. ‘And I trust Caerdig: if he will not fight, we should reconsider.’
Another leader agreed, pointing out the futility of fighting if there was no booty to take home. They began to argue, while Corwenna watched, aghast.
‘They are going to back down,’ she breathed.
‘What were you telling them?’ demanded Lambert of Geoffrey.
‘He said he would pay each captain ten pieces of silver if they abandon you now,’ said Corwenna before Geoffrey could answer. ‘And another ten if they bring him your head and Baderon’s on pikes.’
Lambert steamed across to the conferring Welsh and began to rail at them, while Corwenna ‘translated’. Geoffrey tried to interrupt, but swords were drawn and he was ordered back. He closed his eyes in despair when Corwenna informed her countrymen that Goodrich intended to trick them: that Roger’s recent arrival with mercenaries was evidence that they intended to attack Wales. Baderon watched for a moment, then ducked back inside the tent, his shoulders bowed.
‘Did you offer them silver to back down, Geoffrey?’ asked Hilde uneasily.
‘Of course not,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Do you think me a fool?’
‘I do not,’ Hilde said softly. She was silent for a moment, then spoke in a rush. ‘I have been thinking about the deaths of Hugh and Seguin, and I do not believe you are responsible.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Geoffrey drily. ‘It is a pity Lambert does not think the same.’
‘You had no reason to want them dead,’ Hilde continued. ‘If you had been willing to marry me, I might have assumed you wanted Hugh out of the way, but you do not. And you never let Seguin’s ill manners bother you much, either. You are not their killer.’
‘Well, despite all the evidence that points to his guilt, I do not believe your father killed my brother, either. He does not behave like a murderer, and the servants at Goodrich think there was a secret pact – a marriage contract, perhaps – between him and Henry, which makes it highly unlikely that your father is the culprit.’
Hilde sighed. ‘They are right, in part. We did have an arrangement that only Henry and my family knew about, but it was nothing to do with him marrying me. I would never have agreed to that. It is a pity he was not you – I would not have minded you.’
‘You are not so bad yourself,’ said Geoffrey, feeling some sort of reciprocal compliment was in order. ‘Better than the others.’
Unexpectedly, Hilde laughed. ‘You have a silver tongue, Geoffrey Mappestone, there is no doubt about that!’
Geoffrey smiled. ‘What was this arrangement with Henry, if it did not involve an alliance by marriage?’
‘I did not say it was not an alliance by marriage. It was just not between him and me.’
Geoffrey looked confused. ‘Who then?’
‘Joan. To Hugh.’
Geoffrey regarded her askance. ‘But Joan has Olivier.’
‘Olivier had an accident last summer,’ said Hilde. ‘He broke his arm, but Henry led us to believe it was more serious, and offered Joan for Hugh.’
Geoffrey stared at her. ‘I do not think Joan would have appreciated that.’
‘Neither would Hugh, whose heart was set on Eleanor. But it would have served its purpose: Henry could have had Isabel and secured an alliance with us. It would have united three Houses.’
‘But Joan has not produced heirs for Olivier, so her marriage with Hugh would have been equally barren. How would it have benefited Goodrich?’
‘Joan had children. Did you not know? Like Henry’s, they were taken by fevers, and then Olivier had an illness that means he cannot . . . well, she could provide heirs for a different husband.’
Geoffrey had not known about such children and realized, yet again, that there was a good deal about his sister and her life that was a closed book to him.
‘Henry misled us over Olivier’s broken arm,’ Hilde went on. ‘And we have since learnt he attacked the poor man, clearly intending to kill him to provide a wife for Hugh. But I would be obliged if you keep this to yourself – if Joan were to find out that we were even remotely associated with a plot that almost saw Olivier murdered, we would never have peace.’
‘So that is why our servants think your father would not have killed Henry.’ Geoffrey rubbed his head; then an unpleasant thought occurred to him. ‘Are you sure Joan did not know about this?’
‘Positive,’ said Hilde firmly. ‘If she had learnt that Henry had attempted to kill Olivier, do you think she would have murdered him by stealth? Of course not! She would have hanged him from the castle walls.’
Geoffrey glanced at Corwenna and Lambert, who were still trying to persuade the wary Welshmen against leaving. He started to move towards them, but swords blocked him a second time, and Hilde pulled him back with a surprisingly strong arm.
‘Even if you do convince the Welsh that they are making a mistake, Lambert and Corwena will still have their Normans and mercenaries,’ she said. ‘Goodrich remains outnumbered by a considerable margin. If I thought you would listen, I would urge you to turn around and aim for the Holy Land, because there is nothing but death left for you here.’
‘And leave my sister?’ asked Geoffrey archly.
There was no more to be said, so Geoffrey went to his horse and mounted. Then there was a sudden blur of movement as Corwenna snatched a crossbow from a guard, and fired.
Geoffrey reacted instinctively, throwing himself to one side. Dun reared up in confusion and the bolt hit his chest. With a piercing whinny, the horse crashed to the ground. Hands dragged Geoffrey to safety, but he twisted away from them and knelt next to Dun, trying to stem the gush of blood with his fingers. It seemed a long time before the horse’s desperate, agonized battle for life was over.
Geoffrey looked at the blood staining his hands and climbed slowly to his feet. The Welsh captains stood in a shocked, mute circle around him, while Hilde looked as angry as Geoffrey felt. He liked horses, and for his to have been killed by Corwenna was more than his temper could bear. He stalked towards her.
‘Easy, man,’ said Lambert uncomfortably. ‘She did not mean to hurt the horse. She was aiming for you.’
Geoffrey was not sure why this was expected to make him feel better. Corwenna did not flinch when he reached her. Instead, she smiled, her eyes carrying an expression of intense satisfaction; she was delighted to see the death of the horse had touched him.
‘You have a long walk ahead of you,’ she said smugly. ‘You had better start, if you do not want to be alone in the forest after dark. It is dangerous for those who are not welcome.’
Geoffrey had never before experienced such a strong urge to put his hands around someone’s throat and choke the life out of them. But an enemy camp, where he was surrounded by hostile forces, was not the place for it. He allowed Hilde to tug him away.
‘Take my horse,’ she said. ‘You can give him back when all this is over.’
Geoffrey did not trust himself to speak. He shot Corwenna a glare filled with loathing, then turned away, half-expecting her to launch another attack while his back was turned. He followed Hilde to where Lambert was already saddling up a sturdy pony, snatched the reins and rode out of the camp. He did not look back.
Bitterly, he saw that Roger, Joan and Olivier had been right: he had risked his life for nothing – and lost a good horse in the bargain. He had learnt of Henry’s plans for Joan, but they seemed unimportant now. How many men would die because Henry had been a brute and Corwenna hated him for it? And could Goodrich hold out against such a huge horde, even if the Welsh captains did see sense and go home?
He was so engrossed in his thoughts that it was some time before he realized he had ridden farther than he should have, and the sun was on the wrong side – it was behind him, meaning he had travelled east instead of south. He was angry with himself as he wheeled around and rode back the way he had come. Then he reached a fork and turned westward, but the track soon doubled back on itself, and it was not long before he was lost.
While the sun was up, he knew which way to go, but with dusk came clouds and rain, and it was soon too dark to see. He was furious that he had been so careless and desperately hoped Corwenna would not attack Goodrich that night. Visions of Joan battling against the hordes drove him on, but the night was pitch-black, and he had no idea which way he was travelling. He knew he should stop and find shelter until dawn, but he could not rid himself of the notion that he would be needed. He dismounted when the pony stumbled a second time and continued on foot.
By now he was hopelessly lost, no longer even on a path. He stood still for a moment with his eyes closed, trying to let his innate sense of direction take over. It did not work, leaving him to move blindly through wet branches that scratched at his face, knowing he would not see a path if he walked across it. Then the ground suddenly disappeared from beneath his feet. He managed to release the bridle before he fell, so the horse was not dragged down with him, and slid down a slope thick with dead leaves. He started to skid faster, and then he was airborne, landing with a splash in agonizingly cold water.
Weighed down by full armour, with water soaking into his surcoat, his first thought was that he was going to drown, but his feet touched the bottom and he was able to stand. He saw that he should not have been impatient, and that finding shelter had been the right thing to do. Now, not only was he hopelessly lost, he did not even have the pony.
However, the place seemed familiar, and he suddenly realized it was the Angel Springs. He could just make out the flat stone altar. He eased towards it, but the objects that had been there on his previous visit had gone. Then his feet skidded on the rain-slicked rocks and he fell again. Cold, disgusted and with a nasty ache from a wrenched knee, he released a litany of oaths of the kind he never used in company, comprising a lot of Anglo-Saxon and a bit of very expressive Arabic.
‘That is fine language for a knight,’ came a mocking voice from the darkness. ‘It is a good thing I do not understand any of it, or we would both be heartily embarrassed.’