‘Hundreds,’ corrected Geoffrey, scrambling up on to the fighting platform and trying to conceal his alarm at the size of the army Baderon had mustered. ‘Not thousands.’
With Roger at his side, he assessed the troops massing just out of arrow range. They formed a vast inverted U, with horsemen on each side, and a huge company of foot soldiers in the middle. Behind, watching from the vantage point of a knoll, were Baderon and his commanders. The Lord of Monmouth sat astride a dark bay. Lambert was on his right, identifiable by the fair hair below his helmet, and Hilde was to his left, atop a white pony. Corwenna was well to the front, however, head bared to reveal her auburn mane. She was standing in her stirrups, yelling. Even from a distance, her voice was clear and strong, and her words met with cheers.
Meanwhile, Goodrich’s defenders watched in horrified silence as rank after rank filed forward, armed with spears, battleaxes and shields. Just when Geoffrey thought the last had arrived, more appeared, until the fields around the castle gleamed silver with weapons and armour.
‘Lord!’ breathed Olivier. ‘We cannot withstand such a number. We shall be slaughtered.’
Roger clapped a hand on his shoulder. ‘But you and I will take a few with us, eh? We shall meet in Paradise and exchange stories.’ Olivier looked terrified, and Geoffrey suspected Roger’s illusions about him were soon to be shattered once and for all.
‘We are well defended,’ said Joan firmly, although Geoffrey knew she spoke only for the benefit of the troops.
Geoffrey jumped from the platform and strode to where Bale waited with his warhorse. Durand was with him, dressed in something suspiciously like one of Father Adrian’s habits. Geoffrey could not find it in his heart to condemn Durand for donning clothes he hoped might see him spared. He was caught in the middle of a battle that was none of his making.
‘Remember what you promised me,’ Geoffrey said to Joan. ‘You cannot lead an attack yourself.’
She touched his cheek, her hand shaking. She was frightened, although her face betrayed no emotion. ‘Dear Geoff. But go, and let us pray we live to see each other again.’
He took the reins from Durand. ‘I am sorry,’ he said to his old squire. ‘You should not be here.’
‘No, I should not,’ agreed Durand fervently. ‘I knew it was a mistake coming here. Violence follows you, but this time you have excelled yourself. I do not envy Bale for what you are going to make him do today.’ He glanced at the squire. ‘Although he looks more than eager to begin.’
Bale was armed with an axe and a sword. Both were honed to a devastating sharpness, and the dull light in his eyes indicated he was ready.
‘You should hide,’ Geoffrey said to Durand, watching Roger prepare his mercenaries to engage the masses outside. ‘Remember the passage I told you about, which leads from my chamber to the woods? Go down it if we are overrun. Then tell the King what really happened.’
‘Very well,’ said Durand, terrified. ‘But let us hope it will not be necessary.’
With a great whoop, the gate was flung open and Roger hurtled out, his warriors streaming behind him. They flew across the space separating the invaders from the castle and, when the enemy broke ranks to meet them, Geoffrey signalled for his archers to begin their deadly attack. Roger tore among the front ranks with his broadsword, men falling around him like timber. Baderon’s troops fell back, and Geoffrey held his breath, half-expecting Roger to forget the plan in the heat of battle. But, still hacking at hapless stragglers, Roger yelled a retreat.
Geoffrey heard Lambert order his men to pursue Roger and watched as they obeyed, shields raised to fend off the deadly hail of arrows. As per his instruction, Roger veered to the right, towards Baderon’s right flank. The speed of the change confused the enemy, and some scattered, getting in the way of others trying to press forward. Roger wheeled away again.
Geoffrey ordered the gates opened a second time and led his own men out, yelling for them to keep in formation and not break ranks. He made a feint at the horsemen on the left, who had seen what happened to their comrades and were ready. They surged forward, but Geoffrey abruptly changed direction and aimed for the swarming foot soldiers, making sure Baderon’s left followed him.
Roger’s identical manoeuvre was completed simultaneously, and suddenly there were four separate units of horsemen – Geoffrey’s and Roger’s, plus Baderon’s left and right – converging on the hapless infantry. There was instant confusion, and more foot soldiers were crushed under the hoofs of friends’ horses than were killed by Goodrich’s men. Then Geoffrey’s and Roger’s forces met and formed a single unit, slashing with swords and axes.
With little room to move, and men behind pressing against those in front, it was sheer slaughter. Geoffrey lost count of the men who fell by his sword. The battle cries and horses’ whinnies almost drowned the clash of weapons. His hands were slippery with blood, and the faces that swarmed towards him blurred as he fought on, standing in his stirrups and using both hands to swing his sword. The rich, earthy stink of blood was sickening. Then, as the yell came for Baderon’s troops to retreat, a horseman appeared, aiming a series of heavy blows at Geoffrey.
‘You brought us to this point!’ screamed Lambert. His eyes were glazed and he was splattered with gore from head to foot. ‘And you killed my brother!’
‘On my honour, I did not raise my hand against Seguin!’ shouted Geoffrey. ‘Can we not, even at this stage, stop the slaughter and negotiate?’
‘It is too late!’ yelled Lambert bitterly. ‘Baderon is not in control: Corwenna is, and she will not rest until Goodrich is destroyed. It is what happens when you make alliances with rabid dogs – and there are few more rabid than her. I wish I had never set eyes on the woman.’
Before he could say more, there was the crash of a battleaxe, and Lambert toppled from his saddle, blood erupting from a huge gash in the back of his head. Behind him, face split in a diabolical grimace, was Corwenna.
Her face was splattered with blood, and it was clear that she had been at the heart of the slaughter. Her eyes were wild, and she was more ecstatic than Geoffrey had ever seen her. She drove her horse forward and raised her axe, aiming for his head. He raised his shield and launched an attack of his own, jabbing hard under it with his sword. Corwenna gave a screech of outrage as the blade bit into her thigh, and brought the axe down with all her might.
Caught at the wrong angle, Geoffrey’s shield split into several pieces, but before she could take advantage, several vicious swipes of his sword drove her back. With the heat of the moment compounding his mental exhaustion, he made an appalling blunder, jumping from his saddle to grab a replacement shield from a corpse. It was an inexcusable mistake that left him infinitely more vulnerable: no knight willingly left his horse during battle.
Corwenna, who was no match for him under normal circumstances, grinned her delight and came after him with a series of hacking swipes. Fortunately, it was easy to evade them, as she held her axe high up on its handle, restricting its reach.
‘Why did you kill Lambert?’ Geoffrey demanded, trying to make the crazed woman lose concentration.
‘He was weak,’ she snarled, swinging her axe, as he dodged away. ‘Like Baderon, who does not fight, but directs the battle from where it is safe.’
Several of her men hurried to help, and soon three blades were stabbing at Geoffrey. Before they could skewer him, he ducked under the belly of Corwenna’s horse and out the other side, grabbing one of her legs to haul her off. She fell, kicking and spitting. He ran to his horse and scrambled into the saddle. When her men saw Geoffrey remounted, they melted away, unwilling to face a Norman on horseback. Corwenna hesitated for a moment, but then followed them, also unwilling to pit her life against such unattractive odds.
‘Back to the castle!’ Geoffrey yelled. He and Roger had done all they could, and it was time to retreat before they started taking serious casualties.
‘I can get her!’ screeched Bale, his face smeared red and eyes alight.
‘Her cavalry have regrouped!’ Geoffrey shouted back. ‘They will cut you off if you move forward, so retreat. Now!’
Most obeyed, although one man charged ahead regardless, guided by some primal part of his mind. Geoffrey saw him surrounded by foot soldiers, then dragged from his horse. He did not wait to see more. He wheeled his horse round and yelled for his men to follow. Baderon’s riders, eager to avenge their losses, thundered towards them, and Geoffrey saw that it would be a close-run thing as to whether they reached the gate in time. But a rush of arrows drove back the pursuit, and Geoffrey and his men streamed through the gate unhindered.
‘That worked,’ said Olivier, his voice unsteady. ‘But even though their dead litter the ground, we seem to have made no appreciable impact. There are still more of them than leaves on the trees.’
‘There are not,’ snapped Geoffrey, afraid the men would hear and lose heart. It was a hard enough battle, without the soldiers becoming demoralized. ‘We have severely damaged their horsemen.’
But when he clambered up to the platform, he saw that Olivier was right. Although there were many dead and wounded on the battlefield, their loss had made no dent in the main fighting force. It was then that Geoffrey knew for certain that they would never win; the odds were simply too great. Roger came to stand next to him.
‘I did not think my life would end somewhere like this,’ Roger said. He also recognized a lost cause when he saw one. ‘I thought I would die an old man, in bed with a vigorous whore on top of me.’
‘You still could, if you took your men and rode south,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I doubt Baderon will follow. Take Joan.’
Roger sniffed. His face was splattered with blood and his surcoat was drenched in it. ‘She will not leave. Durand would come, but he is the only one.’
‘Have you considered surrender?’ asked Walter weakly from behind, clearly appalled by what he had seen. ‘They may spare our lives if you give them the castle.’
Roger laughed. ‘You think they will let us give up now? You are a fool, boy!’
‘I will offer them money,’ said Walter desperately. ‘Send Giffard to tell them I will pay handsomely for safe passage. I have a chest of coins.’
‘Why would they spare you, when they can have the coins regardless?’ asked Roger.
‘Then I shall hide in the cellars,’ said Walter, ‘and come out when all the fighting is over.’
‘If you do, you will burn when the castle is fired,’ warned Geoffrey. He saw Durand nearby, his face white with fear. ‘Collect the women and children – and Walter – and lead them down that passage. Keep them hidden until nightfall.’
‘But we will be without protection,’ objected Durand uneasily.
Geoffrey nodded. ‘But we cannot win this fight, and it is only a matter of time before the enemy breach the walls.’
Durand swallowed hard. ‘Very well.’
Geoffrey clapped him on the shoulder, aware that his hand left a bloody streak on his habit. Durand asked a few questions about the tunnel, and what might be done to conceal it after they had gone, and then left. Geoffrey breathed a prayer for his success.
‘Now what?’ asked Olivier shakily. ‘We cannot repeat your manoeuvre, because they have already adapted. I think the next attack will be in several places at the same time.’
‘It is what I would do,’ said Geoffrey. ‘With a concentrated push to smash the gate. Then, once they are inside, we will have to retreat to the keep.’
‘Here they come again!’ yelled Roger. ‘They do not want to give us time to recoup.’
‘Aim for the rider on the piebald pony!’ shouted Geoffrey to the archers. ‘It is Corwenna.’
Fire arrows streamed across the walls, some falling harmlessly, some landing in places where they started to burn and others thudding into the people running to douse them. Men with ladders moved forward outside.
Geoffrey ran to the northern wall, where invaders were already swarming the ramparts. He snatched a bow from a dead archer and shot off several arrows, but the raiders were protected by the shields they held aloft, and they were too many to deter with bows. One of Geoffrey’s archers yelled that they were almost out of ammunition, and a howl of enemy glee from the east told him the gate had been breached.
‘So soon?’ he whispered, appalled.
‘It was opened from inside!’ howled Roger. ‘We have been betrayed!’
Yelling for everyone else to retreat to the keep, Geoffrey joined Roger and his mounted mercenaries in brutal combat with the first of the invaders to stream in. Gradually, the press of men forced the defenders back until they were in the narrow space between stables and kitchen. Geoffrey’s foot soldiers rushed to aid them, and the bailey was a hive of skirmishes, ringing with war cries, screams of pain and the clang of desperately wielded weapons.
A group of enemy soldiers recognized Geoffrey’s surcoat and launched a concerted attack to separate him from his troops. Slowly, they drove him into the kitchen. Geoffrey was tiring, but suddenly, Durand appeared. The clerk slipped a knife between one man’s ribs and, with better odds, Geoffrey dispatched two more. The remainder fled.
Durand watched dispassionately as the man he had stabbed choked on his own blood.
‘There,’ he said, glancing at Geoffrey. ‘I do not want you dead. Not yet, at least.’
Geoffrey dropped his hands to his knees and tried to catch his breath. Durand’s words slowly registered in his fatigued mind. ‘Not yet?’ he gasped. ‘What do you mean?’
Durand waved his arm outside the door. Recognizing the danger too late, Geoffrey moved forward, but Corwenna and half a dozen of her followers were already racing into the room. He could only gaze at Durand in horror.
‘What have you done?’
‘I have backed the side that will win,’ replied Durand calmly. ‘I always do. You said yourself you could not defeat Baderon, so do not blame me for changing my allegiance. I am simply being practical.’
Geoffrey was dumbfounded by the enormity of Durand’s betrayal. He saw his old squire regarding him with complete lack of emotion, and several facts came together in his mind as he watched Durand turn to Corwenna.
‘There is a tunnel that leads from the keep to the woods. Geoffrey wanted me to smuggle his civilians down it.’
Corwenna’s face curled into a gloating sneer. She beckoned to one of her men, ordering him to find the passage and kill anyone attempting to use it. Geoffrey felt sick.
‘Now we shall make an end of this,’ said Corwenna. ‘I will take your head and show it to Joan. It will be the last thing she will see; then we shall be free of the Mappestone curse. My Rhys will be avenged, and I will dance on your grave, just as I do Henry’s.’
Geoffrey thought about the fallen cross. ‘I might have known.’
‘Fight me, Geoffrey,’ she urged, eyes glittering madly. ‘Just you and me.’
He regarded her warily, wondering whether he had misheard. He was a trained knight, and there was no way Corwenna could defeat him, no matter how filled she was with hate. ‘Just you and me?’
‘Why?’ she snapped. ‘Are you afraid? I have waited a long time for this.’
She darted forward with her axe, but he immediately went on the offensive, attacking her with strong strokes that forced her back against the wall. He was on the brink of cutting her down when her men darted forward and forced him back. It was clearly not going to be a fair fight, and he could see by her alarmed expression that she knew she had underestimated him.
‘I will kill you,’ he warned. ‘I am not as easy as Henry.’
The mention of his brother re-lit her impetus, but blind fury was no replacement for skill, and he soon had her retreating again. He was obliged to keep a wary eye on her men, as they jabbed their blades at him if he went too close. He wondered what would happen when he killed her, certain that he did not have the strength to defeat them all, too.
‘Hurry up, Corwenna!’ snapped Durand. ‘I have done what you asked, and I want my reward.’
‘You opened the gate!’ spat Geoffrey in disgust, thinking about the speed with which their defences had failed. ‘How could you?’
‘I did what was best for me,’ replied Durand. ‘I was promised a sack of silver for opening the gate, and another if I delivered you alive.’
‘You should watch whom you trust,’ Geoffrey said to Corwenna, as she retreated to the far side of the room and the temporary safety of her men. ‘Durand killed Seguin.’
‘I did not,’ said Durand, a sudden tremor in his voice. ‘Do not accuse me-’
Corwenna lunged at Geoffrey, and for a few moments his attention was concentrated on parrying her blows. Although delivered with great venom and strength, they lacked the requisite skill to break him. He held her at arm’s length until the fury of her attack subsided, then kicked her legs from under her so she fell. Her men again stepped forward protectively, and all Geoffrey could do was step back and try to catch his breath. His sword felt slippery and heavy in his aching hands.
‘Like the King, you saw Baderon pay Jervil,’ said Geoffrey to Durand while Corwenna was recuperating. ‘You are greedy and you gave Jervil drugged wine to celebrate his sale, then strangled him. You have strangled men before – you killed a monk last year in the forest near Westminster – and I should have seen immediately that you were the culprit.’
‘You are speaking nonsense,’ said Durand, glancing nervously towards Corwenna.
Geoffrey continued, noticing he had Corwenna’s reluctant attention. ‘I assumed Jervil died first and Margaret second, but I was wrong. Isabel killed Margaret, then fled, appalled by what she had done. But you had watched her, and it gave you an idea.’
‘You cannot prove I killed anyone,’ hissed Durand.
‘Oh, the knife you planted on Jervil’s body does that. You were the one who drew attention to it, but you could not have seen it from where you were standing – it was covered with straw. I was kneeling right next to him, and I could not see it. The only way you could have known was if you put it there yourself. And the knife was in his wrong hand. Only someone like you, who knows nothing about fighting, would shove a dagger in a right-fisted fighter’s left hand.’
Durand glanced at Corwenna. ‘Hurry, woman.’
‘In my own time,’ said Corwenna. ‘I am interested in what he has to say about Seguin.’ She heaved her axe on to her shoulder and indicated that Geoffrey should continue.
‘Baderon thought the Black Knife was destroyed in the fire. But it had been stolen before that. I met Durand running from the guest house during the fire. But he should not have been there: he was supposed to have been with Abbot Serlo above the buttery – in the opposite direction.’
‘Everything was in chaos,’ said Durand dismissively. ‘You could not tell where I-’
‘He grabbed the Black Knife and was cut,’ Geoffrey went on. ‘He told me he had been burnt, but later claimed it was a gash. They are not similar injuries. That is why he gave me his gloves – the injury meant he could not wear them anyway.’
‘All this is fascinating,’ said Corwenna caustically. ‘But I want to know about Seguin.’
‘Durand killed Hugh before he murdered Seguin,’ Geoffrey continued, trying to keep the exhaustion from his voice. ‘He knocked him on the head to stun him, then strangled him. The Black Knife was thrust into his corpse to cause trouble between Goodrich and Baderon. It succeeded.’
‘Seguin!’ snapped Corwenna, growing impatient. ‘Lambert said you killed him, because you thought he killed Henry.’
‘Seguin did not kill Henry,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I have known for some time who did that, and it was not Seguin. Seguin was lured to his death, just as Lambert claimed. But not by me.’
‘Shut up!’ yelled Durand furiously. He turned to Corwenna again. ‘Kill him, for God’s sake.’
‘Who carried the message to Llan Martin, telling Seguin that Hugh’s body was at Goodrich and that Baderon wanted it collected?’ asked Geoffrey.
Corwenna’s eyes flicked towards Durand. ‘He did.’
‘I was told to give Seguin that message!’ shouted Durand. ‘And I was told Hugh was at Goodrich. You cannot blame me for passing on what I was ordered to say.’
‘Think,’ said Geoffrey to Corwenna. ‘Why would Baderon tell Seguin to collect Hugh, when he was here himself? And why would he send for Seguin and not a servant? And why would Durand – who owns estates in Suffolk – allow himself to be used as a messenger by a man he despised?’
‘Geoffrey told me to give Seguin the message!’ cried Durand, eyes flashing. ‘And now he is trying to make you think the murder was my fault. Who do you believe? The man who slaughtered Seguin? Or the man who opened the gate for you?’
When put like that, Geoffrey saw that he was not in a strong pos-ition. He hurried to resume his tale, hoping Durand would yet incriminate himself in his increasing panic. ‘When Father Adrian left to fetch Seguin some ale, Durand crept into the house and stabbed him.’
‘How?’ sneered Durand. ‘Do I look like a man who could take on a strong, well-armed knight? Of course not! Nor do I stab folk as they sit at tables.’
‘See?’ pounced Geoffrey. ‘How could he know Seguin was at a table unless he was the killer?’
‘I saw the body,’ snapped Durand. ‘Later, after Father Adrian had raised the alarm.’
‘You did not,’ countered Geoffrey. ‘You were outside the whole time, while Father Adrian was sick.’
‘You killed Seguin!’ shouted Durand accusingly. ‘You lured him to Goodrich by ordering me to fetch him, and you stabbed him because you thought he murdered Henry.’ He looked at Corwenna, his face pale and covered in sweat. ‘He told me so, late one night, when he had too much ale.’
‘Do not worry, Durand,’ said Corwenna, patting the clerk’s shoulder. ‘I believe you.’
‘Jervil, Hugh and Seguin,’ said Geoffrey to Durand. ‘You tried to kill me, too – it was you who started the fire in the mattress. I probably even gave you the idea, since Bale saving me from the blaze at Dene was one of the last things we talked about before I fell asleep.’
Durand was disdainful. ‘I saved your life, and now you accuse me of trying to burn you alive.’
‘You woke me because Joan came. If she had not, you would have succeeded. But that was your second attempt. The first was with the damaged straps and the spikes in Dun’s saddle. You hoped I would break my neck riding him in the forest.’
‘I wish you had,’ muttered Durand fervently.
‘No more!’ roared Corwenna. ‘Fight me, Geoffrey, and stop blathering.’
‘If I win, will you leave Goodrich?’ he asked.
‘You will not win,’ she snarled, swinging her axe in a series of fancy manoeuvres that made the air sing. Geoffrey jumped out of the way, but stumbled when one of her men tripped him. Before he regained his balance, another kicked him in the knee. He barely avoided Corwenna’s axe as it plummeted down, splitting one of the tables.
Geoffrey went on the offensive again, his blows forcing Corwenna back against the wall. Her men moved to help her, so he feinted left and reached out to grab her by the neck, dropping his sword as he did so. Then he her pulled close against him, his dagger at her throat. She struggled furiously, gouging his hand with her fingernails. He intensified his grip, pressing his knife into her exposed skin.
She sagged in defeat. ‘I surrender. Let me go, you have made your point.’
‘No!’ cried Durand in horror. ‘You cannot let him win! What will happen to me? I will hang for Seguin’s murder and for trying to dispatch Geoffrey.’
Corwenna ignored him. ‘You heard that worm, Geoffrey,’ she said. ‘He admitted murdering Seguin. Let us bring an end to this bloodshed. Let me go.’
Geoffrey lowered his dagger, although he did not relinquish it. Corwenna eased his hand away from her neck.
‘Thank you,’ she said, darting away too fast for him to stop her. She glanced at her men. ‘Well? What are you waiting for? Kill him while I fire the castle and rid us of Joan. Durand may have killed Seguin, but Henry killed Rhys, and his kin will pay the price.’
All Geoffrey could hear was Durand’s mocking laughter as Corwenna left the room and her men moved forward. Other sounds began to pervade his consciousness – the roar of desperate battle as the defenders of Goodrich gave way inch by inch. Through the open door he could see arrows raining down from the battlements, and the ground was thick with dead and wounded men. He was so tired, he could barely raise his arms, let alone fight six fresh swordsmen, but his anger against Durand renewed his strength.
He launched a wild attack that took them by surprise and momentarily pushed them back, but they rallied quickly, and then it was he who was retreating.
‘Is it true?’ asked one of them – the captain. ‘All you said? Remember you are about to die, and you will go to Hell for eternity if you do so with a lie on your lips.’
‘It is true,’ said Geoffrey, darting behind a table and waiting to see whether he should duck right or left to avoid the next foray.
‘You said you know Henry’s murderer,’ said the captain, indicating that his men should hold back. ‘Who?’
‘Someone from Goodrich,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘Not Baderon, and not a Welshman.’
‘Durand?’ asked the captain.
‘I never even met Henry!’ cried Durand indignantly, snatching up a bag he had brought in with him.
‘Caerdig is my cousin,’ said the captain, ignoring him. ‘He has always spoken well of you, and I believe you are telling the truth. You may go.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Durand, watching aghast as the captain sheathed his sword. ‘And what will you tell Corwenna when she asks you whether you obeyed her orders?’
‘And you can take him with you,’ said the captain, eyeing Durand with distaste. ‘I would kill him, but I do not want to soil my blade with the blood of a snake. Go.’
He stood aside, and gestured for the others to do the same. They hesitated, but did as he ordered. Geoffrey edged past them, anticipating a trick, but they allowed him to walk unharmed across the kitchen and into the bailey. What he saw there sickened him. Everywhere lay the dead and injured, some in silent agony, others screaming for friends, water or God. It was a sight he had seen many times before, but not in his own home. He swung round, a blind rage gripping him, but Durand was already running away, hugging his bag as he went.
‘Save your sister,’ said the captain, nodding towards the hall. ‘Corwenna will kill her otherwise.’
‘What will you do?’ asked Geoffrey uneasily, inclined to resist the advice of an enemy.
The captain indicated his sheathed sword. ‘Go home and take my men with me. My name is Rhodri of Llangarron, and you can remember it if you win this fight and have grain to spare.’
Geoffrey took a deep breath and raised his bloodied sword to battle through the mass of men at the foot of the keep. The staircase had been removed, but the invaders had piled ladders against the wall and some were already inside. Roger and his men were still mounted, striking furiously at anyone entering the bailey gate, but Geoffrey could see none of his own horsemen, except for Bale, who was trying to keep raiders out of the stables.
Geoffrey’s armour and surcoat attracted the attention of many hoping to claim a knight among their kills, and it was some time before he reached the ladders. He was weak with fatigue, and one inferior swordsman came closer to skewering him than he should have. Finally, Geoffrey grasped the ladder and climbed, kicking out when someone grabbed his leg.
With sweat stinging his eyes, he reached the door. Joan’s once-pristine hall was stained with blood, and there were bodies everywhere, suggesting that it had not been taken easily. Giffard was in a corner wielding his stave against two attackers, while Olivier crouched behind him, hands raised to protect his head. Geoffrey moved quickly, and made short work of both invaders.
‘Joan?’ he gasped.
Giffard pointed to the opposite side of the hall, then braced himself as another man launched an attack with a war-like screech. The howl ended abruptly when Giffard’s stave met the man’s skull. Seeing the Bishop could fend for himself, Geoffrey fought his way across the room. At the centre of a tight knot of skirmishers was Joan, meeting Corwenna’s axe blows with a shield, while Baderon exchanged half-hearted swipes with Torva and Peter. Hilde, hair flying wildly about her face, was screaming at Corwenna.
‘They will surrender now!’ she howled. ‘Put up your weapon!’
‘Not until Joan is dead,’ hissed Corwenna.
‘Our fight is not with her!’ shouted Hilde, trying to pull Corwenna away.
Corwenna spun round and turned on Hilde, swinging the axe towards her unprotected head. Hilde ducked, and Joan struck Corwenna hard with the shield, but the blow had little impact. She raised her axe again, and Geoffrey saw her smile as Hilde backed up against a wall with no way to defend herself.
Hilde met Corwenna’s eyes without fear. The axe started to fall. Geoffrey snatched a shield from a corpse and hurled himself between them, feeling the force of the blow send agonizing tremors through his arm.
‘You!’ screamed Corwenna in fury, turning on him. Geoffrey lifted his sword, but before he could close with her, Joan stepped forward and brought down her shield on Corwenna’s head with all the force she could muster. Corwenna dropped to the floor and jerked convulsively before going limp.
‘Is she dead?’ asked Giffard uneasily. ‘God knows I am not a man to wish death on another human being, but the world will be a safer place without Corwenna in it.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Hilde, looking at the distorted shape of Corwenna’s skull. ‘She is dead.’
‘I think enough of us have died for one day,’ said Baderon loudly, dropping his sword and raising his hand to indicate Torva and Peter should desist their attack. ‘This fight is over.’
Those inside lowered their weapons, and Baderon and a trembling Olivier went together to end the skirmishes outside. Word spread quickly, and the sound of fighting petered out until only the groans of the wounded could be heard. Inside, Geoffrey looked at his broken home. He removed his helmet and scrubbed hard at his face. His arms were so sore from wielding his sword that he felt he might never raise them again. The faces of the others showed they felt the same.
‘Who won?’ asked Torva. ‘Them, because they managed to get into the hall? Or us, because we fended them off?’
‘I do not think there are any winners here,’ said Giffard soberly.
The silence that followed was broken by an urgent call.
‘Geoff!’ shouted Roger from the door. ‘Come quickly!’
Afraid there was a pocket where the fighting continued, Geoffrey forced his weary legs into a run. He caught up with Roger – beckoning urgently – near the stables. When they rounded a corner, there was Durand, sitting against a wall and clutching his bag to his chest.
‘Our traitor,’ Geoffrey said coldly. ‘What did you call me for? I want nothing to do with him.’
‘He was asking for you,’ said Roger. ‘He is dying.’
Geoffrey crouched to examine the clerk and was startled to see blood pooling in his lap. Durand’s face was ghastly white, although Geoffrey could see no injury. He tried to move the sack, but Durand clutched it tighter against him.
‘No,’ he whispered. ‘You cannot have it while I am still alive.’
‘I am looking for your wound, to stem the bleeding,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I do not want your silver.’
‘You can have it after I have gone,’ croaked Durand. ‘I bequeath it to you, but only on condition that you buy masses for my immortal soul.’
Geoffrey thought Durand’s sins were far too great to be tempered by prayers. ‘Let go of the bag,’ he ordered. ‘I may be able to save you.’
‘No,’ said Durand, fiercely clutching the sack. ‘You will steal it and leave me to die alone. I want you to hear what I have to say first.’
Feeling that he was betraying himself even being in Durand’s presence, Geoffrey sighed. ‘What? There are wounded men all over my bailey who need tending. I do not have time to chat.’
‘Everything you said is true. I killed Jervil, I killed Hugh and I killed Seguin. And I twice tried to kill you. I did it because it is not fair that you have fine lands and a loving family, and I do not.’
‘You have your demesne in Suffolk,’ Geoffrey said. ‘And it is better than mine – or so you have boasted on several occasions.’
‘Suffolk!’ sneered Durand. ‘The King insulted me when he gave me that estate. It is nothing!’
‘I do not understand,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Are you saying you committed your crimes because you are jealous of Goodrich?’
‘I wanted you to give up living here and work with me. We could have had a glittering future – earned a great fortune. Besides, the King promised me a better manor if I could entice you back into his service. I tried asking politely, but you refused. You left me with no alternative but to deprive you of home and family to make you change your mind.’
Geoffrey was appalled. ‘But it is not just me you damaged here. Baderon-’
‘Baderon! The bastard who refused me appropriate respect. Your sister is no better. She did not even offer me the welcoming cup when we arrived. Everyone else was given wine, but not me.’
Geoffrey glanced at Roger, and saw that he was just as bewildered by the stream of invective. ‘If all this was because you wanted me to work with you, why did you try to kill me?’
‘I am not stupid.’ Durand’s voice was growing softer. ‘I knew you would never seriously consider my offer – even after I helped you by lending you my gloves and giving you that phial Walter dropped. You have always despised me.’
‘That is not true,’ said Geoffrey, not entirely truthfully. ‘I admire your intelligence and turned to you several times because I thought you were the best person to ask for advice.’
Durand’s sullen expression lifted for a moment, but then collapsed again in obvious disbelief. ‘So, being unable to bring you to my side, I decided to take away your happiness. I do not see why you – a brutal, cold ruffian – should grow old peacefully while I struggle.’
Geoffrey was baffled. ‘Let me see your wound, Durand,’ he said finally. ‘We can talk about this later.’
‘It is too late,’ whispered Durand. ‘I am dying. I should not have tried to destroy you, and I need your forgiveness before I meet my Maker, or I will never escape purgatory, and that would not be fair. You have to forgive me. I order it.’
Geoffrey recalled Durand’s earlier monastic aspirations and that, despite his crimes, he believed what the Church said happened to sinners. ‘You cannot order forgiveness. It must be freely given.’
‘Then give if freely,’ wheedled Durand. ‘If you do, I will tell you another secret – the last one I have that affects you.’
‘Forgiveness is not mine to grant,’ said Geoffrey, thinking about the grief Durand’s actions had brought to so many others.
‘It was you I wronged,’ said Durand weakly. ‘So it is you who must forgive me. I am begging you, Geoffrey. And then I will tell you something important.’
Geoffrey hesitated for the briefest of moments, but when he looked back, the clerk was dead. He removed the bag from Durand’s limp hands and saw that the blade of a knife protruded from it.
Roger stepped forward. ‘Baderon was dashing here and there to end the fighting, and Durand thought he was being chased. He ran away, and fell over in his haste to escape. He landed on his bag, and the knife he carried in it must have pierced his chest. But Baderon was not chasing Durand – he had no reason to, because he does not yet know that it was Durand who killed his son.’
Geoffrey inspected Durand’s wound, then sat back on his heels. ‘If he had let me see this, instead of assuming I wanted to steal his fortune, I would have been able to save him. The cut is not in his chest, but nicked a vessel in his groin. He bled to death from an injury that did not need to be fatal.’
‘Then it serves him right,’ said Roger. He nodded towards the bag. ‘He left you whatever is in that. Will you open it?’
Geoffrey hesitatingly obliged and was astonished to find it packed full of silver coins and jewellery. ‘There is a fortune here! Durand claimed to be envious of Goodrich, but he could have bought a manor three times its size with this.’
‘He saw you were happy,’ said Roger sagely. ‘And, because he equates happiness with wealth, he assumed you were rich, too. But there is something else in the bag.’
Something light flopped to the ground when Roger shook the sack, but Geoffrey’s attention was on the silver and he did not notice. Roger quickly shoved the bundle of documents in his surcoat before his friend noticed. Documents, he knew, would only bring trouble, and Geoffrey had endured more than his share of that at Durand’s instigation. It was better he remained ignorant of whatever was written on the neatly tied parchments.
Oblivious to Roger’s actions, Geoffrey shook the bag a final time, then jumped back in revulsion when the last object clattered to the ground. It was the knife that had killed Durand. The blade was still wet with his blood and the ruby in its hilt gleamed in a sudden burst of sunshine.
‘It is the Black Knife,’ whispered Roger. ‘And it has just claimed its latest victim.’
‘Its last victim,’ corrected Geoffrey softly. ‘Its reign of terror ends here.’