Goodrich Castle, Spring 1103
The grave was already hard to find. Snow and rain had flattened the mound of earth, and the cross was listing so heavily that it was all but lost among the weeds. Sir Geoffrey Mappestone would not have been sure that he had the right place, were it not for the other tombs nearby. His mother’s was there, mottled with lichen, next to his father’s, which was grander and newer. And nearby were his brothers – Walter and Stephen. His sister Enide should have been there, too, but she had been lost in the River Wye and her body never found, although Geoffrey and Joan had erected a cross anyway.
He bent to straighten Henry’s cross, fighting with the nettles that enmeshed it. When it was more or less upright, he stood back, noting that none of his family’s graves were very well tended. His father had been a foul-tempered tyrant, unloved by his children or tenants; his mother had been equally formidable, and even fifteen years in the ground had not mellowed the memories of those who had known her. Their six children had been cast in their mould, although Geoffrey hoped that two decades away from their influence had left him a better man, while a happy marriage and encroaching middle age had softened his sister Joan.
‘A sorry sight,’ said the parish priest, Father Adrian, coming to stand next to Geoffrey. ‘All of them, except your father, dead well before three score years and ten.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Geoffrey’s old comrade-in-arms, Will Helbye. ‘It was a war-like family. Only you and Joan are left.’
Geoffrey sighed. He did not need reminding that all his kin had met violent ends. He turned to the priest. ‘What happened to Henry? I know he was found with a knife in him. If he was killed by some vengeful neighbour or servant, I should know. I do not want the same to happen to Joan.’
‘Or to you,’ mused Father Adrian. ‘You have been soldiering these last twenty years, but now that you have inherited Goodrich and its villages, farms and woods, you will be obliged to spend time here.’
Geoffrey said nothing, but doubted that he would stay long. He had assumed Goodrich would be dull, full of occupants obsessed with cattle and crops, but it had transpired to be rather turbulent, thanks to the two powerful nobles in the region. Lord Baderon owned manors to the west, which he was giving to those of his knights who took Welsh brides; this, he claimed, would build alliances between Wales and England and thus prevent a Celtic invasion. Meanwhile, fitzNorman, who, as Constable of the Forest, ruled the tracts of woodland to the south and east, believed Baderon’s marriages potentially united the Welsh at England’s expense. The two disliked each other, and Goodrich was caught in the middle.
‘Henry was stabbed while you and I were fighting the King’s war,’ said Helbye. ‘You were not here, and could not have prevented it happening.’
Geoffrey nodded absently – the King’s war, and the part he had been forced to play in it, still rankled. He had returned from the Holy Land when his father was dying, but had been prevented from returning there when the King had demanded he help put down a rebellion. It had taken several months, during which Geoffrey’s liege lord, Prince Tancred, became so angry his repeated summonses were ignored that he had dismissed Geoffrey from his service. The King had offered a post, but Geoffrey disliked the monarch’s sly ways and had refused it, instead spending three months travelling around England until he found himself again at Goodrich.
‘I would like to visit the Holy Land,’ said Father Adrian wistfully. Then he coolly regarded Geoffrey’s surcoat with its faded Crusader’s cross. ‘However, I would go as a pilgrim, not as a knight who slaughters everyone he meets.’
‘The Crusaders who liberated Jerusalem – who carry the honoured title of Jerosolimitani – are assured a place in Heaven,’ objected Helbye, stung. He was a veteran of countless battles at Geoffrey’s side, and was proud of his role in wresting the Holy Land from its previous occupants. ‘Our mission was a holy one, blessed by God.’
‘It was an excuse for bloodshed and looting,’ countered Father Adrian. Geoffrey had witnessed enough incidents to make him question the sanctity of the Crusade, too, but he said nothing.
‘You cannot have a Crusade without bloodshed and looting,’ said Helbye, bemused by the priest’s attitude. ‘What would be the point?’
Father Adrian grimaced, declining to argue against such rigidly held convictions. Instead, he addressed Geoffrey. ‘Will you return to the Holy Land? If so, you should abandon your armour and go as a penitent, to atone for the crimes you committed on your first visit.’
Geoffrey was unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. ‘I doubt I will ever return. The King has seen to that.’
Helbye was sympathetic. ‘Write to Tancred again. His anger will not last forever. I wish I could go, too, but my fighting days are over.’
‘His should be, too,’ said Father Adrian, as though Geoffrey were not there. ‘He is not yet four and thirty, but has dedicated his life to killing. It is time he stopped spilling blood and concentrated on his soul. He does not have long to do it, if his siblings are anything to go by.’
‘Which takes us back to Henry,’ prompted Geoffrey.
‘It happened last September,’ said Father Adrian, relenting with a sigh. ‘It was a terrible harvest – you have seen for yourself that the granaries are almost empty, and it is not yet Easter. The disaster was a combination of bad weather and the war with Robert de Belleme. Folk were afraid to reap their crops – or Belleme set the fields alight.’
‘It was a great day for England when the King exiled Belleme,’ declared Helbye. ‘I am proud of the role we played in getting rid of him.’
Father Adrian nodded before continuing. ‘Like every able-bodied man, Henry had been helping with the threshing. He was tired – as were we all – but instead of going to bed, he turned to wine.’
‘My wife says he did that a lot,’ added Helbye. ‘Henry always liked wine, but he became greedy for it last year.’
‘Why?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Was he grieving for his children?’
Father Adrian released a startled laugh. ‘He had no affection for them, or for his wife! They were too much like him – selfish, greedy and violent. He intended to start a new family with another woman.’
‘Did he have anyone in mind?’ asked Geoffrey, wondering what lady would be fool enough to consider marrying a man with Henry’s unsavoury reputation.
Adrian nodded. ‘He wanted Isabel, Lord fitzNorman’s youngest daughter.’
Geoffrey was astonished. ‘Surely she was too ambitious a prize? The Constable of the Forest controls a vast region. There must have been better marriages than Henry of Goodrich.’
‘The Constable is a powerful man,’ agreed Father Adrian. ‘The forest’s boundaries stretch from the River Severn to Monmouth, and from Chepstow to Rosse.’
‘I know its size,’ said Geoffrey, wondering why the priest chose to explain facts that he had known since boyhood. ‘But why would Henry think he stood a chance of winning Isabel?’
‘Oh, that is easy,’ said Father Adrian carelessly. ‘She was carrying his child.’
Goodrich Castle guarded the ford of the River Wye on the Gloucester-to-Monmouth road. Like most castles erected following the Conquest in 1066, it comprised a tower-topped motte and an earthwork-enclosed bailey. In Goodrich’s case, the earthworks included a dry moat around its east, south and west sides, while the north made use of the steep, natural slope that ran down to the river.
The stone tower was the strongest part of the castle, with only one way inside: wooden steps from the bailey to the first floor. In the event of an attack, the stairs could be hauled inside, making access more difficult for invaders. The tower had four floors. The lowest was a vaulted chamber used for storage, the first comprised the hall, and the top two contained bedchambers and offices. The roof was battlemented, allowing archers and lookouts to be stationed there.
In Geoffrey’s youth, the tower had been a grim place. Its walls were thick and cold, and his father had not believed in fires unless the weather was particularly foul. Consequently, it had been dank, dismal and uninviting, even on warm days. Wet dogs, stinking floor coverings and spilt food made it reek, and Geoffrey recalled inventing excuses to avoid being in it.
But Joan had changed things. Braziers lit even the most distant corners of the hall, and there was always a fire in the hearth. Its floor was swept after every meal, tapestries adorned the walls and the furniture was comfortable. It seemed a totally different place.
That evening Geoffrey watched her as she sewed in the lamplight. She was tall and strong, with an unsmiling face and flecks of grey in her thick brown hair. She ruled Goodrich with firm efficiency, and Geoffrey was happy to let her continue, although he knew that he should take some responsibility for the lands that were now his. Sitting next to her, strumming on a harp, was her husband, Sir Olivier d’Alencon. He was resplendent in a blue tunic with elegantly embroidered hems and cuffs, and his black hair was neatly trimmed. He was far smaller than Joan, and it never failed to amaze Geoffrey that his burly, gruff sister should lavish her affections on such a puny specimen. It astonished him even more that the feelings were reciprocated.
Like Joan, Geoffrey was tall and well built, although a life of fighting meant that he had remained lean, while she was tending towards fat. He was clean-shaven and his brown hair was cut short. He was unusual for a knight, in that he could read and write; his mother had wanted him to join the Church, but he had rebelled, so his father had sent him for knightly training instead. He had been in the Duke of Normandy’s service, and then a commander for the ambitious Lord Tancred. Now, for the first time since winning his spurs, he was part of no man’s army, although it was not a freedom that he relished. As he listened to Olivier playing a song often sung by Crusaders, he wished with all his heart that Tancred had not dismissed him.
Cautiously – for Joan had a terrible temper – Geoffrey broached the subject of their brother’s plans for the Constable’s daughter. She was unrepentant for neglecting to mention them, which annoyed him: if Henry had impregnated fitzNorman’s daughter, then it was possible that fitzNorman considered Henry – and his kin – an enemy, and Geoffrey did not like the notion that powerful men harboured grudges about which he was blithely unaware.
‘Henry may have been murdered by fitzNorman or his men,’ he said irritably. ‘I am sure the Constable had more ambitious plans for his daughter than the likes of Henry.’
‘You have done this ever since you arrived,’ said Joan, setting down her sewing to glare at him. ‘Underestimate the value of our estates. Besides this castle and its demesne, we have manors in Herefordshire and Gloucestershire. Henry might not have warranted fitzNorman’s eldest daughter, but the youngest was not beyond his sights.’
‘Is it true that she carried his child?’ Geoffrey asked, unconvinced but loath to argue. ‘How did that happen?’
Olivier gave a giggle, which quickly turned into a cough when his wife scowled.
‘How do you think it happened?’ Joan demanded. ‘Surely you have not been away from female company that long?’
‘I meant was Isabel happy with Henry as a suitor?’ said Geoffrey, striving for patience.
‘Isabel detested Henry,’ volunteered Olivier. He shrugged when Joan turned furious eyes on him. ‘Geoffrey will find out from someone else if we do not tell him. Ergo, we should answer his questions lest he starts interrogating the wrong people.’
Geoffrey was immediately suspicious. ‘What do you mean? What wrong people?’
Joan glared at her husband. ‘I thought we had agreed the less said, the better.’
‘If Geoffrey wants to look into Henry’s death, we cannot stop him,’ said Olivier. ‘Kings and princes have employed him to investigate far more dangerous matters. Tell him what he wants to know.’
Joan sighed loudly. ‘It is not him I am worried about. It is Goodrich. Several people had cause to want Henry dead, and I do not want him accusing them of murder. He could do a great deal of damage by interfering.’
‘He could,’ acknowledged Olivier. ‘We have Baderon poised on one side, fitzNorman on the other, and we are trapped in the middle.’
‘I have done my best to salve the wounds inflicted by our father and brother,’ Joan said, ‘but this is an uneasy region. Baderon is a decent man, but he is so determined to have peace with the Welsh that he infuriates the English.’
‘He always sides with them in disputes,’ agreed Olivier. ‘And this business of marrying his knights to Welsh ladies is causing resentment.’
‘Meanwhile, fitzNorman is a senseless oaf,’ Joan declared uncompromisingly. ‘He applies harsh laws to the royal forests ruthlessly – peasants forbidden to gather firewood, or catch game – it is impractical in hard times.’
‘And times are hard right now,’ nodded Olivier. ‘We had a poor harvest followed by a fierce winter. People are starving, and the King comes to the forest so rarely that he would not miss the odd duck or deer.’
‘What did fitzNorman say when he discovered what Henry had done to Isabel?’ asked Geoffrey, thinking that the seduction of a daughter was a good motive for murder.
‘That he was happy to secure an alliance with Goodrich,’ said Joan. ‘He said we provide a friendly buffer between him and Baderon. Unfortunately, he was angry at the way Henry went about it.’
‘Ralph de Bicanofre was none too pleased, either,’ said Olivier. He turned to Geoffrey. ‘Bicanofre is the little manor to the south of Goodrich, and its heir, Ralph, wanted to marry Isabel himself: he was incensed when Henry deflowered her.’
‘Baderon was offended by Henry, as well,’ added Joan. ‘He, too, wanted Goodrich as a buffer, and there was talk of Henry marrying his daughter. Henry would not have her, but I suspect Baderon had not given up hope.’
‘So,’ summarized Geoffrey. ‘Two of the richest men in the region – Baderon and fitzNorman – were angered by Henry’s relationship with Isabel, as was Ralph. Any of them – or their retainers – might have murdered Henry.’
‘They are not the only ones,’ said Joan gloomily. ‘Henry did a lot of damage by burning our Welsh neighbours’ grain stores, too.’
Geoffrey was appalled. ‘He fired their granaries?’
Joan nodded. ‘Caerdig of Llan Martin is the only Welsh lord friendly to us now. The rest say our corn should be used to compensate them – and they have a point. It is only a matter of time before hunger leads them to attack us.’
‘Welsh harvests were even worse than English ones,’ said Olivier. ‘But you already know that.’
Geoffrey nodded. ‘The Welsh Prince Iorwerth summoned his warriors to fight for Belleme against the King last summer, although he then changed sides. But the war kept men from their farms.’
‘And now they are paying the price,’ said Joan. ‘By the time the men returned home, rains had ruined the crops. Many Welsh villages only harvested a fraction of the grain they need. So, the situation is delicate. I know you want to bring Henry’s killer to justice, but we cannot afford a feud with Baderon or fitzNorman – and we certainly must not give the Welsh a reason for attacking us.’
‘I will be discreet,’ said Geoffrey, unwilling to let the matter drop. Henry was his brother, and if one Mappestone could be slain, then so could another.
Joan gave a disbelieving snort. ‘You will not! Your idea of discretion is to ask questions at the end of a sword. Henry is dead, Geoff, and no good can come of looking into his end.’
Geoffrey stared into the flames. Was she right? Was it best to maintain the tenuous truces between Goodrich and its neighbours at all costs? He had seen what happened to manors owned by warring lords, and knew that it was not only the owners who suffered: the peasantry were victims, too. Perhaps Joan was right to preserve stability at the expense of letting her brother’s killer go free. Or did she have another reason for wanting the murder forgotten? Everyone agreed that Henry had been a tyrant, and few tears had been shed when he died. Perhaps she already knew who killed him, and her motive to keep Geoffrey from investigating was not to avert a war, but to protect the killer.
Joan changed the subject when Geoffrey made no reply, unaware that he had reached a decision. He would not rest easy until he understood why his brother had been murdered, and Joan’s urging him to forget the matter only made him more determined to learn what had happened.
The following morning Geoffrey threw open the window shutters in the room that had been his father’s. In the foreground meadows stretched to the River Wye, divided into neat fields of wheat, oats and barley. In the distance hills were dotted white with sheep. The great brown-green mass of the forest lay to the south and east, a vast tangle of trees and scrub, broken by the occasional path.
A bowl of water had been left in the garderobe for his morning ablutions, but there was a layer of ice across the top and he did not feel like washing in it. He scraped a dagger across his cheeks a couple of times, then glanced at the shelves holding his few clothes. The shelves concealed an entrance to a passageway that wound through the castle’s foundations before emerging in the woods. Joan’s description of relations between Goodrich and its neighbours had been unsettling, and he realized that he might be obliged to defend the castle. He knew that he should make himself familiar with potential escape or foray routes, but the tunnel was cramped, pitch-black and airless, and his irrational but paralyzing horror of dark underground places meant that he had not yet plucked up the courage to open the hidden door. Unwilling to address his fears, he turned his attention to his clothes.
Joan objected to Geoffrey wearing full armour around the estate, claiming it made him look eager to fight, and he supposed that he should make an effort to adapt to civilian life. He opted for the outfit of a knight at ease: a light mail vest under a long, belted tunic and sturdy oxhide boots. The tunic was brown. Despite Joan’s efforts to encourage him to don brighter, more fashionable colours, after twenty years of practical military attire, it was difficult to change.
When he reached the hall, breakfast had already been served and the tables and benches cleared away. He supposed he should rise earlier in future, so as not to be seen as someone who spent half the day in bed while his people worked. He grabbed bread and ale from Peter the cook, and sat with Joan near the hearth while she mended a basket. Olivier perched nearby, studying the accounts.
‘I meant to tell you yesterday that I received a message from Roger – my fellow knight from the Holy Land,’ Geoffrey said. ‘He is coming to visit.’
‘Really?’ said Olivier, pleased. He liked the bluff, northern knight, and they spent a great deal of time trying to impress each other with battle tales. Roger’s stories were grossly exaggerated, but there was more truth in them than Olivier’s: the little knight had never raised a sword in anger.
Joan was less enamoured of a man whose idea of a good time was drinking vast quantities of ale and annoying the local women. When those pastimes were unavailable, Roger looted and raided for any man who would pay him.
‘He will not stay long,’ added Geoffrey quickly, seeing Joan’s disapproving frown.
‘Helbye thinks you should ask Prince Tancred to be reinstated,’ said Joan, clearly worried about what might happen with two restless Jerosolimitani in residence.
Geoffrey stared at the flames in the hearth. ‘There is nothing I would like more, but Tancred’s last letter made it clear that will never happen. I spent too long following the orders of the King, and no prince wants a knight who accepts commissions from another master.’
‘Tell him you did not accept them readily,’ said Olivier. ‘The King forced you to remain in England – and you did it to help Joan. Surely he will understand?’
‘He considers my loyalty compromised,’ said Geoffrey, recalling Tancred’s scathing words. ‘And there is also the matter of my former squire, Durand.’
‘Durand,’ said Joan, scowling. ‘The King’s spy. But what does he have to do with your predicament? I know Tancred charged you to turn him into a warrior, but surely you told him the task was impossible?’
Unfortunately, Durand’s feckless, cowardly dishonesty was irrelevant to Tancred, which left only the bald fact that Geoffrey had failed in his commission. That, combined with his long absence following the King’s bidding, had destroyed their friendship; Geoffrey knew there was no point travelling to the Holy Land to put forward his case in person. He reached inside his tunic and pulled out the last letter he had received from Tancred. Olivier read it, then passed it back without a word. Joan raised questioning eyebrows. Unlike her husband and brother, she was illiterate.
‘Tancred says Geoffrey had no right to obey King Henry’s orders, and says he will never trust him again,’ summarized Olivier. ‘He thinks Geoffrey should have ensured Durand returned to the Holy Land rather than joining the King’s service, because he had talents Tancred wanted to harvest himself. He also says that if Geoff sets foot in his lands again, he will be executed as a traitor.’
Joan gaped. ‘But I thought you were friends.’
‘So did I,’ said Geoffrey shortly. He was still bewildered by the bitter tenor of Tancred’s words, as he had loved Tancred as a brother. He had assumed that the Prince would understand his desire to help his sister, so he was shocked by the petty, mean-spirited response. He was also bemused by the importance Tancred affixed to Durand, whom Tancred had earlier despised.
‘Then I suppose you must live with it,’ said Olivier. ‘You can either accept the post the King offered or stay here. Another pair of hands is always useful.’
Not for the first time, the reality of the situation hit Geoffrey. He longed to be away from Goodrich’s drudgery, but he had nowhere else to go. He did not want to sell his martial skills to the highest bidder, like other knights, because he did not want to fight for a cause in which he did not believe. The alternative was to become a royal agent – but he did not like the King, and accepting his commission would be akin to selling his soul to the Devil. Glumly, Geoffrey stood and left the hall.
Geoffrey spent the day riding through forest and steep-sided valleys. His black-and-white dog loped at his side and his horse cantered gamely along remote tracks. By sunset he was less gloomy, and he arrived at Goodrich in time for the evening meal. Tables and benches were arranged in the hall for the servants, while Geoffrey joined Joan and Olivier in a niche near the hearth. Afterwards they went to the solar on the upper floor, leaving the hall to the servants. A fire filled the chamber with welcoming warmth, and, tired from his exercise, Geoffrey began to feel sleepy.
‘What happened to Durand?’ asked Olivier, strumming a harp-like instrument from Turkey that Geoffrey had given him. ‘The last we heard, he was accused of a serious theft. The King is unlikely to hang a squire for stealing, as he might a peasant, but I anticipate he was heavily fined?’
Geoffrey shook his head. ‘God knows how, but not only did Durand escape punishment, he inveigled himself a post in the King’s household. He is now a senior clerk.’
Joan was astonished. ‘I thought he would have been sent back to Tancred in disgrace.’
‘Durand did not want to return to Tancred, because Tancred would have forced him to train as a soldier. He decided to make his fortune in England – and he has done just that. He writes occasionally, describing his progress.’ Although Geoffrey had not liked his old squire – a feeling wholly reciprocated – it was difficult not to admire his capacity to make the best of a bad situation. ‘It is a pity he was dishonest; I miss his resourcefulness and intelligence.’
‘What of Bale?’ asked Olivier. ‘The man I found to replace Durand? How is he?’
Geoffrey leant down to scratch his dog’s head, loath to answer. Bale was not up to the task, but Geoffrey did not want to offend Olivier by saying so.
‘I would like to know what actually happened when Henry died in the stables,’ he said instead. ‘I could ask other people, but I would rather hear it from you.’
‘Very well,’ said Joan with a long-suffering sigh. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘You have already said you do not know who killed him, so I will settle for hearing what happened when you found his body.’
‘I discovered him the next morning,’ obliged Olivier, pulling his legs up on to the seat of his chair when Geoffrey’s dog stood and shook itself. The animal had a tendency to bite. ‘When I first saw him, with the dagger in his stomach, I assumed someone had killed him. But I have since reconsidered. Now, I think he killed himself.’
Joan glared at the dog when it moved towards her. Prudently, it backed off, flopping down again at Geoffrey’s side. ‘At the time, I believed he had been murdered by a Bristol merchant, but was later proved wrong. Now I do not know what happened – nor do I want to.’
‘It was suicide,’ pressed Olivier. ‘Henry was deep in his cups, and became overwhelmed with self-pity.’
‘Do not look sceptical, Geoff,’ admonished Joan. ‘Henry was violent, surly and selfish, and no one liked him. He often felt sorry for himself. Moreover, if he was alive now, you would be fighting each other.’
She was right about Henry’s aggression: he and Geoffrey had fought constantly as boys, and Henry had carried the feud into adulthood. Geoffrey was unconvinced by Olivier’s theory, however. ‘Henry was not the kind of man to inflict harm on himself. He was more likely to vent his anger on others.’
‘I agree with you,’ said Joan. ‘I believe he was murdered, too. But I also think it will do no good to investigate.’
‘Turning a blind eye to murder is tantamount to inviting the culprit to strike again,’ argued Geoffrey. ‘Or, if the culprit is a villager, telling him it is acceptable to kill his overlords.’
‘I was tempted to kill Henry myself on occasion,’ snapped Joan. ‘And there is not one of our servants, villagers or neighbours who did not feel the same way. Unless someone confesses, we will never know.’
Geoffrey regarded her steadily. ‘Then are you happy with this state of affairs?’
She met his eyes. ‘Yes. Most people were relieved when he died, including me. It is easier to manage the estate without him. And, of course, you benefited, too.’
‘There was a rumour that you killed him, because he stood between you and Goodrich,’ supplied Olivier.
Geoffrey had known it was only a matter of time before fingers pointed at him as the man who had gained most from Henry’s death. ‘I have dozens of witnesses who will testify that I did not slip off for a few days to murder my brother. Besides, I never wanted to inherit Goodrich.’
‘We know,’ said Joan gently. ‘And we have done our best to quell the rumours.’
‘Jervil did not mean any harm by his comments,’ said Olivier. He slapped his hands over his mouth in alarm. ‘Damn!’
‘Who is Jervil?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘Our groom,’ replied Joan, glaring at her husband. ‘The accusation that you killed Henry originated with him, because he thought no one else would have the courage. He meant it as a compliment.’
‘Some compliment,’ muttered Geoffrey. ‘No wonder people run when they see me coming!’
‘That is nothing to do with Jervil,’ said Joan. ‘That is because Father Adrian has been telling them about the Fall of Jerusalem and the slaughter that followed. He says only the most vicious, hardened and ruthless soldiers survived – and Helbye says nothing to contradict him.’
‘Helbye tells people what they want to hear,’ ventured Olivier. ‘They are more interested in tales of terror and death than in stories of mercy and forbearance.’
‘I will speak to him,’ said Geoffrey, reaching for his sword and buckling it around his waist. It was an instinctive action, and he barely realized he was doing it.
Joan eyed it disapprovingly. ‘You will not improve your reputation if you walk around armed like a Saracen. You do not need a sword to speak to your friends, surely?’
Given what had happened to Henry, Geoffrey was not so sure.
‘You must marry soon,’ said Joan, as they sat in the solar the next evening. Geoffrey had spoken to Helbye that morning, but had been unable to persuade the old warrior not to portray him as a bloodthirsty brute. Then Helbye’s wife had given them a large jug of her strong ale, and sensible conversation went out the window. Geoffrey still felt dizzy, even after sleeping most of the afternoon, and he was barely listening. He nodded absently at what he thought had been a question.
‘That was easy,’ said Olivier. ‘I thought he would object.’
‘He just agreed,’ said Joan, pleased. ‘You saw him nod.’
Geoffrey glanced up and wondered what he had done. ‘Marry?’ he asked, forcing his muddled wits to concentrate before he found himself in deep water.
‘Goodrich needs an heir,’ said Joan, making it sound like it was his fault it did not have one. ‘And the sooner you make a start, the better. If you die without one, the estate will pass to Baderon, our overlord. But fitzNorman will counterclaim, because part of Goodrich lies in the forest.’
‘And Wulfric de Bicanofre will become involved, too,’ added Olivier. ‘Some of the manors we own were once under his lordship – before the Conqueror divided them up.’
‘The only way to prevent a dispute is to provide heirs,’ said Joan. ‘At the moment you are the only thing standing between our neighbours and extra land. You should marry – to protect yourself, if for no other reason.’
‘Later,’ replied Geoffrey tiredly.
Joan scowled. ‘No, soon. Within a month.’
Geoffrey gaped at her. ‘A month?’
‘It is the price you pay when you inherit an estate that is strategically important and wealthy. There are several candidates to choose from.’
‘Henry did not marry within a month of inheriting Goodrich,’ Geoffrey pointed out resentfully.
‘He started thinking about it, though. As we said, he set his heart on Isabel fitzNorman – much good it did him.’ Joan’s eyes lit up. ‘Are you interested in her? She would certainly be the best, and an alliance with fitzNorman would solve numerous problems.’
‘After what Henry did to her?’ asked Geoffrey uneasily. ‘I doubt she will be very keen.’
‘She did dislike Henry,’ agreed Olivier. ‘But her father is a practical man who knows good value when he sees it.’
‘Speaking of which, did you speak to Helbye about stopping his tales of slaughter?’ asked Joan. ‘You will have greater value, and will be easier to sell, if people think you are polite and gentle.’
‘Sell?’ echoed Geoffrey, horrified. ‘I am not an animal.’
‘You are a commodity,’ countered Olivier. ‘Much like Baderon’s prize ram, which is the envy of the region. Both represent a way to greater wealth.’
‘Lord!’ breathed Geoffrey, shocked.
‘You said you wanted to be appraised of all the details surrounding Henry’s death,’ said Joan tartly. ‘And his wedding plans were certainly a factor: it is possible he was killed because someone thought he was looking in the wrong direction. Like you, he had six heiresses to choose from. FitzNorman was furious at what happened to his daughter, but, even so, Isabel would be my first choice. He is Constable of the Forest, and a favourite of the King.’
‘Then Isabel is out,’ said Geoffrey firmly. ‘I do not want to attract the King’s attention. Besides, if fitzNorman did kill Henry, he may believe that what worked for one brother will work for another. I do not want to be stabbed when he decides I am not appropriate for his daughter.’
‘He has a sister,’ said Joan tentatively. ‘Margaret – a gentle woman with a sizeable dowry . . .’
‘How old a sister?’ asked Geoffrey suspiciously.
Joan was dismissive. ‘That does not matter. Since she is a widow, she knows her duties and will require little training.’
‘No,’ said Geoffrey. ‘For the same reasons as Isabel.’
Joan pursed her lips. ‘Then there is Hilde, Baderon’s daughter. He would not normally be interested in us, but he has been ordered to secure peace in the region, and combining his estates with ours would certainly keep fitzNorman quiet.’
‘He has already tied three of his daughters – and several of his knights – to useful alliances, and is looking for a match for his son Hugh, as well as Hilde,’ added Olivier.
‘I will not marry Hugh,’ said Geoffrey flippantly.
Joan ignored him. ‘Baderon offered Hilde to us once. He may be prepared to do so again.’
‘Why did Henry refuse her?’ asked Geoffrey warily.
‘He wanted someone pretty,’ said Olivier bluntly. ‘And someone . . . well, someone who does not behave like a man. I can see his point: Hilde seems just as happy wielding a battleaxe as a needle.’
‘There are rumours that she may be barren,’ Joan continued. ‘In which case, she will not suit our needs at all. But people have unkind tongues, and the rumour may have arisen because she is older than her sisters and not yet wed. I shall make enquiries.’
‘Did Henry refuse Hilde politely when she was offered?’ asked Geoffrey uncomfortably.
Joan looked furtive. ‘Comments were made by both parties, which ended with her leaving in a rage. It was unfortunate, and I later berated him for not being more tactful.’
Geoffrey sighed. ‘So Baderon – and Hilde – had a reason to kill Henry, too? Because he refused her in an unpleasant manner?’
‘Possibly,’ hedged Joan.
‘Then I do not want her, either. I cannot marry a woman who may have murdered my brother. It would be rash, to say the least.’
Joan was becoming exasperated. ‘Then what about Wulfric de Bicanofre’s daughter – Douce?’
‘Did Henry refuse her, too?’
‘He pointed out that he could do better.’
‘God’s teeth!’ muttered Geoffrey. ‘Is there any woman whom Henry has not offended?’
‘Well, there is Wulfric’s older daughter,’ said Joan. ‘Eleanor. But you will not want her.’
‘Why not?’
‘Just trust me,’ replied Joan. ‘There is also Caerdig’s daughter Corwenna, but an alliance with him would be of little benefit.’
Geoffrey was surprised. ‘I thought good relations with the Welsh were important.’
‘They are, but Caerdig is too poor to risk open warfare. He would be delighted were you to accept Corwenna, but you can do better. Besides, she has no love for our family.’
‘Why?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘Because Henry killed her husband, Rhys,’ said Olivier. ‘Henry fired some cottages, and Rhys was trapped inside.’
‘Christ’s blood!’ muttered Geoffrey.
‘Caerdig knows grudges are detrimental to his people’s welfare, but his daughter is young,’ said Joan. ‘You could be the most charming man in Christendom, and she would not have you.’
‘So, she might have slipped a dagger into Henry, too?’ asked Geoffrey.
Joan nodded. ‘It would have been easy for her to enter our stables after dark.’
‘I will make you my heir,’ said Geoffrey, suddenly inspired. ‘Special dispensation can be granted for women to inherit. I have read about such cases. Then I can remain single, and the problem of an heir will be yours.’
‘Baderon would never permit it,’ said Joan. ‘You would need his permission, and he will not give it when he stands to lose. You have no choice: you must marry, and you must do it soon, so these issues can be resolved.’
‘But I do not like the sound of any of these women,’ protested Geoffrey. ‘Perhaps Roger will know a suitable lady from Durham-’
‘That will do no good,’ said Joan firmly. ‘You must choose someone from here. And you will not be safe until you do.’