Geoffrey spent another restless day at Goodrich, as Olivier pored over accounts and Joan issued orders. He offered to help Olivier – he was good with figures – but his brother-in-law pointedly suggested that Geoffrey might like to exercise his horse. With nothing else to do, Geoffrey tried to gain information about Henry from the servants, but they were wary and uncommunicative, and his attempts failed miserably. He had been a popular leader in Tancred’s service, and his amiable, easy temper meant people usually liked him. But at Goodrich, only Joan and Olivier seemed pleased he was there. He wondered why. Was it because the servants thought he might be like Henry? Or because they were afraid he might find his brother’s killer among them?
In the afternoon he splashed across the Wye ford, his dog at his side, and rode through the woods until he saw Bicanofre in the distance. Its little church huddled into the hillside, and its motte and bailey dominated the cluster of houses around it. Two women whom Joan had identified as potential wives lived there – Eleanor and Douce – and since he did not want to seem to be paying them court, he turned back, following the way he had come.
When he reached the ford again, a man with long, curly hair and a thin face was swearing furiously at some men for miring his cart in the shallows. Geoffrey could see from their resentful eyes that his fury was not helping. He supposed the foul-mouthed fellow was one of his new neighbours.
‘May I help?’ he offered politely.
The cart’s back wheels were fast in sticky mud, and the only way to extract them would involve some hard pushing. It would mean standing waist-deep in water, and Geoffrey was not enthusiastic about the idea, but in the interests of good relations . . .
‘Mind your own business,’ snapped the man.
Geoffrey touched his heels to his horse’s sides and continued on. When he reached a bend in the path, he glanced back and saw them still struggling, the thin man lashing the nags with a stick. The fellow could have been of more use by helping his men push, and Geoffrey felt sorry for the bewildered horses. But it was not his place to interfere. He cantered back to Goodrich, stopping on the way to visit Helbye. He drank some ale – although he was careful not to overindulge this time – and interrupted Helbye’s eulogy about his prize sow to tell him about meeting Durand.
‘So, Durand is reviewing taxes for the King,’ mused Helbye. ‘Well, he always was better at clerking than fighting.’
‘He asked me to work with him, to undertake the dangerous parts of his investigations.’
Helbye grimaced. ‘Doing the King’s dirty work involves meeting some very evil men, and he is right to want someone trustworthy. But not you: you must stay here and provide us with an heir.’
‘Just like your pig.’
Helbye nodded. ‘You and Henrietta are in much the same position. She will go in the pot as soon as she fails to produce a litter, and you . . . well . . .’
He left the rest of the sentence hanging. When Geoffrey arrived at the castle, Jervil – the most sullen of Goodrich’s servants – took his horse.
‘Have you worked here long?’ Geoffrey asked, attempting to be friendly.
‘Yes,’ replied Jervil, turning his back so brusquely, it verged on insolent. He led the horse inside the stable, and began unbuckling the saddle.
‘You have some fine horses in your care,’ Geoffrey said, struggling to remain patient. ‘Does Olivier inspect them every day?’
‘He does not visit the stables. A man was murdered here, in case you did not know.’
Geoffrey decided he had had enough disrespect. He would never have permitted such an attitude from his soldiers, nor should he be expected to tolerate it from his retainers.
‘Show me where Henry died,’ he ordered curtly.
Jervil regarded him uneasily, but walked to a stall about halfway down the building. It was occupied by a fierce, grey-brown stallion. Before Geoffrey could ask anything else, he saw stains that were instantly identifiable as blood. He glanced at Jervil and saw defiance combined with triumph, and supposed they had been kept as some kind of ghoulish trophy marking a victory over a hated man. He wondered why Joan had not ordered them scrubbed away.
He squeezed past the horse, and bent down to inspect them. In one place it appeared that blood had pooled on the ground, and there were several smears along the wall, giving the impression that Henry had lived for some time after he had been wounded, perhaps trying to climb to his feet. Geoffrey moved the straw and saw trails that looked like footprints: the killer had trodden in the gore. Or were they the prints of the people who had carried the body to the church?
Geoffrey was not superstitious, but the stables had an eerie feel, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to prickle. As he glanced up, he saw a number of dead birds hanging in the rafters – black ones with sharp black beaks and their eyes eaten away.
‘God’s teeth!’ he exclaimed. Dead crows were peculiar things to keep in a stable – the horses might react to the smell of blood, or simply to the sight of such strange things perched above them.
Suddenly, the stallion began to buck. Geoffrey threw himself to one side and avoided the hoofs that would have split his skull had they hit it, but in doing so tumbled to the floor. Heavy feet flailed above him, then started to descend.
Geoffrey rolled to one side, and the stallion’s hoofs thumped hard to the ground, again narrowly missing him. Then it began an awkward, prancing dance towards him, as though someone was encouraging it to move in a direction it did not want to take. He scrambled to his feet and shoved with both hands as its body crushed him against the wall. It was a heavy animal, and he was hard pressed to force it back. When it finally yielded, he squeezed out of the stall and glared at Jervil.
‘Sorry,’ said Jervil, sounding more disappointed than apologetic. ‘He needs more exercise, so he is difficult to control.’
‘Especially when you hold the bridle tight enough to draw blood,’ snapped Geoffrey, snatching the strap and calming the agitated animal by rubbing its nose.
Its eyes rolled in pain, and it was some time before it settled.
‘You should be doing this,’ he said, trying to keep the anger from his voice, lest it disturbed the horse. ‘And if he needs exercise, you should make sure he has it.’
When he received no response, Geoffrey fetched some oats and fed the animal, inspecting the cut on its lip as he did so. The injury had been caused by twisting the bridle to an agonizing tightness, and he was not surprised the beast had objected.
‘Why did you do this?’ he asked. ‘If you do not like horses, Joan will find you another post.’
For the first time emotion sparked into Jervil’s voice. ‘I do like them! Dun was bucking, so I had to hold the bridle tight. He did not like you behind him.’
Was it possible the cut had been caused by Jervil trying to control the animal? Somehow, Geoffrey did not think so.
‘Why did you not wash away Henry’s blood?’ he asked, changing the subject abruptly. ‘And why are there dead birds in the rafters?’ He glanced along the building; there were no decomposing crows above any other stalls.
‘The crows keep evil spirits away. And the blood tells the Devil to keep his distance.’
‘Does Joan know about this?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘She never comes here,’ replied Jervil, evasively. ‘Nor Sir Olivier.’
‘What happened that night?’ demanded Geoffrey. Jervil started to edge away, but Geoffrey grabbed him, finally exasperated into using force. ‘Tell me or you will be removed from this post.’
Jervil was angry. ‘There is nothing to say. It was harvest, and we were all tired after a hard day in the fields. I was woken the next morning by Sir Olivier shouting that Henry was dead.’
‘You sleep here?’
‘The horses rest easier when I am close,’ said Jervil, pointing to where a ladder led to a loft. ‘But we wondered how long it would be before you started getting rid of us and bringing in Normans.’ He spat in rank distaste.
‘Jervil!’ came a sharp voice from the door. It was Torva. ‘That is enough. Your insolence will see us all homeless.’
It was a hypocritical statement, when Torva had been insolent himself. Geoffrey noted that the dagger had been replaced by a small knife. Had Torva intended him harm two nights before?
‘There is no reason for anyone to lose his post – yet,’ Geoffrey said. Torva and Jervil regarded him with unfriendly eyes, and he sensed that they wanted him gone from Goodrich. The knowledge made him determined to linger. ‘Tell me what you saw and heard the night Henry was stabbed, Jervil. Do not say nothing, because it will be a lie. Henry did not die quickly, because the bloodstains suggest he tried to gain his feet. He probably called for help.’
‘I did not hear anything,’ Jervil said sullenly. ‘Not until morning, when Olivier started to yell.’
‘You heard Olivier, but not Henry? But Henry was drunk – there would have been a commotion.’
‘Perhaps there was,’ said Jervil. ‘But I sleep heavily.’
Geoffrey studied the groom. Jervil was rude, untruthful and impertinent, and may well have harmed Henry. Or was it fear of someone else that kept him silent? Then Geoffrey looked at Torva, who also refused to meet his eyes. Geoffrey found him impossible to read, but was certain of one thing: Torva and Jervil definitely knew something about Henry’s murder.
The following day was Sunday, and the members of Goodrich’s household attended mass in the chapel of St Giles – a pretty place, with a thatched roof and walls of wattle and daub. Standing in the nave and listening to Father Adrian’s precise Latin, Geoffrey looked around him.
Joan and Olivier were at the front, wearing their best clothes, although Olivier was by far the more elegant. They were talking in low voices. Behind them was Torva, and next to him was the cook, Peter, fat and smiling. Geoffrey had tried several times to draw Peter into conversation, but had been treated to blank stares. Jervil was with them, biting his nails. Joan claimed they were hard-working, sober men, but Geoffrey was unconvinced. All three had already reacted oddly to Geoffrey’s attempts to uncover the truth about Henry. Did their curious attitudes imply guilty consciences?
The mass ended, and Geoffrey walked outside, collecting his dagger as he went – Father Adrian had refused to let him inside until he had divested himself of weapons. Bale, his new squire, had offered to guard it, and during the interim had honed the blade to a vicious edge. It sliced through the sheath as Geoffrey slid it away.
‘God’s teeth!’ he exclaimed. ‘There is no need to make it quite so sharp, man.’
‘You never know when you might need to slit a throat,’ hissed Bale. ‘And a sharp knife is better than a blunt one.’
‘I do not envisage-’ began Geoffrey uneasily.
‘Slitting a throat is the best way to dispatch an enemy,’ interrupted Bale in a confidential whisper. ‘It is quiet and quick. I can show you.’
‘No,’ said Geoffrey, moving away in distaste. Bale followed.
‘A man can never have too many sharp knives,’ he went on, a manic light gleaming in his brown eyes. ‘I always carry at least three.’
Geoffrey regarded him warily, wondering whether he was entirely in control of his faculties. He was a massive man, standing half a head above Geoffrey, and his arms and shoulders were unusually powerful. His head was bald, kept free of hairs by constant shaving and application of some sort of shiny grease. He was too old to be a squire – at least five years Geoffrey’s senior – but Olivier had insisted Geoffrey take him. Geoffrey had accepted, but was having serious misgivings. Bale was far too interested in slaughter.
‘He is the epitome of violence,’ said Father Adrian, as he stood with Geoffrey and watched Bale pulling the heads off spring flowers. ‘It is only a matter of time before he commits other murders, and the sooner you take him away, the better.’
Geoffrey stared at the priest. ‘Other murders?’ Here was something Olivier had not mentioned.
Father Adrian was annoyed with himself. ‘I should not have said that – there was no proof, so I might be maligning an innocent man.’
‘Whom did he kill?’ demanded Geoffrey.
‘His parents,’ said Father Adrian, glancing around to make sure that Joan could not hear. ‘They were found butchered, although Bale claims he was in a tavern at the time. That was about two years ago. Then there was a brawl that ended in death, but witnesses say Bale was goaded.’
Bale’s company was sounding distinctly unappealing, and Geoffrey saw he had gone from one extreme to the other: Durand fainted if he saw blood, while Bale revelled in it.
‘Tell me about more about Henry,’ said Geoffrey, looking away as Bale went after a blackbird with his sword. ‘We were interrupted when we talked before, and you were beginning to tell me about his affair with Isabel fitzNorman.’
Father Adrian backed away. ‘Joan says it is a matter best left alone.’
Geoffrey followed him into the church. ‘Was Henry’s affection for Isabel reciprocated?’
‘She says not,’ said the priest. He changed the subject. ‘When will you marry?’
‘When I feel like it,’ replied Geoffrey tartly.
‘It will not be long. Joan will not let you leave until you have impregnated a wife.’
‘I am not a breeding bull,’ said Geoffrey, not liking the notion that an entire estate was waiting for him to perform his duties in the wedding bed.
‘Perhaps you will wed Isabel,’ mused Father Adrian. ‘If she already carries Henry’s child, then it makes sense for fitzNorman to give her to you.’
‘How do you know she carries Henry’s child?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Did she tell you so?’
‘I cannot say,’ said Father Adrian firmly.
‘The seal of confession?’
‘Joan said not to, and her wrath is more terrifying than breaking the sacred secrecy of a man’s business with God.’
‘Then I shall ask Isabel myself,’ said Geoffrey.
‘No! You will cause all manner of problems.’ Father Adrian rubbed a hand over his face. ‘Very well. Henry said bedding her was the best way to secure her as a bride.’
‘FitzNorman was against the match?’
Father Adrian nodded. ‘He wanted an alliance with Goodrich, but he disapproved of Henry taking Isabel before the marriage agreements were drawn up.’
‘And what about Isabel? Did he force her to lie with him?’
Father Adrian shrugged. ‘She says she thought he was someone else.’
Geoffrey raised his eyebrows. ‘Is she short of wits, then? Or fond of her wine?’
‘Neither,’ replied Father Adrian. ‘She is blind.’
The priest could not be persuaded to say more, and Geoffrey began to suspect that the only way to gain answers would be to visit Dene. He was mulling over the prospect when he became aware that someone was behind him. He turned quickly, dagger in hand.
‘Do not creep up on me like that, Bale,’ he advised irritably. ‘Most soldiers do not ask questions before they stab.’
‘I know,’ said Bale with a grin, giving the impression that he had stabbed a few hapless victims himself. ‘But something arrived for you, and Sir Olivier said I should bring it.’
Geoffrey waited. Several moments passed, but Bale merely continued to beam. ‘What did Olivier tell you to bring?’ he asked, when he saw that they might be there all morning unless he spoke.
‘A letter,’ said Bale. ‘On scraped calfskin.’
‘Vellum,’ said Geoffrey, wondering who would send him a message on vellum when parchment was cheaper. Could it be Roger, who had appropriated a considerable quantity of silver from Bristol the previous winter, and who liked making extravagant gestures? He waited again. ‘Where is it?’
Bale fumbled in his unsavoury clothes and eventually found what he was looking for. He handed the message to Geoffrey and then came to loom over his shoulder.
‘I thought you said you could not read,’ said Geoffrey, moving away.
‘I cannot,’ replied Bale, following him.
Geoffrey edged away again, wanting to read the message in peace, but Bale moved with him, standing uncomfortably close. Geoffrey began to lose patience. ‘What are you doing?’
Bale was surprised. ‘Waiting for orders, Sir. Anything written on vellum is likely to be sinister, and you will not want to speak loudly. So I am standing close.’ He reconsidered. ‘Although, if anyone overhears, I can slit his throat to ensure his silence.’ He looked around hopefully.
Shaking his head, Geoffrey turned his attention to the letter. It carried a seal that he recognized immediately: William Giffard, the Bishop of Winchester. He was assailed by an immediate sense of unease. Giffard was a good man, but was entrusted with a lot of the King’s business. Geoffrey considered tossing the missive away, to remain oblivious to whatever Giffard wanted, but he supposed there was no point when Olivier, Bale and probably others knew it had been delivered. Reluctantly, he broke the seal.
The message was brief. It told him Giffard was currently at the nearby estate of Dene, and asked Geoffrey to visit. It was badly written, as if penned in a hurry, and its brevity lent it an urgency that the knight found worrisome.
‘I am going to Dene,’ he said. Despite the voice inside his head warning him that it might be wise to decline the summons, he liked Giffard, and did not want to fail him.
Bale fell into step beside him as he strode towards the castle, and began to chat. ‘The forest around Dene belongs to the King, and Constable fitzNorman looks after it and its animals – so the King can slaughter them whenever he likes.’
Geoffrey could think of no reply to such a remark, so he walked to the stable, where Jervil and Torva were talking. They stopped when they saw him.
‘We are off to Dene,’ Bale announced, shoving past them. ‘Move. I must saddle the horses.’
Groom and steward exchanged a glance. ‘Why Dene?’ asked Torva.
Geoffrey was inclined to tell them it was none of their affair, but said instead, ‘An old friend invited me.’
Jervil turned to Torva in agitation. ‘He is going to talk to Lord Baderon about Henry. And the Constable and his daughter and God knows who else. Will there be no end to this business?’
‘Seguin is a violent man,’ said Torva. ‘You would do well to stay well clear of him and his brother Lambert. And Baderon, for that matter.’
‘They are not at Dene,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I met them yesterday in Llan Martin. They-’
‘Baderon and his henchmen are at Dene,’ insisted Jervil. ‘For a week’s hunting. So do not try to mislead us.’
‘Here!’ snapped Bale, emerging from the stables with Geoffrey’s horse. ‘Watch your mouth. No one talks to him like that when I am here.’
‘I am not trying to mislead anyone,’ replied Geoffrey, stepping forward to prevent Bale from making good his threat. ‘However, I will find out what happened to Henry, no matter what it takes – and if that means talking to Baderon, Seguin and Lambert if I happen across them, then so be it.’
Torva indicated with a jerk of his head that Jervil and Bale were to leave them alone. Bale went to saddle his own horse, while Jervil, scowling, walked Geoffrey’s stallion a short distance away.
‘I am sorry if we seem rude,’ Torva began in a conciliatory voice. ‘But it really is better if you let Henry’s death lie.’
‘Better for whom?’ asked Geoffrey archly. ‘The killer?’
‘For all of us, including your sister. Henry was always vicious, but in the months before his death, he grew beyond control. He broke Sir Olivier’s arm, and beat a shepherd so badly that he died. He prowled the countryside picking fights, and it was only because Lady Joan is so respected that Goodrich was not razed to the ground.’
Geoffrey was not sure whether to believe him. ‘What precipitated Henry’s sudden wildness?’
‘Lady Joan made some wise investments, and Goodrich’s fortunes soared. It meant there was money for luxuries like wine. Henry could not keep from drinking. He started the moment he woke, and he continued until he slept.’
‘Did no one stop him? For his own good?’
‘Olivier tried – and had his arm snapped for his troubles. Joan locked Henry in the cellar for a week, hoping that forcing him to become sober would make him see the error of his ways. But he threatened to get a message to the King, and Joan did not want to attract royal attention. She was afraid the King might demand some favour from you, as payment for overlooking an unlawful imprisonment. From what I have heard, it was not an unreasonable fear.’
Geoffrey supposed it was not. ‘Then what happened?’
‘Henry was worse than ever. Ask anyone – they will all tell you the same.’
‘And that is why you want me to forget his murder? Because you think I will learn that someone here killed him? Jervil, for example.’
‘Jervil did not kill him,’ said Torva with absolute certainty. ‘He heard the scuffle, although he will never admit it to you. But he saw nothing.’
‘How do you know Jervil is not the killer?’
‘Because of the Black Knife that killed Henry,’ replied Torva. ‘It had a ruby in its hilt. Jervil could never afford such a valuable thing – and if he had, he would not have left it in a murdered corpse for everyone to identify. Jervil has light fingers where valuables are concerned, and nothing would have induced him to leave such a fine dagger in Henry.’
‘Whose was it, then?’
‘We do not know. But it belonged to a wealthy man, not a groom.’
‘FitzNorman?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Or Baderon?’
‘Not Baderon,’ replied Torva, again sounding certain. ‘But Seguin and Lambert are a dangerous pair. Baderon does not have them under his control, as he should vassal knights. I am not saying they are the killers, but they were the first ones who came into our minds when we saw the dagger.’
‘Where is this dagger now?’
‘Joan took it,’ replied Torva. ‘She has it locked away.’
Geoffrey donned full armour before he went to Dene: a mail tunic that reached his knees, his stained Crusader’s surcoat with its distinctive cross, a mail hood and his conical helmet. It was far in excess of what was required for a normal ride, but he did not want to meet Baderon or his knights unprotected.
He packed a bag with a few items he thought he might need for a day or two – a scroll to pass the time if Giffard could not see him immediately, a spare dagger and the needle and thread he used to repair damage to his armour. At the last moment, he included a tunic Joan had given him, which she said was the kind of thing worn when dining in polite company. It was green, and therefore a little bright for his liking, but it was smarter than the brown one he wore at Goodrich. He jammed it in and then buckled the sack closed. Slinging it over his shoulder, he walked down the stairs and into the bailey. Bale and Jervil were waiting with the horses, and even from a distance, Geoffrey could hear that they were arguing.
‘It is not wrong,’ Jervil was saying. ‘I am offering you a couple of pennies for doing nothing. I do not see why you are making such a fuss. It will be the easiest money you ever earn.’
‘No,’ said Bale, and Geoffrey could hear the stubbornness in his voice. ‘He is my master and I will not spy on him.’
‘You will not be spying,’ Jervil insisted, trying to press coins into the big man’s hand. ‘I only want to know if he meets Lord Baderon. Surely you can do that for two silver pennies?’
‘No,’ said Bale, pushing him away with considerable force.
Jervil replaced the coins in his purse. ‘Very well. It is your loss.’
He turned and walked away. Geoffrey rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Torva believed that Jervil had not murdered Henry, and had given reasons Geoffrey was prepared to accept. So, why was Jervil interested in whether Geoffrey met Baderon? Had Jervil left gates open and turned a blind eye while Henry was stabbed by someone from Baderon’s retinue? It made sense: Jervil should not have slept through the murder, no matter what he claimed, and was obviously protecting someone.
And what of Bale’s reaction to Jervil’s bribe? Was he really loyal to a man he had served for so short a time? Loyalty was earned, not bought overnight. So was Bale simply eager to serve his new master well, or was he already in someone else’s pay – someone more powerful than Jervil?
Geoffrey took the reins and set off with his squire behind him. He looked for his dog, but it was not to be seen, and he supposed it was just as well. It had bitten Lambert the last time, and he did not want another altercation. He was riding across the drawbridge when he met Joan.
‘Where are you going so heavily armed?’ she demanded.
Geoffrey smiled reassuringly. ‘Bishop Giffard is in Dene, and has asked me to visit. And it is a fine day for a ride.’
‘It is going to rain,’ countered Joan. ‘And Dene is not worth the journey – it is only a few miles distant, but the tracks are poor. You will not be able to travel there and back today.’
Geoffrey shrugged. It would not be the first time he had slept by the roadside.
‘Do not go,’ pleaded Joan. ‘Wait until Roger arrives. He will watch your back, and I will feel happier knowing he is with you.’
Geoffrey was surprised. ‘You think someone at Dene might try to harm me?’
‘FitzNorman might if you accuse him of killing Henry.’
‘Then I will not do it,’ promised Geoffrey, wondering why she had so little faith in him when his diplomatic skills had impressed kings and princes.
Joan sighed. ‘If you must go, then at least look at Margaret, Isabel and Hilde while you are there, and see if any meet your expectations. If they do, I can have you wed this week. And take this.’
‘I have knives,’ said Geoffrey, declining to accept the minuscule blade she proffered. It was no longer than his finger, and he wondered what she thought he could do with such a thing.
She tucked it into the cuff of his tunic, securing it there with a series of folds. ‘Your daggers are large and flagrant, but this is discreet.’
‘Speaking of daggers, I am told you have the one that killed Henry. Where is it?’
She gazed at him coolly. ‘Jervil wanted it, but I did not think it right that the blade that killed my brother should be used to remove stones from horses’ hoofs – although others thought it a suitable epitaph. I kept it in my bedchamber for a month, wrapped in cloth that had been soaked in holy water, but its presence disturbed me, so I gave it to Father Adrian. There was a ruby in its hilt, and I thought he could prise it out and sell it to buy bread for the poor. You must ask him what he did with it.’
‘It might help me identify his killer.’
‘How? None of us had seen it before and, if we do not know it, then how can you? You could look at it all day and it would tell you nothing.’
Without further ado, she reached up to touch his cheek, wished him God’s speed and returned to her business.
With Bale behind him, Geoffrey followed the path of the Wye as it meandered through the forest. The roots of trees snaked across the path, and in places Geoffrey was obliged to dismount, to make sure his horse did not stumble. Bale watched his every move and did the same, showing he was prepared to learn, which Durand had never been.
It was a cool day, with clouds slung low across a dark sky, and it was not long before it started to rain. Bale tugged his cloak over his bald head, and they rode in silence. Geoffrey was alert for any unusual sounds or movements. Forests were good places for ambushes, and he had not lived to the ripe old age of thirty-three by being careless. But no one else seemed to be out, and the only sound was the patter of rain.
They left the river and passed through Rwirdin, which Geoffrey’s mother had bequeathed him. He studied it with interest – he had only been there twice before – and saw a neat place with a sturdy manor house and well-tended houses. He stopped to pay his respects to the steward, and stayed longer than he should have.
It was mid-afternoon before he set out on the final leg of the journey, and he hoped Giffard would find him a corner that night, because a wind was picking up, carrying with it a drenching drizzle. It was no weather to be sleeping in the open. Geoffrey urged his horse to greater speed.
Suddenly from the shadows a woman stepped out on to the track in front of him and raised her hand imperiously.
Her appearance was so abrupt that it startled Geoffrey’s horse, and he was hard pressed to prevent it from riding her down. Warhorses were strong animals, capable of carrying a knight in full armour into battle, and were not always easily controlled. That evening, it was skittish, and only at the very last moment was Geoffrey able to pull away from the woman.
‘Keep still,’ she ordered. ‘I want to talk to you, and I cannot while you are prancing around like a maiden who has set eyes on a spider.’
Geoffrey was tempted to ignore her and give his horse free rein to thunder along the track to Dene, but the woman was well dressed and spoke Norman-French with an accent that suggested she had learnt it in the home of a high-ranking noble. He suspected that she was from fitzNorman’s entourage, so decided to be courteous. He dismounted.
‘He is a fine beast,’ she remarked, inspecting the stallion with expert eyes. She wore a green kirtle that fitted rather too snugly over her ample hips, and a wimple that cut severely under her chin. Her face was square and determined, and it was clear that she was not a woman to be crossed. ‘You have ridden him too far today, and he is restless for oat mash and a bed of clean straw.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Geoffrey. ‘And you are keeping him from it. What are you doing out here on your own? It will be dark soon.’
‘I am not afraid of the dark,’ declared the woman. Geoffrey was sure she was not, and imagined there was very little that would disturb her. ‘I am Hilde, daughter of Lord Baderon.’
‘Even more reason why you should not be here alone,’ remarked Geoffrey. He was shocked to think that Joan considered her a suitable match for him – her plain face and powerful shoulders rendered her rather manly. ‘The kin of wealthy barons risk seizure by outlaws-’
Hilde gave a gusty sigh. ‘No outlaw would be so foolish – I would kill him where he stood. But I am not alone. My brother Hugh is with me, and so is Eleanor de Bicanofre.’
Two more people stepped from the shadows. Hugh was smaller than his sister, and his slack jaw and vacant expression indicated that he was not right in his wits. Although his clothes were fine, he wore them untidily, and he carried no sword or dagger, suggesting that he was not trusted with sharp implements.
Geoffrey looked with considerably more interest at Eleanor – another of Joan’s suggested brides. She wore a kirtle that was tight enough to reveal every curve of her sensuous body and a bright red cloak with matching gloves. Oddly, for someone happy to flaunt herself, her lower face was concealed by a scarf-like veil. All he could see was a pair of very bright blue eyes.
‘You are Geoffrey Mappestone,’ she said. ‘Brother of dear Henry.’
Geoffrey could not tell whether she was being facetious. Her voice was soft, his horse was breathing in his ear and he could not see enough of her face to judge her expression.
‘How do you know?’ he asked.
‘Your surcoat,’ said Hilde. ‘There are not many Jerosolimitani in these parts. You would not be our first choice to help us, but you will have to do. As you said, it will soon be dark.’
Geoffrey noticed Hugh was leaning heavily on Eleanor, and supposed there had been an accident. ‘Do you need to borrow my horse?’
‘Hugh does not ride,’ said Hilde. ‘And certainly not a horse of that size. You must go to Dene and send someone back with a cart.’
Geoffrey mounted, thinking he should hurry. Dusk would not be long in coming.
‘Tell them we are near the Angel Springs,’ said Eleanor. ‘Hugh followed me there, then slipped on wet stones and hurt his foot. He was lucky Hilde was close.’
‘I knew you intended to visit the springs this afternoon,’ said Hilde coolly. ‘And I know Hugh follows you. So, when I realized that he was missing, it seemed the obvious place to look. You are fortunate I used my wits, or you would both have been here all night.’
Eleanor’s eyebrows went up, and Geoffrey had the impression that Hugh’s damaged foot would not have stopped her from returning to the castle.
‘I am going with Geoffrey,’ Eleanor said. ‘I do not want to wait until he returns.’
Geoffrey offered her his hand, happy to have her company – and her directions – as he rode the last stage of the journey, but Hilde was having none of it. She stepped forward as Eleanor put her foot in the stirrup.
‘Hugh will be calmer with you here.’
Eleanor’s eyes were furious, but Hilde clearly meant business, so she said no more. She went to sit on a tree stump, and Geoffrey could see she was in a poor mood, even without benefit of a face to assess. He raised his hand in a salute, and rode away in the direction that Hilde indicated.
‘I do not like them!’ exclaimed Bale, when they were out of earshot. ‘It is an odd business: Eleanor slipping off to visit the Angel Springs, and that lunatic Hugh going after her. And then Hilde following him. You should not marry either of them, Sir.’
‘Not Hilde, for sure,’ agreed Geoffrey. ‘But Eleanor looked all right – what I could see of her.’
‘It is the bits you cannot see that you should worry about,’ replied Bale enigmatically. ‘Just ask yourself what she was doing at the Angel Springs in the first place.’ He pronounced the name in a way that made it sound sinister.
‘Is it a holy place?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘A well or some such thing?’
Bale regarded him through narrowed eyes. ‘The Angel Springs are not holy – at least, not to our God.’
Geoffrey supposed he should have guessed as much from Bale’s pronunciation. ‘What, then? A pagan temple?’
Bale’s eyes gleamed. ‘Witches linger there. I do not know what they do, but a knife left overnight will have a keen edge in the morning – especially if you leave a coin.’
‘Someone whets them during the night?’ Geoffrey supposed he should not be surprised that Bale had turned the conversation to the thing that seemed to interest him most: sharp knives.
‘They whet themselves,’ asserted Bale firmly. ‘And it is famous for other things, too.’
‘Enlighten me,’ encouraged Geoffrey.
‘Spells,’ elaborated Bale. ‘If you want a man to die, then you leave a lock of his hair and a coin at the Angel Springs and your enemy will be in his grave before the next moon appears.’
Geoffrey did not believe a word of it.
‘So, if anyone offers you a haircut, refuse,’ Bale went on. ‘I would not like to lose you yet. Not before you have paid my first month’s wages.’
It was farther to Dene than he had anticipated, but after a while, a sound caught Geoffrey’s attention, and he reined in, raising one hand to silence Bale.
‘Horses.’ Bale could also hear hoofs and the clink of metal.
‘Several of them,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Men riding together. It must be one of fitzNorman’s patrols.’
‘Or outlaws,’ said Bale, alarmed. ‘We should take cover, so we can ambush them before they attack us. I will cut their throats, while you claim their horses.’
Geoffrey laughed. ‘Outlaws will not be riding along a well-travelled path so close to fitzNorman’s stronghold, so these must be his men. We are on legitimate business; we have no reason to hide.’
The group that rounded the corner was astonished to see him. It comprised a knight, a monk and several soldiers, and all reached for their weapons. Geoffrey raised his hands to show he did not mean to fight, but that did not prevent them from spurring their way towards him with drawn swords. A pair of archers fumbled for bows and soon had arrows pointing in his direction.
‘I told you we should hide,’ whispered Bale accusingly. ‘Now it will be us with slit throats.’
‘Hold!’ shouted Geoffrey, wondering whether Bale had been right to be cautious. He had assumed that a lone traveller and his squire would present no threat, but saw he had been wrong. ‘I am here to see Bishop Giffard.’
‘You are poaching,’ said the knight. Short grey hair poked from under his helmet, and his cloak was blue with an ermine trim. There was embroidery around the hem, sewn to accentuate the presence of several semi-precious stones. His eyes were small and black, and he did not look friendly. ‘There are laws against poaching.’
‘We are not poaching,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I have come to-’
‘There is blood on your saddle,’ snapped the knight, riding forward to inspect it. ‘I can tell when a man has slaughtered an animal and carried it on his horse.’
Geoffrey tried to be patient. ‘I am here because Bishop Giffard summoned me.’
‘I know nothing about it,’ said the knight in a voice that suggested Geoffrey was lying.
‘I have a letter,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I can show you.’
The knight gave a curt nod, so Geoffrey retrieved Giffard’s letter and handed it to the monk. The Benedictine was a small, wiry man in his sixties, and his habit was made from good wool. He was vaguely familiar, although Geoffrey was more concerned with the knight.
‘It is true, fitzNorman,’ said the monk. ‘This is a message from Giffard asking him to come to Dene as a matter of urgency.’
FitzNorman laughed in an unpleasant manner, while Geoffrey regarded him with renewed interest. Here was the man who controlled the forest and was father to Isabel. He was large and fit, and his advanced age had apparently not reduced his readiness to fight. He also looked like the kind of man who would stop at nothing to have his own way – including murdering drunken neighbours.
‘I suppose Giffard summoned him over the Duke and his harlot,’ he said.
Geoffrey regarded him uneasily. He did not like the sound of it, and hoped Giffard did not intend to drag him into intrigues involving nobles and their lovers.
‘I met Hilde Baderon near the Angel Springs,’ Geoffrey said, remembering his mission. ‘With Hugh and Eleanor de Bicanofre. Hugh has hurt his foot and they need a cart to-’
FitzNorman spat. ‘A likely story! Hilde would not seek out Eleanor’s company, while Eleanor would have climbed on the back of your horse and insisted on riding with you. You lie!’
The monk spoke before Geoffrey could reply. ‘The letter is addressed to Sir Geoffrey Mappestone.’
FitzNorman’s eyes settled on Geoffrey. ‘The man whose brother despoiled my daughter?’
Geoffrey was not sure how to reply. ‘Henry is dead these last six months, my Lord.’
FitzNorman continued to stare. ‘He wanted to force my hand, so I would let him have Isabel. She loves Ralph de Bicanofre, and wanted him. So, Henry came one night, pretending to be Ralph. She is blind, and could not tell the difference. Now Henry is dead, but Ralph will not have her. Between them they have broken her heart.’
Geoffrey had met other blind people, and they had developed other senses to make up for their lack of vision. He did not see why Isabel should be any different, and if she loved Ralph, she would recognize his smell, his voice and the feel of his body. Isabel mistaking Henry for Ralph seemed an odd tale, and not one he was ready to believe. But he could hardly say so to a doting father.
‘I am sorry he used such tactics,’ he said, seeing fitzNorman expected a reply and feeling uncomfortable with the men-at-arms clustering around him.
FitzNorman seemed lost in thought. Then he suddenly hissed, ‘I swore no Mappestone would ever set foot on my lands again,’ and swung his sword at Geoffrey’s head.