Geoffrey had sensed fitzNorman’s pent-up rage, so had been on guard. He raised his shield to fend off a blow so hard that splinters flew.
‘I have no quarrel with you!’ he cried.
‘I have a quarrel with you!’ yelled fitzNorman. ‘Your brother ruined my daughter’s reputation.’
Seeing the futility of trying to reason, Geoffrey went on the offensive. It was not long before he had the older man backing away, although the archers stood ready, should Geoffrey pursue his advantage. Bale rode quickly to Geoffrey’s side, awaiting orders.
‘All right!’ fitzNorman finally shouted. ‘You have proved your point.’
Geoffrey lowered his weapon, keeping a wary eye on the man and his companions.
‘You should be ashamed of yourself, attacking a man without provocation,’ said the monk to fitzNorman. He turned to Geoffrey. ‘I am Serlo, Abbot of Gloucester.’
Serlo’s face clicked into place in Geoffrey’s mind. They had met before, although he hoped the monk would not remember. His mother had taken him to Gloucester Abbey when he was eleven, intending him to remain there. It took six months for Geoffrey to convince Serlo that he was unsuitable. Serlo had aged, and his brown hair had turned white, although his eyes were still filled with humour.
‘I hear your new church was consecrated two years ago,’ said Geoffrey politely.
A wry gleam showed in Serlo’s eye. ‘Many things have changed since you were last there.’
Meanwhile, fitzNorman gazed with hostility at Geoffrey. ‘Have you come to take up where your brother left off, to secure Isabel?’ he asked. ‘She will not have you, but I have a sister-’
‘No,’ interrupted Geoffrey. ‘I have come to see Giffard.’
‘And see him, you shall, for we should return to Dene for Vespers,’ said Serlo. His voice was commanding, and the soldiers immediately obeyed. He indicated Geoffrey was to come, too, but the knight hesitated, loath to travel with fitzNorman. Serlo sighed. ‘Come on!’
FitzNorman led the way along a winding valley, and it was not long before the castle at Dene came into sight. It stood at the heart of the royal forest, with steep slopes on three sides and a gentler one on the fourth. It was a large complex, with a tower-topped motte and fenced bailey, but it was primarily an administrative and residential structure, not a military one.
The largest building was the manor house, comprising a hall on the ground floor with five chambers above. To its left was a handsome stone edifice – newer, cleaner and containing real glass in its windows. Serlo told Geoffrey it was used when the King came to hunt in the forest, which he owned. Other buildings included a kitchen range, placed at the far end of the bailey to avoid fires, and stables, pantries, storerooms and a brewery.
‘I do not like it here,’ whispered Bale. He glared at fitzNorman’s back. ‘And I do not trust him.’
Geoffrey agreed. ‘We will see Giffard, then be on our way. Will you make sure someone sends a cart for Hugh? I do not want Hilde accusing me of failing to keep my promises.’
‘You do not,’ agreed Bale. ‘Especially if they force you to marry her. I will see to it now.’
Geoffrey caught his arm as he started to leave. ‘Thank you for standing with me.’ It made a pleasant change: Durand would have fled.
Bale grinned, and bashfully rubbed a hand over his bald head. ‘You are welcome,’ he murmured, blushing. ‘It is what squires are for, is it not?’
Geoffrey had never had a squire who had thought so. When Bale had gone, Geoffrey followed a servant to the room he was to sleep in that night. It was one of the five chambers on the upper floor of the main house, and the man said he would have to share with Bishop Giffard, because space was limited. Geoffrey was not entirely pleased to learn that the King was expected at Dene within the next few weeks, and local dignitaries were beginning to gather. Determined to meet Giffard and leave before His Majesty arrived, Geoffrey started to ask the servant where the Bishop might be, only to find him gone.
‘They are not well trained,’ came a familiar voice from the corridor. It was Durand, resplendent in an outfit that shimmered orange and red as he moved. Geoffrey supposed it was silk, another example of his old squire’s expanding fortunes. ‘FitzNorman has low standards where servants are concerned. He is a low-standards sort of man.’
Geoffrey smiled at him. ‘I see you survived your night in the forest.’
‘Abbot Serlo led us halfway to Shropshire before we found someone to bring us here,’ grumbled Durand. ‘Now we are waiting for the King. He cannot arrive too soon, as far as I am concerned. I wish to leave this dull place and return to the centre of power.’
Geoffrey felt the Marches held more than enough excitement for him, with his brother murdered and hostile neighbours with marriageable daughters converging at every turn. ‘I leave at first light tomorrow. Dene is about to become very crowded, and fitzNorman will not want me here.’
‘You want to be away before the King spots you,’ surmised Durand astutely.
Geoffrey winced at being so transparent. Durand was the King’s man, so he should not let him know he did not want to meet the monarch. ‘Have you seen Giffard?’ he asked.
‘Yes, but you will not – not tonight, at least. It is the eve of the Annunciation – and there is a vigil. You will not see Giffard until tomorrow, because he will not break from his devotions. Have you been asked to dine with fitzNorman tonight?’
Geoffrey nodded. ‘But he did his best to kill me this afternoon, so I think I shall plead tiredness and stay here instead.’
Durand settled on a chest near the window. Bale arrived and closed the door, then began to unpack the meagre contents of Geoffrey’s saddlebag.
‘If you do not attend willingly, he may drag you there by force,’ said Durand. ‘His sister will be wanting to inspect you, and so will the paupers from Bicanofre.’
‘I am supposed to inspect them, too,’ said Geoffrey. ‘We will be like wives at a meat market.’
Durand giggled. ‘Enjoy it! You will never have the chance to make this sort of decision again.’
‘I will if I outlive whichever lucky lady catches my eye.’
‘You will not do that,’ predicted Durand confidently. ‘Not the way you court danger. But I understand there are six women to choose from – I have been bored, so I have amused myself by assessing them for you. Do you want to hear my conclusions?’
Geoffrey did not, but Durand intended to tell him anyway.
‘Isabel is the prettiest, but she is in love with someone else. Her aunt Margaret is old enough to be your mother, but is a pleasant woman. You will like her, and she may still be young enough to give you the son you need.’
‘She gave her last husband two,’ added Bale. ‘Fine, strong gentlemen.’
‘And who,’ asked Durand, giving him a cool stare, ‘are you? Why do you interrupt me?’
Bale nodded at Geoffrey. ‘His squire.’
Durand pursed his lips. ‘My successor! A great, stupid, ugly ape! You have gone down in the world, Geoffrey.’
‘Actually, women find me very handsome,’ protested Bale.
‘Well, I do not,’ said Durand. He turned his back on Bale and continued his analysis. Geoffrey braced himself for trouble, but Bale only made an obscene gesture as repayment for the insult.
‘Then there are the Bicanofre women – Eleanor and Douce,’ Durand went on. ‘Eleanor is too clever, Douce not clever enough, and there is something odd about both. They are poor and a marriage with either is a waste. The same is true of Corwenna of Llan Martin, although her father would be willing.’
‘She is being courted by someone else,’ said Geoffrey.
‘Sir Seguin de Rheims,’ said Durand, nodding. ‘A shallow man who will not be able to control her. His brother Lambert is the same – they think they will take Welsh wives and continue their wild bachelor habits. Fools! And finally, there is Baderon’s Hilde. He is sure to foist her on you, but you should resist. I know you like a challenge, but she will prove too much.’
Geoffrey was amused. ‘So, which would you choose?’
Durand considered carefully. ‘I would leave immediately, and not have any of them – unless you like your women old, stupid, cunning, mannish or insane.’
Geoffrey rubbed his chin. He had come to much the same conclusion, but it was disconcerting to hear it so succinctly summarized. His future looked bleak, and he was overwhelmed by the desire to grab his horse and ride hard for the Holy Land. He would sooner take his chances with Tancred’s anger than live out his days with a local wife.
‘You cannot go to Tancred,’ said Durand, reading his thoughts. ‘You showed me the last letter he wrote, and to say it was hostile is an understatement. Do you want to be slaughtered in his next battle, because he orders you to a futile skirmish? You would do better joining forces with me. It will allow you to escape from Goodrich and use your wits.’
Durand’s offer was beginning to sound more attractive, but he thought about Joan and knew he could not shirk his responsibilities. ‘I cannot.’
Durand shrugged. ‘Then you have my deepest sympathy. Your future looks dismally grim, and I would not be in your position for a kingdom. Where are you going?’
Geoffrey had stood when a bell rang to announce the evening meal. ‘To the hall. You said I should go willingly or risk being dragged.’
Durand was aghast. ‘You cannot go dressed like that! FitzNorman would be insulted. Your full armour tells him you do not feel safe in his house.’
‘I do not,’ said Geoffrey, surprised anyone should think otherwise.
‘Perhaps so, but you cannot announce it by dining in mail! Besides, he will not attack you tonight. There will be too many witnesses.’
‘That did not stop him earlier,’ grumbled Geoffrey, although he suspected Durand was right. Reluctantly, he divested himself of his armour, while Bale tried to clean his boots. He inspected his equipment and saw with annoyance that fitzNorman’s attack had damaged his shield, which had, in turn, left several splinters in his arm.
‘You should get those out before they fester,’ advised Bale. ‘My knife is sharp-’
‘You do not use a knife for splinters,’ said Durand disdainfully. ‘It would be like using a bucket to serve fine wine.’ He glanced at Bale in a way that suggested he thought the squire probably did just that. ‘You must prise them out with your teeth. I will do it.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Geoffrey hastily, not liking the sound of either option. ‘Joan will do it tomorrow – without recourse to knives or teeth.’
‘Suit yourself,’ said Durand with a shrug. ‘But they will itch furiously tonight.’ Geoffrey took the green tunic from his saddlebag, and Durand’s jaw dropped in horror. ‘What is that?’
‘My best tunic,’ replied Geoffrey, mystified by his reaction.
Durand glared at Bale. ‘You packed it as though it were a rag, and now it looks like one. Do you want him to appear shabby among the suitors? What kind of squire are you?’
Bale snatched the offending garment and shook it so hard that one of the hems began to unravel. ‘The other creases will fall out by the end of the evening.’
‘But by then, everyone will be drunk, and it will not matter,’ said Durand. ‘Give it to me.’
With the help of water and a lot of judicious flattening, Durand eventually had the garment looking reasonably wrinkle-free, and Geoffrey pulled it over his head. The hem Bale had ruined began to drop, so Geoffrey pinned it in place with the tiny dagger Joan had given him. It pulled the skirt at an odd angle, and bumped against his leg when he moved, but it could not be helped. Durand pursed his lips in disapproval when he saw the result, and circled for some time, patting and tugging, before pronouncing himself satisfied.
‘It will have to do. At least these hapless women will know in advance what an untidy ruffian you are.’
Feeling self-conscious after Durand’s fuss, Geoffrey walked to the hall. Bale disappeared to eat with the other squires, but Durand accompanied Geoffrey to the tables near the dais, where those of significance dined. He assumed Durand knew what he was doing – he was in the King’s household, after all, and had a strong sense of his social standing.
The first people he met were Baderon and his knights. All three wore finery, and Geoffrey was grateful Durand had insisted that he change.
‘You have come to visit fitzNorman,’ said Baderon coolly. ‘Might I ask why?’
Geoffrey’s immediate reaction was to tell him he might not, but chose not to antagonize him. ‘I am here to see Bishop Giffard,’ he replied instead.
Baderon seemed relieved. ‘I thought fitzNorman might have summoned you to inspect Margaret and Isabel. But you must meet my daughter Hilde later. She has expressed an interest in you, and such an alliance would be most beneficial.’
‘She did not look very interested when I encountered her in the woods.’
Baderon pursed his lips, while his knights exchanged knowing smirks. ‘You met her. Damn! I wanted to be there, to make sure . . .’ He trailed off, waving a hand expansively.
‘To make sure she did not bite you,’ Seguin chortled.
‘To make sure each knew who the other was,’ said Baderon, glaring at him. He forced a smile at Geoffrey. ‘You must visit us in Monmouth. I am told you are a favourite of the King, and the King’s friends are always welcome.’
‘It is always wise to be gracious to friends of the King,’ said Durand. ‘I-’
‘You are not a friend of His Majesty,’ said Baderon in surprise. ‘You are a clerk. Abbot Serlo told me. Why are you here, anyway? You should be dining with the servants at that table.’ He pointed to the corner.
Durand’s small, sharp face grew dark with anger. ‘I am a trusted agent, not a clerk. And I am a landowner, too.’
‘You are not,’ said Seguin in distaste, grabbing Durand by the scruff of the neck and propelling him away. ‘You sit at the lower end of the hall.’
Durand’s eyes flashed dangerously. ‘I resent you manhandling me.’
Seguin made as if to grab him again, and Geoffrey was about to intervene when others entered the hall. Seguin’s eyes lit up when he saw Corwenna among them, and Durand was forgotten. Magnificent in a violet kirtle, Corwenna smiled smugly as she took his arm and allowed him to lead her to her place. When she passed Geoffrey, she looked him up and down disdainfully.
‘FitzNorman allows anyone to dine here, I see,’ she remarked.
‘Take no notice,’ whispered Baderon. ‘She has a sharp tongue, but Seguin will blunt it once they are married.’
Geoffrey sincerely doubted it. He watched Seguin fuss, determined to impress her, and it occurred to him that Seguin might do anything to secure her favour. Would he stoop to murder, to rid her of the man she claimed had killed Rhys?
‘I wish she would blunt it on him!’ muttered Durand venomously. ‘Insolent bastard!’
‘Ignore him,’ said Geoffrey, seeing humiliation burn on Durand’s face. ‘Seguin is a lout.’
‘Not Seguin. He is nothing – a brainless bag of wind. I was talking about Baderon. How dare he tell me where I may sit! Does he not know who I am?’
Geoffrey was saved from a further tirade when fitzNorman arrived. On his arm was an older woman, with kind grey eyes and a surprisingly trim figure. She wore a kirtle with plain sleeves and a long, decorative girdle made of silk. As befitting a lady of rank, a veil covered her hair, although the chestnut curls showing at her temples indicated they were not yet touched by grey. FitzNorman nodded greetings to various guests, including Durand, then approached Geoffrey.
‘This is my sister Margaret,’ he said. ‘I would like you to sit with her this evening.’
‘Where is Isabel?’ asked Durand, of a mind to make trouble. ‘Is she too busy to dine with us?’
FitzNorman glared at him. ‘She is indisposed.’
‘She refuses to see you while she pines for Ralph de Bicanofre,’ muttered Durand, going to take a seat, not quite at the level of Baderon and his men, but not far away. Geoffrey saw he had indeed risen in society.
‘I hear your first meeting with my brother was eventful,’ said Margaret, leading Geoffrey to the dais. Uncomfortably, Geoffrey was aware of Corwenna and Seguin glaring at him from one side, and fitzNorman watching with hawk-like eyes on the other; Geoffrey wished that he had not dispensed with his armour. ‘Do not take him amiss. He wants an alliance with you.’
‘You mean by marrying you?’ asked Geoffrey bluntly.
Margaret was not embarrassed. ‘I do not want another husband, but I may have no choice, and neither may you. However, I will not try to beguile you with false words, if you do me the same courtesy.’
Geoffrey smiled. ‘But we can be friends?’
She looked as relieved as he felt. ‘I would like that very much.’
‘Tell me about your husband,’ said Geoffrey, as the meal wore on.
‘He went on the Crusade, although he did not live to enjoy his glory. He died at Antioch.’
As Margaret talked, her spouse’s face appeared in Geoffrey’s mind. He recalled a gentle knight with calm, brown eyes, who had spoken fondly of his wife. She was moved when he told her so, and asked many questions about Antioch and its towering walls. She believed her Robert had died in battle, although Geoffrey knew that he, like so many others, had died of the bowel disease that struck at those weakened by hunger and exhaustion. He did not tell her the truth.
‘Who is that?’ he asked, nodding towards the fellow he had offered to help when his cart had stuck in the Wye. With him was an older man and a young woman wearing a white wimple. Geoffrey had a fleeting impression of dark eyes and clear skin before someone stepped into his line of sight.
‘Wulfric de Bicanofre and his son Ralph. It is Ralph for whom Isabel pines, poor thing. The woman is Wulfric’s youngest daughter, Douce.’
But Ralph was being hustled from the hall by his father, and Douce followed. Ralph shouted something, and Geoffrey thought he heard, ‘Henry’. When he saw Ralph scowl in his direction, he was sure it was his presence that had caused the father to remove the son so hastily.
Margaret chuckled. ‘Ralph is a silly boy, all puffed-up pride. His father knows he will quarrel with you, and is afraid it will spoil Douce’s chances. If you were to take Douce – or Eleanor – it would improve Wulfric’s standing in the area, and he is keen to make a good impression.’
‘I had no idea Goodrich was so important,’ said Geoffrey.
‘It is strategically located, as you know. But you may as well enjoy being fawned over. It will not last.’
‘That is what my old squire, Durand, told me,’ said Geoffrey.
‘Poor Durand. Baderon should not have addressed him so rudely, and Seguin should not have shoved him. He is a favourite at Court, and is likely to remember insults. The King likes men who are resourceful, clever and devious.’
‘I hear the King will be here soon. Do you know when?’
‘So you can leave before he arrives?’ Margaret laughed when he looked alarmed. ‘It is obvious that you are not a man to hang around in the hope of securing some regal crumb. But His Majesty is not expected for days. You have plenty of time to see your bishop and escape.’
‘Tomorrow,’ vowed Geoffrey. ‘When Giffard has finished his vigil.’
‘He is a devout man, but deeply troubled. I hope you can ease his burden.’
‘What burden?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘I suspect it is something to do with his kinsmen and the Duke . . . What do you want?’ Her voice was suddenly cool, and Geoffrey glanced up to see Corwenna behind him, a knife in her hand.
‘I want some of Geoffrey’s hair,’ she said, reaching out. ‘It is part of an experiment, to see whether Norman or Celtic hair is stronger.’
Geoffrey was not particularly superstitious, but he recalled Bale’s warnings about hair, and leant away from her. Undaunted, she grabbed at him.
‘No,’ said Margaret, catching her wrist. ‘Choose another Norman. And go away.’
She met Corwenna’s angry gaze, until the Welsh woman gave a stiff bow and moved away. She did not approach anyone else, and Geoffrey doubted there was any such experiment.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘She would have taken it to the Angel Springs and had it cursed,’ said Margaret. ‘Personally, I do not believe such nonsense, but you cannot be too careful. Now, tell me more about the Fall of Jerusalem.’
She asked more questions about the Holy Land and then talked a good deal about her Robert. It was an easy, relaxed discussion, and Geoffrey was grateful for her company. He saw fitzNorman nod with satisfaction, as if drawing up wedding contracts in his mind, and was aware that Baderon watched with irritation. Eventually, Abbot Serlo stood and intoned grace: the meal was at an end.
Margaret patted Geoffrey’s hand in a motherly fashion as she bade him goodnight, and when she had gone, he went outside for air. He sat on some steps, but did not enjoy his solitude for long. A youth of fifteen or sixteen, whose clothes copied those favoured by the most fashion-conscious members of the King’s court, came to stand nearby. Despite his finery, he was unprepossessing, with a bad complexion, poor teeth and a large nose.
‘It is a beautiful morning,’ he said in heavily accented Italian. ‘And the cows are in the river.’
Geoffrey gazed at the boy in bemusement. ‘It is a cold night,’ he replied in Norman-French. ‘And I imagine the cows are in the byre.’
It was the youth’s turn to look surprised. ‘You know Italian?’
‘My liege lord comes from Italy,’ replied Geoffrey in Italian. ‘Have you been there?’
‘You are speaking too fast,’ snapped the boy in Norman-French. ‘And how do you know Italian? There cannot be any call for it in these Godforsaken parts.’
‘I like learning languages,’ replied Geoffrey, reverting to French. ‘And you?’
‘I love the sound of Italian.’ The boy closed his eyes, gesturing with his hands. ‘The bells chime in pigs. Dogs eat cabbages and the trees swear red.’
‘Very poetic.’
‘It impresses women,’ said the boy with a leering grin. ‘They think it is romantic, and invite you to kiss them.’
‘I shall remember that.’
The boy looked around. ‘I will demonstrate. You see that woman over there with the white veil? She is called Douce, and is the daughter of some upstart peasant. Watch me.’
He sauntered to where Douce stood with her brother and father. Both men gaped when the youth doffed his hat, accompanying the gesture with a stream of meaningless words about parsnips fighting inkwells and directions to the latrines.
Douce released a squawk of outrage. ‘Rude!’ she cried, cuffing him around the ears. ‘Rude!’
The boy regarded her with astonishment. ‘I was praising your beautiful eyes in the moonlight,’ he objected. ‘What did you clout me for?’
‘It sounded obscene,’ said Ralph angrily. ‘Push off.’
The boy sensed a lost cause and slunk away, pausing only to mutter to Geoffrey, ‘She is a peasant. It works better on ladies of the court.’
‘What are you staring at?’ demanded Ralph, suddenly recognizing Geoffrey.
Geoffrey was not in the mood to quarrel. He raised his hands to indicate he was sorry, and started to leave. Ralph followed, drawing his dagger, and Geoffrey was about to do likewise when Ralph suddenly beat a hasty retreat. Geoffrey watched in surprise, then jumped when a shadow loomed behind him. It was Bale.
‘He was going to fight you, sir,’ said Bale, who held Geoffrey’s broadsword in his meaty hands. ‘But he backed away when he saw he would have to contend with me, too.’
Geoffrey might have backed away from Bale, too. The squire looked especially intimidating in the dark, with his massive bulk and dome-shaped head. He thanked Bale for his watchfulness, although the squire’s attention was now on a commotion as the gates were hauled open.
Three people were ushered inside: Hilde, Hugh and Eleanor. Hilde carried her brother on her back, and when she set him on the ground, people converged to fuss over his injured foot. He was sobbing, and had evidently not enjoyed the trek. Geoffrey glanced at Bale, who stood with his hand over his mouth and his eyes wide with horror, indicating that he had forgotten to dispatch the cart. Hilde was furious, and Geoffrey tried to escape before she saw him. He was far too slow.
‘What happened to you?’ she demanded. ‘I had to carry Hugh, and Eleanor was all but useless.’
‘The cart did not arrive?’ Geoffrey asked feebly. ‘I am sorry. I-’
But, after shooting him a withering look, Hilde strode away, not waiting to hear excuses.
It was hot in the chamber that Geoffrey shared with Bale, and he was plagued by an itch from the splinters in his arm – as Durand had predicted. He finally abandoned his attempts to sleep, and went to see if there was wine left for guests in the kitchens. The night was pitch-black and he sensed dawn was a long way off. He moved stealthily, not wanting to disturb those sleeping.
His room was at the far end of a long corridor that had another four doors opening off it. Most were open, to allow air to circulate, and he could see people inside as he crept past. In the first were Seguin, Lambert and their servants; Baderon had been housed in the more sumptuous guesthouse. In the middle room were Hilde, Douce and various other women, while the next was occupied by the spotty boy who had spoken Italian and his retinue. In the last room fitzNorman snored, with his female kin around him.
Geoffrey was relieved when he reached the yard, breathing in deeply of the heady scent of wet trees and cold earth. He was waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the darkness when he saw that he was not alone.
‘Do not worry,’ said Eleanor, immediately recognizable by her veil and red cloak. ‘I am not as cross about the cart as Hilde.’
‘I should have seen it on its way. I was remiss to trust others to do it, and I apologize.’
She inclined her head. ‘Apology accepted. I do not mind the forest, although I prefer my own company. Hugh follows me everywhere, and nothing I say deters him. He is attracted by my veil. Most men are unnerved by it, but Hugh is not like other men.’
‘He seems simple-minded.’
‘Yes. He is Baderon’s only son, which is why Baderon uses his knights to establish peace – Hugh will not be capable of maintaining it once Baderon dies. He would like you for Hilde, but I doubt she will have you. Normally, a strong lord like Baderon would not care about the likes and dislikes of daughters, but Hilde has refused more suitors than you can imagine. Meanwhile, my father wants you for Douce. Or for me. But I expect your sights are set higher?’
‘They are not set at all. What are you doing out at this time of night?’
‘The same as you, I imagine. I want something to drink.’
They walked to the kitchens, where she lit a candle, then poured wine into a cup. When the heavy jug slipped in her grasp, she removed her scarlet gloves to hold it more securely, and Geoffrey saw that her hands were marred by a rash. Something had aggravated her skin, which perhaps explained why she covered everything except her eyes. He indicated she was to drink first, curious how she would do it without removing the veil. Her eyes crinkled in a smile, as if she knew what he was doing, and she turned away as she set the cup to her lips.
‘You keep scratching your arm,’ she said, as he sat near the dead hearth. ‘Let me see.’
She moved next to him, but he edged away. There was something unnerving about being inspected by a woman when only her eyes were showing, and he had a flashback to an unfortunate incident in the Holy Land, when he had inadvertently burst into a gathering of Muslim ladies. Covered from head to foot, he could only see their eyes, but there was no question that they were furious. Eleanor, however, was laughing at him.
‘You are afraid of me,’ she said.
‘I am not!’
‘Then let me see what is making you scratch like a dog with fleas.’
‘Splinters. I do not need help.’
The humour in her eyes faded. ‘We all need help, Sir Geoffrey, and only a fool refuses an offer of kindness. Let me see.’
With considerable reluctance, he pulled up his sleeve. She removed her gloves again and began to press with her fingernails, hauling his arm this way and that to see in the dim light of the candle. When he objected to her ministrations, she sighed in irritation.
‘The only person in Dene with decent healing skills is Isabel – and you will not want her doing this. She is blind.’
‘My sister will do it,’ said Geoffrey, trying to pull away.
‘It might fester by then. Sit still. I have almost finished.’
He did as he was told, and it was not long before she was done. Then she scattered powder into the wine they had been sharing, and indicated he should drink.
‘What did you put in it?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘Why? Do you think I might poison you? I am unlikely to kill a man after I have put myself through the annoyance of removing splinters. Drink the draught, and I will send Isabel to you. She has more patience with soothing poultices than I.’
‘I do not need poultices or Isabel. But you have been kind.’
‘You will return the favour at some point,’ she said, as though he had no choice. ‘If you drink my potion, you will sleep soundly tonight. Or, if you prefer, give me a lock of your hair, and I shall say a charm that will work just as well.’
‘That is not necessary,’ he said hurriedly.
Her eyes crinkled in another smile and she shrugged. When she left, he poured the doctored wine down the slop drain and refilled his cup from the jug. It was not long before he was joined by another sleepless guest: Durand, complaining about Abbot Serlo’s snoring.
‘You can hear him from here, and he is in the room above the buttery! He was put there, rather than the guest hall, because he is such a noisy sleeper. But I am obliged to share with him.’
Geoffrey could indeed hear someone breathing hard and strong. Durand drank two cups of wine in quick succession, claiming they would make him drowsy.
‘I saw Eleanor leaving just now,’ he said, pouring a third. ‘I waited until she had gone, because I did not want to meet her in the dark.’
‘Why not?’
‘She is more comfortable during the night than is appropriate for a young woman,’ said Durand primly, although Geoffrey was not sure what he meant. ‘She still wore her veil. I thought she might not bother in the dark, when her face cannot be seen. I hear she is dreadfully scarred.’
‘Is that so,’ said Geoffrey without interest.
Durand sensed his reluctance to gossip, so changed the subject. ‘Corwenna hates you. What have you done to her?’
‘My brother killed her husband.’
‘But then your brother was killed in his turn. Did Corwenna do it? Or Seguin or Lambert?’
‘Why would Lambert-’
‘He loves his brother – you can see his devotion a mile away. He might have killed Henry at Seguin’s request. Or perhaps they did it together.’
Without waiting for a response, Durand reeled away, across the yard towards the buttery. Geoffrey settled into the chair again, swearing under his breath when, no matter how hard he scratched, he could not stop his arm from itching.
‘That is not polite language,’ came a soft voice from behind him.
Geoffrey came to his feet and studied the woman who had glided into the room so softly that he had not heard. Everything about her was pale. Her hair, coiled into circles over her ears – a fashion adopted by women in the privacy of their quarters, but never in public – was so fair it was almost silver. Her skin had a delicate translucency, and he had never seen eyes such a light shade of blue. He saw the way she looked past his shoulder.
‘Isabel?’
She inclined her head. ‘Eleanor told me your arm itches. Is that why you are swearing?’
She indicated he was to sit, then knelt beside him, groping for his hand. He started to object, but she began to rub a white paste on his arm that almost instantly relieved the itching.
‘Now you should be able to sleep, especially if you drink Eleanor’s poppy juice – although I hope you did not give her your hair. She does odd things at the Angel Springs, I am told.’
‘I hope she did not wake you for this.’
‘I was awake anyway.’ There was a catch in her voice. ‘I seldom sleep these days.’
‘I am sorry,’ he said gently. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘You can agree not to marry me. I sense you are a good man, but I do not want you. My heart lies elsewhere.’
‘With Ralph.’ He could not imagine what she saw in such a surly fellow.
The mention of Ralph’s name drew a smile. ‘I have loved him since we were children. But your brother . . .’ She took a shuddering breath. ‘Now Ralph will not have me. He says I am tainted, even though . . .’ She did not finish, and tears spilt down her cheeks.
‘He is young,’ he said, thinking about what Margaret had said. ‘When he sees your devotion, he may recant.’
She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. ‘Do you think so? Then perhaps everything will work out. But you should sleep now.’
And she was gone.
When Geoffrey awoke, his first thought was whether to don armour or the green tunic. He was still undecided when he climbed out of bed, and, to his amazement, Isabel glided in. He wondered whether she would have entered so blithely had she known he was clad only in undergarments. Aware that it would not look good if anyone found them, he hauled his tunic over his head and tugged on his boots, eluding her outstretched hands until he was properly dressed.
‘Stand still,’ she ordered. ‘I want to assess if you need more of my ointment.’
‘I do not,’ he said. ‘But thank you for asking.’
‘You are nothing like your brother. I paid a priest to say a mass for him when he died, although it will not be enough to free him from purgatory. He was not a good man.’
Isabel had been kind to Geoffrey, but that was no reason to duck from the truth. Her unfinished statements from the previous night had allowed him to deduce exactly what had happened the night Henry invaded her bedchamber – and it was not what most people believed.
‘You risked a great deal to protect Ralph, did you not?’ he said, watching her intently.
He saw alarm flit across her face. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You lay with Ralph and then discovered you carried his child. Not wanting your father to kill him for despoiling you, you allowed Henry into your chamber – or perhaps you invaded his, as you have just done to mine. It would not matter if your father killed Henry, because no one liked him.’
She was appalled. ‘What a horrible thing to say! You question my virtue and Ralph’s honour.’
‘You slept with Henry to protect Ralph. I know from personal experience that your father strikes first and hears explanations second. You did not want him to hurt Ralph.’
‘I was wrong,’ said Isabel coldly. ‘You are like your brother.’
‘You are not with child,’ said Geoffrey, noting her body’s slender lines. ‘Were you mistaken?’
Isabel gave a choking sob, and he thought she might flee. Instead she groped for the bed and sat heavily, shoulders heaving with silent weeping.
‘The baby came too soon, so I buried her in the churchyard.’ She took a deep breath as more tears spilt down her cheeks. ‘Why am I telling you this, when I have even kept it from my confessor? Only my aunt Margaret knows the truth. And Ralph, although he . . .’
‘But the child was not Henry’s?’
‘Ralph’s. We must have made her the first or second time we . . .’
‘You took a risk,’ said Geoffrey, thinking he had never come across a more flawed plan. ‘What would you have done if your father had ordered you to marry Henry – or if Henry had insisted on marrying the mother of his heir?’
‘Henry did insist,’ said Isabel unhappily. ‘I thought he would not – I made no effort to please him. But he did not have very high standards – or perhaps the quality of love did not matter to him.’
Geoffrey refrained from pointing out that physical satisfaction seemed irrelevant when advantageous matches were being made. ‘Surely, there was another way?’ he asked instead.
She raised a tear-stained face. ‘I could not think of one. Ralph was in Normandy, so I could not ask him, and I dared tell no one else. But my plot had three flaws: it pleased Henry, it soured relations with the Mappestones and, worst of all, it drove Ralph away.’
Geoffrey felt sorry for her. She had been desperate, and her plan had misfired horribly. The only way it could have been worse was if Henry had not been stabbed, and she had been obliged to marry him. ‘I am sorry,’ he said softly.
She wiped away more tears. ‘Bishop Giffard told me you are a skilled investigator, and he was right – you have coaxed secrets from me. It is a pity we were not friends when I discovered my predicament – you would have devised a better idea.’
Geoffrey thought that even Bale could have done that. ‘I only wanted the truth about Henry. I would like to know who killed him.’
‘Sir Olivier thinks he took his own life.’
‘Henry was too convinced of his own importance to harm himself. He was murdered without question, but there are too many suspects.’
‘I am sure my father is on your list,’ she said. ‘But he is not that kind of man.’
Geoffrey was not so sure. ‘Ralph is on my list, too: not only was he deprived of the woman he loved, he lost a prosperous marriage in the bargain.’
Her face grew even more pale. ‘Not Ralph! He would never harm anyone.’
Geoffrey thought otherwise. Ralph had been ready to fight him the previous night, and only left when he thought he might have to do battle with Bale, too. And Geoffrey had not forgotten the man’s brutality at the ford. Isabel was wrong about his character. He listed his other suspects.
‘All Goodrich’s servants hated Henry, while Corwenna knows how to bear a grudge. Seguin wants to please her, and might have presented her with a trophy – with the help of his brother.’
She nodded, eager to lead the discussion away from Ralph. ‘Baderon had much to gain from Henry’s death, too – he wants manors to give to knights like Seguin and Lambert, and Goodrich can be divided into neat parcels that will suit his needs.’
‘You are on my list, too,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Your plan misfired and Henry was clamouring to marry you. You have as good a motive for killing him as anyone.’
Isabel grimaced. ‘But I did not! And please do not tell anyone about Ralph and me. My father will be come enraged, and I do not want Ralph driven even further away.’
‘I do not understand what drove him away in the first place. Surely, you explained what you had done? He should have been grateful you were ready to risk your reputation to save him.’
Tears sprouted again. ‘He says that when a woman loves a man, he is the only one she should lie with. He is a man of principle. I wish with all my heart that I could undo what I did.’
Geoffrey changed the subject, hoping to distract her from her misery. ‘Have you heard when the King is due?’
‘Not for some days, although people are beginning to arrive in anticipation. Baderon would never normally stay with us, but he wants to be here when the King hunts. Indeed, we are so well endowed with powerful guests at the moment that we are obliged to provide a feast tonight with music, so I must leave you and ensure something suitable is performed. I cannot trust my father to do it: the kind of songs he favours will not be appropriate.’
Having met the belligerent Constable, Geoffrey was sure her concerns were justified.