By mid-morning, Geoffrey thought Giffard should have completed his devotions, so he went in search of him. When the Bishop saw Geoffrey, he broke into a rare smile and jumped to his feet, grasping the knight by the shoulders.
Giffard was tall and lean, with a face made for the sober business of religion. Geoffrey had never heard him laugh, although he was occasionally ecstatic when he prayed. He wore a hair shirt under his habit, and was noted for his abstemiousness. He seldom drank, never overate and was reputed to have been celibate since joining the Church. But his unsmiling, dour demeanour hid a gentle heart, and Geoffrey respected his honesty and integrity.
‘Why did you ask me to come?’ Geoffrey asked.
Giffard was about to reply, but was interrupted by a discordant jangling. ‘There is the bell for the next meal. I have not eaten since yesterday, because of my vigil. Come with me, and I shall tell you all.’
Geoffrey thought about taking a sword with him – Giffard was worse than hopeless in a fight – but something bumped against his leg, and he recalled Joan’s little dagger. He pulled it from his hem and secreted it in his sleeve.
He followed Giffard into the hall. There were too many folk to be seated, and, with the exception of an honoured few at the dais, most ate standing, taking what they wanted from tables laden with meat and bread. The first person they met was Abbot Serlo, who watched in disbelief as Giffard took only a sliver of bread and a cup of water. While the Bishop nibbled, Serlo and Geoffrey shared a greasy chicken.
‘Lord!’ muttered Serlo suddenly, as people pushed into the hall. ‘Here comes Baderon’s fiery daughter and she looks peeved. I shall leave you.’
Before Geoffrey could reply, the abbot fled, taking the chicken with him. The knight braced himself for a dressing down when he saw Hilde stalking purposefully towards him, holding a limping Hugh by the hand. He decided to take the wind out of her sails before she could get started.
‘I am sorry about the cart,’ he said sincerely. ‘I really did think it would be sent, but I should not have delegated the matter to others. I apologize. It was my fault.’
The angry lines around her face softened. ‘You admit your error? You do not offer excuses?’
‘There are none to give.’
She nodded. ‘You are right, although I did not expect you to confess so honourably. Very well, I forgive you. I was obliged to carry my brother, but I am no weakling. I shall have to make sure he does not follow Eleanor again, if she will not look after him properly.’
‘Why were you following her?’ Geoffrey asked Hugh.
‘Pretty lady,’ said Hugh, with a vacant grin.
Geoffrey wondered how he knew, when all that could be seen of Eleanor were her eyes.
Hilde lowered her voice, so Hugh could not hear. ‘She wears a veil because she is disfigured, so she is not pretty at all, but Hugh has always liked her. I used to wonder whether she had put him under a spell – a marriage to him would be very lucrative – but she gives the impression she would rather be left alone. I suppose the veil attracts him, although it unnerves others.’
‘What was she doing at the Angel Springs?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘She would not say,’ replied Hilde. ‘But it is no place for Christian folk. The forest is not safe for Hugh – slow in the wits, but heir to a fortune – and I need to be mindful of him, since he cannot do it himself.’
Hugh began pulling at her hand, indicating he wanted something to eat, so Hilde gave Geoffrey a rather mannish bow and left. Then Serlo reappeared, dropping gnawed chicken bones into the rushes that covered the floor. He had managed to devour the bird in a remarkably short period of time, and Geoffrey made a mental note not to ‘share’ with him again.
Geoffrey was on his way to fetch more bread for Giffard, when a commotion erupted, as someone shouldered his way into the room. Geoffrey’s heart sank when he recognized the stocky body and thick black hair. He glanced at Giffard, but the Bishop was already down on one knee, and was not looking to see how Geoffrey would react to this particular presence.
It was the King.
Geoffrey glanced towards the door, and wondered if he could leave before being spotted. He did not want King Henry to repeat his offer of employment, because it was becoming increasingly difficult to refuse. He was angry with himself for obeying Giffard’s summons, and felt he should have guessed that the King would be involved, given the close relationship between bishop and monarch.
‘God,’ he groaned, as the King, having greeted the most important people, started to move in his direction with fitzNorman and Isabel at his heels. He saw Giffard’s agonized glance, and supposed he had spoken louder than intended.
‘Is Sir Geoffrey unwell?’ Henry asked fitzNorman. ‘He seems to think I am God.’
‘An understandable mistake, Sire,’ said fitzNorman with a sickly smile.
Henry regarded him coolly. ‘Most folk imagine God to be taller,’ he said, while fitzNorman looked bemused, not sure whether the King was making a joke and he should laugh.
‘I have never seen God,’ fitzNorman managed eventually.
The King turned his attention to Geoffrey. ‘So, why are you here? Have you come to offer me your services at last?’
Geoffrey raised a hand to rub his chin, trying to think of an answer without landing himself in trouble. To say yes would mean doing the King’s dirty work, while to say no would smack of rebellion. Henry reached forward and grabbed his wrist, revealing the knife tucked into his sleeve. He showed it to fitzNorman.
‘Your guest does not feel safe in your home.’
‘His brother was murdered, Sire,’ said Isabel reasonably. ‘He probably feels unsafe everywhere.’
‘Perhaps,’ said the King, gazing at the assembly. ‘However, no one will harm Sir Geoffrey. I have plans for him, so he is under my protection. If he is harmed, you will answer to me. Am I clear?’
There was a muted murmur of assent, and Geoffrey supposed that he was now safe from open attack, although still at risk from covert ones. He wondered what Henry’s ‘plans’ entailed, and glared at Giffard – the Bishop knew he would avoid an invitation to meet the King, but would respond to a summons from a friend. It was a low trick, and Geoffrey was disappointed in him. Giffard, however, seemed as surprised by the King’s early arrival as everyone else.
‘We were not expecting you until next week, Sire,’ he said.
‘My business at Hereford was concluded sooner than anticipated,’ said Henry. He clapped his hands, making his courtiers jump. ‘But you must all leave us. I want a word with Sir Geoffrey, and now is as good a time as any. Sit.’
Geoffrey had no choice but to obey, so he perched in a window seat. The King watched the courtiers flow away, and only spoke when they had left.
‘Why are you here?’ he asked, pacing restlessly. ‘Did you want to see me?’
‘No, Sire,’ said Geoffrey, wincing when it sounded a little too fervent. His tone did not escape Henry, whose dark brows drew together in a frown.
‘What, then? Have you come to see which of the region’s heiresses you will have? Is there one you like in particular? I can help you. A word from me goes a long way.’
‘No, Sire,’ said Geoffrey again. He rubbed his head. It was the wrong answer. ‘Yes, Sire.’
Henry regarded him thoughtfully. ‘You are not in your right wits today. But which of these women do you want? Isabel is pretty, and a match with fitzNorman is good. Margaret is too old, so do not take her. Hilde will be lucrative, because her brother is a half-wit and Baderon will leave his estates in her care. Do not bother with the Welsh. And do not bother with Bicanofre, either. They may be keen for the match, but I am not.’
‘Why?’ asked Geoffrey, surprised Henry should be so well informed about such petty affairs.
‘Because they are poor,’ said Henry impatiently. ‘Why do you think, man? You can do better, and marriage is important. Your only real choices are Isabel or Hilde. So, make your decision, and I shall ensure you have the one you want.’
‘Very well, then,’ said Geoffrey with a sigh.
Henry frowned, although there was humour in his eyes. ‘The proper response is to thank me with appropriate gratitude, not assume a long-suffering expression. Most men would be honoured to have their monarch’s friendship.’
‘Yes, Sire.’
‘Now, since I have just offered to help you, there is something you can do for me. It concerns your old squire, Durand – the one you so obligingly released from your service so he could work for me, and whom you so strongly recommended.’
Geoffrey regarded Henry in astonishment. He had not recommended Durand – Durand had been dismissed under a cloud, and had not dared ask for a testimonial. And although Geoffrey did not bear grudges, and had allowed Durand to repair the rift with friendly letters, he would never encourage anyone to hire him – Durand was too ambitious and selfish, and the concept of loyalty was anathema to him.
‘I did not . . .’ He hesitated. He did not want to be responsible for Durand’s downfall by saying the man had probably written the recommendation himself. ‘Durand has remarkable abilities,’ he said instead. Henry waited, obviously expecting more, but since Geoffrey was not sure what the King was about to say of Durand’s recent activities – and would not be surprised to learn they were self-serving or dishonourable – it seemed wise to say as little as possible.
‘He does have remarkable abilities,’ agreed Henry, sitting next to Geoffrey. ‘His rise has been meteoric, and I am impressed by his talents. He will be invaluable in the future.’
‘Good,’ said Geoffrey.
‘But there is a problem,’ Henry went on, standing and pacing again. ‘Others resent his success, and I do not want to lose him to a dagger in the back.’
‘Is that why you sent him to Abbot Serlo?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘For safety? I thought it was because he was investigating taxes.’
‘There are tax irregularities in this region, which he is cleverly unravel-ling. But it was also a way to keep him out of harm’s way until I could find other posts for these rivals – which I must do carefully. An angry agent is a dangerous thing, and I need time to organize matters properly. It is a pity Durand is not more agreeable. He has a sharp tongue and does not care who he wounds.’
‘He can be testy,’ agreed Geoffrey.
‘He can be downright rude,’ countered Henry. ‘But here is my problem: I do not want him at Westminster until I have relocated his rivals, but I do not want to leave him with Serlo, lest he decides to become a monk. I need somewhere he will be safe, with someone who is patient with his abrasive character.’
‘I have a new squire,’ said Geoffrey quickly, sensing what was coming next.
‘Yes, I have seen him. Your taste in servants continues to astound me, Geoffrey. But this is a nuisance. I cannot leave Durand with fitzNorman, because they would argue and someone would die. And I cannot leave him with Baderon, because he is ineffectual and a poor protector.’
‘He would be safe with Giffard, Sire,’ suggested Geoffrey. ‘He has loyal bodyguards, and his hair shirt, poor diet and life of chastity will do more to persuade Durand against a monastic career than anything else would.’
Henry rubbed his hands together, pleased. ‘I should have thought of this myself. It is an excellent solution. I will inform them of the good news at once – I am sure they will be delighted.’
Geoffrey was sure they would not. Giffard would be appalled to have such a flagrant libertine in his household, while Durand would be horrified to be trapped with the dour, ascetic bishop. He sincerely hoped Henry would not tell them whose idea it had been.
‘But I want Durand to complete his work here first,’ said Henry. ‘You can watch him for a week or two, then escort him to Giffard when he has finished.’ He stood, business completed. ‘It is time I went hunting. You are dismissed – unless you would like to accompany me?’
‘My horse is lame, Sire,’ lied Geoffrey.
Geoffrey went to his bedchamber the moment Henry released him, and began to don his armour, intending to leave immediately. There was no need to linger and risk being asked for further favours. Giffard followed him from the hall, and watched him struggle into mail and surcoat.
‘The reason I summoned you had nothing to do with the King,’ he said. ‘He came here to hunt, and your meeting was pure chance. Do not think he engineered this encounter – he did not.’
‘He probably did not,’ said Geoffrey, letting the unspoken accusation hang in the air.
Giffard winced. ‘I did not expect him until next week, which is why I thought it would be safe to ask you to meet me. I know you prefer to be away from court and its machinations.’
‘The King,’ corrected Geoffrey, not caring that he was speaking imprudently. ‘I prefer to be away from the King and his machinations.’
‘There is no need to blare your treasonous feelings for all to hear – and I already know what you think. But hear me out. I accompanied the King when he came this way because I need your help.’
Geoffrey was sceptical. ‘Henry told you to say that.’
Giffard sighed irritably. ‘He did not. He likes you, even though you verge on insulting him every time you meet. Could you not at least have pretended to be pleased to see him?’
‘He took me by surprise.’
Giffard went to stare out of the window. ‘I need your help, Geoffrey, and I swear, by all that is holy, the King has nothing to do with it. It is personal . . . I am at the edge of an abyss . . .’
Geoffrey did not like the sound of that at all. ‘What is wrong?’
Giffard beckoned him to the window, throwing wide the shutters. ‘You see that lady there?’
He pointed down to the yard below, to a dark-eyed woman, whose laugh revealed a mouth full of small white teeth. She was exquisitely beautiful, with an athletically curved body. She fluttered her eyelashes at fitzNorman, and the old warrior preened. She was confident of her beauty, and her laughter and the way she flirted said she was a woman who liked fun.
‘Her name is Agnes Giffard,’ said the Bishop softly.
‘Giffard?’ asked Geoffrey, startled. ‘She is your wife?’
Giffard shot him a withering glance. ‘That is a remarkably stupid question! How can I be married? I am in holy orders.’
Holy orders meant little where powerful prelates were concerned, as Giffard knew perfectly well, and the question was far from stupid. Sensing the Bishop’s temper derived from anxiety, Geoffrey forced himself to be patient. ‘Is she your sister? She does not look like you; she is attractive.’
Giffard raised his eyebrows. ‘Are you insulting me, now the King is not here to be a receptacle for your barbed tongue?’
‘She smiles more than you do,’ hedged Geoffrey, who had not meant to offend.
Giffard’s face was glum. ‘I find little to amuse me in this world. It is brutal, cunning and greedy. I wish I were not Bishop of Winchester. I am not even consecrated, did you know that? I am, in fact, only a deacon.’ His voice was uncharacteristically bitter.
Geoffrey was confused. ‘But you were invested with your pastoral staff and ring by the Archbishop of Canterbury himself. You said it was the most satisfying day of your life.’
‘Being invested is not the same as being consecrated,’ snapped Giffard. ‘I am able to perform my episcopal duties, but have not been properly blessed in my office by God.’
Geoffrey shrugged. ‘Ask Henry to arrange it.’
‘The problem is Archbishop Anselm, who is in a dispute with the King over who should pay homage to whom. Anselm will not consecrate anyone until the issue is resolved. Henry has asked the Archbishop of York to do it, but York is inferior to Canterbury.’
Geoffrey thought it sounded like a lot of fuss. Giffard was a powerful man and had the King’s favour, so consecration was a formality. ‘I am sure you will be consecrated soon,’ he said. ‘Archbishops and kings are always fighting over something, but these rows do not go on forever.’
Giffard took a deep breath, and Geoffrey saw that his hands were shaking.
‘Tell me about your sister,’ Geoffrey suggested, in order to take his mind off the problem. It did not work. Giffard’s frown became deeper; he had never seen the man so unhappy.
‘Agnes is not my sister. She is – was – my brother’s wife. Walter was the Earl of Buckingham, and he died last summer, when you and I were chasing rebels in the north. You see that boy standing near her? That is their son, also called Walter.’
‘The one with the yellow hat?’ asked Geoffrey, recognizing the would-be Italian speaker.
‘He is a cockerel and, as the new Earl of Buckingham, he has funds to indulge himself. I have tried to teach him restraint, but with a mother like Agnes, it was inevitable that he should transpire to be all fluff and no substance.’
‘You do not like him, then?’
‘I think he may have encouraged Agnes to . . . do what she did.’
‘And what was that?’ asked Geoffrey patiently.
Giffard took a shuddering breath. ‘I summoned them from Normandy as soon as I heard about Sibylla. But it will not be long before people realize that Agnes’ husband died last July and Sibylla died less than a month ago.’
Geoffrey had no idea what he was talking about. ‘Who is Sibylla?’
‘Sibylla de Conversano. The Duchess.’ Giffard turned an anguished face to Geoffrey. ‘I fear she was poisoned.’
Geoffrey was bemused by Giffard’s confidences. ‘The Duke of Normandy’s wife? But I heard she died from complications following childbirth.’
‘I have tried to crush the gossip,’ said Giffard. ‘But it is common knowledge that Agnes dallied with the Duke during Sibylla’s confinement.’
‘You think Agnes murdered Sibylla?’ asked Geoffrey, trying to follow what Giffard was saying. ‘So she could continue to frolic with the Duke?’
‘Worse. I think she killed Sibylla – and perhaps my brother, her husband, too – so she could marry the Duke, and rule Normandy with him.’
‘Then you thwarted her,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Agnes is here, and the Duke is in Normandy.’
‘That is not the point,’ snapped Giffard. ‘I fear evil deeds, and Sibylla was a beautiful and intelligent lady. Normandy is a poorer place without her careful hand on the Duke’s shoulder and, if someone did kill her, then a great wrong has been perpetrated.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Geoffrey. ‘But it is only a matter of time before our King – whom you serve – invades Normandy. He will be delighted that the Duke no longer has Sibylla at his side.’
‘But it is murder!’ whispered Giffard, turning haunted eyes on Geoffrey. ‘I knew Sibylla, and she was remarkable. I see her in my dreams, and hear her calling to me for vengeance. I need to know the truth: did Agnes and her brat poison Sibylla, or was her death due to tragic illness?’
‘You may not like what you find,’ warned Geoffrey. ‘And what if they did kill her? Will you tell Henry? He admires initiative, and might employ them to do it again.’
Giffard was aghast. ‘How can you say such things?’
‘I am being practical. You want to be told that Agnes and Walter are innocent. But you must accept the possibility that you will learn otherwise. And you should consider what you would do with such knowledge. If you think your dreams are haunted by Sibylla’s cries for vengeance now, imagine what they will be like if you discover your family is responsible.’
‘So, what should I do?’ Giffard’s face was anguished.
‘Marry Agnes to a man who will keep her in a remote manor. Or place her in a convent. You must know some trustworthy abbesses. But we are assuming she is guilty. What evidence is there?’
‘None,’ admitted Giffard. ‘Just the fact that she dallied with the Duke when Sibylla was in confinement, and that Sibylla was conveniently dead a few days before that confinement was due to end. And my brother’s death was very timely, too. He died the very week that this lustful liaison between the Duke and Agnes began.’
‘That is nothing but a set of coincidences – and there is certainly nothing to implicate Walter.’
‘You think I should ignore that my brother might have been murdered by his wife and son?’ cried Giffard. ‘Ignore that, buoyed by their success, they then struck at Sibylla? And ignore that their selfish actions have caused immeasurable damage to Normandy, because its one sane voice is stilled forever?’
Geoffrey accepted his point, but did not think much could be done to rectify such wrongs. ‘I do not see what else you can do.’
Giffard turned on Geoffrey, and the knight saw anger in his eyes. He had never seen the prelate so disturbed. ‘Your brother was killed. Will you look the other way and pretend it did not happen?’
‘No,’ admitted Geoffrey.
‘Nor I. I want the truth, Geoffrey, and I want you to find it.’
Geoffrey did not see how he could oblige, and attempted to convey this to Giffard. Duchess Sibylla had died in Normandy, and he could hardly travel there and start asking questions in the Duke’s household.
‘Then you must make do with who is here,’ argued Giffard. ‘Agnes and Walter did not travel alone – a number of people were in Normandy when Sibylla died, and many of them have come to meet the King. That is how I was able to order Agnes and Walter home without arousing suspicion.’
‘Who?’
‘Eleanor de Bicanofre, for one. She went to be inspected by a Normandy knight as a possible bride, but she is back, so the man obviously did not take her. Her brother Ralph accompanied her. Then there was Abbot Serlo, who had business in Rouen. Also Baderon and his children: Hilde and Hugh. And fitzNorman and his sister Margaret.’
Geoffrey’s head was spinning. ‘All these people went to Normandy?’
‘Will you help me?’ asked Giffard desperately. ‘If you do not, I shall have to do it myself, but I do not know how.’
‘I cannot – I have no authority to interrogate these people. Besides, I must investigate my own brother’s death, and I cannot ask too many questions. Some of the people you mentioned are on my list of suspects for his death, too.’
‘All I want to know is whether Walter had a hand in Sibylla’s death,’ said Giffard. ‘I believe Agnes is guilty, but I need to know about him. He will come of age soon and, although Earl of Buckingham is not the richest title, he may use it to become powerful. I do not want him to be another Belleme.’
‘He will not,’ said Geoffrey, not believing Walter to have the strength of personality to become a despot.
‘I must know,’ insisted Giffard, almost tearful. ‘How can I be consecrated when my conscience is troubled by such dark family affairs?’
The two men stared at the throng in the yard below. Agnes moved away from fitzNorman and smiled at Baderon, who bowed. Walter followed her closely, watching with a face Geoffrey found difficult to read. Had he encouraged Agnes to poison the Duchess? Geoffrey thought about the boy’s clumsy Italian and confident swagger. He was certainly imbued with a sense of his own importance, and might well believe himself a cunning manipulator.
‘I did not sleep last night,’ said Giffard eventually. ‘I should rest, or I might doze off during an audience with the King. We shall talk again this evening.’
While Giffard slept, Geoffrey paced. He longed to be out riding, but was loath to quit the room, as he was almost certain to meet someone who wanted to fight him, marry him or demand a favour. He sent Bale for ale, and the squire returned with Isabel in tow. She sat in the window and talked about her father in terms that did not coincide with Geoffrey’s impressions.
‘You do not believe me.’ She was whispering, so as not to disturb the dozing Bishop. ‘I can tell.’
‘I do not know him well enough to say,’ he replied honestly. ‘I am sure he has his virtues.’
‘He has not forced me into a marriage that would make me unhappy. Nor Margaret. She is a wealthy widow, and it would be advantageous to use her, but he stays his hand. You should consider her, though – she is better than the others on offer. Hilde would bully you, Douce is stupid, Corwenna would flay you with her tongue and Eleanor . . . well, you know about Eleanor.’
‘She is poor,’ said Geoffrey.
‘Well, there is that, but I was thinking about her other drawbacks.’ Isabel gave a deep, sad sigh. ‘If Ralph continues to refuse me, I shall ask Abbot Serlo to make me a nun.’
‘Give yourself time before you take such a drastic step,’ advised Geoffrey, thinking Ralph was a fool to be put off such a dignified and generous bride. ‘Convents are not pleasant for those there for the wrong reasons.’
They both looked up as Margaret tapped on the door. ‘Your father wants you, Isabel,’ she murmured. ‘Do not linger or he will jump to the wrong conclusion.’
Geoffrey wondered what conclusion that might be. That Isabel had made her choice regarding husbands, and it was not Ralph? That Geoffrey had taken over where Henry had left off, and was having another go at impregnating a fitzNorman? Obediently, Isabel slipped away, leaving Geoffrey with Margaret.
‘I am sorry I did not warn you that the King had arrived,’ Margaret whispered. ‘My first thought when I saw him was that you would want to escape, but there was no time. He was not expected so soon, and his arrival threw everyone into confusion. He asked who was here, and your name was mentioned before I could tell my brother to leave it out.’
‘You would have misled the King on my account?’
She smiled. ‘You are transpiring to be a good friend – you are gentle with Isabel, for a start. I understand she told you about her misguided attempt to save Ralph.’
‘It is a pity you were not here to stop her,’ remarked Geoffrey.
Margaret agreed. ‘I was appalled when she told me. The pity is that it was all for nothing: she lost the child anyway.’
They were silent for a while, with only Giffard’s deep breathing accompanying their thoughts.
‘Your bishop sleeps well,’ remarked Margaret.
‘He has a clear conscience. He spent last night in prayer.’
‘If only his family were like him. His nephew is a stupid peacock who thinks only of fine clothes, while his sister-in-law seems determined to bed every man she meets.’
‘You speak very bluntly.’ Geoffrey was interested in Margaret’s astute insights. ‘I understand she is a recent widow.’
‘Last July. Then she set her sights on the Duke, and she was not pleased to be dragged away by Bishop Giffard’s summons.’
‘I thought the Duke was in love with Sibylla. Why would he be interested in Agnes?’
‘Agnes has a way that makes men helpless. She smiles and they flock to carry out her every whim. I am fond of the Duke, but he is like wet clay in her hands.’
‘I imagine she is looking for another husband, now that her first is dead,’ probed Geoffrey. ‘Would the Duke be interested?’
Margaret gave a mirthless laugh. ‘He will never marry her, no matter how able she is in the adulterer’s bed. He does not have the time, for a start, what with all his wars and troubles.’
‘You may know that,’ said Geoffrey. ‘But does she?’
Margaret regarded him with surprise. ‘I did not think you were the kind of man to gossip.’
‘I am not,’ said Geoffrey. He glanced at Giffard, resenting being obliged to be. ‘Not usually.’
‘I suppose Agnes might make you a suitable wife,’ said Margaret, misunderstanding him. ‘She is beautiful, although you would be hard-pressed to keep a clean marriage bed. Perhaps she is looking for a husband. She is not stupid, and perhaps she has realized the Duke will never have her. There is, after all, a tale that says he suspects Agnes of sending Sibylla to an early grave.’
Geoffrey looked out the window. ‘Do you think Sibylla was poisoned? And Agnes is the culprit?’
‘There have been whispers to that effect. However, while I am unfamiliar with poisons, there was no retching or violent sickness during her demise. Sibylla slipped quietly away, in view of a roomful of people.’
‘Did Agnes give the Duchess anything to eat or drink?’
‘Just one thing,’ said Margaret. ‘A dish of dried yellow plums – about a week before she died.’
Geoffrey wandered into the yard, eventually leaning over a gate to stare at the pigs, while thinking about the Duchess and wondering how Giffard expected him to assess whether Agnes and Walter were responsible when the crime – if there was a crime – had happened so far away. He looked up as someone came towards him. It was Baderon.
‘This is hardly a conducive spot for repose,’ said the Lord of Monmouth, eyeing the pigs in distaste. ‘Most men would be watching horses – or, if they want to attract female company, newborn lambs. But perhaps that is why you chose pigs: you want solitude?’
‘I did not think about it,’ replied Geoffrey.
‘I will come to the point,’ said Baderon, standing closer and lowering his voice. ‘Goodrich and its estates are small, but they command the ford over the Wye. You do not need me to tell you that the alliance your family will forge when you marry is important to the security of the area.’
‘No,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘I do not need you to tell me that.’
Baderon pursed his lips. ‘The King wants peace. Therefore, I must want it, too, and I am willing to offer Hilde and a large dowry to secure it. She is a fine woman and will bear strong sons. I find haggling distasteful – as must you – but we have no choice. Your brother was prepared to listen.’
‘Was he?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘I thought he wanted Isabel.’
Baderon nodded. ‘But he and I had other irons in the fire.’
Geoffrey was intrigued. ‘What irons?’
But Baderon was not to be drawn. ‘They are irrelevant now. Will you consider my offer?’
‘Will Hilde?’
‘She is a practical woman.’
‘Do you have land in Normandy?’ asked Geoffrey, wanting to bring the subject around to Giffard’s problem, and to ask Baderon what he knew about Agnes and the Duchess.
Baderon scratched his head. ‘Well, there is a manor near Rouen you could have, I suppose, but I am not sure it would be worth your trouble. Normandy is unsettled, and you would find yourself obliged to be there more than it warrants.’
Geoffrey laughed, amused that his attempt to change the subject had led Baderon to think he was angling for a better bargain. ‘I was not asking for land – I barely know how to manage what I have. I wondered whether you were in Normandy when the Duchess died.’
Baderon was transparently relieved that Geoffrey’s enquiry was only about distant politics. ‘It was a dreadful day when Sibylla passed away. She was sensible and courageous.’
‘How did she die?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘I heard it was a sickness following the birth of her son.’
‘Her physicians say so, but there is a rumour she was poisoned. Yet such tales always circulate when a good person dies young.’
‘I have heard the Duke had a mistress,’ said Geoffrey, heartily cursing Giffard for making him assume the role of gossip. ‘Could she have harmed Sibylla?’
‘Agnes?’ asked Baderon, startled. ‘I would not think so. She was all care and concern when the Duchess took a turn for the worse. She even ordered dried plums, at great expense, to tempt Sibylla’s appetite and make her stronger. I doubt Agnes would have harmed Sibylla. But we are moving away from my original question: will you consider my offer of Hilde?’
‘I will mention it to Joan,’ hedged Geoffrey.
Baderon smiled and patted his shoulder. ‘That is all I ask.’
He moved away, leaving Geoffrey contemplating, while absently staring at the pigs. Margaret thought the dried plums were sinister, while Baderon proffered an innocent interpretation. When he glanced away from his porcine companions, he saw Eleanor emerging from the kitchen, her veil and gloves in place. She carried a pot.
‘How are you?’ she asked. ‘Did you manage to sleep after I removed those splinters?’
He nodded. ‘And you?’
‘I rest during the day, when I have the room to myself. Can I test this ointment on you? I need to know whether you can detect a warming sensation, or whether it needs to be stronger. As I said last night, I am not good with medicines. My talents lie in other directions.’
‘What is it?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘Nothing that will do you any harm. Hold out your arm.’
Geoffrey tucked both hands in his surcoat. ‘My mother told me never to accept potions from strange women.’
‘You think I am strange, do you?’ Eleanor laughed. ‘Well, perhaps you are right: everyone else seems to think so, too. However, I devised this salve for the pigs. There is something wrong with them, and I do not like seeing animals suffer.’
‘Then test it on them.’
‘Yes,’ she said caustically. ‘But they will not tell me whether they feel a tingling sensation that means it is working, will they?’
‘Try it on yourself. Surely, you are the best one to judge its potency?’
‘I have an aversion to mandrake root. It makes my skin blister.’
He regarded her uneasily. ‘Mandrake root? I thought that was poisonous.’
‘Only when applied improperly. That is why I use so little, and why I need a person to tell me if there is warmth. I may have been too careful, and the pigs will not have any benefit.’
‘A simple wash would do them more good than potions. Or a clean sty.’
He left Eleanor looking for another victim, and was crossing the crowded hall when he met Durand. The clerk was wearing yet another outfit, this one a glorious deep red, cut so closely that it looked to be part of his skin. Geoffrey would never have worn such a revealing costume, especially if he had Durand’s paunch.
‘The King is here,’ said Durand, dancing a jig that had Seguin and Lambert gaping in astonishment. ‘My rescue is at hand. You cannot imagine how I yearn to be back in Westminster.’
Geoffrey was grateful he would not be the one to break the news of the sojourn with Giffard, and sincerely hoped Henry would not disclose the idea’s origin. ‘Have you considered Normandy? Its turbulence gives it much potential for a man who enjoys intrigue.’
Durand nodded. ‘I have, but it is safer here.’ He leant close to Geoffrey, who resisted the urge to move away when he was treated to a waft of flower water. ‘I hear tales of terrible happenings. And some of them include women you have been talking to.’
‘Isabel?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Or do you mean Margaret?’
‘Neither,’ said Durand dismissively. ‘I was referring to Eleanor. She has a way with poisons, and there is a suggestion that the Duchess died by foul means. What do you conclude from that?’
‘That you should ask yourself why Eleanor would want to murder Sibylla before spreading nasty stories about her,’ said Geoffrey tartly. ‘She has no reason to-’
‘She is friends with Walter Giffard,’ interrupted Durand. ‘And Walter’s mother was the Duke’s mistress. Of course, Eleanor helped him with a potion or two.’
He gave a smirk and minced away, leaving Geoffrey staring. Had Eleanor supplied poison to Walter, who had encouraged his mother to use it? Or was it Agnes who had asked Walter to procure the poison?
‘You were in the right place earlier,’ came an unpleasant voice at his side. Geoffrey jumped; so deep in his thoughts, he had not heard Corwenna approach. Seguin and Lambert were behind her. ‘Were you attracted to kindred spirits?’
‘Pigs,’ said Seguin, in case Geoffrey had not understood. ‘You were looking at the pigs.’
‘Enjoy them while you can,’ said Corwenna. The tone of her voice implied it was a threat.
It was not one Geoffrey understood. ‘Why? Are you planning to steal them when you go home?’
She glowered at him, and answered in Welsh. ‘Because your days are numbered. Soon my people will pit themselves against England.’
Geoffrey answered in the same tongue. ‘Baderon is trying to promote peace. That is what the King wants – and what his knights should want, too.’
She shrugged. ‘What the King wants is unimportant. We are interested in our own welfare. You will soon be crushed by a great enemy – we have not forgotten last summer.’
‘Last summer?’ asked Geoffrey, bewildered. ‘You mean when my brother was killed?’
‘Your brother is nothing,’ spat Corwenna. ‘Last summer we were ready to fight for Belleme, but Prince Iorwerth changed sides and we went home empty-handed. Since then, the English have chipped away at our lands, taking a manor here, a church there. Well, we have had enough, and will rise against you. You grain and cattle will be ours, and your lands will burn.’
Geoffrey was appalled at the prospect of a war along the Marches, and hoped Corwenna was exaggerating. But he had the feeling she was not. ‘Fighting will damage all our peoples, and-’
‘What is he saying?’ demanded Seguin, struggling to understand.
‘She is telling me that Baderon’s alliances will not work in the way he hopes,’ said Geoffrey. He knew Corwenna had spoken Welsh because she did not want her future husband to know she was plotting insurrection. ‘She claims his new “friends” will unite to attack England.’
‘I did not,’ said Corwenna sharply in Norman-French, and Geoffrey could see that they believed her. ‘I said he should leave the region before someone runs him through.’
‘Like someone did his brother,’ said Lambert.
‘Geoffrey did that himself,’ sneered Seguin. ‘To get his hands on Goodrich. I hear the stable where Henry died is full of dead birds, put there by his servants to make sure he does not murder them, too.’
‘When will this invasion take place?’ Geoffrey asked Corwenna. ‘And what will Baderon get out of it? I am sure he does not want to raid Goodrich for grain and cattle.’
‘We will never join Wales to attack England,’ said Seguin, laughing at the notion. ‘Baderon may be foolish, but he is not entirely stupid.’
They walked away, although not before Geoffrey saw the frown that crossed Lambert’s face. The discussion had sparked something in his mind, and he was not ready to laugh it off like his brother. Geoffrey watched them go uneasily. Would the Welsh princes use the alliances Baderon had forged for their own ends? Until now, everyone had assumed the alliance would work in England’s favour, but there was nothing to say that the Welsh would not capitalize on the situation.