The next morning Geoffrey woke early following a restless night. He attended matins in the church of Dene, but found it difficult to concentrate. He was not the only one whose mind was elsewhere.
‘You are not listening to me,’ Giffard hissed, uncharacteristically speaking during the sacred office. ‘I asked whether you have thought any more about Agnes and Sibylla.’
‘I cannot help you.’ Geoffrey saw hope fade from the Bishop’s eyes. ‘Not because I do not want to, but because I do not see how it can be done. If we were in Normandy, it might be different, but we are talking about something that happened far away. For all you know, the Duchess might have had many enemies – perhaps even the Duke himself.’
‘No,’ said Giffard firmly. ‘He loved Sibylla. The only person who wanted her gone was Agnes. I accept her guilt. All I want to know is whether Walter helped.’
‘Ask him,’ suggested Geoffrey. ‘You are his uncle.’
Giffard grimaced. ‘I tried, but he told me to . . . well, let us say he was not polite. I need someone with your skills to find the truth.’
The Bishop continued his appeal at breakfast in the hall. The King was there, and all was fuss and flurry as he and his courtiers prepared for a day of hunting. He wanted Giffard and Geoffrey to come, but the Bishop was alarmed by the prospect of slaughter, so Henry asked him to look at some documents from the Archbishop of Canterbury instead.
As a knight, Geoffrey could hardly plead an aversion to killing, and had no choice but to accompany the royal party. He was about to mount up when he heard screams from a nearby storeroom. It was Hugh. When Geoffrey arrived, he found several others already there, including Seguin and Lambert.
‘It is nothing,’ said one of the King’s retinue as he pushed his way out. ‘Baderon’s half-wit son has himself in a bother over a rat.’
Geoffrey entered the room to see Hugh on a table, while an equally terrified rodent quivered in a corner. The rat could not escape without passing Hugh, and Hugh was going nowhere as long as the rat was there. Cruelly, Seguin feinted towards the animal, which scurried in alarm and caused Hugh to begin another bout of anguished shrieks. Several onlookers laughed uproariously. Pleased by their response, Seguin made as if to do it again, but Geoffrey grabbed his arm.
‘Stop,’ he said quietly. ‘This is not kind.’
‘To the imbecile or the rat?’ quipped Seguin, shaking him off and making Lambert guffaw.
Seguin took another step towards the rat, which bared its teeth, and Geoffrey saw tears of terror on Hugh’s face. Geoffrey shoved Seguin roughly towards the door.
‘Enough,’ he said sharply.
Seguin gaped in astonishment and his hand went to his sword. ‘Do you dare tell me-’
‘Don’t,’ said Lambert, stepping between them. ‘Brawling will incur the displeasure of the King.’
‘You will certainly incur his displeasure if you follow Corwenna,’ said Geoffrey. ‘He will not be pleased if Baderon and his Welsh allies invade England.’
‘We will not invade England,’ said Lambert. ‘But we may attack Goodrich. We will tell His Majesty it was full of traitors. As long as the “invasion” goes no further, he will not risk a war just because your estates have been sacked.’
He dragged his brother away, leaving Geoffrey with Hugh and the rat.
‘Take my hand, Hugh,’ Geoffrey said. ‘We are going outside.’
‘No!’ wept Hugh, putting his fingers over his eyes. ‘It will bite.’
‘It will not,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Look, I have my sword. Take my hand, and then we will find your sister.’
Hugh shoved plump fingers towards Geoffrey, who helped him off the table. As soon as he moved, the rat aimed for the slop drain and its freedom. Hugh became calmer when it had gone.
‘That was kindly done,’ said Hilde from the door. ‘Hugh is frightened of rats. I am none too keen on them myself, and was wondering how I was going to extricate him.’
Surprised there was something that could unsettle her, Geoffrey handed Hugh into her care and started towards his horse. Hilde caught his sleeve.
‘Seguin and Lambert are strong, aggressive and determined to make their fortunes. I do not like them, but they are the kind of men we need on our side if we are to have peace. Do not make enemies of them, Geoffrey. Look what happened to your brother when he did so.’
Geoffrey regarded her uncertainly. ‘What are you saying? That they killed him?’
She met his eyes. ‘I have heard rumours to that effect, although I have no proof. Nor have I heard them talking about it, as I might, had they been responsible – Seguin is boastful and revels in such tales. But your brother was murdered, and I would not like to see you go the same way.’
‘Your father would. Then he could take Goodrich for himself, which would be far better than an alliance by marriage.’
‘My father is not a murderer. He wants peace.’
‘Does he?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘I heard Margaret’s comments when you thought I was sleeping yesterday,’ Giffard said that evening, as he sat with Geoffrey in their chamber. The Bishop drained his goblet and held it out for Bale to fill. Bale raised his eyebrows, but said nothing as he obliged the thirsty prelate for the fifth or sixth time in a short period. ‘She also believes Agnes killed Sibylla. I am not alone in my suspicions.’
Giffard’s face was flushed as he emptied his cup and thrust it out for yet more, and Geoffrey hoped that he was not one of those drunks who talked gloomily all night, because he wanted to sleep. Meanwhile, he drank some honeyed milk that Isabel had provided. She said it was her own concoction, and he did not want to offend her by tipping it out of the window. He usually avoided milk, on the grounds that it was for children, but Giffard’s wine had a strong, salty flavour, underlain with something unpleasant. The milk tasted much better.
‘Margaret was not a regular figure at the Duke’s court,’ Giffard went on. ‘So, if she suspects Agnes, others will do likewise.’
‘Probably,’ agreed Geoffrey, recalling that Durand had done just that.
Giffard gagged slightly. ‘Wine really is a nasty substance. I do not know why people like it.’
‘You will be ill tomorrow, if you drink it like water,’ warned Geoffrey, wondering what was making the normally abstemious bishop guzzle the stuff.
Giffard ignored him and took a healthy gulp. ‘It will not be long before everyone knows my family killed the most beloved woman in Christendom. I had already asked Margaret about Agnes, and she told me nothing. You had more from her in a few moments than I managed to prise from her in a week. Where is that damned squire? I want more wine.’
‘Have some milk,’ suggested Geoffrey, indicating with a nod that Bale was to remain in the shadows. Giffard had had enough for one night. ‘It tastes like sweet vomit.’
‘Why would I imbibe sweet vomit?’
‘As penance,’ said Geoffrey, ‘for forcing a poor knight to do your dirty work.’
Giffard gave a startled smile. ‘You will do it? You will help me?’
‘I will try,’ said Geoffrey unhappily. ‘You would probably do the same for me.’
‘I would not,’ declared Giffard drunkenly. ‘I am not qualified, and would render matters worse. But I shall not forget your kindness.’ Tears formed in his eyes.
‘Tell me about Agnes and Walter,’ Geoffrey said hastily, knowing Giffard would be mortified the next morning if he lost control of his emotions. ‘She does not look old enough to be his mother.’
‘A combination of marrying young and potions,’ said Giffard, pronouncing the last word with considerable disapproval. ‘She looks better from a distance than close up, which is why she likes to come out at night, I suppose. It is dark and men are full of ale – less inclined to be critical.’
‘You sound like some old abbess, jealous of her younger nuns,’ said Geoffrey, watching Giffard lurch to his feet and fetch the wine himself. He was thoughtful. ‘Her knowledge of substances that keep her young may also extend to less benign purposes.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Giffard, flopping into his chair so hard that the contents of the cup spilt down his habit. When he tried to drink, he was puzzled to find the cup empty.
‘I mean that she may know enough about poisons on her own, so had no need to recruit Eleanor,’ elaborated Geoffrey, wondering whether he should postpone the talk until Giffard was not so inebriated. ‘What else can you tell me?’
‘Her marriage to my brother was not happy.’ Geoffrey leant forward, obliged to concentrate on the Bishop’s slurred words in order to de-cipher them. ‘They fought constantly, and I am sure her affair with the Duke was by no means her first. She is greedy and very ambitious. You will see that the moment you speak to her – if she does not drag you into her bed first. Damned whore!’
‘Easy,’ said Geoffrey, seeing a drunkard’s rage in Giffard’s eyes. ‘And what about Walter?’
‘Ambitious and avaricious, like his mother. He was delighted when his father died, because he became Earl of Buckingham.’
‘It is odd that so many people in Normandy when Sibylla died are now in Dene.’
Giffard hiccuped, and for a moment he looked as if he might be sick. Geoffrey prepared to dive out of the way.
‘Not really. Many barons with English manors own land in Normandy, and they travel together for safety. The roads in Normandy are very dangerous, with Belleme on the rampage. He is an evil bastard, burning villages, destroying crops, killing men who look at him the wrong way. Now Sibylla is not there, his power will increase. Our King is delighted, of course. A weak Normandy works in his favour: its barons will welcome him when he finally invades.’
Geoffrey was shocked at Giffard’s bluntness. He knew it would not be long before King Henry turned greedy eyes on Normandy, but he had not expected to hear it from his loyal Bishop. ‘You are drunk. You will be sorry for saying these things tomorrow.’
Giffard tried to stand, but fell back in his chair. ‘You are right. I should let you sleep, before I say anything else – although I trust you not to repeat my ramblings to the King. I shall pull my chair across the door, so any nocturnal invaders will have to pass me before they reach you.’
‘You will protect me, will you?’ Geoffrey was amused.
Giffard nodded. ‘A drunk is a terrible object to surmount. He flops in your way, is heavy and almost impossible to steer where you want him to go, and when you think you have him under control, he is sick over you.’
Geoffrey laughed. He had only previously seen Giffard drink water or weak ale, but supposed the Bishop might partake of powerful wines when unhappy. ‘Are you speaking from experience?’
‘From observation. My brother had a liking for wine. I cannot imagine why. Thank God my vocation gives me an excuse to decline it.’
‘Except for this evening. You have finished an entire jug on your own.’
‘Nonsense,’ slurred Giffard. ‘You had most of it. I had but a sip, and only because I am thirsty. Go to sleep, or you will have a thick head tomorrow.’
The snores began before Geoffrey could reply. The knight moved a chair to the door himself, which Bale offered to occupy. When Geoffrey lay on the bed, confused thoughts washed inside his head. He was not sure that he could help Giffard – the only people who knew whether Agnes and Walter were guilty were Agnes and Walter themselves, and he did not expect them to confess. Others could only repeat rumours and speculation.
Eventually, Geoffrey slept, but his dreams teemed with disjointed images. He spoke to people he did not know and walked through unfamiliar villages. Then he was in the tunnel under a castle Tancred had been besieging before it collapsed. Geoffrey had been trapped for days in the dark, with water rising around him. Even years later, his dreams sometimes took him back to the pitch-blackness and the prospect of slow, lonely suffocation. He knew it was only a nightmare, but he still could not breathe. Then Bale was shaking him. His squire’s hands clawed at his chest and throat, and, for a moment, he thought he was being strangled. He wrenched himself into wakefulness, but still could not catch his breath.
‘There is a fire!’ Bale was shouting. ‘Smoke is coming under the door!’
Bale hauled Geoffrey to his feet. It was still the middle of the night, but people were screaming and there was a steady thump of footsteps on wooden floors. Terrified horses were whinnying in the stables, and dogs were barking furiously. Giffard was still slumped in the chair, so Geoffrey lurched across to him. The Bishop was either drunk or comatose from the smoke, and barely moved when Geoffrey shook him.
‘Look!’ Bale shrieked.
Geoffrey followed the outline of his pointing finger and saw orange flickering under the door. The fire was close. He heard a dull roar and the light flared. The blaze would not be easy to control, and the house might already be lost. He crossed the room and touched the metal latch. It was searingly hot, and he jerked his hand away.
‘If we open that, flames will rush in, and the room will ignite like a haystack. We must escape through the window.’
‘It is too far down!’ cried Bale. ‘We will break our necks.’
‘There is a rope in my saddlebag. Tie it to the mullion.’
With shaking hands, Bale rushed to do as he was told, then helped Geoffrey haul Giffard from his chair. The knight grimaced. Giffard had not been exaggerating when he described the difficulty of moving a drunk, and Geoffrey was sweating heavily by the time they had the Bishop lowered to the ground. He glanced at the door and knew that they did not have much time. The fire was hungry for air, and it would only be moments before the frail barrier disintegrated and flames tore into the room.
Even as he turned, there was a crackle and the door was suddenly alive with fire. In the sudden brightness Bale grabbed him and almost hurled him through the window. He snatched at the rope and slid down it. Bale was directly above him, feet kicking wildly as he gripped the windowsill. Then a wave of heat washed over them, accompanied by a tongue of flames. Geoffrey jumped the last few feet; Bale quickly joined him.
Geoffrey seized Giffard’s arm and tried to shake him awake. More flames shot out of the window and showers of sparks rained down on them, causing Bale to curse like a demon. He pushed Geoffrey aside, tossed the insensible Bishop over his shoulder and raced away. Geoffrey hurried after him, joining members of the household who were gathering in the yard.
In the leaping flames it was difficult to recognize people, but he glimpsed Eleanor’s red cloak. Someone followed her closely, and Geoffrey saw the pair hand in hand, stopping only for a quick embrace. Then flames lit her companion’s face, revealing the pretty features of a woman. The wearer of the red cloak was not Eleanor at all, but a man with an identical garment – or perhaps he had borrowed it from her.
A bell was clanging, and Geoffrey heard fitzNorman yelling to his servants. Orange flames shot high into the sky, and the soldiers who had been ordered to douse the blaze could not get close enough to do any good – the heat drove them back before their water could touch the flames. It was hopeless.
Bale dumped Giffard, then raced towards the stables to save their horses. Geoffrey marvelled at his dedication to duty; Durand would not have thought of the animals. Geoffrey hauled Giffard to his feet and half-carried, half-dragged him to a hedge outside the main gate, where he would be safe and untrampled if the fire spread. He leant close and heard a snore that suggested Giffard was still drunk rather than overcome with fumes, so he rolled him on to his stomach, tucked his cloak around him and trotted back to the yard.
He tried to locate Isabel and Margaret – he did not want them roasted for lack of a guiding hand – but he could not see them, so pushed his way into a confused throng. The first people he recognized were Seguin, Corwenna and Lambert. All three had smoke-blackened faces.
‘Have you see Isabel?’ he asked urgently. ‘Or Margaret?’
Seguin barely looked at him as he hurried away. ‘I am more interested in my horse.’
‘Heroics will not win you Isabel,’ said Lambert. ‘She loves only Ralph. I paid her court myself – I am by far the richest of Baderon’s knights – but she was not interested. If she will not have me, she certainly will not have you.’
Geoffrey broke away from Lambert and moved through the survivors, peering into smoke-streaked faces. But Isabel was not there. He wondered if she had fallen, or been knocked down in the panic, and was disorientated and unable to find a way out. He recalled his own experience in the collapsed tunnel – especially vivid because of his dream – and thought it would be an awful way to die. He redoubled his efforts to find her.
‘Is Isabel safe?’ he shouted when he saw fitzNorman. The Constable was bellowing orders, clearly under the impression that he could still save his home.
‘I saw Margaret, and I assumed they were together,’ fitzNorman replied. He looked numb with shock. ‘What have I done to deserve this? And when the King is visiting, too!’
‘Where is the King?’ asked Geoffrey. If Henry had not escaped, fitzNorman would have to contend with far more serious issues than the loss of his manor – some people would conclude that the blaze was deliberately set to deprive England of her monarch.
FitzNorman’s face grew whiter still. ‘I do not know.’
‘We should find him,’ said Geoffrey. ‘You go that way; I will look near the stable.’
FitzNorman lumbered away, leaving Geoffrey to scan the faces of those still flooding from the buildings. Smoke swirled thick across the yard, and he raised an arm to protect his eyes, then collided heavily with someone doing the same. It was Serlo, holding Hugh by the hand. Baderon’s heir was sobbing helplessly.
The Abbot responded to Geoffrey’s question about the King by gesturing vaguely towards the guest hall. Geoffrey moved on again, as another familiar figure approached, hacking and staggering.
‘I have been burnt!’ cried Durand, cradling a bloodied hand to his chest. ‘And my hair caught fire!’ His golden locks had been singed and, combined with the dirty water he had used to extinguish them, were a sorry mess.
‘Have you seen Isabel or the King?’ Geoffrey asked urgently.
‘I saw nothing,’ said Durand, coughing hard. ‘But I heard yells coming from the guest house. It sounded like Henry’s voice, but I think his servants are seeing to him.’
‘You think?’ asked Geoffrey uneasily. ‘You do not know?’
‘Several men ran in that direction, but the flames were fierce and the smoke too thick to see. I did not want to be in the way, so I left them to it.’
He staggered and almost fell, so Geoffrey took his arm and bundled him along until he was sure that he could make his own way. When they parted, Durand shoved something at him. It was a pair of gloves, which he said would protect his hands, should he need to touch anything. Geoffrey tugged them on. He rounded a corner and saw Agnes and Walter together, hurrying along under a wet cloak. They were loaded down with bags that were inadequately buckled and Walter was struggling to keep their contents from spilling out.
‘I hope he is dead,’ Agnes muttered venomously.
‘Mother,’ said Walter sharply; he had seen Geoffrey. He smiled affably. ‘Have you seen my uncle? We are anxious for his safety.’
Geoffrey sent them in the wrong direction. Walter carried a knife, and Geoffrey did not like what Agnes had said. He dashed on, trying to orientate himself in the smoke.
Suddenly, someone grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around. It was Ralph, and Geoffrey only just evaded the dagger that was thrust at him.
Ralph’s face was twisted into a grimace. ‘It is time you paid for your brother’s deeds.’
Geoffrey gazed at Ralph in astonishment, scarcely believing he would choose such a time for a brawl. Ralph lunged again, and Geoffrey knocked his blow out of the way. The man fought with no skill, and his attack was more a nuisance than a threat.
‘I do not want to fight you,’ snapped Geoffrey, sidestepping Ralph’s next move.
‘I do not want to fight you, either,’ hissed Ralph. ‘I want to kill you.’
He launched himself at Geoffrey, but suddenly halted mid-move. Geoffrey’s mouth dropped as he saw Hilde holding his assailant in her burly arms. Ralph screamed his fury and frustration as he tried in vain to struggle free.
‘Have you seen Hugh?’ she asked, pinioning Ralph with effortless ease.
‘I hope he is with the Devil!’ shrieked Ralph, rather unwisely given his situation. But Hilde kept her eyes on Geoffrey as she waited for an answer.
‘He is safe,’ said Geoffrey.
Hilde closed her eyes in relief, but opened them as Geoffrey moved away. ‘You are going the wrong way. The flames are fiercer in that direction.’
‘Isabel is missing, and so is the King.’
‘It would serve Isabel right,’ said Ralph spitefully. ‘She is a whore, who-’
The diatribe stopped when Hilde tossed him away as though he were made of rags. Whether by accident or design, he landed in a slippery pile of compost.
‘I will help you look,’ she said. ‘But we will not waste time with vermin.’
Curses and threats followed them both. Smoke swirled, stinging Geoffrey’s eyes to the point where he could barely open them – not that it mattered, because he could not see anyway. Nor could he breathe easily, and his armour and surcoat were not garments he could pull over his face, as Hilde was doing. He buried his nose in his sleeve and staggered on, following the line of a wall.
As he reached a corner, the smoke thinned, and he felt a waft of clean air. The wind was blowing from the north, and they were finally upwind of the choking fumes. Geoffrey opened his smarting eyes and saw others had gathered there, gazing at the devastation. He headed towards them, and dropped to one knee beside Margaret, who sat weeping.
‘Where is Isabel?’
‘She was behind me one moment, and gone the next,’ cried Margaret. ‘I think she has gone to the guest house to find Ralph.’
‘Stay here,’ ordered Hilde. ‘Sir Geoffrey and I will find her.’
Geoffrey followed Hilde towards the thickest pall of smoke, not sure anyone would still be alive within. He saw Baderon and some courtiers standing with a tiny mound of salvaged possessions.
‘What caused this?’ demanded Baderon hoarsely. ‘How could it have taken hold so fast?’
‘It started in the manor house,’ replied a servant. ‘I assumed it was the kitchens – that is where fires usually begin – but they are still intact. It is very suspicious.’
Geoffrey’s thoughts whirled. Was the fire started deliberately? If so, was it directed against the King? Or did Agnes and her son want to make sure that gossip about the two of them and Sibylla did not spread? Or was it aimed at fitzNorman, to shame him before the King? Or Baderon, because his knights were too strong for him and he was forming alliances that were uniting the Welsh against the English?
Geoffrey tripped over a bucket of water, abandoned by someone who had fled. He grabbed Hilde’s arm and brought her to an abrupt stop, indicating she was to dip her cloak in it and put it over her head. She did not need to be told twice. Muscles bulging, she ripped the garment in two, jammed it in the bucket and then handed half to Geoffrey. With the material wrapped turban-like around their faces, they hurried on. When they reached the guest hall, Geoffrey stopped, chest heaving from exertion and lack of clean air.
He heard a voice. He listened harder, moving towards it. It was a man calling for help. He staggered on, using the voice to guide him, Hilde at his heels. He could see nothing but grey-whiteness, and could barely make out his own feet. He was dizzy, and considered escaping while he was still able, but then heard the voice again, louder and closer. It was the King.
‘Where are you?’ Geoffrey yelled.
‘Here!’ It was Isabel who answered. ‘We cannot go back because of the flames, and we cannot open the door.’
Geoffrey moved forward, feeling his way. The air was burning hot, and the water in the cloak was beginning to evaporate. Then his outstretched hands encountered wood. He moved his fingers down it, and located a beam lodged across the bottom of a door. Someone hammered furiously.
‘Open the damned door!’ bellowed the King. ‘Or we shall be roasted alive.’
The beam was not big, but it was jammed tight against the wall and was hot. Geoffrey and Hilde tugged with all their might – he grateful for the gloves Durand had lent him, and she using her sleeves to protect her hands – but it did not budge. Inside, Henry was growing angry with his would-be rescuers.
‘Open the door!’ he shouted furiously. ‘Now! The fire is getting closer while you play around. Do you want your King to die?’
‘No, Sire,’ gasped Geoffrey, scrabbling for something to use as a lever. The first piece of wood snapped like a reed, and he groped for something thicker. The piece he found was so heavy, he could barely lift it, and it took all his strength to manoeuvre it into place. Hilde helped him, but she was growing weaker as she ran out of air. Then she flopped to the ground, and he was on his own.
‘Geoffrey?’ shouted the King. ‘Is that you? Hurry, man!’
Geoffrey had no breath for talking and knew it would not be long before he collapsed like Hilde. There was a shriek from inside, followed by a low roar that suggested the flames were taking a firmer hold. Voices pleaded for him to hurry. He leant hard on his lever, but it slipped out of position and he crashed to his knees. He staggered up and was trying again when he saw that a leather strap was preventing the timber from moving. He needed to saw through it. But when he fumbled for his dagger, it was not there. He clawed at the leather with his hands, but it was hopeless – Isabel and the King would die because he could not break a strap. Then his cuff caught on a splinter and something jangled to the ground. It was the little knife that Joan had given him, since honed to a vicious edge by Bale.
For once he was grateful for his squire’s fetish, because the tiny blade cut through the tough leather like warm butter. Now only dimly aware of the cacophony of shrieks emanating from within, he summoned every last ounce of strength to lean on the lever as hard as he could. Blood pounded in his ears, and he felt the tendons in his arms and shoulders protest. Suddenly, the lever splintered, sending him sprawling backwards. But the beam also moved. It was not much, but it was enough for the trapped people to batter their way out. They spilt out of the building and staggered into the smoke-filled yard.
‘God’s blood!’ gasped Henry. ‘I can still barely breathe!’
Geoffrey climbed to his feet, legs wobbling. He saw a man grab Hilde and hoist her to her feet, urging her to walk.
‘I cannot see!’ yelled Henry. ‘Which way did you come?’
Isabel took the King’s hand. ‘The wind is blowing from the north, so we must go this way.’
‘How do you know?’ demanded Henry. ‘I cannot see my own feet.’
Isabel did not reply, but pulled both the King and Geoffrey in that direction. The courtiers followed, moving quickly, as Isabel went without hesitation. Then, suddenly, they were in clean air.
Geoffrey sank to the ground in relief, hearing the babble of voices as Henry was recognized, and people hurried forward to assist him. FitzNorman bounded up to Isabel, and there was a catch in his voice when he told her how worried he had been. Baderon went to Hilde, wiping her smoke-stained face with his sleeve. Bale arrived, and rested a shy hand on Geoffrey’s shoulder.
‘The horses are safe,’ he said. ‘But a number of people are missing. If they are still inside the hall or the guest house, they are dead for certain.’
Watching the flames, Geoffrey could only agree. He wanted to make sure that Agnes and Walter had not used the diversion to harm Giffard, but he did not have the energy. He was racked by coughing, and could not seem to suck enough air into his lungs.
‘Drink this,’ Margaret said, kneeling beside him. ‘It will make you feel better.’
It did, but it tasted foul, and he did not like to imagine what was in it. He looked up to see Isabel nearby, standing forlorn.
‘Margaret said you went to look for Ralph,’ he said, coughing again.
‘He was gone when I reached the guest house. He must have been looking for me, and we missed each other in the confusion. My father has gone to tell him I am safe. Can you see him?’
Geoffrey spotted Ralph some distance away, clearly uninterested in his former lover.
‘Do you know where the fire started?’ Geoffrey asked to avoid answering.
‘Not in the kitchens, or the guest house would have burnt before the manor, and it was the other way around,’ replied Margaret, grateful for the change of subject, for her niece’s sake. ‘The hall is relatively undamaged, but the rooms above it are burnt out. That means the fire must have started in one of them. I assume it was not yours?’
Geoffrey recalled the flames at the door. ‘No, but it was not far away. I supposed it was a carelessly tended hearth – fires spread quickly in wooden houses with thatched roofs.’
‘Our servants are careful,’ countered Margaret firmly. ‘None would have left a badly banked fire. This blaze was started deliberately.’
Geoffrey tried to think clearly. ‘If it started where you say, then it was not an attack on the King – he was in the guest house.’
Margaret grimaced. ‘No one will harm the King – not when so many of us have just arrived from Normandy. If Henry dies, then England will go to the Duke, and no one wants him, when Belleme is sure to follow, bringing violence and bloodshed. No, Geoffrey, this fire was set for another reason.’
Geoffrey rubbed his head and tried to remember who had been sleeping where. ‘You, Isabel and fitzNorman were in the room at the far end of the corridor – the farthest chamber from mine.’
Margaret made a dismissive gesture. ‘We have no reason to destroy our own home. And you and Giffard did not do it, either – neither of you would burn innocent people alive. That leaves the three rooms in the middle. One was occupied by Agnes Giffard and her son.’
Geoffrey recalled what he had overheard Agnes say, and wondered whether she and Walter had set the blaze to be rid of a meddlesome kinsman. ‘They may be the guilty party,’ he conceded.
Margaret nodded. ‘Giffard thinks they are killers, and anyone with a brain can see why: Agnes’ husband and her lover’s wife both dead at convenient times. Walter probably helped her. He is a stupid, malleable boy.’
Isabel’s head was cocked to one side as she scanned the babbling voices for the one that was most important to her, but she was paying attention to the discussion nonetheless. ‘Then perhaps Giffard did set the fire, to dispense some divine justice.’
‘Giffard was drunk,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Besides, I was with him. I would have seen him.’
‘Not necessarily – I put a sleeping draught in your milk,’ said Isabel. She sensed Geoffrey’s shock and turned defensive. ‘Only a light one, just enough to make sure you rested properly.’
‘Why?’ demanded Geoffrey. He recalled how heavily he had been asleep when Bale had woken him. He was lucky his squire had not shared the milk, or all three of them would have perished.
Isabel flinched at the anger in his voice. ‘Because you slept so poorly the night before. I wanted to help.’
‘One of those three middle rooms was occupied by Baderon’s knights,’ said Margaret, to bring the subject back to the fire and save Isabel from further recrimination. ‘Baderon himself was in the guest house, but Seguin and Lambert may have followed his orders.’
‘Why?’ asked Geoffrey tiredly. ‘Who would he want to harm?’
‘My brother?’ suggested Margaret. ‘Baderon would gain, no matter what the outcome. Either my brother dies, which means Baderon is the only powerful lord in the region, or my brother survives – to be in trouble for almost incinerating the King. Baderon may also have wanted you dead, so he could take Goodrich.’
‘The last of those three rooms was occupied by Hilde and the women from Bicanofre,’ said Geoffrey, thinking Baderon was not the kind of man to set a house alight just to inherit a small manor. He was not stupid.
‘I doubt Hilde set the fire, considering she risked her life to save others,’ said Margaret. ‘But I have not seen Eleanor or Douce since the fuss began.’
Geoffrey recalled the figure in the red cloak, but then remembered that it had stopped for an embrace with a woman. He glanced around, but could not see Eleanor, although that meant nothing. People had scattered into small groups and she could have been anywhere.
‘Eleanor may have started the fire to rid herself of Hugh,’ Margaret went on. ‘He follows her everywhere, and must be tiresome.’
‘He loves her,’ said Isabel. ‘But why would she bother with a fire, when she has other skills at her disposal? She is a witch, after all.’
‘A witch?’ asked Geoffrey uncertainly.
Isabel nodded. ‘She could be a great healer, but she dislikes helping people. You were lucky she did not poison you when she removed those splinters. Why do you think I came so quickly after she told me what she had done? I wanted to counter any evil she might have managed.’
‘Why would Eleanor want to harm me?’
‘You forgot to send the cart – and witches can be vindictive. But more importantly, her father would like her to marry you, and she does not want to.’
‘Few women do,’ said Geoffrey, thinking that Isabel, Margaret and Corwenna had already refused him, while Hilde was not keen, either.
‘Eleanor communes with the Devil,’ Isabel went on. ‘Why do you think toads and bats seek out her company, and ravens do her bidding?’
‘Oh, really, Isabel!’ Geoffrey said, his weariness making his tone a bit sharp. ‘That is nonsense!’
She gripped his hand. ‘It is not, and you would be a fool to ignore it.’
Geoffrey sat for some time, trying to summon the energy to move. Next to him, Isabel and Margaret fell silent, and soon Hilde came to join them, her brother at her side. Hugh curled into a ball and promptly went to sleep.
‘Have you seen Ralph?’ Isabel asked her.
‘Just moments ago, cursing the grooms in the stables,’ Hilde responded.
Isabel jumped to her feet, but did not get far before fitzNorman intercepted her. They exchanged words and, reluctantly, he turned to walk with her towards the horses.
‘Ralph is a mean-spirited bastard,’ said Geoffrey, watching them go.
Margaret nodded. ‘He is a pompous, arrogant fool, and does not deserve Isabel. She is usually astute where men are concerned, but he has blinded her. So to speak.’
‘I fell in love with a duchess once,’ admitted Geoffrey, immediately wondering why he had said it. ‘It was wrong, but there was nothing I could do to stop it. Love is difficult to control and impossible to predict.’
‘What happened to her?’ asked Margaret curiously.
Geoffrey shrugged. ‘She still lives with her husband.’
Margaret did not push him. She nodded towards Hugh. ‘He has the right idea. There is no more we can do, and it is sensible to rest. Everything will look better in the morning.’
‘I doubt it. Your home will be reduced to hot rubble; Isabel will still love Ralph; Agnes will still be suspected of killing Sibylla; and Giffard will still be stricken by sorrow.’
‘But we may feel better about it,’ argued Margaret. She left him and went to where Isabel was calling for Ralph. FitzNorman was standing helplessly, at a loss for what to do.
Geoffrey stood unsteadily, and walked to the hedge where Giffard still snored, oblivious to the chaos. Geoffrey flopped down beside him, bone-weary, and closed his eyes. His peace did not last.
‘Well, Geoffrey,’ said the King, outlined by the flames that still leapt into the air. ‘What do you make of this? FitzNorman claims someone set the blaze deliberately, while Baderon thinks it was careless servants.’
‘At first I thought it was set to harm you, but it was not,’ said Geoffrey, scrambling to his feet.
‘Why?’ asked Henry. ‘Do not look as though you wished you had not spoken, man. I asked a question, and I want an answer. You are one of the few people here who does not tell me what they think I should hear.’
‘If the fire had been aimed at you, it would have started in the guest house. But it almost certainly began above the hall – the room I shared with Giffard was there, and the fire raged very close to it.’
‘You think someone wants Goodrich without an heir?’
Geoffrey shook his head. ‘But the adjoining rooms contained fitzNorman, the Bicanofre women and Hilde, Agnes and Walter, and Baderon’s knights. The fire could have been directed at any of them.’
‘It could have been started by any of them, too,’ mused Henry. ‘Or by someone from the guest house. I heard Baderon slipping out to the latrines, while his son is apt to wander, too – I caught him watching me in my bedchamber last night, which was disconcerting.’
‘It could even be a disgruntled servant.’
‘Well, whoever it is, I shall not forget what you did tonight,’ said Henry, reaching out and grasping Geoffrey’s shoulder. ‘You saved my life while others ran to save their own skins.’
They both looked down when Giffard groaned and began to stir. Geoffrey helped him sit, but the Bishop’s eyes were bleary, and his breath carried the sweet scent of wine.
‘Lord!’ he muttered. ‘You should not have given me so much to drink, Geoff. My head is swimming, and there is a smell of burning in my nostrils that I cannot dispel.’
‘Giffard?’ asked Henry. ‘Thank God! I was worried about you.’
‘Why would you be worried?’ slurred Giffard, resting his head in his hands, evidently unaware that he was speaking to his King. ‘I am a Bishop.’
Henry glanced sharply at him. ‘I am saying that I do not want to lose you – there are few who can administer an important see as well as you.’
‘Bugger the see,’ spat Giffard truculently. ‘I am going home to Rouen, where a man can buy a decent sausage.’
Henry looked at Geoffrey in alarm. ‘What is the matter with him?’
‘Smoke, Sire,’ said Geoffrey diplomatically. ‘It can do strange things to a man’s wits.’