It was the early hours before the flames were under control. The main house still smouldered and crackled, and the thatches of surrounding buildings dripped with water. FitzNorman had abandoned his attempts at directing his men: he sat with his head drooped, while Margaret tried to comfort him. Isabel wandered hopelessly, while everyone prepared to make the best of a night outside. Durand flopped down next to Geoffrey.
‘You survived,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I hoped you would, because you may yet agree to work with me.’
It was typical of Durand that he should see Geoffrey’s escape in terms of his own interests, but Geoffrey was too tired to care. He handed back the gloves, which were wet and burnt through in places. ‘I am sorry; I am afraid they are ruined.’
‘They are,’ agreed Durand. ‘And they were virtually new, too. I should have known better than to trust you – you always were careless. Can I assume that they were of use?’
Geoffrey nodded: he could not have touched the hot beam without them, so they had made the difference between the King rescued and incinerated. ‘And you? You said you were burnt.’
‘Gashed.’ Durand showed him a cut on his hand. ‘But Isabel gave me a salve. It is a pity she has set her heart on Ralph, because he does not deserve her. He was standing next to her when she was calling for him, but he only slunk away. Indeed, there has been a lot of slinking tonight.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The King is safe, but I did not notice many folk rushing to his aid. I was weak from breathing smoke, but others were not – Baderon and his knights just stood and watched the blaze.’
‘What else could they have done? It was obvious the house was lost.’
‘You rushed into the flames without thought for your safety. I do not condemn Baderon for not doing so, but he could have directed people with water or organized shelter for the survivors. FitzNorman is numb with shock and Baderon should have stepped up. But he is probably chary of ordering his knights to do anything: he allows them to influence his decisions, when he should go with his instincts. That is something I learnt from you. You listen to ideas and suggestions, but you do not let them sway you from what you think is right.’
‘I taught you something, then?’ asked Geoffrey, who had assumed his old squire had gained nothing from the year in his service.
‘A great deal, although most of it is useless. Clerks of my status are seldom required to break locks with daggers or produce meals from grass and leaves. But Baderon is not the only one who acted shabbily. I do not like the way Agnes gloats over Giffard’s absence – she hopes he is dead.’
Geoffrey glanced to where the Bishop was sleeping again. ‘He is alive, but unwell.’
‘Smoke,’ said Durand, coughing raspingly himself. ‘Incidentally, everyone suspects Agnes of making an end of Sibylla, but the more I think about it, the more I am certain that the whole thing was Walter’s idea.’
‘Why?’ asked Geoffrey, trying to pay attention through his weariness. Durand was astute and might well have deduced something that would help solve the mystery.
‘Walter saved his belongings from the fire, but did not have time to pack them properly. He dropped a couple of items as he ran to safety – and this was one of them.’ Durand rummaged in the embroidered purse he carried on his belt and presented the knight with a tiny phial.
Geoffrey also recalled Walter’s inadequately buckled bags. ‘Do you know what is in it?’
Durand shook his head. ‘But it is the kind of ampoule that normally contains powerful medicines – Abbot Serlo keeps some in his abbey’s infirmary, for the very sick.’
Geoffrey suspected he was right. Strong potions tended to be stored in small quantities, and the phial that he held – which, despite being tiny, was made of hard-baked clay and possessed a sturdy stopper to prevent leakage – certainly looked as though it might contain something potent.
‘I wager a shilling that it contains something Walter should not have,’ said Durand. ‘There is writing on one side, but the language is not Latin or French. I cannot read it.’
‘Italian,’ said Geoffrey, struggling to make out the tiny letters in the remaining light of the fire. ‘Some of the inscription is eroded – this is a very old bottle – but I think it says “mandrake juice”.’
‘So, I was right,’ said Durand, pleased. ‘Mandrake is deadly. However, Walter will not be killing anyone now, because it is empty.’
Geoffrey pulled off the lid and saw that Durand was right. In fact, he imagined the pot had been empty for some time, because it was dry and dusty, and the scent of whatever had been inside was so faint as to be almost undetectable. He doubted the contents had been used to dispatch the Duchess, because her death was too recent. But it proved that Walter had a familiarity with poisons.
‘Before the fire, the King told me I am to spend a few months with Bishop Giffard,’ said Durand after a while.
‘You must be disappointed,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I know you wanted to return to court.’
Durand grinned. ‘Henry said you suggested I stay with Giffard until the jealous wretches at Westminster have dispersed. You really should consider my offer, Geoffrey, because we understand each other so well that we would make an excellent team. I am delighted and grateful for your kindly word in Henry’s ear.’
‘You are?’ asked Geoffrey warily.
‘Giffard is Bishop of Winchester. And if there is a place in England that suits me more than Westminster, it is Winchester – where the royal treasury is, and where important decisions are made. But you know this: it is what prompted you to suggest it in the first place. However, before I go, Henry wants me to review what Baderon is doing.’
‘You mean his taxes?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘Ostensibly. But what I will really be doing is gathering other information. Henry thinks he may be forging too many Welsh alliances.’
‘He is probably right.’
Durand was thoughtful. ‘I despise Baderon. He treats me like a servant, whereas I am a landowner, worthy of respect. However, he is mannerly enough towards you. I want you to join with me to find out what he is doing. If he is uniting the Welsh against England, he should be exposed as a traitor.’
‘No,’ said Geoffrey firmly. ‘I cannot spy on my neighbours.’
‘Then help me by taking me back into your service. Baderon will not harm me if he knows I am under your protection. I will be your squire again, and will reside at Goodrich until I have completed my report. Then I shall go to Winchester.’
‘Hey, you!’ came a voice from behind them. It was Seguin, and he was snapping his fingers at Durand. ‘Clerk! Come here. I want you to write something.’
‘You see?’ said Durand. ‘That is the kind of treatment I can expect from Baderon’s household.’
‘I said come here!’ shouted Seguin, advancing angrily. ‘Do not pretend to be deaf.’
Durand squealed as he was yanked upright. ‘Geoffrey, tell him to stop!’
‘Well?’ sneered Seguin, addressing Geoffrey. ‘Will you tell me to stop?’
Seguin had tugged Durand away before Geoffrey could respond. Durand shot Geoffrey a foul look, but crouched on the damp grass next to Lambert and Corwenna and began to write an inventory of the belongings they had managed to salvage. Geoffrey thought he was a fool to let himself be bullied so, but it was none of his affair if Durand was too lily-livered to stand up for himself.
He looked at the phial that he held, then pushed it inside his surcoat before turning his attention to what possessing an ancient pot of mandrake might mean.
As the long night continued, fitzNorman progressed from shock to anger, and began looking for someone to blame. Geoffrey wanted no part of it, so he collected his horses and set out towards Goodrich, intending to find a glade where he could rest until dawn. With Giffard swaying in his saddle, and Bale behind, they reached the spot where Hilde had hailed Geoffrey, then passed along a narrow valley. Eventually, they found a small mud hut with a sheet of leather for a door. It was not much, but it sufficed. Bale tethered the horses, while Geoffrey made a fire and settled Giffard in a litter of dead leaves, covering him with a blanket from his saddlebag.
‘I do not like this place,’ said Bale with a shudder. ‘It feels evil, as if spirits linger.’
‘It is just a shepherd’s hut,’ retorted Geoffrey. ‘And you are safer here than you would be at Dene. I will stay awake to make certain we are not attacked.’
Bale shook his head. ‘You need rest more than me. I will wake you in an hour. In the meantime I will stand in the doorway, so that I do not doze off. I do not want woodland spirits coming to slit my throat as I lie dreaming.’
‘Doubtless you would prefer to slit theirs,’ said Geoffrey. He had not meant it to be a joke and did not like the manic grin Bale shot in his direction.
Geoffrey lay down, but was not sure he could trust Bale to be sufficiently watchful. The squire was still an unknown, and Geoffrey was not in the habit of putting his safety in the hands of men he did not know. He resolved not to sleep.
‘I did not do it, sir,’ whispered Bale, coming to crouch next to him.
Geoffrey edged away. ‘Do what?’
‘Kill my mother and father.’ Bale’s voice was little more than a hiss and it made the hairs stand up on the back of Geoffrey’s neck. He sat up as Bale continued. ‘Everyone assumed it was me, but I swear before God it was not.’ He crossed himself in the darkness.
‘There is no need to whisper,’ said Geoffrey, not liking the sibilantly sinister quality of the man’s voice. ‘I doubt you will disturb Giffard.’
‘All right.’ Bale’s normal speaking tones made Geoffrey feel a little more comfortable. But only a little. ‘My father had a liking for ale, and when he was drunk, he was free with his fists. He was not like the Bishop, who just sleeps. He was nasty in his cups.’
‘You mean he had enemies?’ surmised Geoffrey. ‘And one of them killed him?’
Bale nodded. ‘He had enemies, all right, but only one killer: your brother Henry.’
Geoffrey shot to his feet, dagger in hand. It sounded like a confession made just before vengeance was taken, but Bale only continued to stare into the darkness.
‘How do you know?’ Geoffrey asked, when it became clear that Bale was not going to move.
‘Because I saw him,’ replied Bale. ‘I saw him enter my house, and I know my father was alive, because I heard them shouting at each other. I saw Henry leave, but there was no shouting. I went inside, but my mother and father were dead. Stabbed.’
Geoffrey took a deep breath. ‘I am sorry, Bale.’
Bale shrugged. ‘I caught up with Henry and saw fresh blood on his dagger. But my father may have attacked him, so perhaps he was only defending himself.’
‘Why did you not tell anyone?’
Bale shrugged again. ‘What good would it have done? When they failed to prove I was the culprit, the whole thing died down. Henry saw to that, by forbidding people to talk about it.’
‘Did you kill Henry?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘I wish I had,’ said Bale. ‘But the truth is that I have not killed anyone, not even the man in that tavern brawl. He fell backwards and cracked his skull on a table.’
‘I see,’ said Geoffrey, not sure whether to believe him. ‘Why are you telling me all this?’
‘So you will know,’ said Bale simply. ‘You are uneasy with me, but there is no need.’
‘My brother killed your parents,’ said Geoffrey. ‘You may think I-’
‘You are not Henry, sir,’ interrupted Bale. ‘I like you; I did not like him. But it is late and you are tired. Sleep, and I will take the first watch.’
Geoffrey sat again, but kept his dagger in his hand, even more resolved not to sleep. Could Bale be believed when he said that he had not killed Henry? The bloody murder of his parents was certainly a good motive. Geoffrey closed his eyes to mull over the matter more carefully, and the next thing he knew was Bale’s hot breath against his cheek. He jumped into wakefulness, his hand moving instinctively to his sword.
‘Steady,’ said Bale. ‘It will be light soon, and I am too tired to stay awake any longer. It has been much longer than an hour, but I did not have the heart to wake you.’
Geoffrey staggered to his feet, stiff but refreshed. He was astonished that he had slept when he had been determined not to, and supposed Isabel’s milk must have been stronger than she had led him to believe. He stretched, and watched his squire curl up next to Giffard.
‘Thank you, Bale,’ he whispered.
‘You are welcome, sir,’ replied Bale drowsily. ‘I told you I would keep you safe.’
It was still twilight when Geoffrey stepped outside. In the distance he heard someone coming. He ducked into the shadows, but the figure strode briskly past the hut – not even glancing at it – and continued down the hillside.
The previous night had been too dark to see much, but Geoffrey could now make out the outlines of trees and rocks. The valley descended into a steep gorge, and he watched the figure move stealthily to the bottom. He was sure that the person was alone, but listened for some time, just to be certain. Then, cautiously, he followed.
At the bottom of the gorge, the figure bent to touch the ground, then began to sing. Immediately Geoffrey heard that it was a woman. Her song was deep and eerie, and it sent shivers down his spine. A sudden rustle in the trees set his heart pounding. When her singing grew stronger, so did the wind, and he ducked farther back into the undergrowth. He grasped his sword firmly, and told himself that the wind could do him no harm, but, even so, his hand was slippery with sweat.
Eventually, she stopped singing and began to walk back the way she had come. When she reached the undergrowth where Geoffrey hid, she hesitated, and he had the sense that she knew he was there. Then she was gone, apparently keen to be away now that she had finished her business.
Geoffrey took a deep breath and waited for his heart to stop pounding. He was disgusted with himself for being unsettled by a song and a gust of wind. But even though the rational part of his mind told him there was nothing to worry about, it took considerable willpower to look at what she had been doing. On a flat rock, which stood near a bubbling spring, were a variety of objects.
The first things to catch his eye were locks of hair, tied with twine and stuck to the stone with some sort of paste. A dark, sticky substance lay over them, which, in the grey light of dawn, he thought was blood. There were chalk drawings, too. In the centre was a crude depiction of a house with blood fashioned into flames: he could only assume that someone had wanted the manor to burn, and had appealed to sinister forces to make it happen. Then he heard rustling from the trees again and glanced upwards.
With horror, he saw the head of a goat hanging there, its horns splayed to either side and its teeth bared and yellow in the rictus of death. Flies had found its eyes, and, even as he watched, a maggot dropped from it on to his shoulder. He turned and clambered up the hill as fast as he could. He found it hard to catch his breath, and when he arrived at the hut his heart was thumping hard.
‘What is wrong?’ asked Giffard as he exploded inside. ‘You look as though you have seen a goat.’
‘A goat?’ echoed Geoffrey in alarm, wondering how the Bishop could have known.
‘I said ghost,’ said Giffard, enunciating carefully. ‘Have you never heard the expression? It is quite common. Is there anything to eat? I need something to settle my stomach or I shall be sick.’
Geoffrey felt a little sick himself. He rubbed his head. ‘My ears are ringing.’
Giffard’s expression softened. ‘That is the bells of Dene. Come and sit down, and let your man prepare breakfast. We will both need our strength today.’
‘Why?’ asked Geoffrey warily.
Giffard frowned. ‘What is wrong with you? I am the one who drank too much – so much that I do not recall how I come to be here. I simply meant that we must discover whether Walter had a hand in murdering the Duchess, God rest her soul.’
‘You do not remember the fire?’
‘What fire?’
Geoffrey sat next to him, accepting the dry, hard bread that Bale handed him, with a cup of water to dip it in. He felt better when he had eaten it, and pondered what he had just seen, while Bale gave Giffard an account of the manor house blaze.
‘There are locks of hair and a dead goat down there,’ interrupted Geoffrey.
‘Well, there would be,’ said Giffard. ‘I was saying to Bale, before you burst in, that I am surprised you brought me here. It is obviously a place frequented by heathens.’
‘It is not obvious to me,’ said Geoffrey.
Giffard gazed at him in astonishment. ‘This place reeks of evil, and there are pagan symbols everywhere. Just look at the ceiling, and the trees over there.’
Geoffrey glanced at the rafters and saw several dead birds hanging by their wings, while there was another goat in an oak outside. He was unable to repress a shudder.
‘I told you, sir,’ said Bale, reproachfully. ‘I said it felt wicked.’
Giffard stood. ‘It is not a place Christian men should linger. It is more for the likes of Eleanor of Bicanofre, whom I hear comes to recite spells and incantations.’
Unhappily, Geoffrey wondered how to tell Giffard that it had not been Eleanor who had sung to make the trees rustle, but Agnes.
As soon as Giffard had completed his morning prayers, Geoffrey led the way back to Dene and the devastation that a few hours had wrought. FitzNorman’s once fine home was a blackened shell, although most of the outbuildings had survived. Smoke still curled from the ruins, and when rain started to fall, it hissed as it hit the smouldering timbers.
The King had ordered his scribes to make an inventory of what and who had escaped, as fitzNorman was incapable of doing so. Several servants had died, and Eleanor was missing. Looking at the charred ruins, Geoffrey doubted they would be able to identify her body if it was found. He thought about the red-cloaked man from the previous night and supposed that the garment had been taken from her corpse in the chaos. Hugh was also missing, and some gossips were insisting that he and Eleanor were enjoying each other’s company elsewhere.
Geoffrey decided to leave for Goodrich immediately, desperate to be away from the grief-stricken servants. They reminded him of people in villages he had seen put to the torch after battles. He was on his way to tell Giffard when there was a howl from the stables.
‘What has happened?’ he asked, as Lambert emerged from the building.
‘Margaret,’ replied Lambert, ashen-faced. ‘She must have staggered from the fire and died – the grooms just found her when they came to saddle the King’s horses. His Majesty rides to Gloucester today.’
‘Margaret?’ asked Geoffrey, aghast. ‘But I saw her after the fire. She was fit and well.’
Lambert touched his shoulder in a rough gesture of sympathy. ‘We all liked Margaret, motherly soul that she was, and I understand you were considering her as a wife. She was old, but she would have made a kindly and affable partner.’
Geoffrey eased his way through the onlookers, and saw the King standing with fitzNorman, while Isabel knelt next to a prostrate form, crying. Henry was talking, and Geoffrey noticed the Constable was not too shocked to nod and bow obsequiously to whatever suggestions the monarch was making. Isabel was far more distressed than the hard-hearted old warrior.
‘This is a sorry way to begin the day,’ said Durand to Geoffrey. ‘Poor Margaret.’
‘Take her to the church and say a mass for her soul,’ Henry ordered Durand. ‘Make sure it is done properly; she was a good woman.’
‘She was, Sire,’ agreed Durand. ‘She will be in Heaven soon.’
Henry nodded, but everyone could see that he was chafing at the delay. He patted the stunned fitzNorman on the arm, muttered a few more words of sympathy and left. Most people were more interested in helping him mount up than in Margaret’s death, including fitzNorman. Geoffrey heard him apologizing for the blaze and assuring him that the castle would be rebuilt by the time His Royal Highness next visited. It was not long before the stable emptied, leaving only Geoffrey, Isabel, Bale and Durand.
‘Cover her face if it is not,’ said Isabel. ‘I do not want people staring. Does she look frightened or in pain?’
‘Neither,’ said Geoffrey. He had nothing appropriate to cover her, but Margaret had worn a veil that comprised a large square of clean linen. He started to unwrap it, intending to wind it around her head. When it fell from her neck, he gazed in shock. Dark bruises lay in an even line down both sides of her throat, and he saw that she had not died from smoke. Someone had strangled her, and the evidence was in eight fingers and two thumbs that had pressed into her pale skin.
‘She looks as though she is sleeping,’ said Durand, for Isabel’s benefit. He, too, had seen the marks and his face expressed horror. ‘She is peaceful.’
‘God help us, Sir!’ breathed Bale from the adjoining stall. ‘Margaret is not the only corpse here. So is Jervil, our groom!’
Shocked, Geoffrey saw that Bale was right. Why was Jervil in the Dene stables? Had he come to check on Geoffrey? Or had he carried a message from Joan and died in the smoke while looking for someone to give it to? Geoffrey searched Jervil’s clothes but could find no letter.
‘Jervil?’ asked Isabel, confused. ‘Goodrich’s stable-hand? Why would he be here?’
It was a good question, but she was more concerned with her aunt than the answer, and began to cry afresh. Durand took her hands in his, crooning gentle words to calm her.
Uncertain what prompted him to do so, Geoffrey moved the tunic around Jervil’s throat, where he saw that Margaret was not the only one to have been strangled: marks indicated that strong fingers had gripped Jervil’s neck, too. Geoffrey sat back on his heels, perplexed. How had Goodrich’s groom come to be killed in the same place and manner as fitzNorman’s sister? Had Jervil seen Margaret slain, and been murdered to ensure that he did not tell? Or was it the other way around? Or had Jervil killed Margaret, and then been dispatched in turn?
‘There is a knife in Jervil’s hand,’ said Durand.
Geoffrey moved straw away from the body and saw that Durand was right.
‘Was he attacking, or protecting himself?’ asked Bale.
Geoffrey frowned. ‘It is unusual to see a man wielding a knife in his left hand. Did he fight left-handed?’
Bale closed his eyes and went through an elaborate mime of some previous fight he had enjoyed with the groom. He jigged for so long that Geoffrey began to wonder whether the proximity of violent death had finally turned his mind.
‘No,’ he said eventually, opening his eyes. ‘He fought right-handed, like me.’
In the yard the King was issuing orders. Some people were instructed to remain at Dene, while others were to travel to Gloucester. Since a large area of virgin forest lay between Dene and Gloucester, Henry intended to hunt along the way, and a few courtiers were invited to accompany him in search of a large stag that had recently been seen. People hurried to collect their horses; among them were Baderon, his knights and fitzNorman.
‘Good God!’ exclaimed Lambert, peering over Geoffrey’s shoulder. ‘Is that Goodrich’s groom? What is he doing here?’
‘He must have been carrying a message from Lady Joan,’ said Bale, before Geoffrey could reply. ‘He died of smoke, just like poor Margaret.’
‘Dangerous stuff, smoke,’ said Baderon, in a way that made Geoffrey glance at him sharply. Evidently, the Lord of Monmouth suspected something odd, too, and Geoffrey wondered why.
‘That makes six dead,’ said fitzNorman, standing behind him and staring sadly at his sister’s remains. ‘Five servants and one noblewoman.’
‘And my son and Eleanor are missing,’ added Baderon. Geoffrey studied him closely and saw lines of worry etched into his face.
‘Eleanor will look after Hugh,’ said Seguin, exchanging a lewd grin with his brother.
Baderon frowned. ‘I hope you are right. Hilde is looking for him, but he might be anywhere.’
‘Will someone fetch Ralph?’ asked Isabel tearfully. ‘I need his comfort.’
Ralph was standing near the door with an unreadable expression on his face. He heard his former lover’s pathetic appeal, but turned and strode away.
‘I think he is looking for Eleanor,’ lied Durand.
‘Why would he do that?’ cried Isabel. ‘I need him and Eleanor is able to fend for herself.’
‘He thinks you have Margaret,’ said fitzNorman gruffly. ‘If only he knew.’
It was an odd thing to say, and Geoffrey wondered what he meant. He glanced at the Constable’s impassive features, and thought there was a good deal strange about the previous night’s events. However, sad though he was about the kindly woman who had wanted to be his friend, it was not his business to investigate her murder. He left the stable and walked towards Giffard. He stopped abruptly when he saw the King regarding him thoughtfully.
Baderon was burbling about the stag and Abbot Serlo talked simultaneously about a writ that required approval, but Henry raised a royal hand and they both faltered into silence.
‘We shall look for the stag as we ride, and I shall ratify the advowson at Gloucester,’ the King said, indicating that he was capable of listening to two monologues at the same time. But now he ignored both, as he edged his horse towards Geoffrey and Giffard.
‘There is something very wrong here,’ he said, after looking around to make sure that no one else could hear. ‘There was a lot of confusion during the fire, and I find myself puzzled as to what actually happened. Do you have any ideas, Giffard?’
‘None, Sire. I was overcome by smoke and recall nothing at all.’
Geoffrey regarded him with surprise. It was the first time he had ever heard Giffard lie. Unfortunately, the prelate immediately grasped the cross around his neck in a gesture that bespoke wretched guilt at the falsehood. Henry saw it and smothered a smile.
‘I have been told smoke can do strange things to a man’s wits. What about you, Geoffrey? We discussed the matter briefly last night. You told me it was not aimed at me. Well, then, who?’
Geoffrey shook his head slowly. ‘There is a lot I do not understand about the men who own these lands, and I cannot begin to imagine a solution, Sire.’
‘Do try,’ invited Henry drily. ‘I am sure you have been pondering the matter.’
Geoffrey looked at the people milling in the yard. ‘Baderon and fitzNorman are rivals. It is possible Baderon or one of his knights started the fire to make fitzNorman look careless in your eyes. Corwenna is a spiteful woman who does not care whom she harms. Eleanor de Bicanofre, who is said to be a witch, has disappeared, along with Hugh. The list is endless.’
Henry regarded him with his clear grey eyes. ‘Did you inspect Margaret’s body? I saw you kneel next to it. She did not die in the fire, did she?’
‘No, Sire.’
Henry sighed impatiently. ‘You are being remarkably obtuse this morning. Must I drag the information from you piece by piece? How did she die, man?’
‘She was strangled,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘One of Goodrich’s servants lies next to her, dead the same way.’
Henry was thoughtful. ‘Margaret was a good lady, and deserves to be avenged. And you must be concerned about the loss of a servant – for whatever reason he was killed. Would you like to find out why? Or shall I ask Giffard to do it?’
‘I will,’ said Geoffrey, not wanting anyone – even Giffard – prying into Goodrich’s affairs. And he had liked Margaret. He had talked to her about the only woman he had ever truly loved, and he did not tell just anyone about his duchess.
‘Good,’ said Henry. ‘But you cannot ask your questions here. We shall invite everyone to Goodrich for a few days, and you can do it there.’
‘No!’ exclaimed Geoffrey, not wanting possible killers near Joan.
‘No?’ queried Henry mildly. ‘One does not say “no” to one’s monarch quite so bluntly.’
‘I did not fight on the Welsh borders all summer only to invite murderers to Joan’s home.’
‘Joan can look after herself,’ said Henry wryly. ‘And she liked Margaret, too, so I am sure she will be supportive. I insist you do as I suggest. Durand will help. He has some spare time before he joins Giffard in Winchester.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Giffard, who had not been told about the new plans. ‘I cannot take Durand, Sire. He is far too venal, and I am a Bishop.’
‘It will do you good,’ Henry said firmly. ‘He may even bring a smile to those sombre features. But he will not be with you for a while yet. I am worried about the situation that is brewing with Baderon and his Welsh friends.’
‘Baderon wants peace on the Marches, but it is equally possible the Welsh will unite in war,’ said Geoffrey, relieved to share his concerns with a man in a position to do something about them.
Henry nodded. ‘I shall pass through Goodrich in a week or so, and Durand can report his findings then. Meanwhile, you can look into these three murders.’
‘Three murders?’ asked Geoffrey, startled. ‘Margaret, Jervil and . . .’
‘And Henry – your brother. My agents visited Goodrich after he died, and they told me that a man called Jervil was in the stables when Henry was killed. They took Jervil to a tavern and prised information from him while he was drunk. He did not see the killer, but he heard him.’
Geoffrey nodded. He had already established as much, although he doubted whether he could have persuaded Jervil to go to an inn and allow his wits to be pickled and rummaged for information. Perhaps that was why Jervil had been reluctant to answer further questions.
‘I saw Jervil arrive yesterday evening,’ Henry went on. ‘I happened to be looking out of my window when he rode into the yard, and I sent a squire to find out his business. I assumed he was carrying messages for me – strangers arriving at odd hours usually are. But Jervil said his business was with Baderon, which intrigued me, given that he was from Goodrich.’
Geoffrey gazed at him. It intrigued him, too. What business could a groom from his own manor have with the lord of a rival one?
Henry continued. ‘I saw Baderon speak to Jervil and pay him – handsomely.’
Geoffrey continued to stare. Jervil had asked whether Geoffrey was going to see Baderon, and had asked Bale to spy to find out. So why had he then come to Dene to meet Baderon himself? Geoffrey recalled Jervil and Torva’s belief that Henry had been killed by Baderon’s knights. Was the clandestine meeting about that? Geoffrey’s thoughts whirled.
‘There was no purse of money on Jervil’s body, Sire,’ he said eventually.
‘Perhaps he was killed for his earnings,’ suggested the King. ‘Of course, what happened to Margaret is obvious: clearly she was killed because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time – she happened to enter the stables when Jervil was murdered and was strangled to prevent her from telling anyone what she had seen.’
‘She was probably looking for Isabel,’ suggested Giffard.
‘There was something else about Jervil’s meeting with Baderon that was odd,’ said Henry. ‘I saw Baderon pass him a purse, but before that, I saw Jervil give Baderon a dagger.’
‘A dagger?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘Yes, a large one with a ruby in its hilt. I saw it quite clearly. Why would Jervil give an expensive thing like that to Baderon?’
‘I do not know,’ said Geoffrey, his thoughts tumbling inside his head. ‘But your description sounds very like the weapon that killed my brother.’
The King’s announcement that he wanted some of his subjects to meet him at Goodrich after his visit to Gloucester met a mixed response. FitzNorman was relieved, because he took the summons to mean that he had been forgiven for the fire. Baderon was bemused and his knights resentful, while Geoffrey heard Corwenna bluntly informing Seguin that she would not go. Her interpretation was that Geoffrey had persuaded the King to order it so that he could kill her.
Abbot Serlo, astride a fat donkey, came to speak to Geoffrey while he waited for the cumbersome train of horses and carts to begin their journey to Gloucester. ‘Has Giffard asked you to find out whether Walter and Agnes poisoned the Duchess?’ he asked without preamble. ‘I know he is concerned, and Durand tells me you have rare investigative skills.’
‘Durand is exaggerating.’
‘They had a lot to gain from Sibylla’s death, and Agnes has not capit-alized on it only because Giffard dragged her away before she could push her claws further into the Duke. I have been watching them carefully, but now you must be vigilant for Giffard’s safety. I do not want him poisoned, too. He is a friend.’
Geoffrey recalled that Serlo had been in Normandy when Sibylla had died. ‘Can you tell me anything to help? I know Walter owned a mandrake pot, but it has been empty too long to have been used on Sibylla.’
‘Mandrake,’ mused Serlo. ‘Its roots are its most dangerous part – they shriek when they are pulled from the ground. Any man hearing it will die, so the Italians use dogs to harvest them.’
‘So they grow in Italy?’ asked Geoffrey, recalling the Italian words carved on the pot and Walter’s use of the language.
‘Among other places. The leaves are also poisonous, and there is a red-yellow fruit like an apple. It is used in medicine, but only externally, because it is so strong. Witches use it in charms – to bring love.’
Geoffrey thought about the charms that he had seen at the Angel Springs, and wondered whether Eleanor employed mandrake. Then he thought about the dead birds at the shepherd’s hut and above the place where Henry had died. Had a witch put them there, or just superstitious peasants?
‘To bring love?’ he asked, dragging his thoughts back to Serlo.
‘It is supposed to produce strong and rampant lovers,’ explained Serlo. ‘With such a powerful plant, the line is a fine one: too little will not have the desired effect, while too much will kill.’
‘You seem to know a good deal about it,’ said Geoffrey warily.
Serlo smiled. ‘We have a fine library at Gloucester, as you know – you spent enough time there during your noviciate.’ He sketched a benediction, exhorted him again to look after Giffard, and took his place in the cavalcade.
‘So,’ announced the King in a ringing voice. ‘Baderon, fitzNorman, Bicanofre, Giffard and their households will travel to Goodrich today or tomorrow. The rest of you shall come with me.’
‘Good morning and give me some bread,’ said Walter in Italian, bowing deep and low to the King. ‘My horses are lame and I own seven children.’
‘My son is learning Italian,’ Agnes explained, poking him hard to stop him from showing off. ‘Someone told him it was the language of love.’
‘Actually, French is the language of love,’ said Henry, leaving no room for debate. ‘Italian is the language of poisoners.’ He gazed coolly at mother and son.
‘Then I shall make sure he abandons the project,’ said Agnes smoothly. She smiled at Henry with eyes full of promise, and Geoffrey saw that she was preparing to practise her wiles on him, too. The King returned the smile, and Geoffrey had the distinct feeling that when they next met, they would not be discussing Italian.
‘I will arrive at Goodrich in about a week,’ Henry went on, addressing his subjects again. ‘And then I shall continue to Monmouth, where I shall inspect my borders.’
Baderon stepped forward. ‘It will be an honour, Sire, to explain how I have gone about creating a land that is secure and peaceful.’
Henry gathered his reins and touched a spur to his horse’s flanks. ‘I hope I am not disappointed.’
Henry glanced at Durand as he rode past, and Geoffrey saw their eyes meet. Durand gave a slight nod, as if reassuring the monarch. Geoffrey was more than willing to help Durand on that score: it was in Goodrich’s interests to see Corwenna’s plans exposed. He watched the royal cavalcade ride away and then turned his thoughts to his own investigations.
The first thing he wanted to know was why Jervil had given Baderon a dagger that sounded remarkably like the one that had killed Henry. The opportunity to initiate a conversation about it came sooner than expected, because Baderon came to stand next to him. Hilde was with him, tired and dishevelled from her hunt for Hugh. Seguin and Lambert hovered, but were too far away to hear what was said.
‘It is good of you to offer us the use of Goodrich, now Dene is gone,’ said Baderon amiably. ‘It will be pleasant to spend a day or two hunting and hawking while we wait for the King. Sir Olivier and Lady Joan are excellent hosts, and it is a pity the relationship between our estates is not sealed with a marriage.’
Hilde spoke sharply, embarrassed by his candour. ‘You could at least wait until I have gone. You are obsessed with alliances these days, and think of little else.’
‘I am growing old, and need to consider what I leave behind,’ replied Baderon. ‘If Hugh were strong, I would be content. But he is not, and I worry about what will happen when I die.’
‘You have two daughters wed, and a host of knights who owe us allegiance,’ said Hilde. ‘Hugh is immaterial. Have you seen him, Geoffrey? He is still missing, and I have been looking all night.’
‘Seguin says he is with Eleanor,’ said Baderon, before Geoffrey could reply. ‘You know how he follows her.’
‘Seguin is guessing,’ snapped Hilde. ‘Besides, just because he says something does not make it true. You listen to him far too readily.’
‘Hold your tongue, woman!’ cried Baderon, although Geoffrey thought he would be wise to listen to her.
‘When I was looking through my brother’s possessions, I found something missing,’ said Geoffrey in the awkward silence that followed. ‘He owned a large dagger with a ruby in the hilt, but it is nowhere to be found.’
‘Did he?’ asked Hilde, raising her eyebrows. ‘He was a man who liked show, but I never saw him wearing such a weapon.’
Geoffrey looked hard at Baderon, who refused to meet his eyes.
‘Such baubles come and go,’ mumbled the Marcher lord. ‘They are given as gifts and stolen by servants. I have learnt not to grow overly attached to them.’
‘Are you saying Henry’s dagger was stolen?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘By Jervil, for example?’
‘I would not know,’ replied Baderon, clearly flustered. ‘But your manor is no different from anyone else’s, and retainers have light fingers.’
‘Jervil,’ mused Hilde. ‘He was a thief, was he not? I recall a fuss over thefts at Goodrich. Joan kept him because he was good with horses, but he was not allowed to sleep in the hall, because he plundered his friends while they slept.’
‘Do you know Jervil?’ asked Geoffrey of Baderon, wondering whether the man would admit to buying stolen property from him.
‘I had met him,’ replied Baderon. His face became crafty. ‘I saw him arrive last night and went to greet him. I was afraid he might have brought bad news about dear Joan, but he was just on his way to visit his brother. He stopped here to break his journey. It is a pity, because if he had slept in the forest, instead of at Dene, he would still be alive.’
He took his daughter’s arm and escorted her away. Baderon had guessed that there was a witness to his meeting, and had taken steps to make it sound innocent. Geoffrey rubbed his chin. Baderon was not easy with lies, and there was clearly something amiss.
‘You would be wise to mind your own business,’ said Seguin, advancing on Geoffrey from one side while Lambert approached from the other. ‘No one likes a man who asks too many questions.’
‘I am sure you are right,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘But it is odd that a Goodrich servant should come here to speak to Baderon, but not to me. And it is odder still when money changes hands – money that is now missing.’
‘Henry asked questions, and look what happened to him,’ said Seguin, leaning close in an attempt to intimidate. ‘Go back to Goodrich and tend your sheep. You have quite enough enemies already.’
‘Baderon likes you,’ said Lambert, countering his brother’s bluster with reason. ‘I understand he has offered you Hilde. But he will not continue to like you if you ask dangerous questions.’
Geoffrey studied them carefully. They showed signs of having been in the fire, and Lambert had a gash across his forearm. He thought about the knife in Jervil’s dead hand. If he had used it to protect himself, it was possible he had injured his assailant. However, it being in Jervil’s left hand, and not his dominant right, indicated that it had been placed there after he was dead – either to claim self-defence should the killer be caught, or to confuse whoever looked into the murder.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Lambert uncomfortably. ‘Why are you staring at us like that?’
Geoffrey shrugged. ‘It is possible to tell a good deal from a man’s clothes after a murder.’
Seguin was angry. ‘I will commit a murder if you do not leave us alone. You are treading on thin ice, and I advise you to stop while you can.’