It was no easy matter to transport several households and their travelling possessions from one manor to another, and Geoffrey, despite having seen entire armies on the move in the Holy Land, marvelled at the arrangements required. They took all morning, before being interrupted by the requiem mass for Margaret.
‘I know the King has charged you to look into Margaret’s death,’ said fitzNorman as they emerged from the chapel. ‘But I forbid it.’
‘Do you?’ asked Geoffrey mildly. ‘And why do you think I should obey you, and not the King?’
‘Because I will kill you if you start asking personal questions,’ replied fitzNorman. ‘You will not pry into my family’s affairs.’
‘Your sister was murdered. Surely you want to know the culprit?’
‘Look,’ said fitzNorman, leading him to one side so they would not be overheard. ‘Margaret was a friendly woman, and liked a dalliance, if you take my meaning. She may have loitered in the stables with this Jervil, and I do not want her name sullied by such a rumour.’
Without waiting for a reply, he was gone. Geoffrey doubted that Margaret had ‘liked a dalliance’, given her devotion to her husband’s memory, and thought fitzNorman cruel to suggest it. Had he killed her himself, because she would not take a new husband? He had a temper, and Geoffrey had seen nothing to imply that he would not turn it on a woman.
After the midday meal, Geoffrey decided to leave, whether his guests were ready or not. He did not want to spend a second night in the hut near the Angel Springs, and space in the ravaged manor house was severely limited. He saddled his horse, sent Bale ahead to Goodrich and prepared to set off himself. His actions prompted the others to shift themselves, and the yard quickly became a hive of activity, with horses readied and the last few travelling chests tossed into carts.
Agnes had intended to flout the King’s orders and follow him to Gloucester, believing Henry would not object once she presented herself. Geoffrey remembered the looks that had passed between them and was sure she was right, but Giffard insisted that she and Walter go to Goodrich. Mother and son were angry, but Giffard was immovable.
Baderon and his knights were also ready, although Hilde resolutely refused to abandon the hunt for Hugh. Corwenna grudgingly accompanied Seguin, and Geoffrey felt like telling her that since she did not want to come, and he did not want her to, she should return to Wales. But he did not want a row, so he held his tongue.
‘Must he come, too?’ muttered Lambert. Geoffrey glanced behind him and saw Durand, mounted on a small pony.
‘The King wants him to audit my accounts,’ muttered Baderon. ‘I cannot imagine why.’
‘If you are concerned about the grain you “forgot” to tax, do not worry,’ said Seguin. ‘I imagine Durand will overlook anything, for a price.’
‘Is that true, Durand?’ asked Baderon. ‘Are you amenable to bribes?’
Geoffrey started to laugh, amused that Baderon should phrase his question quite so bluntly.
‘Why?’ Durand asked frostily. ‘Are you thinking of offering me one when I discover you have not been paying the King’s taxes?’
‘What makes you think you will find evidence of dishonesty?’ asked Baderon, offended. ‘You may uncover mistakes, but you will find no deliberate wrongdoing.’
‘I shall make up my own mind about that,’ sniffed Durand, and Geoffrey was sure that he would find something to embarrass Baderon, whether true or not.
On the way they stopped in Rwirdin, where the villagers brought wine for Geoffrey’s companions. Seguin and Lambert were soon bored, and wandered off to play dice. While they waited for the horses to be watered, Baderon talked to Geoffrey about his ambitions to make the region prosperous and safe, and Geoffrey realized that the man had a genuine, deeply held conviction that he was acting in the best interests of his people. There was a lot to like about him, and Geoffrey thought it a pity that he had surrounded himself with louts like Seguin and Lambert – and that he had purchased a murder weapon from Jervil.
It was even more of a pity that Corwenna had attached herself to Baderon’s party, and Geoffrey jumped when he straightened up from inspecting his horse’s leg to find her nearby with a knife.
‘I do not want to go to Goodrich,’ she said coldly. ‘I made a vow never to set foot in it again, unless it was to kill every last Mappestone.’
‘Then go home,’ said Geoffrey, walking away from her. He sensed her moving behind him and ducked as the knife sailed towards him. It fell harmlessly in the grass, and he picked it up and added it to his personal arsenal.
‘I saw what she did,’ said Durand, coming to hold Geoffrey’s stirrup while he mounted, as he had done as a squire. ‘You should not let her inside Goodrich.’
Geoffrey watched her stalk towards her horse. ‘I cannot believe she tried to kill me when so many people are watching. Does she want to be hanged?’
‘She is a woman,’ replied Durand with a shrug. ‘They are not the same as you and me, and there is no point trying to understand them. Why do you think I prefer men?’
Geoffrey smiled, but declined to follow up on the discussion. When they left Rwirdin, he contrived to ride with Giffard. He would not have minded hearing more about Baderon’s plans for the region, but to talk to the Lord of Monmouth meant he would have to be near Corwenna. However, the journey was doing nothing for the Bishop’s fragile health, and he was a poor travelling companion, morose and irritable.
‘I shall never touch wine again,’ he vowed miserably. ‘I feel sick.’
‘I am not surprised. I thought you rarely touched wine, and it was hardly a brew that warranted unrestrained guzzling.’
‘I had a burning thirst,’ said Giffard, ‘which the wine did nothing to quench. It was poor quality, was it? I am no judge of such matters.’
‘I am sure someone put salt in it, and that it was intended for something other than drinking. Cleaning the silver, perhaps. Joan uses salty cloths soaked in wine to polish spoons.’
‘Agnes gave it to me. I might have known she would resort to a low trick. I thought it was a peace offering, but-’
‘Did you hear anything about Eleanor and Hugh before we left?’ asked Geoffrey, changing the subject before Giffard launched into a diatribe. ‘Are they still missing?’
Giffard nodded. ‘But they did not perish in the flames. No more bodies have been found. Glance behind you, and tell me whether Agnes and Walter are still glaring at me. Walter is sulking, because he resents being told what to do, and Agnes is peeved because she hoped to seduce the King today. But neither can afford to be too cross, because they want me to make Walter my heir.’
‘Walter is scowling like a spoilt brat,’ said Geoffrey. ‘You should leave everything to the Church. He does not deserve anything.’
‘I fully intend to,’ said Giffard with a humourless smile. ‘My will is already drawn up to that effect – although he does not know it.’ He then became uncommunicative, so Geoffrey dropped behind to ride with Agnes. She smiled prettily, her eyes full of mischievous promise.
‘Sir Geoffrey,’ she crooned. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Have you spoken to Eleanor since the fire?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘We do not like each other.’
‘Why not?’ Margaret had told Geoffrey that the two women had spent time together in Normandy, so he suspected that she was lying.
‘We had a disagreement.’
‘It was not about the Duchess and poison, was it?’ Geoffrey watched her intently.
She gaped at him. ‘What makes you think I know anything about that sort of thing?’
‘I found a phial of mandrake recently. It is good for killing – strong and fast.’
‘The Duchess did not die quickly. She was ill for weeks.’
‘Then perhaps it was administered in small doses,’ suggested Geoffrey.
‘Perhaps, but not by me. I know very little about mandrake – only that it shrieks when pulled from the ground and its root, leaves and fruit are poisonous. Tell me about Goodrich’s palace instead. Will I like it?’
‘Probably not – and it is no palace.’
Agnes showed her small teeth in a tinkling laugh that had Giffard glancing back admonishingly. She poked her tongue out at him.
‘Gloomy old fool! He hates the notion of anyone being happy. He thinks we should all be miserable, cheerless and thinking only of our eternal souls.’
‘He is a good man,’ said Geoffrey, a little coldly.
‘That is what makes him a bore. I warrant you are not so saintly. What do you say we slip away and get to know each other better? We can tell the Bishop we are looking for firewood.’
‘I doubt he will believe that,’ said Geoffrey, trying not to show astonishment at her suggestion. ‘He is not totally naive.’
‘He most certainly is! Moreover, he needs to open his eyes to the world instead of keeping them fixed on a Heaven that does not exist. Do not look shocked! We all know the Bible is a lot of nonsense.’
‘What do you believe in, then?’ Geoffrey asked, declining to voice an opinion on such a dangerous issue.
‘In having a damned good time before I die,’ Agnes replied fervently.
He thought about her visit to the Angel Springs. ‘Do you believe in frequenting stone altars at dawn?’
‘I suppose Giffard told you I went there? I thought I heard him snoring in that shepherd’s hut. If you must know, I was looking for Eleanor.’
‘Whom you dislike?’
She scowled. ‘You are too quick with your questions! But let us talk of nicer things. You have a fine, strong body and a handsome face. Would you like to-’
‘I would like to know why you were looking for Eleanor,’ interrupted Geoffrey, rather repelled by her salaciousness.
She pouted. ‘You prefer Eleanor to me? I am prettier.’
‘I could not say: I have never seen Eleanor’s face.’
‘She has no lower jaw,’ confided Agnes. ‘One of her magic potions blew it off.’
Geoffrey laughed, thinking it an outrageous claim. ‘What were you really doing at the spring? Was it you who did the drawing of the manor?’
‘That was probably Eleanor. I went to cancel the spell, so the fire would not break out again. My actions were noble.’
‘You know about cancelling spells, do you?’
His questions were making her angry, and her answer was sharp. ‘I learnt from my mother, who was a very wise woman.’
‘Did she teach you about poisons, too?’
‘As I told you before, I know nothing about those.’
Geoffrey was relieved when Goodrich’s sturdy walls appeared. He was tired of Giffard’s misery, Agnes’ attempts to make him behave indiscreetly and her son’s resentful looks.
‘My mother is recently widowed,’ Walter said tightly. ‘And she loves the Duke, so leave her alone. I did not teach you how to seduce women in Italian so you could have her.’
‘Where did you learn Italian?’ Geoffrey asked, before he felt compelled to box the boy’s ears for his impudence.
‘I spent much of my life in Italy,’ replied Walter loftily.
‘How much of your life?’ asked Geoffrey, wondering why he had not, then, learnt the language properly.
‘A whole week. There is much that is admirable about Italy.’
‘Including its poisons?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘You must ask Eleanor the witch about that,’ replied Walter.
‘I would, but she seems to be missing. Have you seen her since the fire?’
‘I saw her before the blaze, playing some game with Hugh that made him squeal like a pig,’ replied Walter. ‘But not after. I hope they are dead.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Hugh is an imbecile, and I want Baderon to leave his property to Hilde – if he does, then I might marry her: she will be sufficiently wealthy. And because Eleanor is a witch.’
‘I thought you and Eleanor were friends.’
‘We were – but she turned against me when I tried to bed her. I cannot imagine why, because I spoke Italian. I do not like women who are friendly one moment and hostile the next.’
‘There are rumours the Duchess was poisoned,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Do you think Eleanor provided the toxin?’
‘It would be the kind of thing she would do,’ agreed Walter spitefully.
When the travellers arrived at Goodrich, smartly dressed servants hurried out to tend the horses. Joan and Olivier appeared almost as quickly with wine. Olivier served Baderon and his knights, while Joan offered it to Giffard – who refused with a shudder – Agnes and then Geoffrey, who was touched by the courtesy. Durand was given a sip of ale by Torva.
‘Why is he here?’ whispered Joan. A plain-speaking woman herself, she did not like Durand’s slippery, unscrupulous ways, or that he had earlier been disloyal to Geoffrey.
‘To spy on Baderon. Henry thinks the alliances with the Welsh might not be good for England.’
Joan was thoughtful. ‘Henry is right. It is always better to have hostile nations divided into factions. Baderon is knitting them together too efficiently. They have been restless for war ever since Prince Iorwerth promised them one last summer. And many are starving. It is only a matter of time before they encourage each other to raid English granaries, and ours will be one of the first.’
‘It will, if Corwenna has any say in the matter,’ said Geoffrey, looking to where she sat astride her horse, frostily refusing the wine that Olivier proffered.
Joan grimaced. ‘She made a vow to see us in our graves. I have tried to win her round, but she is implacable. Still, as long as she is here, she is not encouraging the Welsh to unite against us.’
‘Do they listen to her?’
‘She is Caerdig’s daughter, and he is highly respected. Also, she likes to orate about honour and glory, and knows the kind of talk to get men’s blood up. Still, if the King is aware of the problem, I imagine it will soon be resolved.’
‘I hope so,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Have you heard about Jervil?’
She nodded. ‘Bale told us when you sent him ahead with the news that we were to expect guests. It is a pity; he was not nice, but he had a way with horses. But what was he doing at Dene?’
‘I wish I knew.’ Geoffrey lowered his voice. ‘The King saw him talking to Baderon, and says money changed hands.’
Joan’s eyes narrowed. She did not like the King, either. ‘Do you believe him, or was he making up tales so you would agree to conduct another of his investigations?’
Geoffrey thought about it. ‘He had no reason to lie.’
‘None you know about,’ corrected Joan. ‘He is crafty, with many plans and agendas. But assuming he was being honest for once, why did Baderon pay Jervil?’
‘In exchange for a dagger – one with a ruby in its hilt.’
Joan stared at him. ‘That sounds like . . . like the blade that killed our brother. I suppose Father Adrian finally sold it. Did I tell you I wrapped it in holy cloth once I removed it from Henry’s corpse? Nevertheless, it felt tainted, and I could not even bring myself to look at it when I gave it to Father Adrian.’
‘So, how did it go from Father Adrian to Jervil. Did Jervil steal it?’
Joan shook her head. ‘Even Jervil would not steal from a church.’
‘Father Adrian kept a murder weapon in his church?’ asked Geoffrey, startled.
‘It was a Black Knife, and needed to be somewhere holy – to cleanse it. Father Adrian put it under the altar and said it must remain there until Easter. By then, it would have lost its evil.’
‘None of this answers why Jervil sold it to Baderon. Was it Baderon’s in the first place? If it was valuable, then it probably did belong to a nobleman. But, if it was Baderon’s, then it means he or one of his men killed Henry.’
Joan sighed. ‘Baderon is low on my list of suspects. I like him: he is weak, but essentially decent. Top are fitzNorman and Ralph.’ She faltered into silence, watching the arrival of the wagons full of their guests’ possessions.
‘I hope you do not mind half of the county descending on you,’ said Geoffrey apologetically. ‘The King gave me no choice.’
‘I like visitors,’ said Joan. ‘Now we have the funds to entertain them, they are a pleasure. But I should see to your friend the Bishop. He looks unwell.’
‘Geoff!’ came a bellowing voice from the door of the hall. It was loud enough to still the buzz of conversation in the yard, and everyone turned to look. Geoffrey felt his spirits rise when he saw Goodrich had another visitor.
‘I almost forgot,’ said Joan, not entirely pleased. ‘Sir Roger of Durham arrived yesterday.’
Geoffrey smiled as the massive, familiar figure of his fellow Jerosolimitanus strode towards him. Roger was resplendent in a fur-lined cloak, fine boots and new surcoat, although the latter was already stained. The Crusader’s cross was bright and sharp, and proclaimed to all that here was one of those who had wrested Jerusalem from the infidel. His black hair was long, and he sported a fashionable beard: he was adapting to civilian life far better than Geoffrey.
‘I am glad to see you,’ Geoffrey said, as the friends embraced. ‘Life here is dull.’
‘That is not what I hear,’ said Roger, laughing. ‘You are looking into your brother’s death; Giffard wants you to find out if his nephew poisoned the Duchess of Normandy; the Welsh are girding their loins for war; and a groom and a noblewoman have been strangled. If you call that dull, we had better find a battle somewhere. And fast.’
Father Adrian was reciting mass when Geoffrey entered Goodrich’s little church the following morning. Joan had been directing a lively and erudite conversation around a blazing fire for those who preferred to be indoors, while Olivier had taken the others hawking. Even Geoffrey, who had never taken to the sport, could see that his brother-in-law was very good. With no social obligations, Geoffrey had decided to find out about the Black Knife.
Roger had accompanied him part way, but they had met Helbye, and a cup of ale with an old comrade held more appeal for Roger than seeing a priest. They agreed to meet later, although Geoffrey suspected it would be a good deal later. He stood at the back of the chapel, listening to Father Adrian and finding peace in the familiar words and cadences. Unlike many parish priests, Father Adrian’s Latin was good. Durand, who liked churches, nodded approvingly.
‘He is excellent,’ he whispered. ‘I could listen to him all day.’
Geoffrey soon saw they might have to: Father Adrian went on and on. Geoffrey left to roam in the graveyard, breathing in the spring-scented air. Eventually, he reached the area that held the Mappestones. Henry’s cross was down again, and it occurred to Geoffrey that it had not simply fallen – someone had forced it over. He began to pull it upright, but abandoned his labours when someone approached.
‘What happened to Jervil?’ demanded Torva. ‘Did you kill him?’
‘No,’ said Geoffrey firmly. ‘However, I do know he took a dagger with a ruby in its hilt and sold it to Baderon before he died. Why did he do that, Torva?’
‘I do not know,’ said Torva furtively.
‘I overheard Jervil trying to bribe Bale to spy on me,’ said Geoffrey, watching the steward’s reactions carefully. ‘Why?’
‘Why do you think?’ snapped Torva. ‘Because we need to know what you are up to. Now I have work to do.’
He hurried away, and Geoffrey could see that he was deeply worried. He decided to further question Torva later. After a while, Father Adrian emerged with those who had endured his mass. The parishioners nodded to Geoffrey as they passed, although few were familiar. To his surprise, Geoffrey saw that Ralph de Bicanofre had attended the service, too, with Douce and their father Wulfric. Geoffrey ducked behind the porch, not wanting Ralph to start another quarrel.
‘You are right to make yourself scarce,’ said Helbye’s wife – Geoffrey had no idea of her name, because Helbye never used it. She was one of Father Adrian’s most dedicated attendees and had seen Geoffrey move into hiding; uninvited, she joined him. ‘Ralph has a nasty temper.’
‘I am here, too,’ came a hot voice at Geoffrey’s ear, making him jump. It was Bale, and the three of them were uncomfortably cramped in the narrow space between porch and buttress. ‘Your sister told me where you were, so I thought I should make sure the priest does not do anything rash.’
‘Father Adrian?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘He is not violent.’
‘He keeps a knife under his altar,’ confided Bale. ‘A sharp one. I have seen it myself.’
‘It is the Black Knife that killed your brother,’ said Helbye’s wife. ‘Joan gave it to him, to sell for the poor. But it has lain in the church for months, and he has done nothing with it.’
‘It is not there now,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Jervil sold it to Baderon.’
‘Did he?’ asked Bale. He sounded sorry. ‘It was a fine thing, with a good, sharp blade. But Jervil was a fool if what you say is true. He risked his immortal soul if he stole from God.’
Geoffrey was bemused by Bale. He was brave and seemed honest, which made him a refreshing change from Durand. However, his fascination with pointed implements was sinister. He wondered if he ever would feel comfortable with the man, and tried to move away – but to no avail, as Mistress Helbye was wedged too firmly on his other side. He hoped no one could see them.
Bale, meanwhile, was gazing at Douce, who was dressed in a blue kirtle that fell in tidy folds to the ground. ‘You see her?’ he asked in a hoarse whisper. ‘Mistress Helbye says she is the woman you will wed.’
Geoffrey raised his eyebrows, but Helbye’s wife did not seem at all disconcerted that her confidences had been so baldly betrayed. ‘Wulfric brought her here today, so she can get a good look at you,’ she said. ‘I heard them talking earlier. She was due to meet you at Dene, but the fire started before you could be introduced.’
‘Ralph would never allow his sister to marry me.’
‘Ralph is not lord of Bicanofre,’ said Helbye’s wife dismissively. ‘Wulfric is, and he wants you for Douce, so he is here to point you out to her. She is slow in the wits, you see, and will need to be told which man to allure, or she may go after the wrong one.’
‘She will do,’ said Bale, assessing Douce critically. ‘She has fine hips for breeding and strong bones. A little long in the face, perhaps, but good teeth.’
‘The poor woman is not a horse,’ said Geoffrey, indignant on her behalf. Realizing that he could not hide forever, he struggled into the open and the family immediately sailed towards him.
‘Now is your chance to size her up,’ whispered Helbye’s wife helpfully. ‘Before Joan and Wulfric settle matters without you.’
The man who stepped forward to bow to Geoffrey wore clothes that were well cut, but too small, giving the impression that they had been hauled from storage especially for the occasion. Next to him, Ralph scowled. When Geoffrey studied Douce properly, he saw that Bale’s equine terminology was not misplaced. She had a long face with widely spaced eyes, large teeth and heavy lips.
‘I am Wulfric de Bicanofre, and this is my son, Ralph,’ Wulfric said gushingly.
‘Ralph and I have already met,’ replied Geoffrey.
Ralph looked away. Wulfric ignored the hostility between them, and his smile became simpering. ‘And this is my daughter Douce. She is twenty years old, has a dowry and is a virgin.’
Geoffrey glanced at Douce, to see whether she was chagrined by her father’s outrageous words, but she merely continued to beam in a way that made him wonder whether she was an idiot.
‘We are looking for a good match,’ said Ralph, lest his father’s words had been too subtle. ‘He thinks one will be found in Goodrich.’ The expression on his face made it clear that he did not concur.
‘A union between Bicanofre and Goodrich would be excellent for both manors,’ enthused Wulfric. ‘We hope you will look favourably on us. You are said to be more pleasant than your brothers, and a Jerosolimitanus, too. Douce would be honoured to accept you.’
‘What do you say, Douce?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Are you as keen to secure a husband as your family is?’
‘Of course she is,’ said Wulfric, while Douce continued to smile and nod. ‘A more demure soul you will never meet. She will make any man happy with her gentle manners. Nor is she the kind to object to you seeking pleasure elsewhere on occasion, if you take my meaning.’
‘But I would kill any man who used her badly, Jerosolimitanus or not,’ snarled Ralph.
‘We brought her here today, rather than attending our own church, so you could have a look at her,’ said Wulfric, stamping on his son’s foot to shut him up. ‘Then, if Joan mentions Douce, you will know who she is talking about.’
‘We are to have singers with balls tonight,’ announced Douce loudly.
‘Musicians and jugglers,’ explained Wulfric hastily, seeing Geoffrey’s confusion. ‘Bicanofre is a small manor compared to Goodrich, but we have offered your guests an evening of entertainment. I hope you will come. Douce will be there.’
‘What about Eleanor?’ Geoffrey asked. ‘Have you seen her since-’
‘You are interested in Eleanor?’ pounced Wulfric. ‘I had no idea anyone would take her! But, if you are willing, then of course we can reach an agreement.’
‘That is not what I meant,’ objected Geoffrey. He glanced at Douce, to see if she was offended, but she wore the same stupid smile, and he suspected that she was not following the conversation at all. ‘I was going to ask whether you had you seen her since the fire.’
‘She is missing.’ Wulfric sounded more annoyed than concerned. ‘But she likes to wander in the forest, and I am told her red cloak was seen flitting in the trees after the fire was out.’
‘Enough of this,’ blurted Ralph unpleasantly. ‘My father wants to know your decision about Douce. Will you consider her? I do not want to waste time if you have already decided against us.’
Geoffrey felt sorry for Douce. He ignored Ralph and offered to escort her to where a servant was waiting with their horses, bringing about a triumphant beam on her father’s face.
‘Is it far to Bicanofre?’ Geoffrey asked, flailing around for polite conversation.
‘Bicanofre,’ she said brightly. ‘It is a village.’
‘I know,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I asked how far it is from Goodrich.’
‘My brother Ralph has a green cloak with silver thread,’ burbled Douce happily. ‘And our cat had fifty kittens last week. Or was it five? I can never remember numbers.’
‘I see,’ said Geoffrey. He was relieved when they reached the horses and a servant stepped forward to help her into her saddle.
‘She is a good lass,’ said Wulfric, winking at Geoffrey. ‘You will never have any trouble from her – not like some of the others you could choose. Hilde is manly, Margaret is dead and Corwenna would kill you on your wedding night.’ He took the reins of his daughter’s horse and led her away.
‘I did as you asked, Father,’ Geoffrey heard her say. ‘I did not answer any questions I did not understand and I kept the discussion to pleasant, normal things.’
‘And Isabel?’ asked Geoffrey of Ralph, aware that Wulfric’s list had not included the fair, grieving figure. ‘What about her?’
‘She needs to do penance for her sin with your brother,’ said Ralph contemptuously.
‘She needs you,’ said Geoffrey, fighting the impulse to say he could not imagine why. ‘She grieves for Margaret, and has been asking for you.’
‘I no longer know her,’ said Ralph coldly. ‘And we will not speak of this matter again.’
‘God’s teeth!’ swore Geoffrey, as Bale and Helbye’s wife came to stand next to him to watch the Bicanofre contingent ride away. ‘That man is asking for my sword in his unfeeling heart.’
‘Isabel is better off without him,’ said Helbye’s wife. ‘Love is double-edged; it brings misery as well as happiness. People should try to avoid it, because it is such a gamble.’
‘I was in love once,’ said Bale. ‘But she said she would only marry me if I agreed never to bring a blade into the house. So I turned her down.’
‘What did you think of Douce?’ asked Helbye’s wife in the silence that followed.
‘She is half out of her wits.’
‘More than half,’ agreed Bale. ‘But that will not matter if she begets you children – and she will.’
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘She has already produced a couple, which is why her father wants her settled,’ replied Bale. ‘He will not want her worn out before she can produce legitimate ones.’
‘He said she was a virgin,’ objected Geoffrey.
‘Perhaps he thinks you will not know the difference. Well? What did you think of her? Helbye’s wife says she is the best of the batch. Now Margaret is dead and Isabel wants to take the veil, there is only Hilde, Corwenna and Douce left.’
‘Well, there is Eleanor,’ said Helbye’s wife. ‘I doubt she is dead. But you must not accept her, not if she was the last woman on God’s Earth.’ She folded her arms.
‘Why?’ said Geoffrey, understanding that he was expected to ask.
‘Her suitability,’ said Helbye’s wife, while Geoffrey thought that if insanity and pre-marital pregnancies did not make a woman unsuitable, then he could not imagine what Eleanor had done. But Helbye’s wife had had enough gossip, and moved away. Meanwhile, Geoffrey remembered why he had gone to the church in the first place.
‘Father Adrian!’ he called. ‘I want to talk to you.’
‘No,’ said Father Adrian in alarm. ‘Not about your brother, and not about any of those women Mistress Helbye has been telling you about, either. Joan will have her own views, and I will not interfere.’
‘It is about the dagger Joan gave you.’
‘She said I could sell it, to provide alms for the poor. So I took it to Rosse two days ago. A silversmith gave me three shillings for it. Why? Did you want it back?’
‘Three shillings is a good price,’ said Bale. ‘Did you tell this silversmith it was a Black Knife?’
Father Adrian looked furtive. ‘He did not ask. Besides, it had lain under my altar for months, so it was clean. The merchant would not have given me three shillings if I had told him its history. People can be superstitious.’
‘Including you,’ said Geoffrey, ‘if you felt it needed three months in a church before it was fit for sale.’
‘That is different,’ replied Father Adrian primly. ‘That is religion.’
Geoffrey was not sure where the line lay, but he wanted answers, not a debate. ‘How many people knew the dagger was there?’
‘The whole village,’ replied Father Adrian. ‘I asked people to pray for its purification, so it would raise money for the poor.’ He looked smug. ‘It worked: three shillings is a fine sum.’
‘Have you done business with this silversmith before?’ asked Geoffrey, wondering how it had gone from the Rosse craftsman to Jervil. Perhaps the groom had been uncomfortable stealing from a church but was not squeamish about robbing a merchant.
Father Adrian shook his head. ‘It is not every day I have valuable knives to sell. I thought I might have to break it up – sell him the silver hilt and prise the emerald out to sell to a jeweller. But he agreed to take the whole thing.’
‘An emerald?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘But they are green.’
Father Adrian nodded patiently. ‘It was a green stone.’
‘Joan said it was red.’ And the King had mentioned a ruby in the knife Jervil had given to Baderon – and Geoffrey was sure that he knew his precious jewels.
‘It was green,’ said Father Adrian firmly. ‘She cannot have looked properly.’
But Geoffrey knew Joan would have been familiar with what she possessed.
‘It was covered in blood,’ said Bale keenly. ‘There was a great wound in Henry’s stomach. Right here.’ He indicated a point just below his ribs. ‘And it was deep. I shoved my finger in it to see.’
‘Bale!’ exclaimed Father Adrian, aghast. He glanced nervously at Geoffrey, who was not in a position to be squeamish, since he had poked fingers in wounds to assess their depths himself. Father Adrian hurriedly changed the subject. ‘It was an emerald, Geoffrey. And there was not enough blood to make a green stone red. I will give you the three shillings, if you want to buy it back, although the poor will suffer . . .’
‘I do not want it back,’ said Geoffrey absently, reviewing the facts. Joan had pulled a red-jewelled knife from their brother, and it was a red-jewelled knife that had been sold to Baderon. Yet Joan had given the knife to Father Adrian, whereupon the jewel had become an emerald. There was only one conclusion: someone had swapped it in her bedchamber. She said she could not look at it, so she had probably given it to Father Adrian without making sure that it was the same one. But who had access to Joan’s room?
He considered the servants. But an emerald was a valuable jewel, and no servant would casually provide one to swap for a ruby. The only sensible answer was that someone outside Goodrich had asked a servant to make the exchange, and had no doubt been delighted when the deception had gone so long undetected. Baderon came immediately to mind. But then why had Jervil waited to give it to him?
‘Henry’s grave,’ he said to Father Adrian, changing the subject when no answers were forthcoming. ‘I straightened his cross twice last week, but it was back on the ground again today.’
‘People come to spit and trample on it,’ said Father Adrian, more matter-of-fact than Geoffrey felt was warranted for such desecration. ‘But I have seen no one attacking it recently.’
‘It must stop,’ said Geoffrey firmly. ‘Henry is dead, and his sins are between him and God.’
‘I will try to dissuade them,’ said Father Adrian. ‘But it will not be easy.’
Geoffrey hovered in the churchyard while the priest closed the church door – then opened it again when he realized that he had shut someone inside. There emerged an ancient crone, devoid of teeth and with skin so brown and wrinkled, it looked more vegetable than human.
‘Mother Elgiva,’ said Father Adrian suspiciously. ‘What have you been doing?’
‘Listening,’ replied Elgiva with a predatory smile. ‘Folk seek my advice, so eavesdropping is helpful. It is astonishing what you can learn. For example, I know Sir Geoffrey has asked several people about the fate of his brother, but no one has told him anything useful. And I know most folk think he should marry Douce, despite her lack of wits and loose morals.’
‘Why do they favour her?’ asked Geoffrey. Personally, he was disturbed by Douce not knowing the difference between five and fifty. It did not auger well for household finances.
Elgiva began to list reasons on her gnarled fingers. ‘Hilde is too manly. Corwenna is comely, but she will not rest until your family lies dead.’
‘Not a good idea to marry her, then,’ said Geoffrey flippantly.
‘No.’ Elgiva frowned. ‘She was just another vengeful woman when she was Rhys’ widow, but her betrothal to Seguin has made her feel powerful. I fear her.’
‘There is no need,’ said Father Adrian gently. ‘Llan Martin is not in a position to harm us. Besides, Caerdig would never let it happen.’
Elgiva’s rheumy eyes flashed angrily. ‘That was true, but things have changed. Baderon listens too much to Seguin and Lambert. They are not interested in peace, but in expanding their wealth.’
‘You think they might bring us to war?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘I think Corwenna will try to use them so. And Baderon will not be able to stop her. We stand at the edge of a precipice, and I hope we do not all go clattering down it.’
Father Adrian shook the old woman’s arm. ‘Enough, Mother! You are unnerving me.’
‘Good,’ said Elgiva, before turning back to Geoffrey. ‘But we were talking about marriages. We have discounted Corwenna and Hilde, but there are others. Isabel, for example.’
Father Adrian tried to escort her from the churchyard. ‘No good will come from gossiping-’
Elgiva pulled away from him. ‘He needs to know. All these folk are staying at Goodrich, and it would be unfortunate if he was run through for saying something in ignorance.’
Geoffrey entirely agreed, finding her attitude refreshing. ‘Who killed Henry?’ he asked, aiming to make the most of someone willing to talk.
‘Most people say fitzNorman. Others think Ralph, because Isabel was a good match, and by coupling with Henry, she became untenable. No man wants his wife deflowered by another man.’
‘Yes and no,’ said Geoffrey. ‘First, Ralph did the deflowering himself; Henry came later. And second, people here seem to set great store by wealth. Isabel was no poorer after her night with Henry. Besides, Douce is no innocent, with her illegitimate children, but I am still expected to consider her.’
‘But Ralph has principles,’ said Father Adrian.
‘Not ones he applies to his sister,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Besides, I have principles, too. I am not marrying Douce.’
Elgiva took Father Adrian’s arm and walked towards the gate. Geoffrey trailed after them, his mind flitting between his brother’s death and the complex politics of acquiring a wife.
‘Do not speculate with Sir Geoffrey, Mother Elgiva,’ Father Adrian said. ‘Henry was an evil man, and I doubt many angels wept when he died. But some may weep if Sir Geoffrey discovers the killer, and a good man ends up kicking empty air under a gibbet – or if Geoffrey runs him through, as Jerosolimitani are wont to do.’
‘Good men do not murder those too drunk to defend themselves,’ retorted Geoffrey, resenting the implication that he enjoyed random slaughter.
Elgiva abandoned the priest and took Geoffrey’s arm instead. ‘My house is behind that barn. Come with me, and I will answer any questions you want.’
‘Do not demean yourself by listening to gossip,’ pleaded Father Adrian.
‘Why not?’ demanded Geoffrey. ‘No one else will tell me anything – including you.’
He followed the old woman to her home. It was a round shack, with a thatched roof and walls of hazel twigs packed with mud. Smoke billowed from the hearth, and Geoffrey started to cough as soon as he ducked around the leather sheet that served as a door. His throat was still raw from the blaze at Dene, and he was loath to spend more time hacking in confined spaces, but he supposed it was all in a good cause. Father Adrian hovered outside, and Geoffrey wondered why: did the priest think to prevent Elgiva giving information that would expose the killer?
Geoffrey continued to cough as he glanced around the hut. Unidentifiable objects hung from the rafters, and there were pots and jugs everywhere. Lurking beneath the odour of burning wood was an aroma of spices and potions that was vaguely pleasant. Elgiva pushed a three-legged stool in his direction, and he lowered himself on to it, watching her sit cross-legged on the floor.
‘This will cure your cough,’ she said, proffering something in a wooden cup. It looked like water, and he had taken a large gulp before a burning sensation gripped his chest. He gagged, feeling the potion sear into his stomach. Suddenly, he understood why the hut was so well endowed with pots and smells: Elgiva was a witch. And he had just swallowed a brew that seemed to be dissolving his innards.