A Dead Man's secret

Four

Near Goodrich, Herefordshire, October 1103

The journey from La Batailge to Geoffrey’s manor was one of the least pleasant he could remember. The weather turned sour on the first day out from the abbey and did not improve thereafter. Bitter winds and driving rain made riding miserable and turned the roads into boggy morasses, so progress was infuriatingly slow. The horses slipped and skidded constantly, and the knights, unwilling to risk injury to their expensive animals, walked more than they rode. Geoffrey had lost his cloak in the shipwreck, and the replacement that Roger had bought him did not keep him either warm or dry.

Furthermore, it was frequently impossible to find places to stay at night. Even Geoffrey, who had spent large portions of his life on campaign and was used to bedding down under hedges or in sheds, became tired of the discomfort, thinking it was one thing to sleep rough in the summer or in a desert, but another altogether in an English October.

Geoffrey and Roger also had to put up with Delwyn and Edward, who were poor travellers. Edward was an abysmal rider, incapable of making even half the distance the knights had expected. They might have abandoned him – and Delwyn, too – had Pepin not appeared as they were leaving and read a declaration from the King that commanded them to remain together until Kermerdyn. The order was unequivocal and made Sear responsible for ensuring it was so. Sear took his duties seriously, and although Geoffrey could have given him the slip, it did not seem a prudent move. The rest of the company left a lot to be desired, as well. It had not taken long for Geoffrey to come to dislike the arrogant, smug and condescending Sear, and Alberic was almost as bad.

Geoffrey also missed his dog. There had never been much true affection on either side, but he found himself constantly aware that it was not there. For the first few days, he thought it would reappear, as it had done in the past, but as days passed into weeks, he knew it was gone for good. Roger and Bale assured him that he was well rid of it, but he was astonished to learn he missed it as much as his previous horse.

Despite his lack of equestrian ability, Edward proved to be intelligent and amiable, and won almost everyone around with his unfailing cheerfulness. He encouraged Geoffrey to debate the philosophical texts they both had read in the past, although Sear and Alberic scoffed their disdain at such unmanly activities. However, they were all mystified by Edward’s penchant for womanly gowns of an evening, and Geoffrey steadfastly refused to borrow one, preferring his own sodden clothes to Edward’s flowing kirtles.

‘They are warm, dry and comfortable,’ Edward declared one evening, pulling a pair of pale purple gloves over his hands before stretching them towards the fire. ‘I shall wake tomorrow refreshed and happy. You, on the other hand, will wake shivering and stiff – if you sleep at all.’

‘It is not a good idea to remove your armour in a strange place,’ Geoffrey cautioned.

‘It is not a good idea to be uncomfortable all the time,’ Edward shot back. ‘Thank God I was not rash enough to have rallied to the Pope’s call for a Crusade. I would have been miserable the entire time if it involved sitting around in damp clothes for weeks on end!’

‘It involved a lot more than that,’ Bale murmured, eyes gleaming. ‘It involved killing, too.’

‘Lord!’ Edward shuddered. ‘Worse and worse!’

Meanwhile, Delwyn endeared himself to no one with his constant litany of complaints. Geoffrey was not the only one who itched to knock him off his horse. And there were Geoffrey’s saddlebags: someone rifled through them regularly. Geoffrey did not think the culprit was a fellow knight – although Roger did so on occasion – and Delwyn was the only likely culprit. The monk denied it vigorously, but Geoffrey suspected that Delwyn was looking for the letter intended for Abbot Mabon, which Pepin had inadvertently mentioned.

‘I am Mabon’s envoy!’ Delwyn whined on a daily basis. ‘What will he think when I return empty-handed, but you carry a missive from the Archbishop?’

‘I am sorry,’ said Geoffrey shortly. ‘But I am under orders to deliver it myself.’

‘Then show me the letters you carry from Bishop Maurice instead,’ wheedled Delwyn. ‘I will study his handwriting and pen one from him to Mabon. Mabon will never know it is a forgery and will reward me for securing him such a powerful friend.’

‘And what happens when Mabon replies?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘When Maurice receives the letter, he will write back in such a way that Mabon will know exactly what has happened.’

‘He will not,’ declared Delwyn, ‘because I shall deliver it myself, amended accordingly. Do not look shocked. It is a clerk’s prerogative to tamper with other men’s correspondence.’

‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey, bitterly thinking of Tancred, ‘so I have learned.’

Even Roger proved to be a mixed blessing. Geoffrey was glad of his companionship, but Roger needled Sear constantly. Geoffrey was obliged to prevent several fights with his sword, and Edward averted even more with his capacity for gentle diplomacy.

It felt like an age before the first familiar landmarks of home appeared on the horizon, and when they did, Geoffrey was so relieved that he no longer cared what Hilde and Joan would say when he rode into Goodrich’s bailey with a party of men who were unlikely to be gracious guests.

Geoffrey itched to give his horse free rein as they rode along the wooded path on the final few miles. It was raining again, his armour chafed, and he longed to don dry clothes and sit by a fire. But the track was potholed and rutted, and some of the puddles were knee-deep. It would be a pity to ruin his horse, just because he was eager to be home. He pulled the destrier to a halt at the crest of a hill and waited for the others.

‘What place is this?’ asked Sear, looking disparagingly at the village on the slope below them.

‘Rwirdin,’ replied Geoffrey, supposing it did look dismal in the drizzle. Rain had turned its thatches brown, and the road was awash with mud. Moreover, there was not an open door or window in the entire settlement, although smoke said people were home. ‘It belongs to Goodrich.’

‘Then why have you not trained them to greet you with a welcoming cup?’ demanded Sear. ‘I would not tolerate such a display of insolence in Pembroc.’

‘Because I have encouraged them to be wary of unidentified horsemen,’ said Geoffrey tartly. ‘Peace is fragile in this region, and incursions can be bloody.’

‘Then crush such insurrection,’ suggested Sear. ‘Or step aside, so a stronger man can do it for you.’

‘William fitz Baldwin would have stamped out rebellion,’ added Alberic. ‘He may have been a saint, but he was no weakling. I still miss him, even though he has been dead for seven years.’

‘His spirit is still strong,’ agreed Sear. ‘And his secret lives on.’

‘What secret?’ asked Geoffrey innocently.

‘The one that made him a great man and a powerful leader,’ replied Sear. ‘I am inclined to think it was a magical sword, like the one King Arthur owned. I think William found one just like it.’

‘Do you have any idea where it might be?’ asked Geoffrey with a sinking heart, thinking the King would certainly want to get his hands on such an object. Geoffrey would be expected to steal it, and he had never been comfortable with theft, not even on the Crusade, when looting was a way of life.

‘He never told us,’ replied Sear shortly, and Geoffrey saw that William’s failure to confide had hurt his feelings. ‘After he died, I looked in all the obvious places, but with no success. Perhaps it disappeared when William died, as these mystical objects are apt to do.’

Geoffrey wondered what Henry would say to that explanation. Feeling gloomy, he led the way through Rwirdin, towards where the River Wye was barely visible through the rain.

It was not long before Edward caught him up, flopping about in his saddle like a sack of grain, his friendly round face red from exertion.

‘How much farther?’ he asked, a hint of desperation in his voice. ‘We have spent the last three nights in the open, and I hope there will not be a fourth.’

‘So do I,’ said Geoffrey fervently.

‘Well,’ said Edward with a sigh, ‘at least our journey has been blessed with a lack of trouble from outlaws. It is Henry’s doing, you know. The highways are much safer now. He is not called the Lion of Justice for nothing.’

‘Is he called the Lion of Justice?’ Geoffrey had never heard the title before, and it was certainly not one he would have chosen.

‘You might want to lower your voice,’ said Edward dryly. ‘Sear will take umbrage if he hears the doubt in your voice. His loyalty to the King is absolute – I am faithful myself, but I do not feel the need to prove it every few moments.’

‘No,’ said Geoffrey, who never felt the need at all.

‘And Delwyn does himself no favours with his incendiary remarks,’ added Edward. ‘He knows exactly how to aggravate Sear, Alberic and Roger. One of them will skewer him before long, and you and I may not be on hand to intervene.’

‘Perhaps we should not try.’ Geoffrey could hear Delwyn informing Roger that his facial hair was too long. Delwyn was playing with fire: Roger was proud of his beard.

‘It is tempting,’ said Edward wryly. ‘He is as irritating as a marsh-fly, but that does not give knights the right to run him through.’

Personally, Geoffrey felt he and his fellow knights had shown admirable restraint, proven by the fact that Delwyn was not only still alive but as recklessly garrulous as ever.

Edward was silent for a moment, then began to chatter again. ‘Talk of Delwyn reminds me of that last day at La Batailge. I heard the commotion when he came howling from the fishponds to tell us about Eudo. Who killed him, do you think?’

‘I have no idea,’ replied Geoffrey, startled by the question. ‘And with hundreds of courtiers, clerks, servants, monks and lay-brothers, Bishop Maurice will not find it an easy case to solve.’

‘Where were you when it happened?’ asked Edward.

Geoffrey regarded him in surprise, and the thought flashed through his mind that Henry might have asked Edward to assess whether the culprit was in the Kermerdyn party, given that Maurice would be unable to do so. Henry would not have approached Sear or Alberic, because they were insufficiently clever, and Geoffrey doubted the King would put much faith in Delwyn.

‘I was with Pepin and then Maurice,’ he replied. ‘And Roger was with Bale in a tavern all morning. Where were you?’

Edward smiled that the interrogation should be turned around. ‘I was in the stables from dawn to noon, because my horse had a bout of colic. I may not be much of a soldier, but I love my faithful warhorse, and he likes me with him when he is unwell.’

Geoffrey liked horses, too, although he would not have described Edward’s nag as a ‘warhorse’ and suspected the beast was more pet than fighting animal.

‘Can anyone confirm it?’ he asked. ‘Not that there is any reason to doubt you, of course.’

Edward laughed openly. ‘About twenty of the King’s stable-boys, who were listening to me pontificate on matters equestrian. Feel free to verify my tale the next time you visit him.’

When they reached the ford, they found it swollen with rain. Geoffrey led the way across with no problem, but Edward’s horse, alarmed by the surging water, bucked suddenly, causing its rider to slide off. It was not difficult to fish him out, but there was a delay on the other side when he insisted on divesting himself of his sopping clothes and donning a gown instead.

‘You will ride into Goodrich dressed as a woman?’ demanded Sear incredulously.

Edward tossed his wet cloak to Bale for wringing. ‘Better than arriving dripping wet. I may stain the rugs, and that would be discourteous.’

‘You are expecting rugs?’ asked Geoffrey uneasily.

‘This will not take a moment,’ said Edward, shrugging out of his mail tunic, then selecting a long red kirtle with a fur trim. He began to primp fussily, which had Sear, Alberic and Roger fidgeting impatiently, all eager to be underway.

‘I heard you asking Geoffrey about Eudo’s murder earlier, Sir Edward,’ said Delwyn. ‘Are you trying to learn who murdered him?’

‘I doubt anyone here is a killer,’ said Edward. Geoffrey almost laughed. All knights were killers: it was what they were trained to do. ‘But since you mention it, why not tell each other our whereabouts? Sear, perhaps you would oblige first?’

‘What I was doing is none of your damned business,’ retorted Sear haughtily. ‘I decline to answer, and you can try to make me at your peril.’

‘I do not mind answering on his behalf,’ said Alberic. ‘He was with me.’

‘Actually, he was not,’ countered Delwyn. ‘ You were with a milkmaid all morning.’

Alberic gaped at him. ‘How do you know? Were you spying on me, you little snake?’

‘No,’ replied Delwyn, although his face said he was lying. ‘I was merely concerned for her well-being. Afterwards, I went for a walk by the fishponds to-’

Sear released one of his jeering, braying laughs. ‘You cannot win a woman yourself, so you were reduced to watching others! What a miserable specimen you are!’

‘I could win them if I wanted,’ declared Delwyn angrily. ‘Women like me greatly.’

‘You are supposed to be celibate,’ said Alberic in distaste.

‘I do what I like,’ flashed Delwyn. ‘Especially when I am away from my abbey.’

‘I think that should suffice,’ said Edward loudly, straightening his finery and indicating he was ready to be helped back on to his horse. ‘It will not be long now before we are all basking in front of a roaring fire with goblets of hot wine.’

The prospect of such luxury had Roger turning in the direction of Goodrich, and Sear and Alberic were quick to follow. Edward was next, leaving Geoffrey with Delwyn at the rear.

‘ Sear killed Eudo,’ muttered Delwyn resentfully. ‘He declines to tell us his whereabouts at the time of the murder, and he is jealous because the King chose you to take the Archbishop’s message to Kermerdyn.’

‘You are the only one who seems to be jealous of that,’ Geoffrey pointed out. ‘And why should it lead Sear to dispatch Eudo?’

‘Probably because Eudo recommended you for the task in the first place,’ replied Delwyn.

Geoffrey stared at him. ‘I doubt that! I did not know him before Henry allocated me the task.’

‘Well, you can think what you like, but it is true,’ said Delwyn. ‘Because I heard him tell Pepin so with my own ears.’

Geoffrey was thoughtful. Was it significant that Sear was unwilling to divulge his alibi? Did it mean he had killed Eudo? Or was the culprit Delwyn, eager to see someone else blamed, and who claimed he had stumbled across Eudo’s body while out for a walk? Delwyn was puny, but it took no great strength to shove a blade in a man’s back and hold his head underwater. These were sobering thoughts, and he decided he would not stay long in Goodrich – he did not want killers mingling with Hilde and Joan, no matter how warrior-like Roger claimed them to be.

When Goodrich Castle finally appeared through the trees, Geoffrey found his pleasure at seeing it went far deeper than the desire for dry clothes and a warm fire. There was something welcomingly familiar about its wooden walls, great ramparts and sturdy towers. He reined in to look at it, aware of an immediate rush of memories.

He had not been happy there as a child. His father had mocked his scholarly tendencies and his older siblings had bullied him until he had grown enough to hold his own. He had not enjoyed returning two decades later, either, when his father lay dying. But it was home, and it contained Joan and now Hilde. Goodrich had come to represent something far more pleasant than it had ever done in the past.

‘Is that it?’ asked Sear disparagingly. ‘I was expecting something better. Pembroc is by far superior – and much better sited, too.’

‘Geoffrey’s home is extremely well sited,’ argued Edward, fluffing up his hair. ‘It is placed to guard the river, and three of its sides are protected by natural slopes. When its palisades are turned into stone walls, it will be virtually impregnable. Like Kadweli.’

‘Kadweli is like Goodrich?’ asked Geoffrey, pointedly acknowledging Edward’s remark and ignoring Sear’s.

‘In many ways,’ nodded Edward. ‘My castle is also sited on a rocky bluff, although it is substantially larger, with facilities for a sizeable garrison.’

‘The one you will collect in Brechene,’ said Sear heavily. ‘The one you tell us is the best fighting force in Wales.’

‘The very same,’ said Edward happily, declining to take offence at Sear’s tone. He smiled at Geoffrey. ‘But your castle has a cosy feel, which Kadweli lacks. I like it already.’

‘Well, I do not,’ said Sear sullenly. ‘I would sooner have defensible than “cosy”.’

‘You can stay in the village, then,’ said Roger. ‘There is a rather shabby tavern that might lower itself to admit you.’

‘You had better ride ahead, Geoffrey,’ said Edward before Sear could respond. ‘It is only polite to give your sister a little time to prepare for us, and I am incapable of riding fast after my dip in the river, anyway.’

‘You had better tell her to get the rugs out, too,’ muttered Sear.

‘Go,’ said Roger. ‘I know the way from here, and I shall point out the sights as we ride. A man will want to know the whereabouts of willing lasses after such a long ride, and I doubt Joan has any at the castle.’

‘ I do not need to be shown such things,’ announced Delwyn loftily. ‘ I am a monk.’

‘You can find your own loose women, can you?’ asked Roger. He sniffed disdainfully. ‘Then I hope you choose better than that poxy lass you cornered last week.’

‘I did not “corner” her,’ said Delwyn stiffly. ‘We were discussing spiritual matters.’

‘You can call it what you like,’ said Roger with a wink. ‘But bear in mind that Geoffrey’s sister will not want you messing with anyone who is not willing. She runs a tight ship.’

Grateful to be away from his quarrelsome companions, Geoffrey spurred his way ahead, inhaling deeply as he went and relishing the clean scent of the forest and the river. He found himself wondering at the direction his life had taken since he had returned to the land of his birth. He had lost the master he truly respected, and was reduced to delivering letters and exploring nonsensical secrets for one he despised.

But he pushed such gloomy thoughts from his mind as he cantered through the village. People stopped to watch him pass, and one or two raised their hands in salute when they recognized him. Father Adrian stood from where he had been weeding his graveyard, but only crossed himself. He did not approve of warriors and firmly believed that Geoffrey was a ruthless slaughterer of unarmed women and children. Nothing Geoffrey said or did could convince him otherwise.

Geoffrey stopped to exchange greetings with Will Helbye, who had accompanied him to Normandy twenty years before and fought at his side. Helbye was too old for such antics now and had returned to Goodrich to retire with his wife and their collection of prize pigs. Delighted to meet his captain again, Helbye invited Geoffrey to share a jug of ale.

‘I cannot, Will,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I need to warn Joan that she is about to be invaded.’

‘My wife will do that,’ said Helbye, grabbing the reins of Geoffrey’s horse and indicating he should dismount. ‘She will not mind.’

‘Of course I will not,’ said the large, comfortable woman who emerged from the house, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Go inside and sit down, Sir Geoffrey. I will speak to Lady Joan.’

‘Invaded by whom?’ asked Helbye, when she had gone, and Geoffrey had given a brief explanation as to why he was not halfway to the Holy Land.

‘Two knights named Sear and Alberic, who have argued with Roger every step of the way, and another knight named Edward, who has managed to keep them from skewering each other. There is also a monk named Delwyn.’

‘That is not too bad,’ said Helbye, indicating he was to sit at the table. ‘Joan can cope with those. She already has visitors, see. There was some sort of fealty-swearing ceremony in Gloucester, and these people have stopped off on the way home. They are bound for Kermerdyn.’

‘Kermerdyn?’ asked Geoffrey, startled. ‘But that is where Henry has ordered me to go. What a curious coincidence!’

‘Not so curious,’ said Helbye soberly. ‘Those at court will know about this ceremony, and they will know that its participants would return this way.’

‘I doubt “those at court” anticipated that these fealty-swearers would stop at Goodrich.’

‘Yes, they would,’ countered Helbye. ‘Because one of them – Cornald the butter-maker – is friends with Joan and Olivier. He always stops in Goodrich when he travels out of Wales, and I know for a fact that he has mentioned it to acquaintances in the King’s retinue. Obviously, someone remembered and stored the information for future use.’

Geoffrey racked his brains for anyone who might have done such a thing. ‘Bishop Maurice? He knows Cornald, because he has given me a letter for him.’

Helbye smiled. ‘No, not Maurice. He is not treacherous, and he would never embroil you in anything devious. I imagine it was one of Henry’s clerks. They can read, and – present company excepted – that means they cannot help being sly.’

Geoffrey stifled a sigh at such prejudice and changed the subject. ‘Do I know anyone in this group from Gloucester? Or are they all strangers? I have never heard Joan or Olivier mention Cornald the butter-maker.’

‘You have not spent two full months here since you were eleven, so that is not surprising. Cornald has been a friend of your family for years. He is a lovely man, very generous. Everyone likes him. But his wife…’ Helbye shook his head, lips pursed.

‘What about his wife?’ asked Geoffrey.

‘She is a walking brothel,’ replied Helbye bluntly. ‘My wife says she has never met a more wanton specimen.’

Geoffrey wondered whether she would extend her services to the new arrivals, thus sparing the hapless locals. ‘Are Cornald and his wife the only visitors?’

Helbye rested his elbows on the table. ‘No, and the others are an unsavoury crowd, so you should be on your guard. First, there is Richard fitz Baldwin, a vile creature with a vicious temper. He has already struck Father Adrian. Of course, I would not mind doing that myself at times, but it has done nothing to dispel Adrian’s belief that all knights are louts.’

‘Richard,’ mused Geoffrey, thinking about the letter he carried inside his surcoat. It would be one less missive to deliver in Kermerdyn. Then he frowned. Adrian was sanctimonious, but he was a priest, so it went with the territory. ‘I cannot imagine Joan allowed that to pass unremarked.’

‘I thought she was going to hit him back,’ said Helbye with a grin. ‘But Olivier stopped her, so she settled for giving Richard a piece of her mind instead, which was probably worse. I felt sorry for his wife, Leah, who is a poor, sweet creature. She suffers from headaches, but it is probably Richard that gives them to her.’

Geoffrey winced. ‘Please tell me they are the only ones.’

‘I am afraid not. They are accompanied by a man named Gwgan, who is a high-ranking Welsh counsellor. He seems decent enough, although he can read, so you would be wise to be wary of him. He is your brother-in-law, married to Lady Hilde’s sister.’

Geoffrey stared at him. Helbye was right: it could not be coincidence that two recipients for the King’s letters should happen to be in Goodrich. Someone had arranged for them to be there when he arrived. Was that why Eudo had been so annoyingly tardy about producing the letters? To ensure he did not travel too quickly and so miss them?

‘Finally, there is Kermerdyn’s abbot – a man called Mabon. He is a curious devil; I have never met a monastic like him.’

Geoffrey put his head in his hands. Henry had given him missives for Sear, Richard, Gwgan, Mabon and Bishop Wilfred, and four of them were at Goodrich. What was Henry up to? Or was it Eudo’s doing? As Maurice had said that Eudo was apt to scheme on the King’s behalf, Geoffrey was inclined to believe the latter. So would the plot die now the clerk was not alive to see it through? Or would it stagger ahead, leading to danger for those unwittingly caught up in it?

No answers came, although Geoffrey made three decisions. First, he would give Richard, Gwgan and Mabon their letters that day, although he would still have to travel to Kermerdyn to deliver the ones to Sear and Bishop Wilfred. Second, he was not going to put his family in danger by staying at Goodrich; he would feed his guests, collect dry clothes, and be gone within the hour. And third, Hilde would not be going to Kermerdyn to wheedle secrets about William’s secret from her sister. He did not want her embroiled in whatever sinister plan was unfolding.

‘Why do you say Mabon is a curious devil?’ he asked, raising his head to see that Helbye was regarding him worriedly. It would have been good to confide his fears and suspicions, but Helbye, with his deep distrust of the written word, was not the right candidate.

‘You will understand when you meet him, and I do not have your way with words. But this subject has upset you, so let us talk of other matters. Would you like to see my new pig?’

It was tempting, but Geoffrey had already spent longer than he had intended with Helbye, and knew he should at least try to arrive at the castle before the others. He took his leave, promising to return later, when his guests were settled.

‘Watch yourself, lad,’ said Helbye, reaching up to grab his arm before he could ride away. ‘None of us at the village likes Lady Joan’s guests, and you will not, either.’

It had stopped raining by the time he left Helbye, and the clouds had rolled away to reveal a blue sky. The sun was shining for virtually the first time since La Batailge, and Geoffrey and his horse steamed in the sudden warmth. The rest of the day was going to be fine.

The bailey was busy as he trotted into it, full of horses and people. Some were servants, scurrying here and there with cloaks, boots and cups of hot wine. Others were richly dressed, and, since he did not know them, they were clearly the guests. In the middle of the hubbub was a small, neat man with a moustache but no beard – an odd fashion in England, when most men did it the other way around. He was giving orders to the servants, and a bird sat on his wrist, its head covered by a tiny leather helmet. Sir Olivier d’Alencon, Geoffrey’s brother-in-law, was about to take his visitors hawking.

The clamour lessened when Geoffrey appeared, and people stopped talking to each other to see who was coming. Then a woman broke free of the cluster and ran towards him, her face an unrestrained beam of delight.

‘So Mistress Helbye had not taken leave of her senses when she said she had seen you!’ said Hilde. ‘But you said you would be gone for months, if not years. What happened?’

‘King Henry happened,’ replied Geoffrey gloomily, dismounting and going to bow over her hand. They had not been married long enough to dispense with the formalities, and he did not want to embarrass her with a more affectionate greeting when there was an audience.

Hilde was a large, square-faced woman with a determined glint in her eye. She was older than Geoffrey by at least three years – she was coyly vague about specifics – and had been foisted on him because Goodrich had needed a politically expedient marriage. Fortunately, Geoffrey valued intelligence more highly than looks, and he had not been disappointed. Moreover, he had found himself blessed with a friend, as well as a wife.

‘Is there more trouble brewing on the borders?’ she asked in alarm. ‘The last time he sent you here, we had a virtual war.’

‘He has ordered me to Kermerdyn,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I leave in an hour.’

‘An hour?’ Hilde cried in dismay. ‘Surely, you can rest here longer than that?’

‘Best not.’

‘Kermerdyn is where Isabella lives,’ said Hilde. ‘Gwgan – her husband, who is visiting us here at the moment – has offered to take me with him. But I would much rather travel with you.’

‘No,’ said Geoffrey, more sharply than he had intended. He hastened to explain. ‘Henry told me to take you there, too, but there is something underhand about the whole affair, and I will not see you in danger.’

‘If Henry issued you with a direct order, you must obey it,’ said Hilde. ‘You know what he is like when crossed, and I do not want to be the reason for you being in trouble.’

‘He will never know.’

Hilde shook his arm gently. ‘Of course he will know! Nothing happens in his kingdom without his knowledge. I would be sorry to lose Goodrich, and so would Joan, so we had better do as he says. Besides, I am no swooning maiden who must be coddled. I thought you understood that.’

‘I do,’ said Geoffrey. ‘But-’

‘No buts,’ said Hilde, smiling. ‘I was intending to make the journey anyway, because it has been too long since I saw Isabella. If I do not go with you, I will go with Gwgan.’

Before the discussion could become an argument, a second woman approached. It was Joan – tall, sturdily built and with a fierce face that told everyone who met her that she was not a woman to stand for nonsense. Middle years had made her thick around the middle, and her brown hair was now flecked with grey.

‘I thought I recognized you,’ she said gruffly, never one for unseemly displays of affection. ‘What are you doing back so soon? And where is your horse?’

‘Drowned,’ said Geoffrey unhappily. ‘And I have been ordered to travel west by the King.’

Joan’s face hardened. ‘Has that villain used Goodrich to force you into his service again? I am beginning to suspect that he plans to keep you at his beck and call for ever.’

‘No,’ said Geoffrey firmly. ‘Because I will go to the Holy Land as soon as Bishop Maurice releases me from a vow I made never to return there. You see, I believe Tancred did not write the letters-’

‘Stop!’ ordered Joan. ‘This is a complex tale and deserves to be heard properly. We shall have it as soon as we dispatch our guests for an afternoon of hawking with Olivier.’

And Geoffrey had three letters to deliver. He had not forgotten that Richard’s and Gwgan’s were secret, and would have to be handed over when the recipients were alone. And although no such stipulation had been attached to Mabon’s, Geoffrey intended to be cautious anyway. The whole affair was too murky for him to risk doing otherwise.

It was not many moments before Geoffrey’s travelling companions arrived, and he was made proud by the gracious welcome afforded by Joan and Hilde. Cups of welcoming wine were presented, and servants were waiting to take horses and see to baggage.

Even Sear could find no fault with their hospitality, although his eyebrows went up when he was introduced to Olivier. It was not difficult to read Sear’s thoughts: Joan was twice the size of her diminutive husband, and they looked odd together. Although a knight, Olivier lied about his military achievements and was a liability in any kind of skirmish. But Joan loved him and he loved her, and Geoffrey had grown to respect the man’s gentler qualities.

The newcomers knew the other guests, and Edward was unrestrained in his pleasure at seeing them. Geoffrey was slightly taken aback when Edward darted towards a tall, burly knight in black and treated him to a smacking kiss on the cheek. Both men immediately roared with laughter, although Sear grimaced his distaste and Alberic rolled his eyes.

‘As the weather is fine, we have decided to go hawking,’ said Olivier, beaming at the new arrivals. ‘Perhaps you would care to join us? I can promise you a treat. Geoffrey, you will come?’

Geoffrey shook his head, not liking to imagine what Joan would say if he disappeared before explaining his sudden arrival. Besides, he had never really taken to the sport, although he knew that Olivier’s birds were exceptional.

‘He is probably too tired,’ taunted Sear. ‘After all, we must have ridden three hours today.’

‘My husband has business to attend,’ said Hilde coldly. ‘And he always discharges his duties before taking his pleasure. Do you do things differently in Pembroc, sir?’

Sear opened his mouth, but seemed unable to think of a rejoinder, so he closed it again and stamped away, bawling to the servants to find him a fresh horse. Geoffrey grinned, gratified to see the man put so neatly in his place. He went to see his destrier settled in the stable, and it was not long before he was joined by Joan and Olivier.

‘It is good to have you back, Geoff,’ said Olivier, slapping a comradely arm around his shoulders. ‘We feared we might never see you again, and Joan has not been herself since you left.’

‘It was a summer cold,’ said Joan stiffly. ‘It had nothing to do with him.’

‘You missed him,’ countered Olivier. ‘We all did. But tell us what has happened since you left. Or would you rather change first? You are soaking wet.’

‘And dirty,’ said Joan, looking him up and down disapprovingly. ‘You always were a ruffian.’

Geoffrey was more inclined to ask questions than to answer them, at least until Joan thawed a little. And he needed time to think about what he was going to say, because he was certainly not going to give them details of Henry’s orders, suspecting they would be safer kept in ignorance.

‘Which one is Gwgan?’ he asked, going to the door and looking across the milling bailey.

‘The one with the black hair,’ replied Olivier, pointing to a stocky man in fine but functional clothes. He lowered his voice. ‘I know he is married to Hilde’s favourite sister, but I cannot say I like the man. I always have the sense that he is laughing at me.’

‘He would not dare laugh at you,’ said Joan fiercely. ‘Not in my hearing. But I suspect he does that to everyone, and he is not as bad as some of the others who are availing themselves of our hospitality. Richard fitz Baldwin, for example.’

‘He is the one with a glower like thunder and the scar down his face,’ supplied Olivier. ‘I do not think he has smiled once since he arrived, although he has been polite enough. I would have ousted the miserable devil, but his wife seems frail, and Joan thought she needed the rest.’

Geoffrey saw a small, pale woman standing at Richard’s side, dowdy in her unfashionable clothes and nondescript wimple.

‘Her name is Leah, and she is kin to Robert de Belleme,’ explained Joan. ‘It was a good match originally, but now that Belleme is exiled, the association can do Richard no good. He is a surly brute, and if I were in Leah’s shoes, I would knock some manners into him. Olivier is never sullen.’

Geoffrey was sure Olivier was not, because the small knight had a sense of self-preservation equal to none.

‘Helbye told me Richard struck Father Adrian,’ he said. ‘And that you were going to hit him in return.’

‘She was not!’ declared Olivier. ‘That would have been unladylike, and we have standards. But not all members of the party have been objectionable. Cornald has been a delight.’

‘He has, but I wish he had not brought his wife with him,’ said Joan grimly. ‘She is the one with the blonde hair and the come-hither smile. You will have to watch her, or she will be in your bed. And Hilde will not appreciate that, because she will have her own plans in that direction.’

‘I will bear it in mind,’ said Geoffrey, his eyes naturally drawn to the slender figure, flawless complexion and pale gold hair.

‘Her name is Pulchria,’ Joan went on, jabbing him in the ribs with her elbow when she saw him staring. ‘Look at how she simpers at your friend Sear, fluttering her eyes at him while poor Cornald is forced to make polite conversation with that grubby little monk.’

‘Sear is not my friend,’ said Geoffrey firmly. ‘And I will not inflict him on you for any longer than is necessary. I would have ridden to Kermerdyn today, but Olivier invited them hawking before I could stop him. We shall leave at first light tomorrow.’

‘Is your business so urgent, then?’ asked Olivier.

‘No, but there is no point dallying.’

Joan took his arm tentatively, as if she was afraid he might jerk it away. ‘Would it be too much to ask that you spend a few days with the family you see so rarely?’

‘And you have unfinished business with Hilde,’ said Olivier, rather primly. ‘You did not leave her pregnant, you know, so she will want another stab at it.’

‘Several stabs might be better,’ recommended Joan practically. ‘We all want an heir, and I am inclined to lock you up here until you provide us with one.’

‘You could try,’ muttered Geoffrey.

Joan’s eyes narrowed when a familiar voice echoed across the courtyard. She released Geoffrey’s arm abruptly. ‘You brought that rogue Roger with you! Well, in that case, perhaps a shorter visit would be better. He caused a lot of trouble the last time he was here.’

‘He also helped us fight off an army that was aiming to destroy us,’ Olivier pointed out. ‘And Roger and I love exchanging war stories.’

Roger had yet to realize that Olivier’s stories were fiction and that he claimed to have taken part in wars that had been fought long before he was born. Like Geoffrey, Olivier could read, and his ‘battle experiences’ came from books.

‘Well, in that case…’ began Joan, her resolve weakening, as it always did when Olivier expressed an opinion. Geoffrey wondered whether he and Hilde would ever come to regard each other so highly; he hoped so.

‘Who is the man that Edward kissed?’ he asked, changing the subject.

‘You mean the large fellow in the armour and the surcoat with the black cross?’ asked Joan. ‘That is Abbot Mabon.’

‘But he is a knight,’ said Geoffrey uncertainly.

‘That is what I said,’ replied Joan. ‘But he informed me that God calls all sorts to His service, and I should not put too much store by appearances.’

‘Do you think Cornald’s party will leave when Geoffrey does?’ asked Olivier, brightening suddenly. ‘The road to Kermerdyn is fraught with danger, and they will be delighted to add another five knights and Bale to their number – although I doubt Edward will be up to much.’

‘They might,’ agreed Joan hopefully. ‘Perhaps we will encourage you to make your stay brief, Geoff. The opportunity to be rid of them all is very appealing.’

‘We will make it up to you when you return,’ promised Olivier.

‘First light tomorrow, then,’ said Geoffrey.