A Head for Poisoning

CHAPTER TEN

Geoffrey did not believe Father Adrian’s claim that Enide had lost the use of her writing hand for an instant. He pushed past the priest to go back into Godric’s bedchamber, annoyed that he had allowed himself to be caught reading what might be vital clues to the mystery. Adrian followed him.

“Many things must have changed since you left all those years ago,” said the priest. “I suppose Enide’s accident happened so long ago, and her family grew so used to her injury, that they came not to notice it any more. The same would have been true of me, but I tried to persuade her to learn to write with her other hand. It became something of a contest of wills.” He smiled, perhaps more fondly than was appropriate for a priest reminiscing about one of his parishioners.

“You must be mistaken,” said Geoffrey. “She wrote to me often after I left. And she mentioned no accident.”

“She was proud,” said Adrian, shrugging. “She did not like anyone to know that the accident had deprived her of the ability to perform certain functions-she could no longer sew, for example. And she certainly could not write.”

“But I had letters from her several times a year,” insisted Geoffrey. “You must be thinking of someone else.”

“Do I seem like some doddering old fool who cannot tell the difference between women?” demanded Adrian, finally nettled into sharpness. “If you had letters from her, then she paid for someone else to write them-because, I assure you, she could not. Ask any of your family. Ask Francis the physician.”

“What happened to her, then?” asked Geoffrey, still far from convinced.

Adrian shook his head. “The accident occurred many years before I came here. She told me that she had been picking plums in the churchyard and had fallen. She landed awkwardly, breaking the bones in her arm, so that her hand muscles no longer worked. She usually had it wrapped in a scarf or tucked inside her gown, but she showed it to me once, and it was withered into a claw, like this.”

He hooked his fingers and splayed them out to show Geoffrey what he meant. He saw the knight’s consternation, and patted him on the shoulder.

“It happened many years ago, and she said it gave her no pain. She probably did not mention it to you because she was sensitive about it, and she was fond of you. She would not have wanted you to consider of her maimed.”

“I would never have thought such a thing,” said Geoffrey, stung. “I thought we were friends.”

“Then perhaps she did not tell you at the time because she did not want to worry you, or because she thought it would heal. And then, by the time she came to accept that her arm would be crippled permanently, it was too late. And why should she confide in you, anyway? You were absent for twenty years.”

“But we often talked of my coming back in our letters,” protested Geoffrey. “Especially early on, when we were still young.”

“But you never came, did you?” said Adrian. He softened. “Look, I am sorry to have upset you. It is the second time I have spoken out of turn about her, it seems. I took you unawares about the nature of her death, too.”

“I do not seem to know much about her life either,” said Geoffrey, not without rancour. “Is there anything else about her that I should know? Was her face green? Did she play with the fairies at night? She was a woman, I take it, and not a man in disguise?”

“Sir Geoffrey!” admonished Adrian, shocked. “Not so bitter!” He smiled suddenly, almost wistfully. “Her face was pale and delicate, like a blossom. She did not dance with the fairies, although she danced with an elegance and energy I have never seen equalled. And I can assure you that she was most certainly a woman!”

“You seem very sure of that,” said Geoffrey, his eyebrows raised.

“Just because I have sworn a vow of celibacy does not mean that I can no longer tell the difference between a man and a woman,” said Adrian, his smile fading.

“She wrote to me …” Geoffrey hesitated. “Her letters mentioned that she had a lover. At first, I thought it was Caerdig, who later asked to marry her. But now I think it was you.”

“Please!” exclaimed Adrian, turning away. “Think about what you say! I am a priest!”

“So?” asked Geoffrey. “Tell me the truth, Adrian!”

The priest refused to meet his eyes, and Geoffrey understood exactly why Enide had not mentioned the name of her lover in her letters. She could hardly tell her brother that she had fallen in love with the parish priest, who had sworn a vow of chastity.

“You loved her dearly, I see,” Geoffrey said softly, watching the priest’s inner struggle. “But someone killed her, Adrian! Tell me what you know and together, perhaps, we might catch her murderer.”

“No!” said Adrian with sudden force. “That is not what she would have wanted-I have already told you that. You will only put yourself in danger if you persist with this, and it will do no good anyway, given the amount of time that has passed. One of the last things she said to me was that I should let her die peacefully and unavenged.”

“So, she told you where she was to be buried, and she instructed you that no one was to avenge her death?” said Geoffrey, his stomach churning at the notion that his sister had so despaired of her hopeless situation that she had made ghoulish arrangements for her funeral and mourning. “She knew she was going to die, and you did nothing to save her?”

Tears glittered in Adrian’s eyes, but he did not seem angered by Geoffrey’s accusation. “She knew she was in some danger,” he said in a low voice. “The morning of her death, as I have told you, she was anxious and restless, but she would not tell me why. If only she had confided in me, I might have been able to keep her safe.”

“Probably not,” said Geoffrey, using a more gentle tone as the priest turned away to hide his grief. “If she were anxious enough to be talking about her death to you, then she was probably in a greater danger than you would have been able to protect her from.”

“Do you think so?” asked Adrian uncertainly, still with his back to Geoffrey. “But what was it? What could she have done or said that had landed her in such dire peril?”

“I hoped you might be able to tell me,” said Geoffrey, thinking about the letters tucked down the inside of his shirt. “Did she meet anyone unusual, or leave the castle for any period of time?”

“She visited Monmouth last June,” said Adrian. He wiped his eyes on his wide sleeve, and faced Geoffrey. “She said she wanted to purchase new rugs for Godric’s chamber, but when she returned, she had forgotten to buy them.”

“So, she went for some other reason, then,” said Geoffrey. “Did she know anyone in Monmouth?”

“Possibly she did,” said Adrian. “She was an intelligent woman, and people sought her out for advice. She may have met someone-at the Rosse market, for example-who lived in Monmouth. She told me that King Henry was at Monmouth when she visited-although he was not King then, of course. His brother Rufus was.”

“Do you think she went to meet King Henry?” asked Geoffrey, startled.

“I would not imagine so,” said Adrian, with a short, nervous laugh. “She had never met him before, and women do not simply arrive at the court and introduce themselves.”

Unless they had something specific to tell, thought Geoffrey, wondering anew about the pieces of parchment in his surcoat. But he was allowing his imagination to run away with him. How could Enide have anything to say that would interest a prince? And how could she possibly have come by such information anyway, tucked away in Goodrich Castle all her life?

He looked at Adrian, who had slumped on the chest at the bottom of the bed, his hands dangling between his knees. Adrian had been kind to him when he was trying to overcome the unpleasant after-effects of his poisoning and, although Geoffrey knew better than to put too much faith in first impressions, the priest seemed to have been genuinely fond of Enide. Geoffrey decided to take a risk and show Adrian the scraps of parchment. The knight had little to lose, since his own investigations were taking him nowhere, but he might gain considerably if Adrian could throw some light on what the mysterious messages might mean. And if Adrian turned out to be not quite the simple priest that he claimed, then Geoffrey had only a few more days in Goodrich in which to be cautious. He, unlike Enide, was unlikely to allow himself to be caught unawares and have his head chopped off.

“Have you seen these before?” he asked, taking the scraps from his shirt and handing them to Adrian.

The priest rifled through them without much interest. “No. Why? Did they belong to Godric?”

“I do not know,” said Geoffrey. “But I think Enide may have hidden them away for safe-keeping.”

Adrian took the candle from Geoffrey, and inspected them again. “Times and dates,” he mused. “Wait!” Geoffrey sat next to him, and looked at the parchment that had caught the priest’s attention. “This one! ‘Midnight on the fifth day of June 1100. Expect five.’ That was the night before Enide left for Monmouth.”

“How can you be sure?” asked Geoffrey. “It was a long time ago.”

“Because the sixth of June was the Feast of Corpus Christi. It is one of the most important religious festivals in our Christian calendar,” he added when Geoffrey looked a little blank. “Did the knights on God’s holy Crusade not mark such an important occasion?”

“We may have done,” said Geoffrey vaguely. Despite the acclaimed sanctity of their mission, religious celebrations were a long way from the minds of most Crusaders. There were monks and other holy men in the company, but they tended to keep their distance from the rabble of knights and soldiers who formed the bulk of their number. Meanwhile, Geoffrey’s attention had been taken more by battles and fighting the more dangerous enemies of the desert-hunger, thirst, and disease-than with observing religious festivals.

“But what does the Feast of Corpus Christi have to do with Enide?” he asked.

“On the morning that our celebrations were to begin, Enide announced that she was leaving for Monmouth immediately.”

“Just like that?” asked Geoffrey.

“Just like that,” said Adrian. “It takes a good deal of work to organise these festivities, and it would have been pleasant to have had Enide’s help and support. It is one of the most important days of the year for me, and I was hurt that she considered buying rugs for Godric more urgent.”

“But she bought no rugs, you said,” said Geoffrey.

“And that fact made her actions sufficiently odd to stick in my mind,” said Adrian. “I am certain I am correct in my memory about the date.”

“So, we are to assume that Enide met five people at midnight on the fifth day of June and left the following morning to go to Monmouth, abandoning her obligations to the village celebrations,” said Geoffrey. “What could she have been doing?”

“The sixth day of June was two months before King William Rufus was killed,” said Adrian.

Geoffrey gazed at him in disbelief. “What are you suggesting? That Enide killed him? A fine, loyal lover you make for her! Accusing her of regicide!”

Wordlessly Adrian held up another of the scraps of parchment. Geoffrey took it. “‘The first day of August 1100 at Brockenhurst. The evil is about to end,’ “ he read. “So?”

“Brockenhurst was Rufus’s hunting lodge in the New Forest,” said Adrian. “He was killed near it on the second of August.”

Geoffrey looked down at the scrap of parchment again, but then stood abruptly. “This is ludicrous,” he said impatiently. “I do not know why I am here listening to you. There are more important things I have to be doing. I need to find Rohese.”

“Enide left Goodrich for a second time during the third week of July,” said Adrian. “He held up the third scrap. I cannot be as certain of the dates this time, but this one reads ‘Midnight on the twenty-fifth night of July 1100. Everything is almost in readiness. Only details regarding horses left to manage.’ I think she attended this meeting before leaving for another-at Brockenhurst in the New Forest on the first day of August.”

“Enide never went to the New Forest,” cried Geoffrey, appalled by what the priest was implying. “What is wrong with you? I thought you cared for her!”

“So I do,” said Adrian.

He sighed heavily and inspected the backs of his hands. When Geoffrey took a step towards the door to leave in disgust, Adrian began to speak again.

“She told me she was going to check your manor at Rwirdin when she left Goodrich in July, and that she would be there for a month or so. It so happened that I found myself in the area at about that time. No, that is not true. I deliberately sought out business nearby so that I could visit her there. A month seemed such a long time to be away from her.”

“Well?” asked Geoffrey uneasily. “What happened?”

“She was not there,” said Adrian. “And the steward said that he had not seen her that summer, and had been sent no word that she was coming. When Enide rode out of Goodrich Castle that morning in July, she never had any intention of visiting Rwirdin.”

“This is all gross speculation,” said Geoffrey, pacing up and down. “Perhaps she had another lover-Caerdig, perhaps-with whom she wanted to spend time.”

Adrian flinched. “That is what Godric said when I told him that Enide was not at Rwirdin,” he said. “I was worried about her, you see. I was afraid she had been attacked on the roads, and harmed. But, in the middle of August, she came home.”

“Did you ask her where she had been?”

“I did,” said Adrian. “And it proved to be something of an unpleasant confrontation, actually. I told her I had been to Rwirdin to see her, and had found she was not there. She informed me that I was mistaken. When I insisted I was not, she told me I had either visited the wrong manor or that I was drunk.”

“Do you drink?” asked Geoffrey, recalling other priests he had met who were seldom sober.

“I do not!” said Adrian indignantly. “I take only watered ale, and nothing stronger. Not only was I sober, but I have been to Rwirdin before, and know it well enough to be certain that I had visited the correct manor. I recognised the steward, anyway. But Enide would not admit that she had lied. She grew angry. She was not a woman normally given to rage, but, as I said, she was anxious and tense the few weeks before her death. She refused to admit that she had been anywhere but Rwirdin.”

“But that is no reason to suppose it was Brockenhurst, where Rufus was killed,” said Geoffrey.

Adrian played restlessly with the cord that was tied about his waist. “When someone you love lies to you and will not confide, you do not overlook it, you try to discover why.”

“Tell me about it,” said Geoffrey dryly, thinking of Enide’s palsied hand.

“It was so with Enide,” said Adrian. “I thought of little else. I tried to see a pattern in the dates that she was away, and I paid careful attention to whom she met and to whom she spoke.”

“And?” asked Geoffrey. “What did your spying tell you?”

“Nothing at all,” said Adrian, ignoring the jibe. “I thought she was just being careful not to let me see anything unusual. But these notes suggest that I should have been watching her at midnight, not during the daytime. I was a fool to think I could have bested her in such a matter.”

“It would have been difficult to leave the castle at midnight,” said Geoffrey, still not certain that his sister would have been making mysterious assignations with people in the dark. “The guards would not have let her out-or if they had, news that she had gone for some secret assignation in the small hours would have been all over the village by morning.”

But Mabel had entered and left the castle unobserved, he thought, by using the secret passageway that came out by the river. And Enide had insisted that Godric use her room for his romps with his whore-perhaps not, as everyone had assumed, because she was keen for him to use Rohese rather than Mabel, but because she had wanted Godric’s room so she could use the tunnel. Mabel had been Godric’s whore for many years, and it made no sense that Enide had suddenly developed scruples about the fact that her father had a mistress in the village, rather than one more discreetly lodged inside the castle.

And the other business-Adrian’s wild assumptions regarding a link between Enide and the killing of William Rufus? Geoffrey did not believe a word of it.

“Have you mentioned your suspicions to others?” he asked.

Adrian regarded him steadily. “I discussed some of it with Francis the physician after Enide became ill from the poison. Francis believes that her poisoning and death were at the hands of one of your brothers, who wanted her dead for their own reasons.”

“Then I suggest we keep your theory about Rufus to ourselves until we have more information,” said Geoffrey. “If we go round proclaiming that Enide shot Rufus with this withered hand you say she had, we will probably be incarcerated as madmen.”

“I did not say she shot him!” said Adrian quietly. “Quite the reverse. I imagine she would try to prevent it.”

“Well, whatever we think is irrelevant, because we have nothing to back it up,” said Geoffrey. He stuffed the parchments back inside his shirt. “And these tell us very little, despite your association of dates and times with the last months of Enide’s life. They might have had nothing to do with Enide. She might have hidden them away to protect the identity of someone else.”

But why had she hidden them at all, he wondered, when it would have been so very much safer to have burned them?

The next evening, while his family discussed their plans to reclaim Goodrich from the grasping fingers of the Earl of Shrewsbury, Geoffrey sat in Godric’s room alone.

That day, Godric’s body had at last been moved to the chapel, and Geoffrey had asked that the bed be removed from the chamber on the grounds that it made him sneeze. No one seemed particularly surprised by the request, and no one had immediately offered to burn it to rid themselves of incriminating evidence. Indeed, Walter had even asked if he might have it for his own room, and had only been dissuaded by Bertrada’s firm conviction that she would never rest easy in a bed on which a man had been murdered. The others showed scant interest, and did not so much as glance up as two servants hauled it across the hall to take it to a storeroom in the inner ward. Geoffrey saw it safely installed in a shed, and sent Julian to ask the physician to come and inspect it.

Then he had spent a fruitless afternoon riding out to a few of the surrounding villages and hamlets that were scattered in glades through the dense green of the forest, looking for Rohese. No one admitted to seeing her, and all the hiding holes and haunts he remembered from his childhood-a cave near the river, the bole of a rotten oak, an outcrop of rocks near Coppet Hill-were abandoned, and no frightened runaway loitered there. Reluctantly, Geoffrey returned to the castle and headed for Godric’s chamber.

Without the gigantic bed, the room felt empty. Geoffrey threw open the window shutters and sat on the chest for a few moments, looking around the dismal room that had been Godric’s whole world for the past few weeks. Unable to put off the grim business of the tunnel any longer, he went to the garderobe passage, his heart already beginning to thump. He pulled at the shelves until the door slid open, and reached inside for the torch and kindling Mabel had pointed out, careful not to look into the tunnel’s gaping maw. Recalling Mabel’s warning that he would not fit down it wearing his armour, he removed his surcoat, but decided that if he could not squeeze through wearing his mail tunic, then he would not be going at all. Holding the torch aloft, he turned to face the black tunnel.

His nerve was already failing. The flame from the torch shook and wavered on the walls, and the slit of darkness looked about as appealing as a snake-pit. Perhaps Rohese had not escaped down it at all, he thought; and if she had, she would scarcely still be in it days later. He almost convinced himself that he did not have to go, but then there was the matter of Enide. This sinister corridor might hold the secret to her murder, and Geoffrey knew that if he did not explore it, he would spend, the rest of his life despising himself for his cowardice.

Taking a firm grip on the torch, Geoffrey took his first few steps down the passageway. Mabel had been right in that it was a tight fit. Geoffrey was too tall for it, and had to bend his head to prevent it from bumping against the roof. There was barely enough room for him to walk, even turned slightly sideways. His sword scraped along the wall, and was the only sound except for his unsteady breathing.

Cautiously, he edged along the passageway until he came to a steep flight of stairs. The torch was not bright enough to light what lay at the bottom, and it seemed to Geoffrey that the steps disappeared into a pit of nothingness. The air in the tunnel was still and damp, and Geoffrey began to imagine that it was also thin and stale. He started to cough, and only prevented himself from turning and racing back the way he had come by taking several deep breaths, closing his eyes tightly, and resting his head against the cold stone wall. In control of himself once more, he forced himself to take a step down, and then another. His leather-soled boots skidded in some slime on the third step, and he took the next few faster than he intended, coming to a small landing. Beyond, more stairs sloped away into the darkness.

Godric’s bedchamber was on the keep’s top floor, and Geoffrey tried to estimate how far he had descended as he walked. Below Godric’s room was the hall, and below the hall were basements-large, dank rooms filled with bags of flour and barrels of water to be used should the castle ever come under siege. Geoffrey had the feeling that he had descended a good way past the storerooms before he reached the bottom of the stairs.

He was surprised that Godric had managed to have the stairs inserted without anyone knowing. Walter, Joan, and Stephen were all old enough to recall the great keep being built, and Geoffrey was curious that none of them had stumbled upon Godric’s secret while playing around on the walls. But a closer inspection revealed that the stairs had been added later, and comprised roughly hewn blocks inserted into a vertical slit that ran parallel to the garderobe shaft, Despite his unease, Geoffrey smiled at Godric’s cunning. His secret stairs had clearly been disguised during construction as a shaft that, to all intents and purposes, appeared like a sewage outlet running down the inside of the wall to drop into the moat. Of course, the slit descended a lot farther than the moat, and delved into the rock beneath the foundations.

At last, Geoffrey reached the bottom of the stairs, his legs aching from tension. He paused to wipe the sweat from his eyes and looked around. The tunnel changed abruptly from a neatly made passage with straight walls to an unevenly hewn cave, sloping downwards in what Geoffrey assumed to be the direction of the river. The rock underfoot became slick, and the walls glistened with moisture.

The tunnel walls and roof were of sandstone, a soft rock that Geoffrey knew from personal experience was prone to collapses. It had been a sandstone tunnel in which Geoffrey had been trapped in France. Here and there, small piles of dust and stones indicated where parts of the roof had fallen, and Geoffrey felt the strength drain from his limbs as he contemplated the possibility of a cave-in. He had written to Enide about his unnatural horror of dark, confined places, but could only assume that if she had made the same journey, then it was most certainly not a fear that she had shared.

As he scrambled over an especially large pile of rocks, the walls of the tunnel came close together as they snaked between two large boulders. Geoffrey squeezed between them, but the space was narrower than he thought, and he became wedged. With a show of strength made great by blind terror, Geoffrey ripped free of the confines of the walls, and shot forwards onto his hands and knees.

In front of him was a stout door. Geoffrey heaved a sigh of relief, aware that he had reached the end of the tunnel, and that he would soon be out. Warily, he listened at the door for a few moments, before taking the handle and hauling it open.

“Malger!” he exclaimed in astonishment.

Sir Malger of Caen, the Earl of Shrewsbury’s chief henchman, looked up from where he knelt next to a prostrate figure on the ground. Seeing Geoffrey, he leapt to his feet, hauling his sword from his belt, and assumed a fighting stance. Grateful that he had not abandoned his chain-mail completely, Geoffrey drew his own sword, and met Malger’s lunge with an ear-splitting clash of metal, dropping the flaming torch as he used both hands to parry the blow.

He sprung backwards as Malger lunged a second time, kicking out so that the other man lost his balance and stumbled against the wall. Before he had a chance to take advantage of Malger’s vulnerability, a moving shadow seen out of the corner of his eye warned that there was someone behind him. Ducking instinctively, he span round as Drogo’s sword whistled through the air above his head. While Drogo recovered from his wild swing, Geoffrey jabbed his own sword forwards, and succeeded in slicing through the chain-mail on Drogo’s arm. Drogo let out a howl of pain and rage, and came at Geoffrey, wielding his sword around his head, and striking sparks as it grazed the ceiling.

Meanwhile, Malger had regained his balance, and was advancing. Geoffrey darted forwards when Drogo’s sword was high in the air, and drove the knight hard up against the wall, before grabbing his arm and swinging him round to collide with the advancing Malger. Both men stumbled, but not before Drogo had seized a handful of Geoffrey’s tunic to haul him down with them.

Aware that Malger was already drawing his dagger, Geoffrey scrabbled his way clear of the thrashing melee of arms and legs, pausing only to bite a hand that made a snatch at his throat. Drogo grasped his leg, and brought him crashing to the ground, while Malger was on his feet and was coming forwards at a crouch, dagger at the ready. Geoffrey’s well-aimed swipe with his own sword sent it skittering from his hand, and drew a cry of pain from Malger. Drogo hurled himself forwards, pinning Geoffrey’s legs under his heavy body, leaving the knight all but helpless as Malger advanced yet again.

But Geoffrey had faced worst odds in the Holy Land, and was determined that he was not going to be summarily dispatched by the henchmen of the Earl of Shrewsbury. He twisted violently, so that Drogo’s grip loosened, and he was able to strike at Malger with his sword. Malger ducked backwards and Geoffrey brought the heavy hilt down square upon Drogo’s helmeted head. The resounding clang made Geoffrey’s arm ache, and Drogo went limp. Malger backed off farther as Geoffrey struggled out from under Drogo’s inert body. Then Malger’s arm flicked upwards, and Geoffrey was enveloped in a cloud of swirling dust.

Geoffrey flapped it out of his face, but it was in his eyes, blinding him, and catching at the back of his throat. He began to cough, straining to look with his smarting eyes to where Malger might be. A shadow moved to his left, and Geoffrey whipped round, painfully aware that he could barely see, and struck out wildly with his sword. There was a grunt, and then a thrown stone struck him hard on the chin. Reeling, he lunged again, stabbing with his dagger in one hand and his sword in the other.

“Leave him,” shouted Malger as Drogo, thick skull quickly recovering from the stunning blow to the head, moved forwards again. Geoffrey leapt towards the voice, but his eyes were now stinging so much that he could not open them at all. Footsteps of someone running echoed briefly. Then there was the sound of a heavy door slamming, and all was silent.

Geoffrey groped his way to the wall, and slid into a sitting position, his eyes closed tightly and streaming. His instinct was to rub them, to rid them of the dust, but he knew from experience of desert storms that rubbing was likely to embed small particles in them, and make them worse. He sat blinking in the darkness, feeling tears course down his face, and hoping they were washing the dust away. He poked at his chin, where the rock had struck him, aware that, if it had been just a little higher, he might have lost some teeth. Geoffrey, unlike most men who had spent a lifetime fighting, was still in possession of a complete set of strong, white teeth, and he fully intended to keep it that way.

Eventually, the burning in his eyes lessened, and Geoffrey was able to open them and look around. Not that it did him any good, for Malger and Drogo had taken the torch with them, and Geoffrey had dropped his own when he was first attacked. It was pitch-black. As the realisation dawned on him that he was trapped in an underground cave in a darkness that was total, Geoffrey felt a familiar sensation of panic rising up inside him. His breath began to come in shallow gasps, and he felt as though he were suffocating.

He leaned back and clenched his hands tightly, forcing himself to take deep, long breaths, and trying to clear his mind of everything but his breathing, a technique to subdue his fear he had learned from a woman he met in the Holy Land. Gradually, the tightness in his chest eased, and the sense that he was being crushed by the weight of rock above faded. Once he had his breathing under control, he let himself relax, resting his hands on his knees, and leaning his head against the stone wall behind him.

It was not so bad, he told himself. The very worst that could happen was that he would have to climb back up the stairs again in the dark. But then the tunnel’s narrowness would work to his advantage, because he could brace a hand on either side so he would not fall. Carefully, he clambered to his feet, thinking that he would feel around to see if he could find the torch he had dropped.

Still holding his sword, he began to prod about on the floor. His shuffling feet bumped against something soft, and he bent to put out a hand to feel it. Something flailed out and struck him, sending him sprawling before he realised what had happened. With a sickening clarity, he recalled that Malger had been kneeling over someone who lay prostrate on the ground. Even with Malger and Drogo gone, Geoffrey was still not alone.

Geoffrey sat in the blackness of the cavern, his ears ringing from the blow that had knocked him from his feet. He felt dizzy too, although whether that was from the punch or the disorienting effects of the darkness, he could not say.

“Who is there?” he called, knowing it was a stupid question, but short on other ideas.

“Get away!”

“Rohese?” he called, relieved as he recognised her voice.

“Leave me alone!”

“Rohese, it is Geoffrey. There is a torch on the floor. Help me find it, and then I will take you out of here. There is nothing to fear. Malger and Drogo have gone.”

He was aware of someone moving around behind him, and he turned, looking about him blindly. Then all was silent.

“Rohese, listen to me. Julian is worried about you. Help me find the torch, and I will take you to her.”

There was still no reply. Geoffrey thought he could probably wheedle and comfort all night long, but Rohese would not be easily convinced. He restarted a tentative search of the floor, keeping a careful ear out for any more tell-tale noises that might precede an attack. Eventually, after several collisions with the uneven walls of the cave, Geoffrey found the torch. He sat with it between his knees and struck a flint into the kindling he had brought.

The cave flared into light, and Geoffrey saw the terrified eyes of Rohese regarding him from the other side of it. He smiled reassuringly.

“See?” he said. “It is only me. Come. Julian will be pleased to see you.”

He stood, and walked towards her, holding out his hand. She appeared to be frozen with fear, until the moment when he leaned down to help her to her feet. Then she shied away from him, and darted away to the other side of the cave. Geoffrey did not want to spend all night chasing Rohese across an underground cavern, and felt his patience wearing thin.

“Rohese,” he said firmly, “you are quite safe now. The Earl has gone, and Julian is worried about you. You cannot stay here, so come with me.”

“Please!” she whispered. “Do not kill me. I promise I will not tell!”

“Tell what?” he said, without thinking.

“I promise I will not tell that you killed him,” she whispered.

“Killed who?” he asked, puzzled. “I have killed no one. Well, not in England, at least.”

“Of course!” she said, nodding furiously. “I will tell them that you did not do it.”

“Damn!” said Geoffrey as realisation of what she was talking about dawned on him. “I was hoping you might be able to help me, but now it appears you cannot.”

“I can!” she cried. “I will! Only please do not kill me.”

Geoffrey rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You think I am responsible for my father’s murder. I can assure you, Rohese, I am not.”

Rohese looked at him in confusion. “But who else could it have been?”

“Walter?” suggested Geoffrey. “Or someone who came into the room after I was asleep.”

“Walter left,” said Rohese. “It was not him.”

“Did anyone else come in?” asked Geoffrey.

“I do not know,” sobbed Rohese. “I fell asleep-it was warm inside those mattresses. But I heard you talking to Sir Godric before he died.”

“When exactly?” asked Geoffrey.

Rohese gazed at him in mute terror. He perched on a rocky ledge, well away from her so she would not feel threatened, and spoke gently.

“Think, Rohese. I am hardly likely to murder my own father while you hid under the mattress, am I? And if I were, I would have killed you there and then. After I fell asleep, I spoke to no one until I was awoken the following morning with a bucket of cold water. But tell me what you saw or heard, and we might be able to work out who did murder Godric.”

“Joan came out of the garderobe after you slept-”

“Joan?” asked Geoffrey, startled. “But she was not in Godric’s chamber.”

“She was,” insisted Rohese. “She must have come out of this passage.”

“Yes,” said Geoffrey, his thoughts whirling. “So she might.”

So, Joan knew of the presence of the secret tunnel, too. Had Enide told her? Had Godric? Or had she discovered it by some other means? Geoffrey supposed that Joan was unlikely to be indulging in anything overtly sinister the night that Godric died with the Earl in the chamber below, and so she had probably been checking the passage to ensure Rohese had not hidden there-in which case, Rohese was lucky Joan had not caught Geoffrey hiding her between the mattresses.

And that, Geoffrey realised suddenly, was what Godric had meant when he had warned Geoffrey against letting Joan discover that he had played a role in hiding Rohese away. Godric must have known that Joan was in the garderobe passage searching for Rohese, because he would have seen her enter it and not come out again. Geoffrey rubbed his itching eyes. Godric might have warned Geoffrey and Rohese that Joan was nearby and likely to catch them. But, Geoffrey supposed, if Joan had emerged and caught him red-handed, then Godric would have had a highly entertaining scene to watch-yet another argument between two of his children. The wicked old man was probably hoping Joan would catch Geoffrey hiding poor Rohese.

“What happened after Joan came out of the garderobe passage?” he asked, starting to pace back and forth restlessly.

“She pushed the chest back from where you had put it near the door, and left. Then there was an almighty competition between you and Walter to see who could snore the loudest-”

“I do not snore!” said Geoffrey indignantly.

But he might have done, he thought, since he had been heavily drugged. And Walter was drunk: he had slept through Geoffrey moving the chest towards the door and Joan pushing it back again, and nothing had roused him until dawn the following day.

“Then he left, and-”

“Who left?” asked Geoffrey.

“Walter,” said Rohese, as though it were obvious. “And then you and Sir Godric had this argument before …”

She trailed off. Geoffrey regarded her blankly. “None of this makes sense. Tell me again. After Walter and I were asleep, Joan came out of the garderobe passage, presumably having come through the hidden door, where she had been searching for you in the tunnel. She moved the chest from where I had put it against the door, to where it usually stood at the bottom of the bed. She then left. Correct?”

Rohese nodded, her eyes still wary, and fearful.

“Then Walter also left. How long after Joan had gone was this?”

Rohese swallowed. “I do not know. I fell asleep. But I think it was quite some time, because the fire had almost burned out. Walter was gone when I woke, but you still slept.”

“Good,” said Geoffrey. “Then what?”

“Then I grew uncomfortable under the mattresses. I thought I might never walk again if I did not stretch my legs. I climbed out, and began to walk around the room. Then I saw the door at the end of the garderobe passage. Joan must not have closed it properly when she left. I know now that you need to slam it hard to make it stay shut, and Joan obviously could not slam it if she wanted to sneak out of Sir Godric’s chamber without waking you up. I think she thought she had closed it properly, but it came open later by mistake.”

“Good,” said Geoffrey again, appreciating her logic. “Did you know what this tunnel was, or where it went?”

Rohese nodded. “Enide mentioned it once. Although she would not say so, I think she liked to use Sir Godric’s chamber from time to time so that she could slip out and see her lover.”

“So you hid in this passage?”

“Not immediately. There was no need at first. The Earl seemed to have given up his search, and I thought I could just stay in Sir Godric’s room until the next day.”

“So what happened next?”

“I took a torch, and went to look at the passage-more for something to do than anything else. I had peeped under the window shutters, you see, and it was only just beginning to grow light outside. I did not want to go back to sleep, but it was too dark to do anything in Sir Godric’s chamber.”

“Then what?”

“As I was exploring, I heard voices. I thought it was you talking to Sir Godric. He was shouting with anger, and I was afraid he might wake the Earl and cause him to come to the chamber, where I would be discovered. It was then that I went back and closed the door.”

“And what was my father saying?”

“I do not know,” said Rohese. “I did not listen very carefully. Sir Godric is always angry about something or another, and it is usually something silly or boring. And once I was in the tunnel, I could not really hear anyway.”

“But it was a man’s voice that you heard, talking with him?” asked Geoffrey, thinking that he could at least eliminate Joan as a suspect for the murder-which would be a relief, for he suspected that out of all of them she might prove the most formidable in the end.

Rohese frowned. “It may have been a woman. Joan, Hedwise, and Bertrada often go to Sir Godric during the night. There would have been nothing odd in them being there.”

“There is when my father claimed someone was poisoning him,” said Geoffrey. “Why did they ever need to come anyway? I thought you were his … chambermaid,” he said, selecting the term Julian had used.

“Not for the last few weeks,” said Rohese. “Before he became ill, he would come to my chamber-Enide’s chamber, I should say-and spend the night there. I hate that room of his, and Enide said I did not have to sleep there if I did not want to.”

“And you heard nothing at all of this conversation between this person and my father?” said Geoffrey. “Not a single word?”

“Well, I might have heard a few,” said Rohese vaguely. “But I did not really understand what they were talking about. I only listened so that I could hear when they had gone, and I would be able to come out again.”

“Yes?” asked Geoffrey, his hopes rising. “What did you hear?”

“I cannot be certain. I think I heard Sir Godric say ‘Tirel.’”

“Tirel?” asked Geoffrey. “You mean Walter Tirel?”

“Yes!” said Rohese, giving a faint smile. “Walter Tirel. That was it. Who is he?”

“The man who shot King William Rufus in the New Forest,” said Geoffrey. His thoughts reeled. Was Adrian right after all? First, they found that the dates on Enide’s hidden parchments corresponded to possible events connected with the murder of Rufus, and now the name of the murderer was mentioned in Godric’s chamber by the person who seemed to have killed Godric himself.

Rohese sniffed. “Well, I do not know about things like that,” she said. “But later, I think I heard someone say ‘Norbert.’”

“Norbert?” asked Geoffrey. “Godric’s scribe?”

“I do not know,” said Rohese again. “You keep asking me questions, and I do not know the answers. I do not know whether they meant Norbert the scribe or another Norbert.”

“Do you know another Norbert?”

She considered. “No. I suppose they must have meant Norbert the scribe, then.”

“Is that all?” asked Geoffrey when she was silent. “You heard nothing more?”

“After a few moments, Sir Godric gave a great groan, and started muttering and moaning. I thought he must have made himself ill, perhaps with that vile wine he drinks. Eventually, when I was certain he was alone, I crept out, to see if I could help him, but there he was, lying in the bed and all covered in blood.”

“And he was dead?”

“No,” said Rohese. “He was not dead. He was groaning and crying and making fearful noises, and cursing and swearing. …”

Geoffrey could well imagine how the ill-tempered Godric would take his impending death. “Did he say anything to you?”

“Oh, yes,” said Rohese. “He cursed you all-although he called you Godfrey, so you need not worry too much. He told me that I should go to the tunnel in the garderobe and stay there until I was sure it was safe to come out-he said they would kill me for certain if they knew I had been there. I am still not sure it is safe, so I am still here.”

“Did he say who had killed him?” asked Geoffrey, knowing the question was useless because Rohese, apparently, had thought it was him.

As he had predicted, she shook her head. “He just said that there were dangerous men in the castle, and that I should never reveal to anyone that I had been listening in the garderobe passage the night he died.”

Geoffrey sighed. Godric, with his desire to protect his whore, and by not mentioning the names of the dangerous men to her, had closed an avenue of investigation.

“I stayed with him until he died, and then I left.”

“Did you look at the wound that killed him?”

“No,” said Rohese, surprised by the question. “It was in his stomach, though.”

So, Geoffrey thought, Godric had been stabbed in the stomach with his own dagger and had died. But who had come to his chamber later, after he was dead and after Rohese had left, and stabbed him a second time, on this occasion with Geoffrey’s Arabian dagger and in his chest?

Certain things were clear though. Someone had planned his father’s death with some care. Geoffrey stared at Rohese without really seeing her, trying to make some sense of the mass of information he had gathered. Someone had ensured that Walter and Geoffrey were drugged or drunk while Godric had been murdered, and that Geoffrey was still asleep the following morning to be discovered in a horribly compromising position with Godric’s corpse.

Geoffrey rubbed one eye that was still sore from the dust. Rohese had said that Walter left the room before Godric was murdered. Walter had denied moving the chest to get out, and this was true, because, according to Rohese, Joan had moved it already. Walter claimed he rose early, and that Godric had still been alive. Rohese’s evidence indicated that he was telling the truth.

However, while Rohese had explored the tunnel, someone had entered Godric’s room and argued with him, after which Godric had been stabbed. The killer had then tipped the wine out of the window and followed it with the murder weapon. Rohese had emerged, and found Godric dying. Once he was dead, she had fled back to the tunnel, after which the killer, or yet another person, had entered Godric’s chamber and stabbed the corpse a second time with Geoffrey’s weapon. Was this to make Geoffrey appear guilty of the crime, or to make absolutely certain the old tyrant was dead? Godric had pretended to be dead the morning after Geoffrey had arrived, so that his youngest son would catch the others in the act of looting his corpse. With wily old Godric, it would certainly have paid to be certain.

He rubbed his eye harder. All he could deduce was that someone already inside the castle had murdered Godric, and that the culprit had not left via the tunnel after the crime because Rohese would certainly not be alive to tell the tale. And just because Walter had left the chamber before Godric was killed did not mean that he had not returned later to argue with and slay the old man.

Geoffrey thumped the rocky wall in frustration. He had a witness who had been awake and in the same chamber the night his father had been murdered, and yet she was able to tell him virtually nothing-even whether the voice of the killer was male or female.

“Did anyone else use the tunnel after you did?” he asked, certain that they had not because Rohese was still alive, but wanting to be thorough.

Rohese shook her head. “No one at all. I have been here all alone. Except for her.”

“Her?” queried Geoffrey. He turned to where Rohese pointed, and promptly dropped the torch in shock, plunging all into darkness once again.