A Head for Poisoning

CHAPTER TWELVE

Early morning in the Forest of Dene was a miserable affair, and the sky remained a dull, leaden grey long after the sun was up. It was cold, too, and Geoffrey grew more and more chilled as he, Helbye, and Barlow rode along the path to Monmouth. Then it began to rain. It was not a downpour, but it was persistent, and of the kind that Geoffrey knew would be likely to continue all day. On either side of the increasingly sticky track stood the forest itself, a vast expanse of trees and heath that stretched right across to the mighty River Severn.

Geoffrey spoke little, ignoring the complaints of Barlow as they grew wetter, thinking about the web of intrigue that his family had spun. It had been bad enough to learn that one of his brothers or Joan had wanted him hanged for his father’s murder, and it had not been pleasant to suspect that Sir Aumary’s fate had been intended for him, but these were nothing when Geoffrey considered the actions of his youngest sister.

He drove bitter thoughts from his mind as the path crested a hill and the little hamlet of Genoreu came into view. It was an unprepossessing place, squashed into a dip between two hills, and comprised a rickety wooden church and several shabby hovels. The path degenerated almost immediately into a morass of thick, black mud through which Geoffrey’s destrier was loath to walk. Geoffrey steered it to one side, easing it through the long grass and weeds that grew at the path edge.

Behind him, Barlow began to moan even louder, and Geoffrey wondered what he had done to deserve men-at-arms like Ingram and Barlow. One detested him sufficiently to rob graves in order to extract money from him, while the other was always too cold, too hot, thirsty, hungry, or tired. He forced uncharitable thoughts about Barlow from his mind: the lad was no longer obliged to follow any orders of Geoffrey’s, but he had volunteered to come along with him nevertheless.

Genoreu was deserted except for a straggly chicken that did not long survive the dog’s ready jaws. Geoffrey was uneasy at the silence, and drew his sword. Helbye watched him.

“You have been away a long time, lad,” he said. “It is Wednesday.”

“So?” asked Geoffrey, standing in his stirrups to gain a better view of the track that wound ahead.

“Market day,” said Helbye. “It is the only way that the people who live in this place can make enough money for bread. They catch fish-and perhaps a few hares or birds, although they will not be sold openly, given that hunting is illegal in the King’s forest-and they gather sticks to sell at the market. With luck, they will earn enough to buy flour for bread for the next week.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” said Geoffrey, relaxing. He replaced his sword, and urged his horse past the village towards the next hill crest. The dog, with tell-tale feathers around its mouth, trotted next to him, but then stopped dead with an ominous growl. Geoffrey knew the dog was as likely to growl at a large cat as a potentially hostile army, but he slowed his pace nonetheless. Helbye and Barlow followed suit as another small band of riders rode over the crest of a hill.

“Geoffrey!” exclaimed Stephen in surprise, reining in next to his brother.

“I knew it!” yelled Henry furiously. “Geoffrey is off to the King to stake his claim while he thought we were all otherwise engaged. His fine plan was just a ploy to get us out of the way.”

“If I did want to see the King without your knowledge, I would hardly choose to travel the road that you would use on your way back,” said Geoffrey. “Do you take me for a fool?”

Henry was about to reply in the affirmative when Stephen intervened.

“What is wrong, Geoffrey? Where are you going? Has the Earl arrived early?”

Geoffrey shook his head, wondering how best to answer. He did not think that Stephen or Henry would take kindly to the knowledge that Geoffrey was on his way to warn the King that their sister Enide had designs on the regal life-especially given that she was supposed to be dead, and even more particularly because Henry had hanged her supposed murderers himself.

And of course, Geoffrey had his suspicions that Stephen might well know all about the plot to kill the King anyway. On the spur of the moment, however, he could think of no lie that they would believe. He decided a little honesty might not go amiss-first, it would allow him to gauge Stephen’s reaction, and second, Henry was unlikely to believe anything Geoffrey told him anyway, so there was no point in spinning elaborate yarns.

“I believe there may be a plot afoot to kill the King,” he said. “I am going to warn him.”

“The King is not at Monmouth,” said Stephen, frowning slightly. “He left at dawn to hunt.”

Geoffrey gazed at him in horror. Was history about to repeat itself? Was there another Tirel standing in the trees, ready to loose an arrow as a king hunted in the forest?

“Then I must try to find him,” said Geoffrey. “Do you have any idea where he might be?”

“I might,” said Henry with satisfaction. “But I will not tell you. And this is a big forest-who knows what might happen to you as you wander through it.”

“You tried that once before, and you were unsuccessful,” said Geoffrey, thinking of Aumary, killed with an arrow and all but forgotten by Geoffrey in the turmoil of life at the castle. “What makes you think your luck would be better today?”

“Tried what?” demanded Henry. “If I had tried anything, you would not be sitting there so proud and fine on your splendid horse!”

“The King went Lann Martin way,” said Stephen, glaring at Henry for his belligerence to the man who might yet cheat the greedy Earl of Shrewsbury of the inheritance they all wanted. “But I would not go there, if I were you. Caerdig will not take kindly to uninvited Mappestones on his land.”

“And of course, you do not want me dead before you have used me to file your claim against Shrewsbury,” said Geoffrey dryly.

“That is right! We do not!” exclaimed Henry, oblivious to the irony in Geoffrey’s comment. “I forgot. But Lann Martin is where the King has gone. It is said that a great white stag has been seen there, and the King means to have it before he leaves the area.”

“Let’s hope that is all he leaves with,” murmured Geoffrey, urging his destrier back the way he had come. “And not an arrow in his heart like his brother Rufus.”

“What are you muttering about?” called Henry after him, spurring his own mount to follow. “You have taken to muttering since you got back. You never used to mutter.”

“Do not antagonise him, Henry,” shouted Stephen, keen not to be left behind. “If we win our claim, and it is ruled that Geoffrey owns Goodrich, you will not be able to negotiate for a share if you have driven him to dislike you.”

Dislike! thought Geoffrey, amused despite his growing concerns that he was already too late to help the King.

“You will not win any claim if anything happens to the King,” he shouted over his shoulder as he rode. “Because then there will be no one to stop the relentless advance of Shrewsbury, and by the time the Duke of Normandy sails from France to take the vacant throne, the Earl will have taken a good deal more than Goodrich.”

“You are right,” said Stephen, breathing hard as he tried to keep up. “But on what evidence do you base your claim? How do you know that someone means the King harm?”

“Francis the physician is dead, and he told me of a plot,” replied Geoffrey vaguely, not wanting to reveal too much to Stephen.

“Geoffrey, stop!” shouted Henry, as Geoffrey spurred his horse to a faster pace still. “We cannot go to Lann Martin-Caerdig would kill us for certain. It is all very well for you wearing all that armour, but what about us?”

“You do not have to come,” replied Geoffrey, blinking as mud kicked up by Helbye’s horse in front of him splattered into his face. “Go back to Goodrich and wait for me there.”

“But what if you do not return?” cried Henry. “Then our last chance to claim Goodrich will be gone.”

“I am touched by your fraternal concern,” yelled Geoffrey. “But with all due respect, Goodrich can go to the Devil!”

“It will go to the Devil if you do not come back,” said Stephen quietly. “And that Devil is the Earl of Shrewsbury! Return to Goodrich if you like, Henry. I am riding with Geoffrey. Caerdig would never dare attack a knight like him, anyway.”

Geoffrey wished Caerdig had known that before his ambush nine days earlier. He slowed his horse as they approached an especially muddy stretch of land, and Stephen was able to trot next to him.

“The King was furious when he heard what the Earl had done to get Goodrich. We told him your theories about the forged wills, and he is going to back our claim. But he said only the will citing Godfrey as heir stands any chance of succeeding, because it was made recently, but apparently we will need to provide incontrovertible proof that Godfrey was an affectionate name used for you by our father.”

“That might be difficult,” said Geoffrey, not particularly interested in fighting for something that his brothers intended to wrest from him at the first opportunity anyway. “Father is dead; the physician is dead; Norbert has disappeared; and Father Adrian is a less than reliable witness.”

“Adrian is a well-respected man,” said Stephen. “He might be persuaded to come to our assistance in this matter.”

“You mean Adrian might be persuaded to lie for you?” asked Geoffrey dryly.

“Unfortunately not,” said Stephen with real regret. “Adrian is a man of scruples, more is the pity. Perhaps one of our neighbours might help us out-no one is going to want the Earl of Shrewsbury living next door. We could offer some of our sheep as an incentive.”

“Why am I even listening to you?” wondered Geoffrey aloud. “The King is about to be murdered as he hunts, and all you can do is think about which one of your neighbours you can bribe to lie in court. Believe me, Stephen, Shrewsbury will offer any witnesses you can find a good deal more than a few sheep. He might even agree not to murder them.”

“You are right,” said Stephen. “We need something better than livestock.”

He dropped back, deep in thought, as Geoffrey urged his horse forward again. The knight glanced behind at him. Stephen and Henry had three of the guards from the castle with them, all mounted and well armed, although Geoffrey had seen nothing to suggest that they were competent. And Geoffrey had Helbye and Barlow. He imagined that they should have no problem with Caerdig, should he make an appearance. Geoffrey had bested him once before with three fewer men than were with him this time-although, of course, none of them had been the slippery Stephen, the hateful Henry, or the incompetent gatehouse guards.

He reached a fork in the road and slowed. To the right lay the long route back to Goodrich; to the left lay Caerdig’s lands.

“Go right,” called Helbye. “Lann Martin is right.”

Geoffrey gazed at him askance, and wondered whether the sergeant genuinely did not know, or whether he was merely attempting to prevent Geoffrey from riding into what promised to be a dangerous situation.

Ignoring the sergeant’s protestations, he urged his horse down the left-hand track. It was steep and muddy, and liberally scattered with rocks, so that Geoffrey was forced to slow his speed, or risk ruining his horse. The path meandered through some boggy forest, and then went straight as an arrow across a patch of heathland, swathed in a gloomy pall of mist.

“The King is a fool to come hunting in this,” mumbled Barlow, wiping away the rain that dripped from his long hair into his eyes. “He should be indoors, wenching next to a roaring fire.”

“Quiet, Barlow,” said Geoffrey sharply. They were drawing near to Lann Martin itself, and Geoffrey had no intention of walking into a second ambush. “Listen!”

He reined in his horse and sat still, closing his eyes to hear the sounds of the forest. A gentle wind whispered through the bare branches, and raindrops splattered down onto the litter of dead leaves below. A bird sang a few piercing notes and then was silent, and Stephen’s horse pawed at the ground. And then he heard it. In the distance, came the faraway voices of men shouting. He opened his eyes and looked at the others, wondering if they had heard it, too. Were they shouts of alarm, claiming that the King had been shot and lay dying in some scrubby glade? Or were they simply the sound of the beaters driving the forest animals to where the King and his entourage waited with their bows and arrows?

He unfastened his shield from its bindings, and slipped it over his arm. Drawing his sword, and checking that he would easily be able to reach his dagger, he rode towards the noise.

“My God, Geoffrey!” breathed Stephen, watching his precautions with unease. “There is no one here. The place is deserted. I expect all the villagers of Lann Martin are out acting as beaters for the King. He pays handsomely, I am told.”

Geoffrey said nothing, but jabbed his heels into his destrier to urge it to move faster. When Stephen began to say something to Henry, Geoffrey silenced him irritably. At the far end of the clearing, the path disappeared again between two dense walls of trees. Geoffrey eased his way along it, listening intently, and watching for even the slightest movement in the trees ahead that might warn him of an ambush. Gradually, the sounds of shouting grew louder.

Geoffrey’s fears were somewhat allayed. It was not the clamour of alarm that was echoing through the woods, but the meaningless yells of the beaters, walking in a long line with their tufter hounds, and making as much noise as possible to drive the beasts of the forest towards the waiting hunters.

The shouting grew louder still, and Geoffrey tensed as a flicker out of the corner of his eye showed where a small deer had darted, frightened by the increasing clamour. He slowed his destrier, angrily quelling the impatient whispers of his brothers behind him with an urgent gesture of his hand. Rufus had been slain by a stray arrow during exactly the same circumstances, and Geoffrey had no intention of falling that way, too. And there was also the possibility that the king-killer was there, lurking somewhere in the trees to await the right moment. He might well loose an arrow at Geoffrey and his companions if he thought they might interfere with his purpose.

The path cut to the left, and then to the right, emerging into another clearing. The noise of the beaters was very close now, and Geoffrey was aware that the glade in front of him might well hold archers in the King’s party, waiting for animals to be driven past. There was a flurry of movement, and a hare appeared, heading for a sandy bank on the opposite side. With a yelp of delight, Geoffrey’s dog was after it, snaking through the grass in a blur of black and white. Then Geoffrey heard a snap, and saw an arrow arch high in the air.

At the same time, a man with a bow stood from where he had been kneeling behind a bush on top of the bank, and fired another arrow, which sped upwards to cross the first.

“No!” yelled Stephen, thrusting Geoffrey out of the way to gallop forwards.

As the arrows reached their zeniths, two stags burst from the forest at the far end of the clearing, pursued by Caerdig, who was wielding a stick in the air and screaming in Welsh. More arrows flew as the stags tore towards Geoffrey. Henry’s horse, panicked by the terrified beasts bearing down on it, whinnied in panic: it could not escape the way it had come, because that route was blocked by Helbye and Barlow, so it charged from the shelter of the bushes and bolted at right angles to the stags, with Henry clinging to it for dear life.

More archers appeared from nowhere, and arrows hissed through the air, aimed at anything that moved. Geoffrey spotted the stocky figure of the King standing near the bank where the hare had run. Simultaneously, Geoffrey saw a dark shadow on the opposite side of the clearing nock an arrow in a bow and point it directly towards the monarch.

With a piercing battle cry learned from the Saracens, Geoffrey exploded out of the forest and bore down on the indistinct figure of the archer. He felt as if his horse were moving in slow motion. He watched the archer falter as he saw Geoffrey thundering towards him, but then saw him straighten with resolve, and fix the King once again in his sights. Geoffrey spurred forwards desperately yelling to the King to duck, although he knew the King would neither hear nor have time to act.

The arrow was loosed. Geoffrey did not look to see where it fell, but continued to bear down on the archer. The figure in black nocked a second arrow to his bow, and aimed again, this time at Geoffrey. Instinctively, Geoffrey raised his shield, and heard the arrow thud into it, splitting the wood, so that the point emerged on the other side, a hair’s-breadth from his arm. Geoffrey hurled the damaged shield from him and leapt from his saddle as the figure abandoned his bow and began to race away. Geoffrey landed badly and stumbled, losing vital moments.

He smashed through the forest, heavy footed and encumbered by his chain-mail and surcoat. The figure ahead of him clambered over a fallen branch, and zigzagged through the trees. Who was it? Geoffrey strained to recognise the figure that dashed this way and that, but his movements were unfamiliar. Was it Enide? Had she acquired the skill of archery through the years as she had changed from his much-loved sister into a Mappestone? But her hand was withered, so how could she hold a bow? Or was that story simply another lie told to mislead him?

Geoffrey thrust all thoughts from his mind other than the running down of his quarry. He was losing the man. Geoffrey was simply too slow in his armour, and Norman knights were not designed to chase assassins through the forest on foot. He fell heavily, and rolled down a bank until he crashed up against the trunk of a tree that stopped him dead. Gasping for breath, he righted himself and staggered on, seeing the figure dart through the trees ahead.

Then the archer tripped, too, legs ensnared in a mass of bindweed that grew across a shallow depression in the ground. He struggled frantically, kicking against the fibrous plants, and trying to regain his footing. Geoffrey was almost on him. The archer thrashed his way free of the last few tendrils and scrabbled to his feet. Geoffrey hurled himself full length, and succeeded in gaining a handhold on the man’s ankle. The man kicked with his other foot, trying to dislodge Geoffrey’s grip, but Geoffrey held on grimly. The force of the kick made the archer lose his balance, giving Geoffrey time to grab the hem of his cloak. Although the archer was lighter and faster, he was no match for Geoffrey once he had been caught. Pinning the man beneath him, Geoffrey wrenched the hood from the bowman’s face.

“Norbert!” he exclaimed in astonishment.

But there was no time for analysis. Norbert seized on Geoffrey’s momentary surprise to land a hefty blow with a piece of wood that his groping fingers had encountered on the ground. Stunned and dizzy, Geoffrey felt the clerk sliding out from his grasp, and fought against the lights that danced in front of his eyes to lay hold of him again. He struggled to his knees, and grabbed the clerk a second time. Norbert struck out with his branch, but this time Geoffrey blocked the blow with an upraised arm. And then Norbert collapsed on top of Geoffrey in a spurt of hot blood.

Startled, Geoffrey gazed at him. From Norbert’s chest protruded the shaft of an arrow. Abandoning the dead clerk, Geoffrey looked around him wildly. How could he hide? He had been grappling with Norbert and so had no idea from which direction the arrow had been fired. He flinched instinctively as another thumped into a tree a few inches from his head, and he dropped full-length into the weeds. He knew now!

Wriggling forwards on his stomach in a way most Norman knights would never consider, he reached the trunk of a thick oak tree, and edged around the back of it. Raising himself to a crouch, he drew his dagger and listened.

There was nothing, except distant, excited shouts from the clearing. Was the King dead? wondered Geoffrey. Had Norbert succeeded in his mission? He risked peering out from the tree to look around. Norbert’s body lay where it had fallen, but otherwise, there was no movement.

A sharp crack from behind him made him spin round, but there was nothing to see. He looked back to Norbert. Even from a distance, Geoffrey could see that the arrow that had killed the clerk was smooth and straight-it was an archer’s arrow, not something that a villager might own with which to shoot hares or birds. And it was almost exactly the same as the one that had slain Aumary, fired with a good-quality bow that had the power to drive it through chain-mail. Had it been otherwise, Geoffrey would have risked bursting from his hiding place and running, trusting that his armour would protect him. But he knew chain-mail would be useless against the kind of weapon that his assailant held.

Another sharp crack sounded, this time to his right. Geoffrey frowned. Was someone throwing stones to mislead him and coax him from his hiding place, or did Norbert have more than one assistant hidden in the forest? But Norbert’s accomplices would not have killed Norbert, reasoned Geoffrey; they were supposed to be on the same side. So who had?

Geoffrey winced as an arrow hit the trunk of the tree so close that it all but grazed his ear. He leapt to his feet, and started to run in the opposite direction, only to find himself hard up against the sword of Sir Drogo, the Earl of Shrewsbury’s sullen henchman. Geoffrey backed away, but to his left was Sir Malger, armed with a fine bow and a good quantity of pale, straight arrows. And to his right was a woman, stepping out from behind another tree and smiling enigmatically.

“Geoffrey,” she said, coming towards him. “So we will meet after all! I did not think I would have the pleasure.”

Geoffrey did not need to be told the name of the woman who smiled at him so beguilingly in the forest clearing. He would have recognised her even if she had appeared in the Holy City with a troop of jugglers, for she looked very much like Geoffrey himself. With sudden clarity, he recalled the face of the child who had said a tearful farewell to him twenty years before-a face that had grown shadowy and indistinct through time, but now blazed in his mind as clearly as if it had been yesterday.

Enide was a good deal taller now-almost as tall as Geoffrey, in fact-but her hair was the same, and when she turned, he saw that it fell in a thick, glossy plait down her back in the same peculiar style she had adopted when she had been young. Her face had maintained the slight pinkness of fine health, and her cheeks were as downy and soft as they ever were. Her eyes, too, were the same pleasant green as were Geoffrey’s, and held the twinkle of mischief that he remembered so well.

“Will you not greet me, Geoff?” she cried, the smile dissolving to hurt.

Geoffrey’s heart wrenched, recalling that same sudden fading of laughter from years before, when Stephen had said something cruel or Henry had used his superior strength to take something from her. He swallowed, but said nothing.

“Geoffrey!” she said. “Do you not know who I am? It is me! Enide! I had to feign my death so that one of our brothers would not kill me because they believed I was poisoning our dear father.”

“Any one of them would have been delighted if you had poisoned our dear father,” said Geoffrey harshly. “But first, no one poisoned him. And second, someone most certainly stabbed him. Was that you?”

“It most certainly was not,” she said indignantly. “What have people been saying? To what lies have you been listening?”

“Father Adrian has been saying nothing but good,” said Geoffrey evasively.

“Adrian!” she said with an indulgent smile. “Poor, dear Adrian. He always believes anything I tell him. But what is this about Godric? He was being poisoned, you know-the physician said so.”

“He was poisoning himself,” said Geoffrey. “With his paints.”

“The paint?” echoed Enide. She laughed suddenly. “Oh, Geoff! Trust you to work that out! You always were quick minded. So, Godric lay in his vile chamber, slowly being killed by the fumes from his revolting paintings? And that explains why, before he became too ill to move, I was sick when I slept in his room. Godric spent his last days wailing and whining that someone was killing him, and all the time it was suicide!”

“Enough of this,” said Malger, stepping forward and nocking an arrow in his bow. Geoffrey noted that the knight’s chain-mail was carelessly maintained, revealing gaps and missing links that Geoffrey himself would have been ashamed of. His lack of attention to the details that might save his life indicated that he had been so sure of their success that he considered them unimportant. Geoffrey wondered whether he would be able to exploit such over-confidence to his own advantage. “Norbert missed the King, and I could not see well enough to get off a good shot. The King lives and so we should not tarry here and wait for him to accuse us of treason.”

“There will be another chance to kill him,” said Enide, unperturbed. “The King loves to hunt.”

“Fine. But I do not want him hunting us,” said Malger firmly. “The Earl will hardly be able to speak out for us if we are caught, and doubtless your brother here has spread the news all over the county that we would rather have the Duke of Normandy as King than the usurper Henry.”

“Geoff would not do that,” said Enide. “How could he? He has not had sufficient time to work all this out.”

“Maybe so, but I do not care to take the risk,” said Malger, raising the bow.

Geoffrey braced himself, but Enide strode over to Malger and put her hand on the arrow, forcing him to lower it. Her hand, Geoffrey noted, was rigid, like a claw.

“Malger! This is a brother I have not seen for twenty years.” She turned to Geoffrey, and her eyes were hard as flint. “I would have appreciated your help in keeping Goodrich from the likes of Walter, Stephen, and Henry, but I have achieved my objective perfectly well without you anyway.”

“You forged documents,” said Geoffrey, remembering the parchments he had found in her secret hiding place.

“Well, I did not do it myself,” she said bitterly, holding the claw-like hand close to his face. “Norbert’s documents-despite his dreadful writing and worse spelling-served to rid us of Walter and Stephen. Godric loathed them both, and was only too happy to go along with what he knew were lies-Godric never went campaigning with the Conqueror in 1063; and our mother certainly would not have wasted her time in breeding before she was married.”

“So, both Walter and Stephen are Godric’s legal heirs?” asked Geoffrey.

“Yes, but Norbert’s forged documents will ‘prove’ them otherwise. And the next in line to inherit Goodrich is Joan. Now, Joan is wed to Olivier, and Olivier is a relative of the Earl of Shrewsbury, who does not want Olivier to have Goodrich because he is a weakling. That leaves Henry, who is so hated by his neighbours that no one would have done more than heave a sigh of relief when he was found with a knife in his back. After all, it was Henry who murdered the popular Ynys of Lann Martin.”

“So that was you, was it?” asked Geoffrey heavily. “You killed poor Ynys, and made certain that the suspicion fell on Henry.”

“Quite. But, of course, nothing could ever be proven against Henry,” said Enide, “because Henry did not really do it. He did, however, have a very convenient argument with Ynys in front of the entire village-over sheep, would you believe? Words were exchanged, and that night Drogo ensured that Henry’s threats were carried out. Ynys was wandering alone in the forest, no doubt pondering how to heal the ever-widening rift between Lann Martin and Goodrich, and Drogo dispatched him.”

“Ynys did not deserve to be used to further your vile plot,” said Geoffrey, sickened. Ynys had been a kind and gentle man whom Geoffrey had respected. “And neither does Henry.”

“Henry’s innocence or guilt is irrelevant,” said Enide. “The point is that his neighbours have become more wary of him than ever, a feeling that is intensified, of course, by his own charming personality. His hot denials of Ynys’s murder, and his refusal to answer any questions about it because he was so affronted by the charge, meant that he dug his own grave in that respect.”

“Goodrich is almost ours,” said Malger, looking at Enide with a leer that suggested their allegiance was more than a business relationship.

“Ours?” asked Geoffrey.

“Malger has been my lover for many years,” explained Enide to Geoffrey. “We will make Goodrich more powerful than ever, and then unite it with the Earl’s lands to the north.”

“What about Father Adrian?” said Geoffrey, wondering just how many lovers his sister had stashed away. Was one of them the great Earl himself?

“Adrian was always on hand,” said Enide, oblivious or uncaring of Malger’s jealous glower. “And he loves me so much that he will do anything for me-even provide me with a corpse, although he would not decapitate it for me. I had to do that myself.”

Geoffrey swallowed hard, not liking the image of his sister sawing the head from a body.

“And then we had news that you had survived the Crusade, and might even pay us a visit-twenty years too late for me to care, but a visit nevertheless. We tried to prevent you from arriving at all. But I thought my Crusader brother would be the more richly dressed knight of the pair who wandered into the ambush at Lann Martin. I told Malger as much, and he concentrated his efforts on the wrong man. I should not have been so easily misled-you always were scruffy and uninterested in appearances. I should have known that the taller, more practically attired knight was you.”

“So Aumary was killed because you thought he was me?” asked Geoffrey.

“Yes and no,” said Malger, eager to join in and show off his own cleverness. “It would have been an excellent opportunity to get rid of you-and Caerdig’s pathetic little ambush provided a perfect cover. But whether we shot you, or Aumary, or both, it would have worked to our advantage.”

“How?” asked Geoffrey, puzzled.

“Because of these arrows,” said Malger, raising his bow again. “They were made by the same fletcher who made the arrow that killed King William Rufus. And King Henry would recognise them anywhere. You did what we could not: you took one of them right into Chepstow Castle and presented it to the King himself. And you can be assured he recognised it for what it was.”

Geoffrey recalled the King’s reaction to the arrow. He had studied it long and hard, but had refused to touch it. Eventually, he had ordered Geoffrey to throw it in the fire.

“So it was a warning to the King that an attempt would be made on his life?” asked Geoffrey. “But why bother with that if you planned to kill him anyway?”

“It was part warning and part message,” said Enide. “It was a warning that the King’s life could be taken as easily as had his brother’s; and it was a message that Rufus’s death was by no means the accident that everyone seems to have accepted.”

“You mean that Rufus really was murdered that day, even though your own plot failed?” asked Geoffrey. “That is no great revelation. Tirel is claiming that he did not fire the arrow.”

“Hmm,” said Enide, eyeing him critically. “Perhaps you are not so quick-witted after all. Of course Rufus was killed deliberately, but it was not by Tirel. Kings do not die in silly accidents like that! Do you think Tirel would have loosed his arrow had he thought that the King was anywhere near where it might have landed?”

Geoffrey was silent. So, Enide and Malger had used him to deliver their message to the King. It explained why the King had pretended that the recipe for horse liniment was so important, too. He did not want to tell Geoffrey that the real message lay in the corpse of Aumary, slain by a distinctive arrow; so he had snatched the scrap of parchment the constable had found and made a show that it was something vital. Since few men in Henry’s court could read, Henry had assumed-erroneously-that Geoffrey was also illiterate. Geoffrey was fortunate that the King had realised that he was innocent of all this treachery, or he might well now be languishing in the dungeons of Chepstow Castle. Or not languishing anywhere at all.

“And you robbed me later,” he said. “You stole my scrolls.”

“And that lovely chalice, yes,” she replied. “Although I was not there, personally. Fortunately, you left Ingram with your horses while you went dashing off to jump in the river after that other lout. Malger was all for slaying the whole lot of you, but Ingram virtually unbuckled your saddle for him, so keen was he to save himself from Malger’s sword. In the event, it was simpler to have Ingram hand us your ‘treasure’ and leave peacefully.”

“Ingram told me he was attacked by thirty outlaws,” said Geoffrey. “And all along it was merely two of the Earl of Shrewsbury’s hirelings?”

Drogo growled at the back of his throat, and Malger’s arrow came up. Enide pushed it down irritably. Remarkably, Malger made no move to disobey her, despite the sounds of the King’s party coming closer. Had Geoffrey been Malger, he would have ignored Enide, fired his arrow, and been away.

“I had expected your saddlebags to be loaded with plunder,” she said to Geoffrey, moving so that she stood in Malger’s line of fire. “Malger was most disappointed when he found only books.”

“I will bear that in mind next time,” said Geoffrey. “But why did he take the scrolls?”

“We knew you had been to see the King, and Malger thought they might be important messages. He cannot read, so did not know what they were. But I could see that they were just some worthless decorated manuscripts, probably in Arabic or Hebrew. Am I correct?”

Geoffrey nodded. “I was going to translate them.”

“Too late for that,” said Malger, raising his bow and stepping round Enide for a clear shot.

“Really, Malger,” said Enide reproachfully. “At least grant me a few moments with my favourite brother before you kill him.”

“Why did you shoot Norbert?” asked Geoffrey quickly, hoping to prolong the discussion long enough to allow the King’s men to find them. “I thought he was on your side.”

“He was,” said Enide. “But we will need to travel quickly now he has failed to kill the King, and Norbert, although an excellent shot, is not a good rider. He would be caught in no time at all-and then he would reveal our identities to the first person who asked, to save his own miserable neck. He has not been himself since his marriage to Helbye’s wife was dissolved.”

Geoffrey knew from personal experience that Norbert was not a fast mover. He had almost caught the scribe once before-when Norbert had loosed an arrow at Geoffrey as he had looked for Rohese in the woods near the river. The glimpse of the scribe’s face as he had glanced back after Geoffrey had collided with Adrian’s cart had not been sufficient to identify him, but the archer had worn the same dark clothes and had run with the same distinctive gait as Norbert. Geoffrey was surprised that he had not associated Norbert’s penchant for bows-which Geoffrey had discovered when he had followed him into his outhouse in the castle bailey one night-with the mysterious archer before.

“Who else was involved in this plot?” he asked. “I now know about Malger, Drogo, Norbert, Stephen’s wife, the physician, Father, and Adrian.”

“Not Adrian,” said Enide. “I could never trust him with business like this. It was bad enough persuading him to help me feign my death. I had to cry all night to achieve that. But you are right about the others.”

“And you killed Pernel?”

“Malger did. He is good at that sort of thing. He should have gone on Crusade; he would have been a hero.”

Malger blushed modestly.

“Pernel was a silly, empty-headed woman,” said Enide. “She was so proud to be part of a plot to kill Rufus that she wanted to tell everyone about it. She was, quite simply, too dangerous for us. Malger had some concoction that he fed to her in a sweetmeat during mass-serve her right for eating in church-and it brought on the ‘falling sickness’ that the whole village witnessed.”

“I do not understand why you are doing this,” said Geoffrey. “You can scarcely rule Goodrich if you are thought to be dead.”

“I do not have to stay dead,” said Enide. “The Earl of Shrewsbury will sort it all out. We will have Goodrich yet.”

“You trust the Earl to pay you for all this?” asked Geoffrey doubtfully.

Drogo stiffened angrily at the insult to his liege lord, wielding his sword dangerously. Enide raised her hand imperiously, and the heavy knight stayed his hand.

“Why not?” she asked. “He is no more and no less honest than the next man.”

Geoffrey suspected that the Earl was a good deal less honest than the next man, assuming of course that the next man was not a Mappestone or King Henry.

“And who else is involved in this plot, if not Adrian?”

“There is one other person-”

“Enough!” snapped Drogo, striding forwards. “Listen-they are searching for us. Kill him, and let us be gone.”

“Who is the other?” asked Geoffrey, ignoring Drogo.

“If you cannot guess, you will never know,” said Enide lightly, as though she were playing a game of fireside riddles with him.

“Enide!” warned Malger. “Time is short. We must kill him and be away.”

“I am sorry, Geoff,” said Enide, with what seemed to be genuine regret. “I would love to let you live-for old times sake-but you know all about us, and that will not do at all. All right, Malger. Do what you will.”

Malger brought up his bow and pointed the arrow at Geoffrey, while Drogo stood next to him, his sword in his hand as he glanced around uneasily. Enide gave Geoffrey a sad, parting smile, and then turned away. Malger’s eyes followed her, admiring the way her hips moved under her close-cut gown. While his attention strayed, Geoffrey hurled himself forwards, crashing into the tall knight, and sending him sprawling. Arrows scattered everywhere, and Geoffrey heard the bow snap under their weight. Malger struggled to draw his dagger, while Drogo advanced on them both with his sword. Geoffrey pummelled Malger’s startled face with his mailed fists, and then rolled, hauling Malger’s body on top of his as Drogo began to stab indiscriminately with his sword.

Enide screamed, and Geoffrey saw her throw herself at Drogo to make him desist, lest he harm Malger. Malger, finding himself unexpectedly uppermost, scrabbled to clasp his fingers around Geoffrey’s neck, and then gasped in shock as Drogo scored a hit with his sword.

“Drogo!” screamed Enide. “Kill Geoffrey, not Malger! Be careful for Malger!”

Geoffrey jammed the heel of his hand under Malger’s nose, and heaved him to one side, struggling free of his grasping hands. Drogo hurled Enide away from him, and took his sword in both hands, preparing to dispatch Geoffrey with a single swipe.

“Kill him now!” screamed Enide, as Geoffrey began to back away.

Geoffrey had dropped his own sword when he had leapt from his horse to chase Norbert, and his shield was lying in the clearing with Norbert’s arrow embedded in it. Drogo, like Geoffrey, was a trained knight, and Geoffrey knew his chances of winning a fight while he was unarmed were small, especially with Enide hurling stones to keep him off balance, and Malger struggling to his feet behind her. But Drogo was slow and brutal, and Malger was brash and over-confident; Geoffrey, unlike either, was used to fighting with his wits as well as his weapons.

He dodged behind the oak tree, hearing its bark splinter as Drogo’s sword smashed into it, then whipped round to thump the knight as hard as he could in the small of his back as he strained to pull his blade from the tree. Drogo dropped to his knees with a cry of pain, and Geoffrey turned his attention to Malger, who was trying to haul his sword from his belt. It had become tangled in the fight, and Malger could not free it. Geoffrey drew his dagger and sprang forwards, raising one hand to protect himself from the hail of stones and sticks cast by Enide.

“Help!” yelled Malger in a most unknightly way as Geoffrey advanced.

“Stop!” shrieked Enide. “Leave him alone, Geoffrey! Damn you!”

An especially large stone struck Geoffrey’s helmet, knocking it from his head. He staggered backwards as Malger’s sword came free. With a sigh of relief, he faced Geoffrey, holding the weapon in two hands. Unlike Drogo, he did not swing wildly, but waited, ready to see whether Geoffrey would move to the left or to the right.

Geoffrey did neither. He flung his dagger at Malger, using the instant when the knight ducked out of the way to launch himself into him. Both fell to the ground, and they were back to fighting with their bare hands. Malger, too, lost his bassinet, then Enide came in close, flailing at them with a rotten branch. When the branch began to disintegrate without having added any perceptible advantage to Malger, she abandoned it, and went back to pelting Geoffrey with her stones. Meanwhile, Drogo had begun to recover. He reeled across to them, and hauled Geoffrey away from Malger, wrapping one arm around his neck. Malger scrambled to his feet, but then stumbled dizzily as his bare head came into the direct path of one of Enide’s stones. He fell backwards and lay still.

Although slow, Drogo was strong, and Geoffrey found he could not struggle free of the brawny arm that gripped his neck. And he was beginning to tire, so that the more he fought and squirmed, the less chance there was of him escaping. Enide, meanwhile, was bending over the inert form of Malger. Then she stood and, throwing back her head, uttered a long, low keening sound that made Geoffrey’s blood run cold. Even Drogo was affected, for the arm that held Geoffrey slackened slightly. When the echoes from the eerie sound had faded, Enide turned to Geoffrey.

“You have killed him,” she whispered. “He is dead. There is an arrow in his back.”

Looking at Malger, Geoffrey saw it was true. The knight had fallen onto one of his own arrows, which had wedged itself point-up on a rotting piece of wood, and had slipped through a gap in his poorly maintained chain-mail. Malger, thus, had died in very much the same way as had his victim Aumary-with an arrow in his back.

“Quickly!” urged Drogo, tearing his eyes away from Malger’s body. “Get that dagger and make an end to him while I hold him still. We might yet escape.”

“You killed my Malger,” Enide whispered, turning eyes filled with hurt on her brother.

“You did, actually,” Geoffrey gasped, struggling to breathe against the increased pressure of Drogo’s arm. “You threw the stone that stunned him and made him fall, not me.”

His voice seemed to bring her out of her dazed shock. Her eyes snapped into alertness, and she pulled herself together. Quickly, she bent to retrieve the knife, and moved towards Geoffrey with an expression of purpose that left him in no doubt that this time there would be no escape. The knife blade glittered dully in her hand, and Geoffrey looked away from it into her face. She was concentrating on the task in hand; her eyes were searching for the best place to stab him and nothing else. She chose her spot and began to push. Geoffrey closed his eyes, waiting for the searing pain that would end his life.

Suddenly, there was a high-pitched squeal of terror, and Geoffrey opened his eyes to see something large, brown, and hairy hurtling towards them. Drogo released Geoffrey with a muttered obscenity and shoved him forwards, directly into the path of the enraged wild boar.

For a moment, Geoffrey was aware of nothing but the sound of the boar’s screaming and flashes of yellow-white as its tusks flailed at him. Then one of them struck home, slashing through the chain-mail on his forearm, and he came to his senses. He staggered to his feet, kicking out at the furious animal as it attacked. He groped for his dagger, but it was not there, and he could not recall where he had lost it. The animal crashed into his legs, knocking him from his feet.

He covered his head with his arms, feeling its pointed feet gouging into him. Despite his predicament, Geoffrey could not help but see the ironic side. He had survived attacks by two fully armed knights and an insane sister, only to fall under the tusks of a pig! He felt the animal’s hot breath on his cheek, and then he realised he was not alone.

Something black and white was at the corner of his vision, worrying at the boar and snapping at its legs. More enraged than ever, the animal shifted its attention from Geoffrey and turned on the dog, standing stock-still for an instant in readiness for a charge. The dog eyed it uncertainly, realising too late that it had attacked something larger and stronger than itself. It braced itself to bolt. And then an arrow thudded into the boar, and the dog ambled forwards to sniff at it nonchalantly. Geoffrey struggled away from the dying animal, and looked for Enide and Drogo. A short distance away, two branches swayed gently, as though someone had recently passed between them, but the forest was otherwise as still and silent as the grave.

King Henry stood over Geoffrey, graciously accepting the accolades of his fellow huntsmen for his excellent shot. Geoffrey sat on the ground trying to make sense out of what had happened.

“My brother the Duke of Normandy did not train you very well if he taught you to fight boar with your bare hands, Geoffrey Mappestone,” said the King when his courtiers had finally finished with their praises.

“I seem to have lost my dagger,” said Geoffrey, dazed and climbing slowly to his feet.

“My point is proven,” said the King, turning to his retinue in amusement. “Most of us would hunt the boar with a bow or, if we were feeling exceptionally vigorous, a lance. None of us would consider taking one on with a dagger. Or even a sword!”

His entourage laughed politely. Well, not all of them, Geoffrey noticed. The Earl of Shrewsbury was not smiling.

“So we are even,” said the King. “I shot the boar that was mauling you, and you thwarted the archer who tried to kill me. His body is there, I see. I suppose you do not know his name, do you?”

“Norbert,” said Geoffrey. “He was my father’s scribe, but became embroiled in a plot to kill first your brother Rufus and now you.”

The King’s eyes narrowed. “Plot?”

Geoffrey took a deep breath to try to control the tremble of exhaustion in his voice. “Last year, a small group of fanatics planned to kill Rufus because they considered him an inappropriate ruler. The murder was to take place in the New Forest, it was to be a hunting accident, and it was to occur this coming summer when the Duke of Normandy would be well placed to take advantage of the vacant throne. But Rufus died of a hunting accident quite by chance before these people had the opportunity to put their plan into action.”

Geoffrey paused, aware that he had not only the King’s complete attention but that of his entire retinue.

“Pray continue,” said the King, his expression unreadable.

“Rufus’s death did not achieve what these plotters intended, however. He died too soon for the Duke of Normandy to take advantage of the situation, and they found themselves not with the Duke as King, but with you. Rather than abandon a plan that had promised to be so rewarding, they simply put it into action again, the only difference being that this time, you were to be the victim.”

“I see,” said the King. His eyes were dark, and Geoffrey was not sure whether the King believed a word he had said. “And who are these plotters?”

“I am not sure of all of them, my lord,” said Geoffrey. “But Norbert was one, Malger who lies dead over there, another-”

“Malger of Caen?” asked the King, taking a few steps to examine the body Geoffrey had indicated. He looked from it to the Earl of Shrewsbury. “He was in your service, Shrewsbury. Am I correct?”

“I do not think so, my lord,” said the Earl, striding forward and poking at Malger with his foot. “He does not seem familiar.”

“Really?” asked Geoffrey, his astonishment at the Earl’s blatant falsehood making him incautious. “Malger was under the impression that he was one of your most valued henchmen.”

“Then that was probably just wishful thinking on his part,” said the Earl, bringing his cold, reptilian eyes to bear on Geoffrey. “I do not know this man. But you have only recently returned to the country after an absence of many years, so it is not surprising that you cannot recall whom you saw where.”

Geoffrey saw that, short of calling the Earl a liar, he was not going to win this argument. He wondered who the King’s retinue was more likely to believe-an impoverished Crusader knight, or the great Earl of Shrewsbury.

“The other plotters include …” He paused, uncertain how to proceed. Would it be prudent to claim that one of them was another knight in the service of the Earl of Shrewsbury, while the others included his sister and father?

“These alleged plotters,” said the King, as Geoffrey hesitated. “Are they alive or dead?”

“Mostly dead,” replied Geoffrey, disconcerted by the King’s abrupt loss of interest in the plotters” identities. “Only two remain alive that I know.”

“My chief huntsman will track them down and kill them,” said the King.

He snapped his fingers, and a burly man in forest greens slipped out of the ranks and disappeared into the trees, several similarly clad men on his heels.

“Of course,” the King continued, “if they cannot find this pair, I shall expect you to ferret them out and dispatch them yourself. And then we will say no more about this business. You have done well, Sir Geoffrey. Now, I understand you have recently lost your father?”

Geoffrey nodded uncertainly, at a loss at how to react to the King’s sudden changes of subject.

“My condolences. He was a loyal man, and you have followed in his footsteps. I always reward loyalty.”

Here he paused, and beamed around at his retinue, allowing his eyes to remain a little longer on the Earl of Shrewsbury than the others.

“I would like to assure you that I will apply to my Archbishop to ask him to honour the marriage made in faith by your father and mother. This means that Goodrich will stay in your family, because all Godric’s offspring will be legitimate once more. I am sure Shrewsbury will not object to my rewarding you for saving my life?”

The Earl gave the King an elegant bow. “Loyalty should always be repaid, my liege.”

He fixed his beady eyes on Geoffrey, leaving the knight in no doubt that the manor of Goodrich was certainly not what he had in mind.

The King smiled and moved away, pausing to inspect Norbert’s body once more, and to work out where his would-be murderers had stood. His courtiers followed, keen to miss nothing of the excitement.

“Really, Geoffrey,” said the Earl, reproachfully. “What have I done to make you hate me so? I was looking forward to adding Goodrich to my estates, and now you have deprived me of it.”

“Not intentionally,” said Geoffrey. “And I have good cause to hate you, as well you know. You took my sister, and allowed her to be drawn into this foolish plot to kill King Henry.”

“Actually, I did nothing of the kind,” said the Earl. “It was Enide who came to me with the plot. I told her to wait. The time is not yet ripe-the Duke needs to be properly warned, or he will miss his opportunity once again; and I am not yet as powerful as I would like, to assure our success. There is little point risking all in an invasion to place the Duke on the throne if we cannot be certain of victory. I urged her to do nothing, but she defied me.”

“But you denied that Malger was in your service-”

“A game, Geoffrey. The King knows as well as I do that Malger was one of my most trusted knights. I denied it and he did not contradict me. The King also knows perfectly well who is responsible for the attempt on his life. Why do you think he did not press you for the names of these plotters? It is because he already knows who they are. In fact, he has known for some time: I told him myself, you see.”

“You?” cried Geoffrey, bewildered. “But why?”

“Because I knew it would fail when Enide refused to wait. I did not want to be associated with a doomed plot, so I told the King about it. Thus, I gain credit for my loyalty to him, but yet I am still in a position to reap the benefits from any attempt on the King’s life should Enide have succeeded. Do not look so shocked, my fine knight! This is called politics. If you do not like the stakes, do not play the game.”

“Would that I had not,” said Geoffrey bitterly. “I hate this sort of thing.”

“Most knights do,” agreed the Earl. “They prefer straightforward slaughter. But I expected more of you, Geoffrey. I thought you were a cut above the rest of the rabble.”

“Who else is involved, other than Enide and Malger?” asked Geoffrey, rubbing his head with a shaking hand. “And Drogo. Whom I suppose you also do not know.”

“Good. You are learning,” said the Earl appreciatively. “Aside from those three and that pathetic little clerk, there was a physician and the wife of one of your brothers-Petrella?”

“Pernel?”

“Pernel, yes. Your father was involved with the plot to kill Rufus, but he declined to have anything to do with the murder of King Henry. And your sister will tell you that there is another plotter, but I do not know whether that is true or not.”

Neither did Geoffrey, and his mind reeled with the possibilities-Walter, Bertrada, Stephen, Joan, Olivier, Henry, or Hedwise? Or was it someone he had not yet encountered-someone from the village, perhaps?

“Of course,” continued the Earl smoothly, “you still have to discover which one of your family stabbed your father on his sick-bed-assuming that you are still interested in investigating plain old murder after you have just averted a regicide. But perhaps the culprit was Enide, slipping up that tunnel she told Malger about. She hid there when she was supposed to be dead, you see.”

But Geoffrey knew that was impossible-Rohese would have seen her. The Earl continued with his reasoning, a smug gloating in his voice that suggested he relished the fact that Geoffrey still had a long way to go before he solved the riddle of Godric’s death.

“But then again, Godric’s death might have nothing to do with this plan to kill the King, and your siblings or their spouses might be responsible. Perhaps one of them believed that he or she stood a better chance of gaining Goodrich with Godric dead than with Godric alive. After all, the old man did delight in producing forged documents to prove one or other of them was ineligible to succeed him.”

“Does the King really want me to hunt Enide down and dispatch her, as he asked?” said Geoffrey, watching the monarch stoop over Malger’s body.

“Yes, I think so,” said the Earl, after a moment of thought. “I would like you to spare Drogo, though. He is my cousin and I am fond of him. I am sure I will be able to dissuade him from other regicidal attempts, if you send him back to me.”

“I will see what I can do,” said Geoffrey flatly. “But I do not understand why the King does not send his own agents after Enide, to ensure the job is done properly-assuming that his chief huntsman has no luck.”

“Oh, that is simple,” said the Earl, “although I have already told you the answer once. The King was not overly surprised when I told him about the plot Enide and her followers had hatched to kill him. The reason, of course, was that he already knew of the one they hatched to kill Rufus. The King would not want Enide yelling details of that to all and sundry as she is dragged to the execution block-his hold on his crown is not so secure that he can risk the scandal of being accused of Rufus’s murder.”

“So, you are saying that King Henry was prepared to stand by and see his brother assassinated?” asked Geoffrey, although he had already surmised as much. “So that he could take the crown for himself?”

“Why not?” asked the Earl. “Your brothers would do the same for you. You see, the execution of Rufus would have done King Henry no good at all if it had been left until later this year. By then, the Duke of Normandy would have rallied enough support to take the crown himself. So, Rufus was killed last year instead.”

Geoffrey suddenly understood exactly why King Henry had changed the subject so abruptly when Geoffrey had been telling him about the plot: he had not wanted Geoffrey to become more explicit in front of his retinue, any more than he had wanted Enide making public statements.

Geoffrey thought about the pale-shafted arrow that had killed Aumary-a message from Enide to the King to tell him that she knew of his role in the death of Rufus. A similar pale-shafted arrow was embedded in Malger, and the King had seen it. His abrupt change of subject had prevented Geoffrey from revealing all he had learned or surmised about the plot. Did that now mean that Geoffrey should expect a dagger in his back one dark night, so he would never complete his story?

“So King Henry was complicit in his brother’s murder last summer, so that he might be King of England,” he summarised.

“Not so loud, Geoffrey. Just because something is common knowledge does not mean that you should bellow it from the roof-tops. But here comes one of your brothers. Draw your dagger to protect yourself: he looks unhinged to me.”

“I have just seen Enide risen from the grave!” blubbered Henry, his face white. “And Stephen has been shot and mortally wounded!”