A Head for Poisoning

CHAPTER ONE

JANUARY 1101

WELSH BORDERS

Sir Geoffrey Mappestone glanced around uneasily, and wondered whether he had been wise to trust the directions of his sergeant, Will Helbye, over his own vague recollections of the area. The misty countryside was silent except for the soft thud of horses” hooves on the frozen turf and the occasional clink of metal from the harnesses. He cast Helbye a doubtful look, and peered through the fog in a vain attempt to locate some familiar landmark that would reassure him he was still on English soil, and had not wandered inadvertently into the hostile territories governed by the Welsh princes.

“Are you sure your sergeant knows what he is doing?” demanded Sir Aumary de Breteuil, spurring his splendid destrier forward so that he could ride abreast of Geoffrey. “The King will not be pleased if he hears you have led me astray.”

“I did not ask you to travel with us,” said Geoffrey, finally nettled into irritability by the other knight’s continual complaints. “If your messages to the King are so vital, why did he not send an escort for you from Portsmouth, instead of leaving you to fend for yourself?”

Aumary shot him an unpleasant look. “Secret business of state,” he said pompously. “I was directed to make my appearance at the castle in Chepstow as unobtrusively as possible, in order to mask the momentous nature of the writs I carry.”

Not for the first time on their six-day journey from the coast, Sir Aumary patted the small leather pouch that was tucked inside his surcoat, a self-important smile on his face.

“You have done an admirable job,” said Geoffrey dryly, taking in the other knight’s handsome war-horse, exquisite cloak, and gleaming chain-mail. “No one would ever guess you are a knight of some wealth and standing.”

“Quite so,” said Aumary smugly, oblivious to the irony in Geoffrey’s tone. “And it has not been easy, I can tell you-I have had no servants to care for my needs, and I have been forced to ride in the company of Holy Land ruffians.” He looked disparagingly at Helbye and the two men-at-arms behind him who, like Geoffrey, wore the cross on their armour that marked them as Crusaders.

“I do hope you are not referring to me,” said Geoffrey mildly.

He lifted his shield from where it lay over the pommel of his saddle, and slid his mailed arm through its straps. Sir Aumary was right to be apprehensive about the area, and Geoffrey was considering turning around and riding back the way they had come.

“Of course not!” said Aumary quickly, mistaking Geoffrey’s precautionary action as a threat.

In contrast to Aumary’s immaculate appearance, Geoffrey was clad in a hard-wearing, functional surcoat, stained with travel and with its Crusader’s cross emblazoned on the back. His chain-mail was stronger, heavier, and had seen considerably more use than Aumary’s, while his broadsword, Aumary knew, had edges that could slice as easily through armour as through butter. Aumary had no intention of fighting the younger knight when he knew he would lose. He turned to address Helbye, to remove himself from a conversation that was becoming uncomfortable.

“Where are we? How much farther is it to Goodrich Castle?”

“We are on the correct road,” insisted Helbye, growing weary of Aumary’s constant questioning. “We turned right at Penncreic; straight would have taken us to Lann Martin in Wales.” He shuddered. “And the Lord knows we do not want to be there!”

Geoffrey could not agree more, and continued to scan the dense, still forest for something he might recognise. Surely, he thought, he could not have forgotten so much about his home during his twenty-year absence? The silence made him uneasy: he did not recall the lands around his father’s manor ever being quite so soundless, even during the winter. His wariness began to transmit itself to Robin Barlow and Mark Ingram, his men-at-arms, and Geoffrey saw them draw their daggers. Trotting at the side of his horse, Geoffrey’s dog growled deep in its throat, as if it could sense something amiss.

Suddenly, the silence was rent by an ungodly howl, and it was only the backwards start of his horse that saved Geoffrey from the arrow that hissed past his face. His raised shield protected him from the next one, deflecting it harmlessly to the ground. Behind him, Sir Aumary fought to control his own destrier, since, for all its splendid looks, it was a poorly trained beast and was whinnying and bucking in alarm at the speed of the attack. Geoffrey hauled his heavy broadsword from his belt, and wrenched his horse’s head round, yelling to his men to retreat the way they had come. Barlow blocked his way, his mount insane with terror and pain from an arrow that protruded from its neck.

“Go back!” shouted Geoffrey to Aumary, Helbye, and Ingram, thinking that they might yet escape the ambush, even if he and Barlow could not. Then Geoffrey’s attention was away from the bewildered soldiers, and he was fighting for his own life. Men darted from the forest, rising from where they had been crouching behind tree-trunks, or lying under piles of leaves. Geoffrey did not take the time to count them, but began to strike out, wielding his sword with one hand, and using his shield to fend off attacks with the other.

The air rang with yelling and howling, and dirty hands clawed and grabbed at Geoffrey’s legs and reins, trying to drag him from his mount. He clung tightly with his knees, knowing that to fall might mean his death. A Norman knight on horseback was a formidable force, but on foot he was slow and encumbered by the heavy chain-mail that protected him.

He smashed the hilt of his sword into the shoulder of the man who was attempting to hack through the straps of his saddle with a knife, and kicked another, catching him a hefty blow on the chin that sent him reeling. Seeing their comrades down, the ambushers backed away, knowing that they were helpless against the superior fighting skills of a fully armed Norman warrior. Instead they formed a circle around him, muttering menacingly and brandishing their motley assortment of weapons.

Given a moment to observe them, Geoffrey saw that they were not hardened outlaws at all, but just villagers, nervously clutching a bizarre arsenal of ancient swords and crudely fashioned staves in a way that suggested they were not familiar with their use. He seized his opportunity, and spurred his horse forward, sending them scattering before him to escape the thundering hooves.

Meanwhile, Barlow had abandoned his dying horse, and was backed up against a tree, struggling to keep the wild stabs of his attackers” knives and hoes at bay with a sturdy cudgel. Geoffrey galloped towards him, using his sword to drive away those who did not flee from his furious advance. He hauled the gasping Barlow up behind him, and urged his horse back the way they had come, looking for his companions.

Helbye and Ingram had not managed to travel far. They were surrounded by a gaggle of triumphantly shrieking villagers, but at least they were still mounted. Without decreasing his speed, Geoffrey tore towards them, grimly satisfied as the would-be ambushers dropped their weapons and ran for their lives.

Someone was shouting in Welsh, and Geoffrey, who recalled enough of the language from his childhood to understand it, heard that it was a desperate call to retreat. He homed in on the voice, and leapt from his saddle.

It was over in moments. Seeing Geoffrey’s sword at their leader’s throat, the villagers immediately abandoned their fight, and the ambush fizzled out as quickly as it had begun. Breathing hard, Geoffrey waited until Helbye, Ingram, and Barlow were ranged behind him, and then studied the face of the man he held captive. The chief villager was sturdily built, and had curly black hair and dark eyes. His clothes were plain and practical, although they were cleaner and of a better quality than those of his men. He met Geoffrey’s curious gaze with a hard stare of his own.

“What are you waiting for?” said Ingram in a hoarse whisper that carried to every one of the villagers who watched the scene with a combination of defeat and fear. “Why do you not strike him dead, Sir Geoffrey?”

“So I was right in my assumption when I attacked you,” said Geoffrey’s prisoner in poor Norman French, making no effort to disguise the loathing in his voice. “You are Geoffrey Mappestone. I heard you were due to return from the Crusade this winter.”

“I am afraid you have the advantage of me,” said Geoffrey, also in Norman French, the sword still pointed unwavering at the man’s neck. “I do not know you.”

“Caerdig of Lann Martin,” the man replied. He looked with contempt at Geoffrey’s sword. “It would have been courteous of you to learn my name, since you see fit to wander uninvited on my land. This wood has been mine since your brother Henry lost his illegal claim to it in the courts.”

So, they were in Lann Martin-the place where Geoffrey had least wanted to be, since he knew from his sister’s letters that ownership of it was hotly contested, and that unexpected visitors were invariably dispatched long before they had time to explain their business. He shot Helbye a withering look for his incompetent navigation.

“I apologise for trespassing,” said Geoffrey, addressing Caerdig. “It has been so many years since I was last here, that I no longer remember the way from Penncreic to Goodrich.”

And now what? Geoffrey thought. He and his men were outnumbered at least six to one and, while he was certain he could win any fair fight, he knew he would not get far if there were archers hidden in trees or pit traps dug across the road. He saw he had two choices: he could slay each and every one of the villagers who stood in a nervous semicircle around him to ensure his safe passage, or he could negotiate a truce.

Most Norman knights would have opted for the former, but Geoffrey had no quarrel with men who had been trying to defend their village from what had probably appeared to be a hostile visit. Geoffrey was sure that Sir Aumary of Breteuil would claim that the attack on him was a direct act of aggression against the King, but while the attempted ambush of a royal messenger would doubtless not please His Majesty, retribution was for him to take, not Geoffrey.

Geoffrey had neither wanted nor enjoyed the pompous knight’s company during their journey from Portsmouth to the Forest of Dene on the Welsh border, and he certainly did not feel responsible for the man. In fact, Geoffrey had hoped that Aumary would have left them long before, but Aumary knew a good thing when he saw one, and he had realised he would do well to stay in the company of the competent, intelligent Crusader knight and his battle-honed men-at-arms.

Geoffrey made his decision and gestured to the path with his free hand as he spoke to Caerdig. “If you will agree to grant us safe passage, we will leave your lands by the quickest possible route. We have no wish for more fighting.”

“What?” Geoffrey heard Ingram breathe to Barlow. “We were winning! We could have had this manor of Lann Martin for ourselves!”

“Why would we want it?” Barlow whispered back, casting disparaging eyes over the gloomy forest with its matted tangle of undergrowth.

Geoffrey silenced them with a glare, and turned back to Caerdig. “We want only to return to our homes. Your dispute with my brother over Lann Martin is nothing to do with us.”

Caerdig eyed Geoffrey narrowly, a humourless smile playing about his lips. “What are you proposing? That my people allow you to go free after you kill me?”

Geoffrey shook his head. “I suggest that we end this amicably, and that we each go our own way in peace.”

Caerdig subjected Geoffrey to a long, appraising stare. “And how do you know my men will not shoot you as soon as you drop your sword from my throat?” He gestured to the forest path, the farthest stretch of which was swathed in an eerie grey mist. “I have archers watching.”

Geoffrey gave the Welshman as searching a gaze as he had received. “You say you are from Lann Martin, and so you must be a relative of Ynys of Lann Martin. Ynys I remember very well, and he is a man whose integrity is beyond question. I will assume you have inherited his sense of honour, and will trust your word, once given.”

Caerdig regarded him strangely. “Ynys was a virtuous man-before your brother Henry murdered him last summer. It seems your kinsmen have not informed you of their bloody deeds,” he added, seeing Geoffrey’s startled look. He sighed, and pushed Geoffrey’s sword away from his throat. “But I give you my word, on Ynys’s grave, that you and your men will be allowed to leave here unmolested. And as an act of good faith, I will escort you to the border myself-lest any of my men decides that he prizes revenge upon one of the filthy Mappestone brood above the honour of Lann Martin.”

“Are relations between my father and Lann Martin so sour, then?” asked Geoffrey, sheathing his sword and turning to inspect his destrier.

He examined the animal carefully. War-horses were expensive, and not easy to buy: no self-respecting knight would neglect the beast that was strong enough to carry him and his many weapons into battle, would not shy from close combat, and yet was still fast enough to allow him to effect a fierce charge. There was a scratch on one fetlock, but it was nothing serious, and Geoffrey was not overly concerned. His dog materialised at his side, having emerged from wherever it had fled during the skirmish. It regarded Caerdig malevolently.

“Sour would be an understatement for our relationship,” said Caerdig with a short, mirthless laugh. “And these last few months have been worse than ever. But it has not been your father’s doing; it is the work of that corrupt rabble that call themselves his sons-your brothers.”

He glowered at Geoffrey as though he were personally responsible.

“Does my father condone their behaviour?” asked Geoffrey, wondering whether his father could have changed so much since he had last seen him.

Sir Godric Mappestone was not a man whom anyone-his sons especially-would willingly cross. His temper and belligerence were legendary, and it was not for nothing that William the Conqueror had rewarded him so generously for his support at the Battle of Hastings and the following ruthless subjugation of the Saxons. In many ways, Geoffrey, the youngest of Godric’s four sons, had been relieved when he had been sent away to begin his knightly training with the Duke of Normandy at the age of twelve. His earliest memories were of his father’s black moods, when the entire household remained completely silent for days for fear that the slightest noise might bring Godric’s wrath down upon them.

“Your father?” said Caerdig. “He is not in a position to do anything about your brothers.”

Geoffrey’s spirits sank. “Why not? Am I too late? Is he dead?”

Geoffrey had received a letter from his younger sister in October, telling him that their father was unwell. She had not made the situation sound serious, but it took months-and sometimes years-for letters to travel from England to Jerusalem, and news was usually long out of date by the time it reached its destination. This had happened with the news about Enide’s own death. Because of the vagaries of travel, Geoffrey had received her letter telling him that his father was ill the same day as a curt note from his father’s scribe informing him that she had died herself. By the time Geoffrey had read about her concerns for their father’s health, Enide had been in her grave for at least six weeks.

He became aware that Caerdig was regarding him oddly.

“You do not know, do you?” said the Welshman softly.

“Know what?” asked Geoffrey, when Caerdig said no more, and the villagers, who had been listening, began to exchange meaningful glances.

“Your father is dying,” said Caerdig bluntly. “He has been growing steadily weaker for months now, and his physician says his end is near. Rumour has it that one of your siblings is slowly poisoning him.”

‘What do you mean?” asked Geoffrey coldly, as Caerdig made his claim. Behind him, Helbye put a warning hand on his shoulder. Geoffrey shrugged it off, his eyes never leaving Caerdig’s face. “What are you saying?”

“Easy now,” said Caerdig, looking nervously to where Geoffrey’s hand rested on the hilt of his dagger. “I am only repeating to you what is being said in the villages hereabouts. And any of my men here will tell you the same.”

A man who wore a strange black cap stepped forward earnestly. “It is true. Everyone knows that Godric Mappestone is being poisoned-including him, although none of his attempts to discover the culprit have come to anything. However, even Godric himself knows that the most likely suspects are his own children.”

“I see,” said Geoffrey, deciding to dismiss the villagers” claims as spiteful gossip.

Geoffrey’s vague memories of his three older brothers-Walter, Stephen, and Henry-and his sister Joan were not overwhelmingly positive, but he could not envisage one of them murdering their own father by as slow and insidious a method as poison. One of them might well dispatch the old man in the heat of the moment, but poison required premeditation and planning, and Geoffrey had his doubts. And, perhaps more to the point, Geoffrey could not imagine the aggressive Godric allowing such a thing to happen in the first place. He sensed that Caerdig and his men were simply trying to promote disharmony in the Mappestone household by attempting to drive a wedge between Geoffrey and his siblings.

“Do not believe them, Sir Geoffrey,” put in Helbye. “What can these folk know about what is happening at Goodrich Castle?”

Geoffrey pushed his helmet backwards on his head to rub his nose with his free hand, and wondered whether he was wise to return to the home he had not seen in so many years anyway. His younger sister, Enide-the one who had died the previous summer-had written to him regularly since he had left, and her news from home nearly always contained some tale of a petty, but vicious, quarrel within the family. He glanced up the forest track, and seriously considered forgoing the delights of a family reunion in order to ride back to the coast and take the first ship bound for France. He realised that he had not even set eyes on Goodrich, and he was already being assailed with stories about the unpleasant dealings of its occupants.

“Sir Godric’s health is important to everyone here,” said Caerdig, seeing that Geoffrey was sceptical about his claim. “He is a harsh and uncompromising man, but his rule was lax compared to the havoc your brothers are wreaking. They attack us in order to harm each other.”

“They still fight, do they?” asked Geoffrey distantly, still considering a quick getaway to the coast. “It seems that little has changed since I left.”

“There you are wrong,” said Caerdig vehemently. “Many things have changed-especially in the last few months. For example, travellers must now pay a shilling to your brother Walter to use the ferry over the River Wye.”

“A shilling?” echoed Geoffrey, astonished. “That seems excessive! How can farmers pay that when they take their produce to the market at Rosse?”

Caerdig stabbed a finger at Geoffrey’s chest. “Precisely! There are two courses of action open to them: they can slip across at night-at considerable risk, because the penalty for doing so, if caught, is either payment of a cow or loss of an eye. Walter prefers a cow, but he will happily accept either. Or, they can make a detour to Kernebrigges-the toll for which is only sixpence, payable to your brother Henry who has appropriated control of that bridge, along with the manor on which it stands.”

Enide’s letters had told Geoffrey enough of the greed of Walter and Henry to make him certain that Caerdig spoke the truth on that score. But he had no wish to take sides in a dispute over tolls, just or otherwise, so he changed the subject.

“I had better retrieve Sir Aumary before he breaks our truce.”

Entrusting his destrier to Helbye, he walked briskly back along the grassy path in search of the older knight, the dog trailing behind him. Caerdig went too, leaving the black-capped man in charge of the villagers, while Barlow and Ingram still fingered their weapons uneasily. Geoffrey and Caerdig walked in silence, Geoffrey considering what he had been told about his father’s poisoning, and Caerdig concentrating on keeping his ankles away from the dog’s bared fangs. They reached the place where Aumary had been when the ambush had begun.

“Where is he?” said Geoffrey in exasperation, seeing nothing but trees and undergrowth.

“Perhaps he ran away,” suggested Caerdig, amused at the notion of a fully armed Norman knight fleeing from his rag-tag village bandits.

Perhaps he had, thought Geoffrey, although even Aumary should have been able to defend himself against a badly organised attack by farmers armed with a miserable assortment of weapons.

“Aumary!” he yelled. The woods were silent, and not even a bird sang. “Damn the man! If he has gone off alone in the forest, he is an even greater fool than I thought.”

Caerdig tapped Geoffrey’s arm and pointed. “There is his war-horse. What a splendid animal!”

“Splendid, but skittish,” said Geoffrey, leaving the path and wading through the knee-high undergrowth to where it grazed some distance away. “A destrier is of little use if it bolts at the first sign of trouble.”

As he drew closer, it tried to run, but one of its stirrups had caught on a branch, and it found itself tethered. It bucked and pranced, rolling its eyes in terror as Geoffrey approached. He grabbed the reins and began to calm it, speaking softly and rubbing its velvet nose.

“Sir Geoffrey!” cried Caerdig suddenly, so loudly that the horse tore the reins from Geoffrey’s hands and began cavorting again. Geoffrey shot the Welshman an irritated glance. “Here is your Sir Aumary. Here, in the grass.”

Leaving the destrier to its own devices, Geoffrey went to where Caerdig knelt, and looked into the long wet nettles.

“God’s teeth!” Geoffrey swore as he saw the sprawled figure of Sir Aumary lying there, face down. From between the older knight’s shoulders protruded the slender shaft of an arrow. Geoffrey hauled him onto his back, but the sightless eyes and the tip of the arrow just visible through the front of his chain-mail showed that Aumary was long past any earthly help. Geoffrey swore again. Caerdig’s failed ambush was one thing, but the killing of one of the King’s messengers put a totally different complexion on matters.

“It was not us!” protested Caerdig, his face bloodless. “Look at that arrow. It is not ours!”

Geoffrey recalled the arrow hissing past his face at the beginning of the attack, and the one that his shield had deflected moments later.

“So someone else shot Aumary, just as you happened to be attacking us?” he said, raising his eyebrows at the Welshman. “I doubt the King will fall for that one.”

“The King?” asked Caerdig fearfully. He swallowed hard. “What has the King to do with this?”

“Aumary was the King’s agent, delivering dispatches from Normandy,” said Geoffrey. “He met us on the ship sailing from Harfleur to Portsmouth, and informed me that he would be travelling with us because the Court is currently in Chepstow-no great distance from Goodrich, as you know.”

Caerdig gazed down at the dead man in horror. “This has not gone quite the way I intended,” he breathed. “I saw a band of heavily armed men riding uninvited on my lands, put it with the rumour that you were soon expected to return from the Crusade, and thought no more than that-that a Mappestone was brazenly trespassing on Welsh soil, bringing other Holy Land louts with him. Now it seems that the King’s messenger lies slain on my manor.”

“Seems?” queried Geoffrey, putting a foot on Aumary’s back and hauling out the arrow with both hands. “It is more than just seems. What will you do?”

“What will you do?” countered Caerdig, watching Geoffrey inspect the bloody quarrel.

Geoffrey shrugged, rolling it between his fingers. “There is only one thing I can do, and that is to deliver Aumary and his dispatches to the King at Chepstow Castle. Sweet Jesus, man! How could you be so foolish! The death of a knight is unlikely to go unpunished, here or anywhere else. Even if it had been only me you had killed, do you think nothing would ever have been said, no reprisals?”

Caerdig shook his head slowly. “You are right: I was stupid. I did not stop to think of the consequences as I should have done. But looking at the situation with the benefit of hindsight does not help me now. I am about to be accused and punished for a murder in which I had no part.”

Geoffrey declined to answer.

“But it is the truth!” insisted Caerdig. “Look at the arrow! If you can find another like it anywhere on my land, I will give you everything I own! And you know the forest laws-villagers around here are forbidden to own bows, in case they are tempted to shoot the King’s deer.”

“But you told me earlier that you had archers hidden in the trees,” said Geoffrey. “What are they using, if not bows?”

Caerdig looked sheepish. “I was bluffing. What did you expect? You had a sword at my throat-I would have told you I had the Archangel Gabriel ready to shoot, if I had thought it would have intimidated you into not killing me. But, I repeat, none of my men own arrows like that one, or the good quality bows that would be needed to fire them.”

Not wanting to debate matters further, Geoffrey shoved the arrow in his belt and began to heave Aumary’s body upright to sling it across the horse. Caerdig helped, and together, after much struggling, they succeeded in securing the corpse to the saddle. Geoffrey removed the pouch of dispatches from where it dangled at the dead knight’s neck, and tucked it down the front of his own surcoat.

“I am coming with you,” said Caerdig abruptly, as Geoffrey led the horse back towards the path. “I will go to the King and put our case to him myself. He will listen to me, and I will persuade him to accept my reasoning as to why we cannot be held responsible for this knight’s death.” He glanced at Geoffrey with narrowed eyes, suddenly thoughtful. “But perhaps you put an arrow in him yourself before we ambushed you.”

“With what?” asked Geoffrey, raising his eyebrows in disbelief. “A mallet? None of my men carries a bow, and Aumary was very much alive before you attacked us.”

“But I cannot let a Mappestone go to the King with this tale,” said Caerdig angrily. “You would have us all hanged for certain.”

Geoffrey tugged the arrow from his belt and inspected it again. “This is well made,” he mused, turning the pale shaft this way and that. “It is finely balanced and strong. I imagine it would be expensive.”

“Quite,” said Caerdig, snatching it from him to see more clearly. “And my villagers are poor-none could afford to buy such good arrows. And, of course, fine arrows are of no use without a fine bow, and I can assure you that none of my people has a bow of any kind, fine or otherwise. We are innocent of this crime, I tell you!”

“Let us assume you are right,” said Geoffrey. “Then who loosed it? Why would anyone want to kill Sir Aumary of Breteuil? Despite his arrogance and self-importance, I doubt he was a man vital to the smooth running of the kingdom, or that the dispatches he carried are of great significance.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Caerdig doubtfully. He gestured to Aumary’s expensive chain-mail and handsome cloak. “He looks pretty eminent to me.”

“Because if the messages had been as important as Aumary claimed, I am certain that the King would not have left him to his own devices in securing travelling companions from Portsmouth. He would have supplied an escort to ensure their safe arrival in Chepstow.”

“And whoever killed Sir Aumary did not steal these dispatches anyway,” said Caerdig, indicating the bulge in Geoffrey’s surcoat. “Perhaps his death was a mistake, and the intended target was you.”

“Me?” asked Geoffrey in surprise. “Why? I have been away for twenty years, and I am sure the enemies I made from stealing apples and pulling faces at old ladies have long since been forgotten. No one can wish me any harm.”

“Your brothers do,” said Caerdig. “So, do not expect a warm welcome from them, Geoffrey Mappestone. None of them is beyond making an attempt on your life to ensure that you never make your appearance at the castle. Word is that they think you are returning because your father will die soon, and you have come to see what is in it for you.”

“I thought they might, given the way my sister has described them in her letters. But I want nothing from them. I wish only to pay my respects to my father, visit my sister’s grave, and leave.”

They had arrived at the clearing where Helbye chatted to the villagers of Lann Martin. The sergeant’s jaw dropped when he saw Aumary’s destrier and its grisly burden.

“What happened?” he cried.

“A mishap with an arrow,” said Geoffrey ambiguously, tying the reins of Aumary’s horse to his own saddle.

“An arrow?” echoed Helbye. He gestured to the black-capped man who stood next to him. “But I have just been listening to how the new King has been enforcing the law here in the Forest of Dene, and that no one carries a bow any more, even for shooting hares and foxes.”

Caerdig gave Geoffrey a triumphant look.

“Well, Aumary did not shoot himself,” said Geoffrey tiredly. “Someone killed him. And the King is going to want to know who.”

Sir Aumary was not the only victim of the mysterious archer. Geoffrey saw that it had been a slender, pale-shafted arrow that had killed Barlow’s horse. Like most Normans, Geoffrey had a healthy respect for horses, and he was disturbed to see one so summarily dispatched-perhaps even more than he was about Aumary. But Caerdig persisted in his claim that neither animal nor knight could have been slain by his men, and Geoffrey’s own observations of the impoverished, hollow-eyed people who clustered around them suggested that if the villagers of Lann Martin had money to spare, they would not have used it to buy arrows.

The black-capped man was sent to the village to fetch a replacement mount for Barlow, and to bring two fat ponies for him and Caerdig. Aware that the sun was already beginning to turn from the pale yellow of mid-afternoon to the amber of evening, Geoffrey immediately set a course for Chepstow, forcing a rapid pace with Aumary’s destrier and its sombre burden bouncing along behind.

Helbye was perfectly happy to have the company of Caerdig and the black-capped man, who was named Daffydd, and chatted cheerfully with them about mutual acquaintances from the days when Goodrich and Lann Martin had been on more friendly terms. Ingram and Barlow, who were young enough to be Helbye’s grandsons, could not recall a time when relations between the two manors were less tumultuous, and complained bitterly that the two Welshmen were to travel with them to Chepstow.

“They will slit our throats in the night,” grumbled Ingram.

“We will not be sleeping,” said Geoffrey. “At least one of us will be keeping watch.”

“I saw no one else in the forest, other than them,” said Barlow doubtfully. “I do not think they are innocent of the murder of Sir Aumary. Do you, Sir Geoffrey?”

Geoffrey shrugged. “It is not for me to say. We will deliver Sir Aumary’s dispatches to Chepstow, and that will be the end of it. What the King believes or does not believe about Caerdig and his men is no concern of ours.”

“I have never been to Chepstow,” said Ingram. “How far is it? I was hoping we would be home in Goodrich tonight. I have been away for four years now, and I am tired of travelling.”

“Sir Geoffrey has been away for more than twenty,” said Barlow. “So stop your whining.”

“Chepstow lies perhaps eighteen miles from here,” said Geoffrey. “We should reach the Great Dyke around nightfall, and from there the road to Chepstow will be good.”

“I think the King will hang Caerdig,” said Ingram, returning again to the subject of Sir Aumary’s murder. “I cannot see that he is innocent. And it will serve him right for stealing Lann Martin from Goodrich manor. Caerdig claims he won it legally in the courts, but I wager he bribed the judges to get the result he wanted.”

“I always thought, from the information in Enide’s letters to me, that Goodrich’s claim on Lann Martin was dubious,” said Geoffrey, half to himself. “It seems just that Caerdig won his case.”

Ingram and Barlow exchanged a glance of appalled disbelief at the notion that justice should enter the discussion, and Ingram tapped a finger to his temple, to indicate to Barlow that he considered his leader short of a few wits even to consider uttering such a ridiculous notion.

“Perhaps the King will reward us for bringing him Sir Aumary’s killer,” said Ingram after a moment, his eyes brightening. “Perhaps he will give us Lann Martin in exchange for Caerdig, and we will be able to loot it.”

Both young men looked at Geoffrey hopefully. The knight sighed, and wondered, not for the first time on their long journey, whether bringing them home with him had been a prudent decision. Since Pope Urban’s call for a Crusade four years before, Christian soldiers had cut a bloody swath from France to Jerusalem, killing and looting every inch of the way. Barlow and Ingram were no longer the simple Herefordshire farmers who had set out to reclaim the Holy City from the Infidel, but were ruthless, avaricious mercenaries whose bulging saddlebags were crammed with treasure stolen and cheated from the hapless people they had met along the way. Geoffrey seriously doubted their willingness or ability to return peacefully to a life of agriculture, which was what they claimed they intended to do.

He nodded at them noncommittally, and coaxed a little more speed from his horse, so that he could ride with Helbye instead. The old warrior gave him a grin, and began to chat about the old days, before the Conqueror had come to England and Goodrich had been under the control of a Saxon thegn. Caerdig and his man rode ahead of them, following a little-used trackway through the forest that Caerdig assured them led to the Chepstow road. Geoffrey’s dog slunk behind them, looking this way and that for signs of woodland wildlife that might be barked at, chased, or butchered.

“Our villagers are not happy with this arrangement,” muttered the black-capped Daffydd to Caerdig in Welsh, unaware of Geoffrey’s knowledge of the language. “They think you are a fool to risk riding with a Mappestone and his henchmen.”

“What choice do I have?” snapped Caerdig. “It is either ride with him, or have him tell the King that we slaughtered the messenger. And then Lann Martin would be given to the Mappestones for certain.”

“He cannot be trusted,” said Daffydd, scowling at Geoffrey.

“Who said anything about trusting him? But my uncle, Ynys, always said that Godric’s youngest son was the only one of the entire brood with any honour.”

“He may have been honourable in those days,” argued Daffydd, “but look at him now. He has been on the Crusade, and we all know that only the strongest and most ruthless warriors survived that ordeal. Any honour they might have had when they started was battered from them long before they reached the Holy Land, so I am told.”

Suddenly, Caerdig leapt into the air, and gasped in disbelief. “Hey! That dog just bit me!”

“Sorry,” said Geoffrey, embarrassed. “It is a habit of his that I cannot seem to break.”

It was not the first time the dog had jeopardised truces with a belated show of aggression, and with a sigh, Geoffrey dismounted and hunted around for the piece of rope he used to tether the beast when its behaviour degenerated to the point where it needed to be kept away from anything that moved. It had made Geoffrey many an enemy at the Citadel in Jerusalem with its penchant for nipping unprotected ankles. Seeing the hated tether, the dog bared its teeth at Geoffrey, and slid away into a dense patch of undergrowth. Helbye prepared to help ferret it out.

“Oh, leave him, Will,” said Geoffrey, exasperated. “He will follow us in his own time.”

“Well, just so long as the thing does not decide to take up residence here,” said Caerdig, rubbing his heel. “I would not want it near my sheep.”

“Are you Ynys’s son?” asked Geoffrey, to change the subject. He suspected that Caerdig, or some farmer like him, would dispatch the dog in an instant if they knew of its history of goat and sheep slaying in the Holy Land-and they would be perfectly justified to do so.

Caerdig shook his head. “I am Ynys’s nephew. But I am also his heir, and I inherited his lands after Henry murdered him last year.”

Geoffrey saw he had chosen a poor topic for casual conversation. He tried again, leading his horse so that he could walk next to Caerdig. “How long has my father been ill?”

“His health began to fail noticeably last summer. Since November, he has grown far worse, and the gossip says that he will not see Easter. You have arrived home just in time-now when the Mappestone brood carve up their father’s great estates, you can ensure you are not left out.”

“I want nothing from him,” said Geoffrey. “My mother left me her manor of Rwirdin when she died, and that will be quite sufficient for me, should I ever decide to live in England again.”

Caerdig snorted with derision. “You will be lucky to get that back! Your brother Walter arranged for Rwirdin to be given to Joan as part of her dowry two years ago. Rwirdin now belongs to your sister and her husband, Olivier d’Alencon.”

Geoffrey did not believe him-even Walter would not do something so flagrantly illegal-but he did not feel inclined to argue. He took off his helmet, which was beginning to rub, and scrubbed at his short brown hair with his fingers, relieved to be free of the heavy metal for a few moments. Caerdig watched him, and then reached out a hand to feel the material of Geoffrey’s surcoat with its Crusader’s cross on the back. It was faded now, and grimy from years of hard use, but in the brown winter countryside of Wales, it was exotic indeed.

“I have heard a lot about the Crusade,” Caerdig said, “although few Englishmen took part. I have been told that the glory was great and the opportunity to amass wealth even greater.”

“Then you were not told the truth.” said Geoffrey, replacing his helmet. “There was no glory at all in what we did. We marched thousands of miles-sometimes in the freezing cold, and other times in the searing heat-and more of us died of disease and from raids by hostile forces along the way than ever saw the Holy Land itself. I suppose it is fair to say that there was plentiful wealth to be looted at the end of it, but when a loaf of bread costs its weight in gold, such fortunes do not last long.”

“Your men seemed to have done well enough,” said Caerdig, indicating Helbye, Ingram, and Barlow behind them. “Their saddlebags are bulging.”

Geoffrey grimaced, recalling the incident at the Citadel in Jerusalem involving the three Englishmen that had almost caused a riot. “That is mostly the results of some lucky betting-aided by Ingram’s loaded dice-on their last night. I suppose it might buy a small plot of land, which is what they claim they want when we reach home.”

“Wonderful!” muttered Caerdig, unimpressed. “Yet more English landowners with whom to fight, and farmers with whom to compete.”

“I doubt it,” said Geoffrey, smiling at him. “Sergeant Helbye is too old to start farming, and I cannot see the other two settling down to days of endless tilling when there is still looting to be done in the Holy Land.”

“You think they will not stay, then?”

Geoffrey shrugged. “Helbye might. But I doubt he knows one end of a cow from another, so I do not think you have cause to fear his agricultural competition.”

Caerdig laughed. “And you? What will you do now you are home?”

Geoffrey shrugged again. “When I was in Jerusalem, I longed for the cool, green forests of England. Now I am here, I find I hanker for the warmth of the desert sun.”

“Then why did you come?” asked Caerdig. “I heard you were in the employ of the great Lord Tancred, who is Prince of Galilee. Surely you would be better in his service than here among the mud and the sheep? And the Mappestones!”

Indeed, Geoffrey had surprised himself by deciding to leave Tancred just as the powerful young Norman’s fortunes were on the rise. Tancred had not wanted him to go, and had begged, cajoled, and even threatened to make Geoffrey stay. But Geoffrey had become disillusioned with the Crusade. What had started with the noblest of ideals had quickly degenerated into a bid for power and wealth, from the highest-born baron to the humblest soldier.

When some of his closest friends were implicated in a plot to murder the ruler of the Holy City, Geoffrey had finally despaired, and had decided to leave Jerusalem. News of his father’s illness had spurred him into action. He had travelled by merchant ship to Venice, and then ridden to Harfleur, where he had taken passage on a second ship that took him to Portsmouth. It was a long journey, and not without its dangers, yet Geoffrey had weathered it unscathed, and was wryly amused that he should fall foul of a silly ambush within a few miles of his home.

“You have no cause to fear competition from me either,” said Geoffrey to Caerdig, tearing his thoughts away from Caerdig’s attack and Aumary’s death. “I will not stay long.”

They rode until the last of the daylight faded, and then found a small hamlet in a clearing in the forest. The hamlet comprised little more than a sturdy wooden hall and three out-buildings for livestock, and the residents were alarmed by the sight of a fully armed knight and his retinue. Their fears were roused even more when they saw the body of Sir Aumary bouncing across his saddle.

Not surprisingly, they were reluctant to comply with Geoffrey’s request for shelter for the night, but were too frightened to refuse outright. Begrudgingly, Geoffrey and his companions were offered dirty blankets and a space on the beaten-earth floor near the fire, while the horses and Sir Aumary fared considerably better in the more spacious, well-ventilated stables.

Without conscious thought, Geoffrey chose a place near the door, where he could easily escape outside if necessary and at the same time be able to watch anyone entering or leaving. The dog sniffed at the filthy blanket with sufficient enthusiasm as to make Geoffrey suspicious regarding the purpose for which it had last been used. But the night was cold, and he had used worse things to keep him warm in the past. Resting his back against the wall, he huddled into it with the dog nestling against his side, and dozed lightly. A short while later, Caerdig rose and moved nearer the fire. Geoffrey watched him in the flickering light, and did not sleep again.