A Head for Poisoning

CHAPTER TWO

Geoffrey was up and saddling his horse long before dawn broke the following day. The others were as keen as he was to set out and, after a breakfast of unappetising oat mash and some cold water from a nearby spring, they were off. It was still quite dark and, aware that a stumble in the darkness could damage his mount, Geoffrey led it until it was light enough to see. The Welsh ponies needed no such cosseting, and ambled along behind him, snorting and stamping in the cold morning air.

One problem that Geoffrey had not foreseen was that Aumary’s body had stiffened overnight, and it was no longer possible for it to be draped across a saddle. Geoffrey was forced to buy a dilapidated cart from the people in the hamlet and put Ingram’s horse to draw it, while Ingram himself became the proud rider of Aumary’s destrier.

Despite the solemn nature of his mission, Geoffrey sang to himself, enjoying the crisp, clean air of early morning and the peace of the forest around him. Frost lay lightly on the winter branches, and the ground underfoot was as hard as rock. When the woodland path eventually joined the ancient foot-track along Offa’s Dyke, Geoffrey let his horse have its head, and set it thundering along the side of a bubbling brook. When the horse finally began to tire, Geoffrey reined in, and slowed to a comfortable walk so that the others could catch up. He removed his helmet, and breathed deeply, relishing the feel of the sun on his bare head after the chill of the previous night.

The Dyke formed part of an old boundary between kingdoms. Some sections rose high above the surrounding land, while in other areas it made use of streams or dense outcrops of forest to mark its route. Along it ran a well-trodden path and the travelling was easy, so that by early afternoon Barlow gave a shout, announcing that he could see the great castle of Chepstow.

As they drew near, Geoffrey paused and admired the mighty fortress on its eyrie above the winding brown curl of the River Wye. Cliffs rose sheer from the water, culminating in a powerful curtain wall, behind which stood the massive rectangular stone keep itself. Geoffrey and his companions skirted the encircling wall on the side opposite the cliffs, aware that their progress was watched keenly by look-outs posted along its whole length. Trees had been felled and houses removed, so that no one could approach the castle from any direction without being seen-except for the cliffs, of course, and it would be a doomed and foolish invader who risked climbing those.

Eventually, they reached the main entrance, where there were guards in the gatehouse at ground level, as well as archers housed in the wooden gallery that ran along the top of the curtain wall. The duty sergeant heard Geoffrey’s business, and then escorted them into the courtyard. As he dismounted and handed his reins to a stable boy, Geoffrey looked around him again, impressed. The keep stood in the middle of an elongated, triangular bailey. It was a formidable building, and a fine illustration of Norman strength and practicality, even though it lacked some of the refinements Geoffrey had seen in France. But decorations notwithstanding, Chepstow was a splendid fortress, and Geoffrey was not surprised that the King had favoured its constable with his presence for more than a month now.

The duty sergeant found a stretcher, and they laid Sir Aumary on it, covering him with his fine cloak. While Ingram and Barlow struggled and groaned under the dead weight, Geoffrey led the way to the keep. There was a moment of panic when Aumary almost slid off the litter as he was carried up the steep wooden stairs-the entrance, like in all Norman castles, was on the second floor, reached by a flight of steps that could be removed at times of danger, presenting would-be invaders with yet one more obstacle to surmount-but Geoffrey’s timely lunge prevented an unfortunate incident.

Henry, King of England and youngest son of William the Conqueror, had just returned from hunting in the southern reaches of the Forest of Dene. His face was flushed from the exercise and fresh air, and he was basking in the accolades of his fellow huntsmen for having brought down a great brown stag. The stag and several fallow deer were being displayed in the hall before they were whisked off to the kitchens to be used to feed the King’s sizeable household. Trestle tables laden with food lined one wall, so that the King and his men could stave off their immediate hunger until the regular meal was served later. Salivating helplessly, Geoffrey’s dog aimed for them. Geoffrey caught it by the scruff of its neck, and told a squire to take it outside before it could indulge itself and have Geoffrey and his companions evicted from the King’s presence.

The duty sergeant whispered something to another squire, who in turn went to the constable of the castle, the man who would decide whether Geoffrey’s business was of sufficient importance with which to disturb the King. Apparently, it was not, for the constable strode forward to greet them himself, leaving the King to enjoy the company of his sycophants. He bent over the litter that had been placed at the far end of the hall, and lifted the cloak to inspect Sir Aumary’s face.

“I do not know this man,” he said. “He had dispatches for the King, you say?”

Geoffrey handed over the pouch that had been hidden inside his surcoat. The constable opened it, and inspected the documents it held.

“The seal is that of Domfront,” he said, holding one upside down and revealing to Geoffrey that he was not a man of letters. “But I cannot imagine that these missives contain much of importance. Domfront is just a small castle in Normandy that our King is rather fond of. Was this Sir Aumary carrying anything else?”

Geoffrey raised his hands in a shrug. “The pouch seemed to be the thing of greatest value-Aumary was always very protective of it. But I admit I did not search his body for other documents.”

The constable looked down at the swathed figure. “I will inform the King about this at a convenient moment. I do not think it is of sufficient merit to bother him with now. Please remain in or near the castle until I am able to arrange an audience with you.”

He promptly turned on his heel and strode away, leaving Geoffrey and Caerdig with nothing to do but hope that the King would not make them wait for days. Geoffrey wanted to leave immediately, but now that he had made an appearance, he was obliged to stay until it was the King’s pleasure to see him, waiting his turn with the other hopefuls who believed meeting the King would solve all their problems.

Ignoring the frustrated sighs of Caerdig at his side, Geoffrey sat on a bench and gazed around him, interested as always in architecture and art. The hall at Chepstow might be grand, he thought as he studied parts of it closely, but it was neither beautiful nor refined compared to the Saracen buildings in Jerusalem and Antioch that he had seen while on Crusade. In true Norman spirit, Chepstow was sturdy and functional, but it was most certainly not-

“And these are the men you mentioned?”

At the unexpected sound of the King’s voice so close to him, Geoffrey started to his feet. He dropped onto one knee in the usual homage of a knight to a king, wondering how long the King had been watching him while he pondered the relative merits of Christian and Arab building techniques. The King gestured for him to rise.

“This is the body of Sir Aumary de Breteuil,” explained the constable, gesturing to the corpse. “He was bringing you dispatches from France, but was struck down by an unknown assailant a few miles from here.”

“Unfortunate,” said the King, turning his gaze to Geoffrey. “And who are you?”

“This is Sir Geoffrey Mappestone,” said the constable. “He claims he was with Sir Aumary when the attack occurred.”

Geoffrey found himself the subject of intense scrutiny from the King’s clear, grey eyes.

“Was he indeed? And did you see this unknown assailant, Geoffrey Mappestone?”

“I did not, my lord,” said Geoffrey, aware that behind him Caerdig was holding his breath. “Aumary became separated from the rest of us during the attack. When we returned to find him later, his destrier was roaming loose and he lay dead in the grass.”

“I see,” said the King, suddenly much more interested now that he knew the dead man had owned some property. “And where is this destrier now?”

Geoffrey had heard that the King was avaricious, but he had not anticipated that his greed would be quite so transparent. “The horse has been placed in your stables.”

“Good,” said the King, rubbing his hands with pleasure. “Is it a passable beast?”

“It looks handsome enough, but it has been poorly trained,” said Geoffrey.

It was clear Aumary’s widow in France would not be gaining anything from having her husband slain in the service of the King.

“Poor training can be remedied,” said the King dismissively. “Now, this man was bringing me dispatches, you say?”

The constable handed him the pouch, and the King broke the seals.

“They are accounts from my castle at Domfront,” he said, sorting through them quickly and efficiently. Geoffrey remembered that the King was already being called “Beauclerc” because he, unlike most noblemen, could read and write. “It is always pleasant to learn that one’s estates are profitable, but this is scarcely information for which to kill.”

“Perhaps he also carried other messages,” suggested the constable. “It would not be unknown for a messenger to draw attention away from something important by flaunting something unimportant.”

“I suppose that must be it,” said the King doubtfully. “Perhaps you will search the body for me, assuming that Sir Geoffrey has not done so already?”

Geoffrey shook his head. “Aumary only ever seemed to be concerned about the dispatches in his pouch. I assumed they were all he had-he told me they were of vital importance.”

The King smiled. “The more important the messages, the better paid the messenger,” he said wryly. “But what of this attack on you? Was Aumary the only fatality?”

Geoffrey nodded. “Unless you include one of my horses. This was the arrow that killed Aumary.” He held the bloodstained arrow out to the King, who inspected it minutely, but declined to take it in his own hands.

“I see,” said the King after a while. “All very intriguing. Did you see your assailants?”

“I saw no archers,” replied Geoffrey ambiguously, aware of the anxiety of Caerdig behind him.

“There is a Godric Mappestone who owns the manor of Goodrich and several other profitable estates to the north of the Forest of Dene,” said the King, his eyes straying back to the arrow in Geoffrey’s hands. “Is he a relative of yours?”

“My father.”

“I see,” said the King again. He looked Geoffrey up and down. “Your surcoat proclaims that you have been crusading, like my brother, the Duke of Normandy. I take it you have returned to England to claim any inheritance your father might leave you?”

Geoffrey shook his head. “I am not his heir, my lord. I have three older brothers to claim precedence. I have come only to pay my respects, and then I will be on my way again.”

“Back to the Holy Land?”

Geoffrey nodded.

“I was a fourth son, you know,” the King mused, regarding Geoffrey with half-closed eyes. “And now I am King of England. You should not underestimate your chances of inheritance, Sir Geoffrey. You never know what fate might hold in store for you.”

“But I do not want Goodrich,” said Geoffrey, more forcefully that he had intended. “Even if it did fall to me, I would decline it. I do not want to be a landlord.”

“Rash,” said the King, pursing his lips in disapproval. “You do not know what my wishes are in this matter, and I am your King.”

Geoffrey did not imagine that the King could possibly be remotely interested in who was lord of the manor at Goodrich, but knew better than to say so. The King stroked his thick beard thoughtfully for a moment, and then gave what Geoffrey could only describe as a predatory smile.

“I am glad to have made your acquaintance, as it happens, Sir Geoffrey,” he said. “There is something I would like you to do for me.”

Reluctantly, Geoffrey followed the King into an antechamber just off the hall. An energetic fire blazed in the hearth, enjoyed by a selection of sleek and smelly dogs. The King nudged a few out of the way with the toe of his boot, and turned to face Geoffrey, drawing him nearer to the fire so that they would not be overheard.

At the calculating gleam in the King’s grey eyes, Geoffrey’s stomach lurched, and he almost hauled his arm away. Not again! he thought, with sudden despair. He had left the Holy Land and its squabbling rulers at least in part because he did not want to be dragged into their intrigues and plots, and here he was, not even home, and he was being recruited by no less than the King of England for some task that he was certain he would not wish to undertake.

“I see you do not appreciate the honour that is being bestowed upon you,” said the King dryly, sensing Geoffrey’s unease. “Do you not want to be of use to your King?”

Geoffrey did not, but there was no way he could say so and still be free to leave-at least, not with all of him still present and functional. He thought fast.

“I am in the service of Tancred de Hauteville, my lord,” he said. “But I trained under your brother, the Duke of Normandy.”

The King regarded Geoffrey keenly, and then smiled humourlessly. “I know what you are thinking. You know that relations between my brother and myself are not entirely amiable, and you think that by confessing your loyalty to him, I will release you from working for me. Am I correct?”

He was, but again, Geoffrey could hardly say so. “I only seek to warn you, my lord, lest you reveal something that you would rather a vassal of the Duke of Normandy did not know.”

The King laughed. “You are wasted as a knight, Geoffrey Mappestone! You should have been a courtier. But what I am going to ask you to do for me will not compromise your allegiance to my brother. I am more concerned with a matter of security here, in England, than affairs of state in Normandy.”

“Yes?” asked Geoffrey cautiously, when the King fell silent.

“Before I tell you what I want, let us talk awhile,” said the King, poking at a pile of logs with his foot. “My constable tells me that you have been away from your home for some years, and so you will not be aware of some of the things that have been happening here.”

Geoffrey felt that he was very well informed of occurrences in Goodrich and in England, because his sister Enide had taken care to keep him up to date with such events. Enide and Geoffrey had been close before he had left to begin his knightly training, and their relationship had remained affectionate because Enide, like Geoffrey, was literate, and they had written to each other often and at length throughout the years. Their correspondence had ended abruptly when Geoffrey had received the terse note from his father’s scribe informing him that she had died. He said nothing, and the King continued.

“Your father owns a goodly tract of land when all his estates are added together. He was a loyal subject of my father, the Conqueror-indeed, it was through my father’s generosity that Godric Mappestone came into possession of his lands in the first place. After my father’s death, Godric transferred his allegiance to my eldest brother, the Duke of Normandy. He never fully accepted my second brother, William Rufus, as King of England.”

Geoffrey swallowed hard. Godric had been playing a dangerous game if he had been supporting the Duke of Normandy over Rufus, who had been King of England before his sudden death the previous summer.

The King saw his concern and patted his arm. “Do not look so alarmed, Geoffrey. Rufus was not a popular king, and your father was right to object to his evil, unjust rule. But after Rufus had his unfortunate accident in the New Forest, many men who had favoured the Duke of Normandy above Rufus decided that I was the best ruler England could have. So, they abandoned their allegiance to the Duke of Normandy, and swore oaths of loyalty to me instead.”

Geoffrey’s unease increased. He hoped that the King was not going to order him to coax his father to abandon his allegiance to the Duke of Normandy and accept King Henry instead. Godric Mappestone was notoriously stubborn and opinionated, and it would be no more possible to persuade him to change his mind than it would be to alter the course of the sun.

“Do not fiddle with that thing!” snapped the King suddenly, as Geoffrey’s hands moved nervously on the arrow. “Throw it into the fire.”

Geoffrey complied, and they both watched flames lick up it, until the light wood was stained brown and then black. The King took a deep breath, and spoke again.

“I am fairly sure that your father is loyal to me.” Geoffrey tried not to appear relieved. “I have also had occasion to meet your third brother-another Henry, like me-and he has assured me of his allegiance also. Your eldest brother Walter, and your sister Joan, on the other hand, have been quite outspoken against me. They claim I am a usurper, and that the throne of England really belongs to the Duke of Normandy.”

Geoffrey’s short-lived relief evaporated like a drop of rain in the desert, and he began to anticipate what the King was about to charge him to do with a feeling of dread. He opened his mouth to protest, but the King silenced him with a wave of his hand.

“Your second brother Stephen has kept quiet on the matter, and so I do not know where he stands. Each one of your siblings is determined to have Goodrich for him-or her-self. Now, I would not usually be concerned about the outcome of such a contest-even if the hostile Walter were to inherit, I would be able to subdue him by threatening to confiscate his land. But there is one other factor in the picture that gives me cause for concern.”

Geoffrey waited, watching the yellow flames consume the arrow, and wishing that he had abandoned Sir Aumary’s corpse in the forest, or better still, that he had never followed his ridiculous whim to return home in the first place.

“One of your siblings-and whether it is Walter, Joan, Stephen, or Henry, I cannot say-is poisoning your father.”

“So I have been told,” said Geoffrey, cleanly taking the wind out of the King’s sails. “But relations between Goodrich and its neighbours have never been very congenial. The tale of my father’s poisoning is probably a rumour intended to aggravate ill-feelings among my brothers and sister, which can then be used against them.”

“I do not base my statements on rumour,” said the King. “I base them on a letter your father sent me himself around Christmas. In it, he claimed not only that was he being poisoned but that a similar attempt had been made on your sister, too.”

“Joan?” asked Geoffrey. “Then I suppose that discounts her as a patricidal maniac.”

“Not Joan,” said the King. “Godric’s youngest child. I forget her name.”

“Enide?” asked Geoffrey, a cold, sick feeling gripping at the pit of his stomach.

“That is the one! Unfortunately-or fortunately, depending on the way you look at it-this Enide died of other causes before the slow-acting poison could take her,” said the King, watching Geoffrey’s reaction carefully. “But the point is that someone tried.”

Geoffrey rubbed the bridge of his nose, and wondered whether the King were lying to secure his cooperation. He had heard that the King was not averse to emotional blackmail when other methods were impracticable or unlikely to work.

“I am not asking you to spy on your kinsmen,” the King continued in a paternal voice, despite the fact that Geoffrey knew they were the same age. “But you will surely want to know if one of your siblings is trying to dispatch your father, and if he, or she, also attempted to kill your sister.”

Geoffrey stared at him uncertainly. Then Caerdig’s claim-that the arrows in the forest might have been fired by one of his siblings in order to prevent Geoffrey from returning home-sprang to his mind. The King seemed convinced that there was some truth in the letter Godric had supposedly written to him, stating that he and Enide had been poisoned. Could a jealous brother also have tried to shoot Geoffrey in the forest and had killed Aumary by mistake?

The King smiled, although there was no humour in his eyes. “You are wondering what I stand to gain by your unmasking of this would-be killer?”

That question was uppermost in Geoffrey’s mind, but he said nothing. The King, seeing that Geoffrey was not going to reply, continued again.

“The most powerful baron in this region is Robert de Belleme, the Earl of Shrewsbury.”

He paused and studied Geoffrey to assess his reaction. Geoffrey had certainly heard of Robert de Belleme, generally considered to be one of the cruellest and most violent men in Christendom. The Earl was also vastly wealthy, and owned massive estates in Normandy, as well as sizeable tracts of land in England. Geoffrey supposed that, as lord of the little manor of Rwirdin he had inherited from his mother, the Earl was technically his overlord. He decided he would not visit Rwirdin after all, for he certainly had no wish to encounter a man like the Earl of Shrewsbury.

The King noted with satisfaction the instinctive grimace that his mention of the brutal Earl had provoked.

“Your father’s manor would make a handsome addition to the Earl’s estates along the Welsh border, but I am loath to see his fortunes rise too high. The Earl rebelled against my father, and he rebelled against my brother Rufus. He might do the same to me if he becomes too strong. I do not want him getting Goodrich.”

“Surely that is unlikely, with so many contenders for heir,” Geoffrey pointed out. “If my father were childless, it might be a different matter. But you yourself have noted that my three brothers and Joan intend to have Goodrich for themselves.”

“But one, or perhaps more, of your siblings is attempting to kill your father, and you have already admitted to me that you would not stay if Goodrich were yours. I do not want a vacant landlord any more than I want a murderer as lord of Goodrich. And I certainly do not want one of the Earl of Shrewsbury’s creatures in charge. And there is another thing.”

He paused again, and regarded Geoffrey intently. Geoffrey sensed yet again that something was going to be said that he would rather not hear. If Henry were anyone other than the King of England, Geoffrey would have made his excuses and left. As it was, he was trapped, and obliged to listen to whatever sordid secrets the King chose to reveal.

“Do you know what happened to my brother, Rufus, in the New Forest last summer?”

Geoffrey was startled by the change of subject. “I was in the Holy Land at the time, but the story was that he was shot in a hunting accident.”

Henry nodded. “He was shot, certainly. But whether by accident or design is less certain.” He turned, very deliberately, and gazed at the remains of the arrow burning in the fire.

Geoffrey prudently maintained his silence. There had been a good many rumours when the news had reached Jerusalem that Rufus of England had been slain, one of which was that Henry, who stood to gain a good deal from his brother’s death, was not wholly innocent in the affair. He wondered why the King was choosing to discuss this particular matter with him now.

“You seem vague regarding the details of the events of last August,” said Henry. “Let me enlighten you. On the second day of that month, we were due to go hunting together, just after dawn. My brother Rufus, however, was ill. He had slept badly, plagued with nightmares, and felt unwell.” He looked hard at Geoffrey. “Rather as your father has been of late.”

“You believe Rufus was poisoned?” asked Geoffrey, startled. “Before he went hunting?”

Henry shrugged. “Why not? I am sure that had my brother been in his usual good health, he would not have fallen to the arrow that killed him. He would have sensed something was amiss, and moved away or called out. But I am getting ahead of myself. Because Rufus was indisposed, we did not leave to go hunting until much later-well into the afternoon. The party split, as is the custom, and my brother was left in the company of Walter Tirel, the Count of Poix.”

He paused yet again. Geoffrey glanced out through the door to where Caerdig stood, wondering, no doubt, what the King and Geoffrey were finding to discuss alone together for such a long time.

“Then, events are unclear. It seems a stag was driven to the clearing where my brother and Tirel waited. My brother fired, but only wounded the animal. Tirel fired, but he killed Rufus rather than the stag. Tirel immediately fled the country, but has been roaming France ever since claiming that it was not his arrow that killed Rufus. It is assumed by many that his instant flight is a clear statement of his guilt, but I am uncertain.”

If Geoffrey had been in a position whereby the King of England had been shot, and he was the only known person in the vicinity with a bow and arrows, he might well have fled himself, regardless of innocence or guilt. Regicide was a serious matter, and revenge tended to be taken before questions were asked. Geoffrey supposed that it was entirely possible Tirel had not killed Rufus, and that his flight had been nothing more than a case of instinctive self-preservation.

“I have my suspicions that the Earl of Shrewsbury might have had a hand in Rufus’s death,” the King finished.

Geoffrey was quite unprepared for this conclusion. Common sense told him to say nothing, but the King’s claim seemed so wild that he could not help but question it.

“But what would the Earl have to gain?” he asked. “It is said that he had a greater influence over Rufus than he could ever hope to have over you.”

He wondered if he had spoken out of turn, but the King only smiled. “That is reassuring to hear. I would not like my people to imagine that I consort with men such as Shrewsbury. But he has grown powerful under my brother-he owns too much land along the Welsh borders, and holds altogether too much power in my kingdom. And there is more. There are those who say that my other brother, the Duke of Normandy, is the rightful King of England, and not me at all.”

Geoffrey decided that silence was definitely required over this one. The supporters of the Duke of Normandy-who included Geoffrey-had a point. There had been a treaty signed by Rufus and the Duke of Normandy, stating that the Duke should have England if Rufus died childless. Rufus had indeed died childless, and, if the treaty had been honoured, Henry should not have taken the crown.

“I am certain the Duke of Normandy plans to invade England, and snatch my throne away from me-which is why Shrewsbury is consolidating his lands along the borders here. But the Duke is barely able to rule his own duchy, let alone a kingdom as well. He will need a regent for England. And who better than his loyal servant, Shrewsbury?”

It was well known that King Henry was twice the statesman his brother the Duke would ever be, and the Duke might well reward loyalty from a man like the Earl of Shrewsbury with the Regency of England-and that would be a tragedy for every man, woman, and child in the country, given the Earl’s reputation for violence. England would fare better under the harsh, but just, rule of King Henry than that of the tyrannical and unpredictable Earl of Shrewsbury.

“So what do you want me to do?” asked Geoffrey, aware that the King was gazing at him expectantly.

“I want you to keep your father’s estates from Shrewsbury at any cost. It might seem to you that Goodrich is unimportant in the battle for a kingdom. But battles have been won and lost on details. I want Goodrich in your father’s name for as long as possible, and then I want his heir to be a man loyal to me. That is the essence of what I want you to do for me, and that is the reason why I brought you to this chamber-away from prying ears.”

Geoffrey turned as the constable hurried towards them, triumphantly bearing aloft a scrap of parchment. “Here, my liege,” he said, presenting it with a bow. “I found this stuffed down one of Aumary of Breteuil’s boots.”

“Ah!” said the King, scanning it quickly. “You were most astute, my lord constable, for this indeed must have been the important message Sir Aumary wished to conceal with his worthless household accounts.” He waved it in the air, and then secreted it in a pouch on his belt.

Geoffrey, who had been unable to prevent himself from glancing over the King’s shoulder to read what was written, wondered why the King should consider a common recipe for horse liniment so vital to his country’s well-being.

It was with some relief that Geoffrey was dismissed by the King. Caerdig followed him out of the hall and into the bailey, where he grabbed the knight’s arm and stopped him.

“Well?” he demanded. “What did he say? Are we free to leave?”

Geoffrey nodded, his thoughts still tumbling around in confusion.

“And?” persisted Caerdig. “What else did he say? What was he telling you away in that chamber? Did it concern Lann Martin?”

Geoffrey did not feel it was appropriate to tell Caerdig that the King had ordered him to prevent the powerful and rebellious Earl of Shrewsbury from laying hands on his father’s lands-nor that the King whole-heartedly believed the truth of the story that one of Geoffrey’s siblings was trying to murder their father.

“Lann Martin was not mentioned,” he said to placate the Welshman. “The King is merely concerned about some of the tales that have been circulating concerning Goodrich.”

“Like the fact that your father is being poisoned by one of your brothers?” asked Caerdig.

“There is Helbye,” Geoffrey said, ignoring Caerdig’s question, and walking across the bailey to where his sergeant and the two soldiers stood.

“Shall I saddle up?” asked Ingram without enthusiasm, as Geoffrey approached. “Of course, the horses are tired and I have only just finished rubbing them down.”

“The light is already failing and there is no more than an hour’s travelling time left today,” said Geoffrey, glancing at the sky. “We will spend the night here, and leave at first light in the morning.”

“We have already secured ourselves some lodgings,” said Helbye, clearly pleased not to be riding farther that day. “It is not grand accommodation, but it is better than a tree root in the small of the back.”

Geoffrey left the others to their preparations for an evening of dice with the soldiers in the King’s guard, while he went to see to his destrier. It was with some difficulty that he made the stable-boy understand that only Aumary’s war-horse-not Geoffrey’s-was to be transferred to the area reserved for the King’s personal mounts. Reasonably satisfied that his own horse would be there for him to reclaim in the morning, he found a place to sleep and then ate a large, rich meal with some knights in the King’s retinue, where he drank more than was wise.

But later, as he tried to sleep, his head swam with questions, despite his serious attempt to induce a state of drunken forgetfulness. Why had someone killed Aumary? The documents that the knight had bragged about so much had not been stolen, and neither had the scrap of parchment with the recipe for horse liniment. Had Geoffrey disturbed the killer before he had been given a chance to complete a search of the body? But in that case, why had Geoffrey not been shot, too?

Aumary was vainglorious and shallow, and Geoffrey had suspected from the start that he had deliberately lent his letters more importance than they deserved in order to enhance his standing with his fellow-travellers. It was true that the King had been pleased to learn that his castle of Domfront was turning a tidy profit, and might have rewarded Aumary well for bringing him such good news, but it was scarcely the crucial missive the knight had claimed to carry.

So, had the recipe for horse liniment been some coded message that the King alone could decipher? Geoffrey had seen that particular scrap of parchment on several occasions-Aumary had used it to wrap the cloves he constantly chewed to alleviate the stench of his rotten breath. Had this casual use of the parchment been a ploy to divert attention away from it until it could be handed to the King? Or was even Aumary unaware of the alleged importance of his clove wrapper?

Geoffrey frowned up at the wooden rafters of the bedchamber and considered. Aumary might well have thrown the parchment away or carelessly mislaid it if he had not appreciated its importance, and as a means of conveying an important message to the King, it was risky at best. The more Geoffrey thought about it, the more he came to believe that the parchment was nothing, and that the King had merely pretended to have discovered something crucial in it in order to make any onlookers think that Aumary had been killed because of a vital message.

And that suggested to Geoffrey that the King knew more about Aumary’s death than he intended to tell. He had not even questioned Caerdig about the attack, and had accepted Geoffrey’s concise account of the botched ambush without a single question. Did the King know, or suspect, that the attack might have been orchestrated by Geoffrey’s brothers, and that Geoffrey and not Aumary, had been the intended victim?

But, Geoffrey reasoned, the King doubtless had his fingers in a good many pies, and Aumary’s death was probably nothing to do with the affairs at Goodrich Castle. Since he was not going to deduce anything conclusive without more evidence, Geoffrey dismissed Aumary from his mind, and thought about his family.

Could there be any truth in the King’s conviction that Godric was being poisoned? Geoffrey was reluctant to think that one of his brothers would stoop to so despicable an act as to attempt the death of their father by slow poisoning. He could very well imagine that one of them-especially the fiery Henry-might lash out in anger and kill on a sudden impulse, but the cold, premeditated act of sentencing their father to a lingering death was another matter entirely.

He took a deep breath and watched the shifting smoke, which filled the room because the chimney needed sweeping. As to the other matter-keeping the Goodrich estates from the Earl of Shrewsbury’s grasping hands-Geoffrey did not imagine for an instant that any of his kinsmen would allow Shrewsbury or anyone else to take Goodrich while there was still breath in their bodies.

As his eyes closed and he finally drifted into a restless doze, he made the firm resolution that he would stay in England only long enough to ensure that one of his grasping siblings inherited Goodrich from the dying Godric-which one he did not care-and then ride for France as fast as his destrier would take him.

The copious amounts of wine he had imbibed meant that Geoffrey slept a good deal later the following day than he had intended, and the sun was already high in the sky before he emerged from his lodgings. He was not the only one-Barlow had also drunk far too much the previous night and was in no state to travel. Meanwhile, Helbye was nowhere to be found, and it was some time before Geoffrey tracked him down to a brothel near the river. And Ingram was involved in some complex negotiations to buy a donkey from one of the King’s grooms and insisted that such delicate transactions could not be hurried.

It was noon before they were saddled up and ready to leave. Caerdig and his man appeared from nowhere, evidently planning on making the most of an armed escort through the outlaw-ridden Forest of Dene. Geoffrey ignored them all, and bent to check the straps on his horse’s girth.

“It is high time we were back at Lann Martin,” said Caerdig, glancing at the sky. “I heard in a tavern last night that the King knows all about Godric being poisoned, and is very concerned about it. King Henry does not worry for nothing, and so we should hurry before one of your kin has his way and I have some crazed murderer for a neighbour.”

“Most Normans are crazed murderers,” said the Saxon Ingram, not without admiration. “That is what makes them such superb warriors. I wish I were a Norman.”

“Do you mean you wish you were a superb warrior or a crazed murderer?” asked Geoffrey, favouring him with a cool stare. “I do not think that one necessarily leads to the other.”

His attention strayed to the scratch on his mount’s leg, and he led it away from the two young soldiers to see if the animal limped. They watched Geoffrey critically.

“He does altogether too much thinking,” muttered Ingram to Barlow. “He would be better thinking less and … and …”

“Killing more?” supplied Barlow helpfully.

“It is all this reading and learning that has made him like he is,” Ingram continued. “It has brought him nothing but trouble. And I wager you half my treasure that it will only be a matter of time before it leads him to problems at home. His brothers are rightly very suspicious of a man with letters.”

“What are you two mumbling about?” asked Helbye, looking up as he checked the buckles on his treasure bags.

“We were just saying that learning and reading is the quickest way to the Devil,” said Ingram with passion, casting a defiant look at Geoffrey.

“Quite right,” said Helbye sagely. “Reading is the surest way to end up in the Devil’s service.”

“Then perhaps you should have a word with the Pope, and inform him that most of his monks are bound for Hell,” said Geoffrey mildly. “Because most churchmen can read.”

Ingram glowered, and Geoffrey smiled at him, trying to coax a better mood out of the habitually surly man-at-arms. Geoffrey was popular with his soldiers, who liked his easy and pleasant manner-even if they were suspicious of his penchant for monkish pastimes, like reading. Ingram, however, was different, and had regarded Geoffrey with a deep distrust since he had first come under the knight’s command-mainly stemming from his inability to understand why Geoffrey did not always leap at the opportunity to indulge in a little unprovoked slaughter or impromptu pillaging.

“Think about it, Ingram,” Geoffrey said. “How would you have had reliable news from home if it had not been for Enide’s letters to me? Reading and writing is not all bad.”

Ingram pursed his lips and declined to answer.

“Well, I would not trust anything important to a letter,” said Helbye firmly. “I sent a spoken message with Eudo of Rosse to tell my wife that I was coming home-Eudo was due to return here two weeks before us. I did not send her one of those evil letters for all and sundry to be reading.”

“‘All and sundry’ cannot read,” pointed out Geoffrey. “And anyway, how do you know your Eudo of Rosse did not tell ‘all and sundry’ every detail in your message to your wife?”

“You wait and see,” said Helbye, after a brief moment of doubt. “My wife will be waiting for me to come home, while those of you who entrusted news of your return to letters-” here he paused to eye Ingram and Barlow disapprovingly-“will find that they are not expected.”

“It would probably have been better to do both,” said Caerdig, sensing that here was a debate that was not the first time in the airing. “Then the letters would have reached home if the messenger had been delayed, and the messenger would have delivered the news if the letters had been lost. But Goodrich and Lann Martin are humming with the news that Sir Geoffrey is expected soon-that is why I knew who he was when he trespassed on my land-and so obviously some message or other arrived.”

Bored with the discussion, Geoffrey dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, and went clattering out of the castle bailey. Caerdig, about to add his own opinion regarding the virtues and drawbacks of literacy, had to urge his own mount into a gallop in order to catch up with him.

“So?” asked the Welshman, once they had cleared the cluster of shabby buildings that had grown up around the castle, and were riding through open countryside. “What did the King say yesterday? You still have not told me.”

“The King believed Aumary to have been killed by unknown assailants because of a scrap of parchment the constable found,” said Geoffrey, carefully omitting the fact that the vital missive had been a recipe for horse liniment. “He did not ask for details of the ambush, and seemed satisfied with the account I gave him.”

“And that was?” demanded Caerdig.

Geoffrey sighed. “You heard. I said no more to King Henry than I told the constable-that Aumary was shot by an arrow as we travelled through the Forest of Dene.”

“What did you tell him about me?” asked Caerdig.

“Nothing!” said Geoffrey, beginning to be impatient. “He did not ask, so I did not mention you.”

“You did not tell him about my role in the ambush?”

“I have already answered that,” said Geoffrey curtly. “No.”

“How do I know that you were not telling the King about it while you were whispering together away from my hearing?” pressed Caerdig.

“Do you imagine that the King would allow you to ride away if he thought you were ambushing travellers in his forests?” asked Geoffrey, forcing himself not to lose his temper at Caerdig’s persistence.

Caerdig fell silent, and Geoffrey led the way along the path that hugged the river. It was busy with farmers and traders going to and from the surrounding villages with their wares. Progress was slow, hampered by lumbering carts that groaned and creaked under the weight of unsold produce and that stuck fast in the clinging mud at every turn.

As they rode, a wood-pigeon suddenly flapped noisily in the undergrowth, and in an instant Geoffrey had his sword half drawn. Caerdig regarded him askance.

“It is only a bird,” he said. “What were you planning to do? Run it through, like a Saracen?”

“Or shear its head from its shoulders?” called Ingram, who was riding immediately behind them.

Caerdig whipped round in his saddle and glared with such ferocity at the young soldier that Ingram blanched and fell back. Geoffrey was puzzled, wondering what there had been in Ingram’s innocent jest to cause such a reaction, but decided that Caerdig had probably been irritated by the young soldier’s insolent contribution to a conversation that was none of his affair.

Geoffrey put his weapon away. His reaction had been instinctive, and any of his fellow knights who had been on the Crusade would have done the same. Those who would not were long since dead.

As dusk began to fall, the shadows lengthened and the path became empty. When it was too dark to negotiate the protruding roots and muddy surface, Geoffrey turned aside and arranged to spend the night in a rickety stable owned by a forester. The forester was reluctant to extend hospitality to seriously armed soldiers, but only the foolish declined the demand of a knight, and with bad grace he supplied fresh straw and gritty, flat bread for his unwelcome guests. When he had gone to his house and left them alone, Ingram pulled a sizeable piece of cheese from inside his jerkin.

“Where did you get that?” asked Helbye in amazement. “We went nowhere near a market today.”

“I hope you did not steal it from the King,” said Geoffrey, fixing Ingram with his steady gaze, and remembering the trestle tables piled high with food in the hall at Chepstow.

Ingram shifted uncomfortably. “One of the serving wenches gave it to me last night. She took a fancy to a gallant young Crusader.”

He grinned conspiratorially, but Geoffrey did not smile back. Ingram was playing a dangerous game, he thought-he was insolent to the knight he served, and he stole from the King. When Ingram offered him a piece of the cheese, he declined it, although no one else had any such scruples.

Later, as his men slept, Geoffrey dozed lightly, leaning against the wall with his sword resting across his knees. Caerdig began to move nearer to him, rustling through the straw. The dog opened a malevolent eye at the disturbance, growled, and closed it again. Geoffrey’s fingers tightened their grip on the sword.

“I do not understand you,” Caerdig said, when he had settled himself close enough to Geoffrey to avoid waking the others as he spoke. “You could have told the King that my people killed Sir Aumary, and then Lann Martin might have been yours.”

“How many more times do I need to tell you?” said Geoffrey softly. “I do not want it. If I had wished to be a landlord, I could have had something ten times the size of Lann Martin in the Holy Land.”

“But your brothers would have been pleased to have it for themselves,” pressed Caerdig. “What will they say when they hear that you missed such a valuable opportunity to acquire it for them?”

“They can say what they like.” Geoffrey grinned at Caerdig in the darkness. “I will tell them that they should be grateful I did not tell the King what you suspected-that the arrow which killed Aumary was actually intended for me.”

“That is no laughing matter,” said Caerdig severely. “You will not last long among the Mappestones if you underestimate them. My uncle Ynys underestimated them, and look what happened to him.”

“What did happen to him?” asked Geoffrey. “You say he was killed by my brother Henry?”

Caerdig was silent for a moment, and Geoffrey could hear him fiddling with the buckle on his belt.

“There was a silly argument over our sheep-Henry claimed that they had broken a fence and grazed his pastureland. You know how Henry can be-he came spitting fire and demanding instant reparation. Bitter words were exchanged, and Henry threatened to kill Ynys. The next day, Ynys’s body was found. He had been killed by a hacking blow from a sword-as if someone had tried to sever his head from his body.”

Geoffrey suddenly recollected Caerdig’s reaction to Ingram’s jest-about hacking a bird’s head from its shoulders-when Geoffrey had been quick to draw his sword earlier that day. Was that the reason for his curious response? Ingram had a spiteful tongue, and might have learned about the fate of Caerdig’s uncle in the taverns the previous night. Geoffrey would not put a deliberately provoking remark about such a matter past the malicious man-at-arms.

Caerdig continued, suppressed rage making his voice unsteady. “Of course, there were no witnesses to the crime, and Henry denies having anything to do with it. But not many men are allowed to own swords in the woods-you know that swords are forbidden by the Forest laws-although Henry has permission to carry one. Henry has the Norman love of fighting and killing, even though he is no knight.”

Geoffrey drummed his fingers on the conical helmet that lay at his side. “Was there no enquiry into the murder? Was the Earl of Hereford informed? He is overlord here, is he not?”

“Hereford!” spat Caerdig in disgust. “He has no power in these parts. It is the Earl of Shrewsbury who is the dominant force in the border lands now.”

“Shrewsbury, then,” Geoffrey said impatiently. “Did Shrewsbury look into Ynys’s death?”

“He did, but he lost interest when he heard Ynys had named an heir-me-and that the lands were not lying vacant. All Shrewsbury did was to warn Henry not to do it again.”

“Well, Henry is unlikely to kill Ynys a second time,” said Geoffrey wryly. “But it seems to me that the Earl of Shrewsbury is causing a number of problems in the border regions.”

“I should say,” agreed Caerdig fervently. “He has been busy bribing the Welsh princes to back him against King Henry of England, should the need ever arise. But the Earl is not a man to act unless there is some benefit to be had for himself, and there was nothing to gain from Henry’s arrest for Ynys murder. It might even have had a negative effect, since the King, for some unaccountable reason, likes your brother Henry.”

“What is said in these parts about the death of King William Rufus?” asked Geoffrey curiously. “It was rumoured in the Holy Land that King Henry had much to gain from his brother’s sudden and most convenient demise.”

“So he did,” said Caerdig, startled by the sudden turn in conversation. He glanced around nervously. “But this is not a topic for wise men to be discussing in a barn with thin walls.”

“Wise men do not ambush knights,” Geoffrey pointed out. “But what of Shrewsbury? Is there talk that he might have had something to do with the regicide?”

“No,” said Caerdig, surprised. “Nothing was ever said against Shrewsbury. Why would Rufus’s death be advantageous to the Earl when Rufus liked him so? But King Henry had much to gain from Rufus’s death-if you suspect foul play, do not look to Shrewsbury, look to King Henry.”

Geoffrey was silent, thinking. Few people openly questioned whether Rufus’s death was anything other than a terrible accident at the hands of the unlucky Tirel, although there were rumours and suspicions galore. But Tirel was protesting his innocence in France, and King Henry believed that the Earl of Shrewsbury had played a role in the death, while others believed Henry might know more of the matter than he was revealing. Who was lying and who was telling the truth? Geoffrey rubbed his eyes tiredly, and decided that he did not want to know anyway.

He wondered what were the chances of escape, if he defied the King, and rode for Portsmouth without stopping at Goodrich to see his ailing father. Godric had never had much affection for his youngest son-rare were the days when he had even recalled Geoffrey’s correct name. Geoffrey had not seen his family for twenty years, and the only one who had made the slightest effort to maintain contact had been Enide. And she was dead, perhaps poisoned by the very brother or sister who may have tried to shoot Geoffrey in the forest.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, and sighed softly. He knew it was not wise to disobey orders from a King; even if Geoffrey did manage to reach the Holy Land without being caught by the King’s agents, his defiance was surely likely to catch up with him some time in the future.

Geoffrey realised with a sense of impending doom that he had little choice but to go to Goodrich, and at least be seen to be following the King’s orders. A few days, or a week, should be sufficient to convince the King that Geoffrey believed that Goodrich would remain in Mappestone hands, and then he would be free to leave England-forever.

“It is late,” he said, feeling that the Welshman was watching him in the darkness. “Go to sleep.”

“You should sleep, too,” said Caerdig, settling down in the straw. “And do not worry about me bothering myself to slit your throat during the night. Your brothers will save me that trouble, if I wait long enough.”