A Head for Poisoning

CHAPTER THREE

Dawn the next day was misty and damp. Geoffrey rubbed the sleep from his eyes and ran his fingers through his short, brown hair to remove the pieces of straw that were entangled in it. His customary toilet completed, he went in search of something to eat, and persuaded the forester to part with another of his unappetising loaves and some tiny, sour apples. His dog had done its own scavenging, and was eating something that looked a good deal more appealing than Geoffrey’s meagre breakfast. The knight considered taking it from him, but his hands still bore the scars from the last time he had attempted such a rash act, and anyway, Geoffrey already knew who would be the winner in such a contest.

He paid the forester and went on his way, the others trotting behind him. The night had been mild, and the sun of the previous afternoon had thawed the frozen ground. The path that had provided easy riding the day before was now a sticky morass of clinging mud, and their progress was slow. It was late afternoon before Caerdig stopped at a small, muddy river.

“This is where we part. My lands lie this side of the stream, and your family’s start from the other bank.” He hesitated, and regarded Geoffrey uncertainly. “I said I would escort you to Mappestone territory. Do you accept that I have fulfilled my part of the bargain?”

Geoffrey nodded. “Once again, my apologies for trespassing. It is what happens when you follow the advice of another, rather than trusting your own instincts.”

He allowed his gaze to stray to Helbye, who immediately began to study the river, looking for the best place to cross.

Caerdig still hesitated. “You spared my life-twice if you count not telling the King the fact that his messenger was slain during my ambush. But I have kept my end of the agreement.”

“So you have already said,” said Geoffrey, wondering where this was leading.

Caerdig sighed. “By Welsh law, you saved me-so I might be obliged to do the same for you at some point in the future.”

“That might be useful around here,” said Geoffrey. “Where lies the problem?”

“The problem lies in your brothers,” said Caerdig. “I swore a solemn oath to rid my people of them, and so you and I might yet find ourselves on the opposite sides of another skirmish. The bargain that we made was that you spared my life, and I would see you safely off my lands. So, now we are even.”

“I see,” said Geoffrey. “You are saying that next time we meet, I should assume that you are about to kill me, and act first?”

“Well, I did not mean it quite like that,” mumbled Caerdig. He scrubbed hard at his face, and smiled suddenly at the amused knight. “Actually, I suppose I did. But I do not like this state of war between our families. I will not-cannot-trust any of your siblings to make peace, but I would be willing to consider terms with you. Just bear that in mind the next time you say so glibly that you want nothing belonging to your father.”

With a curt nod to Geoffrey, Caerdig rode away into the gathering dusk, taking with them the mule that Barlow had borrowed after his own mount had been killed by the mysterious archer. Barlow watched them go resentfully.

“We should have slain him while we had the chance,” he said. “I was expecting to feel a dagger between my shoulder blades every step of the way.”

Ingram readily agreed. “We could slip after him now,” he said, addressing Geoffrey. “It would only take a moment, and think how pleased your family will be when they hear we have dispensed with one of their enemies. They might even reward us.”

“And so might I,” said Geoffrey dryly. “But not in a way you would appreciate. What is wrong with you? We had an agreement with the man. Have you no honour?”

“Horses are worthy of honourable treatment,” said Ingram, fondly rubbing the velvet nose of Geoffrey’s destrier. “But not people. Especially not enemies.”

And who was the enemy? Geoffrey wondered. In the Holy Land it was usually obvious, but Geoffrey was about to enter a household in which one of his siblings was poisoning his father, had attempted to kill his sister, and had very possibly tried to shoot him three days before.

He stood next to Helbye, pointing out the shallowest route across the stream. Then they went through the charade they had played out each time they had reached water on their long journey home. Destriers were far too valuable to be allowed to splash blindly through rivers where they might stumble and injure themselves, and so someone had to lead them. Helbye always offered to perform this invariably unpleasant task for his lord-rivers were often deep and usually muddy. But Geoffrey knew that Helbye suffered from aching joints, and that being wet made them worse.

Yet he also knew that the older man’s pride was a delicate matter, and that he would never admit to such incapacity. So each time Helbye offered to lead Geoffrey’s mount, Geoffrey declined on a variety of pretexts, ranging from a sudden desire to cool his feet to a need to stretch his legs by walking. This worked to the advantage of Ingram and Barlow, for Geoffrey could scarcely accept an offer from them after declining Helbye.

Watching the swirling black water, Geoffrey silently cursed Helbye’s pride, which meant that he, and not one of his soldiers, would be fording the river on foot. He wondered what his fellow knights would think, had they known to what extent his soft-heartedness had led him.

A sudden pitiful whine gave him his excuse this time. Geoffrey’s dog darted this way and that along the bank, declining to step into the chilly water, but sensing it would have to cross.

“I need to carry my dog,” he said, snatching up the black-and-white animal. It was heavy, and he wondered how it had managed to gain weight on a journey that had left everyone else leaner.

Barlow climbed onto Ingram’s horse, pretending not to notice Geoffrey’s disapproval at the way the poor beast staggered under the combined weight of two men and their heavy baggage.

“I can take the dog,” called Barlow cheerfully, holding out one hand.

“I hardly think so,” said Geoffrey coolly. “Unless you plan to walk. That poor horse is overloaded as it is.”

“It is my horse,” muttered Ingram resentfully, so low that Geoffrey was not certain whether he had heard him correctly. At any other time, Geoffrey would not have tolerated such insolence from his men, but they were only a few miles from home, where the young soldiers would no longer be under his command, and Geoffrey felt he could not be bothered.

“If you will not consider your horse, then think of yourself,” said Geoffrey, hoisting his struggling dog over his shoulder. “If you fall off because the horse stumbles, you will sink because your armour will drag you down. And then you might drown.”

The two soldiers exchanged a look of consternation. Geoffrey was right. Although neither wore the weighty chain-mail, heavy surcoat, and hefty broadsword that Geoffrey did, their boiled leather leggings and hauberks would certainly be enough to make swimming difficult.

“We will not fall off,” said Ingram, after a moment of doubt.

Barlow shivered, and his voice took on a wheedling quality. “It is January, Sir Geoffrey, and not a month for wading through rivers. Look-there is ice at the edge. And anyway, I do not want to arrive home after four years all sodden and bedraggled. What would they think of us?”

“Please yourself,” said Geoffrey tiredly. He did not relish the thought of stepping into the icy water himself, but he was certainly not prepared to risk his destrier just because he did not want to get his feet wet. Taking the horse’s reins in one hand and holding the whining dog over his shoulder, he stepped off the bank and into the river.

The cold was so intense it took his breath away, and he immediately lost the feeling in his legs. Helbye followed on horseback, while Ingram ignored the route they were taking and chose one of his own. The water was deeper than Geoffrey had anticipated, and swirled around his waist, tugging at his long surcoat, so that he began to doubt whether he would be able to keep his balance. He wrapped his hand more tightly round the reins, and forced himself to move faster. And then he was across, splashing through the shallows and scrambling up the bank on the other side. Geoffrey dropped the dog, which immediately began to bark at the trees, and turned to wait for Ingram and Barlow.

Not surprisingly, Ingram’s horse was having problems. The weight of two riders and the pull of the deeper water chosen by Ingram were proving too much for it. Ingram tried to spur it on, but it was already up to its withers and was becoming alarmed. Geoffrey could see that it was only a matter of time before Ingram and Barlow were tipped off.

Helbye made a gesture of annoyance as he watched. “We must help them, Sir Geoffrey, or you will be forced to break the news to their families that you brought them unscathed through four years of battles, only to lose them in the river a couple of miles from home.”

Geoffrey took a length of rope he occasionally used to tether the dog, and waded back into the river, cursing Ingram under his breath. Barlow was already in the water, clinging desperately to the saddle with one hand, while the other gripped his treasure-laden saddlebags. Geoffrey felt his feet skidding and sliding on the weed-clad rocks of the riverbed, and realised that the current was much stronger here than where he had crossed. He threw his rope to Ingram, who caught it and gazed at it helplessly.

“Tie it round the horse’s neck,” yelled Geoffrey exasperated, and wondering how someone with Ingram’s speed of thinking had managed to survive the Crusade. “And let go of your bags, Barlow! Hold on to the saddle with both hands, or you will be swept away.”

“No!” cried Barlow, clutching harder still at his booty. He was silenced from further reply by a slapping faceful of water.

Geoffrey hauled on the rope, urging the horse towards him. Ingram, white-faced, began to slip off his saddle, and then he fell just as Geoffrey had managed to coax the horse to shallower water. Geoffrey’s lunge at his hair brought him spluttering and choking to his feet.

“Now, the next time Sir Geoffrey tells you that your horse is overloaded, you might listen to him,” shouted Helbye angrily from the riverbank. “Foolish boy!”

“Where is Barlow?” asked Geoffrey sharply.

All three of them gazed at the empty saddle: Barlow had lost his grip and had been swept away, just as Geoffrey had predicted.

“Oh, no!” whispered Helbye, white-faced. “Not Barlow! His father is my oldest friend, and I promised him I would look after the lad! What will I tell him now?”

“Stay with the horses!” Geoffrey ordered Ingram, who was gaping at the swirling river in horror. “Helbye, come with me!”

He waded back to the bank, and began to run downstream, feeling even more burdened down than usual, with the lower half of his surcoat sopping wet and adding to the weight of his chain-mail. His breath came in ragged gasps-the dense armour of fully equipped knights was not designed for running. He crashed through the undergrowth with the dog barking in excitement at his heels, and came to a wide pond located at a bend in the river. With sudden, absolute clarity, he recalled swimming in it as a child, and remembered that it was very deep.

He slithered down the bank and saw that, as he had predicted, Barlow had been washed into it. Geoffrey could just see him floundering just under the surface. Holding on to an overhanging branch, he slipped into the water and took a firm hold on Barlow’s collar. While the young soldier flailed and struggled, Geoffrey shoved him to where Helbye waited to pull him out. The bank was slippery, and it was some moments before they were all clear of the slick mud.

Helbye fussed over Barlow, banging him on the back to make him cough up the water he had swallowed, and then gave an exclamation of disbelief. Geoffrey glanced over at them, and saw Barlow summon a weak grin, and raise his saddlebags in the air triumphantly. Geoffrey pushed dripping hair from his eyes and gave a resigned sigh.

“Well, I am glad I risked my life for two bags of treasure,” he said tiredly. “But I have lost my helmet. You must have knocked it off with all that thrashing around.”

“I got that, too,” croaked Barlow, pleased with himself, holding up Geoffrey’s bassinet with his other hand. “I saw it fall off, and I grabbed it as it sank. I thought you might like to have it back.”

Geoffrey gazed at him astounded, wondering how the young man could be considering such matters when he was in imminent danger of death by drowning. It was often said that the singular outstanding characteristic of Normans was their acquisitiveness, and Barlow, whose Norman ancestry went back generations, was a prime example. Geoffrey was certain he would not have been so calculating under the circumstances, Norman ancestry notwithstanding. Without a word, he hauled himself to his feet, and began to walk back towards the horses. With each step, water slopped from his boots, and he was uncomfortably aware that the light breeze, which had been pleasant for unhurried riding, was now serving to chill him to the bone. He strode briskly, trying to restore some warmth to his frozen body.

When he reached the ford, he stopped dead, and Helbye, close on his heels, bumped into him. Ingram was standing alone in the centre of the clearing, gazing at Geoffrey like a cornered animal-an unappealing combination of fear and guilt.

“Now what?” muttered Geoffrey, regarding the young soldier with deep apprehension.

“I saved the destrier,” Ingram squeaked. “They did not take that-they only stole your saddlebags.”

The forest was silent, except for the soft hiss of the fast-flowing river. Geoffrey watched Ingram expressionlessly, waiting for an explanation. Ingram was trembling, partly from cold, but mostly from fear of Geoffrey.

“What happened?” demanded Helbye. “Where is Sir Geoffrey’s saddle?”

“They came out of nowhere,” wailed Ingram, not meeting the sergeant’s eyes. “There were at least twenty of them. They had me covered. There was nothing I could do!”

Geoffrey looked from the shaking soldier to his destrier. His saddlebags were gone, slashed away with a knife. For a fleeting moment, Geoffrey wondered whether Ingram might have stolen them himself, but then dismissed the notion as ridiculous. Ingram knew exactly what Geoffrey’s treasure had comprised, and he was wholly uninterested in the knight’s collection of ancient books. Throughout the entire journey, he and Barlow had complained about their weight, while Helbye had often suggested that Geoffrey should trade them for something more saleable. But Geoffrey had shown scant interest in the riches that had attracted the other Crusaders, and his most loved possession was an illustrated copy of Aristotle’s Metaphysics, salvaged after the looting of Nicaea.

And now it was gone. Geoffrey felt his heart sink as he realised that the thieves would not understand the value of what they had, and would probably dump the precious tome in the river when they found books and not treasure in his luggage.

Barlow approached shyly, and offered Geoffrey the smaller of the two bags that he had gripped throughout his brush with death in the river. Geoffrey was touched, knowing how keenly Barlow had guarded it and pored over it since leaving Jerusalem.

“Which way did they leave?” he snapped, interrupting Ingram’s whining attempts to justify why he, a trained soldier armed with an impressive array of swords and knives, had failed to thwart the opportunistic thieves. Absently, Geoffrey took the bag Barlow proffered, and Barlow watched it go with sad eyes.

Ingram indicated where the robbers had gone by pointing. Slinging Barlow’s treasure over his shoulder, Geoffrey followed the path a short distance, until his eye caught something fluttering white in the breeze. With an exclamation of delight, he scooped it up. It was the Aristotle. Nearby were his saddlebags, up-ended, and the contents rifled through. His spare clothes were gone, along with a silver chalice that Tancred had given him. But his precious books were there. Carefully, he gathered them up, and repacked them before walking back to the others.

“They took the silver cup?” asked Helbye sympathetically, after a brief glance in the bags.

“Yes,” said Geoffrey dismissively. “But they left my books.”

“Books!” muttered Helbye in disdain. “Never mind books! They stole that beautiful cup! Is anything else missing?”

“Just some scrolls,” said Geoffrey. “They are quite fine, but of no great value. They are in Hebrew and Arabic, and the Patriarch of Jerusalem gave them to me because he said he did not know anyone else able to read them. It is a pity they have gone, because I planned to use my spare time to translate them into Latin. I cannot think why anyone would steal them, but leave the books. This Aristotle dates back more than a century, and is priceless.”

“Is it?” asked Helbye doubtfully. “Well, I would not give much for it, and neither would anyone else I know. Will you sell it to some abbey somewhere?”

“Never,” said Geoffrey, taking it from his bag, and running his hands over the soft leather of its bindings. “It is a work of art. Just look at these decorated capitals.”

“Very pretty,” said Helbye, glancing over his shoulder. “But we should not be standing around here in the cold, with everyone soaked to the skin and robbers lurking in the area. They might be back for more, since they failed to get much from you.”

Barlow and Ingram needed no second bidding, and had their bags secured on Ingram’s still skittish mount in an instant. When Geoffrey was slower, cold hands fumbling with the slashed straps, Helbye elbowed him out of the way to do it for him. While the sergeant cursed the damage, Ingram retold the tale in which he was now outnumbered thirty to one in the contest for Geoffrey’s books. Meanwhile, Geoffrey removed his boots and poured out the water.

“Perhaps the thieves stole your foreign scrolls because they thought they might be able to sell the vellum for reuse,” suggested Barlow as he waited. “They might get a few pennies for them, if it is of good quality. It would be much more difficult to use a book so.”

Geoffrey supposed Barlow might be right, although he could not imagine that there was a thriving market in used vellum on the Welsh border. He let the matter drop, just grateful that his books were now back in his loving care.

“Do you still want my treasure now that you have most of yours back?” asked Barlow guilelessly. Geoffrey had forgotten Barlow’s generous gesture. Despite the fact that he was still angry with him and Ingram for disregarding his advice about overloading the horse and landing them in such a dangerous situation, he could not help but smile at Barlow’s transparent acquisitiveness. Barlow grinned back at him, and went to secure his returned loot on Ingram’s long-suffering horse.

Geoffrey’s saddle was beyond any repairs Helbye could effect without proper tools, but Geoffrey, shivering from the cold, decided he would be warmer walking anyway. Helbye was horrified.

“Take my saddle,” he insisted. “You cannot make an appearance at your home after twenty years leading your own horse! You are one of the most respected knights to return from the Holy Land alive! Think of appearances.”

“I do not care about appearances,” said Geoffrey tiredly. “I will take a solitary chair near a blazing fire over any glorious welcome my family might give me. Anyway, it will be dark when we arrive. They will probably be asleep and will refuse to answer the door. I might have to beg a bed from you for the night, and try again in the morning.”

“They will let you in!” said Helbye, shocked. “For one thing, they will imagine you have come laden with riches, and will want to secure your good will.”

That was certainly true, thought Geoffrey. “Then it will not matter whether I gallop into their bailey on a battle-hungry war-horse, or walk in soaking wet. My welcome will be the same.”

Helbye accepted his logic, but not happily, and mounted his own horse to follow Geoffrey along the path that led away from the river.

In front of him, Geoffrey was lost in thought. He realised he had committed several grave errors of judgment that might have cost them their lives: he should have insisted that Barlow ford the river on foot; he should have made Ingram follow the route Helbye had chosen across the water, instead of allowing him to select his own path; he should have paid heed to the dog’s barking when they had reached the far bank-it was likely the animal had sensed the presence of strangers; and he should not have abandoned his destrier to Ingram’s care while he tore off after Barlow-he was lucky he still had it. Such mistakes in the Holy Land might have been fatal. He wondered whether the dampness and cold were affecting his brain, or whether he was losing the skills he had acquired through years of painful trial and error.

Behind him, Ingram was still defensive about his passive role in the theft, while Barlow was full of curiosity as to who would have risked stealing from a knight.

“It must have been that Caerdig,” said Barlow to Ingram.

“It was not him, but he might have sent his men,” said Ingram, eager to find a culprit. “After all, he commented on our treasure while he rode with us, so he knew we had some. And he must have been aware that the ford was not safe and that we would run into difficulties crossing it.”

“The ford would have been perfectly safe, if you two had listened to Sir Geoffrey,” said Helbye. The two young soldiers exchanged furtively guilty glances.

“And of course, Caerdig has good reason for killing a Mappestone,” said Barlow a moment later, reluctant to let the subject drop. “Bearing in mind Enide and all that.”

“Barlow!” said Helbye in a low voice. “Take care what you say.”

“Sorry,” muttered Barlow, genuinely contrite.

“Ah, yes!” said Ingram, pretending not to hear Helbye’s warning. “Enide.”

Geoffrey had not been paying much attention to his men’s speculations-he was still berating himself for his poor control over them at the ford-but their curious exchange caught his interest.

“Enide?” he asked, looking round at Barlow. “My younger sister Enide?”

“We are just blathering,” said Helbye before Ingram could respond. He leaned forward to stroke his horse’s mane. “I wonder what my wife will have cooked to welcome me home.”

“Probably nothing,” said Barlow, clearly relieved to be talking about something else. “She does not know exactly when you will arrive. And who is to say that the letters Sir Geoffrey wrote ever reached her?”

“I sent her no letters,” said Helbye, his voice thick with disapproval at the very notion. “I sent word with Eudo of Rosse.”

“What were you going to say?” asked Geoffrey of Barlow, refusing to be distracted by Helbye’s clumsy attempts to side-track him. “What has Enide to do with Caerdig?”

“They were lovers,” said Ingram with relish, ignoring Helbye’s warning glower.

“Ingram! You have no proof to claim such a thing,” said Helbye angrily. “So shut up before you say something for which you will later be sorry.”

“I have proof,” said Ingram, smugly confident. “We heard all about it from a soldier at Chepstow who had spent time at Goodrich last summer.”

“That was nothing but gossip,” snapped Helbye. “How could you trust someone like that?”

“What did you hear?” asked Geoffrey, confused by the exchange.

“Caerdig wanted to marry Enide,” said Ingram quickly, before Helbye could stop him. “But her father and Ynys of Lann Martin prevented the match-”

“That is enough, Ingram!” said Helbye sharply. “This is all speculation. You have no evidence to be saying any of this.”

“Enide did have a lover,” mused Geoffrey, more to himself than to the others. “She wrote to me about him often, although she never mentioned his name. Was that who it was? Caerdig?”

“No,” said Helbye firmly. “Caerdig did ask for her hand in marriage, apparently, but there is nothing to say that they were lovers-whatever nasty rumours were spread around about her. Caerdig was probably trying to put an end to the feud between the two manors-a marriage of convenience.”

“I knew nothing of this,” said Geoffrey. “Although I suppose there is no reason why I should.”

“There is nothing to know,” said Helbye. “Except vicious rumours and nasty lies.” He glared at Ingram and then at Barlow.

“But you might have said something, Will,” Geoffrey said reproachfully to his sergeant. “You know Enide was the only one for whom I really cared. If you knew something about her, you should have told me.”

“I saw no point in talking about her when you would get the entire terrible story on your arrival home,” said Helbye primly.

“An affair between Enide and Caerdig is not so terrible,” said Geoffrey, amused.

“The affair was not the end of the matter, though, was it?” said Ingram spitefully. “What Helbye has been keeping from you is the fact that Caerdig met Enide secretly for mass one day-”

“Ingram!” barked Helbye. He dismounted, and tried to grab the young soldier, who dodged behind Barlow. “Stop this immediately!”

“Ynys and Godric had agreed not to allow the marriage between Caerdig and Enide-” said Ingram, wickedly allowing the older man to grab the merest pinch of his tunic before slithering away.

“Ingram!” yelled Helbye, making another ineffectual lunge at the grinning soldier. “Desist, or I will-”

“Or you will what, Helbye?” Ingram sneered. “We are a mile from home, and you no longer have an excuse to bully me. I will say what I like to whom I like, and you can do nothing to stop me!”

Helbye stopped dead in his tracks, and Geoffrey wondered how long Ingram had been harbouring such bitter resentment against the old sergeant. He had always been under the impression that Helbye was popular with the young men under his command. It was at Helbye’s request that Geoffrey had brought Ingram home with him, although he had been under no obligation to do so. Geoffrey had done what the sergeant had asked because he liked Helbye-because he certainly did not like the malcontented, bitterly morose Ingram.

Ingram turned on Geoffrey, his eyes blazing. “The story is that Caerdig decided that if he could not have Enide as his wife, then no man should have her, and so while she was at church-”

“Ingram!” pleaded Barlow, glancing nervously at Geoffrey. “Sir Geoffrey has been good to us, and there is no need to anger him. Say no more.”

Ingram ignored him, still gazing at the bemused Geoffrey with malicious defiance.

“While Enide was at mass,” he continued, “Caerdig waited for her until she came out of the church, and he chopped off her head!”

Geoffrey could think of nothing to say in response to Ingram’s preposterous revelation, so he turned away without giving the young soldier the satisfaction of a reply. He heard Barlow berating his friend in low tones, while Helbye was silent. Pulling gently on the reins, Geoffrey led his destrier along the grassy path towards Goodrich Castle and the small village that clustered outside its stocky wooden palisades.

Was there any truth in the story that Ingram had learned from the soldiers at Chepstow Castle? Geoffrey tried to recall what Enide had written of her lover in her letters to him, but he remembered thinking at the time that she had been remarkably miserly with the details, considering that she claimed the man was so important to her. When he had first learned of her affection, he had tried to imagine which of Godric Mappestone’s unsavoury neighbours could have attracted the interest of a woman of Enide’s intelligence. But his efforts at deduction had been unsuccessful then, as they were unsuccessful now.

He sighed, and turned his thoughts from the informative and affectionate letters sent by his sister to the terse messages from his father-the object of Geoffrey’s long journey from the Holy Land. During the twenty years since Geoffrey had been away Godric had sent his youngest son only three letters, each one addressed to “Godfrey.”

The first letter was sent a few weeks after Geoffrey had left, perhaps to ease a nagging conscience because Geoffrey had not wanted to become a warrior. His ambition had been to attend the University in Paris, and become versed in the philosophies and law. His father had regarded him in horror, and promptly booked him a passage to the Duke of Normandy on the next available ship. Geoffrey had gone happily, thinking that Paris would be easier to reach from Normandy than England, and had planned to desert his enforced duties as soon as he could. But even the best plans are fallible, and Geoffrey’s repeated, but unsuccessful, bids for freedom led the exasperated Duke to pass his rebellious squire to a kinsman in Italy, where Geoffrey came into the service of Tancred de Hauteville. It was Tancred who had taken Geoffrey on the Crusade.

The second letter came the previous year, after rumours had filtered back to England that the Crusaders who had sacked Jerusalem were wealthy beyond their wildest dreams. Geoffrey’s father had written a blunt demand for funds, and casually informed him that a sister-in-law had died, although he had failed to specify which one. But it was the third letter that Geoffrey remembered most clearly, even though he had read it only once before he had crumpled it into a ball and flung it into the fire.

“To Godfrey, son of Godric Mappestone of the County of Hereford. The new sheep at the manor of Rwirdin are doing well, and made four pounds and four shillings this year. These funds have been used to build a new palisade on the north edge of the outer ward of Goodrich Castle. Your sister Enide died on a Sunday at mass. Our bulls have sired sixteen calves this spring.”

Given the brisk contents of the message, Geoffrey had been given no reason to assume that her death had been anything but natural-perhaps due to a fever.

He glanced back at Ingram, and saw the young soldier’s eyes fixed on him defiantly. During the four years in which Geoffrey had been granted the doubtful pleasure of his acquaintance, Ingram had never been congenial company, but at least he was obedient-Geoffrey would not have countenanced taking the man into his service had he not been. He wondered what could have caused this sudden streak of rebelliousness and malice so near home. Then the truth struck him, so obvious that he smiled.

He paused when he saw that the path divided, one branch leading off to the left, and the other disappearing into a thick clump of trees straight ahead.

“Left, go left,” said Helbye, pushing his way forward.

“No, straight,” said Ingram impatiently.

Geoffrey was too tired to argue and too cold to stand around while the others debated. He took the left hand track, but it degenerated almost immediately into a morass of sucking mud and began to wind back on itself.

“I told you so!” gloated Ingram, tugging his horse’s head viciously to turn it. “Stupid old man!”

“You keep a civil tongue in your head, or else!” growled Helbye, embarrassed that he had been wrong yet again.

“Or else what, Helbye?” Ingram sneered regarding his sergeant insolently. “What can you do to me now? We are nearly home, where I will be free from you.”

“Or else I will tell everyone I meet that you ran away before the fall of Antioch,” said Geoffrey mildly, fixing Ingram with a steady gaze from his clear green eyes. “And that you were nowhere to be seen during the capture of Jerusalem, although you appeared in plenty of time to join in the looting.”

With grim satisfaction, Geoffrey saw the gloating fade from Ingram’s face. His intuitive guess was right: Ingram’s recent unpleasantness stemmed from the fear that the knight might well reveal his cowardice in battle to the family who were about to welcome him as a hero-Ingram’s story about Enide was to ensure that Geoffrey went thundering off to the castle immediately, so that he would not spend time in the village until Ingram had told his story the way he wanted it to be heard.

“You would not do that,” whispered Ingram aghast. “You would not spread lies about me!”

“Lies, no,” said Geoffrey. “But who is lying?”

“You never said anything to me about this,” said Helbye with a frown. “He was supposed to be your arms-bearer both times.”

As it happened, Geoffrey had not mentioned Ingram’s timely absences to anyone. Both occasions had been brutal and terrifying, and Geoffrey had not blamed the young soldier for declining to follow him into the thick of it. Indeed, since the lad had been so clearly petrified, Geoffrey had much rather Ingram had run away and hidden, rather than force Geoffrey into a position where he would have been fighting to protect both of them.

“It seems that there are a number of things we have not told each other,” said Geoffrey, thinking about the gossip regarding Enide. Helbye looked away guilty.

“The track divides yet again,” said Barlow, keen to change the subject. His own role in the two battles had not been exactly glorious either-to keep his promise to the lad’s father, Helbye had given him duties guarding the baggage train. “Left or right?”

“Right,” said Helbye, after a moment of consideration.

“Left it is, then,” said Geoffrey, throwing him a grin of devilment, before making his way down the dark path. It was almost pitch-black, and the thick clouds allowed no light from the moon to penetrate. Geoffrey’s hand went to his sword when the wind blew in the trees, making the wood groan and creak, and Barlow and Ingram were growing nervous.

“The soldiers at Chepstow said that outlaws live around here,” said Barlow, casting a fearful glance behind him. “They come out at night and murder travellers.”

“Especially ones carrying treasure, like us,” said Ingram forcefully.

“Perhaps you might care to say that a little louder, Ingram,” said Geoffrey. “The robbers at the far end of the woods might not have caught everything you said.”

Barlow’s laughter turned into a shriek of horror as something brushed past his face with a screech of its own. Geoffrey spun round, his sword already drawn, but then relaxed when he saw an owl flit away through the darkness.

“We are nearly there,” he said, sheathing his weapon. “I recognise this path. Over to the left is the woodsman’s cottage, and that path there leads back to Penncreic. And there,” he announced with relief, seeing the familiar square shadow of the church looming in the darkness, “is Goodrich. Those lights seem to be coming from your house, Will.”

“So they are,” said Helbye apprehensively, peering through the gloom at the huddle of houses on the opposite hill. “It is late. I wonder what she can be thinking of.”

“She must be preparing you dinner,” said Barlow. “And speaking of food, I am starving! Come on, Ingram! I will race you! I wager I can get there faster on foot than you can ride.”

They were off, both weaving through the trees at a speed far from safe, leaving Geoffrey and Helbye behind them. Neither knight nor sergeant made a move.

“Nervous?” asked Geoffrey, smiling at the tense old warrior beside him.

“No,” said Helbye with a false laugh. “She will be pleased to see me. Are you?”

“A little,” admitted Geoffrey. “I have not even arrived, and I have already been told there are rumours that my favourite sister has been decapitated by Caerdig of Lann Martin; that my manor has been given away as part of Joan’s dowry; and that one of my siblings is trying to poison my father, who is so alarmed that he wrote to the King about it.”

“Then maybe it is a good thing that you did not leave it any longer,” said Helbye practically. “But take no notice of Ingram. He is bitter for one so young, and he has a spiteful nature.”

“You think there is no truth in his story, then?”

Helbye shook his head. “When Ingram told me about the gossip he had heard, I paid a visit to the source of it myself. Ingram only had half the story. Lady Enide, it seems, was indeed slain near the church on a Sunday after mass. Needless to say, a hunt for her killer was mounted. Your brother Henry came across two poachers in the forest, they confessed, and he hanged them there and then for her murder. The claim that poor Caerdig killed her was only speculation, based on a notion put about by your brother Stephen that the poachers may have been hired by Caerdig because your father declined to have him as a son-in-law.”

“Did anyone other than Henry hear the confessions of these poachers?” asked Geoffrey.

Helbye shrugged. “I do not know. But apparently there were some questions about the business for several weeks after. Caerdig was clearly a suspect, but there were stories that others might have played a role.”

“Others such as whom?” asked Geoffrey, when Helbye paused.

“Someone at Goodrich Castle,” said Helbye reluctantly. “A member of the family, perhaps. Or a servant. But no one really knows, and the trail must be long since cold.”

“So, I am about to enter a household, one member of which may have decapitated my sister? God’s teeth, Will, I would not have made this journey had I known all this!”

Thoughts tumbling, Geoffrey followed Helbye down the hill, across the small brook that bubbled along the valley bottom, and up the slope on the other side. The castle in which Geoffrey’s family lived stood on the crest of the hill overlooking a great sweep of the River Wye, while the church and the small houses of the village were clustered around the outer ward to the north and west-not so close that they could be set alight and present a danger to the wooden palisade surrounding the castle, but close enough so that villagers and their livestock could flee for safety inside it should they come under attack.

Ingram and Barlow waited for them outside Helbye’s house with a scruffy boy they had accosted when he had left to fetch more ale. Lights blazed from within, and the sounds of revelling could be heard from one end of the village to the other. Barlow shuffled his feet uncomfortably, and would not look at Helbye, while Ingram’s thin face wore a vindictive smile.

“It is your wife’s wedding day,” he said to Helbye with relish.

“She thought you were not going to return,” said the boy. He glanced fearfully at Geoffrey, an imposing figure in his chain-mail and Crusader’s surcoat, before fixing his attention on the astonished Helbye. “We knew Ingram, Barlow, and Sir Geoffrey were coming, but no one mentioned you.”

“But I sent word,” protested Helbye, appalled. “I did not trust a letter-who knows who might have read it on the way-but I sent word with Eudo of Rosse.”

“Eudo never returned either,” said the boy. “He died of a fever on his way home.”

“One up for literacy,” murmured Geoffrey.

“He died in France, at a place called Venice,” continued the boy, eager to please. “I learned about Venice from our priest.” He looked up at Geoffrey for approbation, proud to display his painstakingly acquired knowledge of foreign geography.

“But then again, perhaps not,” said Geoffrey dryly.

Their voices had been heard by the revellers within. A screech of delight from Barlow’s mother brought others running, and soon the entire village was out, clustering around the two young soldiers, and admiring their proudly displayed treasures. Barlow’s mother impatiently shoved aside a proffered chalice, and hugged her son hard and long as tears rolled unchecked down her cheeks. Ingram’s father, however, gave his son a perfunctory nod and immediately turned his attention to the contents of the travel bags.

Helbye’s wife regarded her husband with disbelief that turned slowly to joy. She turned the sergeant this way and that, and fussed over him like an old hen. Geoffrey watched the reunions from the shadows, wondering what was in store for him in the black mass of the castle that crouched on the hill. He was certain it would not be the unrestrained delight that his men’s kinsfolk expressed.

“She says she will now need to dissolve the marriage she has just made,” called Helbye to Geoffrey, gesturing to where his wife spoke urgently with a forlorn figure standing apart from the celebrations, his face masked by shadow. “Will you help us?”

Geoffrey was startled. “I cannot dissolve marriages, Will,” he said. “I am neither a lawyer nor a priest.”

“But you can read,” said Helbye, as though this would solve everything. “You can help us, and make sure we are not cheated.”

“I cannot see that you will have a problem,” said Geoffrey. “Especially if her second marriage has not been consummated.”

Helbye blushed a deep red. “I cannot ask her that!” he whispered, aghast, loud enough to cause some amusement when several villagers overheard. “She is a woman! You do not ask such questions of women!”

“She is also your wife,” said Geoffrey, laughing despite himself. “But we can do nothing about it tonight. Come to the castle tomorrow, and we will see what needs to be done.”

With his horse ambling behind him, and the black-and-white dog at his heels, Geoffrey left them, and walked the last few steps to the gloomy portals of the castle. The squat gate and the black waters of the stinking moat reminded him of the day he had left. It had been early on a winter morning, so early that it was not yet light. Only Enide had ventured out to see him leave, although Joan had waved to him from a window in the hall.

Of course, his home-coming would have been very different had Enide been there to welcome him. He tried to imagine what she had looked like as a woman, although he always pictured her as the child of eleven waving him a tearful farewell from the very gate at which he now stood. He pulled himself together, impatient with his sudden, uncharacteristic flight into fancy and reminiscence. He strode over the drawbridge-someone had forgotten to raise it for the night-and knocked on the gate. There was no reply. He rapped again, using the pommel of his dagger, hearing the sound echo around the silent courtyard.

“Go away!” came a belligerent voice from within. “We have already sent a tun of ale for Mistress Helbye’s wedding, and you are not getting any more!”

“I am Geoffrey Mappestone,” Geoffrey called. “I have come to pay my respects to my father.”

“Who?” came the voice after a moment. “There is no Geoffrey Mappestone here.”

Geoffrey considered begging a bed with Helbye for the night, and returning the next day when his re-entry into his family home might not be so ignominious.

“Please inform Godric Mappestone that I wish to speak to him,” he said, leaning down to haul his dog away from where it was devouring something unspeakable discovered at the edge of the moat.

“He is asleep,” came the voice. “As are all honest men. Now go away, or you will find your chest decorated with the shaft of this arrow. And do not come back!”