A Head for Poisoning

CHAPTER FIVE

At Stephen’s words, there was a concerted rush to the staircase, Bertrada jostling Hedwise as they vied for first place. And then the hall was silent again, except for the muffled thump of footsteps on the wooden ceiling above, and the occasional hiss of collapsing wood in the fire. Geoffrey sat on a stool and stretched his hands out to the glowing embers.

“You should come, too, Geoffrey,” said Stephen, walking down the hall towards him. “I know Godric would like to see you before he dies. He has always liked you better than the rest of us.”

“If he ever said that, it was only because I was not here,” said Geoffrey wryly. “He does not usually even remember my name.”

Stephen smiled. “But you wanted to see him. Come now, or you might find your journey was in vain.”

Geoffrey followed his brother towards the stairs. On the way up, they met Hedwise, who was descending.

“You are too late,” she said, without the merest trace of grief. “He is already dead. You called us too late, Stephen.”

“He cannot be dead yet,” said Stephen, startled. “You must be mistaken! He spoke to me only moments ago. I told him Geoffrey was back and he grinned at me. Then he informed me he thought his end was near and that I should fetch everyone. He cannot have slipped away so fast!”

He ran ahead of Geoffrey and disappeared into a chamber on the uppermost floor. Geoffrey followed more slowly, pausing to glance through a door at the tiny chamber in the thickness of the wall, which he had once shared with Walter, Henry, and Stephen. It now seemed to be Walter and Bertrada’s room, with plain, dirty walls and an unpleasant, all-pervading odour of stale clothes.

He reached his father’s bedchamber and poked his head around the door, just in time to see Walter pulling at a ring on the dead man’s finger. On the other side, Bertrada was rifling through the corpse’s clothes, while Henry, Stephen, and Olivier watched them like hawks. When they saw Geoffrey, Walter turned his tugging into a clumsy attempt to lay out the body, while Bertrada pretended to be straightening the covers.

“As a mark of respect, you might consider waiting a little while before you plunder his body,” said Geoffrey, unable to stop himself. Although he had seen many acts of greed during the Crusades, most men-even knights-were not usually so ruthless with their kinsmen.

“You would think that.” Henry sneered. “You who could not even loot a city properly! Where is that dagger of Godric’s, Stephen-the one he claims the Conqueror gave him?”

“If I knew, I would not tell you,” said Stephen. “He always said that I should have that.”

“Rubbish!” said Walter, abandoning his pretence of laying out the body, and beginning to haul at the ring again. “The dagger should be mine because I am his eldest son. Look in that chest, Bertrada. It will be in there.”

“It is not,” said Stephen. “Believe me, I have checked. The old goat has hidden it somewhere, so that none of us will be able to find it.”

“Do you mean that thin, worn thing he used at the dining table?” asked Olivier disdainfully. “Why would any of you want that?”

“The hilt is silver,” explained Henry. “It can be melted down and made into something else.”

Geoffrey looked around the room, surprised at the changes in it since he had last been there. Gone were the practical whitewashed walls, and in their place were dark-coloured paintings depicting gruesome hunting scenes and improbably gory battles. There were soft rugs on the floor where there had once been plain wood, and the pile of smelly furs had been exchanged for a large bed heaped with multi-hued covers. He imagined that his military-minded father must have softened indeed to substitute his functional quarters for a room that reminded Geoffrey of the Holy Land brothels.

“There are a great many things to do now,” said Olivier, edging towards the door. “I must inform the Earl of Shrewsbury that Sir Godric Mappestone is dead.”

“You are going nowhere,” said Walter, abandoning his father’s hand, and leaping across the room to slam the door closed as Olivier reached it. Henry bounced over the bed, uncaring for the corpse that lay on it, and took up pulling at the ring where Walter had left off.

Walter glared at Olivier. “You will stay here until I have secured my hold on the manor. I do not want you running off to the Earl of Shrewsbury until I am ready.”

“I only want to inform him about this sad death,” protested Olivier in hurt tones. “And he must be told quickly, because the will is contested and he is your overlord. You might think that you are due to inherit, Walter, but remember what we discovered only last summer-that there is some question regarding your legitimacy. If that is true, then my wife Joan is the next in line, and although it is unusual to inherit through the female line, it is not unknown.”

“But if Walter is illegitimate, the manor will pass to me,” snapped Stephen. “I am the oldest legitimate son.”

“But none of you will succeed!” cried Henry in wild delight, triumphantly waving aloft the ring he had wrested from the old man’s finger. “I have the best claim: I am legitimate and I was born in England. And better yet, I have a Saxon wife-just like the King. My marriage will unite the Normans with the Saxons, and all these border skirmishes will be at an end!”

“I thought your border skirmishes were with the Welsh,” said Geoffrey, puzzled, “not the Saxons.”

No one took any notice of him as they argued with each other, so he walked to the bed and looked down at the body of his father.

“God’s teeth!” he swore, the shock in his voice instantly silencing his squabbling kin. “He is not dead!”

He punched Henry off the bed and cradled his father gently in his arm. Henry staggered to his feet and advanced, eyes blazing with fury. Geoffrey looked up at him steadily, daring him to attack, and Henry, realising he would not win a physical confrontation with his taller, stronger brother, kicked the bed in frustration and thwarted anger. Geoffrey ignored his tantrum and pulled the covers up around his father’s chin, realising that the chamber was fireless and chilly.

Sir Godric Mappestone, hero of Hastings and honoured warrior of the Conqueror, opened his eyes, and Geoffrey saw that he was not as near death as his family had led him to believe. He was pale and gaunt certainly, and perhaps even mortally ill, but his breathing was deep and regular and his sharp green eyes were alert and as calculating as ever.

Geoffrey studied him curiously, remembering the fiery, aggressive man who had ruled his childhood home with a rod of iron. His thick hair was solid grey, and the strong-featured face was lined with age and a life spent out of doors. His eyes held a trace of amusement, and Geoffrey wondered if his father had not feigned his “death” so that Geoffrey might witness exactly the scene that he had, with his brothers fighting over the ring and searching his body for valuables. It would certainly be an act in keeping with his crafty character.

“Godfrey, my son!” said Godric in a weak voice. “You have come back from the Crusade to see me before I die!”

“Geoffrey,” corrected Geoffrey. He smiled at Godric, saddened to see the great warrior so incapacitated. He shuddered at the sickness that had reduced the mighty, blustering Godric to the skeletal figure that lay in his arm, and decided that falling in battle was infinitely preferable.

“One of my treacherous brood has poisoned me, Godfrey,” muttered Godric. “With arsenic, my physician thinks. Or perhaps the fungus galerinus.”

“He is rambling again,” said Bertrada, from the other side of the room. “He often claims that one of us is killing him. He will be accusing you in a moment.”

“She is trying to make you believe that I have lost my wits, Godfrey,” said Godric with a faint smile. “But I am as sharp as I ever was. Someone has been poisoning me slowly and deliberately for months now, and I have grown more feeble each day. Did you see how they searched me for items of value, hoping I was dead? It is not even safe for me to sleep!”

“They will not do so again,” said Geoffrey. “I will see that they do not.”

Godric regarded him uncertainly. “You are a good boy, Godfrey,” he said eventually. “Even if you did harbour odd notions about wanting to be a scholar. Perhaps I should have sent Henry away instead of you-then I would not be lying here dying now.”

“You think Henry is poisoning you?” asked Geoffrey, fixing his long-haired brother with a disconcerting stare. Henry was the first to look away.

“I do not know which of them it is,” said Godric. “Walter and his wife, Bertrada, Joan and her husband Olivier, Stephen, or Henry and his angelic Hedwise-they all have their own reasons for wanting me out of this world. If you had come a few weeks earlier, you might have saved me.”

“You may recover,” said Geoffrey, hoping the doubt he felt did not reflect itself in his voice. Whether Godric was in control of his mental faculties, Geoffrey was not qualified to say, but the knight had seen enough dying men to know when a body was beyond repair.

Godric gave a rustling laugh and closed his eyes. “I will not get better now, Godfrey. The poison has damaged my vital organs. Ask my physician about it. He will tell you.”

“If you are so certain that someone wishes your death, why did you not hire a servant to prepare your food, so that no more poisons would reach you?” asked Geoffrey, certain that he would not have lain down and let the likes of Henry and his kin sentence him to a lingering death while he still had strength to prevent it.

“I did. But servants can be bribed, or if not bribed, then dispatched with no questions asked.”

“Torva’s death was an accident,” protested Walter wearily. “He was drunk, and he fell in the moat. There was nothing remotely suspicious about his demise.”

Godric fixed watery eyes on Geoffrey. “And what do you think, Godfrey? Do you consider such a timely death to be mere coincidence?”

Geoffrey’s thoughts whirled. “The man you hired to prepare your food was drowned?”

Despite his low opinion of his brothers, Geoffrey still had not convinced himself that one of them would subject their father to a death by degrees. But Torva’s death seemed opportune, to say the least.

“It was an accident,” insisted Bertrada. “Accidents do happen, you know.”

Geoffrey looked around at his assembled relatives, seeing a variety of emotions expressed. Henry appeared to be bored, twisting the stolen ring round on his finger, while Hedwise watched him absently. Walter and Bertrada were acting as though this were a discussion that had been aired many times before, and they were heartily tired of it. Stephen seemed uneasy, although whether this reflected a guilty conscience or was merely due to the uncomfortable nature of the conversation, Geoffrey could not tell.

“Was this Torva an habitual drinker?” Geoffrey asked eventually, supposing that there might conceivably be an innocent explanation of the servant’s death.

“Yes, he was,” snapped Walter. “He went to the tavern every night after he prepared father’s dinner. He was found dead in our moat one morning, where he had fallen as he had weaved his way home. The guards said they thought they had heard a splash, but it had been too dark for them to see anything.”

“And before you ask, there was not a mark on his body,” said Stephen, rather too quickly for Geoffrey’s liking. “He was drunk and he drowned. End of story.”

End of Torva, too, thought Geoffrey. “And did you hire another servant to take Torva’s place?”

“Oh, yes,” said Godric. “But I am uncertain as to whether he can be trusted. With Torva, I told him that if I became worse, I would kill him-so he had an incentive to keep me alive. But young Ine knows that I am not in a position to carry out such a threat on him. Why should he not take a bribe from the villain who is killing me by degrees?”

“Godric has been spreading these lies all over the county,” said Bertrada to Geoffrey. “He even sent for the Earl of Shrewsbury, who arrived with his personal physician. Neither found anything amiss-the physician said Godric has a wasting disease, for which there is no cure.”

“You have come just in time, Godfrey,” whispered Godric, the softness of his voice forcing Geoffrey to lean close to hear him.

Not wanting to miss anything, the others clustered round, jostling each other to secure the best places. The old man’s eyes gleamed with malice when he saw them elbowing each other just to listen to his whispered conversation with Geoffrey, and Geoffrey suspected that his father derived a great deal of pleasure from the dissension and suspicion that festered between his children and their spouses.

“Three weeks ago, when Stephen told me that Godfrey was returning, I made a new will,” Godric said, just loud enough for the others to hear.

His eyes glittered as he spoke, and Geoffrey’s spirits sank. He sensed he was about to hear something he would rather not know.

There was a stunned silence in the bedchamber as the old man made his announcement. Seeing he had his family’s complete attention, Godric leaned back in Geoffrey’s arms with a weak grin of satisfaction.

“I have made a new will,” he said again.

“But the old one will stand,” said Walter loudly. “No court in the land will countenance another made while you are far from sound in mind and body.”

“The Earl of Shrewsbury himself witnessed it,” said Godric, his grin widening as he witnessed his eldest son’s consternation. “Will you tell him that he is an inadequate judge, or shall I? Godfrey, come closer. The new will is hidden in the chest at the end of the bed, under my shirts. Find it, and bring it to me.”

Gently easing Godric’s head onto the pillow, Geoffrey did as he was bidden, watched intently by his kinsmen. At first he thought Godric was mistaken, because he could find nothing, but when Henry grabbed a handful of shirts and shook them impatiently, a scroll of parchment dropped to the floor. There was an undignified scramble for it, which Geoffrey watched dispassionately. Since none of them could read, possession of it would do them little good.

Not surprisingly, Henry emerged triumphant from the skirmish, and broke the seal with his thick fingers. The others clustered round, Stephen fingering a split lip, and Bertrada pushing her tousled hair back under her wimple.

“What does it say?” enquired Geoffrey provocatively, as Henry turned it this way and that in frustration.

Henry flashed him a vicious look. “Where is that lazy clerk? Norbert!” he yelled down the stairwell. “Norbert, where are you?”

Norbert the scribe appeared almost immediately, suggesting to Geoffrey that his brothers and sisters-in-law were not the only ones party to what had been happening in his father’s bedchamber. He wondered how many more of the household were gathered on the stairs to listen to the unsavoury twists and turns of his family’s affairs.

“Read this,” ordered Henry, shoving the scroll into Norbert’s hands. From the bed, Godric gave a low cackle of amusement.

“Norbert knows full well what is in it: he was present when it was drawn up-although it was actually written by that fat priest who acts as the Earl’s scribe, because Norbert’s writing is not all it should be. And do not think that destroying it will do you any good, because the Earl has a copy. I am not so foolish as to believe that any of you will honour my last wishes when there is wealth at stake.”

“What mischief have you done?” protested Walter in horror. “You know I am your rightful heir. You have always said so.”

“But I have not always been dying from poison,” said Godric, his lips still parted in the smile that reminded Geoffrey of a wall-painting he had once seen of the Devil. “And anyway, you, Walter, were born out of wedlock, so you have no claim at all. Ask my brother Sigurd if you doubt my word.”

“Hah!” exclaimed Henry with spiteful satisfaction.

“But Sigurd has never liked me!” cried Walter. “Of course he will support such a claim. He has always favoured Stephen.”

Henry gave an unpleasant laugh that brought Walter towards him with a murderous expression on his face. Stephen interposed himself between them.

“Then the manor is mine?” he asked, prising his brothers apart. “I am legitimate, and you always said I looked like our mother. I am no bastard.”

“But you are also no son of mine,” said Godric, with a malice that unnerved Geoffrey. “You, Stephen, are the spawn of your mother’s lover.”

“Father!” intervened Geoffrey, shocked. “Consider what you say. You slander our mother’s good name.”

“What good name?” queried Godric, shifting his gaze from Stephen to Geoffrey. “She cuckolded me every bit as much as I was unfaithful to her. She chose my brother with whom to couple, and Stephen is the result. Why do you think Sigurd has taken such an interest in him all his life? No one could believe it is because of his appealing personality. And where do you think that red hair comes from? It is not from me-but Sigurd has red hair.”

“What a pity,” mused Walter to Stephen. “If I could have chosen which brother to rid myself of, it would have been Henry, not you.”

“So, my claim will stand,” crowed Henry triumphantly. He snatched the will from Norbert and made for the door. “I am away to see the King and to ensure that no one pre-empts me. I am legitimate, the son of Godric, and I was born on English soil. What more need be said?”

“No,” said Godric, his soft voice stopping Henry dead in his tracks. “You have always claimed you were born on English soil, but you never bothered to verify it with the people who really know-your mother and myself. In fact, Henry, you were born in France, after the Conqueror’s fleet had left. The Conqueror was King of England days before your mewling presence was known on English soil.

“You are right,” said Henry to Bertrada, after a moment of reflection. He regarded the gloating face on the bed with a look of pure loathing. “Godric rambles; he does not know what he is saying.”

“But Joan’s claim would come before Henry’s, regardless of where he was born,” began Olivier timidly from the other side of the room.

“Remove that whining coward from my presence!” ordered Godric hotly, pointing a thin finger at Olivier. “He parades around pretending to be a warrior, and he is not fit to breathe the same air as me.”

Geoffrey began to suspect that this was not the first time such a scene had been played out at his father’s supposed death-bed. Godric, weak and dying though he might be, was not too frail to manipulate his children and to take sadistic pleasure from their quarrelling.

“If Walter is illegitimate and Stephen is not your son, then I am next in line,” said Henry, pulling himself up to his full height. “Whether I was born in England, France, or on the Channel, matters not one bit!”

“Godfrey is the only one of my sons who cannot have poisoned me,” said Godric, enjoying Henry’s anger. “The new will names him as my successor.”

“But I do not want it!” cried Geoffrey in horror, rising so abruptly that the sick man had to grab Walter to prevent himself from being tipped off the bed. “Please! I have no wish to be fettered here.”

And he certainly had no wish to be the sole target for his displaced brothers” ire for the remainder of what would doubtless prove to be a very short life.

“That is quite a brilliant bit of acting, Geoffrey,” said Walter bitterly as he pushed Godric back on the bed. “So now we know why your arrival home is so timely-you must have been planning this for months.”

“I do not want Goodrich,” said Geoffrey forcefully. “I am not interested in such things. If I were, I could have had an estate ten times the size of Goodrich in the Holy Land.”

“But you have already shown yourself to be less than efficient at looting,” said Bertrada. “I was in the village this morning, and I learned that even that feeble lout Mark Ingram came home with more booty than you did. I think you failed to secure your fortune there, and so have come to steal away what is rightfully ours.”

“You knew all along what Godric was planning, and you contrived to hasten his end,” continued Henry in the same vein. “None of us is poisoning Godric. You are!”

“Oh, Henry!” said Geoffrey, exasperated by the lack of logic. “How can that be possible? I have been thousands of miles away!”

“I know how,” said Stephen thoughtfully. He turned to his brothers. “It is coincidental that Ine arrived home from the Crusade so soon after Torva died, is it not? That is because Geoffrey dispatched him from Jerusalem to do his dirty work!”

As one, Walter, Bertrada, Stephen, Olivier, Hedwise and Henry cast accusing eyes towards Geoffrey. Geoffrey regarded them aghast. In the bed, Godric cackled in wheezy delight, and made no attempt to support the innocence of his newly created heir. While Geoffrey had anticipated that his home-coming would not be as pleasant as that of Barlow and Ingram, he had certainly not expected to be charged with the murder of his father. He took a deep breath, and fought against the unreasonable desire to run them all through there and then, and really provide them something with which to accuse him.

“No,” he said firmly. “I have never heard of Ine, and I most certainly do not want Goodrich. The will must be changed back to favour Walter, as it should.”

“Should it? Should it?” shouted Henry bitterly. “Well, I do not think anything of the kind!”

“Then change it to favour you,” said Geoffrey, losing patience. “I do not care one way or the other. I want nothing to do with it.”

“But Goodrich should be mine,” said Stephen. “And I do not believe I am Sigurd’s son-he would have told me if I were.”

How Godric had gone from four perfectly legitimate sons to only one within a matter of moments, defied Geoffrey’s imagination. He glanced down at his father, who was thoroughly enjoying the consternation and friction his revelations had caused.

“Norbert,” said Stephen suddenly, elbowing Walter out of the way to grab the clerk’s sleeve. “What exactly does this will say?”

Clearing his throat, Norbert began to read. “‘This is the last will and testament of Sir Godric Mappestone, lord of the manor of Goodrich, Kernebrigges, Druybruk-’”

“Druybruk?” queried Henry. “I did not know we had that.”

“There is much you do not know, little brother,” sneered Walter. “Continue Norbert.”

“‘Druybruk, Dena-’”

“Yes, yes,” said Walter, impatiently. “We know all this.”

“Well, some of us do,” added Stephen, with a malicious glance at Henry.

“‘… am in sound mind and body …’”

Bertrada gave a snort of derision.

“‘and I leave my complete estate and all my riches to my youngest son, Godfrey Mappestone, who is in the service of the Duke of Normandy in the Holy Land. The rest of my brood can go to the Devil. Signed this eighteenth day of the month of December, in the year of Our Lord 1100.’”

Stephen released Norbert’s arm, eyes glittering with savage delight. “I thought as much! He has no legitimate son called Godfrey, and certainly none in the service of the Duke of Normandy. The old fool never could remember Geoffrey’s name, and Geoffrey is now in the service of Tancred, as he told us last night. This new will means nothing at all! We can contest it!”

Geoffrey heaved a sigh of relief, grateful beyond measure that his father’s long-standing lapse of memory had at last worked to his advantage.

“No!” cried Godric angrily. “The Earl of Shrewsbury will see that my last wishes are upheld! Godfrey is a nickname, and everyone will know which son I mean to inherit.”

“Not I,” said Stephen. “I know of no Godfrey, nickname or not.”

“Nor I,” said Henry.

“Enough of this,” said Geoffrey. He could see his father was tiring, and he had no wish to spend the entire day arguing over a will that no one had any intention of honouring. “Contest the will if you like, but I relinquish all part in it. I will remain in Goodrich until Father … well …”

“Until he begins his journey to Hell,” supplied Bertrada, glaring at the sick man.

“As you will. And then I will leave you. I do not want Goodrich, and Tancred will not allow me to stay here anyway. If ever I do return to England, I will be quite happy with Rwirdin.”

“Oh, you will not like that at all,” said Walter quickly, casting a guilty glance at Olivier. “It is a miserable place all surrounded by hills and forest. When I am lord of Goodrich, I will find you something better.”

Geoffrey sighed. “Very well. But let us discuss this another time. Father is tiring. He should be allowed to rest.”

“Causing family discord is tiring,” said Bertrada icily. “Everyone seems surprised that he claims one of his family is poisoning him, but if they knew him as we do, the surprise would be that he has lived his sixty-six years without one of us trying it before.”

“That is a cruel thing for a daughter to say,” said Stephen. “What will Geoffrey think when he hears you so callously chattering about Godric’s poisoning?”

“You mean his alleged poisoning,” snapped Bertrada. “We all know he is making it up. He has a wasting sickness, and is dying of purely natural causes. He is spreading these vicious rumours about us because he loves to see us fight.”

“I am being poisoned just as surely as I lie here,” said Godric. “My physician will provide any proof that is needed. And one of you miserable dogs is responsible!”

“How?” demanded Bertrada. “Ine prepares all your food and, despite what you are trying to tell Geoffrey about Ine being bribed by one of us, you were ill when Torva prepared it, too. You are not being poisoned; you are dying because a disease is eating your innards away.”

“If you really believe what you claim, why do you not leave Goodrich?” asked Geoffrey, reluctant to continue the subject, but puzzled by Godric’s seemingly passive role in his own death.

“It is far too late now,” snapped Godric. “I am already too ill to recover.”

“But what about earlier?” persisted Geoffrey. “Why did you not leave when you first had your suspicions? It is not as if you have no other manors in which to live.”

“Two reasons, you cheeky young whelp!” hissed Godric. He was pale, and his breathing was shallow and strained. “First, Goodrich is mine, and I will not be driven out of it by some poisoner. And second, they would have followed me. They are all too frightened that one might gain an advantage over the other, and none of them dares leave my side.”

“Then perhaps you should consider bequeathing everything to the Church,” suggested Geoffrey, looking down dispassionately at the panting man in the bed. “That would put an end to all this wrangling, and give you some peace.”

“How dare you interfere!” yelled Henry, hurling himself at Geoffrey, fists at the ready. Geoffrey side-stepped him neatly, and used his brother’s momentum to send him crashing into the wall.

“Enough!” he roared as Walter and Stephen seemed about to rally to Henry’s defence. His voice was loud and angry enough to stop them in their tracks and to silence Henry’s groans. He glared round at them. “Our father-poisoned or not-is ill. Sick people’s minds often wander and cause them to say things we would rather they did not. Either accept this, or do not come to see him. Now, he is tired, and he needs to rest-or would you kill him here and now by simple exhaustion?”

From the expressions on their faces, Geoffrey could see that they would like that very much, but reason eventually prevailed, and everyone left Godric to sleep. Geoffrey helped the sick man swallow the dregs of some wine he found stored in an impressively large metal pitcher that took both hands to lift. Godric clearly wanted to talk further, but was too weary and Geoffrey had listened to more than enough accusations for one day. He straightened the bedclothes, and stood back to allow Hedwise to feed the sick man some broth.

“You want to watch her, son,” said Godric, in a hoarse whisper a little later, nodding to where Hedwise was stoking up the fire. “She has a preference for men other than her husband.”

“So do I,” said Geoffrey fervently, drawing a wheezy chuckle from the dying man.

The morning’s squabble had left Godric exhausted, and Geoffrey sat with him for the remainder of the day to ensure he was allowed to rest in peace. He stayed in Godric’s chamber, and repelled a continuous stream of visitors who were anxious that Godric might be getting better. It was tedious work, and he began to regret his offer to stay at Goodrich until his father rallied or died.

Godric’s room was gloomy, a sensation enhanced by the dismal wall-paintings with their macabre themes. Whether the subject was hunting or battle, there were impossible volumes of blood, and Geoffrey wondered what fevered mind had produced such a testament to violence. He threw open the window shutters, for the room stank of dirty rushes, sickness, and paint, but Godric complained that he was cold, and refused to sleep until Geoffrey had closed them again.

Geoffrey grew restless, unused to such an extended period of inactivity, but found he was unable to concentrate on much-even on his precious books. The cheap tallow candles, which smoked and spat and added their own eye-watering odour to the hot room, did not provide sufficient light by which to read, and they gave him a headache. By the end of the evening, when Hedwise came to feed Godric his broth, Geoffrey felt sick and his limbs had a sluggish, aching feel in them. He supposed he must have caught a chill from his dip in the river, and went to sit near the fire, hoping the feeling would pass after a good night’s sleep.

He had already dispensed with his chain-mail-if his family attacked him as he slept, Geoffrey decided there was more advantage in being able to move quickly than encumbered with heavy armour, and anyway, it did not seem appropriate to be in a sickroom wearing full battle gear. He tugged off the boiled leather jerkin he wore for light protection, and prepared to sleep wearing shirt and leggings.

“Fetch me my scribe,” ordered Godric imperiously, as Geoffrey’s eyelids began to droop. “I wish to see him immediately.”

“What, now?” asked Geoffrey, startled awake. “It is very late. He is probably asleep.”

“Then go and wake him,” said Godric, punctuating each word as if he were talking to a child. “Do you think I pay him to doze all night? Anyway, he is probably off practising with that silly crossbow of his. He thinks I do not know how he spends his free time, but I have seen him.”

“Where will I find him?” asked Geoffrey, climbing to his feet to do his father’s bidding. “Does he sleep in the hall?”

“How should I know?” snapped Godric petulantly. “I have barely left this chamber since Christmas. How am I supposed to know who sleeps with whom in this place?”

Geoffrey suppressed an impatient response. “I will ask Walter,” he said, opening the door.

“You will do no such thing!” roared Godric with surprising force. “I do not want Walter asking questions about what I plan to do. My business is between me and Norbert, and none of my greedy whelps-including you.”

“Fine,” said Geoffrey, reminding himself that Godric was a sick man, and that grabbing him by the throat to shake some manners into him was not appropriate. “But if you do not know where Norbert might be found, and I am forbidden to ask, how am I supposed to bring him to you?”

“Insolent cur!” hissed Godric. “I leave you my manor and you repay me by acting with rank discourtesy! I have a good mind to disinherit you in favour of one of the others.”

“I will be back in a while,” said Geoffrey. Henry might have risen to Godric’s baiting, but Geoffrey would not.

He closed the door on Godric’s outrage and went down the stairs to the hall. It was late evening, and several lamps were lit, casting long shadows across the room. Walter sat near the fire with Stephen, arguing about the merit and flaws of some hunting dog or other, while Henry slouched in a corner, well away from them, honing a sword that already looked razor-sharp and refreshing himself from a large flagon of wine. Bertrada and Hedwise crouched together over a tapestry, straining their eyes in the poor light to add the stitches, while Olivier amused himself by watching them. At the far end of the room, a group of servants had gathered, and were listening to a travelling entertainer strumming softly on a rebec as he sang a sad ballad.

Geoffrey looked among them for Norbert, but the scribe was not there. Opening the door, he left the hall and stepped outside into the cracking cold of a January night. The sky was clear, and stars were blasted all over it. Geoffrey gazed up at them for a moment, recalling how different they had looked in the Holy Land. He took several deep breaths, and felt the residual queasiness that had been plaguing him most of the day begin to recede. Since he was out, he went to check on his destrier.

As he was walking, he saw a shadow flit from the stables to one of the outhouses. Curious, he followed, pushing open the door and peering inside. At first he thought the outhouse was in complete darkness, but there was a faint light coming from the far end. Clumsily tripping over discarded pieces of saddlery and a pile of broken tools, he made his way towards it.

Norbert sat at a crude table, his habitually pale face moonlike in the dim flame of the candle. But what caught Geoffrey’s attention, and what sent him starting backwards so that he almost fell, was the bow that the scribe had aimed at Geoffrey’s chest.

“Sir Geoffrey!” said Norbert, rising to his feet and lowering the weapon. “I am sorry if I alarmed you. Please come in.”

On closer inspection, Geoffrey saw that the bow was quite harmless because there was no string. Embarrassed by his dramatic response to a disabled weapon, he went to stand next to the table.

“This seems an odd item for a scribe to possess,” he said, studying the bow with the critical eye of the professional. It was a wretched thing-old and cracked-and he wondered whether the effort of re-stringing it would be worthwhile.

“I grew up around here,” said Norbert with a smile, gesturing to a box on which Geoffrey might sit. “I could shoot a bow before I could write, and was providing food for all my family by the time I was ten. That was many years ago, though, before hunting in the King’s forests was forbidden.”

“The people who live in the forest must deeply resent those laws,” said Geoffrey, thinking about Caerdig and his half-starved rabble of villagers. “Especially when food is scarce.”

“It is my main objection to the rule of King Henry,” said Norbert, nodding.

“This bow would not present much danger to his beasts,” remarked Geoffrey. He picked up an arrow that was lying on the table, noting that the wood was cheap and the balance was poor.

Norbert smiled again. “Not much danger to anyone attacking Godric’s castle, either,” he said wryly. “And this is one of the best that we have. I own a crossbow, but the winding mechanism is broken and the blacksmith says he does not know how to repair it. But even if we had the best bows England had to offer, it would do us no good, because there is no one at Goodrich who could hit a horse at twenty paces.”

“I had noticed that the guards were somewhat lacking in military skills,” admitted Geoffrey. “It surprised me, because I thought my father would be concerned that Goodrich might come under attack by all these hostile neighbours he seems to have accumulated.”

“None of those are likely to attack the castle,” said Norbert. “They might harass the odd traveller, and the likes of Caerdig of Lann Martin are always after our cattle, but our neighbours do not have the weapons, skill, courage, or stupidity to attack Goodrich directly.”

“So, I can sleep safe in my bed tonight, then?” asked Geoffrey, raising an eyebrow.

“Hardly!” said Norbert, with a shudder. “Someone has been poisoning your father since last spring, and someone tried to poison your sister Enide too. Goodrich is a place where you would be safer outside it than in.”

“My father is demanding that you attend him immediately,” said Geoffrey, reluctant to discuss poisoners and murderers with the servants. “Do you mind, or shall I say I could not find you? It is very late.”

Norbert’s pale blue eyes opened wide with astonishment. “I will go. But thank you for your consideration-it is more than I have been given in fifteen years from the rest of your family. They regard my learning more as a necessary evil than a hard-earned skill.”

“They seem to regard our father as an evil, too,” mused Geoffrey, more to himself than Norbert. “His life is a burden to them and his death will be a cause for rejoicing.”

Norbert laughed quietly. “And vice-versa. Have you noticed that you are the only one who calls him ‘Father”? A year or so ago, he demanded that the entire brood and their spouses call him Godric, because none of them were worthy of the right to claim him as a parent. You can imagine how they took that insult!”

Geoffrey could only shake his head over both sides in this futile feud. He stood and followed Norbert out, tripping over the same tools and discarded saddles as he had on the way in.

“Could you not find a more conducive place in which to mend your bows?” he grumbled, rubbing his chin, where a rake had sprung up and hit him.

“When it is very cold, I stay in the hall,” Norbert answered over his shoulder as he walked. “But no one ever uses this building in the evenings, and I like the solitude. It is often a relief to escape from the Mapp-from people.”

Geoffrey knew exactly what he had been going to say, and concurred wholeheartedly with him. He led the way across the yard and through the hall. The others looked up as he walked towards the stairs with Norbert in tow.

“Where are you going?” demanded Henry immediately, standing so abruptly that he spilled his wine. “What are you up to, fetching Norbert at this time of night?”

“Father sent for him,” said Geoffrey.

“You are going to change his will,” said Walter accusingly. “You are going to make him alter the name from Godfrey to Geoffrey.”

“How dare you try to cheat us!” hissed Bertrada furiously. “You have no right!”

“You are all ridiculous!” Geoffrey snapped. It had been a long day, and he felt he had already been more than patient with his relatives” accusations. “Use the few brains you were born with before you make such outrageously stupid comments! First, I can write as well as Norbert, and so do not require him to change the will-if I were so inclined. Second, who would witness this new document? Wills need two independent witnesses to be legal. Third, if I wanted Goodrich, I would take it and none of you would be able to stop me.”

He stalked out of the hall and up the stairs, Norbert scurrying behind him. He forced himself to take several deep breaths to control his anger before he opened the door to Godric’s room.

“Here is Norbert,” he said, ushering in the clerk.

“Thank you. Now get out,” said Godric viciously. “I do not want any of my brood listening to my private business with my clerk. Kindly remove yourself and shut the door.”

“With the greatest of pleasure,” said Geoffrey, slamming it as he left. He rubbed hard at the bridge of his nose, and then stamped up the narrow spiral staircase to the tiny door that led to the battlements, longing for some peace.

The door to the roof had not been used for some time, and Geoffrey was beginning to think he would have to rejoin his squabbling siblings in the hall, when it shot open, sending cobwebs billowing everywhere. Leaving the door swinging in the breeze behind him, he stepped out onto the parapet that ran around the top of the keep.

Battlements was too grand a term to describe the low wall that ran around the gently pitched roof. It reached Geoffrey’s waist in parts, but mostly it was little higher than knee level. Geoffrey supposed that archers might be able to operate from it if the keep ever came under attack, but they would be horribly exposed each time they stood to fire. He was a passable marksman himself, although he had not taken to the bow much as a weapon and did not like to hunt, but he would not have liked shooting from Godric’s crumbling parapet.

He found a stretch of wall that seemed more sound that the rest, and leaned his elbows on the top. A light wind ruffled his hair and bit through his shirt and leggings. Once alone, he felt mildly ashamed of his outburst in the hall, and of his brief flash of temper with his father. Enide’s letters had been full of the contest between his siblings for control over Goodrich, and it was clear that inheritance had become such an important issue to his family that they were unable to think of little else. He knew he should not allow them to irritate him.

But what was said was said, and he would know to hold his tongue the next time. He leaned over the parapet and looked down into the bailey, three floors below. It was dark, but he could just make out the outlines of the buildings in the outer ward, while in the village beyond he could hear distant laughter as the celebrations for the return of Ingram, Barlow, and Helbye continued.

He lost track of the time he stood leaning on the wall, enjoying the peace of the evening and the pleasure of being alone. Lights were doused in the hall, and Geoffrey could hear Godric yelling furiously for something. He suspected that the old man wanted him, but he was in no mood to deal with his father’s cantankerous nature that night. Bertrada had been right, he thought with a grim smile-Godric was lucky no one had poisoned him before.

“Why are you out here, all alone and in the cold?”

Geoffrey jumped in shock at the soft voice close behind him, and spun round. Hedwise stood there, laughing coquettishly at his alarm, covering her mouth with her hand and her eyes bright with laughter. Geoffrey was appalled at himself. No one could have slipped up so silently behind him in the Holy Land-and if they had, it would probably have meant a Saracen dagger between his ribs. As he had done at the ford the previous day, he wondered whether he was losing his touch. He rubbed tiredly at his eyes and told himself that he would need to take greater care if he did not want Henry or one of the others sneaking up behind him with lethal intent.

“It is peaceful here,” he said in answer to Hedwise’s enquiry. “Or at least it was.”

Hedwise’s face turned sulky. “Now, now, Geoffrey! You have no cause to be hostile to me. The door was open and a gale was blowing down the stairs. I was puzzled, so I came to investigate. No one ever comes up here-it is not safe.”

Geoffrey leaned his elbows back on the wall, and she came to stand next to him.

“It should be better maintained,” he said. “Supposing the castle were attacked? What does Father plan to do-kill the hostile forces with the bodies of his archers as they tumble off the walls?”

Hedwise laughed. “You are right, but we have no money for such repairs. Everyone was hoping you might provide that from your Holy Land loot. But let us not talk of such things. I am delighted you have come to visit us. I was beginning to think that I might never meet you, or that I would be an old woman by the time you returned.”

“I am surprised you gave it any thought whatsoever,” said Geoffrey. “It cannot be that you have gained a favourable impression of me from Henry.”

“Oh, Henry!” said Hedwise, waving a dismissive hand impatiently. “I was unlucky to have such a bore foisted upon me. I did not want to marry him, but my family thought it was a good match, so I had no choice. Henry is a lout-I would have done better wed to one of the farm hands.”

Geoffrey imagined she was probably right, but did not feel it appropriate to comment. Hedwise sidled a little closer to him, rubbing up against his side. When he edged away, she moved with him.

“I would have been better off with you,” she continued.

Geoffrey inched away a second time. “I would have made you a poor husband,” he said. “Unless you happen to like reading.”

“You could have taught me,” she said.

To his alarm, he felt an arm slip around his waist. Was this a genuine attempt at seduction, he thought, or was she simply trying to have him found in some dreadfully compromising position by the fiery Henry? He removed her arm firmly and turned to face her, but she was not so easily disengaged. He found one hand snaking around the back of his neck to pull him towards her, while the other one grabbed a handful of his shirt. Startled, he slithered out of her grip, and began to move towards the door.

“Come now, Geoffrey,” she said, pouting at him in mock censure. “We are alone here. What harm is there in us establishing a more intimate relationship?”

“A great deal of harm if Henry were to find out,” said Geoffrey. “I am in bad enough favour as it is, and I do not want to compound matters by seducing his wife.”

“Will you seduce me, then?” she asked with a smile that verged on being a leer.

“I will not,” said Geoffrey firmly. He had succeeded in edging round her so that he was closest to the door. “And it is cold up here. You should come inside, or you will take a chill. Women in your condition should not be fooling around on battlements in the depths of the night.”

“Ah, yes,” she said, leaning back against the wall and folding her arms. “I told you that I am carrying another of Henry’s brats, did I? Well, let us hope it is more pleasant than the last little monster he sired. I am hoping that dog of yours will dispatch that one for me. Things looked promising yesterday, but Stephen intervened.”

“Those do not seem to be especially maternal sentiments,” he said, appalled that his dog might be encouraged to harm a child. “Surely your baby cannot have earned your dislike already?”

“Spoken like a true bachelor,” said Hedwise in some disgust. “Believe me, Geoffrey, that brat is every inch his father. He even bears his father’s name. But I did not come here to discuss Henry. I came to learn more of you.”

“It is late,” said Geoffrey quickly. “And I am tired. If you will excuse me, I would like to retire.”

“Are you running away from me?” asked Hedwise, following him towards the door. “Such timidity does not become you, Geoffrey. No wonder you returned lootless from the Holy Land, if you are driven away so easily.”

At that moment, Geoffrey would sooner have faced an army of Saracens than his brother’s lecherous wife, but he said nothing. He opened the door, ignoring her restraining hands on his shirt, and clattered down the spiral stairway to the hall. Breathing heavily, he looked around. Henry was banking the fire in the great hearth, and Geoffrey heaved a sigh of relief. At least Henry had not seen him and Hedwise emerging together from the battlements and jumped to the wrong conclusion.

He walked across to the fire and knelt next to it. Henry said nothing, and Geoffrey felt a sudden sympathy for his bad-tempered brother. Henry was trapped in a loveless marriage, and was probably deeply unhappy. A fleeting notion crossed his mind that Henry might be a more pleasant person away from Goodrich, and he wondered whether he should offer to take him to Jerusalem when he left. But Geoffrey dismissed that thought instantly: Palestine would provide Henry with unlimited opportunities for his aggression and greed, and whereas Henry would doubtless thoroughly enjoy the Holy Land, the Holy Land certainly did not need yet another man like Henry.

Hedwise glided across the floor towards them, her face slightly flushed. “Godric is calling for you,” she said to Geoffrey. “He said he will not sleep unless you are in the room with him.”

“How did he manage before?” asked Geoffrey, making no move to stand. “Did someone else stay with him?”

“No,” said Hedwise. “But he often wakes and calls out for us. We take it in turns-Bertrada, Joan, and I. He claims the poison makes his stomach crave food in the night, and so we usually have a pot of broth warming for him on the hearth. Of course, he almost always brings it back up again as soon as he has finished it.”

“Really, Hedwise,” said Henry in disgust. “I am sure Geoffrey does not want to hear those kind of details, and I certainly do not.”

“That is because you do not have to deal with it, night after night,” said Hedwise, not without bitterness. “You simply turn over and go back to sleep.” She turned to Geoffrey. “Godric claims the poison is making him sick, but we are sure it is the wasting sickness he has.”

From the stairwell came a tremulous cry, simultaneously pitiful and demanding. Geoffrey snapped his fingers to his dog, and stood. He sensed that if he did not go to Godric, no one would get any sleep that night.

“Thank you, Geoffrey,” said Hedwise, smiling seductively. “We all appreciate your kindness.”

Geoffrey gave her an ambiguous nod and made for the stairs, aware that Henry was watching him with some suspicion. Was Hedwise determined to have Henry believe that she and Geoffrey were embarking on a relationship that was more than fraternal? And if so, why? Was it to make Henry divorce her on grounds of infidelity? On reflection, Geoffrey decided that ridding herself of Henry and Goodrich was probably was a perfectly adequate reason for Hedwise to initiate an affair with her brother-in-law. He pushed open the door to Godric’s room and went to the bed.

“There you are,” grumbled Godric. “Where have you been? Flirting with your brother’s wife out on the battlements?”

Geoffrey stared at him. Was the old man really bed-ridden, or was he fooling them all, and secretly was as hale and hearty as the next man? But a covert glance at the gaunt skeletal figure told him that even Godric would not be able to mimic such symptoms of serious illness. A shadow glided out the room and closed the door behind him. Norbert. Was he a spy as well as a scribe? Geoffrey rubbed his eyes, and went to pour Godric some of the strong red wine he liked.

“You want to watch that Hedwise, son,” said Godric, as he sipped the wine. “She has her eye on you. And believe me, to have Hedwise’s eye on you is not something that will lead to pleasant consequences-for anyone, but least of all for you.”

Geoffrey did not need to be told.

The following morning was grey and dull. At first, Geoffrey thought he had overslept, and that the dimness resulted from the sun already beginning to set. But after a few moments, the door of Godric’s bedchamber was flung open, and Hedwise entered with the old man’s breakfast. Geoffrey climbed stiffly to his feet, and went to scrub his face with the cold water that stood in a jug in the garderobe passage. He stretched, feeling his muscles aching and sore. He felt sick too, a sensation that was heightened by the nauseating smell of Godric’s fish broth.

While Godric ate his soup and regaled the sceptical Hedwise with tales of his sexual prowess during his youth, Geoffrey rolled up the blanket on which he had been sleeping and stuffed it under the bed. Then he pulled on tough, boiled-leather leggings and his light chain-mail hauberk.

“Are you going out?” asked Hedwise, watching him. “Or do you always dress for the battlefield?”

“He is staying here with me,” said Godric confidently. “He is merely being cautious by wearing all that armour because he is in a house of poisoners.”

“I want to visit Enide’s grave,” said Geoffrey. “I would have gone yesterday, but I stayed with you instead.”

“And you will come back afterwards?” whined Godric feebly. “You will not take the opportunity to go haring back to the Holy Land?”

It was a tempting thought. “No,” said Geoffrey. “I will come back later.”

“Very well, then,” said Godric, waving a papery hand. “You may go.”

Geoffrey buckled his sword round his waist and left, aware that Hedwise was behind him on the stairs. He did not want to resume their conversation of the night before, so he walked more quickly. So did she, and by the time they reached the hall, they entered it virtually at a run.

Walter was standing next to a roaring fire eating something from a bowl, while Stephen was feeding Geoffrey’s dog. The dog, seeing it could leave with Geoffrey or continue to be fed titbits from Stephen, opted for the latter, and Geoffrey left the castle alone. Hearing footsteps behind him, he turned in exasperation, expecting Hedwise to be following him. It was Julian, the stable-boy.

“Here,” the lad said, shoving a wrinkled apple and a remarkably fresh lump of bread into Geoffrey’s hands. “Someone is poisoning Sir Godric, and so you are right not to take breakfast in the castle. But these are safe enough-I baked the bread myself.”

“Baking is a curious talent for a stable-boy,” said Geoffrey, eating the bread. It was quite salty and rather heavy, but he had tasted a good deal worse in the Holy Land.

“That is because they force me to work in the kitchens,” said Julian bitterly. “I hate it there. I would rather be in the stables with the horses.”

“It might not always be like this,” said Geoffrey. “When you are older you might be transferred to work for the grooms if you show an aptitude for it.”

Julian sighed before speeding back towards the kitchens and Geoffrey watched him go. The more he saw Julian, the more he was convinced that there was something peculiar about him. But, Geoffrey reasoned, the entire castle was peculiar, so why should he be considering a single inmate?

He strode out of the barbican, through gates where the guards were nowhere to be seen, and made for the little wooden church of St. Giles at the far end of the village. People acknowledged him as he walked-some did so fearfully, some curiously, but most were resentful, and the more people he encountered, the more Geoffrey realised that the Mappestones were far from popular landlords, and that the villagers regarded him as an extension of a family who ruled by oppression and fear.

The village was not large, and comprised parallel rows of timber-framed and wattle-and-daub houses with the church at the far end. In Geoffrey’s youth, the houses had been pleasant-some had their outsides painted with washes of cream and white, others had their roofs thatched with well-tended golden straw. Twenty years on, the paint had faded to a uniform stained grey, and the thatches were shabby with weeds and nettles. The road that had been even and well drained was now rutted and thick with the human and animal waste that had been allowed to accumulate. The stench was over-whelming-even worse than in parts of Jerusalem. Geoffrey, not a squeamish man, found himself wondering what it would be like at the height of summer, when the sun would roast the fetid sludge and armies of flies would gather to feast on it.

One of the houses was better tended than the rest-its thatch was intact, and most of the black slime, which dripped down the fronts of the others, had been scrubbed away. As Geoffrey walked past it, Sergeant Helbye emerged.

“Will you help us today?” he asked, without preamble. “I came to the castle yesterday, but they would not let me in.”

Geoffrey gazed at him blankly, not certain what he wanted, until Helbye’s wife appeared in the doorway behind her husband.

“Your wife’s second marriage,” he said in sudden understanding. He had quite forgotten his sergeant’s predicament. “You would probably be better seeing the priest than me, Will.”

“Then will you come with us?” said Helbye nervously. “I want no misunderstandings over this. It is important.”

“Yes, it is important,” said Geoffrey kindly. “I am on my way to visit Enide’s grave. We can go to see the priest afterwards, if you like.”

Helbye gave a sigh of relief and nodded gratefully.

“I will show you Enide’s spot in the churchyard,” offered Helbye’s wife, ducking back inside her house for her cloak. “It is difficult to find, unless you know exactly where to look.”

“She is a good wife,” said Helbye in a low whisper, following her with his eyes. “I would not like to lose her and have to go through all the inconvenience of finding another.”

“I am sure you would not,” said Geoffrey.

Helbye had talked a great deal about his wife, but Geoffrey realised that he had never once mentioned her by name. It had always been “she.”

They walked the short distance to the church, and Geoffrey followed Helbye’s wife through the long wet grass to a mound in the corner of the graveyard under the gnarled arms of an oak tree. While Helbye and his wife tactfully busied themselves by pulling dandelion weeds from the dry-stone wall some distance away, Geoffrey stared down at the slight bump that represented his sister’s final resting place.

Geoffrey stood a long time at the foot of the grassy mound under the churchyard elm, thinking about Enide and her many letters to him. He tried again, unsuccessfully, to imagine what she might have looked like as a woman of thirty years of age. If he were honest with himself, even remembering what she had been like when he had left was difficult and, over the years, his perception of Enide had faded to a faceless figure with a plait of thick brown hair. The plait had stuck fast in his mind, because Enide had resisted the attempts of mother and sister to adopt any other style. What had initially been simple preference had soon become a matter of principle, and he knew from her letters that the plait had remained all her life.

Already weeds were beginning to creep across the grave. Geoffrey dropped onto one knee and picked at them absently, wondering what Enide would have liked him to do or say on such an occasion. A rustle in the grass made him turn, and he saw a young priest walking towards him, his black habit swirling around his legs and soaking up a good deal of early morning dew.

“Sir Geoffrey?” the priest asked, looking at the kneeling knight as he tucked his hands in his wide sleeves against the chill. “I am Father Adrian, Goodrich’s vicar. I have heard much about you from Joan and Enide. Welcome home.”

“Thank you,” said Geoffrey. “But I wish Enide were here to say that.”

“So do I,” said Adrian softly. “Finding her body was one of the worst moments of my life.”

“You were the one who found her body?” asked Geoffrey, climbing to his feet. Helbye and his wife came to stand nearby. “My brothers told me that she had just attended mass. What happened?”

Adrian sighed, and gazed up to where the bare branches of the trees patterned the sky. “She attended mass, and then left with the other parishioners. I stayed longer in the church than I would usually have done-there was to be a funeral that day, you see, for a woman who had died in childbirth. I lingered to say prayers for her soul, and when I came out, there was Enide, dead in the grass. Or her body, anyway.”

“What do you mean by ‘her body anyway”?” asked Geoffrey suspiciously.

“Not her head,” explained the priest. “It was missing, and we never found it.”

Geoffrey stared at the priest in horror before turning on Helbye. “What is this? No one mentioned a missing head before! You said you had told me all there was to know!”

“I thought I had,” said Helbye, as surprised as was Geoffrey. “A missing head is news to me.”

He glanced at his wife, but she looked away and would not meet his eyes. Geoffrey grabbed a handful of the priest’s habit, suddenly angry. It had been a shock to read about Enide’s death in the brief note he had been sent in the Holy Land, and it had not been pleasant to hear rumours that his sister had been murdered by decapitation. But he had assumed he had already learned the worst there was to know, and had not anticipated that there would be yet more details regarding Enide’s murder that would shock him.

“What happened?” he demanded of the priest.

“Easy,” said Adrian, unnerved by the knight’s unexpected reaction. “I did not mean to distress you, Sir Geoffrey. I thought your family would have told you about the circumstances surrounding Enide’s death.”

“Let him go, lad,” said Helbye, prising Geoffrey’s hands from Adrian’s gown. “This is a man of God you are mauling here, not some grubby Saracen.”

Geoffrey released the priest reluctantly. “They did not tell me about this,” he said, his voice slightly unsteady. “Where is it?”

“Her head?” asked Adrian, smoothing down his habit. “As I said, that was never found, but some of her hair lay around the corpse, cut as her head was severed.”

“Then perhaps the body you found was not hers,” said Geoffrey, in sudden hope, looking from the priest to Helbye. “Perhaps she is safe somewhere-a convent, maybe. She wrote to tell me that she was considering taking such a path.”

“Do not vex yourself with futile wishes,” said Adrian gently. “The body was Enide’s, I am sorry to say. It wore her clothes and her locket-the one she told me you had given her before you left.”

“Did the men who Henry hanged not tell him where to find her head?” asked Geoffrey.

“Her head was never found,” said Adrian yet again. “Perhaps it was tossed into the river or buried somewhere. But either way, I am sure she rests in peace. I say a mass for her every week.”

“Masses be damned!” snapped Geoffrey. “How can she rest in peace when you do not even know where part of her lies? And I am not even sure the right people died for this foul crime!”

“Then you would not be alone,” said Adrian, unperturbed by Geoffrey’s blasphemy. “I am certain the poachers were innocent, although I have not a shred of evidence to support such a claim. Unfortunately, by the time I learned Henry was scouring the countryside looking for murderers, it was too late to stop him and urge him to caution.”

Some of the anger went out of Geoffrey. “You believe Henry hanged the wrong men?”

Adrian hesitated, as though considering exactly how much he should reveal. He glanced at Geoffrey and seemed to reach a decision.

“For several weeks before she died, Enide was not well,” he began. “She told me she thought someone was poisoning her, just as someone was also poisoning Godric. And at mass that morning, she seemed not herself, somehow. I do not mean I mistook her for another person,” he added quickly, seeing the hope in Geoffrey’s eyes. “It was more her mood. She was restless, and she did not concentrate on the mass as she usually did. It was almost as if she were expecting something to happen.”

“Something did happen,” said Geoffrey sombrely. “Someone decapitated her. Can you be more specific about this mood?”

Adrian shook his head. “I am afraid not. And believe me, I have given it a great deal of thought-far more than I should, when I have a busy parish to run. But I have been breaking her own wishes by speculating about this. She would not want you investigating her death.”

“Why not?” asked Geoffrey. “I would want someone investigating mine, if I were murdered and two men hanged for it who should not have been.”

“Would you?” queried Adrian. “Would you really want someone you loved putting themselves in peril for a deed that was done, and the consequences of which were irreversible anyway?”

Geoffrey considered. “I would not want Enide doing so, perhaps. But I am not Enide, I am a knight, and will not be so easily dispatched.”

But Sir Aumary was, he thought grimly. Even wearing his chain-mail, Geoffrey would be defenceless against an attack by a good archer hidden among the trees. One clear shot, and that would be that.

“Well, Enide cared for you, and she certainly would not have wanted you to put yourself in danger by making enquiries that will lead you into danger.”

“How do you know my enquiries would lead me into danger?” asked Geoffrey curiously. “Who do you think killed Enide?”

Adrian would not meet his eyes. “I do not know. Nor do I wish to. She was desperately afraid for her life, and her father is being poisoned even as he lies in his sick-bed. Do you not consider that sufficient warning to stay away?”

“Are you suggesting that I should stand back and allow my father to be killed under my very nose, and let my sister’s murder to go unremarked?” asked Geoffrey. “I thought the Church believed in justice.”

“Justice, yes,” said Adrian. “But not vengeance. That is for the Lord to take, not us. Henry tried vengeance, and it is almost certain he killed two innocent men.”

“I am not so hot-headed as Henry,” said Geoffrey. “I will be certain.”

Adrian sighed. “Then you go against my advice, and your sister’s wishes. It was at her request that she was buried in this quiet corner of the churchyard. She did not want constant reminders of her to be the cause of unhappiness in her family.”

“She chose this spot herself?” asked Geoffrey, aghast. “She was so certain she was going to be killed that she chose her own grave site?”

Adrian appeared flustered. “Put like that it sounds as if she knew she was going to die and we did nothing about it. But yes, she chose this spot. And she charged me to ensure that her death would not result in a bloodbath-something in which I failed her.”

“It all sounds so premeditated,” said Geoffrey, unsettled. “I wish I had returned before. I might have been able to do something. Why did she not ask me to come home?”

“Probably for the same reason that she would not want you trying to discover her killer now,” said Adrian. “She cared for you, and she did not want to put you in danger. Look, there is nothing you can gain from investigating now. You should leave Goodrich-today. Go back to the Holy Land and forget all this. You seem more decent than the rest of your kin. Do not let them drag you down into their pit of lies and murder.”

Geoffrey would have liked nothing better, but how could he leave his father in the hands of a murderer? And anyway, he had the King’s orders to follow. He was silent, thinking about Enide’s last few weeks of life, so certain that someone was going to kill her that she had even selected the place where she wanted to be buried. After a while, Helbye cleared his throat nervously, and Geoffrey remembered his promise to help him.

“My sergeant has something of a problem,” he said.

“Yes, I know,” said the priest, smiling at the burly soldier. “But it is nothing that cannot be resolved. I will draw up the papers authorising the annulment of her second marriage today.”

Helbye’s jaw dropped. “Is that it? Is there nothing more that needs to be done?”

“Nothing,” said Adrian, still smiling. “Your marriage to her was the first one, and will stand over the second in any court of law and before God. I will give you the relevant documentation this evening.”

“Useful, this business of writing,” said Geoffrey to his sergeant. “But what about your wife’s other husband? What will become of him?”

“Norbert?” asked Helbye’s wife carelessly. “Oh, he will manage, I expect.”

“Not Norbert, the scribe?” asked Geoffrey. “My father’s clerk?” He recalled the forlorn figure standing away from the celebrations when Helbye had returned, his face masked in shadow.

“That’s the one,” said Helbye. “Norbert has always had an eye for her. The day I left for the Crusade, he told me that he would marry her if I failed to return, cheeky beggar! He was always hanging around our house, trying to get glimpses of her.”

“And I suppose this is why you are always so suspicious of reading and writing,” asked Geoffrey. “Because Norbert is a scribe?”

“Not at all,” objected Helbye. “Writing is the Devil’s skill, and only the Devil’s minions learn it.”

“Devil’s minions like Father Adrian and me?” asked Geoffrey. He continued when he saw Helbye’s embarrassment. “So, did you not want me to write to your wife in case Norbert read it?”

Helbye scratched his head. “I did not like the thought of her going to him to have it read. Who knows what price he might have extracted for such a service?”

“Will Helbye!” exclaimed the priest, laughing. “Norbert is not like that! He is a good enough man, and would never have made such a bargain.”

“And I can assure you I would not have paid such a price,” said Helbye’s wife stiffly. “I would have gone to Father Adrian to have it read, anyway.”

They walked back through the churchyard, Geoffrey listening with half an ear to the good-humoured banter between Helbye and his wife. Poor Norbert, he thought, abused by Godric and his unpleasant household, and thwarted in love by Helbye’s unexpected return.

“There is that Mark Ingram,” said Helbye’s wife, pointing across the street. “He has been in the tavern asking all sorts of questions, I am told.”

“What sort of questions?” asked Adrian.

“Questions about Enide Mappestone,” she answered. “He seems to have it in his head that the poachers were not the ones who killed her.”

“And what business is it of his?” asked Geoffrey, watching the young soldier slink along the main road in the direction of his home. Ingram, aware that he was being watched, turned, and stared back insolently before continuing on his way.

“Charming,” said Helbye. “I thought his temper might improve once he was home, but evidently I am mistaken.”

“I must go,” said Adrian. “Old Mistress Pike has asked for last rites, and there is sickness in the tinker’s family. Then I must try to persuade Walter to mend the roofs on the dairymen’s cottages, because they will not survive another downpour. If he will not pay, I will have to sell the church silver to buy new thatching.”

He nodded to Geoffrey, and set off up the main street. Helbye watched him go.

“Father Adrian is a good man,” he said. “He works among the poor and the sick, and he is never afraid he might catch something himself. If Walter will not give him the money for his cottages, perhaps I will offer him some of my treasure.”

“But Walter should pay,” said Geoffrey. “He is the landlord.”

“I doubt he will,” said Helbye’s wife. “No money for repairs has been forthcoming since Sir Godric fell ill. Walter is a skinflint!” She ignored Helbye’s warning elbow in her ribs. “I do not care, Will. Sir Geoffrey should know the truth! His brother is making people’s lives a misery. Look at poor Caerdig of Lann Martin, struggling to keep his villagers fed, while Walter and Henry demand high tolls each time anyone crosses the Wye! It is disgraceful!”

She turned on her heel and strode off after Adrian. After a moment of indecision, Helbye flung Geoffrey an apologetic look and hurried after her. Geoffrey rubbed the bridge of his nose. Perhaps he should have considered more carefully when he so cavalierly dismissed the notion of taking loot to his family. Goodrich Castle was clearly in need of repair, as attested by the crumbling battlements he had seen the night before, and the village was shabby and unkempt.

“Barlow!” he yelled, seeing his other man-at-arms strolling down the main street, resplendent in a new cloak and fine boots. “Where can I find a man called Ine?”

“Your father’s servant?” asked Barlow, walking across to him. “He lives at the castle, but at this time of day, you will find him in the tavern. Your father is mean with his wages, and so Ine is forced to boost them by washing plates in the mornings.”

“Thank you,” said Geoffrey, wondering if there were a living soul anywhere in England who had a good word to say for his family-other than Adrian who, it seemed, had a good word for anyone.

The tavern was a single-roomed building at the far end of the village, with a filthy beaten-earth floor and grimy horn windows. It was chilly, and the small fire in the hearth that hissed and smoked from the wet wood did little to alleviate the cold but a good deal to reduce visibility. Geoffrey coughed, his eyes watering at the burning wood, and looked for Ine.

Leaning over a bucket of cold water in one corner was a tall, thin man with a bad complexion. He was taking greasy plates from a pile on a table, dunking them in the water, and then redistributing the remaining food with a dirty rag. Geoffrey went to sit next to him.

“Ale?” Ine asked. Without waiting for Geoffrey’s answer, he went to fetch it, returning in a few moments with a large cup containing ale that was unexpectedly good.

“You are Ine?” asked Geoffrey, watching as the man dipped his cold, red hands back into the pail of scummy water.

“Yes, and you are Geoffrey Mappestone. You want to ask me if your father is being poisoned.”

“Is he?”

“Ask the physician,” said Ine, still not looking up. “He is away in Rosse today, but he will be back tomorrow.”

“I am asking you,” said Geoffrey, taking a long draught of the ale.

“I do not answer questions about that, said Ine. “As I have already told your man.”

“My man? You mean Mark Ingram?” asked Geoffrey. “He asked you about Godric?”

“You know he did,” said Ine, looking up for the first time, “because you told him to. But I know nothing of any poison. I told Ingram, and now I am telling you: I tasted all Sir Godric’s food and his wine, but you can see that I am fit and well, and I am sure it contained nothing to make him ill. I know nothing more.”

“Why are you afraid?” asked Geoffrey. “Is someone threatening you?”

“No,” said Ine. “The Mappestones barely speak to me, and Sir Godric only addresses me in curses. None of them waste their time threatening the likes of me. But Goodrich Castle is an evil household, and the quicker I can escape from it the better.”

“I know the feeling,” agreed Geoffrey. “But in what way is it evil?”

Ine shuddered. “I could not say-only that it has an atmosphere of wickedness about it.”

This line of discussion was going to get him nowhere. Geoffrey changed the subject. “What about the death of Torva? Was that an accident, as everyone believes? Or was it more sinister?”

“Torva drank heavily each night,” said Ine. “And the drawbridge across the castle moat is in poor repair. It was clear someone was going to fall off it at some point. It just happened to be Torva.”

“Do you believe his death was an accident, then?” persisted Geoffrey.

Ine shrugged. “Perhaps it was, perhaps it was not. But Torva was a man who asked a good many questions-because he wanted the reward Godric offered him if he could discover who was the poisoner.”

“Do you think that Torva’s investigations might have led to his death?”

Ine shrugged again. “I cannot say. I only know that he walked home the same way and at the same time each night, and that he was always drunk. And I know that he had been asking questions. I ask no questions, Sir Geoffrey. And from now on I will not answer them either.”

Geoffrey leaned back against the wall and considered. Short of bullying Ine, Geoffrey did not think he was going to gain any more information from him. He was not sure that the man had any to give in any case, since the answers he did deign to provide seemed to be based on speculation rather than fact. But it was clear that Ine believed Torva’s death was too coincidental to be an accident, and that he was fearful that he himself might go the same way if he began to investigate Godric’s illness. And if Ine’s suspicions were correct, then Geoffrey could deduce that someone had silenced Torva because he was coming near to the truth. Which meant that someone at Goodrich Castle had a secret that he or she very much wanted to keep.