Murder in the Holy City

CHAPTER FIVE

The three knights stared at the trembling scribe in horror as he announced the news of Brother Dunstan’s murder.

“How?” asked Geoffrey eventually.

“I did not dawdle to make a thorough investigation, but he looked to have been strangled. It must be something to do with these murders. Perhaps the killer thinks we have sufficient information to solve the mystery, and wants us dead before we can work it out. I am afraid, Sir Geoffrey! Where can I go where I will be safe? How do I know that even now the killer is not watching my every move?”

Marius’s voice began to take on the edge of hysteria, and Geoffrey interrupted brusquely. “You are safe in the citadel.”

He wondered whether this were true, especially given that a dagger and a pig’s heart had been placed so easily in his own chamber. He stared at the frightened monk as he tried to imagine who might have put such a grisly warning in his room. A common soldier would be unlikely to gain access to it without being challenged, so whoever left the dagger and heart had to have been a knight. Yet all the knights at the citadel were under the command of either the Advocate, Bohemond, or Tancred. But both Tancred and the Advocate had asked Geoffrey to investigate the murders, and they would hardly have asked him, knowing his reputation for tenacity, to do so if they were involved themselves. Meanwhile, Bohemond was in his own Kingdom of Antioch in the north, trying to secure his lands.

Geoffrey brought his whirling thoughts under control. “Where was Dunstan killed?”

“At his own desk in the Patriarch’s scriptorium,” the monk answered miserably.

“Did you see anyone there running away or hiding in the shadows?”

Marius blanched, but shook his head. “No. Dunstan missed his meal, you see, and I was concerned that he may have been ill. I looked for him in the dormitory, in the gardens and in the chapel, but he was not there. I could not imagine why he would be in the scriptorium after dark-we need daylight in which to work-but it was the only other place I could think of. The door was open, whereas it is usually locked, and I sensed something was wrong. I entered, and there he was, lying across his desk with the rope tight around his neck.”

“What did you do?”

“Do? What do you mean?”

“Did you examine the body? Did you loosen the rope? Did you shout out?”

Marius looked confused. “I cannot recall. I think I took his hand in mine, but it was cold. Then I ran for my life.”

Geoffrey turned to one of the guards and sent him to fetch Tom Wolfram to saddle their horses-he had walked to the Patriarch’s Palace the night before, but in view of the fact that he had been followed then, he considered it was probably safer to ride and to keep to the wider, more public streets.

Hugh gestured at Marius. “I will see him safely installed in the chapel. No one will harm him in a church.”

“No,” said Geoffrey. “Take him to my chamber. Leave the dog with him. Although the mutt might be useless in any kind of confrontation, his barking might prove a deterrent if the killer desires stealth.”

“I can do better than that,” said Hugh. “I will stay with him myself. I have had rather too much of that excellent wine, but a Norman knight drunk is still worth ten sober Lorrainers, or Hospitallers, or whoever else might come.”

“Careful,” said Geoffrey warningly, seeing fear break out on the monk’s face. He took Hugh’s arm and led him out of the scribe’s hearing. “Talk to Marius. See what you can discover. See if there is anything he did not write on that scroll Tancred gave me that he may have considered unimportant at the time, but that may be relevant now.”

Hugh nodded, but looked uneasy. “Be careful, Geoffrey. If you have not returned by dawn, I will send out a rescue party for you.”

Roger gestured for the guard to open the gates, and they rode out. Wolfram had brought a lamp, and Geoffrey suppressed a sigh of resignation.

“That lamp will provide an excellent target for an archer,” he said, riding next to the young sergeant. “And I see you are not wearing your chain mail again.”

Wolfram glanced at him guiltily and quickly doused the lamp. “I only thought we might need it to see where we are going.”

“Trust your horse, lad,” bellowed Roger from behind. “And learn to read shadows.”

“Read shadows?”

Geoffrey suppressed his impatience. He had been through this lesson with Wolfram before, but the young man was slow to learn.

“Listen to the sounds about you,” he began. “Attune yourself to the noises of the night, so that you will know if they are not right. Feel the mood of your horse. If she is skittish, it might be because she senses a danger you cannot.”

Wolfram nodded, and Geoffrey allowed Roger to take over the lesson while he spurred his horse ahead. The streets were pitch black, for the night had become cloudy and the moon was covered. Someone had been watering a garden, and the smell of wet earth was pungent in the air. Somewhere around his head, an insect sang in a high, whining hum, and further down the street, a cat sat on a high wall and yowled soulfully. Geoffrey thought he heard running footsteps in an alleyway off to the right, and strained his eyes in the darkness to see, but there was nothing.

They reached the Patriarch’s palace without incident and banged on the front gates to be allowed in. The doors were opened almost immediately, and sleepy-eyed Arab boys were roused to take care of the horses. The guard seemed surprised when Geoffrey told him why he had come, and sent for his captain. The captain looked disbelieving, but obligingly led the way to the scriptorium. Geoffrey supposed that Marius had made his discovery and simply fled through an unguarded side door without telling anyone what he had found.

The palace was a fine building set around a large, square courtyard. On one side lay a small chapel and the Patriarch’s sumptuous public rooms, while his private rooms and the accommodation of his retinue were opposite. The scriptorium and the monks’ quarters lay between them, a three-storied building with a refectory on the lowest floor, a dormitory above, and the scriptorium on the top floor, built with large windows to provide maximum daylight.

The captain led Geoffrey and Roger up creaking stairs to the upper floor, past the refectory with its smell of stale grease and the monks’ dormitory with its smell of stale sweat. The scriptorium was in blackness, and obligingly Wolfram kindled his lamp. Geoffrey took it and entered. It was a simple rectangular room with two long rows of desks positioned to take best advantage of the sunlight. Lining the walls between the windows were shelves bearing great brown-edged books and neatly stacked piles of scrolls. The metallic smell of ink pervaded, and the pale wooden floor was alive with multicoloured splashes where it had been spilled.

Draped across one of the desks toward the rear of the room was Brother Dunstan, like a huge black slug with a great arched body. His head flopped down almost to the ground, while his legs stuck out at an angle. The captain gave a sharp intake of breath and muttered that he would have to report this to the Patriarch. Geoffrey waited until his footsteps had faded, and sent Wolfram to prevent anyone else from entering until the Patriarch came. The captain’s incautious flight across the wooden floor had woken the monks in the room below, and already crabby voices were demanding to know what was happening. It would be only a matter of time before they came to investigate, and there were things Geoffrey wanted to do without an audience of monks.

Roger helped him lift Dunstan’s body from the desk and lay it on the floor. Quickly, he opened the storage box on the side of the desk and rummaged through it. In it was a jumble of used scraps of vellum to be scraped clean and used again, old and broken quills, leaking ink pots, and a neatly wrapped parcel of the sickly sweet Greek pastries that Geoffrey detested.

“He will not be needing these any more,” said Roger, leaning past Geoffrey to grab the package and slip it down the front of his surcoat. “Knightly plunder after violent death,” he added in response to Geoffrey’s silent disapproval. “And no different at all to what you are doing,” he concluded, watching Geoffrey stuff the scraps of used vellum down the front of his own surcoat. Geoffrey replaced what he had taken from Dunstan’s box with a handful of scraps from another desk, while Roger watched with raised eyebrows.

Next, Geoffrey knelt by the body and inspected the red weal around the scribe’s neck. The rope used to strangle him was still attached, and it coiled onto the floor around him. Puzzled, Geoffrey frowned, and Roger squatted down next to him.

“What is it?” he whispered, casting a glance toward the door. Out in the courtyard, a commotion had broken out, and there were shouts and the sound of running footsteps.

“This rope,” said Geoffrey, picking up the end and twirling it in his fingers. “It is very thick for strangling, is it not?”

“It did its job,” said Roger soberly.

“I would not use rope like this to strangle someone,” said Geoffrey, studying it intently.

“What peculiar things you say sometimes,” said Roger. “Perhaps the killer did not have time to select something more to your approval. Perhaps it was the first weapon that came to hand.”

“And I would not tie a knot in it,” said Geoffrey, staring down at the corpse. He took Dunstan’s head in his hands and moved it about. “His neck is broken! Look at how his head moves on his neck.”

Roger leaned over him, fascinated. “God’s teeth, Geoffrey! He was hanged, not strangled at all!”

They looked at each other in puzzlement, before turning their attention back to the corpse.

“Come on,” said Roger urgently. “The Patriarch will be here any moment. What else can you tell?”

Geoffrey looked at Dunstan’s hands. “His wrists are unmarked, so his hands were not tied, and his fingernails are unbroken. Thus, he did not struggle against the rope around his neck.” He looked at the end of the rope he still held. “And this has been cut.”

A thunder of footsteps on the stairs heralded the arrival of the Patriarch and his officers.

“Anything else?” asked Roger urgently. “The Patriarch might not want this investigated in too much detail. Who knows-a man killed in his own scriptorium? Dunstan might even have been killed by him.”

“He has not been dead too long, or he would be stiff.” Geoffrey rose as the Patriarch entered.

The Patriarch, Daimbert, was a tall man, slightly stooped, with a cap of pale silver hair smoothed neatly into place with scented goose grease. His expression was perpetually kind, and he always held his hands clasped in front of him in a way that Geoffrey imagined bishops should. Yet, behind his beneficence was both a will of iron and remarkable energy, and there seemed little he would not do to secure power and lands for the Church. Even his friendship with Tancred-who entered the scriptorium in Daimbert’s wake-was in the interest of the Church, for Tancred’s allegiance to the Patriarch weakened the Advocate’s authority.

There were, however, rumours about the Patriarch that were far less flattering. It was said that he was vain, ambitious, and not entirely free from corruption. Two years previously, he had served as papal legate to the King of Castille, and there were those who wondered how many of the gifts that the King had sent to the Pope had actually reached His Holiness, and how many had remained in Daimbert’s personal coffers.

Now Daimbert looked down at the dead monk and began to mutter prayers for the dead. He did not look especially moved, but the Crusaders had murdered and massacred themselves a bloody path through a huge chunk of the world, and death was nothing new to any of them. The gaggle of monks behind him crossed themselves and began their own prayers, a disjointed babble of voices, some shocked, some sincere, others merely curious. And one, perhaps, guilty, satisfied, or relieved?

When Daimbert’s prayers were completed, he raised his silver head and looked questioningly at Geoffrey.

“Brother Marius came to us,” the knight explained. “He said Dunstan had been killed, and we came to investigate.”

“On whose authority do you come?” queried Daimbert softly. Only the Advocate had the authority to burst unannounced into the Patriarch’s Palace-Bohemond and Tancred, despite their allegiance to Daimbert, certainly did not. It did not take an astute man to detect that an illegal invasion of his property would not be tolerated by the Patriarch, and Geoffrey sensed he was on dangerous ground.

Geoffrey felt Tancred’s eyes boring into him, willing him to discretion, but he did not look away from Daimbert’s steady gaze.

“The Advocate’s authority, my lord,” replied Geoffrey politely. He was aware of Tancred’s surprise, but still addressed himself to Daimbert. Daimbert, meanwhile, turned to indicate Tancred with an elegant gesture of his beringed hand.

“But you are Lord Tancred’s man, are you not?”

“Sir Geoffrey has leave to serve my interests however he sees fit,” Tancred intervened smoothly. Geoffrey was relieved, for he was uncertain how he would have answered without revealing that he was already investigating the matter for Tancred, something he sensed Tancred wanted kept from the Patriarch.

Daimbert slowly turned to Tancred. “Is that so? But it is suspicious, is it not, that your man, who freely admits working for the Advocate without your knowledge or permission, comes to my palace and is found standing over the corpse of one of the few men who know details of these peculiar murders?”

The silence in the room was absolute. Geoffrey looked from Daimbert to Tancred and wondered how he had let himself become embroiled in the petty politics of warring lords who wanted power and possessions at any cost. Melisende Mikelos had been right to fear the justice of men like the Advocate and the Patriarch.

“However,” Daimbert continued in his soft voice, addressing Geoffrey, “you did not come in stealth, and my captain assures me that Dunstan was already dead when you arrived. I suppose we can deduce you are not responsible for his death. You say Brother Marius came to you?”

Geoffrey nodded, not wanting to add that the scribe had fled the palace because he feared the murderer might still prowl within its walls.

“And what can you tell us about Dunstan’s death?” Daimbert continued.

“Very little,” said Geoffrey truthfully. “A rope was tied around his neck, and he died.” He indicated the body on the floor with his hand. “When we came, he was lying across the desk, looking as though he had been sitting at it when he died, and had slumped forward.”

“And you moved him to the floor?”

Geoffrey nodded. Daimbert stooped to look at the face of his dead monk and sighed. “It is a pity. Dunstan had the best hand in Jerusalem, and I am in great need of scribes with good writing. Especially ones that can be trusted.”

He glanced back at the monks behind him, not looking at anyone in particular, but causing a great deal of shuffling and blushing. He waited until they had grown silent again, and dismissed them with a wave of a hand that was more contemptuous than paternal. When the last of them had clattered down the stairs to discuss the murder in excited tones in the room below, Daimbert turned to Tancred.

“I am an agent short, and you seem to trust this man. Will you lend him to me to look into this business?”

For once, Tancred was caught by surprise. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Eventually, he puffed out his cheeks and nodded reluctantly.

“Good.” Daimbert became businesslike. “You and I are of the same mind. These murders are more than they seem, and I fear that those who are committing these crimes are aiming to undermine the security of our Kingdom here. There are so many against us: the Saracens, the Jews, the Greeks. Not everyone is content with the rule of our Advocate, and this may be a personal attack against him. He obviously believes so, if he has arranged for the matters to be investigated.” Daimbert paused. “I am not asking you to serve two masters Sir Geoffrey; I am simply asking that you pass anything you discover about this affair to me as well as to the Advocate. Preferably to me first.”

Geoffrey glanced at Tancred, and caught his almost imperceptible nod. Geoffrey wondered when this would stop, and how many more Holy Land princes would attempt to secure his services before the business was resolved. Perhaps he should save the others the trouble and volunteer. There was still Tancred’s uncle Bohemond, and doubtless the Greek, Saracen, and Jewish communities would appreciate a well-placed ear.

Daimbert saw his hesitation and misunderstood. He drew a great ruby ring from his finger and held it out to Geoffrey. “You will appreciate that I do not carry much of value around with me in the night, but you may have this. And I will give you another two of similar value when you solve these wicked crimes.”

The heavy ring plopped into Geoffrey’s palm, and lay there glinting like an evil red eye. Geoffrey saw Tancred smile, and then nodded slowly to Daimbert to show he accepted the commission. Behind him, Roger coughed. Daimbert gave a resigned sigh and felt about in a pocket under his belt. For a man who carried little of value with him at night, Daimbert seemed to be doing admirably. He drew out a silver chain with a pendant and handed it to Roger, who thanked him with a grin and secreted it away under his unsavoury surcoat.

“I have only one thing to add,” said Daimbert. “You might wonder why I should take such an interest in the murder of two of Bohemond’s knights. I tell you this reluctantly, but I have considered carefully and feel you should be told. Jocelyn the Benedictine was a double agent. He worked for me in the scriptorium, but his writing was excellent, and he had various commissions from other men-including Bohemond. Another person who bought Jocelyn’s skills was the Advocate, who needed a man with a fine hand to write begging letters to the merchants for him. Jocelyn, when engaged on the Advocate’s commissions, usually took the opportunity to look around, to listen, to read, and to gather tidbits of information for me. I am troubled by his death. He was useful to me.”

Geoffrey’s heart sank. The business was becoming more complex by the moment. What else would he learn about Jocelyn? The monk spied on the Advocate and had nocturnal meetings with Sir Guido of Rimini. He must have been killed because he was a spy, and since the Patriarch stood to lose out on his death, the most obvious culprit for his murder was the Advocate. And since all five victims seemed to have been killed with similar weapons, it stood to reason that the Advocate was involved in their deaths too.

“Jocelyn worked in the library in Rome,” said Geoffrey carefully, his mind racing. “He learned his fine writing in the Pope’s scriptorium. Did the Pope send him here to help you?”

Daimbert’s face eased into a slow smile that had all the humour of a crocodile about to devour its prey. “Tancred is right about you,” he said. “You are thorough and quick-witted. Yes, to answer your question. Jocelyn came here with the express purpose of using his talents to the advantage of the Holy Church in Rome. And of course, that is best achieved through reporting his findings to me, the Patriarch. I commend you on your intellect. Now, it is late, and I have much to do.”

Business completed, Daimbert took his leave. Tancred raised his eyebrows and waited.

“Courrances approached me yesterday and asked if I would investigate on behalf of the Advocate,” Geoffrey explained. “It seemed prudent to accept when he would soon discover what I was doing anyway, and by serving him, I could use his name to authorise my questions and not yours.”

Tancred chewed his lip and then seized Geoffrey’s arm. “I have not the slightest doubt of your loyalty to me. And it was no lie when I told Daimbert I trust your judgement in best serving my interests. But this is a dangerous game for a knight to play. Daimbert is an ambitious man, and the Advocate is a desperate one who knows his powers are being leeched away. You now work for three of the most powerful men in the Holy Land. I hope the movements of the other two against each other do not crush you in the process.”

So did Geoffrey, especially bearing in mind that Courrances had told him that the Advocate believed the Patriarch’s role in the murders was far from innocent. “Is there anything I should know?” he asked.

Tancred gave a small smile. “Only to reiterate my warnings, and my fears that this business involves powerful people-perhaps even one of your other masters. Or it may be simple and just be the Greeks or Arabs. If I knew anything else, I would tell you, because I want this mess resolved as soon as possible. Tomorrow at first light I leave for Haifa. I feel ill at ease in Jerusalem with all these murders. I will be safer in Haifa.”

“Haifa?” Geoffrey felt his interest quicken. Haifa was one of the few towns in Tancred’s Principality still to hold out against him.

“I plan to force the town to surrender to me. Hopefully, this will be achieved by a frontal attack, but I am prepared to commit to a siege if necessary.” He grinned boyishly. “I would rather fight than sit and wait, but I will have Haifa in the end.”

“I have read much about Haifa,” began Geoffrey enthusiastically. “It is protected on one side by the sea and on the others by walls fortified with watch towers …”

“Your learning would be of great value to me,” said Tancred, interrupting gently. “Especially if we are forced to lay siege to the town. But I need you here. I will have no Principality to rule if Jerusalem falls, whether to Arab, Greek, Jew, or Christian. Make your reports to the Advocate, and watch him like a hawk. Send your missives to Daimbert, and observe matters here in his palace. But if you discover anything vital, dissemble to them, and get word to me first. We will keep in touch by messenger.”

Geoffrey made his obeisance to Tancred and took his leave, with Roger following.

They collected their horses and began to ride back to the citadel. The air was cool after the stuffiness of the Patriarch’s palace, and Geoffrey closed his eyes and let the refreshing breeze waft over him.

“I cannot see why you are so relaxed,” muttered Roger next to him. “Dozing in the saddle like you are off for a pleasant ride to inspect your Welsh sheep. You have put yourself in a dangerous position. Supposing you find out that Tancred is behind it all? What will you tell Daimbert and the Advocate?”

“Tancred would not let me investigate if he were involved,” said Geoffrey, a great wave of weariness flooding over him. He tried to remember the last time he had managed an uninterrupted night’s sleep. He had been out on patrol for two weeks, napping in ditches and behind stones, and then all this intrigue had started. He had come close to death twice by an enraged mob, and he had been trudging around the city all day in the searing heat. “And who are you to preach?” he said, turning to peer at Roger in the dark. “You are now in the pay of both Bohemond and the Patriarch yourself.”

“But they are allies,” protested Roger.

“I would not be so sure,” said Geoffrey. “And Tancred is far less likely to engage in treachery than Bohemond. Look what your master did at Marrat an-Numan. He told the citizens that everyone who gathered together in the hall near the gates would be granted an amnesty when he took the city. Then, when they were conveniently in one place, he slaughtered them all.”

“But that is honest treachery, and they were the enemy,” said Roger earnestly. “He would not engage in all this murky subterfuge.”

“Not much!” muttered Geoffrey.

“You now serve three men. Not one of them trusts the others. And any of them could crush you like a fly,” said Roger sagely. “You had better hope that Tancred survives this battle at Haifa he seems so gleeful about. You could be in serious trouble without his protection.”

Geoffrey was silent for a while. “The rulers of this country are like Greek fire,” he said eventually. “A terrible, destructive weapon that burns, and once burning is almost impossible to put out. It is made by combining pitch, brimstone, naphtha, and rosin. Apart, these elements are harmless, but together they are lethal. That is what the leaders in the Holy Land are like.”

“Greek fire is a marvellous invention,” said Roger admiringly. “I plan to take some home to Durham with me to try out next time those Scots come marauding.”

Geoffrey raised his eyes heavenward and let the matter drop.

“While you were chatting to Daimbert, I poked around at the back of the room,” said Roger after a moment. “There is a door with a great bolt on it. These days, it only leads to a storeroom, but before the Patriarch came it was probably a strong room of some kind. Anyway, a rope was tied to the bolt. Judging from the length of what was still attached and what was round Dunstan’s neck, I would say that it had been passed from the bolt over the top of the door and used to hang him.”

Geoffrey nodded. “I saw that door. And I saw the stool lying on its side next to it. I think Dunstan put the rope over his head and then leapt off the stool to break his neck. The stool was kicked over in the process. Someone, possibly Marius, must have found him there, cut him down, and tried to make his death appear to be murder. But the reality is that Dunstan committed suicide.”

“What? Are you sure?”

“Not completely, but it makes sense from the information we have. The rope around Dunstan’s neck was tied in a knot, which seems an odd thing for a strangler to do. His neck was broken, which is more consistent with a leap into oblivion than with strangulation. And the rope used was thick and strong-the kind a man might choose if he intended to kill himself and did not want his efforts to be foiled by the rope breaking.”

“But why would Marius want to pretend that Dunstan was murdered? Marius said he was strangled, not hanged.”

“Perhaps they were good friends, and Marius did not want to condemn Dunstan to a suicide’s burial in unhallowed ground. Perhaps he thought we were more likely to believe Dunstan had been murdered by strangulation than murdered by hanging. It is probably quite difficult to hang a man by stealth, especially if the murderer is alone.”

“I could do it easy,” said Roger nonchalantly. “Force the noose over the head, hurl the rope over a door, and haul like the Devil.”

“But you are stronger than most men,” Geoffrey pointed out. “And by doing what you suggest, you would choke your victim to death, not break his neck. There was no damage to Dunstan’s fingernails, and he would surely have scrabbled at the noose with his hands had he been strangled.”

Roger considered. “I suppose so,” he said finally, after making the scowls and grunts that always accompanied his attempts at deep thought. “But we do not need to be wasting our time thinking all this out for ourselves. Marius will tell us.”

They arrived back at the citadel and saw the horses settled for what remained of the night. Geoffrey’s inclination was to go immediately to his room to interview Marius, but Wolfram reappeared breathlessly to tell him that one of the men was ill. Always in fear of a contagious fever that would spread through the garrison like wildfire, Geoffrey went to investigate and found young Robin Barlow groaning and holding his stomach pitifully.

Geoffrey was no physician, but he was able to put the strong smell of cheap Arab wine together with the symptoms of vomiting and dizziness to diagnose that Barlow was suffering from the effects of too much drink. His inclination was to abandon the lad to his misery and assume he had learned his lesson. But the young soldier clearly thought he was going to die, and since it seemed he had never been drunk before, Geoffrey took a few moments to reassure him and to send a comrade to the kitchens for eggs and vinegar.

Roger was waiting for him in the bailey, standing at the well and gulping great draughts of cool water. Geoffrey drank too, for no soldier passed up the opportunity to eat or drink-who knew how long it might be before such an opportunity came again? Together, they walked across the dark bailey toward the torches that flared either side of the entrance to the Tower of David, and climbed the stairs.

Geoffrey’s room was stuffy and in darkness, and he imagined that Marius and Hugh had grown tired of waiting for him to return and had gone to sleep. The dog snuffled wetly around Geoffrey’s legs, and followed Roger back down the stairs in search of a candle. Geoffrey realized that the room was so stiflingly hot because someone had closed the window shutters. He was picking his way across the floor in the dark to open them, when his foot contacted with something soft and sent him sprawling forward. He landed on his hands and knees and felt something cool and sticky that had spread out across the tiles. He had been a soldier long enough to know the unmistakable texture of blood when he felt it.

As he climbed to his feet, Roger arrived back with a lamp, and light flooded the chamber.

“Holy Mother!” swore Roger softly.

Hugh lay facedown on the bed, the back of his head dark with blood, while Marius was huddled into the corner with his knees drawn up to his chest. And underneath him was a great puddle of gore that glistened black in the light of the lamp.

After Helbye and Wolfram had been summoned to remove Marius’s bloodied corpse to the chapel, and after Fletcher had scrubbed some of the stains from the floor, Geoffrey flopped onto the window seat and eyed Hugh’s white face with concern.

“You should let me look at that cut. I read that Arab physicians use a poultice of herbs …”

“You tried a so-called Arab poultice on Sir Aldric of Chester after the capture of Antioch, and he died.”

“His wound was fatal anyway,” said Geoffrey, stung. “The poultice was to ease the pain, not to cure him. But there may be dirt in the wound. It should be cleaned.”

“Roger has done a perfectly adequate job,” said Hugh. “I feel better already.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, yes,” said Hugh crossly. “For heaven’s sake, Geoffrey! All of us have suffered wounds ten times more serious than this in battle, but because I was struck down in a bedchamber, you think I am dying!”

Geoffrey raised his hands. “All right, all right. Tell me again what happened, then.”

Hugh sighed heavily. “I was talking to Marius, just as you told me to do, when I saw that hound of yours stand up and wag its tail. I assumed it was looking at someone behind me, but before I could turn, whoever it was hit me on the head. And that is all I remember. The next thing I knew was that you two were hovering over me like demons from hell, and I had a tremendous headache.”

“And you saw and heard nothing else?” insisted Geoffrey.

“Nothing!” said Hugh, becoming exasperated. He put a hand to the bandage that swathed his fair head, inexpertly tied, but impressively large to make up for it, and winced. “That dog is worthless,” he said in calmer tones, watching it sitting obediently at Roger’s feet, and attempting to lay its head on his knee. “A murderer comes into your room in the depths of the night, and all that thing does is wag its tail! Did you ever train it to do anything worthwhile? Can it hunt? Can it retrieve? Can it do anything other than lie around and eat?”

Geoffrey thought for a moment. “No. What did Marius tell you before he died?”

“Very little, I am afraid. The man was shaking like a leaf, so I went to fetch some wine to calm him down. By the time he was less frantic, some time had passed. I asked him to relate to me what happened, and he was telling me when the murderer entered.”

“What exactly had he said?” asked Geoffrey.

Hugh rubbed at the bandage. “That he went looking for Dunstan, but could not find him. He went to look in the scriptorium as a last resort, but did not really expect to find him because there were no lamps lit. Then he saw a dark shape slumped over Dunstan’s desk and found that Dunstan had been murdered.”

“How could he tell Dunstan had been murdered if there were no lamps? The scriptorium was pitch black, and we had to light Wolfram’s lamp,” pounced Geoffrey.

“I am only repeating what he said,” replied Hugh waspishly. “I am not attempting to defend it. He saw the rope that he assumed had been used to strangle Dunstan, and came running as fast as he could for the safety of the citadel.”

“Good choice,” said Roger.

“Why here?” said Geoffrey, thinking aloud. “Why not claim sanctuary with the Patriarch? Daimbert was angry at Dunstan’s death, and I feel he would have at least tried to protect Marius. How could Marius feel that a journey through the streets at dusk to claim help from men he did not know was safer than remaining with the Patriarch?”

“I do not know,” said Hugh wearily. “He must have had his reasons.”

“And when we know what they were, we will be closer to solving this,” said Geoffrey. He watched his dog pawing adoringly at Roger, who kept pushing it away.

“What is the matter with this thing?” Roger snapped, glaring at it.

“He can smell the cakes you stole from Dunstan’s desk,” said Geoffrey, leaving the window seat and going to sit at the table. He wanted to write their findings down so that he could consider them logically, but he was afraid that the killer, who had broken into his room twice now, might find any records he made. He remembered the scraps of vellum he had taken, and pulled them out to study them. It was unlikely a clue would emerge from such an obvious source, but he had precious little to go on, and the matter was becoming dangerous. A man had been murdered in his room, surrounded by a fortress full of knights. The killer he was hunting had shown himself to be a formidable force, and Geoffrey could afford to overlook nothing.

Roger’s face lit up, and he retrieved the package from his surcoat, smacking his lips in anticipation. The dog drooled helplessly, and its eyes became great liquid pools of temporary adoration. While Roger unwrapped and the dog slathered, Hugh hunted about for some wine.

“I cannot stomach that sweet stuff with nothing to drink,” he said. “Geoffrey, do you have no wine in this pit you call home?”

“You must have had it all already,” said Geoffrey, looking up from where he was reading.

Roger gave a dramatic sigh and stood to fetch wine from his own supply. The dog weaved about his legs in a desperate attempt to ingratiate, and almost tripped him.

“Greedy, useless beast,” he muttered. He saw the dog’s glistening eyes fixed on the unwrapped cakes on the bed, and moved them to a high shelf. Relenting, he broke a tiny piece off and dropped it to the floor, where the dog fell on it frantic with avarice.

He returned moments later holding a bottle, and hunted around for the cups without the fungus growing in the bottom. Elbowing Geoffrey to one side, he rummaged around the scraps of parchment with big, hairy hands. The sound of violent retching filled the room, and he and Geoffrey spun around to look at Hugh in alarm. Hugh, startled, stared back. The sound came again, from under the bed.

“It is that revolting dog!” said Hugh, beginning to laugh. “It has been in the refuse pits again.”

Roger disagreed. “It must have been that pig’s heart he had. Or whatever nasty item it was gorging itself on at Akira’s charnel house.”

Geoffrey rubbed his chin, and peered under the bed as the dog retched again. “I do not think so,” he said, straightening slowly. “I think it was the cake.”