‘What caused this?’ demanded Baderon hoarsely. ‘How could it have taken hold so fast?’
‘It started in the manor house,’ replied a servant. ‘I assumed it was the kitchens – that is where fires usually begin – but they are still intact. It is very suspicious.’
Geoffrey’s thoughts whirled. Was the fire started deliberately? If so, was it directed against the King? Or did Agnes and her son want to make sure that gossip about the two of them and Sibylla did not spread? Or was it aimed at fitzNorman, to shame him before the King? Or Baderon, because his knights were too strong for him and he was forming alliances that were uniting the Welsh against the English?
Geoffrey tripped over a bucket of water, abandoned by someone who had fled. He grabbed Hilde’s arm and brought her to an abrupt stop, indicating she was to dip her cloak in it and put it over her head. She did not need to be told twice. Muscles bulging, she ripped the garment in two, jammed it in the bucket and then handed half to Geoffrey. With the material wrapped turban-like around their faces, they hurried on. When they reached the guest hall, Geoffrey stopped, chest heaving from exertion and lack of clean air.
He heard a voice. He listened harder, moving towards it. It was a man calling for help. He staggered on, using the voice to guide him, Hilde at his heels. He could see nothing but grey-whiteness, and could barely make out his own feet. He was dizzy, and considered escaping while he was still able, but then heard the voice again, louder and closer. It was the King.
‘Where are you?’ Geoffrey yelled.
‘Here!’ It was Isabel who answered. ‘We cannot go back because of the flames, and we cannot open the door.’
Geoffrey moved forward, feeling his way. The air was burning hot, and the water in the cloak was beginning to evaporate. Then his outstretched hands encountered wood. He moved his fingers down it, and located a beam lodged across the bottom of a door. Someone hammered furiously.
‘Open the damned door!’ bellowed the King. ‘Or we shall be roasted alive.’
The beam was not big, but it was jammed tight against the wall and was hot. Geoffrey and Hilde tugged with all their might – he grateful for the gloves Durand had lent him, and she using her sleeves to protect her hands – but it did not budge. Inside, Henry was growing angry with his would-be rescuers.
‘Open the door!’ he shouted furiously. ‘Now! The fire is getting closer while you play around. Do you want your King to die?’
‘No, Sire,’ gasped Geoffrey, scrabbling for something to use as a lever. The first piece of wood snapped like a reed, and he groped for something thicker. The piece he found was so heavy, he could barely lift it, and it took all his strength to manoeuvre it into place. Hilde helped him, but she was growing weaker as she ran out of air. Then she flopped to the ground, and he was on his own.
‘Geoffrey?’ shouted the King. ‘Is that you? Hurry, man!’
Geoffrey had no breath for talking and knew it would not be long before he collapsed like Hilde. There was a shriek from inside, followed by a low roar that suggested the flames were taking a firmer hold. Voices pleaded for him to hurry. He leant hard on his lever, but it slipped out of position and he crashed to his knees. He staggered up and was trying again when he saw that a leather strap was preventing the timber from moving. He needed to saw through it. But when he fumbled for his dagger, it was not there. He clawed at the leather with his hands, but it was hopeless – Isabel and the King would die because he could not break a strap. Then his cuff caught on a splinter and something jangled to the ground. It was the little knife that Joan had given him, since honed to a vicious edge by Bale.
For once he was grateful for his squire’s fetish, because the tiny blade cut through the tough leather like warm butter. Now only dimly aware of the cacophony of shrieks emanating from within, he summoned every last ounce of strength to lean on the lever as hard as he could. Blood pounded in his ears, and he felt the tendons in his arms and shoulders protest. Suddenly, the lever splintered, sending him sprawling backwards. But the beam also moved. It was not much, but it was enough for the trapped people to batter their way out. They spilt out of the building and staggered into the smoke-filled yard.
‘God’s blood!’ gasped Henry. ‘I can still barely breathe!’
Geoffrey climbed to his feet, legs wobbling. He saw a man grab Hilde and hoist her to her feet, urging her to walk.
‘I cannot see!’ yelled Henry. ‘Which way did you come?’
Isabel took the King’s hand. ‘The wind is blowing from the north, so we must go this way.’
‘How do you know?’ demanded Henry. ‘I cannot see my own feet.’
Isabel did not reply, but pulled both the King and Geoffrey in that direction. The courtiers followed, moving quickly, as Isabel went without hesitation. Then, suddenly, they were in clean air.
Geoffrey sank to the ground in relief, hearing the babble of voices as Henry was recognized, and people hurried forward to assist him. FitzNorman bounded up to Isabel, and there was a catch in his voice when he told her how worried he had been. Baderon went to Hilde, wiping her smoke-stained face with his sleeve. Bale arrived, and rested a shy hand on Geoffrey’s shoulder.
‘The horses are safe,’ he said. ‘But a number of people are missing. If they are still inside the hall or the guest house, they are dead for certain.’
Watching the flames, Geoffrey could only agree. He wanted to make sure that Agnes and Walter had not used the diversion to harm Giffard, but he did not have the energy. He was racked by coughing, and could not seem to suck enough air into his lungs.
‘Drink this,’ Margaret said, kneeling beside him. ‘It will make you feel better.’
It did, but it tasted foul, and he did not like to imagine what was in it. He looked up to see Isabel nearby, standing forlorn.
‘Margaret said you went to look for Ralph,’ he said, coughing again.
‘He was gone when I reached the guest house. He must have been looking for me, and we missed each other in the confusion. My father has gone to tell him I am safe. Can you see him?’
Geoffrey spotted Ralph some distance away, clearly uninterested in his former lover.
‘Do you know where the fire started?’ Geoffrey asked to avoid answering.
‘Not in the kitchens, or the guest house would have burnt before the manor, and it was the other way around,’ replied Margaret, grateful for the change of subject, for her niece’s sake. ‘The hall is relatively undamaged, but the rooms above it are burnt out. That means the fire must have started in one of them. I assume it was not yours?’
Geoffrey recalled the flames at the door. ‘No, but it was not far away. I supposed it was a carelessly tended hearth – fires spread quickly in wooden houses with thatched roofs.’
‘Our servants are careful,’ countered Margaret firmly. ‘None would have left a badly banked fire. This blaze was started deliberately.’
Geoffrey tried to think clearly. ‘If it started where you say, then it was not an attack on the King – he was in the guest house.’
Margaret grimaced. ‘No one will harm the King – not when so many of us have just arrived from Normandy. If Henry dies, then England will go to the Duke, and no one wants him, when Belleme is sure to follow, bringing violence and bloodshed. No, Geoffrey, this fire was set for another reason.’
Geoffrey rubbed his head and tried to remember who had been sleeping where. ‘You, Isabel and fitzNorman were in the room at the far end of the corridor – the farthest chamber from mine.’
Margaret made a dismissive gesture. ‘We have no reason to destroy our own home. And you and Giffard did not do it, either – neither of you would burn innocent people alive. That leaves the three rooms in the middle. One was occupied by Agnes Giffard and her son.’
Geoffrey recalled what he had overheard Agnes say, and wondered whether she and Walter had set the blaze to be rid of a meddlesome kinsman. ‘They may be the guilty party,’ he conceded.
Margaret nodded. ‘Giffard thinks they are killers, and anyone with a brain can see why: Agnes’ husband and her lover’s wife both dead at convenient times. Walter probably helped her. He is a stupid, malleable boy.’
Isabel’s head was cocked to one side as she scanned the babbling voices for the one that was most important to her, but she was paying attention to the discussion nonetheless. ‘Then perhaps Giffard did set the fire, to dispense some divine justice.’
‘Giffard was drunk,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Besides, I was with him. I would have seen him.’
‘Not necessarily – I put a sleeping draught in your milk,’ said Isabel. She sensed Geoffrey’s shock and turned defensive. ‘Only a light one, just enough to make sure you rested properly.’
‘Why?’ demanded Geoffrey. He recalled how heavily he had been asleep when Bale had woken him. He was lucky his squire had not shared the milk, or all three of them would have perished.
Isabel flinched at the anger in his voice. ‘Because you slept so poorly the night before. I wanted to help.’
‘One of those three middle rooms was occupied by Baderon’s knights,’ said Margaret, to bring the subject back to the fire and save Isabel from further recrimination. ‘Baderon himself was in the guest house, but Seguin and Lambert may have followed his orders.’
‘Why?’ asked Geoffrey tiredly. ‘Who would he want to harm?’
‘My brother?’ suggested Margaret. ‘Baderon would gain, no matter what the outcome. Either my brother dies, which means Baderon is the only powerful lord in the region, or my brother survives – to be in trouble for almost incinerating the King. Baderon may also have wanted you dead, so he could take Goodrich.’
‘The last of those three rooms was occupied by Hilde and the women from Bicanofre,’ said Geoffrey, thinking Baderon was not the kind of man to set a house alight just to inherit a small manor. He was not stupid.
‘I doubt Hilde set the fire, considering she risked her life to save others,’ said Margaret. ‘But I have not seen Eleanor or Douce since the fuss began.’
Geoffrey recalled the figure in the red cloak, but then remembered that it had stopped for an embrace with a woman. He glanced around, but could not see Eleanor, although that meant nothing. People had scattered into small groups and she could have been anywhere.
‘Eleanor may have started the fire to rid herself of Hugh,’ Margaret went on. ‘He follows her everywhere, and must be tiresome.’
‘He loves her,’ said Isabel. ‘But why would she bother with a fire, when she has other skills at her disposal? She is a witch, after all.’
‘A witch?’ asked Geoffrey uncertainly.
Isabel nodded. ‘She could be a great healer, but she dislikes helping people. You were lucky she did not poison you when she removed those splinters. Why do you think I came so quickly after she told me what she had done? I wanted to counter any evil she might have managed.’
‘Why would Eleanor want to harm me?’
‘You forgot to send the cart – and witches can be vindictive. But more importantly, her father would like her to marry you, and she does not want to.’
‘Few women do,’ said Geoffrey, thinking that Isabel, Margaret and Corwenna had already refused him, while Hilde was not keen, either.
‘Eleanor communes with the Devil,’ Isabel went on. ‘Why do you think toads and bats seek out her company, and ravens do her bidding?’
‘Oh, really, Isabel!’ Geoffrey said, his weariness making his tone a bit sharp. ‘That is nonsense!’
She gripped his hand. ‘It is not, and you would be a fool to ignore it.’
Geoffrey sat for some time, trying to summon the energy to move. Next to him, Isabel and Margaret fell silent, and soon Hilde came to join them, her brother at her side. Hugh curled into a ball and promptly went to sleep.
‘Have you seen Ralph?’ Isabel asked her.
‘Just moments ago, cursing the grooms in the stables,’ Hilde responded.
Isabel jumped to her feet, but did not get far before fitzNorman intercepted her. They exchanged words and, reluctantly, he turned to walk with her towards the horses.
‘Ralph is a mean-spirited bastard,’ said Geoffrey, watching them go.
Margaret nodded. ‘He is a pompous, arrogant fool, and does not deserve Isabel. She is usually astute where men are concerned, but he has blinded her. So to speak.’
‘I fell in love with a duchess once,’ admitted Geoffrey, immediately wondering why he had said it. ‘It was wrong, but there was nothing I could do to stop it. Love is difficult to control and impossible to predict.’
‘What happened to her?’ asked Margaret curiously.
Geoffrey shrugged. ‘She still lives with her husband.’
Margaret did not push him. She nodded towards Hugh. ‘He has the right idea. There is no more we can do, and it is sensible to rest. Everything will look better in the morning.’
‘I doubt it. Your home will be reduced to hot rubble; Isabel will still love Ralph; Agnes will still be suspected of killing Sibylla; and Giffard will still be stricken by sorrow.’
‘But we may feel better about it,’ argued Margaret. She left him and went to where Isabel was calling for Ralph. FitzNorman was standing helplessly, at a loss for what to do.
Geoffrey stood unsteadily, and walked to the hedge where Giffard still snored, oblivious to the chaos. Geoffrey flopped down beside him, bone-weary, and closed his eyes. His peace did not last.
‘Well, Geoffrey,’ said the King, outlined by the flames that still leapt into the air. ‘What do you make of this? FitzNorman claims someone set the blaze deliberately, while Baderon thinks it was careless servants.’
‘At first I thought it was set to harm you, but it was not,’ said Geoffrey, scrambling to his feet.
‘Why?’ asked Henry. ‘Do not look as though you wished you had not spoken, man. I asked a question, and I want an answer. You are one of the few people here who does not tell me what they think I should hear.’
‘If the fire had been aimed at you, it would have started in the guest house. But it almost certainly began above the hall – the room I shared with Giffard was there, and the fire raged very close to it.’
‘You think someone wants Goodrich without an heir?’
Geoffrey shook his head. ‘But the adjoining rooms contained fitzNorman, the Bicanofre women and Hilde, Agnes and Walter, and Baderon’s knights. The fire could have been directed at any of them.’
‘It could have been started by any of them, too,’ mused Henry. ‘Or by someone from the guest house. I heard Baderon slipping out to the latrines, while his son is apt to wander, too – I caught him watching me in my bedchamber last night, which was disconcerting.’
