‘It could even be a disgruntled servant.’
‘Well, whoever it is, I shall not forget what you did tonight,’ said Henry, reaching out and grasping Geoffrey’s shoulder. ‘You saved my life while others ran to save their own skins.’
They both looked down when Giffard groaned and began to stir. Geoffrey helped him sit, but the Bishop’s eyes were bleary, and his breath carried the sweet scent of wine.
‘Lord!’ he muttered. ‘You should not have given me so much to drink, Geoff. My head is swimming, and there is a smell of burning in my nostrils that I cannot dispel.’
‘Giffard?’ asked Henry. ‘Thank God! I was worried about you.’
‘Why would you be worried?’ slurred Giffard, resting his head in his hands, evidently unaware that he was speaking to his King. ‘I am a Bishop.’
Henry glanced sharply at him. ‘I am saying that I do not want to lose you – there are few who can administer an important see as well as you.’
‘Bugger the see,’ spat Giffard truculently. ‘I am going home to Rouen, where a man can buy a decent sausage.’
Henry looked at Geoffrey in alarm. ‘What is the matter with him?’
‘Smoke, Sire,’ said Geoffrey diplomatically. ‘It can do strange things to a man’s wits.’
It was the early hours before the flames were under control. The main house still smouldered and crackled, and the thatches of surrounding buildings dripped with water. FitzNorman had abandoned his attempts at directing his men: he sat with his head drooped, while Margaret tried to comfort him. Isabel wandered hopelessly, while everyone prepared to make the best of a night outside. Durand flopped down next to Geoffrey.
‘You survived,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I hoped you would, because you may yet agree to work with me.’
It was typical of Durand that he should see Geoffrey’s escape in terms of his own interests, but Geoffrey was too tired to care. He handed back the gloves, which were wet and burnt through in places. ‘I am sorry; I am afraid they are ruined.’
‘They are,’ agreed Durand. ‘And they were virtually new, too. I should have known better than to trust you – you always were careless. Can I assume that they were of use?’
Geoffrey nodded: he could not have touched the hot beam without them, so they had made the difference between the King rescued and incinerated. ‘And you? You said you were burnt.’
‘Gashed.’ Durand showed him a cut on his hand. ‘But Isabel gave me a salve. It is a pity she has set her heart on Ralph, because he does not deserve her. He was standing next to her when she was calling for him, but he only slunk away. Indeed, there has been a lot of slinking tonight.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The King is safe, but I did not notice many folk rushing to his aid. I was weak from breathing smoke, but others were not – Baderon and his knights just stood and watched the blaze.’
‘What else could they have done? It was obvious the house was lost.’
‘You rushed into the flames without thought for your safety. I do not condemn Baderon for not doing so, but he could have directed people with water or organized shelter for the survivors. FitzNorman is numb with shock and Baderon should have stepped up. But he is probably chary of ordering his knights to do anything: he allows them to influence his decisions, when he should go with his instincts. That is something I learnt from you. You listen to ideas and suggestions, but you do not let them sway you from what you think is right.’
‘I taught you something, then?’ asked Geoffrey, who had assumed his old squire had gained nothing from the year in his service.
‘A great deal, although most of it is useless. Clerks of my status are seldom required to break locks with daggers or produce meals from grass and leaves. But Baderon is not the only one who acted shabbily. I do not like the way Agnes gloats over Giffard’s absence – she hopes he is dead.’
Geoffrey glanced to where the Bishop was sleeping again. ‘He is alive, but unwell.’
‘Smoke,’ said Durand, coughing raspingly himself. ‘Incidentally, everyone suspects Agnes of making an end of Sibylla, but the more I think about it, the more I am certain that the whole thing was Walter’s idea.’
‘Why?’ asked Geoffrey, trying to pay attention through his weariness. Durand was astute and might well have deduced something that would help solve the mystery.
‘Walter saved his belongings from the fire, but did not have time to pack them properly. He dropped a couple of items as he ran to safety – and this was one of them.’ Durand rummaged in the embroidered purse he carried on his belt and presented the knight with a tiny phial.
Geoffrey also recalled Walter’s inadequately buckled bags. ‘Do you know what is in it?’
Durand shook his head. ‘But it is the kind of ampoule that normally contains powerful medicines – Abbot Serlo keeps some in his abbey’s infirmary, for the very sick.’
Geoffrey suspected he was right. Strong potions tended to be stored in small quantities, and the phial that he held – which, despite being tiny, was made of hard-baked clay and possessed a sturdy stopper to prevent leakage – certainly looked as though it might contain something potent.
‘I wager a shilling that it contains something Walter should not have,’ said Durand. ‘There is writing on one side, but the language is not Latin or French. I cannot read it.’
‘Italian,’ said Geoffrey, struggling to make out the tiny letters in the remaining light of the fire. ‘Some of the inscription is eroded – this is a very old bottle – but I think it says “mandrake juice”.’
‘So, I was right,’ said Durand, pleased. ‘Mandrake is deadly. However, Walter will not be killing anyone now, because it is empty.’
Geoffrey pulled off the lid and saw that Durand was right. In fact, he imagined the pot had been empty for some time, because it was dry and dusty, and the scent of whatever had been inside was so faint as to be almost undetectable. He doubted the contents had been used to dispatch the Duchess, because her death was too recent. But it proved that Walter had a familiarity with poisons.
‘Before the fire, the King told me I am to spend a few months with Bishop Giffard,’ said Durand after a while.
‘You must be disappointed,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I know you wanted to return to court.’
Durand grinned. ‘Henry said you suggested I stay with Giffard until the jealous wretches at Westminster have dispersed. You really should consider my offer, Geoffrey, because we understand each other so well that we would make an excellent team. I am delighted and grateful for your kindly word in Henry’s ear.’
‘You are?’ asked Geoffrey warily.
‘Giffard is Bishop of Winchester. And if there is a place in England that suits me more than Westminster, it is Winchester – where the royal treasury is, and where important decisions are made. But you know this: it is what prompted you to suggest it in the first place. However, before I go, Henry wants me to review what Baderon is doing.’
‘You mean his taxes?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘Ostensibly. But what I will really be doing is gathering other information. Henry thinks he may be forging too many Welsh alliances.’
‘He is probably right.’
Durand was thoughtful. ‘I despise Baderon. He treats me like a servant, whereas I am a landowner, worthy of respect. However, he is mannerly enough towards you. I want you to join with me to find out what he is doing. If he is uniting the Welsh against England, he should be exposed as a traitor.’
‘No,’ said Geoffrey firmly. ‘I cannot spy on my neighbours.’
‘Then help me by taking me back into your service. Baderon will not harm me if he knows I am under your protection. I will be your squire again, and will reside at Goodrich until I have completed my report. Then I shall go to Winchester.’
‘Hey, you!’ came a voice from behind them. It was Seguin, and he was snapping his fingers at Durand. ‘Clerk! Come here. I want you to write something.’
‘You see?’ said Durand. ‘That is the kind of treatment I can expect from Baderon’s household.’
‘I said come here!’ shouted Seguin, advancing angrily. ‘Do not pretend to be deaf.’
Durand squealed as he was yanked upright. ‘Geoffrey, tell him to stop!’
‘Well?’ sneered Seguin, addressing Geoffrey. ‘Will you tell me to stop?’
Seguin had tugged Durand away before Geoffrey could respond. Durand shot Geoffrey a foul look, but crouched on the damp grass next to Lambert and Corwenna and began to write an inventory of the belongings they had managed to salvage. Geoffrey thought he was a fool to let himself be bullied so, but it was none of his affair if Durand was too lily-livered to stand up for himself.
He looked at the phial that he held, then pushed it inside his surcoat before turning his attention to what possessing an ancient pot of mandrake might mean.
As the long night continued, fitzNorman progressed from shock to anger, and began looking for someone to blame. Geoffrey wanted no part of it, so he collected his horses and set out towards Goodrich, intending to find a glade where he could rest until dawn. With Giffard swaying in his saddle, and Bale behind, they reached the spot where Hilde had hailed Geoffrey, then passed along a narrow valley. Eventually, they found a small mud hut with a sheet of leather for a door. It was not much, but it sufficed. Bale tethered the horses, while Geoffrey made a fire and settled Giffard in a litter of dead leaves, covering him with a blanket from his saddlebag.
‘I do not like this place,’ said Bale with a shudder. ‘It feels evil, as if spirits linger.’
‘It is just a shepherd’s hut,’ retorted Geoffrey. ‘And you are safer here than you would be at Dene. I will stay awake to make certain we are not attacked.’
Bale shook his head. ‘You need rest more than me. I will wake you in an hour. In the meantime I will stand in the doorway, so that I do not doze off. I do not want woodland spirits coming to slit my throat as I lie dreaming.’
‘Doubtless you would prefer to slit theirs,’ said Geoffrey. He had not meant it to be a joke and did not like the manic grin Bale shot in his direction.
Geoffrey lay down, but was not sure he could trust Bale to be sufficiently watchful. The squire was still an unknown, and Geoffrey was not in the habit of putting his safety in the hands of men he did not know. He resolved not to sleep.
‘I did not do it, sir,’ whispered Bale, coming to crouch next to him.
Geoffrey edged away. ‘Do what?’
‘Kill my mother and father.’ Bale’s voice was little more than a hiss and it made the hairs stand up on the back of Geoffrey’s neck. He sat up as Bale continued. ‘Everyone assumed it was me, but I swear before God it was not.’ He crossed himself in the darkness.
‘There is no need to whisper,’ said Geoffrey, not liking the sibilantly sinister quality of the man’s voice. ‘I doubt you will disturb Giffard.’
‘All right.’ Bale’s normal speaking tones made Geoffrey feel a little more comfortable. But only a little. ‘My father had a liking for ale, and when he was drunk, he was free with his fists. He was not like the Bishop, who just sleeps. He was nasty in his cups.’
‘You mean he had enemies?’ surmised Geoffrey. ‘And one of them killed him?’
Bale nodded. ‘He had enemies, all right, but only one killer: your brother Henry.’
Geoffrey shot to his feet, dagger in hand. It sounded like a confession made just before vengeance was taken, but Bale only continued to stare into the darkness.
‘How do you know?’ Geoffrey asked, when it became clear that Bale was not going to move.
‘Because I saw him,’ replied Bale. ‘I saw him enter my house, and I know my father was alive, because I heard them shouting at each other. I saw Henry leave, but there was no shouting. I went inside, but my mother and father were dead. Stabbed.’
Geoffrey took a deep breath. ‘I am sorry, Bale.’
Bale shrugged. ‘I caught up with Henry and saw fresh blood on his dagger. But my father may have attacked him, so perhaps he was only defending himself.’
‘Why did you not tell anyone?’
Bale shrugged again. ‘What good would it have done? When they failed to prove I was the culprit, the whole thing died down. Henry saw to that, by forbidding people to talk about it.’
‘Did you kill Henry?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘I wish I had,’ said Bale. ‘But the truth is that I have not killed anyone, not even the man in that tavern brawl. He fell backwards and cracked his skull on a table.’
‘I see,’ said Geoffrey, not sure whether to believe him. ‘Why are you telling me all this?’
‘So you will know,’ said Bale simply. ‘You are uneasy with me, but there is no need.’
‘My brother killed your parents,’ said Geoffrey. ‘You may think I-’
‘You are not Henry, sir,’ interrupted Bale. ‘I like you; I did not like him. But it is late and you are tired. Sleep, and I will take the first watch.’
Geoffrey sat again, but kept his dagger in his hand, even more resolved not to sleep. Could Bale be believed when he said that he had not killed Henry? The bloody murder of his parents was certainly a good motive. Geoffrey closed his eyes to mull over the matter more carefully, and the next thing he knew was Bale’s hot breath against his cheek. He jumped into wakefulness, his hand moving instinctively to his sword.
‘Steady,’ said Bale. ‘It will be light soon, and I am too tired to stay awake any longer. It has been much longer than an hour, but I did not have the heart to wake you.’
Geoffrey staggered to his feet, stiff but refreshed. He was astonished that he had slept when he had been determined not to, and supposed Isabel’s milk must have been stronger than she had led him to believe. He stretched, and watched his squire curl up next to Giffard.
‘Thank you, Bale,’ he whispered.
‘You are welcome, sir,’ replied Bale drowsily. ‘I told you I would keep you safe.’
It was still twilight when Geoffrey stepped outside. In the distance he heard someone coming. He ducked into the shadows, but the figure strode briskly past the hut – not even glancing at it – and continued down the hillside.
The previous night had been too dark to see much, but Geoffrey could now make out the outlines of trees and rocks. The valley descended into a steep gorge, and he watched the figure move stealthily to the bottom. He was sure that the person was alone, but listened for some time, just to be certain. Then, cautiously, he followed.
At the bottom of the gorge, the figure bent to touch the ground, then began to sing. Immediately Geoffrey heard that it was a woman. Her song was deep and eerie, and it sent shivers down his spine. A sudden rustle in the trees set his heart pounding. When her singing grew stronger, so did the wind, and he ducked farther back into the undergrowth. He grasped his sword firmly, and told himself that the wind could do him no harm, but, even so, his hand was slippery with sweat.
