‘Have you done business with this silversmith before?’ asked Geoffrey, wondering how it had gone from the Rosse craftsman to Jervil. Perhaps the groom had been uncomfortable stealing from a church but was not squeamish about robbing a merchant.
Father Adrian shook his head. ‘It is not every day I have valuable knives to sell. I thought I might have to break it up – sell him the silver hilt and prise the emerald out to sell to a jeweller. But he agreed to take the whole thing.’
‘An emerald?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘But they are green.’
Father Adrian nodded patiently. ‘It was a green stone.’
‘Joan said it was red.’ And the King had mentioned a ruby in the knife Jervil had given to Baderon – and Geoffrey was sure that he knew his precious jewels.
‘It was green,’ said Father Adrian firmly. ‘She cannot have looked properly.’
But Geoffrey knew Joan would have been familiar with what she possessed.
‘It was covered in blood,’ said Bale keenly. ‘There was a great wound in Henry’s stomach. Right here.’ He indicated a point just below his ribs. ‘And it was deep. I shoved my finger in it to see.’
‘Bale!’ exclaimed Father Adrian, aghast. He glanced nervously at Geoffrey, who was not in a position to be squeamish, since he had poked fingers in wounds to assess their depths himself. Father Adrian hurriedly changed the subject. ‘It was an emerald, Geoffrey. And there was not enough blood to make a green stone red. I will give you the three shillings, if you want to buy it back, although the poor will suffer . . .’
‘I do not want it back,’ said Geoffrey absently, reviewing the facts. Joan had pulled a red-jewelled knife from their brother, and it was a red-jewelled knife that had been sold to Baderon. Yet Joan had given the knife to Father Adrian, whereupon the jewel had become an emerald. There was only one conclusion: someone had swapped it in her bedchamber. She said she could not look at it, so she had probably given it to Father Adrian without making sure that it was the same one. But who had access to Joan’s room?
He considered the servants. But an emerald was a valuable jewel, and no servant would casually provide one to swap for a ruby. The only sensible answer was that someone outside Goodrich had asked a servant to make the exchange, and had no doubt been delighted when the deception had gone so long undetected. Baderon came immediately to mind. But then why had Jervil waited to give it to him?
‘Henry’s grave,’ he said to Father Adrian, changing the subject when no answers were forthcoming. ‘I straightened his cross twice last week, but it was back on the ground again today.’
‘People come to spit and trample on it,’ said Father Adrian, more matter-of-fact than Geoffrey felt was warranted for such desecration. ‘But I have seen no one attacking it recently.’
‘It must stop,’ said Geoffrey firmly. ‘Henry is dead, and his sins are between him and God.’
‘I will try to dissuade them,’ said Father Adrian. ‘But it will not be easy.’
Geoffrey hovered in the churchyard while the priest closed the church door – then opened it again when he realized that he had shut someone inside. There emerged an ancient crone, devoid of teeth and with skin so brown and wrinkled, it looked more vegetable than human.
‘Mother Elgiva,’ said Father Adrian suspiciously. ‘What have you been doing?’
‘Listening,’ replied Elgiva with a predatory smile. ‘Folk seek my advice, so eavesdropping is helpful. It is astonishing what you can learn. For example, I know Sir Geoffrey has asked several people about the fate of his brother, but no one has told him anything useful. And I know most folk think he should marry Douce, despite her lack of wits and loose morals.’
‘Why do they favour her?’ asked Geoffrey. Personally, he was disturbed by Douce not knowing the difference between five and fifty. It did not auger well for household finances.
Elgiva began to list reasons on her gnarled fingers. ‘Hilde is too manly. Corwenna is comely, but she will not rest until your family lies dead.’
‘Not a good idea to marry her, then,’ said Geoffrey flippantly.
‘No.’ Elgiva frowned. ‘She was just another vengeful woman when she was Rhys’ widow, but her betrothal to Seguin has made her feel powerful. I fear her.’
‘There is no need,’ said Father Adrian gently. ‘Llan Martin is not in a position to harm us. Besides, Caerdig would never let it happen.’
Elgiva’s rheumy eyes flashed angrily. ‘That was true, but things have changed. Baderon listens too much to Seguin and Lambert. They are not interested in peace, but in expanding their wealth.’
‘You think they might bring us to war?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘I think Corwenna will try to use them so. And Baderon will not be able to stop her. We stand at the edge of a precipice, and I hope we do not all go clattering down it.’
Father Adrian shook the old woman’s arm. ‘Enough, Mother! You are unnerving me.’
‘Good,’ said Elgiva, before turning back to Geoffrey. ‘But we were talking about marriages. We have discounted Corwenna and Hilde, but there are others. Isabel, for example.’
Father Adrian tried to escort her from the churchyard. ‘No good will come from gossiping-’
Elgiva pulled away from him. ‘He needs to know. All these folk are staying at Goodrich, and it would be unfortunate if he was run through for saying something in ignorance.’
Geoffrey entirely agreed, finding her attitude refreshing. ‘Who killed Henry?’ he asked, aiming to make the most of someone willing to talk.
‘Most people say fitzNorman. Others think Ralph, because Isabel was a good match, and by coupling with Henry, she became untenable. No man wants his wife deflowered by another man.’
‘Yes and no,’ said Geoffrey. ‘First, Ralph did the deflowering himself; Henry came later. And second, people here seem to set great store by wealth. Isabel was no poorer after her night with Henry. Besides, Douce is no innocent, with her illegitimate children, but I am still expected to consider her.’
‘But Ralph has principles,’ said Father Adrian.
‘Not ones he applies to his sister,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Besides, I have principles, too. I am not marrying Douce.’
Elgiva took Father Adrian’s arm and walked towards the gate. Geoffrey trailed after them, his mind flitting between his brother’s death and the complex politics of acquiring a wife.
‘Do not speculate with Sir Geoffrey, Mother Elgiva,’ Father Adrian said. ‘Henry was an evil man, and I doubt many angels wept when he died. But some may weep if Sir Geoffrey discovers the killer, and a good man ends up kicking empty air under a gibbet – or if Geoffrey runs him through, as Jerosolimitani are wont to do.’
‘Good men do not murder those too drunk to defend themselves,’ retorted Geoffrey, resenting the implication that he enjoyed random slaughter.
Elgiva abandoned the priest and took Geoffrey’s arm instead. ‘My house is behind that barn. Come with me, and I will answer any questions you want.’
‘Do not demean yourself by listening to gossip,’ pleaded Father Adrian.
‘Why not?’ demanded Geoffrey. ‘No one else will tell me anything – including you.’
He followed the old woman to her home. It was a round shack, with a thatched roof and walls of hazel twigs packed with mud. Smoke billowed from the hearth, and Geoffrey started to cough as soon as he ducked around the leather sheet that served as a door. His throat was still raw from the blaze at Dene, and he was loath to spend more time hacking in confined spaces, but he supposed it was all in a good cause. Father Adrian hovered outside, and Geoffrey wondered why: did the priest think to prevent Elgiva giving information that would expose the killer?
Geoffrey continued to cough as he glanced around the hut. Unidentifiable objects hung from the rafters, and there were pots and jugs everywhere. Lurking beneath the odour of burning wood was an aroma of spices and potions that was vaguely pleasant. Elgiva pushed a three-legged stool in his direction, and he lowered himself on to it, watching her sit cross-legged on the floor.
‘This will cure your cough,’ she said, proffering something in a wooden cup. It looked like water, and he had taken a large gulp before a burning sensation gripped his chest. He gagged, feeling the potion sear into his stomach. Suddenly, he understood why the hut was so well endowed with pots and smells: Elgiva was a witch. And he had just swallowed a brew that seemed to be dissolving his innards.
‘Do not drink anything,’ advised Father Adrian from outside, although it was already too late. Geoffrey felt as though his insides were on fire, and it was difficult to breathe. He could not see, his eyes blinded by tears. Then the terrible burning eased and he found he could draw breath again.
‘God’s teeth!’ he spluttered. His lips were numb and there was a foul taste in his mouth that made him want to be sick. ‘Have you poisoned me?’
‘You are not supposed to gulp it like ale,’ said Elgiva with a disapproving frown. ‘It is to be sipped and savoured. What a waste!’
Geoffrey set the cup on the hearth, feeling an odd weakness in his legs, while the liquid continued to scald his stomach.
‘You do not remember me, do you?’ said Elgiva through the gloom. ‘I gave you salves when you were injured in childish play.’
After the Devil’s brew he had just downed, Geoffrey’s mind was a blank about her salves. ‘It was a long time ago. Are you a witch?’ he asked.
‘I prefer “wise woman”. “Witch” conveys the wrong impression. I know the plants of the forest and people come to me for advice. They go to Father Adrian, too, but they prefer me because I do not force them into penance for honest mistakes.’
‘I also do not know how to make women un-pregnant, or how to render a man potent in the marriage bed!’ called Adrian caustically. ‘However, when they are in distress, it is God’s comfort they crave, not a mouthful of that stuff I use for cleaning my pigsty.’
‘I imagine there is room for both,’ said Geoffrey, before they could argue. ‘I do not suppose Isabel came to you with her problem, did she? For the child that might have been Henry’s?’
‘I could not say,’ replied Elgiva, but she looked away. Geoffrey heard voices outside, followed by a laugh. Father Adrian had met some parishioners, and was no longer listening.
‘When did she come?’ he asked.
She regarded him coolly. ‘Perhaps I should not have invited you here. You are too quick. Poor Isabel. By the time she summoned me, it was already too late and the girl-child she carried was lost.’ She tipped her head to one side. ‘If I gave you a potion to bring Ralph back to her, would you make sure he drank it?’
‘Only if you assure me it will kill him in the process.’
Elgiva cackled her amusement. ‘He is a headstrong man, so my elixir of mandrake will have to be a powerful one, or it will not work.’
‘Mandrake?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘I thought that was poisonous.’
‘Only in the wrong hands. It can cause vomiting and purging.’
‘Do you know Eleanor de Bicanofre? She is a wise woman, too.’
‘No, she is a witch,’ corrected Elgiva. ‘I hear she is missing, which is a bad thing. With women like Eleanor, it is always best to know where they are.’
Geoffrey recalled the laughing eyes when Eleanor had removed the splinters from his arm. She had done him no harm, and he did not like the way people maligned her. ‘She is all right.’
Elgiva pursed her lips. ‘You and Hugh are the only ones who think so. He is smitten, and it is to her credit that she has not pushed him over a cliff. I wonder what she is planning with him this time. The last time they went missing was September.’
‘That is when Henry died.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Elgiva, meeting his eyes. ‘I saw them in the woods about a week before his murder. It is rumoured that she put a curse on Henry.’
‘Why would she do that?’
‘He pulled off her veil in a drunken rage. He claimed it was accidental; she says otherwise. But she was angry, because it showed her jaw had been blown off during a demonic experiment.’
‘So, you consider her a suspect for Henry’s murder?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Because even if she did not wield the dagger herself, she chanted evil charms?’
Elgiva took a sip from her cup. ‘I do not know who dispatched your brother – his killer made sure there were no witnesses, although Jervil heard them talking. Later, Jervil told me Henry cursed everyone with his dying breath, including Joan. Henry predicted you would come and expel her, and subdue Goodrich with a mailed fist.’
‘Is that why people are suspicious of me? Henry’s deranged ramblings?’
‘They do not know what to expect!’ called Father Adrian, listening once again. ‘Perhaps it is my fault. I preached hard against the Crusade, and my descriptions of Jerosolimitani as blood-drenched, lust-craven thieves were powerful.’
‘Jervil is dead,’ said Geoffrey to Elgiva, not deigning to address the priest’s prejudices. ‘He was strangled after selling a dagger to Baderon. He was paid in silver, but that had disappeared when I saw his body.’
‘You had a rummage, did you?’ asked Elgiva wryly. ‘Perhaps you are not so different from Henry, after all. But tell me about this dagger. What did it look like?’
‘There was a ruby in its hilt.’
‘A ruby?’ asked Elgiva. ‘The Black Knife Joan gave Father Adrian contained an emerald.’
‘It did,’ agreed Father Adrian. ‘In that case the dagger Jervil sold Baderon was not the one I had in my church. It was not the one that killed Henry, either – so Jervil’s transaction with Baderon can have nothing to do with your brother’s death.’
‘I think it was exchanged in Joan’s bedchamber,’ explained Geoffrey. Jervil had the real one; you did not.’ He turned his attention to Elgiva. ‘How well did Jervil know Baderon?’
Elgiva grinned, pleased to show off her knowledge. ‘Joan used Jervil as a messenger, because he was a good rider. He often visited Monmouth when she needed to communicate with Baderon.’
Geoffrey rubbed his chin. It seemed obvious that Baderon or one of his knights had killed Jervil, either so he could never tell anyone that Baderon had the murder weapon, or to retrieve the silver Baderon had paid for it. And Margaret was murdered because she had witnessed the killing. Or was that too simple an explanation?
‘Can you tell me any more about Henry?’ he asked.
‘I cannot list all the folk who bore him a grudge,’ said Elgiva. ‘We would be here all day. There was not a man, woman or child on Goodrich’s estates who did not hate him.’
