‘No,’ said Bale, and Geoffrey could hear the stubbornness in his voice. ‘He is my master and I will not spy on him.’
‘You will not be spying,’ Jervil insisted, trying to press coins into the big man’s hand. ‘I only want to know if he meets Lord Baderon. Surely you can do that for two silver pennies?’
‘No,’ said Bale, pushing him away with considerable force.
Jervil replaced the coins in his purse. ‘Very well. It is your loss.’
He turned and walked away. Geoffrey rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Torva believed that Jervil had not murdered Henry, and had given reasons Geoffrey was prepared to accept. So, why was Jervil interested in whether Geoffrey met Baderon? Had Jervil left gates open and turned a blind eye while Henry was stabbed by someone from Baderon’s retinue? It made sense: Jervil should not have slept through the murder, no matter what he claimed, and was obviously protecting someone.
And what of Bale’s reaction to Jervil’s bribe? Was he really loyal to a man he had served for so short a time? Loyalty was earned, not bought overnight. So was Bale simply eager to serve his new master well, or was he already in someone else’s pay – someone more powerful than Jervil?
Geoffrey took the reins and set off with his squire behind him. He looked for his dog, but it was not to be seen, and he supposed it was just as well. It had bitten Lambert the last time, and he did not want another altercation. He was riding across the drawbridge when he met Joan.
‘Where are you going so heavily armed?’ she demanded.
Geoffrey smiled reassuringly. ‘Bishop Giffard is in Dene, and has asked me to visit. And it is a fine day for a ride.’
‘It is going to rain,’ countered Joan. ‘And Dene is not worth the journey – it is only a few miles distant, but the tracks are poor. You will not be able to travel there and back today.’
Geoffrey shrugged. It would not be the first time he had slept by the roadside.
‘Do not go,’ pleaded Joan. ‘Wait until Roger arrives. He will watch your back, and I will feel happier knowing he is with you.’
Geoffrey was surprised. ‘You think someone at Dene might try to harm me?’
‘FitzNorman might if you accuse him of killing Henry.’
‘Then I will not do it,’ promised Geoffrey, wondering why she had so little faith in him when his diplomatic skills had impressed kings and princes.
Joan sighed. ‘If you must go, then at least look at Margaret, Isabel and Hilde while you are there, and see if any meet your expectations. If they do, I can have you wed this week. And take this.’
‘I have knives,’ said Geoffrey, declining to accept the minuscule blade she proffered. It was no longer than his finger, and he wondered what she thought he could do with such a thing.
She tucked it into the cuff of his tunic, securing it there with a series of folds. ‘Your daggers are large and flagrant, but this is discreet.’
‘Speaking of daggers, I am told you have the one that killed Henry. Where is it?’
She gazed at him coolly. ‘Jervil wanted it, but I did not think it right that the blade that killed my brother should be used to remove stones from horses’ hoofs – although others thought it a suitable epitaph. I kept it in my bedchamber for a month, wrapped in cloth that had been soaked in holy water, but its presence disturbed me, so I gave it to Father Adrian. There was a ruby in its hilt, and I thought he could prise it out and sell it to buy bread for the poor. You must ask him what he did with it.’
‘It might help me identify his killer.’
‘How? None of us had seen it before and, if we do not know it, then how can you? You could look at it all day and it would tell you nothing.’
Without further ado, she reached up to touch his cheek, wished him God’s speed and returned to her business.
With Bale behind him, Geoffrey followed the path of the Wye as it meandered through the forest. The roots of trees snaked across the path, and in places Geoffrey was obliged to dismount, to make sure his horse did not stumble. Bale watched his every move and did the same, showing he was prepared to learn, which Durand had never been.
It was a cool day, with clouds slung low across a dark sky, and it was not long before it started to rain. Bale tugged his cloak over his bald head, and they rode in silence. Geoffrey was alert for any unusual sounds or movements. Forests were good places for ambushes, and he had not lived to the ripe old age of thirty-three by being careless. But no one else seemed to be out, and the only sound was the patter of rain.
They left the river and passed through Rwirdin, which Geoffrey’s mother had bequeathed him. He studied it with interest – he had only been there twice before – and saw a neat place with a sturdy manor house and well-tended houses. He stopped to pay his respects to the steward, and stayed longer than he should have.
It was mid-afternoon before he set out on the final leg of the journey, and he hoped Giffard would find him a corner that night, because a wind was picking up, carrying with it a drenching drizzle. It was no weather to be sleeping in the open. Geoffrey urged his horse to greater speed.
Suddenly from the shadows a woman stepped out on to the track in front of him and raised her hand imperiously.
Her appearance was so abrupt that it startled Geoffrey’s horse, and he was hard pressed to prevent it from riding her down. Warhorses were strong animals, capable of carrying a knight in full armour into battle, and were not always easily controlled. That evening, it was skittish, and only at the very last moment was Geoffrey able to pull away from the woman.
‘Keep still,’ she ordered. ‘I want to talk to you, and I cannot while you are prancing around like a maiden who has set eyes on a spider.’
Geoffrey was tempted to ignore her and give his horse free rein to thunder along the track to Dene, but the woman was well dressed and spoke Norman-French with an accent that suggested she had learnt it in the home of a high-ranking noble. He suspected that she was from fitzNorman’s entourage, so decided to be courteous. He dismounted.
‘He is a fine beast,’ she remarked, inspecting the stallion with expert eyes. She wore a green kirtle that fitted rather too snugly over her ample hips, and a wimple that cut severely under her chin. Her face was square and determined, and it was clear that she was not a woman to be crossed. ‘You have ridden him too far today, and he is restless for oat mash and a bed of clean straw.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Geoffrey. ‘And you are keeping him from it. What are you doing out here on your own? It will be dark soon.’
‘I am not afraid of the dark,’ declared the woman. Geoffrey was sure she was not, and imagined there was very little that would disturb her. ‘I am Hilde, daughter of Lord Baderon.’
‘Even more reason why you should not be here alone,’ remarked Geoffrey. He was shocked to think that Joan considered her a suitable match for him – her plain face and powerful shoulders rendered her rather manly. ‘The kin of wealthy barons risk seizure by outlaws-’
Hilde gave a gusty sigh. ‘No outlaw would be so foolish – I would kill him where he stood. But I am not alone. My brother Hugh is with me, and so is Eleanor de Bicanofre.’
Two more people stepped from the shadows. Hugh was smaller than his sister, and his slack jaw and vacant expression indicated that he was not right in his wits. Although his clothes were fine, he wore them untidily, and he carried no sword or dagger, suggesting that he was not trusted with sharp implements.
Geoffrey looked with considerably more interest at Eleanor – another of Joan’s suggested brides. She wore a kirtle that was tight enough to reveal every curve of her sensuous body and a bright red cloak with matching gloves. Oddly, for someone happy to flaunt herself, her lower face was concealed by a scarf-like veil. All he could see was a pair of very bright blue eyes.
‘You are Geoffrey Mappestone,’ she said. ‘Brother of dear Henry.’
Geoffrey could not tell whether she was being facetious. Her voice was soft, his horse was breathing in his ear and he could not see enough of her face to judge her expression.
‘How do you know?’ he asked.
‘Your surcoat,’ said Hilde. ‘There are not many Jerosolimitani in these parts. You would not be our first choice to help us, but you will have to do. As you said, it will soon be dark.’
Geoffrey noticed Hugh was leaning heavily on Eleanor, and supposed there had been an accident. ‘Do you need to borrow my horse?’
‘Hugh does not ride,’ said Hilde. ‘And certainly not a horse of that size. You must go to Dene and send someone back with a cart.’
Geoffrey mounted, thinking he should hurry. Dusk would not be long in coming.
‘Tell them we are near the Angel Springs,’ said Eleanor. ‘Hugh followed me there, then slipped on wet stones and hurt his foot. He was lucky Hilde was close.’
‘I knew you intended to visit the springs this afternoon,’ said Hilde coolly. ‘And I know Hugh follows you. So, when I realized that he was missing, it seemed the obvious place to look. You are fortunate I used my wits, or you would both have been here all night.’
Eleanor’s eyebrows went up, and Geoffrey had the impression that Hugh’s damaged foot would not have stopped her from returning to the castle.
‘I am going with Geoffrey,’ Eleanor said. ‘I do not want to wait until he returns.’
Geoffrey offered her his hand, happy to have her company – and her directions – as he rode the last stage of the journey, but Hilde was having none of it. She stepped forward as Eleanor put her foot in the stirrup.
‘Hugh will be calmer with you here.’
Eleanor’s eyes were furious, but Hilde clearly meant business, so she said no more. She went to sit on a tree stump, and Geoffrey could see she was in a poor mood, even without benefit of a face to assess. He raised his hand in a salute, and rode away in the direction that Hilde indicated.
‘I do not like them!’ exclaimed Bale, when they were out of earshot. ‘It is an odd business: Eleanor slipping off to visit the Angel Springs, and that lunatic Hugh going after her. And then Hilde following him. You should not marry either of them, Sir.’
‘Not Hilde, for sure,’ agreed Geoffrey. ‘But Eleanor looked all right – what I could see of her.’
‘It is the bits you cannot see that you should worry about,’ replied Bale enigmatically. ‘Just ask yourself what she was doing at the Angel Springs in the first place.’ He pronounced the name in a way that made it sound sinister.
‘Is it a holy place?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘A well or some such thing?’
Bale regarded him through narrowed eyes. ‘The Angel Springs are not holy – at least, not to our God.’
Geoffrey supposed he should have guessed as much from Bale’s pronunciation. ‘What, then? A pagan temple?’
Bale’s eyes gleamed. ‘Witches linger there. I do not know what they do, but a knife left overnight will have a keen edge in the morning – especially if you leave a coin.’
‘Someone whets them during the night?’ Geoffrey supposed he should not be surprised that Bale had turned the conversation to the thing that seemed to interest him most: sharp knives.
‘They whet themselves,’ asserted Bale firmly. ‘And it is famous for other things, too.’
‘Enlighten me,’ encouraged Geoffrey.
‘Spells,’ elaborated Bale. ‘If you want a man to die, then you leave a lock of his hair and a coin at the Angel Springs and your enemy will be in his grave before the next moon appears.’
Geoffrey did not believe a word of it.
‘So, if anyone offers you a haircut, refuse,’ Bale went on. ‘I would not like to lose you yet. Not before you have paid my first month’s wages.’
It was farther to Dene than he had anticipated, but after a while, a sound caught Geoffrey’s attention, and he reined in, raising one hand to silence Bale.
‘Horses.’ Bale could also hear hoofs and the clink of metal.
‘Several of them,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Men riding together. It must be one of fitzNorman’s patrols.’
‘Or outlaws,’ said Bale, alarmed. ‘We should take cover, so we can ambush them before they attack us. I will cut their throats, while you claim their horses.’
Geoffrey laughed. ‘Outlaws will not be riding along a well-travelled path so close to fitzNorman’s stronghold, so these must be his men. We are on legitimate business; we have no reason to hide.’
The group that rounded the corner was astonished to see him. It comprised a knight, a monk and several soldiers, and all reached for their weapons. Geoffrey raised his hands to show he did not mean to fight, but that did not prevent them from spurring their way towards him with drawn swords. A pair of archers fumbled for bows and soon had arrows pointing in his direction.
‘I told you we should hide,’ whispered Bale accusingly. ‘Now it will be us with slit throats.’
‘Hold!’ shouted Geoffrey, wondering whether Bale had been right to be cautious. He had assumed that a lone traveller and his squire would present no threat, but saw he had been wrong. ‘I am here to see Bishop Giffard.’
‘You are poaching,’ said the knight. Short grey hair poked from under his helmet, and his cloak was blue with an ermine trim. There was embroidery around the hem, sewn to accentuate the presence of several semi-precious stones. His eyes were small and black, and he did not look friendly. ‘There are laws against poaching.’
‘We are not poaching,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I have come to-’
‘There is blood on your saddle,’ snapped the knight, riding forward to inspect it. ‘I can tell when a man has slaughtered an animal and carried it on his horse.’
Geoffrey tried to be patient. ‘I am here because Bishop Giffard summoned me.’
‘I know nothing about it,’ said the knight in a voice that suggested Geoffrey was lying.
‘I have a letter,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I can show you.’
The knight gave a curt nod, so Geoffrey retrieved Giffard’s letter and handed it to the monk. The Benedictine was a small, wiry man in his sixties, and his habit was made from good wool. He was vaguely familiar, although Geoffrey was more concerned with the knight.
‘It is true, fitzNorman,’ said the monk. ‘This is a message from Giffard asking him to come to Dene as a matter of urgency.’
FitzNorman laughed in an unpleasant manner, while Geoffrey regarded him with renewed interest. Here was the man who controlled the forest and was father to Isabel. He was large and fit, and his advanced age had apparently not reduced his readiness to fight. He also looked like the kind of man who would stop at nothing to have his own way – including murdering drunken neighbours.
‘I suppose Giffard summoned him over the Duke and his harlot,’ he said.
