‘If you do not attend willingly, he may drag you there by force,’ said Durand. ‘His sister will be wanting to inspect you, and so will the paupers from Bicanofre.’
‘I am supposed to inspect them, too,’ said Geoffrey. ‘We will be like wives at a meat market.’
Durand giggled. ‘Enjoy it! You will never have the chance to make this sort of decision again.’
‘I will if I outlive whichever lucky lady catches my eye.’
‘You will not do that,’ predicted Durand confidently. ‘Not the way you court danger. But I understand there are six women to choose from – I have been bored, so I have amused myself by assessing them for you. Do you want to hear my conclusions?’
Geoffrey did not, but Durand intended to tell him anyway.
‘Isabel is the prettiest, but she is in love with someone else. Her aunt Margaret is old enough to be your mother, but is a pleasant woman. You will like her, and she may still be young enough to give you the son you need.’
‘She gave her last husband two,’ added Bale. ‘Fine, strong gentlemen.’
‘And who,’ asked Durand, giving him a cool stare, ‘are you? Why do you interrupt me?’
Bale nodded at Geoffrey. ‘His squire.’
Durand pursed his lips. ‘My successor! A great, stupid, ugly ape! You have gone down in the world, Geoffrey.’
‘Actually, women find me very handsome,’ protested Bale.
‘Well, I do not,’ said Durand. He turned his back on Bale and continued his analysis. Geoffrey braced himself for trouble, but Bale only made an obscene gesture as repayment for the insult.
‘Then there are the Bicanofre women – Eleanor and Douce,’ Durand went on. ‘Eleanor is too clever, Douce not clever enough, and there is something odd about both. They are poor and a marriage with either is a waste. The same is true of Corwenna of Llan Martin, although her father would be willing.’
‘She is being courted by someone else,’ said Geoffrey.
‘Sir Seguin de Rheims,’ said Durand, nodding. ‘A shallow man who will not be able to control her. His brother Lambert is the same – they think they will take Welsh wives and continue their wild bachelor habits. Fools! And finally, there is Baderon’s Hilde. He is sure to foist her on you, but you should resist. I know you like a challenge, but she will prove too much.’
Geoffrey was amused. ‘So, which would you choose?’
Durand considered carefully. ‘I would leave immediately, and not have any of them – unless you like your women old, stupid, cunning, mannish or insane.’
Geoffrey rubbed his chin. He had come to much the same conclusion, but it was disconcerting to hear it so succinctly summarized. His future looked bleak, and he was overwhelmed by the desire to grab his horse and ride hard for the Holy Land. He would sooner take his chances with Tancred’s anger than live out his days with a local wife.
‘You cannot go to Tancred,’ said Durand, reading his thoughts. ‘You showed me the last letter he wrote, and to say it was hostile is an understatement. Do you want to be slaughtered in his next battle, because he orders you to a futile skirmish? You would do better joining forces with me. It will allow you to escape from Goodrich and use your wits.’
Durand’s offer was beginning to sound more attractive, but he thought about Joan and knew he could not shirk his responsibilities. ‘I cannot.’
Durand shrugged. ‘Then you have my deepest sympathy. Your future looks dismally grim, and I would not be in your position for a kingdom. Where are you going?’
Geoffrey had stood when a bell rang to announce the evening meal. ‘To the hall. You said I should go willingly or risk being dragged.’
Durand was aghast. ‘You cannot go dressed like that! FitzNorman would be insulted. Your full armour tells him you do not feel safe in his house.’
‘I do not,’ said Geoffrey, surprised anyone should think otherwise.
‘Perhaps so, but you cannot announce it by dining in mail! Besides, he will not attack you tonight. There will be too many witnesses.’
‘That did not stop him earlier,’ grumbled Geoffrey, although he suspected Durand was right. Reluctantly, he divested himself of his armour, while Bale tried to clean his boots. He inspected his equipment and saw with annoyance that fitzNorman’s attack had damaged his shield, which had, in turn, left several splinters in his arm.
‘You should get those out before they fester,’ advised Bale. ‘My knife is sharp—’
‘You do not use a knife for splinters,’ said Durand disdainfully. ‘It would be like using a bucket to serve fine wine.’ He glanced at Bale in a way that suggested he thought the squire probably did just that. ‘You must prise them out with your teeth. I will do it.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Geoffrey hastily, not liking the sound of either option. ‘Joan will do it tomorrow – without recourse to knives or teeth.’
‘Suit yourself,’ said Durand with a shrug. ‘But they will itch furiously tonight.’ Geoffrey took the green tunic from his saddlebag, and Durand’s jaw dropped in horror. ‘What is that?’
‘My best tunic,’ replied Geoffrey, mystified by his reaction.
Durand glared at Bale. ‘You packed it as though it were a rag, and now it looks like one. Do you want him to appear shabby among the suitors? What kind of squire are you?’
Bale snatched the offending garment and shook it so hard that one of the hems began to unravel. ‘The other creases will fall out by the end of the evening.’
‘But by then, everyone will be drunk, and it will not matter,’ said Durand. ‘Give it to me.’
With the help of water and a lot of judicious flattening, Durand eventually had the garment looking reasonably wrinkle-free, and Geoffrey pulled it over his head. The hem Bale had ruined began to drop, so Geoffrey pinned it in place with the tiny dagger Joan had given him. It pulled the skirt at an odd angle, and bumped against his leg when he moved, but it could not be helped. Durand pursed his lips in disapproval when he saw the result, and circled for some time, patting and tugging, before pronouncing himself satisfied.
‘It will have to do. At least these hapless women will know in advance what an untidy ruffian you are.’
Feeling self-conscious after Durand’s fuss, Geoffrey walked to the hall. Bale disappeared to eat with the other squires, but Durand accompanied Geoffrey to the tables near the dais, where those of significance dined. He assumed Durand knew what he was doing – he was in the King’s household, after all, and had a strong sense of his social standing.
The first people he met were Baderon and his knights. All three wore finery, and Geoffrey was grateful Durand had insisted that he change.
‘You have come to visit fitzNorman,’ said Baderon coolly. ‘Might I ask why?’
Geoffrey’s immediate reaction was to tell him he might not, but chose not to antagonize him. ‘I am here to see Bishop Giffard,’ he replied instead.
Baderon seemed relieved. ‘I thought fitzNorman might have summoned you to inspect Margaret and Isabel. But you must meet my daughter Hilde later. She has expressed an interest in you, and such an alliance would be most beneficial.’
‘She did not look very interested when I encountered her in the woods.’
Baderon pursed his lips, while his knights exchanged knowing smirks. ‘You met her. Damn! I wanted to be there, to make sure . . .’ He trailed off, waving a hand expansively.
‘To make sure she did not bite you,’ Seguin chortled.
‘To make sure each knew who the other was,’ said Baderon, glaring at him. He forced a smile at Geoffrey. ‘You must visit us in Monmouth. I am told you are a favourite of the King, and the King’s friends are always welcome.’
‘It is always wise to be gracious to friends of the King,’ said Durand. ‘I—’
‘You are not a friend of His Majesty,’ said Baderon in surprise. ‘You are a clerk. Abbot Serlo told me. Why are you here, anyway? You should be dining with the servants at that table.’ He pointed to the corner.
Du
rand’s small, sharp face grew dark with anger. ‘I am a trusted agent, not a clerk. And I am a landowner, too.’
‘You are not,’ said Seguin in distaste, grabbing Durand by the scruff of the neck and propelling him away. ‘You sit at the lower end of the hall.’
Durand’s eyes flashed dangerously. ‘I resent you manhandling me.’
Seguin made as if to grab him again, and Geoffrey was about to intervene when others entered the hall. Seguin’s eyes lit up when he saw Corwenna among them, and Durand was forgotten. Magnificent in a violet kirtle, Corwenna smiled smugly as she took his arm and allowed him to lead her to her place. When she passed Geoffrey, she looked him up and down disdainfully.
‘FitzNorman allows anyone to dine here, I see,’ she remarked.
‘Take no notice,’ whispered Baderon. ‘She has a sharp tongue, but Seguin will blunt it once they are married.’
Geoffrey sincerely doubted it. He watched Seguin fuss, determined to impress her, and it occurred to him that Seguin might do anything to secure her favour. Would he stoop to murder, to rid her of the man she claimed had killed Rhys?
‘I wish she would blunt it on him!’ muttered Durand venomously. ‘Insolent bastard!’
‘Ignore him,’ said Geoffrey, seeing humiliation burn on Durand’s face. ‘Seguin is a lout.’
‘Not Seguin. He is nothing – a brainless bag of wind. I was talking about Baderon. How dare he tell me where I may sit! Does he not know who I am?’
Geoffrey was saved from a further tirade when fitzNorman arrived. On his arm was an older woman, with kind grey eyes and a surprisingly trim figure. She wore a kirtle with plain sleeves and a long, decorative girdle made of silk. As befitting a lady of rank, a veil covered her hair, although the chestnut curls showing at her temples indicated they were not yet touched by grey. FitzNorman nodded greetings to various guests, including Durand, then approached Geoffrey.
‘This is my sister Margaret,’ he said. ‘I would like you to sit with her this evening.’
‘Where is Isabel?’ asked Durand, of a mind to make trouble. ‘Is she too busy to dine with us?’
FitzNorman glared at him. ‘She is indisposed.’
‘She refuses to see you while she pines for Ralph de Bicanofre,’ muttered Durand, going to take a seat, not quite at the level of Baderon and his men, but not far away. Geoffrey saw he had indeed risen in society.
‘I hear your first meeting with my brother was eventful,’ said Margaret, leading Geoffrey to the dais. Uncomfortably, Geoffrey was aware of Corwenna and Seguin glaring at him from one side, and fitzNorman watching with hawk-like eyes on the other; Geoffrey wished that he had not dispensed with his armour. ‘Do not take him amiss. He wants an alliance with you.’
‘You mean by marrying you?’ asked Geoffrey bluntly.
Margaret was not embarrassed. ‘I do not want another husband, but I may have no choice, and neither may you. However, I will not try to beguile you with false words, if you do me the same courtesy.’
Geoffrey smiled. ‘But we can be friends?’
She looked as relieved as he felt. ‘I would like that very much.’
‘Tell me about your husband,’ said Geoffrey, as the meal wore on.
‘He went on the Crusade, although he did not live to enjoy his glory. He died at Antioch.’
As Margaret talked, her spouse’s face appeared in Geoffrey’s mind. He recalled a gentle knight with calm, brown eyes, who had spoken fondly of his wife. She was moved when he told her so, and asked many questions about Antioch and its towering walls. She believed her Robert had died in battle, although Geoffrey knew that he, like so many others, had died of the bowel disease that struck at those weakened by hunger and exhaustion. He did not tell her the truth.
‘Who is that?’ he asked, nodding towards the fellow he had offered to help when his cart had stuck in the Wye. With him was an older man and a young woman wearing a white wimple. Geoffrey had a fleeting impression of dark eyes and clear skin before someone stepped into his line of sight.
‘Wulfric de Bicanofre and his son Ralph. It is Ralph for whom Isabel pines, poor thing. The woman is Wulfric’s youngest daughter, Douce.’
But Ralph was being hustled from the hall by his father, and Douce followed. Ralph shouted something, and Geoffrey thought he heard, ‘Henry’. When he saw Ralph scowl in his direction, he was sure it was his presence that had caused the father to remove the son so hastily.
Margaret chuckled. ‘Ralph is a silly boy, all puffed-up pride. His father knows he will quarrel with you, and is afraid it will spoil Douce’s chances. If you were to take Douce – or Eleanor – it would improve Wulfric’s standing in the area, and he is keen to make a good impression.’
‘I had no idea Goodrich was so important,’ said Geoffrey.
‘It is strategically located, as you know. But you may as well enjoy being fawned over. It will not last.’
‘That is what my old squire, Durand, told me,’ said Geoffrey.
‘Poor Durand. Baderon should not have addressed him so rudely, and Seguin should not have shoved him. He is a favourite at Court, and is likely to remember insults. The King likes men who are resourceful, clever and devious.’
‘I hear the King will be here soon. Do you know when?’
‘So you can leave before he arrives?’ Margaret laughed when he looked alarmed. ‘It is obvious that you are not a man to hang around in the hope of securing some regal crumb. But His Majesty is not expected for days. You have plenty of time to see your bishop and escape.’
‘Tomorrow,’ vowed Geoffrey. ‘When Giffard has finished his vigil.’
‘He is a devout man, but deeply troubled. I hope you can ease his burden.’
‘What burden?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘I suspect it is something to do with his kinsmen and the Duke . . . What do you want?’ Her voice was suddenly cool, and Geoffrey glanced up to see Corwenna behind him, a knife in her hand.
‘I want some of Geoffrey’s hair,’ she said, reaching out. ‘It is part of an experiment, to see whether Norman or Celtic hair is stronger.’
Geoffrey was not particularly superstitious, but he recalled Bale’s warnings about hair, and leant away from her. Undaunted, she grabbed at him.
‘No,’ said Margaret, catching her wrist. ‘Choose another Norman. And go away.’
She met Corwenna’s angry gaze, until the Welsh woman gave a stiff bow and moved away. She did not approach anyone else, and Geoffrey doubted there was any such experiment.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘She would have taken it to the Angel Springs and had it cursed,’ said Margaret. ‘Personally, I do not believe such nonsense, but you cannot be too careful. Now, tell me more about the Fall of Jerusalem.’
She asked more questions about the Holy Land and then talked a good deal about her Robert. It was an easy, relaxed discussion, and Geoffrey was grateful for her company. He saw fitzNorman nod with satisfaction, as if drawing up wedding contracts in his mind, and was aware that Baderon watched with irritation. Eventually, Abbot Serlo stood and intoned grace: the meal was at an end.
Margaret patted Geoffrey’s hand in a motherly fashion as she bade him goodnight, and when she had gone, he went outside for air. He sat on some steps, but did not enjoy his solitude for long. A youth of fifteen or sixteen, whose clothes copied those favoured by the most fashion-conscious members of the King’s court, came to stand nearby. Despite his finery, he was unprepossessing, with a bad complexion, poor teeth and a large nose.
‘It is a beautiful morning,’ he said in heavily accented Italian. ‘And the cows are in the river.’
Geoffrey gazed at the boy in bemusement. ‘It is a cold night,’ he replied in Norman-French. ‘And I imagine the cows are in the byre.’
It was the youth’s turn to look surprised. ‘You know Italian?’
‘My liege lord comes from Italy,’ replied Geoffrey in Italian. ‘Have you been there?’
‘You are speaking too fast,’ snapp
ed the boy in Norman-French. ‘And how do you know Italian? There cannot be any call for it in these Godforsaken parts.’
‘I like learning languages,’ replied Geoffrey, reverting to French. ‘And you?’
‘I love the sound of Italian.’ The boy closed his eyes, gesturing with his hands. ‘The bells chime in pigs. Dogs eat cabbages and the trees swear red.’
‘Very poetic.’
‘It impresses women,’ said the boy with a leering grin. ‘They think it is romantic, and invite you to kiss them.’
‘I shall remember that.’
The boy looked around. ‘I will demonstrate. You see that woman over there with the white veil? She is called Douce, and is the daughter of some upstart peasant. Watch me.’
He sauntered to where Douce stood with her brother and father. Both men gaped when the youth doffed his hat, accompanying the gesture with a stream of meaningless words about parsnips fighting inkwells and directions to the latrines.
Douce released a squawk of outrage. ‘Rude!’ she cried, cuffing him around the ears. ‘Rude!’
The boy regarded her with astonishment. ‘I was praising your beautiful eyes in the moonlight,’ he objected. ‘What did you clout me for?’
‘It sounded obscene,’ said Ralph angrily. ‘Push off.’
The boy sensed a lost cause and slunk away, pausing only to mutter to Geoffrey, ‘She is a peasant. It works better on ladies of the court.’
‘What are you staring at?’ demanded Ralph, suddenly recognizing Geoffrey.
Geoffrey was not in the mood to quarrel. He raised his hands to indicate he was sorry, and started to leave. Ralph followed, drawing his dagger, and Geoffrey was about to do likewise when Ralph suddenly beat a hasty retreat. Geoffrey watched in surprise, then jumped when a shadow loomed behind him. It was Bale.
‘He was going to fight you, sir,’ said Bale, who held Geoffrey’s broadsword in his meaty hands. ‘But he backed away when he saw he would have to contend with me, too.’
Geoffrey might have backed away from Bale, too. The squire looked especially intimidating in the dark, with his massive bulk and dome-shaped head. He thanked Bale for his watchfulness, although the squire’s attention was now on a commotion as the gates were hauled open.
Deadly Inheritance Page 8
