“Are you Ynys’s son?” asked Geoffrey, to change the subject. He suspected that Caerdig, or some farmer like him, would dispatch the dog in an instant if they knew of its history of goat and sheep slaying in the Holy Land—and they would be perfectly justified to do so.
Caerdig shook his head. “I am Ynys’s nephew. But I am also his heir, and I inherited his lands after Henry murdered him last year.”
Geoffrey saw he had chosen a poor topic for casual conversation. He tried again, leading his horse so that he could walk next to Caerdig. “How long has my father been ill?”
“His health began to fail noticeably last summer. Since November, he has grown far worse, and the gossip says that he will not see Easter. You have arrived home just in time—now when the Mappestone brood carve up their father’s great estates, you can ensure you are not left out.”
“I want nothing from him,” said Geoffrey. “My mother left me her manor of Rwirdin when she died, and that will be quite sufficient for me, should I ever decide to live in England again.”
Caerdig snorted with derision. “You will be lucky to get that back! Your brother Walter arranged for Rwirdin to be given to Joan as part of her dowry two years ago. Rwirdin now belongs to your sister and her husband, Olivier d’Alençon.”
Geoffrey did not believe him—even Walter would not do something so flagrantly illegal—but he did not feel inclined to argue. He took off his helmet, which was beginning to rub, and scrubbed at his short brown hair with his fingers, relieved to be free of the heavy metal for a few moments. Caerdig watched him, and then reached out a hand to feel the material of Geoffrey’s surcoat with its Crusader’s cross on the back. It was faded now, and grimy from years of hard use, but in the brown winter countryside of Wales, it was exotic indeed.
“I have heard a lot about the Crusade,” Caerdig said, “although few Englishmen took part. I have been told that the glory was great and the opportunity to amass wealth even greater.”
“Then you were not told the truth.” said Geoffrey, replacing his helmet. “There was no glory at all in what we did. We marched thousands of miles—sometimes in the freezing cold, and other times in the searing heat—and more of us died of disease and from raids by hostile forces along the way than ever saw the Holy Land itself. I suppose it is fair to say that there was plentiful wealth to be looted at the end of it, but when a loaf of bread costs its weight in gold, such fortunes do not last long.”
“Your men seemed to have done well enough,” said Caerdig, indicating Helbye, Ingram, and Barlow behind them. “Their saddlebags are bulging.”
Geoffrey grimaced, recalling the incident at the Citadel in Jerusalem involving the three Englishmen that had almost caused a riot. “That is mostly the results of some lucky betting—aided by Ingram’s loaded dice—on their last night. I suppose it might buy a small plot of land, which is what they claim they want when we reach home.”
“Wonderful!” muttered Caerdig, unimpressed. “Yet more English landowners with whom to fight, and farmers with whom to compete.”
“I doubt it,” said Geoffrey, smiling at him. “Sergeant Helbye is too old to start farming, and I cannot see the other two settling down to days of endless tilling when there is still looting to be done in the Holy Land.”
“You think they will not stay, then?”
Geoffrey shrugged. “Helbye might. But I doubt he knows one end of a cow from another, so I do not think you have cause to fear his agricultural competition.”
Caerdig laughed. “And you? What will you do now you are home?”
Geoffrey shrugged again. “When I was in Jerusalem, I longed for the cool, green forests of England. Now I am here, I find I hanker for the warmth of the desert sun.”
“Then why did you come?” asked Caerdig. “I heard you were in the employ of the great Lord Tancred, who is Prince of Galilee. Surely you would be better in his service than here among the mud and the sheep? And the Mappestones!”
Indeed, Geoffrey had surprised himself by deciding to leave Tancred just as the powerful young Norman’s fortunes were on the rise. Tancred had not wanted him to go, and had begged, cajoled, and even threatened to make Geoffrey stay. But Geoffrey had become disillusioned with the Crusade. What had started with the noblest of ideals had quickly degenerated into a bid for power and wealth, from the highest-born baron to the humblest soldier.
When some of his closest friends were implicated in a plot to murder the ruler of the Holy City, Geoffrey had finally despaired, and had decided to leave Jerusalem. News of his father’s illness had spurred him into action. He had travelled by merchant ship to Venice, and then ridden to Harfleur, where he had taken passage on a second ship that took him to Portsmouth. It was a long journey, and not without its dangers, yet Geoffrey had weathered it unscathed, and was wryly amused that he should fall foul of a silly ambush within a few miles of his home.
“You have no cause to fear competition from me either,” said Geoffrey to Caerdig, tearing his thoughts away from Caerdig’s attack and Aumary’s death. “I will not stay long.”
They rode until the last of the daylight faded, and then found a small hamlet in a clearing in the forest. The hamlet comprised little more than a sturdy wooden hall and three out-buildings for livestock, and the residents were alarmed by the sight of a fully armed knight and his retinue. Their fears were roused even more when they saw the body of Sir Aumary bouncing across his saddle.
Not surprisingly, they were reluctant to comply with Geoffrey’s request for shelter for the night, but were too frightened to refuse outright. Begrudgingly, Geoffrey and his companions were offered dirty blankets and a space on the beaten-earth floor near the fire, while the horses and Sir Aumary fared considerably better in the more spacious, well-ventilated stables.
Without conscious thought, Geoffrey chose a place near the door, where he could easily escape outside if necessary and at the same time be able to watch anyone entering or leaving. The dog sniffed at the filthy blanket with sufficient enthusiasm as to make Geoffrey suspicious regarding the purpose for which it had last been used. But the night was cold, and he had used worse things to keep him warm in the past. Resting his back against the wall, he huddled into it with the dog nestling against his side, and dozed lightly. A short while later, Caerdig rose and moved nearer the fire. Geoffrey watched him in the flickering light, and did not sleep again.
CHAPTER TWO
Geoffrey was up and saddling his horse long before dawn broke the following day. The others were as keen as he was to set out and, after a breakfast of unappetising oat mash and some cold water from a nearby spring, they were off. It was still quite dark and, aware that a stumble in the darkness could damage his mount, Geoffrey led it until it was light enough to see. The Welsh ponies needed no such cosseting, and ambled along behind him, snorting and stamping in the cold morning air.
One problem that Geoffrey had not foreseen was that Aumary’s body had stiffened overnight, and it was no longer possible for it to be draped across a saddle. Geoffrey was forced to buy a dilapidated cart from the people in the hamlet and put Ingram’s horse to draw it, while Ingram himself became the proud rider of Aumary’s destrier.
Despite the solemn nature of his mission, Geoffrey sang to himself, enjoying the crisp, clean air of early morning and the peace of the forest around him. Frost lay lightly on the winter branches, and the ground underfoot was as hard as rock. When the woodland path eventually joined the ancient foot-track along Offa’s Dyke, Geoffrey let his horse have its head, and set it thundering along the side of a bubbling brook. When the horse finally began to tire, Geoffrey reined in, and slowed to a comfortable walk so that the others could catch up. He removed his helmet, and breathed deeply, relishing the feel of the sun on his bare head after the chill of the previous night.
The Dyke formed part of an old boundary between kingdoms. Some sections rose high above the surrounding land, while in other areas it made use of streams or dense outcrops of forest to mark its route.
Along it ran a well-trodden path and the travelling was easy, so that by early afternoon Barlow gave a shout, announcing that he could see the great castle of Chepstow.
As they drew near, Geoffrey paused and admired the mighty fortress on its eyrie above the winding brown curl of the River Wye. Cliffs rose sheer from the water, culminating in a powerful curtain wall, behind which stood the massive rectangular stone keep itself. Geoffrey and his companions skirted the encircling wall on the side opposite the cliffs, aware that their progress was watched keenly by look-outs posted along its whole length. Trees had been felled and houses removed, so that no one could approach the castle from any direction without being seen—except for the cliffs, of course, and it would be a doomed and foolish invader who risked climbing those.
Eventually, they reached the main entrance, where there were guards in the gatehouse at ground level, as well as archers housed in the wooden gallery that ran along the top of the curtain wall. The duty sergeant heard Geoffrey’s business, and then escorted them into the courtyard. As he dismounted and handed his reins to a stable boy, Geoffrey looked around him again, impressed. The keep stood in the middle of an elongated, triangular bailey. It was a formidable building, and a fine illustration of Norman strength and practicality, even though it lacked some of the refinements Geoffrey had seen in France. But decorations notwithstanding, Chepstow was a splendid fortress, and Geoffrey was not surprised that the King had favoured its constable with his presence for more than a month now.
The duty sergeant found a stretcher, and they laid Sir Aumary on it, covering him with his fine cloak. While Ingram and Barlow struggled and groaned under the dead weight, Geoffrey led the way to the keep. There was a moment of panic when Aumary almost slid off the litter as he was carried up the steep wooden stairs—the entrance, like in all Norman castles, was on the second floor, reached by a flight of steps that could be removed at times of danger, presenting would-be invaders with yet one more obstacle to surmount—but Geoffrey’s timely lunge prevented an unfortunate incident.
Henry, King of England and youngest son of William the Conqueror, had just returned from hunting in the southern reaches of the Forest of Dene. His face was flushed from the exercise and fresh air, and he was basking in the accolades of his fellow huntsmen for having brought down a great brown stag. The stag and several fallow deer were being displayed in the hall before they were whisked off to the kitchens to be used to feed the King’s sizeable household. Trestle tables laden with food lined one wall, so that the King and his men could stave off their immediate hunger until the regular meal was served later. Salivating helplessly, Geoffrey’s dog aimed for them. Geoffrey caught it by the scruff of its neck, and told a squire to take it outside before it could indulge itself and have Geoffrey and his companions evicted from the King’s presence.
The duty sergeant whispered something to another squire, who in turn went to the constable of the castle, the man who would decide whether Geoffrey’s business was of sufficient importance with which to disturb the King. Apparently, it was not, for the constable strode forward to greet them himself, leaving the King to enjoy the company of his sycophants. He bent over the litter that had been placed at the far end of the hall, and lifted the cloak to inspect Sir Aumary’s face.
“I do not know this man,” he said. “He had dispatches for the King, you say?”
Geoffrey handed over the pouch that had been hidden inside his surcoat. The constable opened it, and inspected the documents it held.
“The seal is that of Domfront,” he said, holding one upside down and revealing to Geoffrey that he was not a man of letters. “But I cannot imagine that these missives contain much of importance. Domfront is just a small castle in Normandy that our King is rather fond of. Was this Sir Aumary carrying anything else?”
Geoffrey raised his hands in a shrug. “The pouch seemed to be the thing of greatest value—Aumary was always very protective of it. But I admit I did not search his body for other documents.”
The constable looked down at the swathed figure. “I will inform the King about this at a convenient moment. I do not think it is of sufficient merit to bother him with now. Please remain in or near the castle until I am able to arrange an audience with you.”
He promptly turned on his heel and strode away, leaving Geoffrey and Caerdig with nothing to do but hope that the King would not make them wait for days. Geoffrey wanted to leave immediately, but now that he had made an appearance, he was obliged to stay until it was the King’s pleasure to see him, waiting his turn with the other hopefuls who believed meeting the King would solve all their problems.
Ignoring the frustrated sighs of Caerdig at his side, Geoffrey sat on a bench and gazed around him, interested as always in architecture and art. The hall at Chepstow might be grand, he thought as he studied parts of it closely, but it was neither beautiful nor refined compared to the Saracen buildings in Jerusalem and Antioch that he had seen while on Crusade. In true Norman spirit, Chepstow was sturdy and functional, but it was most certainly not—
“And these are the men you mentioned?”
At the unexpected sound of the King’s voice so close to him, Geoffrey started to his feet. He dropped onto one knee in the usual homage of a knight to a king, wondering how long the King had been watching him while he pondered the relative merits of Christian and Arab building techniques. The King gestured for him to rise.
“This is the body of Sir Aumary de Breteuil,” explained the constable, gesturing to the corpse. “He was bringing you dispatches from France, but was struck down by an unknown assailant a few miles from here.”
“Unfortunate,” said the King, turning his gaze to Geoffrey. “And who are you?”
“This is Sir Geoffrey Mappestone,” said the constable. “He claims he was with Sir Aumary when the attack occurred.”
Geoffrey found himself the subject of intense scrutiny from the King’s clear, grey eyes.
“Was he indeed? And did you see this unknown assailant, Geoffrey Mappestone?”
“I did not, my lord,” said Geoffrey, aware that behind him Caerdig was holding his breath. “Aumary became separated from the rest of us during the attack. When we returned to find him later, his destrier was roaming loose and he lay dead in the grass.”
“I see,” said the King, suddenly much more interested now that he knew the dead man had owned some property. “And where is this destrier now?”
Geoffrey had heard that the King was avaricious, but he had not anticipated that his greed would be quite so transparent. “The horse has been placed in your stables.”
“Good,” said the King, rubbing his hands with pleasure. “Is it a passable beast?”
“It looks handsome enough, but it has been poorly trained,” said Geoffrey.
It was clear Aumary’s widow in France would not be gaining anything from having her husband slain in the service of the King.
“Poor training can be remedied,” said the King dismissively. “Now, this man was bringing me dispatches, you say?”
The constable handed him the pouch, and the King broke the seals.
“They are accounts from my castle at Domfront,” he said, sorting through them quickly and efficiently. Geoffrey remembered that the King was already being called “Beauclerc” because he, unlike most noblemen, could read and write. “It is always pleasant to learn that one’s estates are profitable, but this is scarcely information for which to kill.”
“Perhaps he also carried other messages,” suggested the constable. “It would not be unknown for a messenger to draw attention away from something important by flaunting something unimportant.”
“I suppose that must be it,” said the King doubtfully. “Perhaps you will search the body for me, assuming that Sir Geoffrey has not done so already?”
Geoffrey shook his head. “Aumary only ever seemed to be concerned about the dispatches in his pouch. I assumed they were all he had—he told me they were of vital importance.”
The
King smiled. “The more important the messages, the better paid the messenger,” he said wryly. “But what of this attack on you? Was Aumary the only fatality?”
Geoffrey nodded. “Unless you include one of my horses. This was the arrow that killed Aumary.” He held the bloodstained arrow out to the King, who inspected it minutely, but declined to take it in his own hands.
“I see,” said the King after a while. “All very intriguing. Did you see your assailants?”
“I saw no archers,” replied Geoffrey ambiguously, aware of the anxiety of Caerdig behind him.
“There is a Godric Mappestone who owns the manor of Goodrich and several other profitable estates to the north of the Forest of Dene,” said the King, his eyes straying back to the arrow in Geoffrey’s hands. “Is he a relative of yours?”
“My father.”
“I see,” said the King again. He looked Geoffrey up and down. “Your surcoat proclaims that you have been crusading, like my brother, the Duke of Normandy. I take it you have returned to England to claim any inheritance your father might leave you?”
Geoffrey shook his head. “I am not his heir, my lord. I have three older brothers to claim precedence. I have come only to pay my respects, and then I will be on my way again.”
“Back to the Holy Land?”
Geoffrey nodded.
“I was a fourth son, you know,” the King mused, regarding Geoffrey with half-closed eyes. “And now I am King of England. You should not underestimate your chances of inheritance, Sir Geoffrey. You never know what fate might hold in store for you.”
“But I do not want Goodrich,” said Geoffrey, more forcefully that he had intended. “Even if it did fall to me, I would decline it. I do not want to be a landlord.”
“Rash,” said the King, pursing his lips in disapproval. “You do not know what my wishes are in this matter, and I am your King.”
Geoffrey did not imagine that the King could possibly be remotely interested in who was lord of the manor at Goodrich, but knew better than to say so. The King stroked his thick beard thoughtfully for a moment, and then gave what Geoffrey could only describe as a predatory smile.
A Head for Poisoning Page 4
