ruled by fear.
‘It is not an area that responds well to force,’ Geoffrey said carefully. ‘Bribery works much better.’
‘Why should I yield to the demands of peasants?’ snapped Walter angrily. ‘I am above such paltry dealings. But why did you come to Estrighoiel? What did you want here?’
It was on the tip of Geoffrey’s tongue to remark that he should have asked that before trying to throw him out of the town, but he managed to suppress the instinct.
‘I came because my wife’s uncle wrote to say he was in fear of his life. Unfortunately, I arrived too late to help him.’
‘Leger,’ mused Walter. ‘Odo or one of his brethren will be responsible for Leger’s death. It is a pity — Leger was the only reasonable fellow among them and I am sorry he is dead. But the culprit will not remain free for long. He will be a monk, and lay brothers gossip.’
‘Your spy in the priory is a lay brother?’ asked Geoffrey, supposing that would narrow it down. There were only six of those, as opposed to ten monks and a prior.
Walter smiled enigmatically. ‘I am not such a fool as to reveal my sources to anyone who asks. Suffice to say that nothing happens in that priory without my knowledge — and that is important, given that the wicked child-killer and devil-lover Ivar lurks there.’
‘A Satanist would hardly take up residence on consecrated ground,’ said Geoffrey reasonably. ‘It would cramp his style, to say the least.’
‘You assume the priory is holy,’ said Walter curtly. ‘But it is not. Ivar’s demonic evil has rubbed off on them, and they are all wicked now, even if they were not before. It is a pity they are not all stabbed in their church. But never mind this. Let me ask you a question: what were you hoping to learn about Leger’s death?’
‘Just who killed him,’ replied Geoffrey simply.
‘I have just told you who killed him — a monk. Any of them is strong enough, although my money is either on Odo or Aidan, on the grounds that they are the biggest and meanest. Or perhaps Ivar summoned a demon from hell to do it. And if you want to know why Leger was murdered, it will be something to do with that damned sky-stone. Ivar has hidden it and refuses to say where. My spy has done his best to find out, because I would like to get it myself.’
‘It seems a number of people would.’
Walter smiled, although the expression was not a pleasant one. ‘Yes, but they intend to charge the desperate huge amounts of money for cures. I mean to destroy it, so it cannot be used to deceive anyone else. It killed my daughter, you know.’
‘I thought she drowned,’ said Geoffrey, then winced. His wits were not functioning properly, because he would never normally have made such a blunt remark to a man who was clearly still grieving.
‘She fell in the river,’ said Walter softly. ‘But Ivar could have saved her, had he wanted. She was only six. The Satan-lover killed her, and I will never believe any different.’
When they reached the castle, Walter was immediately claimed by a clerk who declared there was urgent business for him to attend. It was left to Revelle to conduct Geoffrey and Roger to their quarters. These comprised a tiny chamber off the main staircase, little more than a cupboard built into the thickness of a wall. But it was palatial compared with some of the places in which they had been obliged to sleep, and reassuringly private.
‘My cousin Giffard wrote a lot about you,’ Revelle said, sitting uninvited on the bench that was the only piece of furniture, other than two straw mattresses and a tiny chest.
‘Did he?’ Geoffrey wished he would go. His injured arm ached, and he wanted to lie down.
‘He said you have helped him on several occasions, and that he considers you a friend. He was fond of Drogo, too — Estrighoiel’s previous constable. But he detests Walter. He advised me against going into his service.’
‘So why did you? Giffard is a wise and intelligent man.’
‘I wish I had listened,’ said Revelle. He glanced towards the door, then went to close it. ‘I have been asked to do things… Walter was never pleasant, but he has been worse since the death of his daughter. It is a pity for everyone that Eleanor died — she had a sunny, gentle disposition, and would have kept him from some of his depredations.’
‘What depredations?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Ordering the death of unarmed monks in churches?’
Revelle looked pained. ‘I am not sure what happened to Leger.’
‘Who is the spy — the man who tells Walter the priory’s secrets?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘He would be a good person to interview tomorrow.’
‘I do not know,’ said Revelle, and Geoffrey had the feeling he was telling the truth. ‘Walter says he trusts us four knights, but there are only so many secrets he shares with us. And the identity of the spy is not one of them — Walter says it must be so, to protect the man. It is unsavoury — I have never approved of spies, personally.’
Neither had Geoffrey, but he said nothing, and Revelle began speaking again.
‘Other crimes are overlooked, too. Have you heard how Nest fell over a cliff and the sky-stone brought her back to life? Well, she was being chased by soldiers from the castle who were intent on rape. Pigot was among them — it was he who told Walter how Ivar saved her. But their actions were overlooked with a wink and a nod.’
‘That will not make Walter popular with the townsfolk.’
‘He is popular with those he pays generously to spy. But others hate him. Unfortunately, it is not always easy to tell which is which. I plan to leave his service soon. Perhaps Giffard will find me something to do, and Winchester sounds like a nice place to live.’
‘He is not in Winchester at the moment — he is in the midst of a lengthy stay in Exeter.’
‘Then I shall go there,’ determined Revelle. ‘Soon, before I am asked to do anything else that plagues my conscience. Like arresting the hapless Marcus every other week.’
‘That is you? The priory objects to the frequency with which he is detained, and so does he. I am surprised Walter dares — the Church does not like seculars imprisoning its members.’
‘I know, but he is well treated, despite what he claims afterwards. He stays in this room, in fact — where Walter keeps guests, not prisoners.’
‘It feels like a prison to me,’ growled Roger, speaking for the first time since they had arrived in the castle. He was still angry with himself for not besting Seine at the skirmish earlier. ‘I do not like it here. I like Giffard, though, so if you are his cousin, you must be all right.’
Revelle smiled, which made him more angel-like than ever. ‘My whole family likes Giffard, and I appreciate the fact that he takes the time to write to me. Unfortunately, Walter’s clerks are usually too busy to read his letters to me — and I like to hear them more than once. He has a nice way with words.’
‘Geoff can read,’ said Roger brightly. ‘I try to keep it quiet, because it is hardly something worthy of a knight, but it comes in useful sometimes. He will read them to you.’
Smiling, Revelle pulled a bundle of missives from inside his surcoat, while Geoffrey scowled at his friend. He wanted to sleep, not squint over Giffard’s tiny writing by lamplight.
‘I happen to have the most recent ones here,’ Revelle said, ‘because I was going to ask Leger to interpret them for me. Unfortunately, he died before I could approach him.’
Geoffrey forced a smile and unfolded the first one. Giffard did have a way with words, and both Revelle and Roger listened spellbound at the prelate’s accounts of journeys he had taken and people he had met. There was a reference to Geoffrey, flattering enough to make the knight blush. Then there was a description of Estrighoiel during Drogo’s rule. Giffard had been there when Drogo’s accident had occurred, and he expressed reservations about Walter’s role in the affair.
Drogo set off to see the holy man, Giffard wrote. But he knew the land well, and it was no act of God that sent him over the precipice. Beware of your liege lord, cousin.
‘Drogo was going to see Ivar,’ explained Revelle, looking at Geoffrey. ‘But Walter has always claimed Giffard was mistaken — that Drogo did not know the cliffs as well as my cousin said he did. I have never been sure who to believe.’
‘Giffard would not lie,’ said Roger. ‘He is annoyingly honest.’
‘A mistaken belief is not a lie,’ Revelle pointed out. ‘Read the next one.’
‘It is not from Giffard,’ said Geoffrey. ‘The handwriting is different.’
‘Oh, that one,’ said Revelle dismissively, peering over his shoulder. ‘That is some missive he included with one letter, probably by mistake. I have never bothered to have it interpreted, because I am not interested in the
