‘And why was he by the cliff? Because he was visiting Ivar!’ retorted Revelle. The promptness of his reply made Geoffrey suspect that it was a debate that had been aired many times before. ‘But he never returned. And you wonder why Walter is wary of Ivar?’
‘Ivar had nothing to do with Drogo’s death,’ said Aidan firmly. ‘And he is one of us now — a Benedictine and a holy man. He is above reproach.’
‘Are you saying Benedictines are above reproach, Brother Aidan?’ asked Revelle archly. ‘After all the unsavoury dealings we uncovered in your priory?’
‘They were not unsavoury dealings,’ said the other monk hotly, stepping forward. He was roughly Geoffrey’s age — mid-thirties — and looked as if he should have been a warrior, not a monk. Unlike Aidan, his cross was gold, rather than wood. ‘They were all lies — fabricated by villains in a transparent attempt to discredit us.’
‘These tales came from a reputable source, Brother Marcus,’ said Revelle. ‘And there was evidence to prove that the sacristan has misappropriated the funds in his care, that Prior Odo does drink too much and that the cellarer did entertain women in his quarters.’
‘So your spy claims,’ spat Marcus in distaste. ‘Some villain who runs to Walter with tales in return for money.’
‘A lot of money,’ agreed Pigot with a gloating smile. ‘He does not come cheap. But then, his intelligence is worth the expense. And you still have no idea who he might be!’
‘I do not know whether the stories from the priory are true, but the ones pertaining to Ivar are lies,’ declared Nest. ‘He would never do the things he was accused of. He is a saint.’
‘He is a grubby vagrant,’ countered Revelle, ‘with a reason to be frightened by the charges of witchcraft we tried to bring against him. He did kill poor little Eleanor, because there were witnesses — myself among them.’
‘He did not kill her,’ said Aidan tiredly, putting out a warning hand as Marcus started to surge forward angrily. ‘He tried to save h er when she was dragged from the river, but she was beyond his skills. No one, other than you at the castle, blames him for that.’
‘He does not cast spells and conjure up Satan, either,’ declared Marcus, clearly furious. ‘I confess I find Ivar difficult, but we shall stand by him against all lies spread by seculars.’
Revelle shrugged. ‘He will show his true colours one day, and then you will be sorry you did not listen to our warnings. The devil will come and drag him down to hell — and will take every single one of you with him. You are a fool to keep protecting him.’
‘You are the fool,’ muttered Marcus under his breath.
‘God’s blood!’ muttered Roger at Geoffrey’s side. ‘Quarrelsome villagers, argumentative knights and hot- tongued monks whose comrades cast spells to summon the devil! What sort of place is Estrighoiel?’
Geoffrey led the way towards the priory, supposing he had better make himself known to Hilde’s uncle as soon as possible. He dismounted by a wooden gate and knocked. A metal grille set in the door flew open, and he could see a pair of unfriendly eyes on the other side. The fellow’s robes indicated he was a lay brother.
‘What do you want?’ he demanded. ‘You cannot come in, whatever it is. We are busy.’
Geoffrey was taken aback. Monasteries were usually hospitable to travellers, especially ones whose surcoats said they had been to the Holy Land. But then, the confrontation in the market suggested something odd was happening in the town, so he supposed he should not be surprised.
‘We have come to visit Brother Leger. He is uncle to my wife.’
‘He is? Oh, Christ!’
The grille was slammed closed, leaving Geoffrey staring at it in astonishment. Roger’s expression hardened.
‘That was plain rude. Shall we break down the door and teach them a lesson? Hilde said there are only twelve monks here, and I doubt they have more than six lay brothers. Few will be armed, and we could take the place easily. And if they harbour Satan-worshippers, then the town and the castle will not object.’
‘No,’ said Geoffrey, seeing his friend was perfectly serious. ‘We are not in the business of sacking monasteries.’
‘We did it in Antioch,’ Roger pointed out. ‘On the Crusade.’
‘That was different. We are here to help Hilde’s uncle, not besiege his home.’
Roger grimaced, then wiped his face again with his filthy piece of silk. ‘We should not have worn armour today — it is far too hot. I am being roasted alive.’
‘Wait for me in a tavern,’ suggested Geoffrey, suspecting gaining access to Leger might take some time and loath to have Roger complaining while he persuaded the brothers that he was not there to accuse them of drunkenness, dishonesty or failing to save children from drowning. ‘I will join you there later.’
‘Very well,’ agreed Roger. ‘But fetch me if there is any fighting. I will not be pleased to hear you have enjoyed yourself without me.’
Geoffrey was relieved when Roger disappeared into a large, neat tavern with a sign outside indicating it was the White Lion. He was about to knock on the priory gate again when the grille snapped open and a different pair of eyes inspected him. This time, they belonged to a monk with white hair, the kind of nose that said he liked a drink, and a large wooden cross around his neck, like the one Aidan wore.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded haughtily. ‘What do you want?’
‘I am here to visit Leger,’ replied Geoffrey patiently. ‘He sent word to his niece, Hilde, that he might be in trouble.’
‘That is one way of putting it,’ muttered the monk. ‘He is dead.’
It was not easy persuading the Benedictine to open the door so that the conversation did not have to take place in a busy thoroughfare. Geoffrey did not like the fact that people were stopping to listen, and if it had not been for his promise to Hilde he might have turned around and gone home.
‘It might be better if we had this discussion inside,’ he said to the monk. ‘A crowd is gathering, and I understand you are already the subject of rumours-’
‘All lies, put about by the evil Walter,’ declared the monk. But he, too, was eyeing the spectators. Some were muttering that Leger’s demise was because the monks harboured a Satanist, while others claimed Walter had arranged the death. A few discussions were growing rancorous. Then the door opened, and a beckoning finger indicated that Geoffrey was to step through it.
‘I am Prior Odo,’ said the red-nosed monk. ‘I am sorry to give you the bad news. Poor Leger died last night, I am afraid.’
‘How?’ asked the knight. ‘My wife told me he is not yet fifty, so it cannot-’
‘It is an internal matter,’ said Odo stiffly. ‘I am not at liberty to discuss it with you.’
‘Hilde will want to know what happened,’ warned Geoffrey. ‘So you can either tell me, or you can tell her — because she will descend on you herself if she is not satisfied with my answers. If you have ever met her, you will know I am right.’
Odo gulped. ‘I have met her, and there is nothing I would like more than to furnish you with the information that will keep her away. But I cannot, because I have no idea what happened.’
‘Then tell me what you do know.’
‘A few days ago, Leger said someone was trying to kill him, and grew very agitated — he wrote to your wife, begging for help. He claimed there was poison in his food, and the cat did refuse to eat it when offered, but it is a fussy creature and may not have been hungry.’
‘He told Hilde someone threw a knife at him.’
‘He told me that, too. But we live a very secluded life here. We have no enemies.’
‘Are you saying he died of natural causes, then? Or that he killed himself?’
Odo crossed himself. ‘He was stabbed in the back, which is decidedly unnatural.’
‘It is not easy to do if you are trying to commit suicide, either,’ remarked Geoffrey. ‘And that leaves murder, which means he had at least one enemy and that he was perfectly justified in being afraid for his life.’
‘I suppose it does,’ acknowledged Odo reluctantly. ‘Perhaps I should have heeded his concerns.’
Geoffrey regarded him askance. ‘After two attempts on his life? Yes, you should!’
Odo looked sheepish. ‘Would you like to see his body? You are obviously a soldier, so you will be familiar with wounds. Perhaps it might tell you something.’
Inspecting corpses was not a way Geoffrey would have chosen to spend a summer afternoon, but he followed
