‘He is not in here. May I escort you to the hall? You seem unwell.’
Leah smiled, an expression that transformed her face into something approaching prettiness. ‘Just another of my headaches, but I can reach the hall on my own, thank you.’
Geoffrey felt he owed her some explanation for his bad language. ‘There is a nail in my horse’s foot, but I cannot tease it out. I am sorry-’
Leah stepped forward. ‘Let me try. I know horses.’
Before he could stop her, she had lifted the hoof with deft efficiency and had grasped the nail in her tiny fingers. As if it sensed it was in the presence of someone who meant it no harm, the animal was unusually docile, and it was not long before Leah had extracted the offending sliver of metal.
‘Will you stay in Goodrich long?’ she asked before he could thank her. ‘I imagine we shall all travel west together, but as you have only just arrived, you will want to linger for a few days. But I long to be back in Kermerdyn, although Richard has not been happy there since his brother died. I am so very homesick.’
‘Tomorrow,’ said Geoffrey, thinking he had never seen an expression of such sadness. ‘There is no need to stay here any longer than that.’
‘Thank you,’ whispered Leah with a wan smile. And then she was gone.
Geoffrey lingered by the stable door, enjoying the smell of clean hay and the earthy scent of horse sweat and manure, wondering how long he should wait before advancing on Hilde. He saw Edward a few moments later, leading Leah to the well, where they sat talking. He was glad she had a friend, because she had seemed lonely and vulnerable, although her skill with horses made her more to Geoffrey than the shadowy nonentity Joan had described.
He was inspecting a fierce black stallion that he was sure could not belong to Olivier when a rustle in the straw made him turn quickly, hand moving automatically to his sword.
‘He is a fine beast, do you not agree?’ asked Abbot Mabon, striding towards him, his black surcoat billowing. He gave the animal a pat on the nose, and it snickered its appreciation.
‘He seems spirited,’ said Geoffrey.
‘Very,’ agreed Mabon proudly. ‘I would have taken him out today, but I did not want to ruin him on rough tracks. I rode one of your sister’s nags instead, but he turned lame before we were through the village, so I was forced to come back. Pity. I enjoy hawking.’
Close up, Mabon looked even less like an abbot than he had at a distance. He was an enormous man, and his black attire made him seem bigger. There was something of the pirate in his gap-toothed grin, and Geoffrey could not imagine him on his knees at an altar.
‘I have a letter for you from the Archbishop,’ said Geoffrey, grateful for the opportunity to discharge one of his tasks. He started to rummage for the package Pepin had given him, tucked well inside his shirt. ‘It comes via the King.’
‘Does it?’ asked Mabon without enthusiasm. ‘I doubt either of them has anything I want to hear. I cannot read anyway, so hang on to it until we reach Kermerdyn, where a scribe can tell me what it says.’
‘Delwyn will oblige,’ said Geoffrey. ‘He has been trying to take charge of it ever since we left.’
‘He would,’ said Mabon disparagingly. ‘But I would rather lose my sword arm than let him loose on my correspondence. We shall take it to Ywain when we reach Kermerdyn – he is my deputy and the man who will succeed me. He can read.’
‘So can I,’ said Geoffrey, unwilling to be lumbered with the responsibility of looking after the letter for longer than was necessary. ‘And I will read it to you now, if you like.’
‘Really?’ asked Mabon, regarding him with disappointment. ‘Why would a knight waste time on that?’
‘That is an unusual stance for an abbot,’ said Geoffrey.
Mabon laughed uproariously. ‘I am an unusual abbot. But please keep the letter. I will only lose it, and then Ywain will be vexed. Besides, it is a lovely day and I do not want it sullied by unwelcome news – and all news that comes via that meddling usurper Henry is bad news. I cannot abide the man.’
Geoffrey warmed to Mabon. ‘I understand you have a feud with Bishop Wilfred,’ he said, supposing he may as well start one of his enquiries.
‘That venomous Norman snake,’ spat Mabon. ‘Not that I have anything against Normans, of course, but they have no right to march into our country and award themselves all the best posts. I should have been Bishop of St David’s.’
‘The King does not know what he is missing,’ said Geoffrey, suspecting Henry very much did, and that was why Wilfred had been appointed.
‘Indeed!’ agreed Mabon. ‘It is a pity William fitz Baldwin died, because I did not mind him in a position of power. He was a lovely man, and I liked having him in Rhydygors.’
‘You do not like Hywel?’
‘Oh, yes – he is lovely, too, although he is Welsh, so that is to be expected. Of course, poor William was murdered. It was put about that he died of fever, but that was a lie. I was the one who first said he was poisoned, and I stand by my claim.’
‘With what evidence?’ Geoffrey felt his spirits sink. He had hoped to be able to report that William’s death was natural and the tales about his secret no more than rumour.
‘Evidence!’ sneered Mabon. ‘I do not need evidence when my gut screams foul play. Besides, his fingers were black.’
‘Black?’ asked Geoffrey, puzzled.
‘Decayed, like a corpse. It was very peculiar. And there was a nasty scene around his deathbed. Of course, it was the butter that killed him.’
‘Butter?’ Geoffrey was bemused by the confidences.
‘It was made by Cornald, was a gift from Pulchria, delivered by Richard. Then Delwyn was seen loitering around the kitchens where the stuff lay, talking to Bishop Wilfred. And Gwgan, Isabella, Hywel and Sear were at the meal after which William became ill. They are all suspects for the crime.’
‘I see,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Where were you?’
‘In my abbey, seeing to a sick horse, as my monks will attest. Edward was away at the salient time, too, while poor little Leah was ill and confined to her bed. We three are innocent, but the rest are guilty until proven innocent, as far as I am concerned.’
‘What nasty scene happened at William’s deathbed?’
‘He took several days to die, and muttered and whispered almost the entire time. Little of it made sense, but we were all keen to hear as much as possible, lest he gave up his secret.’
‘What secret?’ asked Geoffrey, feigning innocence.
‘The secret that turned him into the fine man he was, and gave him his fabulous luck,’ replied Mabon. ‘Surely, you have heard this tale? It is famous all over the world.’
‘Enlighten me.’
Mabon grimaced. ‘He would never say what the secret was, and even denied that he had one on occasion, although he was a poor liar. I happened to be alone with him at one point during his fever, and he told me he found the secret in the river.’
Geoffrey frowned. ‘What do you think he meant?’
Mabon shrugged. ‘It made no sense, but he was religious, and I know he liked to immerse himself in the water as though he were John the Baptist. Perhaps he had a vision. He certainly had great respect for the Blessed Virgin.’
‘Many people do,’ said Geoffrey. ‘But-’
‘I do not bother with her,’ interrupted Mabon. ‘When I want favours, I go straight to the top – to God the Father.’
‘Oh,’ said Geoffrey, feeling the discussion was blasphemous.
‘But never mind all this religious claptrap. Let me see your destrier. There is no man in Wales who is a better judge of horseflesh than me.’
Mabon was indeed knowledgeable and regaled Geoffrey with all manner of opinions about horses and weapons. He left eventually, and Geoffrey was about to go to Hilde when he sensed yet another presence. It was Pulchria, and her expression was predatory.
‘The lord of Goodrich,’ she crooned, mincing towards him. ‘I was hoping for an opportunity to make your
