urgent.’
‘I was sorry to learn about your brother,’ said Geoffrey, taking the opportunity to question him. Then he winced. William had been dead seven years, so condolences were late, to say the least, and he realized he should leave his investigations until his wits were not floating in wine. Fortunately, Richard was drunker than he was, and it did not occur to him that sympathy for the death of a man so long in his grave was peculiar.
‘Everyone liked William.’ Richard’s expression grew pained. ‘I would have liked his secret, because I would not mind being popular myself.’
‘You think his secret made him popular?’
Richard nodded so earnestly that he almost toppled over. ‘He was like me before he found it – he had a temper and was disinclined to laugh at frivolous things. Then along came his secret, and he changed. He became kindly and tolerant, just and wise. And people loved him for it. I still grieve for him.’
‘What was his secret?’ asked Geoffrey tipsily.
‘I wish I knew, but it was something to do with the Blessed Virgin. Mabon thinks it was connected to William’s swims in the river, but he is wrong. It does not matter any more, though, because the secret is gone. He did not tell any of us enough on his deathbed to allow us to find it.’
‘Are you sure?’
Richard nodded again. ‘Yes. My brother was a saint, and no one else fits that description in Kermerdyn. If anyone did find his secret, then it did not have the same effect.’
‘Was he murdered?’ asked Geoffrey. The question was out before he realized he should have phrased it more tactfully.
Richard’s scowl was back. ‘No one would have killed William, although there were tales to the contrary. It was probably because his fingers turned black, but the physician said that can happen with many ailments. He was not murdered, and anyone who says otherwise is a liar.’
‘I was only asking,’ said Geoffrey, backing away with his hands in the air when Richard’s dagger started to come out of its sheath. ‘I meant no disrespect.’
‘Good,’ snarled Richard. ‘Because I will kill anyone who speaks dishonourably about William. He was the best man who ever lived.’
‘I see,’ said Geoffrey, startled to see tears begin to flow.
He watched Richard stagger away and was inclined to believe his grief was genuine. It was difficult to feign emotions after swallowing so much wine, and there was no doubt that Richard had loved his brother dearly. Did that mean he would not have killed him? Geoffrey found he was not yet ready to say.
Six
When Richard had gone, Geoffrey looked for Gwgan, but the counsellor was in neither the hall nor the bailey. Then he remembered that he had letters from Maurice to deliver, as well as the ones from the King, and one of them was to Cornald. The others – to Bishop Wilfred, Isabella and Robert the steward – would have to wait until he reached Kermerdyn, but he could be rid of the one.
‘Cornald went to the kitchen,’ supplied Sear, when Geoffrey asked whether anyone had seen him. ‘The ample feast your sister provided was not enough for him, so he has gone to see what more he can scavenge.’
Sear was dicing with Alberic and Roger by the fire. Edward was nearby, strumming Olivier’s lute, and Geoffrey hoped he would suppress the inevitable quarrel that would arise when Roger’s loaded dice came into play. Mabon lounged in Joan’s favourite chair, while Delwyn sat at his feet, dozing restlessly.
‘What about Gwgan?’ Geoffrey asked. ‘Where is he?’
‘Probably with his horse,’ replied Edward. ‘It was lame earlier. But it is late and I am tired. We should all sleep now if you will insist on riding for Kermerdyn at dawn. Put up your dice, Roger.’
Geoffrey was surprised when Roger did as he was told, but supposed the big knight did look weary. So did Sear, Alberic and Edward, and Geoffrey saw the journey from La Batailge had taken its toll on them, too. Perhaps he was unreasonable to force them on so soon. Mulling over the notion of a respite, he walked to the kitchen block – a separate building to reduce the risk of fire.
Cornald was indeed raiding the pantries, and his cheeks bulged as he browsed along the shelves with a candle in hand. Pulchria was with him, and the unfriendly look she cast Geoffrey indicated she had not liked her advances being repelled earlier. He handed over the letter, with the brief explanation that it had been entrusted to him by the Bishop of London.
‘From Maurice?’ Pulchria asked wistfully, leaving Geoffrey in no doubt that she had helped the lecherous prelate with his medicine. ‘How nice.’
Cornald scanned it quickly, his face alight with pleasure. ‘He hopes we are both well, and confers blessings on us. What a lovely man! And he has included a recipe for cheese that he thinks might work well with Welsh milk. How thoughtful! Is he a friend of yours, Sir Geoffrey?’
Geoffrey nodded, then promptly forgot his resolve to leave his enquiries until his wits were sharper. ‘He told me a lot about Kermerdyn, including an account of the death of William fitz Baldwin, whom he admired.’
‘Everyone admired William,’ said Cornald sadly. ‘He was a wonderful man.’
‘I preferred him when he was a sinner,’ muttered Pulchria.
‘You were at his deathbed,’ said Geoffrey. ‘And-’
‘Not this again!’ sighed Pulchria. ‘I thought I had answered these questions already.’
‘You did?’ asked Cornald. ‘When? You told me you spent all afternoon praying in the chapel.’
‘I am about to go there again,’ said Pulchria. The sultry look was back as she addressed Geoffrey. ‘A night vigil always leaves me so refreshed. Perhaps you would care to join me?’
‘No, thank you,’ said Geoffrey. ‘But I imagine Roger and Sear will oblige.’
‘She is a pious lady,’ said Cornald, placing an affectionate arm around her shoulders. ‘She spends most nights and much of the day in prayer. Is that not true, dearest?’
‘Yes,’ said Pulchria. Geoffrey wondered how the butterer could be so blind.
‘To return to William,’ said Cornald, ‘Pulchria and I were at his deathbed, and so was anyone of note in Kermerdyn. He had a secret, you see, and we all hoped he would reveal it. Not for our personal use, but so we could send it to His Majesty. Or even to the Archbishop, to be used for the glory of God.’
‘Right,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Maurice told me a tale of poisoned butter-’
‘No!’ Cornald’s voice was sharp and angry. ‘There was a tale, but it was a lie. My butter is made from the finest ingredients, and even if it was a little past its best, it would not kill a man by turning his fingers black. It might drive him to the latrines, but nothing worse. William was not poisoned, Sir Geoffrey.’
‘As I told you earlier,’ added Pulchria irritably.
‘You mentioned a secret,’ said Geoffrey. ‘What was-’
‘William talked about it often,’ said Cornald. ‘He called it his “recipe for happiness”. He was fond of fine food, and I believe he had stumbled across the perfect diet. That was his secret.’
Geoffrey regarded him warily. ‘What?’
‘A man is what he eats,’ explained Cornald. ‘I am in the business of creating victuals, so I know what I am talking about. Too much of one food or too little of another will cause imbalances in the body and lead to unhappiness. But I think William discovered the perfect harmony, and it was that which made him so good and kindly.’
‘God’s teeth!’ muttered Geoffrey, not liking to imagine what Henry would say if presented with that theory.
‘I do not agree,’ said Pulchria. ‘I believe he added something to his food – a herb of some kind that made him inclined to beneficence. I have read about such substances.’
Geoffrey had, too, and had seen them in action in the Holy Land. He supposed it was possible that William had dosed himself with powerful medicines. Indeed, it made a lot more sense than Cornald’s hypothesis. And he would be more than happy to ply the King with herbs that might render him a better person. God knew, Henry needed them.
There was no more to be learned from Cornald and Pulchria, so Geoffrey went in search of Gwgan. He saw
