nobles in the region. Lord Baderon owned manors to the west, which he was giving to those of his knights who took Welsh brides; this, he claimed, would build alliances between Wales and England and thus prevent a Celtic invasion. Meanwhile, fitzNorman, who, as Constable of the Forest, ruled the tracts of woodland to the south and east, believed Baderon’s marriages potentially united the Welsh at England’s expense. The two disliked each other, and Goodrich was caught in the middle.
‘Henry was stabbed while you and I were fighting the King’s war,’ said Helbye. ‘You were not here, and could not have prevented it happening.’
Geoffrey nodded absently – the King’s war, and the part he had been forced to play in it, still rankled. He had returned from the Holy Land when his father was dying, but had been prevented from returning there when the King had demanded he help put down a rebellion. It had taken several months, during which Geoffrey’s liege lord, Prince Tancred, became so angry his repeated summonses were ignored that he had dismissed Geoffrey from his service. The King had offered a post, but Geoffrey disliked the monarch’s sly ways and had refused it, instead spending three months travelling around England until he found himself again at Goodrich.
‘I would like to visit the Holy Land,’ said Father Adrian wistfully. Then he coolly regarded Geoffrey’s surcoat with its faded Crusader’s cross. ‘However,
‘The Crusaders who liberated Jerusalem – who carry the honoured title of
‘It was an excuse for bloodshed and looting,’ countered Father Adrian. Geoffrey had witnessed enough incidents to make him question the sanctity of the Crusade, too, but he said nothing.
‘You cannot have a Crusade without bloodshed and looting,’ said Helbye, bemused by the priest’s attitude. ‘What would be the point?’
Father Adrian grimaced, declining to argue against such rigidly held convictions. Instead, he addressed Geoffrey. ‘Will you return to the Holy Land? If so, you should abandon your armour and go as a penitent, to atone for the crimes you committed on your first visit.’
Geoffrey was unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. ‘I doubt I will ever return. The King has seen to that.’
Helbye was sympathetic. ‘Write to Tancred again. His anger will not last forever. I wish I could go, too, but my fighting days are over.’
‘His should be, too,’ said Father Adrian, as though Geoffrey were not there. ‘He is not yet four and thirty, but has dedicated his life to killing. It is time he stopped spilling blood and concentrated on his soul. He does not have long to do it, if his siblings are anything to go by.’
‘Which takes us back to Henry,’ prompted Geoffrey.
‘It happened last September,’ said Father Adrian, relenting with a sigh. ‘It was a terrible harvest – you have seen for yourself that the granaries are almost empty, and it is not yet Easter. The disaster was a combination of bad weather and the war with Robert de Belleme. Folk were afraid to reap their crops – or Belleme set the fields alight.’
‘It was a great day for England when the King exiled Belleme,’ declared Helbye. ‘I am proud of the role we played in getting rid of him.’
Father Adrian nodded before continuing. ‘Like every able-bodied man, Henry had been helping with the threshing. He was tired – as were we all – but instead of going to bed, he turned to wine.’
‘My wife says he did that a lot,’ added Helbye. ‘Henry always liked wine, but he became greedy for it last year.’
‘Why?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Was he grieving for his children?’
Father Adrian released a startled laugh. ‘He had no affection for them, or for his wife! They were too much like him – selfish, greedy and violent. He intended to start a new family with another woman.’
‘Did he have anyone in mind?’ asked Geoffrey, wondering what lady would be fool enough to consider marrying a man with Henry’s unsavoury reputation.
Adrian nodded. ‘He wanted Isabel, Lord fitzNorman’s youngest daughter.’
Geoffrey was astonished. ‘Surely she was too ambitious a prize? The Constable of the Forest controls a vast region. There must have been better marriages than Henry of Goodrich.’
‘The Constable
‘I know its size,’ said Geoffrey, wondering why the priest chose to explain facts that he had known since boyhood. ‘But why would Henry think he stood a chance of winning Isabel?’
‘Oh, that is easy,’ said Father Adrian carelessly. ‘She was carrying his child.’
Goodrich Castle guarded the ford of the River Wye on the Gloucester-to-Monmouth road. Like most castles erected following the Conquest in 1066, it comprised a tower-topped motte and an earthwork-enclosed bailey. In Goodrich’s case, the earthworks included a dry moat around its east, south and west sides, while the north made use of the steep, natural slope that ran down to the river.
The stone tower was the strongest part of the castle, with only one way inside: wooden steps from the bailey to the first floor. In the event of an attack, the stairs could be hauled inside, making access more difficult for invaders. The tower had four floors. The lowest was a vaulted chamber used for storage, the first comprised the hall, and the top two contained bedchambers and offices. The roof was battlemented, allowing archers and lookouts to be stationed there.
In Geoffrey’s youth, the tower had been a grim place. Its walls were thick and cold, and his father had not believed in fires unless the weather was particularly foul. Consequently, it had been dank, dismal and uninviting, even on warm days. Wet dogs, stinking floor coverings and spilt food made it reek, and Geoffrey recalled inventing excuses to avoid being in it.
But Joan had changed things. Braziers lit even the most distant corners of the hall, and there was always a fire in the hearth. Its floor was swept after every meal, tapestries adorned the walls and the furniture was comfortable. It seemed a totally different place.
That evening Geoffrey watched her as she sewed in the lamplight. She was tall and strong, with an unsmiling face and flecks of grey in her thick brown hair. She ruled Goodrich with firm efficiency, and Geoffrey was happy to let her continue, although he knew that he should take some responsibility for the lands that were now his. Sitting next to her, strumming on a harp, was her husband, Sir Olivier d’Alencon. He was resplendent in a blue tunic with elegantly embroidered hems and cuffs, and his black hair was neatly trimmed. He was far smaller than Joan, and it never failed to amaze Geoffrey that his burly, gruff sister should lavish her affections on such a puny specimen. It astonished him even more that the feelings were reciprocated.
Like Joan, Geoffrey was tall and well built, although a life of fighting meant that he had remained lean, while she was tending towards fat. He was clean-shaven and his brown hair was cut short. He was unusual for a knight, in that he could read and write; his mother had wanted him to join the Church, but he had rebelled, so his father had sent him for knightly training instead. He had been in the Duke of Normandy’s service, and then a commander for the ambitious Lord Tancred. Now, for the first time since winning his spurs, he was part of no man’s army, although it was not a freedom that he relished. As he listened to Olivier playing a song often sung by Crusaders, he wished with all his heart that Tancred had not dismissed him.
Cautiously – for Joan had a terrible temper – Geoffrey broached the subject of their brother’s plans for the Constable’s daughter. She was unrepentant for neglecting to mention them, which annoyed him: if Henry
‘Henry may have been murdered by fitzNorman or his men,’ he said irritably. ‘I am sure the Constable had more ambitious plans for his daughter than the likes of Henry.’
‘You have done this ever since you arrived,’ said Joan, setting down her sewing to glare at him. ‘Underestimate the value of our estates. Besides this castle and its demesne, we have manors in Herefordshire
