Giffard ignored him and took a healthy gulp. ‘It will not be long before
‘Have some milk,’ suggested Geoffrey, indicating with a nod that Bale was to remain in the shadows. Giffard had had enough for one night. ‘It tastes like sweet vomit.’
‘Why would I imbibe sweet vomit?’
‘As penance,’ said Geoffrey, ‘for forcing a poor knight to do your dirty work.’
Giffard gave a startled smile. ‘You will do it? You will help me?’
‘I will try,’ said Geoffrey unhappily. ‘You would probably do the same for me.’
‘I would not,’ declared Giffard drunkenly. ‘I am not qualified, and would render matters worse. But I shall not forget your kindness.’ Tears formed in his eyes.
‘Tell me about Agnes and Walter,’ Geoffrey said hastily, knowing Giffard would be mortified the next morning if he lost control of his emotions. ‘She does not look old enough to be his mother.’
‘A combination of marrying young and potions,’ said Giffard, pronouncing the last word with considerable disapproval. ‘She looks better from a distance than close up, which is why she likes to come out at night, I suppose. It is dark and men are full of ale – less inclined to be critical.’
‘You sound like some old abbess, jealous of her younger nuns,’ said Geoffrey, watching Giffard lurch to his feet and fetch the wine himself. He was thoughtful. ‘Her knowledge of substances that keep her young may also extend to less benign purposes.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Giffard, flopping into his chair so hard that the contents of the cup spilt down his habit. When he tried to drink, he was puzzled to find the cup empty.
‘I mean that she may know enough about poisons on her own, so had no need to recruit Eleanor,’ elaborated Geoffrey, wondering whether he should postpone the talk until Giffard was not so inebriated. ‘What else can you tell me?’
‘Her marriage to my brother was not happy.’ Geoffrey leant forward, obliged to concentrate on the Bishop’s slurred words in order to de-cipher them. ‘They fought constantly, and I am sure her affair with the Duke was by no means her first. She is greedy and very ambitious. You will see that the moment you speak to her – if she does not drag you into her bed first. Damned whore!’
‘Easy,’ said Geoffrey, seeing a drunkard’s rage in Giffard’s eyes. ‘And what about Walter?’
‘Ambitious and avaricious, like his mother. He was delighted when his father died, because he became Earl of Buckingham.’
‘It is odd that so many people in Normandy when Sibylla died are now in Dene.’
Giffard hiccuped, and for a moment he looked as if he might be sick. Geoffrey prepared to dive out of the way.
‘Not really. Many barons with English manors own land in Normandy, and they travel together for safety. The roads in Normandy are very dangerous, with Belleme on the rampage. He is an evil bastard, burning villages, destroying crops, killing men who look at him the wrong way. Now Sibylla is not there, his power will increase. Our King is delighted, of course. A weak Normandy works in his favour: its barons will welcome him when he finally invades.’
Geoffrey was shocked at Giffard’s bluntness. He knew it would not be long before King Henry turned greedy eyes on Normandy, but he had not expected to hear it from his loyal Bishop. ‘You are drunk. You will be sorry for saying these things tomorrow.’
Giffard tried to stand, but fell back in his chair. ‘You are right. I should let you sleep, before I say anything else – although I trust you not to repeat my ramblings to the King. I shall pull my chair across the door, so any nocturnal invaders will have to pass me before they reach you.’
‘You will protect me, will you?’ Geoffrey was amused.
Giffard nodded. ‘A drunk is a terrible object to surmount. He flops in your way, is heavy and almost impossible to steer where you want him to go, and when you think you have him under control, he is sick over you.’
Geoffrey laughed. He had only previously seen Giffard drink water or weak ale, but supposed the Bishop might partake of powerful wines when unhappy. ‘Are you speaking from experience?’
‘From observation. My brother had a liking for wine. I cannot imagine why. Thank God my vocation gives me an excuse to decline it.’
‘Except for this evening. You have finished an entire jug on your own.’
‘Nonsense,’ slurred Giffard. ‘You had most of it. I had but a sip, and only because I am thirsty. Go to sleep, or you will have a thick head tomorrow.’
The snores began before Geoffrey could reply. The knight moved a chair to the door himself, which Bale offered to occupy. When Geoffrey lay on the bed, confused thoughts washed inside his head. He was not sure that he could help Giffard – the only people who knew whether Agnes and Walter were guilty were Agnes and Walter themselves, and he did not expect them to confess. Others could only repeat rumours and speculation.
Eventually, Geoffrey slept, but his dreams teemed with disjointed images. He spoke to people he did not know and walked through unfamiliar villages. Then he was in the tunnel under a castle Tancred had been besieging before it collapsed. Geoffrey had been trapped for days in the dark, with water rising around him. Even years later, his dreams sometimes took him back to the pitch-blackness and the prospect of slow, lonely suffocation. He knew it was only a nightmare, but he still could not breathe. Then Bale was shaking him. His squire’s hands clawed at his chest and throat, and, for a moment, he thought he was being strangled. He wrenched himself into wakefulness, but still could not catch his breath.
‘There is a fire!’ Bale was shouting. ‘Smoke is coming under the door!’
Bale hauled Geoffrey to his feet. It was still the middle of the night, but people were screaming and there was a steady thump of footsteps on wooden floors. Terrified horses were whinnying in the stables, and dogs were barking furiously. Giffard was still slumped in the chair, so Geoffrey lurched across to him. The Bishop was either drunk or comatose from the smoke, and barely moved when Geoffrey shook him.
‘Look!’ Bale shrieked.
Geoffrey followed the outline of his pointing finger and saw orange flickering under the door. The fire was close. He heard a dull roar and the light flared. The blaze would not be easy to control, and the house might already be lost. He crossed the room and touched the metal latch. It was searingly hot, and he jerked his hand away.
‘If we open that, flames will rush in, and the room will ignite like a haystack. We must escape through the window.’
‘It is too far down!’ cried Bale. ‘We will break our necks.’
‘There is a rope in my saddlebag. Tie it to the mullion.’
With shaking hands, Bale rushed to do as he was told, then helped Geoffrey haul Giffard from his chair. The knight grimaced. Giffard had not been exaggerating when he described the difficulty of moving a drunk, and Geoffrey was sweating heavily by the time they had the Bishop lowered to the ground. He glanced at the door and knew that they did not have much time. The fire was hungry for air, and it would only be moments before the frail barrier disintegrated and flames tore into the room.
Even as he turned, there was a crackle and the door was suddenly alive with fire. In the sudden brightness Bale grabbed him and almost hurled him through the window. He snatched at the rope and slid down it. Bale was directly above him, feet kicking wildly as he gripped the windowsill. Then a wave of heat washed over them, accompanied by a tongue of flames. Geoffrey jumped the last few feet; Bale quickly joined him.
Geoffrey seized Giffard’s arm and tried to shake him awake. More flames shot out of the window and showers of sparks rained down on them, causing Bale to curse like a demon. He pushed Geoffrey aside, tossed the insensible Bishop over his shoulder and raced away. Geoffrey hurried after him, joining members of the household who were gathering in the yard.
In the leaping flames it was difficult to recognize people, but he glimpsed Eleanor’s red cloak. Someone followed her closely, and Geoffrey saw the pair hand in hand, stopping only for a quick embrace. Then flames lit her companion’s face, revealing the pretty features of a woman. The wearer of the red cloak was not Eleanor at all, but a man with an identical garment – or perhaps he had borrowed it from her.
A bell was clanging, and Geoffrey heard fitzNorman yelling to his servants. Orange flames shot high into the sky, and the soldiers who had been ordered to douse the blaze could not get close enough to do any good – the
