‘You mean he had enemies?’ surmised Geoffrey. ‘And one of them killed him?’
Bale nodded. ‘He had enemies, all right, but only one killer: your brother Henry.’
Geoffrey shot to his feet, dagger in hand. It sounded like a confession made just before vengeance was taken, but Bale only continued to stare into the darkness.
‘How do you know?’ Geoffrey asked, when it became clear that Bale was not going to move.
‘Because I saw him,’ replied Bale. ‘I saw him enter my house, and I know my father was alive, because I heard them shouting at each other. I saw Henry leave, but there was no shouting. I went inside, but my mother and father were dead. Stabbed.’
Geoffrey took a deep breath. ‘I am sorry, Bale.’
Bale shrugged. ‘I caught up with Henry and saw fresh blood on his dagger. But my father may have attacked him, so perhaps he was only defending himself.’
‘Why did you not tell anyone?’
Bale shrugged again. ‘What good would it have done? When they failed to prove I was the culprit, the whole thing died down. Henry saw to that, by forbidding people to talk about it.’
‘Did you kill Henry?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘I wish I had,’ said Bale. ‘But the truth is that I have not killed anyone, not even the man in that tavern brawl.
‘I see,’ said Geoffrey, not sure whether to believe him. ‘Why are you telling me all this?’
‘So you will know,’ said Bale simply. ‘You are uneasy with me, but there is no need.’
‘My brother killed your parents,’ said Geoffrey. ‘You may think I-’
‘You are not Henry, sir,’ interrupted Bale. ‘I like you; I did not like him. But it is late and you are tired. Sleep, and I will take the first watch.’
Geoffrey sat again, but kept his dagger in his hand, even more resolved not to sleep. Could Bale be believed when he said that he had not killed Henry? The bloody murder of his parents was certainly a good motive. Geoffrey closed his eyes to mull over the matter more carefully, and the next thing he knew was Bale’s hot breath against his cheek. He jumped into wakefulness, his hand moving instinctively to his sword.
‘Steady,’ said Bale. ‘It will be light soon, and I am too tired to stay awake any longer. It has been much longer than an hour, but I did not have the heart to wake you.’
Geoffrey staggered to his feet, stiff but refreshed. He was astonished that he had slept when he had been determined not to, and supposed Isabel’s milk must have been stronger than she had led him to believe. He stretched, and watched his squire curl up next to Giffard.
‘Thank you, Bale,’ he whispered.
‘You are welcome, sir,’ replied Bale drowsily. ‘I told you I would keep you safe.’
It was still twilight when Geoffrey stepped outside. In the distance he heard someone coming. He ducked into the shadows, but the figure strode briskly past the hut – not even glancing at it – and continued down the hillside.
The previous night had been too dark to see much, but Geoffrey could now make out the outlines of trees and rocks. The valley descended into a steep gorge, and he watched the figure move stealthily to the bottom. He was sure that the person was alone, but listened for some time, just to be certain. Then, cautiously, he followed.
At the bottom of the gorge, the figure bent to touch the ground, then began to sing. Immediately Geoffrey heard that it was a woman. Her song was deep and eerie, and it sent shivers down his spine. A sudden rustle in the trees set his heart pounding. When her singing grew stronger, so did the wind, and he ducked farther back into the undergrowth. He grasped his sword firmly, and told himself that the wind could do him no harm, but, even so, his hand was slippery with sweat.
Eventually, she stopped singing and began to walk back the way she had come. When she reached the undergrowth where Geoffrey hid, she hesitated, and he had the sense that she knew he was there. Then she was gone, apparently keen to be away now that she had finished her business.
Geoffrey took a deep breath and waited for his heart to stop pounding. He was disgusted with himself for being unsettled by a song and a gust of wind. But even though the rational part of his mind told him there was nothing to worry about, it took considerable willpower to look at what she had been doing. On a flat rock, which stood near a bubbling spring, were a variety of objects.
The first things to catch his eye were locks of hair, tied with twine and stuck to the stone with some sort of paste. A dark, sticky substance lay over them, which, in the grey light of dawn, he thought was blood. There were chalk drawings, too. In the centre was a crude depiction of a house with blood fashioned into flames: he could only assume that someone had wanted the manor to burn, and had appealed to sinister forces to make it happen. Then he heard rustling from the trees again and glanced upwards.
With horror, he saw the head of a goat hanging there, its horns splayed to either side and its teeth bared and yellow in the rictus of death. Flies had found its eyes, and, even as he watched, a maggot dropped from it on to his shoulder. He turned and clambered up the hill as fast as he could. He found it hard to catch his breath, and when he arrived at the hut his heart was thumping hard.
‘What is wrong?’ asked Giffard as he exploded inside. ‘You look as though you have seen a goat.’
‘
‘I said
Geoffrey felt a little sick himself. He rubbed his head. ‘My ears are ringing.’
Giffard’s expression softened. ‘That is the bells of Dene. Come and sit down, and let your man prepare breakfast. We will both need our strength today.’
‘Why?’ asked Geoffrey warily.
Giffard frowned. ‘What is wrong with you? I am the one who drank too much – so much that I do not recall how I come to be here. I simply meant that we must discover whether Walter had a hand in murdering the Duchess, God rest her soul.’
‘You do not remember the fire?’
‘What fire?’
Geoffrey sat next to him, accepting the dry, hard bread that Bale handed him, with a cup of water to dip it in. He felt better when he had eaten it, and pondered what he had just seen, while Bale gave Giffard an account of the manor house blaze.
‘There are locks of hair and a dead goat down there,’ interrupted Geoffrey.
‘Well, there would be,’ said Giffard. ‘I was saying to Bale, before you burst in, that I am surprised you brought me here. It is obviously a place frequented by heathens.’
‘It is not obvious to me,’ said Geoffrey.
Giffard gazed at him in astonishment. ‘This place reeks of evil, and there are pagan symbols everywhere. Just look at the ceiling, and the trees over there.’
Geoffrey glanced at the rafters and saw several dead birds hanging by their wings, while there was another goat in an oak outside. He was unable to repress a shudder.
‘I told you, sir,’ said Bale, reproachfully. ‘I said it felt wicked.’
Giffard stood. ‘It is not a place Christian men should linger. It is more for the likes of Eleanor of Bicanofre, whom I hear comes to recite spells and incantations.’
Unhappily, Geoffrey wondered how to tell Giffard that it had not been Eleanor who had sung to make the trees rustle, but Agnes.
As soon as Giffard had completed his morning prayers, Geoffrey led the way back to Dene and the devastation that a few hours had wrought. FitzNorman’s once fine home was a blackened shell, although most of the outbuildings had survived. Smoke still curled from the ruins, and when rain started to fall, it hissed as it hit the smouldering timbers.
The King had ordered his scribes to make an inventory of what and who had escaped, as fitzNorman was incapable of doing so. Several servants had died, and Eleanor was missing. Looking at the charred ruins, Geoffrey doubted they would be able to identify her body if it was found. He thought about the red-cloaked man from the previous night and supposed that the garment had been taken from her corpse in the chaos. Hugh was also missing,
