Geoffrey reacted instinctively, throwing himself to one side. Dun reared up in confusion and the bolt hit his chest. With a piercing whinny, the horse crashed to the ground. Hands dragged Geoffrey to safety, but he twisted away from them and knelt next to Dun, trying to stem the gush of blood with his fingers. It seemed a long time before the horse’s desperate, agonized battle for life was over.
Geoffrey looked at the blood staining his hands and climbed slowly to his feet. The Welsh captains stood in a shocked, mute circle around him, while Hilde looked as angry as Geoffrey felt. He liked horses, and for his to have been killed by Corwenna was more than his temper could bear. He stalked towards her.
‘Easy, man,’ said Lambert uncomfortably. ‘She did not mean to hurt the horse. She was aiming for you.’
Geoffrey was not sure why this was expected to make him feel better. Corwenna did not flinch when he reached her. Instead, she smiled, her eyes carrying an expression of intense satisfaction; she was delighted to see the death of the horse had touched him.
‘You have a long walk ahead of you,’ she said smugly. ‘You had better start, if you do not want to be alone in the forest after dark. It is dangerous for those who are not welcome.’
Geoffrey had never before experienced such a strong urge to put his hands around someone’s throat and choke the life out of them. But an enemy camp, where he was surrounded by hostile forces, was not the place for it. He allowed Hilde to tug him away.
‘Take my horse,’ she said. ‘You can give him back when all this is over.’
Geoffrey did not trust himself to speak. He shot Corwenna a glare filled with loathing, then turned away, half-expecting her to launch another attack while his back was turned. He followed Hilde to where Lambert was already saddling up a sturdy pony, snatched the reins and rode out of the camp. He did not look back.
Bitterly, he saw that Roger, Joan and Olivier had been right: he had risked his life for nothing – and lost a good horse in the bargain. He had learnt of Henry’s plans for Joan, but they seemed unimportant now. How many men would die because Henry had been a brute and Corwenna hated him for it? And could Goodrich hold out against such a huge horde, even if the Welsh captains did see sense and go home?
He was so engrossed in his thoughts that it was some time before he realized he had ridden farther than he should have, and the sun was on the wrong side – it was behind him, meaning he had travelled east instead of south. He was angry with himself as he wheeled around and rode back the way he had come. Then he reached a fork and turned westward, but the track soon doubled back on itself, and it was not long before he was lost.
While the sun was up, he knew which way to go, but with dusk came clouds and rain, and it was soon too dark to see. He was furious that he had been so careless and desperately hoped Corwenna would not attack Goodrich that night. Visions of Joan battling against the hordes drove him on, but the night was pitch-black, and he had no idea which way he was travelling. He knew he should stop and find shelter until dawn, but he could not rid himself of the notion that he would be needed. He dismounted when the pony stumbled a second time and continued on foot.
By now he was hopelessly lost, no longer even on a path. He stood still for a moment with his eyes closed, trying to let his innate sense of direction take over. It did not work, leaving him to move blindly through wet branches that scratched at his face, knowing he would not see a path if he walked across it. Then the ground suddenly disappeared from beneath his feet. He managed to release the bridle before he fell, so the horse was not dragged down with him, and slid down a slope thick with dead leaves. He started to skid faster, and then he was airborne, landing with a splash in agonizingly cold water.
Weighed down by full armour, with water soaking into his surcoat, his first thought was that he was going to drown, but his feet touched the bottom and he was able to stand. He saw that he should not have been impatient, and that finding shelter had been the right thing to do. Now, not only was he hopelessly lost, he did not even have the pony.
However, the place seemed familiar, and he suddenly realized it was the Angel Springs. He could just make out the flat stone altar. He eased towards it, but the objects that had been there on his previous visit had gone. Then his feet skidded on the rain-slicked rocks and he fell again. Cold, disgusted and with a nasty ache from a wrenched knee, he released a litany of oaths of the kind he never used in company, comprising a lot of Anglo-Saxon and a bit of very expressive Arabic.
‘That is fine language for a knight,’ came a mocking voice from the darkness. ‘It is a good thing I do not understand any of it, or we would both be heartily embarrassed.’
Thirteen
The voice made Geoffrey jump so violently that he almost lost his balance again. He fumbled for his dagger, cursing fingers that were numb from the cold. ‘Who is there?’
‘Eleanor, of course. Can you not see me? I am right above you.’
Geoffrey strained his eyes, and could just make out a figure standing on the bank. There was a sudden flare of light as she removed whatever had been covering her torch.
‘Well?’ she asked. ‘Are you going to stand in the stream all night, or would you like to sit by my fire?’
Geoffrey scrambled after her, noting that she wore her red cloak and the veil still covered her face. He struggled to catch up, eager to accept her offer of warmth.
‘Where have you been?’ he asked breathlessly.
‘I like to be alone,’ she replied enigmatically. ‘I thought I would have some peace when I returned from Normandy without being married off like some prize sow. But people started talking about weddings and alliances again, and it was worse than ever.’
‘I know how you feel,’ muttered Geoffrey. They reached the top of the hill and she led him to the little shepherd’s hut, indicating that he should precede her inside. Reluctantly, he held back. ‘My horse. I should-’
‘I tethered it and removed its saddle,’ said Eleanor. ‘It is quite comfortable. Sit by the fire and drink this – and do not look suspicious! It is only a little concoction of my own devising.’
‘That is what I am worried about,’ said Geoffrey ungraciously, so she took the first sip behind her veil and handed him the rest. It tasted fairly pleasant, and he felt warmer after finishing it. He removed his sopping surcoat, which she placed near the fire, but he kept his armour on. He glanced at the ceiling and saw that the dead birds had been removed from the rafters.
‘I heard Hugh is dead,’ Eleanor said, following his look. ‘So, I thought I had better hide any evidence that indicates I am still alive. I do not want to be accused of his murder.’
Geoffrey did not blame her. ‘You have been here all the time?’
‘Here or nearby. Few people linger at the Angel Springs, which is how I like it. Hugh followed me occasionally, but he was no trouble – and no one listened to him, anyway.’
Geoffrey remembered what Bale had said about the Angel Springs. ‘You sharpen knives. My squire leaves them with a coin and thinks spirits hone them.’
She laughed. ‘A number of folk have been obliging in that way, and a little money does not go amiss. I have none of my own, and neither does my lover.’
‘Your lover? Is that why you ran away after the fire? To be with him?’
Eleanor nodded. ‘We did not see each other for months when I was in Normandy, so I escaped as soon as I could – the fire provided a useful diversion. However, I did not know murders had been taking place.’
Geoffrey thought about the woman kissed by the red-cloaked figure as they fled the fire. He reached out and tugged off the veil, revealing a face that was impish in its prettiness, and certainly not missing a jaw.
‘Your lover is not a man, but a woman,’ he surmised. ‘That is why you have refused to marry – and have been to such pains to pretend you are disfigured. You do not want men to pester you.’
‘You guessed that rather easily,’ she said, frowning. ‘How?’
‘You do not speak as though you were minus a mandible, but it is certainly a disfigurement that would make most men think twice. Who is she?’
‘She is Welsh, of noble birth – from one of the villages that declines to join Corwenna’s assault on Goodrich. That wretched woman has destabilized the entire region, so I am removing any evidence of me being here, lest
