lady from Durham-’
‘That will do no good,’ said Joan firmly. ‘You must choose someone from here. And you will not be safe until you do.’
Two
When Joan and Olivier retired to their chamber, Geoffrey was not tired. He supposed it was not surprising, given that he had slept late that morning and then lain in a drunken slumber for most of the afternoon. He went to his room, but he could not settle. If there had been a tavern nearby, he would have gone, but the nearest was across the river.
He sat at the table, struggling to read a scroll he had brought from the Holy Land. But he was not in the mood for philosophy, and his mind kept returning to Henry’s murder. Perhaps Joan was right: he would never discover the killer’s identity. But he knew that he would remain uneasy if he didn’t at least try, and he resolved to press on as diplomatically as he could. He was about to make a list of suspects – which included all six suitors and their fathers – when a scratching sound caused him to jump up and draw his dagger. He moved quickly to the door and ripped it open, causing the man outside almost to tumble in. The fellow recovered himself quickly, and his face went from alarm to an impassive mask.
‘Torva,’ said Geoffrey, recognizing Goodrich’s steward. Torva was thin-lipped, with greasy hair that parted in the middle and dangled limply around his shoulders. Joan swore that he was honest, but Geoffrey did not like the way the man looked at him.
‘Sir Geoffrey,’ replied Torva flatly.
‘Well?’ asked Geoffrey, when Torva said no more. ‘What do you want?’
‘I saw a light under your door,’ said Torva expressionlessly. ‘We are always worried about fires, so I came to investigate.’
‘I was reading,’ explained Geoffrey, indicating the scroll on the table.
‘I see,’ said Torva, in a voice he might have used had Geoffrey confessed to chanting spells to summon the Devil. ‘Remember to blow out the candle before you sleep.’
‘Of course I will remember,’ said Geoffrey, wondering if the man thought him an idiot. He glanced down and saw that Torva carried a hefty dagger. Was it something he always wore, or just when he slunk around at night? Geoffrey could not recall seeing it before, but had not paid close attention. Then it occurred to him that Henry had bullied Torva, and the steward was yet another murder suspect. ‘What happened the night Henry died?’
‘I did not kill him,’ Torva said in alarm. He turned to leave, but Geoffrey caught his arm.
‘I did not say you had, but I would like an answer to my question.’
‘You already know what happened.’ Torva tried to free himself, but Geoffrey was strong and he soon abandoned the attempt. ‘Henry started to drink. He kicked Peter and Jervil, and he punched me.’ He pointed to the side of his jaw, and Geoffrey saw a small scar where Henry’s ring had cut it.
‘I am sorry,’ he said, releasing Torva when he realized that he was bullying the man, too. ‘My brother was too ready with his fists.’
‘Like you, he did not like being in the hall with us servants, so he went to the stables. Sir Olivier found him dead the next morning.’
‘Do you know who killed him?’ asked Geoffrey. He had actually left the hall for the servants’ benefit – so they could sleep without being disturbed – but doubted Torva would believe him.
‘I have a number of suspects,’ replied Torva. ‘FitzNorman, Isabel and Margaret; Baderon and Hilde; Wulfric and his children Ralph, Eleanor and Douce; and Corwenna and half of Wales. Henry was unkind to every servant, poor villein and free man from here to Monmouth; he maltreated peddlers; and he hanged three “poachers” he caught in our woods. Then there are Baderon’s knights – Seguin and Lambert. Would you like me to continue? It might be easier to list those who did
‘Then do so,’ said Geoffrey mildly, refusing to be drawn by the man’s hostility.
Torva thought for a long time. ‘Father Adrian,’ he said eventually. ‘Because he does not own a dagger with a double-edged blade.’
‘What happened to the weapon?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘I know the killer left it in Henry.’
‘Well, he would. You do not keep a Black Knife after it has done its work, do you?’
‘A
‘A Black Knife is a weapon strengthened with curses by a witch,’ said Torva, adding as if it were obvious: ‘You do not keep one after it has killed. It is too dangerous.’
‘And whose dagger underwent this particular transformation?’ asked Geoffrey, thinking it nonsense.
‘No one knows. But it may strike another Mappestone, if it chooses.’
‘Are you threatening me?’ asked Geoffrey coolly. ‘Or Joan?’
‘No, sir,’ said Torva with a false smile. ‘Not Joan.’ And then he was gone.
The next day was wet and cold, but warhorses needed to be exercised daily, so Geoffrey rode towards the hills that overlooked the river, taking the opportunity to familiarize himself with territory that he might have to defend one day. He hoped relations with Goodrich’s neighbours would not degenerate to the point where he might have to put his local knowledge to the test, but there was no harm in being cautious.
The land was an odd combination of familiar and alien after his long absence. Trees had grown or been cut down, and there were more settlements and houses, from which people emerged to watch him ride past. Few spoke to him, and none smiled.
In the middle of a wood, not far from the path, he heard a sharp rustle. His hand went to the hilt of his sword. Then he saw a deer staggering among the dead leaves that comprised the forest floor. He dismounted and approached slowly, angry to see its hind leg caught in a trap. It was too badly injured to set free, so reluctantly – he disliked killing anything not in a position to defend itself – he drew his sword. The deer gazed at him in mute terror and tried to squirm away. Knowing he would only prolong its misery by hesitating, he chopped at its skull, forcing himself not to close his eyes in his distaste for the task, lest he missed and hurt it further.
It died instantly. He wiped his weapon in the grass, then smashed the trap to ensure it would never be used again. Determined that whoever had set it would not enjoy venison for dinner, and since the animal had died on his land, he slung the corpse behind his saddle. Blood dripped down his horse’s flanks, and belatedly he wondered what people would make of him returning besmeared with gore.
In the afternoon he turned towards the castle. The sun was behind him, which meant he was near the Welsh border, and he hoped that he had not inadvertently strayed into hostile territory. The thought had no sooner crossed his mind than there was a snap behind him, as someone trod on a stick. His dog started to bark, and he spun around, hoisting his shield with one hand and drawing his sword with the other.
‘There is no need for that,’ came a man’s voice, although Geoffrey could see no one. ‘I once said there would always be a place for you at my hearth, but although you have been home for almost two weeks now, you have not deigned to visit.’
‘Caerdig?’ asked Geoffrey, smiling as the Welshman stepped from the undergrowth. ‘I was not sure I would still be welcome, given what I have heard about Henry.’
‘Speak Welsh,’ ordered Caerdig. ‘Or have you forgotten how?’
Geoffrey answered in the same tongue, ashamed that his grasp of it was not what it had been; although talented with languages, he struggled if he did not practise. ‘I trust you are well?’
‘Well enough, now Henry is dead,’ replied Caerdig bluntly. ‘He killed my son-in-law, you know.’
‘Joan told me,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘I am sorry.’
‘You are not your brother,’ replied the Welshman with a shrug. ‘My daughter may not agree, though, so do not be surprised if she is hostile when you see her. She still mourns Rhys.’ Caerdig’s attention quickly turned elsewhere. ‘I see you still have that fine dog. Will you sell him to me? I could do with a pack of savage beasts like him.’
‘You will have some anyway, if you leave your bitches unattended,’ laughed Geoffrey.
Caerdig laughed in turn. ‘We are not far from Llan Martin. Come and warm yourself at my fire.’
Geoffrey did not want to oblige, especially after hearing that the man’s daughter harboured ill feelings, but
