Geoffrey would have preferred to travel alone, but Baderon offered to accompany him part way, and he did not want to appear churlish by declining.
‘What do you think?” asked Caerdig in a whisper, holding the reins of Geoffrey’s horse while he mounted. ‘Will Baderon be a trustworthy ally?’
‘God knows,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘He is certainly determined to have you on his side, since he is prepared to give away a manor and cattle to make sure Seguin marries Corwenna.’
Caerdig was thoughtful. ‘I sense he is a better man than his two knights.’
‘He barely controls them – they act more as equals than vassals. Do you want this deer? It will compensate you for the embarrassment of having served saddle oil to your guests.’
Caerdig chuckled as he tugged the corpse from Geoffrey’s horse. ‘You can embarrass me any time, if you bribe me so handsomely. Stay here tonight and share it with us.’
‘Corwenna would have a knife in me,’ said Geoffrey. ‘The others are waiting, so I should go.’
He followed Baderon, Lambert and Seguin, knowing they would take the same road for about half a mile before their paths diverged. Daylight was fading, and his horse skittered as old leaves blew in the wind. At first, Seguin and Baderon talked about poachers, while Lambert told Geoffrey about his own marriage prospects, naming women from three villages Geoffrey had never heard of. Then the path narrowed, so they were obliged to ride in single file. Conversation waned.
Geoffrey allowed his mind to wander, wondering whether Corwenna had killed Henry. It took little strength to push a blade into a drunken man. His thoughts were interrupted when Baderon spoke.
‘Seguin’s union with Corwenna is an integral part of my plans for peace – to enhance the stability of the region,’ he said. ‘Caerdig is poor but respected, and the Welsh lords listen to him. Obviously, you appreciate that a good marriage is vital for good relations, because you are looking for a wife yourself. My daughter Hilde is-’
‘I do not want to marry,’ replied Geoffrey, with more heat than intended.
‘Marriage is a good thing: it saves you having to look for a whore,’ declared Seguin. ‘I am looking forward to having a ready wench in my bedchamber whenever I feel like her.’
Geoffrey thought Seguin was deluded if he imagined Corwenna would be there whenever he ‘felt like her’.
‘I offered Hilde to your brother,’ Baderon went on. ‘He refused her rather cruelly. Still, it did not matter, because Hilde said she would not have Henry if he was the last man on Earth, and I could never force her to do what she does not want. No man could.’
‘I see,’ said Geoffrey, filing the information away: Hilde was fierce and ungovernable, which would not make for a peaceful domestic environment.
‘There are other ways, though,’ said Baderon enigmatically. Geoffrey had no idea what he meant. ‘But this is where our pathways part. Goodnight, Sir Geoffrey. Beware of outlaws.’
Geoffrey nodded, then touched his heels to his horse’s flanks and rode away. He had not gone far before he spotted someone else. When the man saw him, he gave a yelp and turned to flee. It was Goodrich land, and the grim fate of the deer was still fresh in Geoffrey’s mind. With his dog barking furiously, he galloped after the shadow and quickly had the fellow by the scruff of the neck.
‘What do you want?’ the felon cried with rather more indignation than was warranted. ‘I have no money to give you.’
The voice was instantly familiar – high and irritable. It sounded exactly like his old squire, Durand, although Geoffrey did not see how that was possible: Durand was currently enjoying a successful career as a royal clerk, revelling in the luxuries of courtly life. Geoffrey peered down at him, and was astonished to see flowing golden locks. There was only one person he knew who sported such glorious tresses.
‘Durand?’ he asked in disbelief. ‘It
Relief broke over Durand’s face. ‘Sir Geoffrey? Thank God! I thought you were an outlaw!’
‘This is a Godforsaken part of the country,’ said Durand, while Geoffrey dismounted. His old squire had changed little, and was still small and slender, although regal dining had added a layer of lard around his middle. The beautiful yellow curls tumbled around his shoulders, and his clothes were exquisite, as befitted a man from the King’s court. They were grubby, however, and there were leaves in his hair.
‘It is my land,’ said Geoffrey, rather coolly. ‘What are you doing here?’
Durand did not care that he might have offended; he never had. He grinned. ‘I heard you lived near here, and intended to pay you a visit. However, I did not anticipate enjoying our reunion in the depths of a wilderness at dusk.’
Geoffrey was surprised that Durand should think to favour him with a visit. They had seldom seen eye to eye in the past: Durand had deplored Geoffrey’s military lifestyle and Geoffrey had despised Durand’s cowardice and brazen self-interest. But, for all their differences, Durand had a keen mind that Geoffrey missed, and he smiled at seeing the man again.
‘You have not answered my question. Why are you
‘
‘There are wild animals,’ said Geoffrey wickedly. ‘And this part of the woods is haunted.’
‘Then what are
It was an unfair accusation, given that Geoffrey was generally well behaved for a knight. He felt his pleasure at meeting an old acquaintance diminish somewhat. Durand had once wanted a career in the Church, and his monkish ways had remained with him long after his expulsion from a monastery for dallying with a butcher’s son.
‘My predicament is Abbot Serlo’s fault,’ Durand went on when Geoffrey did not reply. ‘I told him it was impossible to ride from Gloucester to Dene in one day, but he insisted it could be done. Then a horse went lame, we were delayed, and now here we are, lost in a dangerous forest with brutal Crusader knights riding us down from dark places.’
‘Abbot Serlo?’
‘The principal of the abbey at Gloucester,’ replied Durand impatiently. ‘I thought you would know that: you told me you were a novice there for six months.’
Geoffrey had forgotten the name of the man who had ruled Gloucester Abbey for the past thirty years, because his mercifully brief noviciate had been a long time before. ‘But why are you with him? Have you annoyed the King?’
‘That is an unpleasant thing to say,’ said Durand. ‘And if you had bothered to read my letters, you would know that I have become indispensable.’
‘I did read your letters, but . . .’ Geoffrey was about to say that Durand was not always honest, but did not want to offend him further. ‘. . . but nothing you wrote led me to expect to see you here.’
‘The King left me with Serlo for a while, since he is in the area, and-’
‘The King is nearby?’ interrupted Geoffrey uneasily. Geoffrey held His Majesty partly responsible for his dismissal by Tancred, and did not want to meet him, lest he was unable to stop himself from saying so.
‘He has business at Hereford – to do with consecrating its bishop. He brought me with him to investigate various taxation issues. Serlo offered to accompany me to Dene, but I would have been better off hiring soldiers. He insists on travelling like a peasant – on mules and with no guards.’
‘Where is he?’ asked Geoffrey. He knew Serlo was not in the woods, because his dog would have barked or growled. An uneasy thought occurred to him. ‘You have not strangled him, have you, like you did that monk near Westminster last year?’
Durand glared. ‘I did that to save our lives – yours as well as mine – as you know perfectly well. I am not in the habit of killing people. I leave that to the likes of you.’ He stared at the small arsenal Geoffrey carried, even in civilian clothes.
‘Serlo?’ prompted Geoffrey.
Durand waved a hand behind him, and Geoffrey saw the outline of a shepherd’s shelter. It was poor and dirty, but Geoffrey recalled that its roof was sound, its walls strong, and it had straw pallets to sleep on. It was not the most comfortable accommodation, but he had used far worse.
