A Head for Poisoning (5 page)

“Perhaps the King will reward us for bringing him Sir Aumary's killer,” said Ingram after a moment, his eyes brightening. “Perhaps he will give us Lann Martin in exchange for Caerdig, and we will be able to loot it.”

Both young men looked at Geoffrey hopefully. The knight sighed, and wondered, not for the first time on their long journey, whether bringing them home with him had been a prudent decision. Since Pope Urban's call for a Crusade four years before, Christian soldiers had cut a bloody swath from France to Jerusalem, killing and looting every inch of the way. Barlow and Ingram were no longer the simple Herefordshire farmers who had set out to reclaim the Holy City from the Infidel, but were ruthless, avaricious mercenaries whose bulging saddlebags were crammed with treasure stolen and cheated from the hapless people they had met along the way. Geoffrey seriously doubted their willingness or ability to return peacefully to a life of agriculture, which was what they claimed they intended to do.

He nodded at them noncommittally, and coaxed a little more speed from his horse, so that he could ride with Helbye instead. The old warrior gave him a grin, and began to chat about the old days, before the Conqueror had come to England and Goodrich had been under the control of a Saxon thegn. Caerdig and his man rode ahead of them, following a little-used trackway through the forest that Caerdig assured them led to the Chepstow road. Geoffrey's dog slunk behind them, looking this way and that for signs of woodland wildlife that might be barked at, chased, or butchered.

“Our villagers are not happy with this arrangement,” muttered the black-capped Daffydd to Caerdig in Welsh, unaware of Geoffrey's knowledge of the language. “They think you are a fool to risk riding with a Mappestone and his henchmen.”

“What choice do I have?” snapped Caerdig. “It is either ride with him, or have him tell the King that we slaughtered the messenger. And then Lann Martin would be given to the Mappestones for certain.”

“He cannot be trusted,” said Daffydd, scowling at Geoffrey.

“Who said anything about trusting him? But my uncle, Ynys, always said that Godric's youngest son was the only one of the entire brood with any honour.”

“He may have been honourable in those days,” argued Daffydd, “but look at him now. He has been on the Crusade, and we all know that only the strongest and most ruthless warriors survived that ordeal. Any honour they might have had when they started was battered from them long before they reached the Holy Land, so I am told.”

Suddenly, Caerdig leapt into the air, and gasped in disbelief. “Hey! That dog just bit me!”

“Sorry,” said Geoffrey, embarrassed. “It is a habit of his that I cannot seem to break.”

It was not the first time the dog had jeopardised truces with a belated show of aggression, and with a sigh, Geoffrey dismounted and hunted around for the piece of rope he used to tether the beast when its behaviour degenerated to the point where it needed to be kept away from anything that moved. It had made Geoffrey many an enemy at the Citadel in Jerusalem with its penchant for nipping unprotected ankles. Seeing the hated tether, the dog bared its teeth at Geoffrey, and slid away into a dense patch of undergrowth. Helbye prepared to help ferret it out.

“Oh, leave him, Will,” said Geoffrey, exasperated. “He will follow us in his own time.”

“Well, just so long as the thing does not decide to take up residence here,” said Caerdig, rubbing his heel. “I would not want it near my sheep.”

“Are you Ynys's son?” asked Geoffrey, to change the subject. He suspected that Caerdig, or some farmer like him, would dispatch the dog in an instant if they knew of its history of goat and sheep slaying in the Holy Land—and they would be perfectly justified to do so.

Caerdig shook his head. “I am Ynys's nephew. But I am also his heir, and I inherited his lands after Henry murdered him last year.”

Geoffrey saw he had chosen a poor topic for casual conversation. He tried again, leading his horse so that he could walk next to Caerdig. “How long has my father been ill?”

“His health began to fail noticeably last summer. Since November, he has grown far worse, and the gossip says that he will not see Easter. You have arrived home just in time—now when the Mappestone brood carve up their father's great estates, you can ensure you are not left out.”

“I want nothing from him,” said Geoffrey. “My mother left me her manor of Rwirdin when she died, and that will be quite sufficient for me, should I ever decide to live in England again.”

Caerdig snorted with derision. “You will be lucky to get that back! Your brother Walter arranged for Rwirdin to be given to Joan as part of her dowry two years ago. Rwirdin now belongs to your sister and her husband, Olivier d'Alençon.”

Geoffrey did not believe him—even Walter would not do something so flagrantly illegal—but he did not feel inclined to argue. He took off his helmet, which was beginning to rub, and scrubbed at his short brown hair with his fingers, relieved to be free of the heavy metal for a few moments. Caerdig watched him, and then reached out a hand to feel the material of Geoffrey's surcoat with its Crusader's cross on the back. It was faded now, and grimy from years of hard use, but in the brown winter countryside of Wales, it was exotic indeed.

“I have heard a lot about the Crusade,” Caerdig said, “although few Englishmen took part. I have been told that the glory was great and the opportunity to amass wealth even greater.”

“Then you were not told the truth.” said Geoffrey, replacing his helmet. “There was no glory at all in what we did. We marched thousands of miles—sometimes in the freezing cold, and other times in the searing heat—and more of us died of disease and from raids by hostile forces along the way than ever saw the Holy Land itself. I suppose it is fair to say that there was plentiful wealth to be looted at the end of it, but when a loaf of bread costs its weight in gold, such fortunes do not last long.”

“Your men seemed to have done well enough,” said Caerdig, indicating Helbye, Ingram, and Barlow behind them. “Their saddlebags are bulging.”

Geoffrey grimaced, recalling the incident at the Citadel in Jerusalem involving the three Englishmen that had almost caused a riot. “That is mostly the results of some lucky betting—aided by Ingram's loaded dice—on their last night. I suppose it might buy a small plot of land, which is what they claim they want when we reach home.”

“Wonderful!” muttered Caerdig, unimpressed. “Yet more English landowners with whom to fight, and farmers with whom to compete.”

“I doubt it,” said Geoffrey, smiling at him. “Sergeant Helbye is too old to start farming, and I cannot see the other two settling down to days of endless tilling when there is still looting to be done in the Holy Land.”

“You think they will not stay, then?”

Geoffrey shrugged. “Helbye might. But I doubt he knows one end of a cow from another, so I do not think you have cause to fear his agricultural competition.”

Caerdig laughed. “And you? What will you do now you are home?”

Geoffrey shrugged again. “When I was in Jerusalem, I longed for the cool, green forests of England. Now I am here, I find I hanker for the warmth of the desert sun.”

“Then why did you come?” asked Caerdig. “I heard you were in the employ of the great Lord Tancred, who is Prince of Galilee. Surely you would be better in his service than here among the mud and the sheep? And the Mappestones!”

Indeed, Geoffrey had surprised himself by deciding to leave Tancred just as the powerful young Norman's fortunes were on the rise. Tancred had not wanted him to go, and had begged, cajoled, and even threatened to make Geoffrey stay. But Geoffrey had become disillusioned with the Crusade. What had started with the noblest of ideals had quickly degenerated into a bid for power and wealth, from the highest-born baron to the humblest soldier.

When some of his closest friends were implicated in a plot to murder the ruler of the Holy City, Geoffrey had finally despaired, and had decided to leave Jerusalem. News of his father's illness had spurred him into action. He had travelled by merchant ship to Venice, and then ridden to Harfleur, where he had taken passage on a second ship that took him to Portsmouth. It was a long journey, and not without its dangers, yet Geoffrey had weathered it unscathed, and was wryly amused that he should fall foul of a silly ambush within a few miles of his home.

“You have no cause to fear competition from me either,” said Geoffrey to Caerdig, tearing his thoughts away from Caerdig's attack and Aumary's death. “I will not stay long.”

They rode until the last of the daylight faded, and then found a small hamlet in a clearing in the forest. The hamlet comprised little more than a sturdy wooden hall and three out-buildings for livestock, and the residents were alarmed by the sight of a fully armed knight and his retinue. Their fears were roused even more when they saw the body of Sir Aumary bouncing across his saddle.

Not surprisingly, they were reluctant to comply with Geoffrey's request for shelter for the night, but were too frightened to refuse outright. Begrudgingly, Geoffrey and his companions were offered dirty blankets and a space on the beaten-earth floor near the fire, while the horses and Sir Aumary fared considerably better in the more spacious, well-ventilated stables.

Without conscious thought, Geoffrey chose a place near the door, where he could easily escape outside if necessary and at the same time be able to watch anyone entering or leaving. The dog sniffed at the filthy blanket with sufficient enthusiasm as to make Geoffrey suspicious regarding the purpose for which it had last been used. But the night was cold, and he had used worse things to keep him warm in the past. Resting his back against the wall, he huddled into it with the dog nestling against his side, and dozed lightly. A short while later, Caerdig rose and moved nearer the fire. Geoffrey watched him in the flickering light, and did not sleep again.

G
eoffrey was up and saddling his horse long before dawn broke the following day. The others were as keen as he was to set out and, after a breakfast of unappetising oat mash and some cold water from a nearby spring, they were off. It was still quite dark and, aware that a stumble in the darkness could damage his mount, Geoffrey led it until it was light enough to see. The Welsh ponies needed no such cosseting, and ambled along behind him, snorting and stamping in the cold morning air.

One problem that Geoffrey had not foreseen was that Aumary's body had stiffened overnight, and it was no longer possible for it to be draped across a saddle. Geoffrey was forced to buy a dilapidated cart from the people in the hamlet and put Ingram's horse to draw it, while Ingram himself became the proud rider of Aumary's destrier.

Despite the solemn nature of his mission, Geoffrey sang to himself, enjoying the crisp, clean air of early morning and the peace of the forest around him. Frost lay lightly on the winter branches, and the ground underfoot was as hard as rock. When the woodland path eventually joined the ancient foot-track along Offa's Dyke, Geoffrey let his horse have its head, and set it thundering along the side of a bubbling brook. When the horse finally began to tire, Geoffrey reined in, and slowed to a comfortable walk so that the others could catch up. He removed his helmet, and breathed deeply, relishing the feel of the sun on his bare head after the chill of the previous night.

The Dyke formed part of an old boundary between kingdoms. Some sections rose high above the surrounding land, while in other areas it made use of streams or dense outcrops of forest to mark its route. Along it ran a well-trodden path and the travelling was easy, so that by early afternoon Barlow gave a shout, announcing that he could see the great castle of Chepstow.

As they drew near, Geoffrey paused and admired the mighty fortress on its eyrie above the winding brown curl of the River Wye. Cliffs rose sheer from the water, culminating in a powerful curtain wall, behind which stood the massive rectangular stone keep itself. Geoffrey and his companions skirted the encircling wall on the side opposite the cliffs, aware that their progress was watched keenly by look-outs posted along its whole length. Trees had been felled and houses removed, so that no one could approach the castle from any direction without being seen—except for the cliffs, of course, and it would be a doomed and foolish invader who risked climbing those.

Eventually, they reached the main entrance, where there were guards in the gatehouse at ground level, as well as archers housed in the wooden gallery that ran along the top of the curtain wall. The duty sergeant heard Geoffrey's business, and then escorted them into the courtyard. As he dismounted and handed his reins to a stable boy, Geoffrey looked around him again, impressed. The keep stood in the middle of an elongated, triangular bailey. It was a formidable building, and a fine illustration of Norman strength and practicality, even though it lacked some of the refinements Geoffrey had seen in France. But decorations notwithstanding, Chepstow was a splendid fortress, and Geoffrey was not surprised that the King had favoured its constable with his presence for more than a month now.