‘He seems spirited,’ said Geoffrey.
‘Very,’ agreed Mabon proudly. ‘I would have taken him out today, but I did not want to ruin him on rough tracks. I rode one of your sister’s nags instead, but he turned lame before we were through the village, so I was forced to come back. Pity. I enjoy hawking.’
Close up, Mabon looked even less like an abbot than he had at a distance. He was an enormous man, and his black attire made him seem bigger. There was something of the pirate in his gap-toothed grin, and Geoffrey could not imagine him on his knees at an altar.
‘I have a letter for you from the Archbishop,’ said Geoffrey, grateful for the opportunity to discharge one of his tasks. He started to rummage for the package Pepin had given him, tucked well inside his shirt. ‘It comes via the King.’
‘Does it?’ asked Mabon without enthusiasm. ‘I doubt either of them has anything I want to hear. I cannot read anyway, so hang on to it until we reach Kermerdyn, where a scribe can tell me what it says.’
‘Delwyn will oblige,’ said Geoffrey. ‘He has been trying to take charge of it ever since we left.’
‘He would,’ said Mabon disparagingly. ‘But I would rather lose my sword arm than let him loose on my correspondence. We shall take it to Ywain when we reach Kermerdyn – he is my deputy and the man who will succeed me. He can read.’
‘So can I,’ said Geoffrey, unwilling to be lumbered with the responsibility of looking after the letter for longer than was necessary. ‘And I will read it to you now, if you like.’
‘Really?’ asked Mabon, regarding him with disappointment. ‘Why would a knight waste time on that?’
‘That is an unusual stance for an abbot,’ said Geoffrey.
Mabon laughed uproariously. ‘I am an unusual abbot. But please keep the letter. I will only lose it, and then Ywain will be vexed. Besides, it is a lovely day and I do not want it sullied by unwelcome news – and all news that comes via that meddling usurper Henry is bad news. I cannot abide the man.’
Geoffrey warmed to Mabon. ‘I understand you have a feud with Bishop Wilfred,’ he said, supposing he may as well start one of his enquiries.
‘That venomous Norman snake,’ spat Mabon. ‘Not that I have anything against Normans, of course, but they have no right to march into our country and award themselves all the best posts. I should have been Bishop of St David’s.’
‘The King does not know what he is missing,’ said Geoffrey, suspecting Henry very much did, and that was why Wilfred had been appointed.
‘Indeed!’ agreed Mabon. ‘It is a pity William fitz Baldwin died, because I did not mind him in a position of power. He was a lovely man, and I liked having him in Rhydygors.’
‘You do not like Hywel?’
‘Oh, yes – he is lovely, too, although he is Welsh, so that is to be expected. Of course, poor William was murdered. It was put about that he died of fever, but that was a lie. I was the one who first said he was poisoned, and I stand by my claim.’
‘With what evidence?’ Geoffrey felt his spirits sink. He had hoped to be able to report that William’s death was natural and the tales about his secret no more than rumour.
‘Evidence!’ sneered Mabon. ‘I do not need evidence when my gut screams foul play. Besides, his fingers were black.’
‘Black?’ asked Geoffrey, puzzled.
‘Decayed, like a corpse. It was very peculiar. And there was a nasty scene around his deathbed. Of course, it was the butter that killed him.’
‘Butter?’ Geoffrey was bemused by the confidences.
‘It was made by Cornald, was a gift from Pulchria, delivered by Richard. Then Delwyn was seen loitering around the kitchens where the stuff lay, talking to Bishop Wilfred. And Gwgan, Isabella, Hywel and Sear were at the meal after which William became ill. They are all suspects for the crime.’
‘I see,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Where were you?’
‘In my abbey, seeing to a sick horse, as my monks will attest. Edward was away at the salient time, too, while poor little Leah was ill and confined to her bed. We three are innocent, but the rest are guilty until proven innocent, as far as I am concerned.’
‘What nasty scene happened at William’s deathbed?’
‘He took several days to die, and muttered and whispered almost the entire time. Little of it made sense, but we were all keen to hear as much as possible, lest he gave up his secret.’
‘What secret?’ asked Geoffrey, feigning innocence.
‘The secret that turned him into the fine man he was, and gave him his fabulous luck,’ replied Mabon. ‘Surely, you have heard this tale? It is famous all over the world.’
‘Enlighten me.’
Mabon grimaced. ‘He would never say what the secret was, and even denied that he had one on occasion, although he was a poor liar. I happened to be alone with him at one point during his fever, and he told me he found the secret in the river.’
Geoffrey frowned. ‘What do you think he meant?’
Mabon shrugged. ‘It made no sense, but he was religious, and I know he liked to immerse himself in the water as though he were John the Baptist. Perhaps he had a vision. He certainly had great respect for the Blessed Virgin.’
‘Many people do,’ said Geoffrey. ‘But-’
‘I do not bother with her,’ interrupted Mabon. ‘When I want favours, I go straight to the top – to God the Father.’
‘Oh,’ said Geoffrey, feeling the discussion was blasphemous.
‘But never mind all this religious claptrap. Let me see your destrier. There is no man in Wales who is a better judge of horseflesh than me.’
Mabon was indeed knowledgeable and regaled Geoffrey with all manner of opinions about horses and weapons. He left eventually, and Geoffrey was about to go to Hilde when he sensed yet another presence. It was Pulchria, and her expression was predatory.
‘The lord of Goodrich,’ she crooned, mincing towards him. ‘I was hoping for an opportunity to make your acquaintance. Joan and Olivier have been waxing lyrical about you.’
‘Have they?’ asked Geoffrey warily.
‘Oh, yes,’ whispered Pulchria, swaying closer. ‘All the time. And my husband is very eager to meet you. He would like to learn the secret of your success.’
He could smell her heady perfume, and her eyes were dark with promise. Her beauty was rather dangerous, Geoffrey thought, taking a step back, and it would see him in trouble if he yielded to it.
‘Secret?’ he asked, struggling to keep his mind on the conversation. ‘I have no secret – and I am not successful, either.’
‘Of course you are. We both want to know how you turned Goodrich – an impoverished outpost – into the envy of the region.’
‘That had nothing to do with me,’ said Geoffrey, as she leaned closer still, treating him to a view of her bosom. ‘Joan is the one who has done the transforming. Ask her.’
‘I would rather talk to you,’ breathed Pulchria. Her perfume was similar to that worn by his duchess, and he felt his heart begin to pound. He forced his thoughts to more practical matters.
‘Abbot Mabon has been telling me about some butter William ate before his death,’ he began.
Pulchria stepped away from him. ‘You mean William fitz Baldwin?’ she asked incredulously. ‘He died seven years ago. I thought everyone had forgotten about those silly rumours. There was no truth in them – just gossip and spite.’
‘Mabon said the butter was made by your husband and was a gift from you.’
‘It was,’ said Pulchria sullenly. ‘And perhaps it was a little past its best – dairy produce spoils quickly – but it was certainly not rancid. And nor was it poisoned.’
‘So you think William died of natural causes?’
Pulchria pouted. ‘Of course! Half the town visited him on his deathbed, because he was considered such a saintly man, and when I went he had some sort of seizure – he shuddered and thrashed about, then went limp. Clearly, an ague killed him – perhaps one caught sitting by the river in the damp.’