Geoffrey suddenly recollected Caerdig’s reaction to Ingram’s jest-about hacking a bird’s head from its shoulders-when Geoffrey had been quick to draw his sword earlier that day. Was that the reason for his curious response? Ingram had a spiteful tongue, and might have learned about the fate of Caerdig’s uncle in the taverns the previous night. Geoffrey would not put a deliberately provoking remark about such a matter past the malicious man-at-arms.
Caerdig continued, suppressed rage making his voice unsteady. “Of course, there were no witnesses to the crime, and Henry denies having anything to do with it. But not many men are allowed to own swords in the woods-you know that swords are forbidden by the Forest laws-although Henry has permission to carry one. Henry has the Norman love of fighting and killing, even though he is no knight.”
Geoffrey drummed his fingers on the conical helmet that lay at his side. “Was there no enquiry into the murder? Was the Earl of Hereford informed? He is overlord here, is he not?”
“Hereford!” spat Caerdig in disgust. “He has no power in these parts. It is the Earl of Shrewsbury who is the dominant force in the border lands now.”
“Shrewsbury, then,” Geoffrey said impatiently. “Did Shrewsbury look into Ynys’s death?”
“He did, but he lost interest when he heard Ynys had named an heir-me-and that the lands were not lying vacant. All Shrewsbury did was to warn Henry not to do it again.”
“Well, Henry is unlikely to kill Ynys a second time,” said Geoffrey wryly. “But it seems to me that the Earl of Shrewsbury is causing a number of problems in the border regions.”
“I should say,” agreed Caerdig fervently. “He has been busy bribing the Welsh princes to back him against King Henry of England, should the need ever arise. But the Earl is not a man to act unless there is some benefit to be had for himself, and there was nothing to gain from Henry’s arrest for Ynys murder. It might even have had a negative effect, since the King, for some unaccountable reason, likes your brother Henry.”
“What is said in these parts about the death of King William Rufus?” asked Geoffrey curiously. “It was rumoured in the Holy Land that King Henry had much to gain from his brother’s sudden and most convenient demise.”
“So he did,” said Caerdig, startled by the sudden turn in conversation. He glanced around nervously. “But this is not a topic for wise men to be discussing in a barn with thin walls.”
“Wise men do not ambush knights,” Geoffrey pointed out. “But what of Shrewsbury? Is there talk that he might have had something to do with the regicide?”
“No,” said Caerdig, surprised. “Nothing was ever said against Shrewsbury. Why would Rufus’s death be advantageous to the Earl when Rufus liked him so? But King Henry had much to gain from Rufus’s death-if you suspect foul play, do not look to Shrewsbury, look to King Henry.”
Geoffrey was silent, thinking. Few people openly questioned whether Rufus’s death was anything other than a terrible accident at the hands of the unlucky Tirel, although there were rumours and suspicions galore. But Tirel was protesting his innocence in France, and King Henry believed that the Earl of Shrewsbury had played a role in the death, while others believed Henry might know more of the matter than he was revealing. Who was lying and who was telling the truth? Geoffrey rubbed his eyes tiredly, and decided that he did not want to know anyway.
He wondered what were the chances of escape, if he defied the King, and rode for Portsmouth without stopping at Goodrich to see his ailing father. Godric had never had much affection for his youngest son-rare were the days when he had even recalled Geoffrey’s correct name. Geoffrey had not seen his family for twenty years, and the only one who had made the slightest effort to maintain contact had been Enide. And she was dead, perhaps poisoned by the very brother or sister who may have tried to shoot Geoffrey in the forest.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose, and sighed softly. He knew it was not wise to disobey orders from a King; even if Geoffrey did manage to reach the Holy Land without being caught by the King’s agents, his defiance was surely likely to catch up with him some time in the future.
Geoffrey realised with a sense of impending doom that he had little choice but to go to Goodrich, and at least be seen to be following the King’s orders. A few days, or a week, should be sufficient to convince the King that Geoffrey believed that Goodrich would remain in Mappestone hands, and then he would be free to leave England-forever.
“It is late,” he said, feeling that the Welshman was watching him in the darkness. “Go to sleep.”
“You should sleep, too,” said Caerdig, settling down in the straw. “And do not worry about me bothering myself to slit your throat during the night. Your brothers will save me that trouble, if I wait long enough.”
CHAPTER THREE
Dawn the next day was misty and damp. Geoffrey rubbed the sleep from his eyes and ran his fingers through his short, brown hair to remove the pieces of straw that were entangled in it. His customary toilet completed, he went in search of something to eat, and persuaded the forester to part with another of his unappetising loaves and some tiny, sour apples. His dog had done its own scavenging, and was eating something that looked a good deal more appealing than Geoffrey’s meagre breakfast. The knight considered taking it from him, but his hands still bore the scars from the last time he had attempted such a rash act, and anyway, Geoffrey already knew who would be the winner in such a contest.
He paid the forester and went on his way, the others trotting behind him. The night had been mild, and the sun of the previous afternoon had thawed the frozen ground. The path that had provided easy riding the day before was now a sticky morass of clinging mud, and their progress was slow. It was late afternoon before Caerdig stopped at a small, muddy river.
“This is where we part. My lands lie this side of the stream, and your family’s start from the other bank.” He hesitated, and regarded Geoffrey uncertainly. “I said I would escort you to Mappestone territory. Do you accept that I have fulfilled my part of the bargain?”
Geoffrey nodded. “Once again, my apologies for trespassing. It is what happens when you follow the advice of another, rather than trusting your own instincts.”
He allowed his gaze to stray to Helbye, who immediately began to study the river, looking for the best place to cross.
Caerdig still hesitated. “You spared my life-twice if you count not telling the King the fact that his messenger was slain during my ambush. But I have kept my end of the agreement.”
“So you have already said,” said Geoffrey, wondering where this was leading.
Caerdig sighed. “By Welsh law, you saved me-so I might be obliged to do the same for you at some point in the future.”
“That might be useful around here,” said Geoffrey. “Where lies the problem?”
“The problem lies in your brothers,” said Caerdig. “I swore a solemn oath to rid my people of them, and so you and I might yet find ourselves on the opposite sides of another skirmish. The bargain that we made was that you spared my life, and I would see you safely off my lands. So, now we are even.”
“I see,” said Geoffrey. “You are saying that next time we meet, I should assume that you are about to kill me, and act first?”
“Well, I did not mean it quite like that,” mumbled Caerdig. He scrubbed hard at his face, and smiled suddenly at the amused knight. “Actually, I suppose I did. But I do not like this state of war between our families. I will not-cannot-trust any of your siblings to make peace, but I would be willing to consider terms with you. Just bear that in mind the next time you say so glibly that you want nothing belonging to your father.”