“Take my saddle,” he insisted. “You cannot make an appearance at your home after twenty years leading your own horse! You are one of the most respected knights to return from the Holy Land alive! Think of appearances.”
“I do not care about appearances,” said Geoffrey tiredly. “I will take a solitary chair near a blazing fire over any glorious welcome my family might give me. Anyway, it will be dark when we arrive. They will probably be asleep and will refuse to answer the door. I might have to beg a bed from you for the night, and try again in the morning.”
“They will let you in!” said Helbye, shocked. “For one thing, they will imagine you have come laden with riches, and will want to secure your good will.”
That was certainly true, thought Geoffrey. “Then it will not matter whether I gallop into their bailey on a battle-hungry war-horse, or walk in soaking wet. My welcome will be the same.”
Helbye accepted his logic, but not happily, and mounted his own horse to follow Geoffrey along the path that led away from the river.
In front of him, Geoffrey was lost in thought. He realised he had committed several grave errors of judgment that might have cost them their lives: he should have insisted that Barlow ford the river on foot; he should have made Ingram follow the route Helbye had chosen across the water, instead of allowing him to select his own path; he should have paid heed to the dog’s barking when they had reached the far bank-it was likely the animal had sensed the presence of strangers; and he should not have abandoned his destrier to Ingram’s care while he tore off after Barlow-he was lucky he still had it. Such mistakes in the Holy Land might have been fatal. He wondered whether the dampness and cold were affecting his brain, or whether he was losing the skills he had acquired through years of painful trial and error.
Behind him, Ingram was still defensive about his passive role in the theft, while Barlow was full of curiosity as to who would have risked stealing from a knight.
“It must have been that Caerdig,” said Barlow to Ingram.
“It was not him, but he might have sent his men,” said Ingram, eager to find a culprit. “After all, he commented on our treasure while he rode with us, so he knew we had some. And he must have been aware that the ford was not safe and that we would run into difficulties crossing it.”
“The ford would have been perfectly safe, if you two had listened to Sir Geoffrey,” said Helbye. The two young soldiers exchanged furtively guilty glances.
“And of course, Caerdig has good reason for killing a Mappestone,” said Barlow a moment later, reluctant to let the subject drop. “Bearing in mind Enide and all that.”
“Barlow!” said Helbye in a low voice. “Take care what you say.”
“Sorry,” muttered Barlow, genuinely contrite.
“Ah, yes!” said Ingram, pretending not to hear Helbye’s warning. “Enide.”
Geoffrey had not been paying much attention to his men’s speculations-he was still berating himself for his poor control over them at the ford-but their curious exchange caught his interest.
“Enide?” he asked, looking round at Barlow. “My younger sister Enide?”
“We are just blathering,” said Helbye before Ingram could respond. He leaned forward to stroke his horse’s mane. “I wonder what my wife will have cooked to welcome me home.”
“Probably nothing,” said Barlow, clearly relieved to be talking about something else. “She does not know exactly when you will arrive. And who is to say that the letters Sir Geoffrey wrote ever reached her?”
“I sent her no letters,” said Helbye, his voice thick with disapproval at the very notion. “I sent word with Eudo of Rosse.”
“What were you going to say?” asked Geoffrey of Barlow, refusing to be distracted by Helbye’s clumsy attempts to side-track him. “What has Enide to do with Caerdig?”
“They were lovers,” said Ingram with relish, ignoring Helbye’s warning glower.
“Ingram! You have no proof to claim such a thing,” said Helbye angrily. “So shut up before you say something for which you will later be sorry.”
“I have proof,” said Ingram, smugly confident. “We heard all about it from a soldier at Chepstow who had spent time at Goodrich last summer.”
“That was nothing but gossip,” snapped Helbye. “How could you trust someone like that?”
“What did you hear?” asked Geoffrey, confused by the exchange.
“Caerdig wanted to marry Enide,” said Ingram quickly, before Helbye could stop him. “But her father and Ynys of Lann Martin prevented the match-”
“That is enough, Ingram!” said Helbye sharply. “This is all speculation. You have no evidence to be saying any of this.”
“Enide did have a lover,” mused Geoffrey, more to himself than to the others. “She wrote to me about him often, although she never mentioned his name. Was that who it was? Caerdig?”
“No,” said Helbye firmly. “Caerdig did ask for her hand in marriage, apparently, but there is nothing to say that they were lovers-whatever nasty rumours were spread around about her. Caerdig was probably trying to put an end to the feud between the two manors-a marriage of convenience.”
“I knew nothing of this,” said Geoffrey. “Although I suppose there is no reason why I should.”
“There is nothing to know,” said Helbye. “Except vicious rumours and nasty lies.” He glared at Ingram and then at Barlow.
“But you might have said something, Will,” Geoffrey said reproachfully to his sergeant. “You know Enide was the only one for whom I really cared. If you knew something about her, you should have told me.”
“I saw no point in talking about her when you would get the entire terrible story on your arrival home,” said Helbye primly.
“An affair between Enide and Caerdig is not so terrible,” said Geoffrey, amused.
“The affair was not the end of the matter, though, was it?” said Ingram spitefully. “What Helbye has been keeping from you is the fact that Caerdig met Enide secretly for mass one day-”
“Ingram!” barked Helbye. He dismounted, and tried to grab the young soldier, who dodged behind Barlow. “Stop this immediately!”
“Ynys and Godric had agreed not to allow the marriage between Caerdig and Enide-” said Ingram, wickedly allowing the older man to grab the merest pinch of his tunic before slithering away.
“Ingram!” yelled Helbye, making another ineffectual lunge at the grinning soldier. “Desist, or I will-”
“Or you will what, Helbye?” Ingram sneered. “We are a mile from home, and you no longer have an excuse to bully me. I will say what I like to whom I like, and you can do nothing to stop me!”
Helbye stopped dead in his tracks, and Geoffrey wondered how long Ingram had been harbouring such bitter resentment against the old sergeant. He had always been under the impression that Helbye was popular with the young men under his command. It was at Helbye’s request that Geoffrey had brought Ingram home with him, although he had been under no obligation to do so. Geoffrey had done what the sergeant had asked because he liked Helbye-because he certainly did not like the malcontented, bitterly morose Ingram.
Ingram turned on Geoffrey, his eyes blazing. “The story is that Caerdig decided that if he could not have Enide as his wife, then no man should have her, and so while she was at church-”
“Ingram!” pleaded Barlow, glancing nervously at Geoffrey. “Sir Geoffrey has been good to us, and there is no need to anger him. Say no more.”
Ingram ignored him, still gazing at the bemused Geoffrey with malicious defiance.
“While Enide was at mass,” he continued, “Caerdig waited for her until she came out of the church, and he chopped off her head!”
Geoffrey could think of nothing to say in response to Ingram’s preposterous revelation, so he turned away without giving the young soldier the satisfaction of a reply. He heard Barlow berating his friend in low tones, while Helbye was silent. Pulling gently on the reins, Geoffrey led his destrier along the grassy path towards Goodrich Castle and the small village that clustered outside its stocky wooden palisades.