Was there any truth in the story that Ingram had learned from the soldiers at Chepstow Castle? Geoffrey tried to recall what Enide had written of her lover in her letters to him, but he remembered thinking at the time that she had been remarkably miserly with the details, considering that she claimed the man was so important to her. When he had first learned of her affection, he had tried to imagine which of Godric Mappestone’s unsavoury neighbours could have attracted the interest of a woman of Enide’s intelligence. But his efforts at deduction had been unsuccessful then, as they were unsuccessful now.
He sighed, and turned his thoughts from the informative and affectionate letters sent by his sister to the terse messages from his father-the object of Geoffrey’s long journey from the Holy Land. During the twenty years since Geoffrey had been away Godric had sent his youngest son only three letters, each one addressed to “Godfrey.”
The first letter was sent a few weeks after Geoffrey had left, perhaps to ease a nagging conscience because Geoffrey had not wanted to become a warrior. His ambition had been to attend the University in Paris, and become versed in the philosophies and law. His father had regarded him in horror, and promptly booked him a passage to the Duke of Normandy on the next available ship. Geoffrey had gone happily, thinking that Paris would be easier to reach from Normandy than England, and had planned to desert his enforced duties as soon as he could. But even the best plans are fallible, and Geoffrey’s repeated, but unsuccessful, bids for freedom led the exasperated Duke to pass his rebellious squire to a kinsman in Italy, where Geoffrey came into the service of Tancred de Hauteville. It was Tancred who had taken Geoffrey on the Crusade.
The second letter came the previous year, after rumours had filtered back to England that the Crusaders who had sacked Jerusalem were wealthy beyond their wildest dreams. Geoffrey’s father had written a blunt demand for funds, and casually informed him that a sister-in-law had died, although he had failed to specify which one. But it was the third letter that Geoffrey remembered most clearly, even though he had read it only once before he had crumpled it into a ball and flung it into the fire.
“To Godfrey, son of Godric Mappestone of the County of Hereford. The new sheep at the manor of Rwirdin are doing well, and made four pounds and four shillings this year. These funds have been used to build a new palisade on the north edge of the outer ward of Goodrich Castle. Your sister Enide died on a Sunday at mass. Our bulls have sired sixteen calves this spring.”
Given the brisk contents of the message, Geoffrey had been given no reason to assume that her death had been anything but natural-perhaps due to a fever.
He glanced back at Ingram, and saw the young soldier’s eyes fixed on him defiantly. During the four years in which Geoffrey had been granted the doubtful pleasure of his acquaintance, Ingram had never been congenial company, but at least he was obedient-Geoffrey would not have countenanced taking the man into his service had he not been. He wondered what could have caused this sudden streak of rebelliousness and malice so near home. Then the truth struck him, so obvious that he smiled.
He paused when he saw that the path divided, one branch leading off to the left, and the other disappearing into a thick clump of trees straight ahead.
“Left, go left,” said Helbye, pushing his way forward.
“No, straight,” said Ingram impatiently.
Geoffrey was too tired to argue and too cold to stand around while the others debated. He took the left hand track, but it degenerated almost immediately into a morass of sucking mud and began to wind back on itself.
“I told you so!” gloated Ingram, tugging his horse’s head viciously to turn it. “Stupid old man!”
“You keep a civil tongue in your head, or else!” growled Helbye, embarrassed that he had been wrong yet again.
“Or else what, Helbye?” Ingram sneered regarding his sergeant insolently. “What can you do to me now? We are nearly home, where I will be free from you.”
“Or else I will tell everyone I meet that you ran away before the fall of Antioch,” said Geoffrey mildly, fixing Ingram with a steady gaze from his clear green eyes. “And that you were nowhere to be seen during the capture of Jerusalem, although you appeared in plenty of time to join in the looting.”
With grim satisfaction, Geoffrey saw the gloating fade from Ingram’s face. His intuitive guess was right: Ingram’s recent unpleasantness stemmed from the fear that the knight might well reveal his cowardice in battle to the family who were about to welcome him as a hero-Ingram’s story about Enide was to ensure that Geoffrey went thundering off to the castle immediately, so that he would not spend time in the village until Ingram had told his story the way he wanted it to be heard.
“You would not do that,” whispered Ingram aghast. “You would not spread lies about me!”
“Lies, no,” said Geoffrey. “But who is lying?”
“You never said anything to me about this,” said Helbye with a frown. “He was supposed to be your arms-bearer both times.”
As it happened, Geoffrey had not mentioned Ingram’s timely absences to anyone. Both occasions had been brutal and terrifying, and Geoffrey had not blamed the young soldier for declining to follow him into the thick of it. Indeed, since the lad had been so clearly petrified, Geoffrey had much rather Ingram had run away and hidden, rather than force Geoffrey into a position where he would have been fighting to protect both of them.
“It seems that there are a number of things we have not told each other,” said Geoffrey, thinking about the gossip regarding Enide. Helbye looked away guilty.
“The track divides yet again,” said Barlow, keen to change the subject. His own role in the two battles had not been exactly glorious either-to keep his promise to the lad’s father, Helbye had given him duties guarding the baggage train. “Left or right?”
“Right,” said Helbye, after a moment of consideration.
“Left it is, then,” said Geoffrey, throwing him a grin of devilment, before making his way down the dark path. It was almost pitch-black, and the thick clouds allowed no light from the moon to penetrate. Geoffrey’s hand went to his sword when the wind blew in the trees, making the wood groan and creak, and Barlow and Ingram were growing nervous.
“The soldiers at Chepstow said that outlaws live around here,” said Barlow, casting a fearful glance behind him. “They come out at night and murder travellers.”
“Especially ones carrying treasure, like us,” said Ingram forcefully.
“Perhaps you might care to say that a little louder, Ingram,” said Geoffrey. “The robbers at the far end of the woods might not have caught everything you said.”
Barlow’s laughter turned into a shriek of horror as something brushed past his face with a screech of its own. Geoffrey spun round, his sword already drawn, but then relaxed when he saw an owl flit away through the darkness.
“We are nearly there,” he said, sheathing his weapon. “I recognise this path. Over to the left is the woodsman’s cottage, and that path there leads back to Penncreic. And there,” he announced with relief, seeing the familiar square shadow of the church looming in the darkness, “is Goodrich. Those lights seem to be coming from your house, Will.”
“So they are,” said Helbye apprehensively, peering through the gloom at the huddle of houses on the opposite hill. “It is late. I wonder what she can be thinking of.”
“She must be preparing you dinner,” said Barlow. “And speaking of food, I am starving! Come on, Ingram! I will race you! I wager I can get there faster on foot than you can ride.”
They were off, both weaving through the trees at a speed far from safe, leaving Geoffrey and Helbye behind them. Neither knight nor sergeant made a move.