“Enough of this!” he yelled. “Either let me in to speak to my father, or I will force an entry myself. And if you choose to direct an arrow my way, I can promise you that you will be sorry!”
A grille in the wicket door slid open, and Geoffrey was assessed by a glistening eye. After a hurried exchange of whispers and a series of grunts and bumps, the bar was removed and the gate was opened. Geoffrey was far from impressed: he had expected to be questioned, and he accepted the fact that the guards would not know him and would seek some verification as to his identity. But, despite his blustering threat, he certainly had not imagined that they would be so easily browbeaten into opening the gates in the dark to what amounted to a complete stranger.
“Come in if you are coming,” mumbled the guard irritably, holding a torch aloft so that Geoffrey would not step in the deep puddle that lay under the gate. “I have sent young Julian to tell Sir Olivier d’Alencon that he has visitors.”
“Sir Olivier?” asked Geoffrey, watching the guard secure the door again. “Who is he?”
“But you said you wanted to speak to him!” said the guard in an accusatory voice, almost dropping the torch in his agitation.
“I said no such thing,” said Geoffrey. “I do not know this Sir Olivier.”
“I supposed you to be one of his cronies, come to leech off us again,” said the guard. He took a step towards Geoffrey, fingering the hilt of his sword with one hand, and thrusting the torch towards him in the other. Geoffrey was a tall, strong man, and looked larger still in his heavy chain-mail and surcoat. He also carried a broadsword and at least two daggers that the guard could see. Prudently, the man stepped backwards again.
“It is good to know that Goodrich Castle is in such safe hands,” remarked Geoffrey. “I am Geoffrey Mappestone, and I have come to see my father. Not Sir Olivier, whoever he might be.”
“He will be your brother-in-law, then,” said the guard, dropping his belligerent manner and becoming wary. “Assuming you are who you claim. Sir Olivier is Lady Joan’s husband. Joan is your sister,” he added for Geoffrey’s edification. He studied Geoffrey in the light of his flaring torch. “You have grown a lot bigger since you left.”
“I would hope so,” said Geoffrey. “I was twelve years old then.”
He grew restless under the guard’s brazen scrutiny, and looked around him. The gate at which he stood led to a barbican in the outer ward, a large area that was well defended by a stout palisade of sharpened tree trunks and a series of ditches and moats. A flight of shallow steps led to a wooden gatehouse and the inner bailey, also protected by a palisade. And inside the inner ward stood the great keep-a massive stone structure raised by Godric himself-and a jumble of other buildings that included stables, storerooms, and kitchens.
“Sir Olivier says you are to come in to him,” called a slender boy from the top of the steps.
“Oh, marvellous!” muttered Geoffrey, anticipating the scene that was about to ensue, where Sir Olivier would realise that he did not recognise Geoffrey and would accuse him of being an impostor. With a weary sigh, Geoffrey took his destrier’s bridle and led it towards the barbican. His dog darted ahead, no doubt sensing the presence of unsuspecting chickens nearby. Geoffrey hurried to catch up with it before it could do any harm, and thrust the reins into the hands of the waiting boy as he passed.
While the dog’s attention was on a discarded chicken wing embedded in the mud, Geoffrey slipped the tether over its neck, earning himself an evil look in the process. But that was too bad: Geoffrey did not want his initial meeting with his family to be a confrontation over slaughtered livestock.
“Your horse is enormous!” Julian exclaimed, looking up at it with obvious awe. “Much bigger than Sir Olivier’s mount. And finer, too.”
“He is also tired and dirty,” said Geoffrey. “Are there reliable grooms here?”
Julian spat. “There are grooms, but they will be drunk by now. I will look after him for you. I know horses. He needs to be rubbed down with dry straw, and then fed with oat mash.”
“That would be excellent,” said Geoffrey, pleased that there was at least one person at Goodrich who seemed to know his business-unlike the guard. He leaned down to run his hand across the horse’s leg. “And he has a scratch here that I am concerned about.”
“I see it,” said Julian, bending to inspect the destrier’s damaged fetlock. “It needs to be washed with clean water. I will draw it from the well myself.”
There was something odd about Julian that Geoffrey could not place. He was perhaps thirteen or fourteen years old, and so they could never have met. But the peculiarity had nothing to do with recognition; it was something else. However, the lad clearly had a way with horses, and Geoffrey had no reason to dismiss him in favour of one of the allegedly drunken grooms. He smiled at the boy’s eager face.
“It seems you know your business, Julian.”
Julian grinned back at him. “And I see you know yours. Sir Olivier never trusts me with his pathetic nag, although I am by far the best carer of horses at the castle.”
“Who are you?” came a voice from behind them, hostile and angry. “What do you mean by demanding entry under false pretences? I do not know you!”
Geoffrey turned, and came face to face with a short man with jet black hair and a matching moustache. Noting the half-armour and handsome cloak of a knight at ease, Geoffrey assumed he was Sir Olivier. The small knight had drawn his sword, but let it fall quickly when the guard’s torch changed Geoffrey from an indistinguishable shadow to a fully armed warrior wearing a Crusader’s surcoat. Olivier looked him up and down, took stock of his size and array of weapons, and beat a hasty retreat by backing away across the courtyard. Geoffrey heard Julian giggling helplessly at the unedifying spectacle.
“Guards!” yelled Olivier, unable to control the tremor in his voice. “Seize this man! He is an impostor!”
It was not the welcome for which Geoffrey had been hoping, but it did not entirely surprise him. He strode towards Olivier, aiming to get close enough to state his name and business without having to bawl it for half the county to hear. Olivier, however, seemed to be in no mood for discussion-he promptly dropped his sword and fled up the stairs into the keep, slamming the door behind him. The guards regarded Geoffrey uncertainly, but made no attempt to do as Olivier had ordered. Clearly, neither of them wished to indulge in a sword fight with a Crusader knight whose skills would almost certainly be superior to their own.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” exclaimed Geoffrey in exasperation, gazing at the closed door. He turned to the boy. “Julian, please inform Sir Olivier that I am Geoffrey Mappestone, and that I have come simply to pay my respects to my father. I did not imagine it would prove to be so difficult.”
“I guessed who you were,” said Julian, carefully passing the reins of the destrier back to Geoffrey. “They have been expecting you since your letter arrived two weeks ago, although Henry lives in hope that you might have perished on the journey.”
“That is reassuring to hear,” said Geoffrey. “But you had better do as I ask, before Sir Olivier orders his archers to shoot us from the windows.”
“They would miss,” said Julian disdainfully, but dutifully sped towards the keep where Geoffrey heard him yelling through the closed door. While he waited, Geoffrey surveyed the inner ward. Some parts were familiar, like the keep with its three floors, and the ramshackle stables. Other parts were new, like the kitchen and the housing on the well.
He glanced to where Julian was still conversing through the door, and shivered. It was cold standing in the dark, and his clothes were still wet from his plunge in the river. After what seemed to be an age, the keep door opened and a woman whom Geoffrey did not know came down the stone steps towards him, bearing the traditional welcoming cup.