Olivier opened his mouth to speak, but he hesitated and his chance to respond was gone.
“If Joan had married Caerdig when he asked, none of this would have happened,” said the woman with the golden hair who had tried to restrain Henry earlier. “It is Joan’s fault that Henry lost Lann Martin and that Geoffrey has lost Rwirdin.”
“Did Caerdig ask Joan to marry him, as well as Enide?” asked Geoffrey, bewildered by the mass of information that was coming to him in disconnected bursts.
The bitten man nodded. “Joan first, then Enide. He was determined to have peace at any cost. Personally, I would prefer a state of perpetual war to marriage with either of those two!”
“Was Caerdig Enide’s lover?” asked Geoffrey before he could stop himself. He realised too late that it was not a prudent question to ask out of the blue.
The bitten man did not seem surprised or offended by the enquiry, however. He mused for a moment. “It is possible, I suppose, although I would have thought it unlikely. Enide had better taste than to take Caerdig to her bed-he always smells of leeks!”
“Are you satisfied that Henry killed the right men for her murder?” asked Geoffrey of the bitten man, as the others started to argue among themselves about whether Enide was or was not sufficiently desperate to succumb to the rough attentions of the leek-scented Caerdig.
The bitten man shrugged. “They confessed to the crime.”
“Yes, they confessed!” shouted Henry, pushing Bertrada out of the way as he stormed over to where Geoffrey stood. “Do you think I would have extracted vengeance from innocent men?”
Geoffrey said nothing.
“Enough of this!” said Bertrada firmly, as she grabbed a table to regain her balance after Henry’s rough passage. “The events surrounding Enide’s death were dreadful, but they are all over. Let us talk of more pleasant things tonight.”
“Caerdig, of course, spread rumours that one of us was responsible,” said the bitten man, ignoring her. “But they fizzled out once Henry had hanged the poachers.”
“Enough!” shrieked Bertrada.
Her voice shrilled through the hall, and silenced even Henry, who had been about to add something else. She gave Geoffrey a hefty shove in the chest to make him sit again, and fought to bring her temper under control.
“There is something else I would like to know,” said Geoffrey. Bertrada glowered at him. “I am sorry, but it has been a long time, and I do not know who most of you are. Henry I recognise, but …” He stopped and shrugged.
The balding man smiled. “Of course. And you, too, are unfamiliar to us, although you look so much like Enide that no one could ever doubt who you are. However, you have changed from the boy we saw off to Normandy twenty years ago.”
He paused and studied Geoffrey carefully, so that it was obvious that he regretted his comment about family likeness, because he realised it had lost him the opportunity to disclaim Geoffrey as an impostor. Evidently, the others thought the same, for Geoffrey suddenly found himself the object of some intensive scrutiny.
“You have changed,” said the bitten man, eyeing him speculatively.
“Do not try to fool yourselves,” said Henry heavily. “It is obvious he is exactly who he claims. Look at his eyes-it is Enide staring at you! And on his chin is that small scar I made with Walter’s sword when we were young.”
There were reluctant murmurs of agreement, and then Bertrada began with the introductions.
“I am Bertrada, and this is Walter-my husband and your oldest brother.”
She indicated the balding man with a wave of her hand, and continued.
“Joan is away at the moment, but we are expecting her back in a few days. Her husband is Sir Olivier d’Alencon.”
Geoffrey rose to return the bow that served more to display Olivier’s courtly manners than civility to his visitor.
“Olivier is a kinsman of the Earl of Shrewsbury, and so we are deeply honoured to have him in our family.”
Bertrada’s tone of voice was odd, and Geoffrey looked at her sharply, detecting undercurrents that he did not yet understand. But he certainly understood her reference to the Earl of Shrewsbury. It seemed that he could go nowhere without encountering reference to the infamous baron.
“I trained under the Earl,” said Olivier, not quite nonchalantly enough to prevent him from sounding boastful. “I entered his service when I was fifteen, and was a knight by the time I was twenty-which you will know is very young. The Earl taught me everything I know.”
Geoffrey thought this was nothing to be proud of, given the fact that Shrewsbury was not noted for his chivalry or his attention to the other knightly arts. Uncharitably, Geoffrey wondered how much Olivier’s knighthood had cost him, for he was certain that the chicken-hearted man whom he had encountered outside could never have lasted long in any serious battle.
As if sensing his reservations, Olivier set out to prove him wrong, reciting a list of his military successes. Geoffrey listened with growing astonishment, until Olivier mentioned his leading role in the Battle of Civitate. Geoffrey was no military historian, but he knew about the battle in which Tancred’s ancestors had captured Pope Leo IX, and he also knew it had taken place almost fifty years before. If Olivier had even been born then, he would have been little more than a babe in arms.
“I see,” said Geoffrey, somewhat at a loss for words after Olivier had described in detail the way in which he had pitted his few loyal troops against the superior numbers of the enemy. Olivier’s eyes gleamed with fervour, and Geoffrey wondered whether he might have misheard. “The Battle of Civitate, you say?” he asked, to be certain.
“The very same,” said Olivier proudly. “It was I who captured that crafty old Pope and flung him into my deepest dungeon. I kept him there for years.”
“Really?” queried Geoffrey lightly. He wondered whether Olivier thought he was a half-wit to be mislead by impossible stories, or whether the small knight was trying to test his intelligence in some bizarre manner. “But I understood that Pope Leo was released as soon as he had renounced his holy war against the de Hautevilles.”
Olivier shot him an unpleasant look at this contradiction. “Quite so. But he was in my dungeon first. And of course, I was at the Battle of Elgin, when King Duncan was slain …”
Since that battle occurred sixty years before, Geoffrey began to doubt whether Olivier was in complete control of his faculties.
“I could teach you Crusaders a thing or two. And then there was the battle of-”
“You could talk about your victories all night, Sir Olivier,” said Bertrada smoothly. “But you should save something with which to entertain Geoffrey tomorrow.” She turned to Geoffrey. “Now, you say you remember Henry, but this is his wife Hedwise, whom you have never met.”
The golden-haired Hedwise stepped forward, smiling with the face of an angel, although her eyes held an unmistakable glint of something far from seraphic. “Henry has told me a lot about you.”
Geoffrey was sure he had. He bowed politely over her proffered hand, but was discomfited when she clutched his fingers and refused to let go. On the opposite side of the room, Henry rose to his feet at the ambiguous gesture, and Geoffrey was uncertain whether to snatch his hand away, or to leave it where it was. For once, the dog proved it could be of occasional value, and came to his rescue by sniffing around her gown and then beginning to raise its back leg. Hastily, Hedwise abandoned Geoffrey and moved away.
“That is an extraordinary animal,” observed the bitten man in some admiration. “Although you have all but ruined it. Have you not trained it at all?”
“And this is Stephen, your middle brother,” said Bertrada flatly, indicating him with a dismissive flap of her hand. “As you may have guessed, his main interest in life is dogs.”