“Do you think that Torva’s investigations might have led to his death?”
Ine shrugged again. “I cannot say. I only know that he walked home the same way and at the same time each night, and that he was always drunk. And I know that he had been asking questions. I ask no questions, Sir Geoffrey. And from now on I will not answer them either.”
Geoffrey leaned back against the wall and considered. Short of bullying Ine, Geoffrey did not think he was going to gain any more information from him. He was not sure that the man had any to give in any case, since the answers he did deign to provide seemed to be based on speculation rather than fact. But it was clear that Ine believed Torva’s death was too coincidental to be an accident, and that he was fearful that he himself might go the same way if he began to investigate Godric’s illness. And if Ine’s suspicions were correct, then Geoffrey could deduce that someone had silenced Torva because he was coming near to the truth. Which meant that someone at Goodrich Castle had a secret that he or she very much wanted to keep.
CHAPTER SIX
Geoffrey was not inclined to eat at the castle with a poisoner lurking, so he inveigled an invitation to dine with Helbye. Helbye’s wife was a considerably better cook than anyone at the castle, and Geoffrey was served the best meal he had been given since landing in England. There was a delicately spiced pigeon pie with leeks, followed by a rich custard tart with stewed apples. Geoffrey, not knowing when he might get another edible dinner, ate too much and almost made himself ill.
The meal on offer at the castle the previous day had been something that Bertrada had mysteriously called “numbles,” which had transpired to be hard, stale kidneys in a powerful fish sauce. Everyone had praised the fish sauce, which had been made from a recipe of Hedwise’s, while Geoffrey, who liked neither fish nor kidneys, wrestled to attain an acceptable balance between eating sufficient so as not to appear rude, but not enough to make him sick. As he finished his third helping of custard, he wondered whether he would be able to wrangle enough invitations from Helbye to avoid starving.
The large meal had made him drowsy, and he felt the need for some exercise. He strolled back to the castle, and called for Julian to saddle up his horse. Delighted to be entrusted with such a task, Julian came scurrying to obey, while Geoffrey leaned against the stable wall and wished he had not been so greedy.
As he waited, Olivier emerged from the hall, flanked by two knights whom Geoffrey had not seen before.
“Going riding?” called Olivier pleasantly, walking towards him. “We plan to trot up to Coppet Hill through the woods. It is a pleasant journey of no more than six miles there and back, and you get a fine view of the castle from the top.”
“We want to exercise our war-horses, not go on some womanly jaunt,” muttered one of the other knights, a squat, heavy-set man in dark chain-mail.
“Yes, of course, Sir Drogo,” said Olivier hastily. “The path is good, and will put the beasts through their paces.”
“I do not believe that we have met,” said the second of Olivier’s two companions, a man of about Geoffrey’s height, with reddish silver hair and a ruddy complexion. He wore light but strong chain-mail, and his well-honed sword was no plaything like Olivier’s. Despite his elegant cloak and soft deerskin leggings, he looked to Geoffrey like a man who knew how to fight.
Olivier became flustered. “Oh, dear! Forgive my poor manners. This is my brother-in-law, Sir Geoffrey Mappestone, lately returned from the Crusade. Geoffrey, this is Sir Malger of Caen and Sir Drogo of Bayeux. Like me, both are in the service of the Earl of Shrewsbury.”
Malger smiled, and affected a courtly bow. “I have heard much about the Crusade,” he said. “I am told the looting was beyond the wildest dreams of even the most ambitious of knights.”
Geoffrey bowed in return. “I do not know about that. Many knights have very wild dreams indeed.”
Malger laughed and turned to Olivier. “Where are your grooms, man? Sleeping off their dinner? Are we to wait here until nightfall for them?”
Olivier bustled away, calling for the grooms, but the hem of his expensive cloak caught in one of his spurs, and sent him staggering in the mud. Drogo and Malger exchanged a look of amusement, and Geoffrey wondered yet again how a man like Olivier had ever earned his knighthood. Meanwhile, Julian emerged with Geoffrey’s destrier.
“I can do it,” he said eagerly to Olivier, who was furtively brushing himself off. “I can saddle up your war-horses.”
“Out of the question!” said Olivier brusquely. “And keep your hands off my animals. Ah, Ned. There you are. Saddle us up, and be quick about it.”
“But not so quick that you forget to fasten the buckles properly,” muttered Julian under his breath before stalking away towards the kitchens.
“Julian seems efficient enough,” said Geoffrey, straightening from where he had been checking his saddle. The boy had done a good job-the straps were firm, but not too tight, and he had even polished the well-worn leather. “Why do you not trust him?”
“Never you mind,” said Olivier. He rubbed his hands together, oblivious of the mud on his gloves from his tumble, and then scratched his nose. The resulting blob of filth on his face brought a second grin of amusement from his friends.
Eventually, they were ready, and the four knights set off through the village. Geoffrey was disturbed to note that their progress through the village was followed with an even greater resentment than his own had been that morning. At one point, he was certain a small boy had hurled a handful of dirt at them before being whisked into his house by his terrified mother.
Once away from the village, Geoffrey relaxed, enjoying the ride despite the cold, dull weather. Olivier chattered about a wide range of political and legal matters, although on most of them he was ill-informed, if not downright wrong. The others generally ignored him. Malger was concerned about a slight limp his horse had developed the previous day, and Drogo did not seem to be capable of rational conversation at all. He was surly, bad-tempered, and Geoffrey’s suspicion that he was not quite in control of all his mental faculties was confirmed when he gave an enthusiastic grunt as Olivier praised Hedwise’s rank fish sauce.
“That concoction is truly delicious,” said Olivier happily. “I am indeed blessed to have been given such a sister-in-law.”
Malger leered unpleasantly. “But you took your time over marrying Joan. Were you waiting for a woman like the delectable Hedwise instead?”
“Oh, no!” protested Olivier, his eyes wide and guileless. “I am more than content with my Joan. She is due back within the next two or three days, and I long to see her.”
“Do you?” asked Malger uncertainly.
Unless Joan had changed a good deal from the caustic, critical woman who Geoffrey remembered from his youth, then Malger was right to be suspicious of Olivier’s protestations of devotion.
“Oh, drat,” said Olivier with a sigh, raising an upturned palm skywards. “It has started to rain. We must go back.”
“What for?” asked Geoffrey, bemused.
“Because if we go on, we will get wet,” Olivier replied with a pursing of his lips. He turned his horse around, and set it to walk back the way they had come.
Geoffrey watched him, open-mouthed.
“There goes the fearless hero of the Battle of Civitate,” remarked Malger, laughing at Geoffrey’s reaction. “He took a wily old Pope captive while he was only three months old, but he is afraid of a few drops of rain. What about you, Sir Geoffrey? Drogo? Will you return with him, or can you withstand a little shower?”
Drogo growled some response that Geoffrey did not understand, and spurred his horse forward. Still laughing, Malger followed, leaving Geoffrey watching the diminishing figure of Sir Olivier in amazement.
By the time Malger, Drogo, and Geoffrey had returned, the rain was persistent. Olivier hurried out to greet them, clucking and fussing over his friends” sodden surcoats and saturated cloaks. Malger and Drogo were whisked away to the hall to be offered hot spiced wine and some of the inevitable fish soup, while Geoffrey was left to fend for himself. Duty obliged him to spend the rest of the day with his father.