“So I was right in my assumption when I attacked you,” said Geoffrey’s prisoner in poor Norman French, making no effort to disguise the loathing in his voice. “You are Geoffrey Mappestone. I heard you were due to return from the Crusade this winter.”
“I am afraid you have the advantage of me,” said Geoffrey, also in Norman French, the sword still pointed unwavering at the man’s neck. “I do not know you.”
“Caerdig of Lann Martin,” the man replied. He looked with contempt at Geoffrey’s sword. “It would have been courteous of you to learn my name, since you see fit to wander uninvited on my land. This wood has been mine since your brother Henry lost his illegal claim to it in the courts.”
So, they were in Lann Martin-the place where Geoffrey had least wanted to be, since he knew from his sister’s letters that ownership of it was hotly contested, and that unexpected visitors were invariably dispatched long before they had time to explain their business. He shot Helbye a withering look for his incompetent navigation.
“I apologise for trespassing,” said Geoffrey, addressing Caerdig. “It has been so many years since I was last here, that I no longer remember the way from Penncreic to Goodrich.”
And now what? Geoffrey thought. He and his men were outnumbered at least six to one and, while he was certain he could win any fair fight, he knew he would not get far if there were archers hidden in trees or pit traps dug across the road. He saw he had two choices: he could slay each and every one of the villagers who stood in a nervous semicircle around him to ensure his safe passage, or he could negotiate a truce.
Most Norman knights would have opted for the former, but Geoffrey had no quarrel with men who had been trying to defend their village from what had probably appeared to be a hostile visit. Geoffrey was sure that Sir Aumary of Breteuil would claim that the attack on him was a direct act of aggression against the King, but while the attempted ambush of a royal messenger would doubtless not please His Majesty, retribution was for him to take, not Geoffrey.
Geoffrey had neither wanted nor enjoyed the pompous knight’s company during their journey from Portsmouth to the Forest of Dene on the Welsh border, and he certainly did not feel responsible for the man. In fact, Geoffrey had hoped that Aumary would have left them long before, but Aumary knew a good thing when he saw one, and he had realised he would do well to stay in the company of the competent, intelligent Crusader knight and his battle-honed men-at-arms.
Geoffrey made his decision and gestured to the path with his free hand as he spoke to Caerdig. “If you will agree to grant us safe passage, we will leave your lands by the quickest possible route. We have no wish for more fighting.”
“What?” Geoffrey heard Ingram breathe to Barlow. “We were winning! We could have had this manor of Lann Martin for ourselves!”
“Why would we want it?” Barlow whispered back, casting disparaging eyes over the gloomy forest with its matted tangle of undergrowth.
Geoffrey silenced them with a glare, and turned back to Caerdig. “We want only to return to our homes. Your dispute with my brother over Lann Martin is nothing to do with us.”
Caerdig eyed Geoffrey narrowly, a humourless smile playing about his lips. “What are you proposing? That my people allow you to go free after you kill me?”
Geoffrey shook his head. “I suggest that we end this amicably, and that we each go our own way in peace.”
Caerdig subjected Geoffrey to a long, appraising stare. “And how do you know my men will not shoot you as soon as you drop your sword from my throat?” He gestured to the forest path, the farthest stretch of which was swathed in an eerie grey mist. “I have archers watching.”
Geoffrey gave the Welshman as searching a gaze as he had received. “You say you are from Lann Martin, and so you must be a relative of Ynys of Lann Martin. Ynys I remember very well, and he is a man whose integrity is beyond question. I will assume you have inherited his sense of honour, and will trust your word, once given.”
Caerdig regarded him strangely. “Ynys was a virtuous man-before your brother Henry murdered him last summer. It seems your kinsmen have not informed you of their bloody deeds,” he added, seeing Geoffrey’s startled look. He sighed, and pushed Geoffrey’s sword away from his throat. “But I give you my word, on Ynys’s grave, that you and your men will be allowed to leave here unmolested. And as an act of good faith, I will escort you to the border myself-lest any of my men decides that he prizes revenge upon one of the filthy Mappestone brood above the honour of Lann Martin.”
“Are relations between my father and Lann Martin so sour, then?” asked Geoffrey, sheathing his sword and turning to inspect his destrier.
He examined the animal carefully. War-horses were expensive, and not easy to buy: no self-respecting knight would neglect the beast that was strong enough to carry him and his many weapons into battle, would not shy from close combat, and yet was still fast enough to allow him to effect a fierce charge. There was a scratch on one fetlock, but it was nothing serious, and Geoffrey was not overly concerned. His dog materialised at his side, having emerged from wherever it had fled during the skirmish. It regarded Caerdig malevolently.
“Sour would be an understatement for our relationship,” said Caerdig with a short, mirthless laugh. “And these last few months have been worse than ever. But it has not been your father’s doing; it is the work of that corrupt rabble that call themselves his sons-your brothers.”
He glowered at Geoffrey as though he were personally responsible.
“Does my father condone their behaviour?” asked Geoffrey, wondering whether his father could have changed so much since he had last seen him.
Sir Godric Mappestone was not a man whom anyone-his sons especially-would willingly cross. His temper and belligerence were legendary, and it was not for nothing that William the Conqueror had rewarded him so generously for his support at the Battle of Hastings and the following ruthless subjugation of the Saxons. In many ways, Geoffrey, the youngest of Godric’s four sons, had been relieved when he had been sent away to begin his knightly training with the Duke of Normandy at the age of twelve. His earliest memories were of his father’s black moods, when the entire household remained completely silent for days for fear that the slightest noise might bring Godric’s wrath down upon them.
“Your father?” said Caerdig. “He is not in a position to do anything about your brothers.”
Geoffrey’s spirits sank. “Why not? Am I too late? Is he dead?”
Geoffrey had received a letter from his younger sister in October, telling him that their father was unwell. She had not made the situation sound serious, but it took months-and sometimes years-for letters to travel from England to Jerusalem, and news was usually long out of date by the time it reached its destination. This had happened with the news about Enide’s own death. Because of the vagaries of travel, Geoffrey had received her letter telling him that his father was ill the same day as a curt note from his father’s scribe informing him that she had died herself. By the time Geoffrey had read about her concerns for their father’s health, Enide had been in her grave for at least six weeks.
He became aware that Caerdig was regarding him oddly.
“You do not know, do you?” said the Welshman softly.
“Know what?” asked Geoffrey, when Caerdig said no more, and the villagers, who had been listening, began to exchange meaningful glances.
“Your father is dying,” said Caerdig bluntly. “He has been growing steadily weaker for months now, and his physician says his end is near. Rumour has it that one of your siblings is slowly poisoning him.”
‘What do you mean?” asked Geoffrey coldly, as Caerdig made his claim. Behind him, Helbye put a warning hand on his shoulder. Geoffrey shrugged it off, his eyes never leaving Caerdig’s face. “What are you saying?”