Indeed, Geoffrey had surprised himself by deciding to leave Tancred just as the powerful young Norman’s fortunes were on the rise. Tancred had not wanted him to go, and had begged, cajoled, and even threatened to make Geoffrey stay. But Geoffrey had become disillusioned with the Crusade. What had started with the noblest of ideals had quickly degenerated into a bid for power and wealth, from the highest-born baron to the humblest soldier.
When some of his closest friends were implicated in a plot to murder the ruler of the Holy City, Geoffrey had finally despaired, and had decided to leave Jerusalem. News of his father’s illness had spurred him into action. He had travelled by merchant ship to Venice, and then ridden to Harfleur, where he had taken passage on a second ship that took him to Portsmouth. It was a long journey, and not without its dangers, yet Geoffrey had weathered it unscathed, and was wryly amused that he should fall foul of a silly ambush within a few miles of his home.
“You have no cause to fear competition from me either,” said Geoffrey to Caerdig, tearing his thoughts away from Caerdig’s attack and Aumary’s death. “I will not stay long.”
They rode until the last of the daylight faded, and then found a small hamlet in a clearing in the forest. The hamlet comprised little more than a sturdy wooden hall and three out-buildings for livestock, and the residents were alarmed by the sight of a fully armed knight and his retinue. Their fears were roused even more when they saw the body of Sir Aumary bouncing across his saddle.
Not surprisingly, they were reluctant to comply with Geoffrey’s request for shelter for the night, but were too frightened to refuse outright. Begrudgingly, Geoffrey and his companions were offered dirty blankets and a space on the beaten-earth floor near the fire, while the horses and Sir Aumary fared considerably better in the more spacious, well-ventilated stables.
Without conscious thought, Geoffrey chose a place near the door, where he could easily escape outside if necessary and at the same time be able to watch anyone entering or leaving. The dog sniffed at the filthy blanket with sufficient enthusiasm as to make Geoffrey suspicious regarding the purpose for which it had last been used. But the night was cold, and he had used worse things to keep him warm in the past. Resting his back against the wall, he huddled into it with the dog nestling against his side, and dozed lightly. A short while later, Caerdig rose and moved nearer the fire. Geoffrey watched him in the flickering light, and did not sleep again.
CHAPTER TWO
Geoffrey was up and saddling his horse long before dawn broke the following day. The others were as keen as he was to set out and, after a breakfast of unappetising oat mash and some cold water from a nearby spring, they were off. It was still quite dark and, aware that a stumble in the darkness could damage his mount, Geoffrey led it until it was light enough to see. The Welsh ponies needed no such cosseting, and ambled along behind him, snorting and stamping in the cold morning air.
One problem that Geoffrey had not foreseen was that Aumary’s body had stiffened overnight, and it was no longer possible for it to be draped across a saddle. Geoffrey was forced to buy a dilapidated cart from the people in the hamlet and put Ingram’s horse to draw it, while Ingram himself became the proud rider of Aumary’s destrier.
Despite the solemn nature of his mission, Geoffrey sang to himself, enjoying the crisp, clean air of early morning and the peace of the forest around him. Frost lay lightly on the winter branches, and the ground underfoot was as hard as rock. When the woodland path eventually joined the ancient foot-track along Offa’s Dyke, Geoffrey let his horse have its head, and set it thundering along the side of a bubbling brook. When the horse finally began to tire, Geoffrey reined in, and slowed to a comfortable walk so that the others could catch up. He removed his helmet, and breathed deeply, relishing the feel of the sun on his bare head after the chill of the previous night.
The Dyke formed part of an old boundary between kingdoms. Some sections rose high above the surrounding land, while in other areas it made use of streams or dense outcrops of forest to mark its route. Along it ran a well-trodden path and the travelling was easy, so that by early afternoon Barlow gave a shout, announcing that he could see the great castle of Chepstow.
As they drew near, Geoffrey paused and admired the mighty fortress on its eyrie above the winding brown curl of the River Wye. Cliffs rose sheer from the water, culminating in a powerful curtain wall, behind which stood the massive rectangular stone keep itself. Geoffrey and his companions skirted the encircling wall on the side opposite the cliffs, aware that their progress was watched keenly by look-outs posted along its whole length. Trees had been felled and houses removed, so that no one could approach the castle from any direction without being seen-except for the cliffs, of course, and it would be a doomed and foolish invader who risked climbing those.
Eventually, they reached the main entrance, where there were guards in the gatehouse at ground level, as well as archers housed in the wooden gallery that ran along the top of the curtain wall. The duty sergeant heard Geoffrey’s business, and then escorted them into the courtyard. As he dismounted and handed his reins to a stable boy, Geoffrey looked around him again, impressed. The keep stood in the middle of an elongated, triangular bailey. It was a formidable building, and a fine illustration of Norman strength and practicality, even though it lacked some of the refinements Geoffrey had seen in France. But decorations notwithstanding, Chepstow was a splendid fortress, and Geoffrey was not surprised that the King had favoured its constable with his presence for more than a month now.
The duty sergeant found a stretcher, and they laid Sir Aumary on it, covering him with his fine cloak. While Ingram and Barlow struggled and groaned under the dead weight, Geoffrey led the way to the keep. There was a moment of panic when Aumary almost slid off the litter as he was carried up the steep wooden stairs-the entrance, like in all Norman castles, was on the second floor, reached by a flight of steps that could be removed at times of danger, presenting would-be invaders with yet one more obstacle to surmount-but Geoffrey’s timely lunge prevented an unfortunate incident.
Henry, King of England and youngest son of William the Conqueror, had just returned from hunting in the southern reaches of the Forest of Dene. His face was flushed from the exercise and fresh air, and he was basking in the accolades of his fellow huntsmen for having brought down a great brown stag. The stag and several fallow deer were being displayed in the hall before they were whisked off to the kitchens to be used to feed the King’s sizeable household. Trestle tables laden with food lined one wall, so that the King and his men could stave off their immediate hunger until the regular meal was served later. Salivating helplessly, Geoffrey’s dog aimed for them. Geoffrey caught it by the scruff of its neck, and told a squire to take it outside before it could indulge itself and have Geoffrey and his companions evicted from the King’s presence.
The duty sergeant whispered something to another squire, who in turn went to the constable of the castle, the man who would decide whether Geoffrey’s business was of sufficient importance with which to disturb the King. Apparently, it was not, for the constable strode forward to greet them himself, leaving the King to enjoy the company of his sycophants. He bent over the litter that had been placed at the far end of the hall, and lifted the cloak to inspect Sir Aumary’s face.
“I do not know this man,” he said. “He had dispatches for the King, you say?”
Geoffrey handed over the pouch that had been hidden inside his surcoat. The constable opened it, and inspected the documents it held.
“The seal is that of Domfront,” he said, holding one upside down and revealing to Geoffrey that he was not a man of letters. “But I cannot imagine that these missives contain much of importance. Domfront is just a small castle in Normandy that our King is rather fond of. Was this Sir Aumary carrying anything else?”