‘It seems a number of people would.’
Walter smiled, although the expression was not a pleasant one. ‘Yes, but they intend to charge the desperate huge amounts of money for cures. I mean to destroy it, so it cannot be used to deceive anyone else. It killed my daughter, you know.’
‘I thought she drowned,’ said Geoffrey, then winced. His wits were not functioning properly, because he would never normally have made such a blunt remark to a man who was clearly still grieving.
‘She fell in the river,’ said Walter softly. ‘But Ivar could have saved her, had he wanted. She was only six. The Satan-lover killed her, and I will never believe any different.’
When they reached the castle, Walter was immediately claimed by a clerk who declared there was urgent business for him to attend. It was left to Revelle to conduct Geoffrey and Roger to their quarters. These comprised a tiny chamber off the main staircase, little more than a cupboard built into the thickness of a wall. But it was palatial compared with some of the places in which they had been obliged to sleep, and reassuringly private.
‘My cousin Giffard wrote a lot about you,’ Revelle said, sitting uninvited on the bench that was the only piece of furniture, other than two straw mattresses and a tiny chest.
‘Did he?’ Geoffrey wished he would go. His injured arm ached, and he wanted to lie down.
‘He said you have helped him on several occasions, and that he considers you a friend. He was fond of Drogo, too — Estrighoiel’s previous constable. But he detests Walter. He advised me against going into his service.’
‘So why did you? Giffard is a wise and intelligent man.’
‘I wish I had listened,’ said Revelle. He glanced towards the door, then went to close it. ‘I have been asked to do things… Walter was never pleasant, but he has been worse since the death of his daughter. It is a pity for everyone that Eleanor died — she had a sunny, gentle disposition, and would have kept him from some of his depredations.’
‘What depredations?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Ordering the death of unarmed monks in churches?’
Revelle looked pained. ‘I am not sure what happened to Leger.’
‘Who is the spy — the man who tells Walter the priory’s secrets?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘He would be a good person to interview tomorrow.’
‘I do not know,’ said Revelle, and Geoffrey had the feeling he was telling the truth. ‘Walter says he trusts us four knights, but there are only so many secrets he shares with us. And the identity of the spy is not one of them — Walter says it must be so, to protect the man. It is unsavoury — I have never approved of spies, personally.’
Neither had Geoffrey, but he said nothing, and Revelle began speaking again.
‘Other crimes are overlooked, too. Have you heard how Nest fell over a cliff and the sky-stone brought her back to life? Well, she was being chased by soldiers from the castle who were intent on rape. Pigot was among them — it was he who told Walter how Ivar saved her. But their actions were overlooked with a wink and a nod.’
‘That will not make Walter popular with the townsfolk.’
‘He is popular with those he pays generously to spy. But others hate him. Unfortunately, it is not always easy to tell which is which. I plan to leave his service soon. Perhaps Giffard will find me something to do, and Winchester sounds like a nice place to live.’
‘He is not in Winchester at the moment — he is in the midst of a lengthy stay in Exeter.’
‘Then I shall go there,’ determined Revelle. ‘Soon, before I am asked to do anything else that plagues my conscience. Like arresting the hapless Marcus every other week.’
‘That is you? The priory objects to the frequency with which he is detained, and so does he. I am surprised Walter dares — the Church does not like seculars imprisoning its members.’
‘I know, but he is well treated, despite what he claims afterwards. He stays in this room, in fact — where Walter keeps guests, not prisoners.’
‘It feels like a prison to me,’ growled Roger, speaking for the first time since they had arrived in the castle. He was still angry with himself for not besting Seine at the skirmish earlier. ‘I do not like it here. I like Giffard, though, so if you are his cousin, you must be all right.’
Revelle smiled, which made him more angel-like than ever. ‘My whole family likes Giffard, and I appreciate the fact that he takes the time to write to me. Unfortunately, Walter’s clerks are usually too busy to read his letters to me — and I like to hear them more than once. He has a nice way with words.’
‘Geoff can read,’ said Roger brightly. ‘I try to keep it quiet, because it is hardly something worthy of a knight, but it comes in useful sometimes. He will read them to you.’
Smiling, Revelle pulled a bundle of missives from inside his surcoat, while Geoffrey scowled at his friend. He wanted to sleep, not squint over Giffard’s tiny writing by lamplight.
‘I happen to have the most recent ones here,’ Revelle said, ‘because I was going to ask Leger to interpret them for me. Unfortunately, he died before I could approach him.’
Geoffrey forced a smile and unfolded the first one. Giffard did have a way with words, and both Revelle and Roger listened spellbound at the prelate’s accounts of journeys he had taken and people he had met. There was a reference to Geoffrey, flattering enough to make the knight blush. Then there was a description of Estrighoiel during Drogo’s rule. Giffard had been there when Drogo’s accident had occurred, and he expressed reservations about Walter’s role in the affair.
Drogo set off to see the holy man, Giffard wrote. But he knew the land well, and it was no act of God that sent him over the precipice. Beware of your liege lord, cousin.
‘Drogo was going to see Ivar,’ explained Revelle, looking at Geoffrey. ‘But Walter has always claimed Giffard was mistaken — that Drogo did not know the cliffs as well as my cousin said he did. I have never been sure who to believe.’
‘Giffard would not lie,’ said Roger. ‘He is annoyingly honest.’
‘A mistaken belief is not a lie,’ Revelle pointed out. ‘Read the next one.’
‘It is not from Giffard,’ said Geoffrey. ‘The handwriting is different.’
‘Oh, that one,’ said Revelle dismissively, peering over his shoulder. ‘That is some missive he included with one letter, probably by mistake. I have never bothered to have it interpreted, because I am not interested in the ramblings of anyone else — and Walter’s clerks charge me a fortune for their services. I am loath to squander good money.’
‘It is addressed to Drogo,’ said Geoffrey, his interest piqued. ‘And dated five years ago.’
‘What does it say?’ asked Revelle. There was a pained expression on his face: he found the diversion tiresome and wanted to get back to Giffard’s epistles. ‘And who is it from?’
‘It is unsigned, but from someone who feared for his life. It is also in peculiar English, as if it was not its writer’s native tongue. Perhaps he was Welsh. It reads: The killer hunted me in darkness, and it is not long ere my light is gone. The great battle turned an already evil mind and Satan walks the earth.’
‘Lord!’ breathed Roger with a shudder. ‘That is unpleasant. I wish you had not bothered. There is a seal, too, at the bottom of the letter.’
‘It is not a seal,’ said Geoffrey. ‘It is a shape filled with red ink. It looks like an angel.’
‘Not an angel,’ said Roger, frowning. ‘It is some archaic weapon. Or perhaps Satan!’
‘Actually, it is a boat,’ said Revelle. ‘There are a number of families in Estrighoiel who have made their fortunes from shipping — like Cadowan and Nest. Perhaps one of them has taken this symbol to represent them. Regardless, it means nothing.’
But Geoffrey was not so sure.
Revelle left eventually, to Geoffrey’s relief. The pain in his arm had settled down to a dull nag, and he wanted to sleep. Or should he? He did not feel safe in the castle.
‘I will take first watch,’ said Roger, reading his mind, ‘and wake you later.’