‘Who is that?’ he asked, nodding towards the fellow he had offered to help when his cart had stuck in the Wye. With him was an older man and a young woman wearing a white wimple. Geoffrey had a fleeting impression of dark eyes and clear skin before someone stepped into his line of sight.
‘Wulfric de Bicanofre and his son Ralph. It is Ralph for whom Isabel pines, poor thing. The woman is Wulfric’s youngest daughter, Douce.’
But Ralph was being hustled from the hall by his father, and Douce followed. Ralph shouted something, and Geoffrey thought he heard, ‘Henry’. When he saw Ralph scowl in his direction, he was sure it was his presence that had caused the father to remove the son so hastily.
Margaret chuckled. ‘Ralph is a silly boy, all puffed-up pride. His father knows he will quarrel with you, and is afraid it will spoil Douce’s chances. If you were to take Douce – or Eleanor – it would improve Wulfric’s standing in the area, and he is keen to make a good impression.’
‘I had no idea Goodrich was so important,’ said Geoffrey.
‘It is strategically located, as you know. But you may as well enjoy being fawned over. It will not last.’
‘That is what my old squire, Durand, told me,’ said Geoffrey.
‘Poor Durand. Baderon should not have addressed him so rudely, and Seguin should not have shoved him. He is a favourite at Court, and is likely to remember insults. The King likes men who are resourceful, clever and devious.’
‘I hear the King will be here soon. Do you know when?’
‘So you can leave before he arrives?’ Margaret laughed when he looked alarmed. ‘It is obvious that you are not a man to hang around in the hope of securing some regal crumb. But His Majesty is not expected for days. You have plenty of time to see your bishop and escape.’
‘Tomorrow,’ vowed Geoffrey. ‘When Giffard has finished his vigil.’
‘He is a devout man, but deeply troubled. I hope you can ease his burden.’
‘What burden?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘I suspect it is something to do with his kinsmen and the Duke . . . What do
you
want?’ Her voice was suddenly cool, and Geoffrey glanced up to see Corwenna behind him, a knife in her hand.
‘I want some of Geoffrey’s hair,’ she said, reaching out. ‘It is part of an experiment, to see whether Norman or Celtic hair is stronger.’
Geoffrey was not particularly superstitious, but he recalled Bale’s warnings about hair, and leant away from her. Undaunted, she grabbed at him.
‘No,’ said Margaret, catching her wrist. ‘Choose another Norman. And go away.’
She met Corwenna’s angry gaze, until the Welsh woman gave a stiff bow and moved away. She did not approach anyone else, and Geoffrey doubted there was any such experiment.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘She would have taken it to the Angel Springs and had it cursed,’ said Margaret. ‘Personally, I do not believe such nonsense, but you cannot be too careful. Now, tell me more about the Fall of Jerusalem.’
She asked more questions about the Holy Land and then talked a good deal about her Robert. It was an easy, relaxed discussion, and Geoffrey was grateful for her company. He saw fitzNorman nod with satisfaction, as if drawing up wedding contracts in his mind, and was aware that Baderon watched with irritation. Eventually, Abbot Serlo stood and intoned grace: the meal was at an end.
Margaret patted Geoffrey’s hand in a motherly fashion as she bade him goodnight, and when she had gone, he went outside for air. He sat on some steps, but did not enjoy his solitude for long. A youth of fifteen or sixteen, whose clothes copied those favoured by the most fashion-conscious members of the King’s court, came to stand nearby. Despite his finery, he was unprepossessing, with a bad complexion, poor teeth and a large nose.
‘It is a beautiful morning,’ he said in heavily accented Italian. ‘And the cows are in the river.’
Geoffrey gazed at the boy in bemusement. ‘It is a cold night,’ he replied in Norman-French. ‘And I imagine the cows are in the byre.’
It was the youth’s turn to look surprised. ‘You know Italian?’
‘My liege lord comes from Italy,’ replied Geoffrey in Italian. ‘Have you been there?’
‘You are speaking too fast,’ snapped the boy in Norman-French. ‘And how do you know Italian? There cannot be any call for it in these Godforsaken parts.’
‘I like learning languages,’ replied Geoffrey, reverting to French. ‘And you?’
‘I love the sound of Italian.’ The boy closed his eyes, gesturing with his hands. ‘The bells chime in pigs. Dogs eat cabbages and the trees swear red.’
‘Very poetic.’
‘It impresses women,’ said the boy with a leering grin. ‘They think it is romantic, and invite you to kiss them.’
‘I shall remember that.’
The boy looked around. ‘I will demonstrate. You see that woman over there with the white veil? She is called Douce, and is the daughter of some upstart peasant. Watch me.’
He sauntered to where Douce stood with her brother and father. Both men gaped when the youth doffed his hat, accompanying the gesture with a stream of meaningless words about parsnips fighting inkwells and directions to the latrines.
Douce released a squawk of outrage. ‘Rude!’ she cried, cuffing him around the ears. ‘Rude!’
The boy regarded her with astonishment. ‘I was praising your beautiful eyes in the moonlight,’ he objected. ‘What did you clout me for?’
‘It sounded obscene,’ said Ralph angrily. ‘Push off.’
The boy sensed a lost cause and slunk away, pausing only to mutter to Geoffrey, ‘She is a peasant. It works better on ladies of the court.’
‘What are you staring at?’ demanded Ralph, suddenly recognizing Geoffrey.
Geoffrey was not in the mood to quarrel. He raised his hands to indicate he was sorry, and started to leave. Ralph followed, drawing his dagger, and Geoffrey was about to do likewise when Ralph suddenly beat a hasty retreat. Geoffrey watched in surprise, then jumped when a shadow loomed behind him. It was Bale.
‘He was going to fight you, sir,’ said Bale, who held Geoffrey’s broadsword in his meaty hands. ‘But he backed away when he saw he would have to contend with me, too.’
Geoffrey might have backed away from Bale, too. The squire looked especially intimidating in the dark, with his massive bulk and dome-shaped head. He thanked Bale for his watchfulness, although the squire’s attention was now on a commotion as the gates were hauled open.
Three people were ushered inside: Hilde, Hugh and Eleanor. Hilde carried her brother on her back, and when she set him on the ground, people converged to fuss over his injured foot. He was sobbing, and had evidently not enjoyed the trek. Geoffrey glanced at Bale, who stood with his hand over his mouth and his eyes wide with horror, indicating that he had forgotten to dispatch the cart. Hilde was furious, and Geoffrey tried to escape before she saw him. He was far too slow.
‘What happened to you?’ she demanded. ‘I had to carry Hugh, and Eleanor was all but useless.’
‘The cart did not arrive?’ Geoffrey asked feebly. ‘I am sorry. I—’
But, after shooting him a withering look, Hilde strode away, not waiting to hear excuses.
It was hot in the chamber that Geoffrey shared with Bale, and he was plagued by an itch from the splinters in his arm – as Durand had predicted. He finally abandoned his attempts to sleep, and went to see if there was wine left for guests in the kitchens. The night was pitch-black and he sensed dawn was a long way off. He moved stealthily, not wanting to disturb those sleeping.
His room was at the far end of a long corridor that had another four doors opening off it. Most were open, to allow air to circulate, and he could see people inside as he crept past. In the first were Seguin, Lambert and their servants; Baderon had been housed in the more sumptuous guesthouse. In the middle room were Hilde, Douce and various other women, while the next was occupied by the spotty boy who had spoken Italian and his retinue. In the last room fitzNorman snored, with his female kin around him.
Geoffrey was relieved when he reached the yard, breathing in deeply of the heady scent of wet trees and cold earth. He was waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the darkness when he saw that he was not alone.
‘Do not worry,’ said Eleanor, immediately recognizable by her veil and red cloak. ‘I am not as cross about the cart as Hilde.’
‘I should have seen it on its way. I was remiss to trust others to do it, and I apologize.’
She inclined her head. ‘Apology accepted. I do not mind the forest, although I prefer my own company. Hugh follows me everywhere, and nothing I say deters him. He is attracted by my veil. Most men are unnerved by it, but Hugh is not like other men.’
‘He seems simple-minded.’
‘Yes. He is Baderon’s only son, which is why Baderon uses his knights to establish peace – Hugh will not be capable of maintaining it once Baderon dies. He would like you for Hilde, but I doubt she will have you. Normally, a strong lord like Baderon would not care about the likes and dislikes of daughters, but Hilde has refused more suitors than you can imagine. Meanwhile, my father wants you for Douce. Or for me. But I expect your sights are set higher?’
‘They are not set at all. What are you doing out at this time of night?’
‘The same as you, I imagine. I want something to drink.’
They walked to the kitchens, where she lit a candle, then poured wine into a cup. When the heavy jug slipped in her grasp, she removed her scarlet gloves to hold it more securely, and Geoffrey saw that her hands were marred by a rash. Something had aggravated her skin, which perhaps explained why she covered everything except her eyes. He indicated she was to drink first, curious how she would do it without removing the veil. Her eyes crinkled in a smile, as if she knew what he was doing, and she turned away as she set the cup to her lips.
‘You keep scratching your arm,’ she said, as he sat near the dead hearth. ‘Let me see.’
She moved next to him, but he edged away. There was something unnerving about being inspected by a woman when only her eyes were showing, and he had a flashback to an unfortunate incident in the Holy Land, when he had inadvertently burst into a gathering of Muslim ladies. Covered from head to foot, he could only see their eyes, but there was no question that they were furious. Eleanor, however, was laughing at him.
‘You are afraid of me,’ she said.
‘I am not!’
‘Then let me see what is making you scratch like a dog with fleas.’
‘Splinters. I do not need help.’
The humour in her eyes faded. ‘We all need help, Sir Geoffrey, and only a fool refuses an offer of kindness. Let me see.’
With considerable reluctance, he pulled up his sleeve. She removed her gloves again and began to press with her fingernails, hauling his arm this way and that to see in the dim light of the candle. When he objected to her ministrations, she sighed in irritation.
‘The only person in Dene with decent healing skills is Isabel – and you will not want
her
doing this. She is blind.’
‘My sister will do it,’ said Geoffrey, trying to pull away.
‘It might fester by then. Sit still. I have almost finished.’
He did as he was told, and it was not long before she was done. Then she scattered powder into the wine they had been sharing, and indicated he should drink.
‘What did you put in it?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘Why? Do you think I might poison you? I am unlikely to kill a man after I have put myself through the annoyance of removing splinters. Drink the draught, and I will send Isabel to you. She has more patience with soothing poultices than I.’
‘I do not need poultices or Isabel. But you have been kind.’
‘You will return the favour at some point,’ she said, as though he had no choice. ‘If you drink my potion, you will sleep soundly tonight. Or, if you prefer, give me a lock of your hair, and I shall say a charm that will work just as well.’
‘That is not necessary,’ he said hurriedly.
Her eyes crinkled in another smile and she shrugged. When she left, he poured the doctored wine down the slop drain and refilled his cup from the jug. It was not long before he was joined by another sleepless guest: Durand, complaining about Abbot Serlo’s snoring.
‘You can hear him from here, and he is in the room above the buttery! He was put there, rather than the guest hall, because he is such a noisy sleeper. But
I
am obliged to share with him.’
Geoffrey could indeed hear someone breathing hard and strong. Durand drank two cups of wine in quick succession, claiming they would make him drowsy.
‘I saw Eleanor leaving just now,’ he said, pouring a third. ‘I waited until she had gone, because I did not want to meet
her
in the dark.’
‘Why not?’
‘She is more comfortable during the night than is appropriate for a young woman,’ said Durand primly, although Geoffrey was not sure what he meant. ‘She still wore her veil. I thought she might not bother in the dark, when her face cannot be seen. I hear she is dreadfully scarred.’
‘Is that so,’ said Geoffrey without interest.
Durand sensed his reluctance to gossip, so changed the subject. ‘Corwenna hates you. What have you done to her?’
‘My brother killed her husband.’
‘But then your brother was killed in his turn. Did Corwenna do it? Or Seguin or Lambert?’
‘Why would Lambert—’
‘He loves his brother – you can see his devotion a mile away. He might have killed Henry at Seguin’s request. Or perhaps they did it together.’
Without waiting for a response, Durand reeled away, across the yard towards the buttery. Geoffrey settled into the chair again, swearing under his breath when, no matter how hard he scratched, he could not stop his arm from itching.
‘That is not polite language,’ came a soft voice from behind him.
Geoffrey came to his feet and studied the woman who had glided into the room so softly that he had not heard. Everything about her was pale. Her hair, coiled into circles over her ears – a fashion adopted by women in the privacy of their quarters, but never in public – was so fair it was almost silver. Her skin had a delicate translucency, and he had never seen eyes such a light shade of blue. He saw the way she looked past his shoulder.