Ingram glowered, and Geoffrey smiled at him, trying to coax a better mood out of the habitually surly man-at-arms. Geoffrey was popular with his soldiers, who liked his easy and pleasant manner-even if they were suspicious of his penchant for monkish pastimes, like reading. Ingram, however, was different, and had regarded Geoffrey with a deep distrust since he had first come under the knight’s command-mainly stemming from his inability to understand why Geoffrey did not always leap at the opportunity to indulge in a little unprovoked slaughter or impromptu pillaging.
“Think about it, Ingram,” Geoffrey said. “How would you have had reliable news from home if it had not been for Enide’s letters to me? Reading and writing is not all bad.”
Ingram pursed his lips and declined to answer.
“Well, I would not trust anything important to a letter,” said Helbye firmly. “I sent a spoken message with Eudo of Rosse to tell my wife that I was coming home-Eudo was due to return here two weeks before us. I did not send her one of those evil letters for all and sundry to be reading.”
“‘All and sundry’ cannot read,” pointed out Geoffrey. “And anyway, how do you know your Eudo of Rosse did not tell ‘all and sundry’ every detail in your message to your wife?”
“You wait and see,” said Helbye, after a brief moment of doubt. “My wife will be waiting for me to come home, while those of you who entrusted news of your return to letters-” here he paused to eye Ingram and Barlow disapprovingly-“will find that they are not expected.”
“It would probably have been better to do both,” said Caerdig, sensing that here was a debate that was not the first time in the airing. “Then the letters would have reached home if the messenger had been delayed, and the messenger would have delivered the news if the letters had been lost. But Goodrich and Lann Martin are humming with the news that Sir Geoffrey is expected soon-that is why I knew who he was when he trespassed on my land-and so obviously some message or other arrived.”
Bored with the discussion, Geoffrey dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, and went clattering out of the castle bailey. Caerdig, about to add his own opinion regarding the virtues and drawbacks of literacy, had to urge his own mount into a gallop in order to catch up with him.
“So?” asked the Welshman, once they had cleared the cluster of shabby buildings that had grown up around the castle, and were riding through open countryside. “What did the King say yesterday? You still have not told me.”
“The King believed Aumary to have been killed by unknown assailants because of a scrap of parchment the constable found,” said Geoffrey, carefully omitting the fact that the vital missive had been a recipe for horse liniment. “He did not ask for details of the ambush, and seemed satisfied with the account I gave him.”
“And that was?” demanded Caerdig.
Geoffrey sighed. “You heard. I said no more to King Henry than I told the constable-that Aumary was shot by an arrow as we travelled through the Forest of Dene.”
“What did you tell him about me?” asked Caerdig.
“Nothing!” said Geoffrey, beginning to be impatient. “He did not ask, so I did not mention you.”
“You did not tell him about my role in the ambush?”
“I have already answered that,” said Geoffrey curtly. “No.”
“How do I know that you were not telling the King about it while you were whispering together away from my hearing?” pressed Caerdig.
“Do you imagine that the King would allow you to ride away if he thought you were ambushing travellers in his forests?” asked Geoffrey, forcing himself not to lose his temper at Caerdig’s persistence.
Caerdig fell silent, and Geoffrey led the way along the path that hugged the river. It was busy with farmers and traders going to and from the surrounding villages with their wares. Progress was slow, hampered by lumbering carts that groaned and creaked under the weight of unsold produce and that stuck fast in the clinging mud at every turn.
As they rode, a wood-pigeon suddenly flapped noisily in the undergrowth, and in an instant Geoffrey had his sword half drawn. Caerdig regarded him askance.
“It is only a bird,” he said. “What were you planning to do? Run it through, like a Saracen?”
“Or shear its head from its shoulders?” called Ingram, who was riding immediately behind them.
Caerdig whipped round in his saddle and glared with such ferocity at the young soldier that Ingram blanched and fell back. Geoffrey was puzzled, wondering what there had been in Ingram’s innocent jest to cause such a reaction, but decided that Caerdig had probably been irritated by the young soldier’s insolent contribution to a conversation that was none of his affair.
Geoffrey put his weapon away. His reaction had been instinctive, and any of his fellow knights who had been on the Crusade would have done the same. Those who would not were long since dead.
As dusk began to fall, the shadows lengthened and the path became empty. When it was too dark to negotiate the protruding roots and muddy surface, Geoffrey turned aside and arranged to spend the night in a rickety stable owned by a forester. The forester was reluctant to extend hospitality to seriously armed soldiers, but only the foolish declined the demand of a knight, and with bad grace he supplied fresh straw and gritty, flat bread for his unwelcome guests. When he had gone to his house and left them alone, Ingram pulled a sizeable piece of cheese from inside his jerkin.
“Where did you get that?” asked Helbye in amazement. “We went nowhere near a market today.”
“I hope you did not steal it from the King,” said Geoffrey, fixing Ingram with his steady gaze, and remembering the trestle tables piled high with food in the hall at Chepstow.
Ingram shifted uncomfortably. “One of the serving wenches gave it to me last night. She took a fancy to a gallant young Crusader.”
He grinned conspiratorially, but Geoffrey did not smile back. Ingram was playing a dangerous game, he thought-he was insolent to the knight he served, and he stole from the King. When Ingram offered him a piece of the cheese, he declined it, although no one else had any such scruples.
Later, as his men slept, Geoffrey dozed lightly, leaning against the wall with his sword resting across his knees. Caerdig began to move nearer to him, rustling through the straw. The dog opened a malevolent eye at the disturbance, growled, and closed it again. Geoffrey’s fingers tightened their grip on the sword.
“I do not understand you,” Caerdig said, when he had settled himself close enough to Geoffrey to avoid waking the others as he spoke. “You could have told the King that my people killed Sir Aumary, and then Lann Martin might have been yours.”
“How many more times do I need to tell you?” said Geoffrey softly. “I do not want it. If I had wished to be a landlord, I could have had something ten times the size of Lann Martin in the Holy Land.”
“But your brothers would have been pleased to have it for themselves,” pressed Caerdig. “What will they say when they hear that you missed such a valuable opportunity to acquire it for them?”
“They can say what they like.” Geoffrey grinned at Caerdig in the darkness. “I will tell them that they should be grateful I did not tell the King what you suspected-that the arrow which killed Aumary was actually intended for me.”
“That is no laughing matter,” said Caerdig severely. “You will not last long among the Mappestones if you underestimate them. My uncle Ynys underestimated them, and look what happened to him.”
“What did happen to him?” asked Geoffrey. “You say he was killed by my brother Henry?”
Caerdig was silent for a moment, and Geoffrey could hear him fiddling with the buckle on his belt.
“There was a silly argument over our sheep-Henry claimed that they had broken a fence and grazed his pastureland. You know how Henry can be-he came spitting fire and demanding instant reparation. Bitter words were exchanged, and Henry threatened to kill Ynys. The next day, Ynys’s body was found. He had been killed by a hacking blow from a sword-as if someone had tried to sever his head from his body.”