Free A Head for Poisoning by Simon Beaufort Page A

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.
    â€œSo?” 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.”
    â€œThe 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.”
    â€œAnd 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.”
    â€œWhat did you tell him about me?” asked Caerdig.
    â€œNothing!” said Geoffrey, beginning to be impatient. “He did not ask, so I did not mention you.”
    â€œYou did not tell him about my role in the ambush?”
    â€œI have already answered that,” said Geoffrey curtly. “No.”
    â€œHow do I know that you were not telling the King about it while you were whispering together away from my hearing?” pressed Caerdig.
    â€œDo 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.
    â€œIt is only a bird,” he said. “What were you planning to do? Run it through, like a Saracen?”
    â€œOr 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.
    â€œWhere did you get that?” asked Helbye in amazement. “We went nowhere near a market today.”
    â€œI 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