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avaricious mercenaries whose bulging saddlebags were crammed with treasure stolen and cheated from the hapless people they had met along the way. Geoffrey seriously doubted their willingness or ability to return peacefully to a life of agriculture, which was what they claimed they intended to do.
    He nodded at them noncommittally, and coaxed a little more speed from his horse, so that he could ride with Helbye instead. The old warrior gave him a grin, and began to chat about the old days, before the Conqueror had come to England and Goodrich had been under the control of a Saxon thegn. Caerdig and his man rode ahead of them, following a little-used trackway through the forest that Caerdig assured them led to the Chepstow road. Geoffrey’s dog slunk behind them, looking this way and that for signs of woodland wildlife that might be barked at, chased, or butchered.
    â€œOur villagers are not happy with this arrangement,” muttered the black-capped Daffydd to Caerdig in Welsh, unaware of Geoffrey’s knowledge of the language. “They think you are a fool to risk riding with a Mappestone and his henchmen.”
    â€œWhat choice do I have?” snapped Caerdig. “It is either ride with him, or have him tell the King that we slaughtered the messenger. And then Lann Martin would be given to the Mappestones for certain.”
    â€œHe cannot be trusted,” said Daffydd, scowling at Geoffrey.
    â€œWho said anything about trusting him? But my uncle, Ynys, always said that Godric’s youngest son was the only one of the entire brood with any honour.”
    â€œHe may have been honourable in those days,” argued Daffydd, “but look at him now. He has been on the Crusade, and we all know that only the strongest and most ruthless warriors survived that ordeal. Any honour they might have had when they started was battered from them long before they reached the Holy Land, so I am told.”
    Suddenly, Caerdig leapt into the air, and gasped in disbelief. “Hey! That dog just bit me!”
    â€œSorry,” said Geoffrey, embarrassed. “It is a habit of his that I cannot seem to break.”
    It was not the first time the dog had jeopardised truces with a belated show of aggression, and with a sigh, Geoffrey dismounted and hunted around for the piece of rope he used to tether the beast when its behaviour degenerated to the point where it needed to be kept away from anything that moved. It had made Geoffrey many an enemy at the Citadel in Jerusalem with its penchant for nipping unprotected ankles. Seeing the hated tether, the dog bared its teeth at Geoffrey, and slid away into a dense patch of undergrowth. Helbye prepared to help ferret it out.
    â€œOh, leave him, Will,” said Geoffrey, exasperated. “He will follow us in his own time.”
    â€œWell, just so long as the thing does not decide to take up residence here,” said Caerdig, rubbing his heel. “I would not want it near my sheep.”
    â€œAre you Ynys’s son?” asked Geoffrey, to change the subject. He suspected that Caerdig, or some farmer like him, would dispatch the dog in an instant if they knew of its history of goat and sheep slaying in the Holy Land—and they would be perfectly justified to do so.
    Caerdig shook his head. “I am Ynys’s nephew. But I am also his heir, and I inherited his lands after Henry murdered him last year.”
    Geoffrey saw he had chosen a poor topic for casual conversation. He tried again, leading his horse so that he could walk next to Caerdig. “How long has my father been ill?”
    â€œHis health began to fail noticeably last summer. Since November, he has grown far worse, and the gossip says that he will not see Easter. You have arrived home just in time—now when the Mappestone brood carve up their father’s great estates, you can ensure you are not left out.”
    â€œI want nothing from him,” said Geoffrey. “My mother