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left me her manor of Rwirdin when she died, and that will be quite sufficient for me, should I ever decide to live in England again.”
    Caerdig snorted with derision. “You will be lucky to get that back! Your brother Walter arranged for Rwirdin to be given to Joan as part of her dowry two years ago. Rwirdin now belongs to your sister and her husband, Olivier d’Alençon.”
    Geoffrey did not believe him—even Walter would not do something so flagrantly illegal—but he did not feel inclined to argue. He took off his helmet, which was beginning to rub, and scrubbed at his short brown hair with his fingers, relieved to be free of the heavy metal for a few moments. Caerdig watched him, and then reached out a hand to feel the material of Geoffrey’s surcoat with its Crusader’s cross on the back. It was faded now, and grimy from years of hard use, but in the brown winter countryside of Wales, it was exotic indeed.
    â€œI have heard a lot about the Crusade,” Caerdig said, “although few Englishmen took part. I have been told that the glory was great and the opportunity to amass wealth even greater.”
    â€œThen you were not told the truth.” said Geoffrey, replacing his helmet. “There was no glory at all in what we did. We marched thousands of miles—sometimes in the freezing cold, and other times in the searing heat—and more of us died of disease and from raids by hostile forces along the way than ever saw the Holy Land itself. I suppose it is fair to say that there was plentiful wealth to be looted at the end of it, but when a loaf of bread costs its weight in gold, such fortunes do not last long.”
    â€œYour men seemed to have done well enough,” said Caerdig, indicating Helbye, Ingram, and Barlow behind them. “Their saddlebags are bulging.”
    Geoffrey grimaced, recalling the incident at the Citadel in Jerusalem involving the three Englishmen that had almost caused a riot. “That is mostly the results of some lucky betting—aided by Ingram’s loaded dice—on their last night. I suppose it might buy a small plot of land, which is what they claim they want when we reach home.”
    â€œWonderful!” muttered Caerdig, unimpressed. “Yet more English landowners with whom to fight, and farmers with whom to compete.”
    â€œI doubt it,” said Geoffrey, smiling at him. “Sergeant Helbye is too old to start farming, and I cannot see the other two settling down to days of endless tilling when there is still looting to be done in the Holy Land.”
    â€œYou think they will not stay, then?”
    Geoffrey shrugged. “Helbye might. But I doubt he knows one end of a cow from another, so I do not think you have cause to fear his agricultural competition.”
    Caerdig laughed. “And you? What will you do now you are home?”
    Geoffrey shrugged again. “When I was in Jerusalem, I longed for the cool, green forests of England. Now I am here, I find I hanker for the warmth of the desert sun.”
    â€œThen why did you come?” asked Caerdig. “I heard you were in the employ of the great Lord Tancred, who is Prince of Galilee. Surely you would be better in his service than here among the mud and the sheep? And the Mappestones!”
    Indeed, Geoffrey had surprised himself by deciding to leave Tancred just as the powerful young Norman’s fortunes were on the rise. Tancred had not wanted him to go, and had begged, cajoled, and even threatened to make Geoffrey stay. But Geoffrey had become disillusioned with the Crusade. What had started with the noblest of ideals had quickly degenerated into a bid for power and wealth, from the highest-born baron to the humblest soldier.
    When some of his closest friends were implicated in a plot to murder the ruler of the Holy City, Geoffrey had finally despaired, and had decided to leave Jerusalem. News of his father’s illness had spurred him into