The setting sun was a glowing amber ball in a haze of blue sky and salmon-tinged clouds, which presaged well for the morning. A blackbird sang somewhere in the forest, its voice a clear, clean trill above the lower murmur of the river, and the air was rich with the scent of damp earth and fallen leaves. Geoffrey breathed in deeply, feeling the satisfaction of having travelled a decent distance that day. It had been two days since the last attack, although he was too experienced a traveller to assume their assailants had given up. He still had no idea what led the motley band to harry them with such dogged determination – another six skirmishes ensued after the incident in the barn – and he could only conclude that one of his companions had done something seriously wrong in Brechene. But no one would admit it, and he had other matters to occupy his thoughts. He had concluded that William fitz Baldwin had been murdered seven years before, and the poison had almost certainly been in the butter.
