When the Bishop saw Geoffrey, he broke into a rare smile and jumped to his feet, grasping the knight by the shoulders. Giffard was tall and lean, with a face made for the sober business of religion. Geoffrey had never heard him laugh, although he was occasionally ecstatic when he prayed. He wore a hair shirt under his habit, and was noted for his abstemiousness. He seldom drank, never overate and was reputed to have been celibate since joining the Church. But his unsmiling, dour demeanour hid a gentle heart, and Geoffrey respected his honesty and integrity. ‘Why did you ask me to come?’ Geoffrey asked. Giffard was about to reply, but was interrupted by a discordant jangling. ‘There is the bell for the next meal. I have not eaten since yesterday, because of my vigil. Come with me, and I shall tell you all.’ Geoffrey thought about taking a sword with him – Giffard was worse than hopeless in a fight – but something bumped against his leg, and he recalled Joan’s little dagger.
