Simon Beaufort - Deadly Inheritance

‘I did not fight on the Welsh borders all summer only to invite murderers to Joan’s home.’

‘Joan can look after herself,’ said Henry wryly. ‘And she liked Margaret, too, so I am sure she will be supportive. I insist you do as I suggest. Durand will help. He has some spare time before he joins Giffard in Winchester.’

‘What?’ exclaimed Giffard, who had not been told about the new plans. ‘I cannot take Durand, Sire. He is far too venal, and I am a Bishop.’

‘It will do you good,’ Henry said firmly. ‘He may even bring a smile to those sombre features. But he will not be with you for a while yet. I am worried about the situation that is brewing with Baderon and his Welsh friends.’

‘Baderon wants peace on the Marches, but it is equally possible the Welsh will unite in war,’ said Geoffrey, relieved to share his concerns with a man in a position to do something about them.

Henry nodded. ‘I shall pass through Goodrich in a week or so, and Durand can report his findings then. Meanwhile, you can look into these three murders.’

‘Three murders?’ asked Geoffrey, startled. ‘Margaret, Jervil and . . .’

‘And Henry – your brother. My agents visited Goodrich after he died, and they told me that a man called Jervil was in the stables when Henry was killed. They took Jervil to a tavern and prised information from him while he was drunk. He did not see the killer, but he heard him.’

Geoffrey nodded. He had already established as much, although he doubted whether he could have persuaded Jervil to go to an inn and allow his wits to be pickled and rummaged for information. Perhaps that was why Jervil had been reluctant to answer further questions.

‘I saw Jervil arrive yesterday evening,’ Henry went on. ‘I happened to be looking out of my window when he rode into the yard, and I sent a squire to find out his business. I assumed he was carrying messages for me – strangers arriving at odd hours usually are. But Jervil said his business was with Baderon, which intrigued me, given that he was from Goodrich.’

Geoffrey gazed at him. It intrigued him, too. What business could a groom from his own manor have with the lord of a rival one?

Henry continued. ‘I saw Baderon speak to Jervil and pay him – handsomely.’

Geoffrey continued to stare. Jervil had asked whether Geoffrey was going to see Baderon, and had asked Bale to spy to find out. So why had he then come to Dene to meet Baderon himself? Geoffrey recalled Jervil and Torva’s belief that Henry had been killed by Baderon’s knights. Was the clandestine meeting about that? Geoffrey’s thoughts whirled.

‘There was no purse of money on Jervil’s body, Sire,’ he said eventually.

‘Perhaps he was killed for his earnings,’ suggested the King. ‘Of course, what happened to Margaret is obvious: clearly she was killed because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time – she happened to enter the stables when Jervil was murdered and was strangled to prevent her from telling anyone what she had seen.’

‘She was probably looking for Isabel,’ suggested Giffard.

‘There was something else about Jervil’s meeting with Baderon that was odd,’ said Henry. ‘I saw Baderon pass him a purse, but before that, I saw Jervil give Baderon a dagger.’

‘A dagger?’ asked Geoffrey.

‘Yes, a large one with a ruby in its hilt. I saw it quite clearly. Why would Jervil give an expensive thing like that to Baderon?’

‘I do not know,’ said Geoffrey, his thoughts tumbling inside his head. ‘But your description sounds very like the weapon that killed my brother.’

The King’s announcement that he wanted some of his subjects to meet him at Goodrich after his visit to Gloucester met a mixed response. FitzNorman was relieved, because he took the summons to mean that he had been forgiven for the fire. Baderon was bemused and his knights resentful, while Geoffrey heard Corwenna bluntly informing Seguin that she would not go. Her interpretation was that Geoffrey had persuaded the King to order it so that he could kill her.

Abbot Serlo, astride a fat donkey, came to speak to Geoffrey while he waited for the cumbersome train of horses and carts to begin their journey to Gloucester. ‘Has Giffard asked you to find out whether Walter and Agnes poisoned the Duchess?’ he asked without preamble. ‘I know he is concerned, and Durand tells me you have rare investigative skills.’

‘Durand is exaggerating.’

‘They had a lot to gain from Sibylla’s death, and Agnes has not capit-alized on it only because Giffard dragged her away before she could push her claws further into the Duke. I have been watching them carefully, but now you must be vigilant for Giffard’s safety. I do not want him poisoned, too. He is a friend.’

Geoffrey recalled that Serlo had been in Normandy when Sibylla had died. ‘Can you tell me anything to help? I know Walter owned a mandrake pot, but it has been empty too long to have been used on Sibylla.’

‘Mandrake,’ mused Serlo. ‘Its roots are its most dangerous part – they shriek when they are pulled from the ground. Any man hearing it will die, so the Italians use dogs to harvest them.’

‘So they grow in Italy?’ asked Geoffrey, recalling the Italian words carved on the pot and Walter’s use of the language.

‘Among other places. The leaves are also poisonous, and there is a red-yellow fruit like an apple. It is used in medicine, but only externally, because it is so strong. Witches use it in charms – to bring love.’

Geoffrey thought about the charms that he had seen at the Angel Springs, and wondered whether Eleanor employed mandrake. Then he thought about the dead birds at the shepherd’s hut and above the place where Henry had died. Had a witch put them there, or just superstitious peasants?

‘To bring love?’ he asked, dragging his thoughts back to Serlo.

‘It is supposed to produce strong and rampant lovers,’ explained Serlo. ‘With such a powerful plant, the line is a fine one: too little will not have the desired effect, while too much will kill.’

‘You seem to know a good deal about it,’ said Geoffrey warily.

Serlo smiled. ‘We have a fine library at Gloucester, as you know – you spent enough time there during your noviciate.’ He sketched a benediction, exhorted him again to look after Giffard, and took his place in the cavalcade.

‘So,’ announced the King in a ringing voice. ‘Baderon, fitzNorman, Bicanofre, Giffard and their households will travel to Goodrich today or tomorrow. The rest of you shall come with me.’

‘Good morning and give me some bread,’ said Walter in Italian, bowing deep and low to the King. ‘My horses are lame and I own seven children.’

‘My son is learning Italian,’ Agnes explained, poking him hard to stop him from showing off. ‘Someone told him it was the language of love.’

‘Actually, French is the language of love,’ said Henry, leaving no room for debate. ‘Italian is the language of poisoners.’ He gazed coolly at mother and son.

‘Then I shall make sure he abandons the project,’ said Agnes smoothly. She smiled at Henry with eyes full of promise, and Geoffrey saw that she was preparing to practise her wiles on him, too. The King returned the smile, and Geoffrey had the distinct feeling that when they next met, they would not be discussing Italian.

‘I will arrive at Goodrich in about a week,’ Henry went on, addressing his subjects again. ‘And then I shall continue to Monmouth, where I shall inspect my borders.’

Baderon stepped forward. ‘It will be an honour, Sire, to explain how I have gone about creating a land that is secure and peaceful.’

Henry gathered his reins and touched a spur to his horse’s flanks. ‘I hope I am not disappointed.’

Henry glanced at Durand as he rode past, and Geoffrey saw their eyes meet. Durand gave a slight nod, as if reassuring the monarch. Geoffrey was more than willing to help Durand on that score: it was in Goodrich’s interests to see Corwenna’s plans exposed. He watched the royal cavalcade ride away and then turned his thoughts to his own investigations.

The first thing he wanted to know was why Jervil had given Baderon a dagger that sounded remarkably like the one that had killed Henry. The opportunity to initiate a conversation about it came sooner than expected, because Baderon came to stand next to him. Hilde was with him, tired and dishevelled from her hunt for Hugh. Seguin and Lambert hovered, but were too far away to hear what was said.

‘It is good of you to offer us the use of Goodrich, now Dene is gone,’ said Baderon amiably. ‘It will be pleasant to spend a day or two hunting and hawking while we wait for the King. Sir Olivier and Lady Joan are excellent hosts, and it is a pity the relationship between our estates is not sealed with a marriage.’

Hilde spoke sharply, embarrassed by his candour. ‘You could at least wait until I have gone. You are obsessed with alliances these days, and think of little else.’

‘I am growing old, and need to consider what I leave behind,’ replied Baderon. ‘If Hugh were strong, I would be content. But he is not, and I worry about what will happen when I die.’

‘You have two daughters wed, and a host of knights who owe us allegiance,’ said Hilde. ‘Hugh is immaterial. Have you seen him, Geoffrey? He is still missing, and I have been looking all night.’

‘Seguin says he is with Eleanor,’ said Baderon, before Geoffrey could reply. ‘You know how he follows her.’

‘Seguin is guessing,’ snapped Hilde. ‘Besides, just because he says something does not make it true. You listen to him far too readily.’

‘Hold your tongue, woman!’ cried Baderon, although Geoffrey thought he would be wise to listen to her.

‘When I was looking through my brother’s possessions, I found something missing,’ said Geoffrey in the awkward silence that followed. ‘He owned a large dagger with a ruby in the hilt, but it is nowhere to be found.’

‘Did he?’ asked Hilde, raising her eyebrows. ‘He was a man who liked show, but I never saw him wearing such a weapon.’

Geoffrey looked hard at Baderon, who refused to meet his eyes.

‘Such baubles come and go,’ mumbled the Marcher lord. ‘They are given as gifts and stolen by servants. I have learnt not to grow overly attached to them.’

‘Are you saying Henry’s dagger was stolen?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘By Jervil, for example?’

‘I would not know,’ replied Baderon, clearly flustered. ‘But your manor is no different from anyone else’s, and retainers have light fingers.’

‘Jervil,’ mused Hilde. ‘He was a thief, was he not? I recall a fuss over thefts at Goodrich. Joan kept him because he was good with horses, but he was not allowed to sleep in the hall, because he plundered his friends while they slept.’

‘Do you know Jervil?’ asked Geoffrey of Baderon, wondering whether the man would admit to buying stolen property from him.

‘I had met him,’ replied Baderon. His face became crafty. ‘I saw him arrive last night and went to greet him. I was afraid he might have brought bad news about dear Joan, but he was just on his way to visit his brother. He stopped here to break his journey. It is a pity, because if he had slept in the forest, instead of at Dene, he would still be alive.’

He took his daughter’s arm and escorted her away. Baderon had guessed that there was a witness to his meeting, and had taken steps to make it sound innocent. Geoffrey rubbed his chin. Baderon was not easy with lies, and there was clearly something amiss.

‘You would be wise to mind your own business,’ said Seguin, advancing on Geoffrey from one side while Lambert approached from the other. ‘No one likes a man who asks too many questions.’

‘I am sure you are right,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘But it is odd that a Goodrich servant should come here to speak to Baderon, but not to me. And it is odder still when money changes hands – money that is now missing.’

‘Henry asked questions, and look what happened to him,’ said Seguin, leaning close in an attempt to intimidate. ‘Go back to Goodrich and tend your sheep. You have quite enough enemies already.’

‘Baderon likes you,’ said Lambert, countering his brother’s bluster with reason. ‘I understand he has offered you Hilde. But he will not continue to like you if you ask dangerous questions.’

Geoffrey studied them carefully. They showed signs of having been in the fire, and Lambert had a gash across his forearm. He thought about the knife in Jervil’s dead hand. If he had used it to protect himself, it was possible he had injured his assailant. However, it being in Jervil’s left hand, and not his dominant right, indicated that it had been placed there after he was dead – either to claim self-defence should the killer be caught, or to confuse whoever looked into the murder.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Lambert uncomfortably. ‘Why are you staring at us like that?’

Geoffrey shrugged. ‘It is possible to tell a good deal from a man’s clothes after a murder.’

Seguin was angry. ‘I will commit a murder if you do not leave us alone. You are treading on thin ice, and I advise you to stop while you can.’

Eight

It was no easy matter to transport several households and their travelling possessions from one manor to another, and Geoffrey, despite having seen entire armies on the move in the Holy Land, marvelled at the arrangements required. They took all morning, before being interrupted by the requiem mass for Margaret.

‘I know the King has charged you to look into Margaret’s death,’ said fitzNorman as they emerged from the chapel. ‘But I forbid it.’

‘Do you?’ asked Geoffrey mildly. ‘And why do you think I should obey you, and not the King?’

‘Because I will kill you if you start asking personal questions,’ replied fitzNorman. ‘You will not pry into my family’s affairs.’

‘Your sister was murdered. Surely you want to know the culprit?’

‘Look,’ said fitzNorman, leading him to one side so they would not be overheard. ‘Margaret was a friendly woman, and liked a dalliance, if you take my meaning. She may have loitered in the stables with this Jervil, and I do not want her name sullied by such a rumour.’

Without waiting for a reply, he was gone. Geoffrey doubted that Margaret had ‘liked a dalliance’, given her devotion to her husband’s memory, and thought fitzNorman cruel to suggest it. Had he killed her himself, because she would not take a new husband? He had a temper, and Geoffrey had seen nothing to imply that he would not turn it on a woman.

After the midday meal, Geoffrey decided to leave, whether his guests were ready or not. He did not want to spend a second night in the hut near the Angel Springs, and space in the ravaged manor house was severely limited. He saddled his horse, sent Bale ahead to Goodrich and prepared to set off himself. His actions prompted the others to shift themselves, and the yard quickly became a hive of activity, with horses readied and the last few travelling chests tossed into carts.