Simon Beaufort - Deadly Inheritance

‘So, that is why you were so shocked at finding the body!’ said Joan. ‘You had seen the dagger before and knew it was cursed. I wondered why you were so horrified. Why did you not tell me?’

‘It did not show me in a good light,’ said Olivier stiffly. ‘I had abandoned an evil thing in the forest, and it killed your brother.’

‘What happened after you took it from your bedchamber?’ asked Geoffrey.

‘I did what I should have done the first time. I destroyed it – not long after Henry’s death, we rode to Bicanofre, and on the way I dropped it in the ford.’

‘You did dally by the river,’ recalled Joan. ‘I assumed you were nervous about going to confront a possible murderer.’

‘Did you think it might be Ralph, then?’ asked Geoffrey.

Joan shrugged. ‘He and Henry had argued the day Henry died. But speaking to him was a formality at the time, because I believed Henry had been killed by Bristol merchants. When I finally learnt he had not, there seemed no point in stirring up the matter.’

‘Henry was a vile man,’ said Olivier vehemently. ‘Not worth the trouble.’

‘He broke Olivier’s arm,’ elaborated Joan. ‘I was not there when it happened, or a Black Knife would not have been necessary.’

‘He did not break it,’ argued Olivier. ‘It was bruised. And I could have bested him, but he was drunk and imbued with a diabolical strength.’

Geoffrey sincerely doubted Olivier could have done anything of the sort. Henry was strong and had been trained to fight, while Olivier was better with military theory than its practice.

‘So, you see?’ said Joan. ‘It is better to let the matter lie. Henry did so much harm that I cannot find it in my heart to condemn his killer. That is between the culprit and God.’

‘It was premeditated,’ pressed Geoffrey. ‘Someone was so determined to have Henry dead that he asked Eleanor to provide a charmed knife.’

‘You still do not see!’ cried Olivier, agitated. ‘There was no murder: the Black Knife found its way to Henry, because that is what such things do. Then he used it to kill himself. Eleanor is guilty of issuing the curse, but that is all. Henry killed himself!’

‘Jervil heard someone talking to him,’ insisted Geoffrey.

‘Jervil heard Henry, and assumed someone was with him,’ corrected Olivier. ‘Henry was drunk – talking to himself. He was doubtless stricken by his sins, and was trying to make a confession.’

‘I was told he was cursing,’ said Geoffrey.

Olivier smiled without humour. ‘That was a tale Jervil invented when pressed for details. Any sensible person will tell you his story became more elaborate each time. Unfortunately, now he is dead, you cannot demand the truth.’

Later that night, not ready for sleep, Geoffrey prowled the hall, drawing uneasy glances from the servants. The torchlight was too poor for reading, and he could not concentrate anyway. He was tempted to seek out Roger and Helbye, but suspected they would be intoxicated, and there was nothing more tedious than being sober with drunkards. Meanwhile, Olivier and Joan had retired early, so were unavailable for conversation.

Geoffrey saw Torva playing dice with the cook and his assistant. They scrambled to their feet when he approached, but he smiled to reassure them and gestured for them to sit. They did so reluctantly, and he became aware that the hall was very quiet. Everyone was pretending to be absorbed in some task, but all were paying attention.

Geoffrey studied the dice players carefully. Peter the cook was large, fat and oily and wore an apron thick with grease, while Torva’s pinched features reminded Geoffrey of a rat. Peter’s assistant, Ynys, was thick set and fair-headed. The eyes of all three were wary, and Geoffrey recalled how Father Adrian had described Jerosolimitani. He also remembered that Henry had assaulted Torva, Peter and Jervil on the night he died. He dropped to one knee and indicated he wanted to join their game, hoping to put them at their ease.

‘What will you bet?’ asked Peter, alarmed. ‘We do not have silver.’

Geoffrey revealed a handful of raisins, part of a gift he had brought Joan from his travels. She adored them, although he thought there was little nastier than a raisin.

‘And there are plenty more where these came from,’ he said confidently, intending it as a joke.

No one smiled, and he was startled to see they had taken him seriously.

‘High stakes, then,’ murmured Torva, regarding the raisins with some trepidation.

Peter took a deep breath and looked Geoffrey straight in the eye – the first time he had done so. ‘In that case I wager fifty dried peas against ten of your raisins.’

He bent his head to concentrate, and they played in silence, except for the statements necessary for the game. Geoffrey soon had a pile of peas and a horseshoe to add to his fruit, and Torva was becoming exasperated by a run of bad luck. It was difficult to cheat with their dice, so Geoffrey could not even lose to win their trust. As his winnings mounted, he realized that he was giving them even more cause to resent him.

‘Six raisins for these peas,’ said Torva, with such a serious expression that Geoffrey was tempted to laugh. He suspected it would be a mistake. The entire hall was now watching, and the atmosphere was tense. People stood close behind, hemming him in, and it occurred to him that his brother might have been caught in a similar situation – surrounded by hostile minions who wanted him dead.

Ynys leant forward as Geoffrey tossed the dice, and his sheathed dagger pressed into the knight’s shoulder. Someone else took a step closer, too, pushing Geoffrey off balance, so he was obliged to use his hands to steady himself. He wished he had not dispensed with his armour. He had a knife, but so did virtually everyone else, and he could not hope to fight them all. He began to think that he had made a foolish mistake. Ynys moved forward again, and the pressure of the weapon against Geoffrey’s shoulder became painful. Was this what had happened to Henry? Stabbed in the hall, then carried to the stable? He rested his right hand on his thigh, ready to draw his knife if he detected a hostile move.

‘Move back!’ shouted Torva, when he saw Geoffrey shoved again. ‘You are putting him off.’

There was an instant relief in the press around Geoffrey’s back, and he felt a little easier.

‘But I cannot see,’ objected Ynys. He stepped forward again, and this time the dagger jabbed hard enough to hurt. Geoffrey was unable to suppress a wince.

‘Ynys!’ snapped Peter. ‘Watch what you are doing! If you damage his new tunic, Lady Joan will be vexed.’ Ynys stepped back smartly, and Peter addressed Geoffrey in a softer voice. ‘What will you wager?’

‘Twenty raisins.’ There was an appreciative murmur around the hall at Geoffrey’s boldness.

‘Twenty!’ breathed Peter. ‘That would be quite a win for me.’

‘Raise, him, Peter!’ called one of the shepherds. ‘Tell him you want twenty-five.’

There was a growl of encouragement and a small cheer when Geoffrey added another five fruits. First Peter, then Geoffrey, rolled the dice, and there was a groan of disappointment when Geoffrey won. Peter handed Geoffrey three nails and an awl, and declared he could afford to lose no more. His game was over, although the onlookers begged him to continue.

‘I will wager against him,’ declared Torva, chin jutting forward with determination and a good deal of hostility. ‘Who will lend me something?’

Several items were dropped in front of him, including a buckle from Ynys’ shoe, a bundle of feathers that might have been a charm and several wads of dried meat. The crowd pressed forward again, and Geoffrey began to perspire. Making it look casual, he rested his hand on his dagger.

‘All this,’ said Torva, gesturing to his haul, ‘for thirty raisins.’

Geoffrey nodded without bothering to argue. He wanted the game to be over, so people would either leave or launch the attack he sensed was imminent. The waiting was unbearable, and his head was beginning to pound. It was impossible to look at everyone at once, and he had no idea who would be the first to strike.

He rolled first, but his score was low. He was surprised to hear one or two sighs of sympathy; a few people were on his side. Torva threw, but his score was lower still, evoking a loud moan of disappointment. The atmosphere crackled, and all Geoffrey wanted to do was lose, sensing it was the only way to escape alive. But for the time being, there was nothing to do but continue playing.

The game seemed to go on forever, and the tension made Geoffrey’s neck tight. His legs ached from crouching, but he did not dare move, afraid that coming to his feet would be considered hostile. Slowly, he wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

‘All this against your last two peas,’ he said, indicating his pile of trinkets. There was a collective gasp of astonishment, and then absolute silence while Torva gazed at him open-mouthed.

‘You would risk all that for two peas?’ he asked in disbelief. ‘All of it?’

If he had not felt so fraught, Geoffrey would have laughed. But he simply nodded.

‘Are you sure?’ asked Peter worriedly. ‘There are a lot of raisins here, along with Ynys’ charm, the promise of three chickens and a good deal more. It is a lot to lose.’

Geoffrey nodded again, and drew an appreciative murmur from the crowd.

Torva shrugged, and then grinned. ‘Well, I have nothing to lose,’ he said, throwing the dice. It was a high score, but no one cheered.

With a prayer that his tally would be lower and the ordeal would end, Geoffrey threw the dice, then gaped in horror when he scored the highest amount possible. There was a brief silence, then Ynys gave a whoop of delight and pounded him on the back. Others joined in, and Geoffrey scrambled to his feet. But the hands that thumped him, although vigorous, were not hostile, and he could see glee in the faces around him. Torva elbowed people out of the way and grabbed his hand.

‘You are a brave man,’ he said with a grin. ‘What nerve! Anyone would think you wanted to lose. You have entertained us royally this evening.’

Geoffrey forced himself to smile back, feeling relief wash over him. He eased backwards until he was against a wall, feeling safer with no one behind him. He glanced at the people who clamoured around, pressing winnings into his hands, and wondered what they knew about Henry’s death. Torva was still laughing at Geoffrey’s last gamble, but there was a hard core in him that was unsettling. Fat Peter was grinning, too, but his eyes were watchful. And there were others, too – men who worked in the stables, sculleries and storerooms – strong, sober fellows who had tasted his brother’s fists.

‘I cannot take these,’ said Geoffrey, who did not want rusty nails, charms and promises of livestock. However, he did not want to offend anyone by refusing their treasures, so he added, ‘I will win them all back from you next time, anyway.’

There was more laughter, and people stepped forward to reclaim what they had lost. He was particularly pleased when the feathered charm was one of the first things to be retrieved.

‘Henry would have kept the lot,’ confided Ynys. ‘He did not play by our rules.’

‘It is the game that is important,’ explained Peter, when Geoffrey looked blank. ‘We never keep our winnings, because that would be gambling, which Father Adrian tells us is a sin.’

Geoffrey supposed he had had a lucky escape with his ‘generosity’.

‘Here are your raisins,’ said Ynys, pressing them into Geoffrey’s hand. ‘They are all there.’

Geoffrey pushed them in his purse, thinking he would throw them in the river the following day. They had been through numerous grubby hands, and he did not imagine that Joan would eat them now. Peter exchanged a glance with Torva, then indicated that Geoffrey was to sit with them near the embers of the fire, while the rest of the servants, still chattering and laughing, went about the business of hauling straw mattresses from the pile in the corner and distributing blankets.

‘You trust us,’ stated Peter.

Geoffrey was a little startled, because he did not.

Torva nodded. ‘You did not count the raisins, like Henry would have done. You believed us when we said they were all there.’

‘My mother always told me never to speak ill of the dead,’ began Peter in the kind of voice that suggested he was about to do just that. ‘But your brother was a nasty man.’

Geoffrey nodded, but said nothing, hoping his silence would encourage them to say more.

‘No one here killed him,’ added Torva. ‘I know you think otherwise, but you are wrong. This is a small manor, and we would have known by now.’

‘Olivier believes Henry committed suicide,’ Geoffrey said, to encourage speculation.

Torva shook his head. ‘The wound could have been self-inflicted, but it is unlikely. It was driven in with considerable force, by someone strong.’

‘Or someone angry.’ Geoffrey knew from experience that it did not take powerful arms to stab a man in the stomach.

‘Lots of people were angry with Henry,’ said Torva.

‘I am sorry Jervil is dead,’ said Geoffrey. He was tired of beating around the bush, so spoke bluntly. ‘But he went to Dene to sell Baderon a dagger with a ruby in its hilt. It was the weapon that killed my brother, the one Olivier threw in the river.’

They gazed at him. ‘How do you know that?’ asked Peter uneasily.

‘It does not matter,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Why did Baderon want this weapon?’

Torva and Peter exchanged another glance and then Torva gave a heavy sigh. ‘The ruby knife was Baderon’s. He wanted it back.’

Geoffrey finally felt he was getting somewhere. ‘But why now? It is months since Henry died.’

‘Because of you,’ said Peter, as if the answer were obvious. ‘Henry’s death was all but forgotten, but then you started asking questions. Baderon knew it was only a matter of time before you learnt Henry was killed with a ruby dagger, and that he had owned such a thing. By buying the weapon, he could deny it.’

Geoffrey had so many questions, he barely knew where to begin. ‘How did Jervil get the knife when Olivier had thrown it in the river?’

‘Because the Black Knife did not stay in the water,’ explained Torva. ‘We do not know how – perhaps Olivier did not hurl it as far as he thought – but it came back again, like the cursed thing it was. It appeared one day in the stables – where it had killed its victim.’

Geoffrey was sceptical. ‘It does not have legs to walk or wings to fly. So, how-’

‘It was a Black Knife,’ insisted Torva forcefully. ‘They always return. It brought itself back to the stables, where Jervil found it. It is what these things do, unless they are properly de-cursed.’