Simon Beaufort - Deadly Inheritance

‘She has an axe?’ asked Geoffrey warily.

‘Your mother was fabulously skilled with an axe, so do not look disapproving,’ snapped Seguin. ‘And your sister is said to be no mean fighter, too – especially compared to that husband of hers.’

‘Are you insulting my sister?’ demanded Geoffrey.

Seguin shook his head impatiently. ‘I am praising her, man. I like a woman who can hold her own, and Joan and my Corwenna can do just that: they are hard, strong and uncompromising. When we are married, I shall be able to leave Corwenna in charge of my estates, and they will be in one piece when I return – just as Joan does for you.’

Geoffrey supposed he was right, although he did not relish the prospect of meeting Corwenna if she were armed with as formidable a weapon as an axe.

When Geoffrey helped Isabel from her horse, she was silent and sad, going straight to the room allocated to her and her father. She barely acknowledged his greeting, and he could tell from the redness around her eyes that she had been crying.

‘Ralph?’ he asked of fitzNorman, as they watched her flee to solitude.

The old warrior grimaced. ‘He barely spoke to her last night and refused to sit near us.’ He looked hard at Geoffrey and cleared his throat. ‘I see you have taken my advice.’

‘I have?’ asked Geoffrey.

‘I told you to forget Margaret’s murder, lest her penchant for men become common knowledge, and you have complied. I am obliged. I loved my sister, and do not want her good name soiled.’

‘I would never soil her name,’ said Geoffrey pointedly, thinking it was a good deal more than her brother was currently doing.

‘Good,’ said fitzNorman. ‘I do not like folk going against my wishes.’

Geoffrey did not want to make polite conversation with people he did not like, so he remained outside, enjoying the feel of the sun on his face. To keep himself busy, he went to the stables and removed the dead birds. Then he took a broom and scrubbed away the bloodstains, not caring that it was menial work. When he finished, he sat next to Durand on a wall near the kitchens.

‘Where are Agnes and Walter?’ Geoffrey asked.

‘Agnes captured Ralph’s attention last night, so boy and mother are doubtless still with him, enjoying his “witty” company. The fellow is a beast – and not just for his treatment of Isabel. I am not keen on women, but I do like her.’

Geoffrey eyed him askance. ‘Do I take it Ralph upset you in some way?’

‘He is rough with his servants, unkind to his dogs and he hogs the latrines when his guests are waiting. He also humiliated his priest when the poor man said grace last night – almost reduced him to tears with his criticism. I am no lover of bastard Latin, but when one is in remote areas full of sheep, one should expect no better. I was obliged to intervene and say the prayer myself.’

It was a damning statement coming from Durand, who was neither kind nor patient. He was always mocking parish priests for their low education, and if he had defended one, then Ralph’s behaviour must have been particularly cruel.

The clerk’s eyes gleamed with sudden malice. ‘I think I might ask Ralph to read us some poetry this evening, since he claims he is good at it. I shall let him embarrass himself with what is sure to be a paltry rendition, then step forward and demonstrate how it should really be done.’

‘Yes, do that,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Do you want some books? I have several in my chamber.’

Face shining with the prospect of mischief, Durand hurried away, obviously intending to select a particularly difficult text. He stopped when Corwenna said something to him, and Geoffrey saw him shake his head. She grabbed his arm, but he pulled away with a gesture of impatience and continued his journey towards the hall. Geoffrey frowned, wondering what she had wanted. Whatever it was, he was certain she had not been successful.

‘There is a face to curdle milk,’ said Hilde, coming to stand next to him. ‘But then, what can you expect from a woman who thinks watching six oafs tossing old apples is fun?’

‘I understand she was the only one who enjoyed herself last night,’ said Geoffrey.

Hilde chuckled. ‘Certainly Ralph should not have boasted about the quality of his minstrels when we were in Normandy. I suspect he was appalled when Wulfric invited us to hear them, thus exposing him as a liar. It is always better to be honest, even when the truth is painful.’

Geoffrey fully agreed. ‘The King ordered me to investigate the murders of Jervil and Margaret, but I am not sure where to begin,’ he said. ‘I do not suppose you have any ideas?’

Hilde sat next to him, shooting him a sympathetic glance. ‘I heard about that – and I heard fitzNorman advise you against it. Do not go against him, Geoffrey. It would be rash.’

‘Who? The King or fitzNorman?’

‘FitzNorman,’ said Hilde impatiently. ‘I am hardly likely to recommend you flaunt the King’s orders, am I? I do not want him to seize Goodrich. He would not be an easy neighbour.’

‘FitzNorman thinks Margaret was in the stables with Jervil for . . .’ Geoffrey trailed off, not liking to state the case too bluntly, out of his respect for Margaret.

‘For what?’ asked Hilde. He watched her expression turn from puzzled to incredulous. ‘He told you they were there together? That his own sister would seduce an uncouth servant?’

‘He did not say seduce exactly . . .’

‘What is wrong with the men in these parts? First there was Henry, a stupid brute. Then there is Ralph, an unmannerly pig. And now fitzNorman spreads that sort of tale about a good woman.’

‘I think I was right with my first assumption: Margaret was killed because she witnessed what happened to Jervil. If I learn who murdered Jervil, then I will have Margaret’s attacker, too. Do you know anything that might help?’

‘Nothing I have not already told you – and I was fond of Margaret, so I would like to be of assistance. Jervil was a thief, but Joan was patient with him, hoping kindness would cure his sticky fingers. I have no idea why he should have been in Dene. Did Joan send him with a message?’

‘He went to sell a dagger to your father,’ said Geoffrey, deciding to be honest. ‘They were seen.’

Hilde stared at him. ‘Then your witness is wrong. Jervil knew my father, certainly, because he delivered messages to us from Joan. But they did not have the kind of relationship where my father would buy anything from him. Jervil was a thief, and anything he brought to sell would almost certainly be stolen.’

She sounded very certain, and Geoffrey saw that there was no point in pressing her further. Either she knew about the ruby knife and was not going to admit it, or she was ignorant of the affair. Regardless, pursuing the matter would be a waste of time. Geoffrey abandoned the discussion, although he was determined to ask the same questions of Baderon as soon as he could.

‘Have you found Hugh?’ he asked instead.

She fiddled with a ring on her finger. ‘No. He has disappeared before and turned up safe, but I will only be easy when he is home. People think I am foolish to fuss, but he is my brother.’

‘It is not foolish at all,’ said Geoffrey gently. ‘And if I can help, please ask.’

Hilde smiled and he saw that she had pretty eyes – pale honey-brown, just a little darker than the curls that escaped from the scarf-like veil covering her head and neck. Suddenly there was a flurry of activity heralding the arrival of two servants from Dene. Hilde was after them in a trice, Geoffrey forgotten, as she demanded news of Hugh. Geoffrey hoped the man would be found soon, and that there would not be yet another death.

Geoffrey decided to speak to Baderon as soon as possible. He hovered in the yard, waiting for an opportunity, but Seguin and Lambert were with their master, and showed no sign of leaving. Since he did not want to interrogate Baderon while his knights listened, Geoffrey had no choice but to wait. He did so reluctantly.

While he kicked his heels, he heard someone shout his name. He looked up to see Roger striding towards him. The big knight looked pale, and his eyes were watery.

‘Had a good time, did you?’ asked Geoffrey wryly. Roger always gauged good times by how dreadful he felt the following day – the worse he felt, the better the occasion.

Roger grinned. ‘Helbye knows how to entertain – more than the Lord of Bicanofre, judging by the comments I have heard this morning. Did you go?’

‘I stayed here and won a pile of dried peas from the servants.’

‘Exciting!’ remarked Roger caustically. ‘I do not like it here, Geoff. That Welsh woman keeps scowling at me; Baderon’s louts insult me in low voices – just soft enough so I cannot hear and challenge them; fitzNorman threatened to wring my neck if I helped with your investigation; and Joan thinks I am a bad influence on her husband.’

Geoffrey regarded him in alarm. ‘You are not leaving, are you?’

‘I have business in Rosse.’

Geoffrey nodded, although he was disturbed. If ever he needed the comforting presence of Roger, it was now, and he was sorry that his friend felt compelled to leave. He doubted Roger had anything to do in Rosse – unless it was finding a tavern with willing wenches – and Geoffrey knew that he was just uncomfortable and wanted to be away.

Roger slapped his shoulder and set off to where his squire waited with his horse. ‘Just a few days, Geoff, I promise. And then I will be back.’

‘You are going now?’ asked Geoffrey, startled by the haste. ‘At least have something to eat first.’

But Roger shook his head. ‘The sooner I go, the sooner I will return.’

And then he was gone, leaving Geoffrey staring after him in dismay. He turned to the activity in the bailey, where his guests were gathering for a day of hawking, and considered saddling his own horse and following Roger. But to abandon his investigation would deliberately flout the King’s orders, and Henry was not a forgiving man.

The prospect of continuing to play host depressed him, and he could foresee days filled with unpleasantness. Suddenly, it no longer seemed important to talk to Baderon, and he felt an urgent need for solitude. He started towards the stables, thinking to take a lone ride.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Giffard, following. ‘Hunting with Roger?’

‘Roger is not going hunting,’ said Geoffrey, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. He took a deep breath and pulled himself together. He was behaving like Ralph – petulant, because something had happened that he did not like. He grabbed his saddle and strapped it on, aware of the animal’s pleasure at the prospect of a gallop. ‘I am going to exercise my horse.’

‘You are not going hawking? I hear Olivier has some excellent birds – not that I would know about such things – and virtually everyone is going with him.’

‘Good,’ said Geoffrey, grateful that Olivier was prepared to be hospitable.

‘I shall join you, but I do not feel like mounting an overpowered beast,’ said Giffard, strolling the length of the stables to inspect what was present. ‘But here is a donkey. I shall ride that.’

Before Geoffrey could point out that ambling by the side of a plodding mule was not what he had in mind for his warhorse, Giffard had taken possession of the hapless beast. His long legs touched the ground on either side, and it snickered malevolently at the weight. But it was a feisty little animal and shot across the bailey towards the gate as soon as it was out of the stables, Giffard hauling for all he was worth on the reins. Geoffrey followed quickly, fearing an accident.

The donkey kept up gamely when Geoffrey cantered, then outstripped him when he reined in to pass through a muddy stretch. It reached the top of a mound not far from the castle, then did an immediate about-turn and raced home as though the hounds of Hell were after it, Geoffrey in anxious pursuit. They arrived breathless and a good deal sooner than Geoffrey had anticipated – he had wanted to be out all day, not just a few moments.

‘It is good it was not this thing that carried Our Lord into Jerusalem,’ Giffard muttered, straightening his legs and allowing the donkey to walk out from under them. ‘The triumphal Palm Sunday procession would have happened so fast that most people would have missed it.’

Geoffrey dared not laugh, lest Giffard had not meant to be amusing; the grim bishop was not a man to jest about religion. He was about to change the subject when there was a sudden yell, and people arrived in the bailey. It was Agnes and Walter, and even from a distance he could see that something was wrong. Agnes held herself stiffly, while Walter was frightened. Geoffrey was not entirely pleased to see Ralph with them, then felt the first stirrings of unease as Agnes flung herself from her horse and came tearing towards the Bishop.

She hurled herself at Giffard’s feet and began to cry, grasping the hem of his habit. Walter stood behind her, biting his lip, looking as though he might cry himself. Ralph joined them.

‘You must help me, my Lord Bishop!’ Agnes howled. ‘You must, or I am undone.’

‘My child!’ exclaimed Giffard, moved by her distress. ‘What is the matter?’

‘It is Hugh,’ said Agnes, raising a tear-streaked face towards Giffard. ‘Baderon’s son.’

‘What about him?’ demanded Geoffrey.

‘He is dead,’ wept Agnes, keeping her eyes on Giffard. ‘And his father is sure to blame me.’

‘Or me,’ added Walter. ‘And that would be worse, because I have my whole life in front of me, while you are already old.’

Agnes scowled at him, then resumed her appeal to Giffard. ‘You have always been a friend, so be one now. Tell Baderon it was not me who stabbed Hugh and left him dead at the Wye ford.’

Agnes’ words created quite a stir among the guests who had gathered to go hawking, although Baderon and his knights were not among them, and neither was Hilde. Joan told Geoffrey that they had gone into the forest at Hilde’s insistence, to again look for their missing kinsman.

‘Why would Baderon think you killed Hugh?’ asked Geoffrey. His first instinct upon hearing the news and witnessing Agnes’ reaction was to assume that she had. Why else would she be so alarmed?

‘Because I was there!’ Agnes cried, refusing to look at anyone except Giffard. The prelate laid a calming hand on her head. ‘There are those who accuse me of killing Duchess Sibylla, just because I happened to be in her chamber the night she died.’

Giffard’s hand dropped away. ‘Were you? Then did you?’

‘Of course not! There are others you must ask about that.’ Agnes’ eyes slid towards Walter, but then returned to Giffard. ‘You must believe I had nothing to do with Hugh’s death!’