Simon Beaufort - Deadly Inheritance

‘What of Bale?’ asked Olivier. ‘The man I found to replace Durand? How is he?’

Geoffrey leant down to scratch his dog’s head, loath to answer. Bale was not up to the task, but Geoffrey did not want to offend Olivier by saying so.

‘I would like to know what actually happened when Henry died in the stables,’ he said instead. ‘I could ask other people, but I would rather hear it from you.’

‘Very well,’ said Joan with a long-suffering sigh. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘You have already said you do not know who killed him, so I will settle for hearing what happened when you found his body.’

‘I discovered him the next morning,’ obliged Olivier, pulling his legs up on to the seat of his chair when Geoffrey’s dog stood and shook itself. The animal had a tendency to bite. ‘When I first saw him, with the dagger in his stomach, I assumed someone had killed him. But I have since reconsidered. Now, I think he killed himself.’

Joan glared at the dog when it moved towards her. Prudently, it backed off, flopping down again at Geoffrey’s side. ‘At the time, I believed he had been murdered by a Bristol merchant, but was later proved wrong. Now I do not know what happened – nor do I want to.’

‘It was suicide,’ pressed Olivier. ‘Henry was deep in his cups, and became overwhelmed with self-pity.’

‘Do not look sceptical, Geoff,’ admonished Joan. ‘Henry was violent, surly and selfish, and no one liked him. He often felt sorry for himself. Moreover, if he was alive now, you would be fighting each other.’

She was right about Henry’s aggression: he and Geoffrey had fought constantly as boys, and Henry had carried the feud into adulthood. Geoffrey was unconvinced by Olivier’s theory, however. ‘Henry was not the kind of man to inflict harm on himself. He was more likely to vent his anger on others.’

‘I agree with you,’ said Joan. ‘I believe he was murdered, too. But I also think it will do no good to investigate.’

‘Turning a blind eye to murder is tantamount to inviting the culprit to strike again,’ argued Geoffrey. ‘Or, if the culprit is a villager, telling him it is acceptable to kill his overlords.’

‘I was tempted to kill Henry myself on occasion,’ snapped Joan. ‘And there is not one of our servants, villagers or neighbours who did not feel the same way. Unless someone confesses, we will never know.’

Geoffrey regarded her steadily. ‘Then are you happy with this state of affairs?’

She met his eyes. ‘Yes. Most people were relieved when he died, including me. It is easier to manage the estate without him. And, of course, you benefited, too.’

‘There was a rumour that you killed him, because he stood between you and Goodrich,’ supplied Olivier.

Geoffrey had known it was only a matter of time before fingers pointed at him as the man who had gained most from Henry’s death. ‘I have dozens of witnesses who will testify that I did not slip off for a few days to murder my brother. Besides, I never wanted to inherit Goodrich.’

‘We know,’ said Joan gently. ‘And we have done our best to quell the rumours.’

‘Jervil did not mean any harm by his comments,’ said Olivier. He slapped his hands over his mouth in alarm. ‘Damn!’

‘Who is Jervil?’ asked Geoffrey.

‘Our groom,’ replied Joan, glaring at her husband. ‘The accusation that you killed Henry originated with him, because he thought no one else would have the courage. He meant it as a compliment.’

‘Some compliment,’ muttered Geoffrey. ‘No wonder people run when they see me coming!’

‘That is nothing to do with Jervil,’ said Joan. ‘That is because Father Adrian has been telling them about the Fall of Jerusalem and the slaughter that followed. He says only the most vicious, hardened and ruthless soldiers survived – and Helbye says nothing to contradict him.’

‘Helbye tells people what they want to hear,’ ventured Olivier. ‘They are more interested in tales of terror and death than in stories of mercy and forbearance.’

‘I will speak to him,’ said Geoffrey, reaching for his sword and buckling it around his waist. It was an instinctive action, and he barely realized he was doing it.

Joan eyed it disapprovingly. ‘You will not improve your reputation if you walk around armed like a Saracen. You do not need a sword to speak to your friends, surely?’

Given what had happened to Henry, Geoffrey was not so sure.

‘You must marry soon,’ said Joan, as they sat in the solar the next evening. Geoffrey had spoken to Helbye that morning, but had been unable to persuade the old warrior not to portray him as a bloodthirsty brute. Then Helbye’s wife had given them a large jug of her strong ale, and sensible conversation went out the window. Geoffrey still felt dizzy, even after sleeping most of the afternoon, and he was barely listening. He nodded absently at what he thought had been a question.

‘That was easy,’ said Olivier. ‘I thought he would object.’

‘He just agreed,’ said Joan, pleased. ‘You saw him nod.’

Geoffrey glanced up and wondered what he had done. ‘Marry?’ he asked, forcing his muddled wits to concentrate before he found himself in deep water.

‘Goodrich needs an heir,’ said Joan, making it sound like it was his fault it did not have one. ‘And the sooner you make a start, the better. If you die without one, the estate will pass to Baderon, our overlord. But fitzNorman will counterclaim, because part of Goodrich lies in the forest.’

‘And Wulfric de Bicanofre will become involved, too,’ added Olivier. ‘Some of the manors we own were once under his lordship – before the Conqueror divided them up.’

‘The only way to prevent a dispute is to provide heirs,’ said Joan. ‘At the moment you are the only thing standing between our neighbours and extra land. You should marry – to protect yourself, if for no other reason.’

‘Later,’ replied Geoffrey tiredly.

Joan scowled. ‘No, soon. Within a month.’

Geoffrey gaped at her. ‘A month?’

‘It is the price you pay when you inherit an estate that is strategically important and wealthy. There are several candidates to choose from.’

‘Henry did not marry within a month of inheriting Goodrich,’ Geoffrey pointed out resentfully.

‘He started thinking about it, though. As we said, he set his heart on Isabel fitzNorman – much good it did him.’ Joan’s eyes lit up. ‘Are you interested in her? She would certainly be the best, and an alliance with fitzNorman would solve numerous problems.’

‘After what Henry did to her?’ asked Geoffrey uneasily. ‘I doubt she will be very keen.’

‘She did dislike Henry,’ agreed Olivier. ‘But her father is a practical man who knows good value when he sees it.’

‘Speaking of which, did you speak to Helbye about stopping his tales of slaughter?’ asked Joan. ‘You will have greater value, and will be easier to sell, if people think you are polite and gentle.’

‘Sell?’ echoed Geoffrey, horrified. ‘I am not an animal.’

‘You are a commodity,’ countered Olivier. ‘Much like Baderon’s prize ram, which is the envy of the region. Both represent a way to greater wealth.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Geoffrey, shocked.

‘You said you wanted to be appraised of all the details surrounding Henry’s death,’ said Joan tartly. ‘And his wedding plans were certainly a factor: it is possible he was killed because someone thought he was looking in the wrong direction. Like you, he had six heiresses to choose from. FitzNorman was furious at what happened to his daughter, but, even so, Isabel would be my first choice. He is Constable of the Forest, and a favourite of the King.’

‘Then Isabel is out,’ said Geoffrey firmly. ‘I do not want to attract the King’s attention. Besides, if fitzNorman did kill Henry, he may believe that what worked for one brother will work for another. I do not want to be stabbed when he decides I am not appropriate for his daughter.’

‘He has a sister,’ said Joan tentatively. ‘Margaret – a gentle woman with a sizeable dowry . . .’

‘How old a sister?’ asked Geoffrey suspiciously.

Joan was dismissive. ‘That does not matter. Since she is a widow, she knows her duties and will require little training.’

‘No,’ said Geoffrey. ‘For the same reasons as Isabel.’

Joan pursed her lips. ‘Then there is Hilde, Baderon’s daughter. He would not normally be interested in us, but he has been ordered to secure peace in the region, and combining his estates with ours would certainly keep fitzNorman quiet.’

‘He has already tied three of his daughters – and several of his knights – to useful alliances, and is looking for a match for his son Hugh, as well as Hilde,’ added Olivier.

‘I will not marry Hugh,’ said Geoffrey flippantly.

Joan ignored him. ‘Baderon offered Hilde to us once. He may be prepared to do so again.’

‘Why did Henry refuse her?’ asked Geoffrey warily.

‘He wanted someone pretty,’ said Olivier bluntly. ‘And someone . . . well, someone who does not behave like a man. I can see his point: Hilde seems just as happy wielding a battleaxe as a needle.’

‘There are rumours that she may be barren,’ Joan continued. ‘In which case, she will not suit our needs at all. But people have unkind tongues, and the rumour may have arisen because she is older than her sisters and not yet wed. I shall make enquiries.’

‘Did Henry refuse Hilde politely when she was offered?’ asked Geoffrey uncomfortably.

Joan looked furtive. ‘Comments were made by both parties, which ended with her leaving in a rage. It was unfortunate, and I later berated him for not being more tactful.’

Geoffrey sighed. ‘So Baderon – and Hilde – had a reason to kill Henry, too? Because he refused her in an unpleasant manner?’

‘Possibly,’ hedged Joan.

‘Then I do not want her, either. I cannot marry a woman who may have murdered my brother. It would be rash, to say the least.’

Joan was becoming exasperated. ‘Then what about Wulfric de Bicanofre’s daughter – Douce?’

‘Did Henry refuse her, too?’

‘He pointed out that he could do better.’

‘God’s teeth!’ muttered Geoffrey. ‘Is there any woman whom Henry has not offended?’

‘Well, there is Wulfric’s older daughter,’ said Joan. ‘Eleanor. But you will not want her.’

‘Why not?’

‘Just trust me,’ replied Joan. ‘There is also Caerdig’s daughter Corwenna, but an alliance with him would be of little benefit.’

Geoffrey was surprised. ‘I thought good relations with the Welsh were important.’

‘They are, but Caerdig is too poor to risk open warfare. He would be delighted were you to accept Corwenna, but you can do better. Besides, she has no love for our family.’

‘Why?’ asked Geoffrey.

‘Because Henry killed her husband, Rhys,’ said Olivier. ‘Henry fired some cottages, and Rhys was trapped inside.’

‘Christ’s blood!’ muttered Geoffrey.

‘Caerdig knows grudges are detrimental to his people’s welfare, but his daughter is young,’ said Joan. ‘You could be the most charming man in Christendom, and she would not have you.’

‘So, she might have slipped a dagger into Henry, too?’ asked Geoffrey.

Joan nodded. ‘It would have been easy for her to enter our stables after dark.’

‘I will make you my heir,’ said Geoffrey, suddenly inspired. ‘Special dispensation can be granted for women to inherit. I have read about such cases. Then I can remain single, and the problem of an heir will be yours.’

‘Baderon would never permit it,’ said Joan. ‘You would need his permission, and he will not give it when he stands to lose. You have no choice: you must marry, and you must do it soon, so these issues can be resolved.’

‘But I do not like the sound of any of these women,’ protested Geoffrey. ‘Perhaps Roger will know a suitable lady from Durham-’

‘That will do no good,’ said Joan firmly. ‘You must choose someone from here. And you will not be safe until you do.’

Two

When Joan and Olivier retired to their chamber, Geoffrey was not tired. He supposed it was not surprising, given that he had slept late that morning and then lain in a drunken slumber for most of the afternoon. He went to his room, but he could not settle. If there had been a tavern nearby, he would have gone, but the nearest was across the river.

He sat at the table, struggling to read a scroll he had brought from the Holy Land. But he was not in the mood for philosophy, and his mind kept returning to Henry’s murder. Perhaps Joan was right: he would never discover the killer’s identity. But he knew that he would remain uneasy if he didn’t at least try, and he resolved to press on as diplomatically as he could. He was about to make a list of suspects – which included all six suitors and their fathers – when a scratching sound caused him to jump up and draw his dagger. He moved quickly to the door and ripped it open, causing the man outside almost to tumble in. The fellow recovered himself quickly, and his face went from alarm to an impassive mask.

‘Torva,’ said Geoffrey, recognizing Goodrich’s steward. Torva was thin-lipped, with greasy hair that parted in the middle and dangled limply around his shoulders. Joan swore that he was honest, but Geoffrey did not like the way the man looked at him.

‘Sir Geoffrey,’ replied Torva flatly.

‘Well?’ asked Geoffrey, when Torva said no more. ‘What do you want?’

‘I saw a light under your door,’ said Torva expressionlessly. ‘We are always worried about fires, so I came to investigate.’

‘I was reading,’ explained Geoffrey, indicating the scroll on the table.

‘I see,’ said Torva, in a voice he might have used had Geoffrey confessed to chanting spells to summon the Devil. ‘Remember to blow out the candle before you sleep.’

‘Of course I will remember,’ said Geoffrey, wondering if the man thought him an idiot. He glanced down and saw that Torva carried a hefty dagger. Was it something he always wore, or just when he slunk around at night? Geoffrey could not recall seeing it before, but had not paid close attention. Then it occurred to him that Henry had bullied Torva, and the steward was yet another murder suspect. ‘What happened the night Henry died?’

‘I did not kill him,’ Torva said in alarm. He turned to leave, but Geoffrey caught his arm.

‘I did not say you had, but I would like an answer to my question.’

‘You already know what happened.’ Torva tried to free himself, but Geoffrey was strong and he soon abandoned the attempt. ‘Henry started to drink. He kicked Peter and Jervil, and he punched me.’ He pointed to the side of his jaw, and Geoffrey saw a small scar where Henry’s ring had cut it.