Simon Beaufort - Deadly Inheritance

‘What is it?’ asked Durand, unwrapping it. When he saw the stained weapon, he gave a shriek and dropped it. ‘It is covered in blood!’

‘It was used to kill Seguin,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Everyone else thinks it is cursed, but I know you are above such superstition. Will you take it to a blacksmith and have it destroyed?’

Durand backed away. ‘I am not touching it. It is a Black Knife. You can destroy it yourself.’

‘How?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘I will be organizing our defences. I could drop it down the well . . .’

‘It would put itself in a bucket and come back,’ said Durand. ‘That is the nature of Black Knives. They must be destroyed, not tossed away.’

Geoffrey sighed. ‘Then lock it in a chest in my bedchamber, to melt down later.’

‘No,’ said Durand, backing even farther away. ‘I am having nothing to do with it – and no good will come of having it in your castle, either. All I can do is pray for you.’

He turned and strode towards the church, leaving Geoffrey shaking his head, astonished that even Durand was affected by superstition.

Olivier and Joan were already mustering their soldiers, so Geoffrey ran up the stairs to his bedchamber, shoved the Black Knife in the bottom of a chest, hastily donned full armour and set out for the bailey, to test the resources at his disposal.

He was not impressed. The men knew the basics, but were ill equipped for hand-to-hand combat, and their armour and weapons were in poor repair. He saw that he would have to train them hard if he did not want them slaughtered. He did so for the rest of the day, and when the sun set, he took them through night manoeuvres. In the small hours he drew up plans of the estate and considered his natural defences, then woke the garrison before dawn for more drills. By sunset of the second day, they had improved, although he reserved judgement.

That evening, when it was too dark to do more and his body ached from fatigue, Geoffrey went to the hall. Giffard and Walter were there, and he could tell by the sullen expression on the boy’s face that Giffard was lecturing him. Not wanting to interrupt, he sat with Joan. She reminded him about the passageway in his bedchamber – which might be used as an escape route, but could also render the castle vulnerable. Geoffrey’s first instinct was to block it off, but then what would happen if the invaders gained access to the bailey and the keep was set alight?

Ralph, Douce and Wulfric were also there, evidently considering Goodrich safer than their undefended manor. Douce was with Bale, who was trying, without success, to show her how to use a catapult, while Olivier strummed his harp, mostly for the benefit of the nervous servants.

Isabel sat on her own, head to one side as she listened. At one point Ralph walked past her and whispered something that made her face light up. She gestured that she wanted him to sit next to her, but he murmured some excuse that made her smile slip, and returned to Agnes. It seemed inordinately cruel to Geoffrey.

‘You look exhausted,’ said Giffard, abandoning his efforts with Walter. The lad immediately went to Olivier and ordered him to play something livelier. When Olivier declined, he snatched the instrument and began to plonk out a melody he claimed was popular in Italy. The servants promptly dispersed.

Geoffrey stared into the flames. ‘I should never haver returned to England. Goodrich would be quieter and calmer if I were not here.’

‘Not so,’ countered Giffard. ‘Dene would still have caught fire – only the King, Isabel and I may not have escaped; Eleanor would still be missing; and Hugh and Seguin would still have been stabbed. And your presence means your sister is safer.’

‘What do you think of my daughter, Sir Geoffrey?’ asked Wulfric, approaching uninvited and nodding towards Douce. ‘A beauty, eh? A fine woman?’

‘Not tonight,’ said Giffard, giving Wulfric a severe look. ‘His mind is engaged with the defence of Goodrich.’

‘Yours might be,’ said Wulfric, looking Giffard up and down disparagingly. ‘But Sir Geoffrey is a red-blooded man who is always ready for a lass. Would you like to try her out? Tonight?’

Geoffrey stared at him. ‘Are you serious?’

Wulfric nodded. ‘Of course. Then we can finalize the details of your betrothal tomorrow. I guarantee you will not be disappointed. There are many men who would give their sword arms to possess a fine, sturdy girl like Douce.’

‘Let the poor man rest,’ said Gifford sharply. ‘He has been working all day and needs sleep, not a romp. Besides, he has competition – his squire has reached Douce first.’

Wulfric shot to where Douce was leading Bale to an upper chamber, her expression full of carnal promise. Geoffrey smiled when Wulfric snatched her away, disappointing both parties. But, to his alarm, Wulfric began to drag Dounce back towards him.

‘You are right, Giffard,’ said Geoffrey, standing hastily. ‘I am tired. I am going to bed.’

Nodding a curt farewell to Wulfric and Douce, he climbed the stairs. The sounds of the hall were soon below him, but he did not stop at his chamber. He walked to the top of the stairs, then out on to the battlements. A sharp, cold wind gusted, but the soldiers were alert and watchful, swathed in thick cloaks to keep them from freezing. He checked that all was well, then started to descend. He paused at one of the attic rooms, where he heard an odd humming. Curiously, he pushed open the door and was startled to see Mother Elgiva there, busy with what looked to be a corpse.

‘Come in, Sir Geoffrey, if you have a mind for company,’ said Elgiva, without turning around. He wondered how she knew it was him. ‘I am laying out Jervil, who was returned to us today.’

‘Why is he here and not in the church?’ asked Geoffrey.

‘It is his right to lie in the castle for a day,’ said Elgiva. ‘People will be offended if he goes into the ground without the proper respect. Did you not know this tradition?’

Geoffrey saw again there was a lot he did not understand about his manor’s customs. He would have sent the body straight to Father Adrian, and was grateful that Joan had known what to do.

‘I brought you a gift,’ said Elgiva, ‘since you asked about certain things last we met. A book.’

‘A book?’ asked Geoffrey, immediately interested. ‘What kind of book?’

‘One my mother gave me,’ said Elgiva. ‘I knew my letters once, but I have not bothered with them for too long, and they are all forgotten now. Joan tells me you are fond of books, so you can have it. It will tell you all about mandrake and the like.’

‘It is about poisons?’ asked Geoffrey. If so, it was not something a knight should own.

‘Poisons and healing potions,’ replied Elgiva. ‘You will find all you need to know about mandrake, and a good deal more.’

Geoffrey accepted a very small volume with minuscule writing. He sat on a chest and leafed through it, admiring its intricate drawings.

‘Poor Jervil,’ said Elgiva, turning back to the body. ‘He did not deserve this. Joan says you have been charged to find out who killed him.’

Geoffrey nodded. ‘But I have not been very successful.’

‘Then perhaps I can tell you one or two things that might help. For example, Jervil went to Dene to meet Baderon and sell him the Black Knife. He told me himself – he came for a protective charm, but obviously my magic was not strong enough.’

‘Did he tell you how this dagger came into his possession? He told Baderon he bought it from the silversmith in Rosse, but it was not the knife Father Adrian sold there.’

‘I know,’ said Elgiva. ‘You mentioned it last time. I probably should have told you what I knew then, but I wanted to find out more about you first.’

‘What do you know about the dagger?’ Geoffrey asked, struggling to mask his irritation.

‘Sir Olivier threw the real one in the river,’ said Elgiva. ‘I overheard him at confession, although he should have asked my advice, not God’s. I could have told him the Wye was no place for a Black Knife. Two things conspired to bring it back again. Do you know what they were?’

Geoffrey was far too tired for mental games, but strove to oblige her. ‘Jervil’s liking for treasure and Olivier’s feeble throw?’

Elgiva cackled her appreciation. ‘You have a quick mind! Jervil happened to see Sir Olivier toss the Black Knife in the water. It landed in the shallows, so he fished it out.’

Geoffrey tried to make sense of the dagger’s travels, starting at the beginning. ‘So, Seguin gave a ruby-handled dagger to Baderon as a gift. It was stolen from Baderon during the Feast of Corpus Christi and taken to Eleanor for cursing. It was used to kill Henry, spent a week or two in Joan’s bedchamber wrapped in holy cloth, was hurled in the river . . .’

‘. . . From where Jervil retrieved it. He brought it to show me, but I frightened him into burying it, for his own safety. There it might have remained, but for you. Baderon did not want a feud when you discovered it was his weapon that had killed Henry.’

Geoffrey thought about it. ‘Baderon – like everyone except Olivier, Jervil and you – thought the real one was in Father Adrian’s church. That was the blade he paid Jervil to retrieve.’

‘But Baderon would have known Father Adrian’s was the wrong one, so Jervil dug up the Black Knife. I advised against it, but Baderon’s silver spoke louder than my wisdom.’

‘Was it coincidence that Baderon asked Jervil for help, when Jervil happened to be the one who had retrieved it from the river?’

‘Well, everyone knew Jervil was a thief. He was the obvious person to approach.’

Geoffrey resumed his analysis of the Black Knife’s fortunes. ‘Within hours of Baderon buying it, there was a fire at Dene, and he assumed it was destroyed with his other possessions.’

‘But he was wrong – Black Knives do not fall foul of accidents. It was probably found in the rubble. Whoever did so was overwhelmed by its power and used it on Hugh and Seguin. Now I understand it is with you. You should be careful.’

‘Thank you for telling me this,’ said Geoffrey, wishing she had done so sooner. He stood to leave, feeling tiredness wash over him in a great wave. But Elgiva had not finished.

‘Come here, and smell Jervil’s mouth when I push on his chest.’

‘No, thank you! I have had a long day, and sniffing corpses would not be a good way to end it.’

‘Come,’ said Elgiva. ‘You are not the kind of man who is unsettled by such a request. It will not take a moment.’

With considerable reluctance, Geoffrey did as she asked, hoping it was not a ghoulish trick. He leant close to Jervil’s mouth, and inhaled when she pushed on his chest. A slightly sweet smell came from it.

‘Now this,’ she said, handing him a tiny phial.

‘It is the same,’ said Geoffrey, watching her nod in satisfaction. ‘What is it?’

‘Poppy juice,’ said Elgiva. ‘It is a strong medicine used to induce sleep or ease pain in the very sick. Jervil must have swallowed a powerful measure, if we can still detect it after four days.’

Geoffrey rubbed his head. It was not the first time he had encountered the slightly sweet smell, and he tried to recall where he had come across it before. He knew it was recent, but the memory remained frustratingly beyond his grasp. He was just too tired to think.

‘Jervil was given a sleeping draught before he died?’ he asked.

Elgiva nodded. ‘The draught made him drowsy and weak – and then he was strangled.’

Twelve

Geoffrey thought about Elgiva’s discovery regarding the poppy juice while he lay in bed. It proved that someone had badly wanted Jervil to die and had given him a soporific to ensure he did so. It also indicated that the groom had died before Margaret. But who was the culprit? He supposed Baderon was still his prime suspect, followed by Hilde, Seguin and Lambert, because they had the best reasons for wanting Jervil silenced. And then there was Ralph, whose manor was poor, and so would have coveted the silver Jervil had earned. Or was the villain Eleanor, so conveniently missing – unless she was dead, of course?

Although Geoffrey was bone-weary, sleep would not come, so he lit a candle and picked up the book Elgiva had given him. He found the page on mandrake, struggling to make out the tiny words and swearing when hot wax dripped on his fingers. Eventually, he doused the candle and closed his eyes. He was still dwelling on what he had read when the door opened and someone crept into the room and made himself comfortable on a straw mattress.

‘Bale?’ he called.

‘It is Durand; Bale is bedding Douce in the stables. Did I wake you? I was trying to be quiet.’

Since Durand did not sound sleepy, Geoffrey relayed everything Elgiva had told him, feeling a need for his former squire’s sharp wits.

‘The villain is Baderon,’ said Durand immediately. ‘He had the most to gain from Jervil’s death, as we have reasoned before. There is not only the fact that he would get his silver back, but he could be certain of silence. And it has been well worth his while.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Geoffrey.

‘I mean he has already employed the weapon at least twice since he bought it.’

‘But the victims have been his son and his friend. They are not men he wanted dead.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Durand. ‘Hugh was a half-wit, and maybe Baderon did not want an imbecile as his heir. And who can blame him? Meanwhile, Seguin was a brute, and perhaps Baderon regretted giving him so much power by betrothing him to Corwenna – the woman who has brought the region to the brink of war, when he has been striving for peace. Perhaps he killed Seguin in a futile attempt to prevent what has happened anyway.’

Geoffrey leant on one elbow. It was true. Baderon had been proud of the alliances he had forged and was convinced they would bring stability. But they had achieved the opposite, and now Baderon was powerless to control the monster he had created.

‘And do not forget that Hugh was found where Olivier disposed of the Black Knife,’ Durand went on. ‘Olivier thought he was destroying the thing, but it escaped from the river via Jervil. Now Jervil is dead, and Baderon’s only son is murdered at that exact same ford.’

‘That must be coincidence,’ said Geoffrey, although he was aware of the uncertainty in his voice. Was it possible? Had Hugh been strangled elsewhere and brought to the ford to make a point about the Black Knife?

‘You need me to guide you through these mazes of intrigue,’ said Durand smugly. ‘I am a much better companion than Bale.’

‘Bale saved me from the fire,’ said Geoffrey, suspecting that Durand would have let him burn.

‘I am not physically brave,’ admitted Durand. ‘But I have far more valuable assets. But you should sleep if you are to turn a rabble into an army tomorrow.’