Simon Beaufort - Deadly Inheritance

Geoffrey tried to reassess the clues that rattled around his head, but he was almost instantly lost to the world. It seemed only moments later that he was woken by an urgent hammering and shaking of his shoulder. His first thought was that Goodrich was under attack, and he staggered to his feet, sword in hand. He found that he was weak and disorientated, and barely able to see.

‘Never mind weapons!’ shouted Durand. ‘Help me with the flames, before we are roasted alive.’

It took a moment for Geoffrey’s befuddled mind to grasp what was happening. There was a fire in the mattress next to his bed, which had filled the room with smoke. He saw Durand flapping furiously with a blanket to smother the flames. Then the clerk darted to the window and threw the shutters wide, before pushing Geoffrey towards them. The thumping at the door grew louder.

‘We cannot jump,’ said Geoffrey. ‘It is too far down.’

‘Just breathe the clean air,’ ordered Durand. ‘The blaze is almost out.’

And then it was over. Durand doused the remains of the fire with a bowl of water, and the blaze hissed into nothing. Durand waved the blanket in an attempt to usher the smoke through the window, then the door flew open and Joan stood there, Olivier behind her.

‘What happened?’ she cried. ‘I told the servants not to light a fire in your hearth, because you complain about the stuffiness. How did this come about?’

‘The fire was not in the hearth,’ said Geoffrey, coughing. ‘It was in the bed.’

‘We should have bolted the door,’ said Durand. ‘We assumed we were safe, but the castle is full of people who do not like you. We should have anticipated the attack.’

‘You mean it was started deliberately?’ asked Joan, aghast.

Durand nodded, pointing at kindling still on the mattress. ‘We are lucky I woke when I did, or we would have burnt to cinders – and the whole castle with us.’

Olivier inspected the blackened mess. ‘We could not open the door, because someone did something to make it stick. I suspect someone did mean you harm, Geoff. Do not forget what happened with Dun’s saddle the other day.’

Geoffrey stared at the damage. Who would want him dead? Someone in Baderon’s pay – or Corwenna’s – to make sure he did not fight against them? Ralph, because he detested him? The same arsonist who had started the blaze at Dene – Eleanor, perhaps? One of the servants? Walter and Agnes, to prevent him learning the truth about the Duchess’s murder?

‘What woke you?’ he asked Durand when no answers came.

‘The smoke made me cough myself awake. I saw what was happening and set about dousing the flames. I yelled for your help, but you were dead to the world. Did you drink much wine last night?’

‘None,’ replied Geoffrey.

‘Well, it is over now,’ said Durand. He kicked the mattress and then hauled it to the window, where he tipped it out. ‘It will be cold, but we should leave the shutters open. I do not want to be suffocated by residual fumes.’

Awkwardly, Joan patted Geoffrey’s arm, then she gave Durand a shy smile as she left. ‘I would have been without a brother if you had not acted so quickly.’

Durand pursed his lips after she and Olivier had gone. ‘You should have listened to me in the first place, and then this would not have happened. You endangered me as well.’

Geoffrey was puzzled. ‘Listened to you about what?’

‘About the dangers of the Black Knife,’ snapped Durand. ‘It is here, in your chest, and now an attempt has been made on your life.’

Geoffrey was too tired to begin an argument about the efficacy of curses. He shot Durand a wan smile instead. ‘Thank you. I shall not forget what you did tonight.’

‘Good,’ said Durand. ‘Because neither shall I.’

An innate soldierly sense woke Geoffrey about an hour before the first streaks of dawn touched the hills. He rose immediately, hauled his mail tunic over his head, followed by his padded surcoat, a pair of boiled leather leggings with metal links sewn on for additional protection, his newest helmet and a mail hood that protected his neck and throat. It was the heaviest armour he owned, and that morning he was imbued with the sense that he would need it.

The servants were preparing breakfast in the hall, and he begged a goblet of watered ale and a piece of bread before striding into the bailey. His dog stood at his side with its ears pricked. It uttered a low whine, and Geoffrey stood stock-still, listening. He closed his eyes to blot out what he could see: Helbye walking towards him, faint lights on the battlements, the silhouette of walls against the night sky. And then he was certain.

‘Sound the alarm!’ he yelled. ‘Bale! Order the servants to their battle stations, and tell Torva to keep anyone not fighting inside the hall, out of the way.’

Olivier hurried to his side. ‘What is wrong? We are not under attack!’

‘We will be,’ said Geoffrey grimly. ‘There are horses in the woods to the west, and I can smell cooking fires. They are readying themselves. Tell Peter to prepare food as quickly as possible.’

As he sped away to oversee his troops, Geoffrey hoped it would not be their last meal. Soon, all was action. Villagers were issued arrows and staves, and stationed around the wooden palisade, augmenting the soldiers assigned to the fighting platforms. Geoffrey’s tiny unit of mounted men mustered in the bailey, looking nervous. He gave Joan and Olivier several more orders and rode out, flanked by Helbye and Bale. He heartily wished that Roger was there.

As first light began to illuminate the black countryside, Geoffrey took a small path that led south. His meticulous survey of the surrounding land told him exactly where the enemy would gather and how they would attack. He would not have chosen the west himself, because the hills were thickly wooded and thus unsuitable for the sort of warfare he was sure Corwenna and her raiders had in mind. However, the river lay to the east, and he supposed she did not relish the prospect of being trapped against it, should her attack fail.

Warning his men to move as quietly as possible, he eased around the foot of the nearest hill, then cut around its southern flank to turn north again. They dismounted and then began scrambling up it, cutting behind the enemy forces. The sound of curses, swords clanking on armour and cascading stones sounded like thunder to him. He increased the pace, hoping to launch an attack before the would-be invaders heard them. He arrived at the top of the hill, sweating and breathless, just as the sun’s first rays appeared.

Smoke curled through the tops of the trees, and he heard voices and the snicker of horses. He could smell bread, too, telling him they were still eating – they intended to wait until full light before making their move. His party eased down the hill, and he arranged his cavalry into two lines, then climbed on his horse. He drew his sword and raised it above his head, looking both ways until he was sure that he had the attention of every man. Then, screaming a battle cry learnt from the Saracens, he plunged forward.

The camp erupted in confusion. The men were eating, and their weapons were not readily to hand. Some fled, unwilling to be slaughtered by wheeling swords, but others stayed. Geoffrey killed two who faced him; one of whom released an arrow that soared across his shoulder and narrowly missed Bale. Then the assault disintegrated, with Geoffrey’s horsemen surrounded by enemy foot soldiers who hacked at their legs and saddles.

‘Back!’ Geoffrey yelled, hoping his men would remember what he had drilled into them the previous day. ‘Fall back! Now!’

He was relieved when they obeyed, breaking off the attack and swinging around to follow him. He glanced behind and saw, as he expected, whooping raiders following, sensing a rout. He waited until they were strung out, then wheeled his horse around hard and bore down on them again, using a tactic that had proven successful for Norman armies in the past: feigning flight, so pursuers were scattered and unable to fight as a unit. The invaders stopped in horror when they saw that they had rushed into a trap. The few who tried to fight were quickly dealt with, and Geoffrey rode for the camp itself. One of the first people he saw was Caerdig, kneeling next to his servant Hywel. There was a gaping wound in Hywel’s shoulder, which Geoffrey knew would be fatal. He saw Bale set off after the fleeing Welsh and yelled for him to come back.

‘I can get more of the bastards!’ cried Bale. He was smeared in blood from head to toe, and there was a ferocious gleam in his eyes.

‘Not in the woods. They will drag you off your horse and kill you.’

Bale was pale in the dawn light. ‘This is the first time I have taken a man’s life. It feels . . . unreal.’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Geoffrey. ‘I was sick the first time I engaged in battle.’

‘I did not say I was sick,’ said Bale. ‘I said it is unreal. But it is not unpleasant, and I shall be happy to do it again.’

It was no place for such a discussion. Geoffrey turned to Caerdig.

‘Stop this,’ he said, when Caerdig looked up at him with an anguished expression. ‘I do not want to fight, and neither do you.’

‘We can defeat them!’ yelled Corwenna, appearing from nowhere and grabbing her father by the arm, as if she intended to shake her courage into him. ‘Most of our warriors escaped – we will win.’

‘We will talk,’ countered Caerdig harshly. ‘Call off your attack, Geoffrey, before any more of my men are slaughtered.’

As soon as Caerdig indicated that he wanted an end to the skirmish, Geoffrey called his men to order. He feared that it might be difficult to stop such raw recruits from killing once they started, and he was relieved when they did as they were told. He left Helbye in charge, with orders to call him if the raiders showed signs of regrouping, then he went to Caerdig. Hywel was already dead.

‘This should not have happened,’ Geoffrey said, dismounting. ‘What were you thinking?’

Caerdig shook his head. ‘I knew it was a mistake.’

‘Coward!’ shrieked Corwenna, throwing herself at her father with flailing fists.

‘She will see you all dead,’ Geoffrey said to the men who hurried to restrain her. ‘Lock her away where she can do no more harm.’

Still screaming, Corwenna was dragged off. ‘Goodrich is doomed. You have not won.’

Geoffrey’s blood ran cold when he understood what she was saying. He had been a fool to fall for such an obvious ploy.

‘Baderon’s men will attack our front while you assault us from behind?’

‘It was a stupid idea,’ said Caerdig bitterly. ‘We are raiders, ill equipped to tackle Norman horsemen. You had better go and face him. I do not think his heart is in this conflict, either, but Lambert and Corwenna have recruited war-like villains from both sides of the border with the promise of loot and grain. They are a bloodthirsty, undisciplined rabble, strengthened with Baderon’s professional troops. Together, they represent a formidable force.’

‘Do I have your word that you will not fight again?’ asked Geoffrey, reaching for his reins. ‘You will go home?’

Caerdig nodded. ‘We should never have left it in the first place.’

Geoffrey did not wait to hear more, knowing that Caerdig would not break his promise. Yelling for his men to follow, he climbed into his saddle and turned his back on the broken bodies in the clearing. One of his men had a cut arm, but they had otherwise executed a massacre with no loss to themselves. They rode fast towards Goodrich.

It was not long before the wooden palisade came into view, and he saw smoke issuing from inside. Fire arrows had been deployed, and he hoped the flames were being doused with the water and sand he had ordered to be placed around the bailey the previous day. Arrows showered in both directions, and it was obvious that the engagement had reached a stalemate: the attackers could not broach the walls, but the defenders could not drive them away.

‘Into the trees!’ he ordered his men. ‘Quickly.’

‘Will we attack?’ asked Helbye doubtfully, surveying the enemy with a practised eye. ‘Baderon’s horsemen alone outnumber us three to one.’

Geoffrey’s look silenced him – he did not want the men thinking the odds were insurmountable. He led the party along a forest track until they reached the place where he would have launched an assault against Goodrich. It comprised a spit of woodland that swept close to the castle and afforded good cover. Now he was going to attack the attackers.

‘Break off the moment I say,’ he whispered, lining up his men. ‘It is even more critical this time, because these are horsemen you are fighting, not foot soldiers.’

He waited until Baderon’s men were engaged in a futile swoop against the palisade, then he launched his own charge, feeling his throat crack as he screamed his war cry. Then he was out of the trees and thundering towards the enemy. Geoffrey saw the enemy scatter in alarm, then realize too late that they needed to meet his attack in formation. Baderon tried to rally them, but they were slow to obey. Geoffrey’s force slammed into them, and several went down immediately. Geoffrey engaged Lambert with a vicious blow to the chest, then swung hard with his shield, so the knight was forced to fall back. Then he recalled his men, watching with satisfaction as Lambert made the assumption that he was running because of inferior numbers. The enemy started to pursue with gleeful whoops.

He wheeled around when he felt Lambert’s troops were sufficiently strung out, and the tight formation of his own riders cut through them like a knife through butter. Bale was riding hard towards Baderon, a savage smile on his face and a couched lance in his hand. Baderon fumbled for his sword, but Geoffrey knew he would be too late. Geoffrey spurred his horse forward, and managed to come between them, raising his own shield just in time. Bale’s lance shattered under the impact, and so did Geoffrey’s shield. The blow was so violent that Geoffrey was hurled from his saddle. He staggered to his feet, cursing his reckless chivalry – a knight on foot was heavily disadvantaged, and Baderon was riding towards him. Geoffrey met his eyes and prepared to fight.

‘Retreat!’ yelled Baderon, wheeling away. ‘Back!’

And then the skirmish was over, leaving one of Geoffrey’s men severely wounded, and a number of Baderon’s dead on the grass. Those who had been unhorsed fled for their lives, while Geoffrey’s men whooped as they harried them, stopping only to claim riderless ponies as spoils of war.

Geoffrey arrived in Goodrich to the adulation of its inhabitants, who were even more pleased when informed by Helbye that Geoffrey’s military masterpiece was against a much larger force. Tempered by the knowledge that one of their soldiers was coughing his last and three archers had been wounded, elation was still the order of the day.

‘It is not over,’ said Geoffrey, his voice hoarse from yelling. ‘Caerdig will not fight again, but Baderon and Lambert will.’