Simon Beaufort - Deadly Inheritance

Meanwhile, Geoffrey shut himself inside the chamber where the pair had slept and began a close inspection of their luggage. It was not long before he found what he was looking for: a small, heavy box with an Italian label brazenly claiming its contents to be mandrake. Inside were several dried fruits and a list of suggestions for their use, also in Italian. Geoffrey read it, then rubbed his chin. He understood the instructions perfectly, but was equally sure Agnes and Walter had not. He went in search of Giffard.

The bishop, wearing mail under his monastic habit, was talking to Father Adrian. Although he deplored violence, Giffard was a practical man and knew that Geoffrey had done all in his power to avert a catastrophe. He was willing to support his friend’s cause, and carried a wooden staff, which he would use if necessary. Adrian was less pragmatic and had informed Goodrich’s inhabitants that they would go to Hell if they fought – a statement promptly retracted when Giffard had quietly ordered him to desist or risk an early visit to Hell himself.

‘I am sorry Isabel could not resist such an evil choice,’ said Giffard. ‘I suppose she accepted that she could not have Ralph, so decided no one else would, either. It is a pity – I could have told her Agnes would not have bothered with him for much longer.’

‘Ralph still would not have taken Isabel,’ said Father Adrian. ‘Her adoration delighted him initially, but the incident with Henry showed him her affection was fanatical. Too much love can be suffocating.’

‘Isabel did not kill Ralph,’ said Geoffrey. ‘That was fitzNorman. Isabel could not have hidden Ralph’s body behind the water butts or found the Black Knife in my chamber – you need eyes to do both.’

‘You are probably right,’ said Father Adrian sadly. ‘He will deny all when he returns, and she will be safely in her secret refuge. You will never prove what happened. Poor Wulfric. He has lost two children – Eleanor’s veil was found in the rubble at Dene yesterday, and only one conclusion can be drawn: she is dead.’

Geoffrey thought about Eleanor’s absence from the hut two nights before. She had taken his suggestion seriously, and would be delighted to know the ruse had worked.

‘Come with me,’ he said, indicating Giffard was to follow him outside. ‘I want you to hear something.’

They walked to where Agnes was screeching at Roger to be careful, while Walter dashed in circles to avoid being nicked by the big knight’s sword. Walter was furious at the humiliation, and his hand shook in rabid outrage as he pointed at Geoffrey.

‘You have no right to make me fight such an ox! He might have killed me!’

‘And he might have taught you something that will save your life,’ said Geoffrey, grabbing Roger’s arm before he took offence. ‘His lessons will be far more valuable than the ones your mother taught you – about mandrake and lighting fires to kill those who stand in your way.’

Giffard regarded him uneasily. ‘Isabel set Dene alight, to secure the affection of her lover. You told me she admitted it.’

‘But someone put the idea in her mind and encouraged her to follow it through. And that person had her own motives. Do you remember the wine you drank that night?’

Giffard shuddered, while Agnes’ eyes narrowed into hard, spiteful slits. ‘It was revolting stuff and made me ill.’

‘It tasted salty – someone had added salt to make you thirsty, so you would drink more of it. But it contained more than wine and salt, did it not, Agnes?’

‘I do not know what you are talking about,’ she said coldly.

‘Two days ago Mother Elgiva made me smell something. It was poppy juice, which had been given to Jervil to make him unable to resist when his killer strangled him. The scent was familiar, although I could not place it. But now I remember: it was in the wine you gave Giffard.’

‘You are talking nonsense,’ snapped Agnes. ‘That wine was-’

‘Giffard seldom drinks, so could not tell that your gift contained substances it should not have done,’ Geoffrey cut in. ‘Salt and a sleeping draught.’

‘Why would I do such a thing?’ demanded Agnes. ‘Poppy juice syrup is expensive.’

‘Because you did not want him to wake when the fire took hold. You wanted him to die.’

Giffard gaped at him. ‘You must be mistaken!’

Agnes’ red lips parted in a sensual smile, and she took Giffard’s hand. ‘Geoffrey is deluded! I did give you wine, but it was to soothe your ragged spirits. You seemed so sad.’

‘That is right,’ declared Walter. ‘Only a fool would not notice salt in his wine.’ He gave Giffard a patently false smile. ‘And you are not a fool.’

‘He is not,’ agreed Geoffrey. ‘But he still does not know a good brew from a poor one. You were also ready to kill him later, in the confusion of the fire. I heard you. You saw me listening and promptly changed the subject.’

Agnes opened her mouth to protest her innocence again, but Walter was less skilled at dissembling. He sighed with impatient resignation, as if he had been caught cheating at dice rather than in a plot to kill his uncle.

‘Well, we did not know what else to do. He will not let us do what we want, and he ruins our plans by interfering all the time.’

Giffard was aghast. ‘You would kill me, when all I want is for you to live good, honest lives?’

Even Agnes saw that there was no point in denials now. ‘You are tedious, Giffard, and your brother was the same. I do not want a “good, honest” life. I want to enjoy riches, power and lovers. Why will you not leave us alone to live as we see fit, not as you want us to be?’

Giffard’s face was ashen. ‘Then you may consider yourselves free of me, if that is what you want. I wash my hands of you.’

Walter was unashamedly delighted. ‘We shall leave today,’ he declared. ‘Isabel and fitzNorman had the right idea: I do not want to stay here to be slaughtered, either.’

Roger had been listening to the discussion with open disgust. Suddenly, he stepped forward and grabbed Walter by the tunic, speaking in a low hiss that even Geoffrey found intimidating.

‘The King does not like people murdering his bishops, so you had better hope Giffard lives a long and happy life, boy. If he dies a day before he reaches his three-score years-and-ten, I shall tell King Henry you are responsible for his death.’

‘But it might not be true,’ said Agnes, alarmed. ‘All powerful men have enemies.’

‘Then you must join ranks against them,’ said Roger coolly. ‘The day Giffard dies is the day I tell the King you are responsible.’

Geoffrey agreed with Agnes that Roger’s threat was unfair, but he did not care. If it prevented them from striking at Giffard in the future, that was fine with him.

‘And what about the Duchess?’ asked Giffard in a whisper. His face was grey with shock as the enormity of the betrayal struck home. ‘Did you harm her?’

‘They tried,’ said Geoffrey, when Agnes opened her mouth to lie. ‘And Walter provided the means. But they did not succeed, because they cannot read Italian.’

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Agnes, too startled to deny the charge. She glanced at her son, who seemed equally bemused. ‘What does Italian have to do with it? Besides, Walter does read Italian.’

‘He knows some phrases, but he does not understand the language – no matter what he tells you.’

‘Lies!’ shouted Walter. He took a deep breath. ‘All cats love beautiful women when the moon is green.’ He reverted to Norman-French. ‘See? I speak it like a native.’

‘Then tell me what I am saying now,’ said Geoffrey, also in Italian. ‘And prove it.’

‘He is talking gibberish,’ said Walter, appealing to Giffard. ‘He is trying to make me look stupid when I am not. I speak Italian. He is just blathering with nonsense words.’

‘Actually, he is not,’ said Giffard. ‘I know Italian myself – I learnt with the Pope in Rome. Geoffrey made sense; you did not. I warned you against lying before, Walter: not only will it stain your soul, but now you have been caught out.’

‘I found this among your possessions,’ said Geoffrey, showing the box of mandrake to the seething boy and his mother. Both looked shocked. ‘Unlike most people on the night of the fire, you had time to gather your belongings, because you knew what was about to happen. It was a mistake: you should have left this to burn, so it would not be here to accuse you.’

‘It is dried mandrake fruit,’ said Agnes with a light, false laugh. ‘What is your point? Many people own them, and in Italy they are considered a rare treat.’

‘Eat one, then,’ suggested Geoffrey, offering her the box.

She stepped away from it. ‘I do not like the taste.’

‘Walter?’ said Geoffrey. Walter regarded him with sullen loathing, but made no move to take one.

‘I will,’ offered Giffard, reaching out to the box. ‘I am partial to these, but they are rarely seen in England.’ He swallowed it and took another.

‘Have them all,’ suggested Agnes eagerly. ‘They are the finest money can buy.’

‘Here,’ said Roger, looking from Giffard to Geoffrey in concern. ‘Should you be doing that? Mandrake is poisonous – even I know that.’

‘Yes, it is,’ agreed Geoffrey. ‘But not all the plant is toxic. There are times when mandrake fruit, which look like yellow plums, can be harvested and eaten with no ill effects – as you would know, had you read the label on this box, and as Giffard is aware. But Agnes did not know: she told me that all parts are poisonous. She was wrong.’

‘You gave Sibylla these, thinking to poison her?’ asked Giffard, incredu-lously. ‘Silly woman! Surely you know they are harmless when they are ripe? And even when they are unripe, they are not as toxic as the root. You cannot kill anyone with these!’

‘Margaret and Eleanor both saw Agnes give the Duchess yellow fruit,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Sibylla ate one, but did not like it. She gave the rest to her courtiers, who ate them with no ill effects. Agnes and Walter fully expected Sibylla to die from their gift, but that was not what killed her.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Roger uneasily.

Geoffrey nodded. ‘Mandrake poisoning is characterized by gripping pains in the gut and purging. I have spoken to people who saw the Duchess in the final stages of her illness, and they mentioned no such symptoms: she slipped away peacefully. Agnes and Walter wanted to murder the Duchess, and even executed their plan to kill her, but they did not succeed.’

Agnes shot Walter an accusing glare. ‘You told me-’ she began, before realizing she should hold her tongue.

‘He told you mandrake is poisonous,’ finished Geoffrey. He held up the phial Durand had seen fall from Walter’s bag after the fire. ‘And he had this, which contained juice of mandrake root. Mandrake root is very toxic. However, he grabbed an empty pot from somewhere, and it was never full when you were with the Duchess.’

‘You told me you tested mandrake and it worked,’ Agnes snapped imprudently.

‘I saw it work in Italy,’ said Walter defensively. ‘I stole the pot later, so I would remember its name.’

Agnes sighed angrily, before shooting Geoffrey a triumphant smirk. ‘So, you have learnt the truth, but it means nothing. Our fruit did not harm Sibylla – as you have just proved – so we have committed no crime. We are innocent.’

‘And Sibylla is still dead,’ said Walter, contemptuous of Geoffrey’s conclusions and their implications. ‘And my mother will be duchess in her place.’

‘She can try,’ said Geoffrey. ‘But the rumours that she is a killer – regardless of whether they are true – mean that will never happen. Despite his infidelity, the Duke loved his wife.’

‘He did,’ agreed Giffard. ‘So do not be surprised if he declines your offer of marriage, Agnes.’

‘Come, Mother,’ said Walter loftily. ‘We do not have to listen to this. We are leaving.’

‘It is not safe,’ warned Geoffrey. ‘You are not Isabel and fitzNorman, who know the area and evoke sympathy as a blind woman and an old man. You will be caught and treated as spies.’

‘Well, I will not stay here,’ said Walter defiantly. He glared at Roger. ‘He might try to stab me when Baderon attacks and pretend I was struck by the enemy.’

‘Aye, lad,’ said Roger. ‘I just might.’

‘Thank you,’ said Giffard, as he sat with Geoffrey at the midday meal. The knight had little appetite, his nerves stretched taut from the imminent attack.

‘For what?’ he asked. ‘Proving what you did not want to hear? That Agnes did try to kill the Duchess, and that Walter was not only party to the plan, but provided her with the means to do it?’

‘You showed they did not succeed,’ said Giffard.

‘But they wanted to, and only failed because they used the wrong poison. That is almost as bad.’

‘Perhaps,’ agreed Giffard. ‘But I feel happier now that I have the truth – living with uncertainty was far worse. I feel safe, too: they will not try to hurt me now. Not after what Roger said.’

Geoffrey nodded. ‘But if they send gifts of yellow plums, you should not eat them.’

‘I doubt they will send me presents,’ said Giffard. ‘I am going to ask the King to place Agnes in a convent, and Walter will not become a man of significance without her. Their brush with power is over.’

‘You should eat something, Geoff,’ advised Roger, who was himself enjoying a sizeable portion of meat. ‘It is unlike you to refuse food. What is wrong?’

‘This situation,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘God knows we have seen battles before, but there is something deeply wrong about this one. I barely know what it is for, other than that Corwenna wants it.’

‘Do not dwell on it, or it will sap your concentration,’ advised Roger. ‘If the enemy is as numerous as we fear, then we need all the resources we can muster – including your wits.’

Reluctantly, Geoffrey accepted the bread Roger shoved into his hands, but he had taken no more than a mouthful before there was a shout. Geoffrey was on his feet in an instant, running across the hall and clattering down the stairs to the bailey, Roger at his heels.

‘They are here!’ called the white-faced man from the main gate’s fighting platform. ‘And there are thousands of them, stretching as far as the eye can see.’

Fourteen

‘Hundreds,’ corrected Geoffrey, scrambling up on to the fighting platform and trying to conceal his alarm at the size of the army Baderon had mustered. ‘Not thousands.’

With Roger at his side, he assessed the troops massing just out of arrow range. They formed a vast inverted U, with horsemen on each side, and a huge company of foot soldiers in the middle. Behind, watching from the vantage point of a knoll, were Baderon and his commanders. The Lord of Monmouth sat astride a dark bay. Lambert was on his right, identifiable by the fair hair below his helmet, and Hilde was to his left, atop a white pony. Corwenna was well to the front, however, head bared to reveal her auburn mane. She was standing in her stirrups, yelling. Even from a distance, her voice was clear and strong, and her words met with cheers.