Simon Beaufort - Deadly Inheritance

‘You can hear him from here, and he is in the room above the buttery! He was put there, rather than the guest hall, because he is such a noisy sleeper. But I am obliged to share with him.’

Geoffrey could indeed hear someone breathing hard and strong. Durand drank two cups of wine in quick succession, claiming they would make him drowsy.

‘I saw Eleanor leaving just now,’ he said, pouring a third. ‘I waited until she had gone, because I did not want to meet her in the dark.’

‘Why not?’

‘She is more comfortable during the night than is appropriate for a young woman,’ said Durand primly, although Geoffrey was not sure what he meant. ‘She still wore her veil. I thought she might not bother in the dark, when her face cannot be seen. I hear she is dreadfully scarred.’

‘Is that so,’ said Geoffrey without interest.

Durand sensed his reluctance to gossip, so changed the subject. ‘Corwenna hates you. What have you done to her?’

‘My brother killed her husband.’

‘But then your brother was killed in his turn. Did Corwenna do it? Or Seguin or Lambert?’

‘Why would Lambert-’

‘He loves his brother – you can see his devotion a mile away. He might have killed Henry at Seguin’s request. Or perhaps they did it together.’

Without waiting for a response, Durand reeled away, across the yard towards the buttery. Geoffrey settled into the chair again, swearing under his breath when, no matter how hard he scratched, he could not stop his arm from itching.

‘That is not polite language,’ came a soft voice from behind him.

Geoffrey came to his feet and studied the woman who had glided into the room so softly that he had not heard. Everything about her was pale. Her hair, coiled into circles over her ears – a fashion adopted by women in the privacy of their quarters, but never in public – was so fair it was almost silver. Her skin had a delicate translucency, and he had never seen eyes such a light shade of blue. He saw the way she looked past his shoulder.

‘Isabel?’

She inclined her head. ‘Eleanor told me your arm itches. Is that why you are swearing?’

She indicated he was to sit, then knelt beside him, groping for his hand. He started to object, but she began to rub a white paste on his arm that almost instantly relieved the itching.

‘Now you should be able to sleep, especially if you drink Eleanor’s poppy juice – although I hope you did not give her your hair. She does odd things at the Angel Springs, I am told.’

‘I hope she did not wake you for this.’

‘I was awake anyway.’ There was a catch in her voice. ‘I seldom sleep these days.’

‘I am sorry,’ he said gently. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘You can agree not to marry me. I sense you are a good man, but I do not want you. My heart lies elsewhere.’

‘With Ralph.’ He could not imagine what she saw in such a surly fellow.

The mention of Ralph’s name drew a smile. ‘I have loved him since we were children. But your brother . . .’ She took a shuddering breath. ‘Now Ralph will not have me. He says I am tainted, even though . . .’ She did not finish, and tears spilt down her cheeks.

‘He is young,’ he said, thinking about what Margaret had said. ‘When he sees your devotion, he may recant.’

She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. ‘Do you think so? Then perhaps everything will work out. But you should sleep now.’

And she was gone.

When Geoffrey awoke, his first thought was whether to don armour or the green tunic. He was still undecided when he climbed out of bed, and, to his amazement, Isabel glided in. He wondered whether she would have entered so blithely had she known he was clad only in undergarments. Aware that it would not look good if anyone found them, he hauled his tunic over his head and tugged on his boots, eluding her outstretched hands until he was properly dressed.

‘Stand still,’ she ordered. ‘I want to assess if you need more of my ointment.’

‘I do not,’ he said. ‘But thank you for asking.’

‘You are nothing like your brother. I paid a priest to say a mass for him when he died, although it will not be enough to free him from purgatory. He was not a good man.’

Isabel had been kind to Geoffrey, but that was no reason to duck from the truth. Her unfinished statements from the previous night had allowed him to deduce exactly what had happened the night Henry invaded her bedchamber – and it was not what most people believed.

‘You risked a great deal to protect Ralph, did you not?’ he said, watching her intently.

He saw alarm flit across her face. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You lay with Ralph and then discovered you carried his child. Not wanting your father to kill him for despoiling you, you allowed Henry into your chamber – or perhaps you invaded his, as you have just done to mine. It would not matter if your father killed Henry, because no one liked him.’

She was appalled. ‘What a horrible thing to say! You question my virtue and Ralph’s honour.’

‘You slept with Henry to protect Ralph. I know from personal experience that your father strikes first and hears explanations second. You did not want him to hurt Ralph.’

‘I was wrong,’ said Isabel coldly. ‘You are like your brother.’

‘You are not with child,’ said Geoffrey, noting her body’s slender lines. ‘Were you mistaken?’

Isabel gave a choking sob, and he thought she might flee. Instead she groped for the bed and sat heavily, shoulders heaving with silent weeping.

‘The baby came too soon, so I buried her in the churchyard.’ She took a deep breath as more tears spilt down her cheeks. ‘Why am I telling you this, when I have even kept it from my confessor? Only my aunt Margaret knows the truth. And Ralph, although he . . .’

‘But the child was not Henry’s?’

‘Ralph’s. We must have made her the first or second time we . . .’

‘You took a risk,’ said Geoffrey, thinking he had never come across a more flawed plan. ‘What would you have done if your father had ordered you to marry Henry – or if Henry had insisted on marrying the mother of his heir?’

‘Henry did insist,’ said Isabel unhappily. ‘I thought he would not – I made no effort to please him. But he did not have very high standards – or perhaps the quality of love did not matter to him.’

Geoffrey refrained from pointing out that physical satisfaction seemed irrelevant when advantageous matches were being made. ‘Surely, there was another way?’ he asked instead.

She raised a tear-stained face. ‘I could not think of one. Ralph was in Normandy, so I could not ask him, and I dared tell no one else. But my plot had three flaws: it pleased Henry, it soured relations with the Mappestones and, worst of all, it drove Ralph away.’

Geoffrey felt sorry for her. She had been desperate, and her plan had misfired horribly. The only way it could have been worse was if Henry had not been stabbed, and she had been obliged to marry him. ‘I am sorry,’ he said softly.

She wiped away more tears. ‘Bishop Giffard told me you are a skilled investigator, and he was right – you have coaxed secrets from me. It is a pity we were not friends when I discovered my predicament – you would have devised a better idea.’

Geoffrey thought that even Bale could have done that. ‘I only wanted the truth about Henry. I would like to know who killed him.’

‘Sir Olivier thinks he took his own life.’

‘Henry was too convinced of his own importance to harm himself. He was murdered without question, but there are too many suspects.’

‘I am sure my father is on your list,’ she said. ‘But he is not that kind of man.’

Geoffrey was not so sure. ‘Ralph is on my list, too: not only was he deprived of the woman he loved, he lost a prosperous marriage in the bargain.’

Her face grew even more pale. ‘Not Ralph! He would never harm anyone.’

Geoffrey thought otherwise. Ralph had been ready to fight him the previous night, and only left when he thought he might have to do battle with Bale, too. And Geoffrey had not forgotten the man’s brutality at the ford. Isabel was wrong about his character. He listed his other suspects.

‘All Goodrich’s servants hated Henry, while Corwenna knows how to bear a grudge. Seguin wants to please her, and might have presented her with a trophy – with the help of his brother.’

She nodded, eager to lead the discussion away from Ralph. ‘Baderon had much to gain from Henry’s death, too – he wants manors to give to knights like Seguin and Lambert, and Goodrich can be divided into neat parcels that will suit his needs.’

‘ You are on my list, too,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Your plan misfired and Henry was clamouring to marry you. You have as good a motive for killing him as anyone.’

Isabel grimaced. ‘But I did not! And please do not tell anyone about Ralph and me. My father will be come enraged, and I do not want Ralph driven even further away.’

‘I do not understand what drove him away in the first place. Surely, you explained what you had done? He should have been grateful you were ready to risk your reputation to save him.’

Tears sprouted again. ‘He says that when a woman loves a man, he is the only one she should lie with. He is a man of principle. I wish with all my heart that I could undo what I did.’

Geoffrey changed the subject, hoping to distract her from her misery. ‘Have you heard when the King is due?’

‘Not for some days, although people are beginning to arrive in anticipation. Baderon would never normally stay with us, but he wants to be here when the King hunts. Indeed, we are so well endowed with powerful guests at the moment that we are obliged to provide a feast tonight with music, so I must leave you and ensure something suitable is performed. I cannot trust my father to do it: the kind of songs he favours will not be appropriate.’

Having met the belligerent Constable, Geoffrey was sure her concerns were justified.

By mid-morning, Geoffrey thought Giffard should have completed his devotions, so he went in search of him. When the Bishop saw Geoffrey, he broke into a rare smile and jumped to his feet, grasping the knight by the shoulders.

Giffard was tall and lean, with a face made for the sober business of religion. Geoffrey had never heard him laugh, although he was occasionally ecstatic when he prayed. He wore a hair shirt under his habit, and was noted for his abstemiousness. He seldom drank, never overate and was reputed to have been celibate since joining the Church. But his unsmiling, dour demeanour hid a gentle heart, and Geoffrey respected his honesty and integrity.

‘Why did you ask me to come?’ Geoffrey asked.

Giffard was about to reply, but was interrupted by a discordant jangling. ‘There is the bell for the next meal. I have not eaten since yesterday, because of my vigil. Come with me, and I shall tell you all.’

Geoffrey thought about taking a sword with him – Giffard was worse than hopeless in a fight – but something bumped against his leg, and he recalled Joan’s little dagger. He pulled it from his hem and secreted it in his sleeve.

He followed Giffard into the hall. There were too many folk to be seated, and, with the exception of an honoured few at the dais, most ate standing, taking what they wanted from tables laden with meat and bread. The first person they met was Abbot Serlo, who watched in disbelief as Giffard took only a sliver of bread and a cup of water. While the Bishop nibbled, Serlo and Geoffrey shared a greasy chicken.