Simon Beaufort - Deadly Inheritance

He launched himself at Geoffrey, but suddenly halted mid-move. Geoffrey’s mouth dropped as he saw Hilde holding his assailant in her burly arms. Ralph screamed his fury and frustration as he tried in vain to struggle free.

‘Have you seen Hugh?’ she asked, pinioning Ralph with effortless ease.

‘I hope he is with the Devil!’ shrieked Ralph, rather unwisely given his situation. But Hilde kept her eyes on Geoffrey as she waited for an answer.

‘He is safe,’ said Geoffrey.

Hilde closed her eyes in relief, but opened them as Geoffrey moved away. ‘You are going the wrong way. The flames are fiercer in that direction.’

‘Isabel is missing, and so is the King.’

‘It would serve Isabel right,’ said Ralph spitefully. ‘She is a whore, who-’

The diatribe stopped when Hilde tossed him away as though he were made of rags. Whether by accident or design, he landed in a slippery pile of compost.

‘I will help you look,’ she said. ‘But we will not waste time with vermin.’

Curses and threats followed them both. Smoke swirled, stinging Geoffrey’s eyes to the point where he could barely open them – not that it mattered, because he could not see anyway. Nor could he breathe easily, and his armour and surcoat were not garments he could pull over his face, as Hilde was doing. He buried his nose in his sleeve and staggered on, following the line of a wall.

As he reached a corner, the smoke thinned, and he felt a waft of clean air. The wind was blowing from the north, and they were finally upwind of the choking fumes. Geoffrey opened his smarting eyes and saw others had gathered there, gazing at the devastation. He headed towards them, and dropped to one knee beside Margaret, who sat weeping.

‘Where is Isabel?’

‘She was behind me one moment, and gone the next,’ cried Margaret. ‘I think she has gone to the guest house to find Ralph.’

‘Stay here,’ ordered Hilde. ‘Sir Geoffrey and I will find her.’

Geoffrey followed Hilde towards the thickest pall of smoke, not sure anyone would still be alive within. He saw Baderon and some courtiers standing with a tiny mound of salvaged possessions.

‘What caused this?’ demanded Baderon hoarsely. ‘How could it have taken hold so fast?’

‘It started in the manor house,’ replied a servant. ‘I assumed it was the kitchens – that is where fires usually begin – but they are still intact. It is very suspicious.’

Geoffrey’s thoughts whirled. Was the fire started deliberately? If so, was it directed against the King? Or did Agnes and her son want to make sure that gossip about the two of them and Sibylla did not spread? Or was it aimed at fitzNorman, to shame him before the King? Or Baderon, because his knights were too strong for him and he was forming alliances that were uniting the Welsh against the English?

Geoffrey tripped over a bucket of water, abandoned by someone who had fled. He grabbed Hilde’s arm and brought her to an abrupt stop, indicating she was to dip her cloak in it and put it over her head. She did not need to be told twice. Muscles bulging, she ripped the garment in two, jammed it in the bucket and then handed half to Geoffrey. With the material wrapped turban-like around their faces, they hurried on. When they reached the guest hall, Geoffrey stopped, chest heaving from exertion and lack of clean air.

He heard a voice. He listened harder, moving towards it. It was a man calling for help. He staggered on, using the voice to guide him, Hilde at his heels. He could see nothing but grey-whiteness, and could barely make out his own feet. He was dizzy, and considered escaping while he was still able, but then heard the voice again, louder and closer. It was the King.

‘Where are you?’ Geoffrey yelled.

‘Here!’ It was Isabel who answered. ‘We cannot go back because of the flames, and we cannot open the door.’

Geoffrey moved forward, feeling his way. The air was burning hot, and the water in the cloak was beginning to evaporate. Then his outstretched hands encountered wood. He moved his fingers down it, and located a beam lodged across the bottom of a door. Someone hammered furiously.

‘Open the damned door!’ bellowed the King. ‘Or we shall be roasted alive.’

The beam was not big, but it was jammed tight against the wall and was hot. Geoffrey and Hilde tugged with all their might – he grateful for the gloves Durand had lent him, and she using her sleeves to protect her hands – but it did not budge. Inside, Henry was growing angry with his would-be rescuers.

‘Open the door!’ he shouted furiously. ‘Now! The fire is getting closer while you play around. Do you want your King to die?’

‘No, Sire,’ gasped Geoffrey, scrabbling for something to use as a lever. The first piece of wood snapped like a reed, and he groped for something thicker. The piece he found was so heavy, he could barely lift it, and it took all his strength to manoeuvre it into place. Hilde helped him, but she was growing weaker as she ran out of air. Then she flopped to the ground, and he was on his own.

‘Geoffrey?’ shouted the King. ‘Is that you? Hurry, man!’

Geoffrey had no breath for talking and knew it would not be long before he collapsed like Hilde. There was a shriek from inside, followed by a low roar that suggested the flames were taking a firmer hold. Voices pleaded for him to hurry. He leant hard on his lever, but it slipped out of position and he crashed to his knees. He staggered up and was trying again when he saw that a leather strap was preventing the timber from moving. He needed to saw through it. But when he fumbled for his dagger, it was not there. He clawed at the leather with his hands, but it was hopeless – Isabel and the King would die because he could not break a strap. Then his cuff caught on a splinter and something jangled to the ground. It was the little knife that Joan had given him, since honed to a vicious edge by Bale.

For once he was grateful for his squire’s fetish, because the tiny blade cut through the tough leather like warm butter. Now only dimly aware of the cacophony of shrieks emanating from within, he summoned every last ounce of strength to lean on the lever as hard as he could. Blood pounded in his ears, and he felt the tendons in his arms and shoulders protest. Suddenly, the lever splintered, sending him sprawling backwards. But the beam also moved. It was not much, but it was enough for the trapped people to batter their way out. They spilt out of the building and staggered into the smoke-filled yard.

‘God’s blood!’ gasped Henry. ‘I can still barely breathe!’

Geoffrey climbed to his feet, legs wobbling. He saw a man grab Hilde and hoist her to her feet, urging her to walk.

‘I cannot see!’ yelled Henry. ‘Which way did you come?’

Isabel took the King’s hand. ‘The wind is blowing from the north, so we must go this way.’

‘How do you know?’ demanded Henry. ‘I cannot see my own feet.’

Isabel did not reply, but pulled both the King and Geoffrey in that direction. The courtiers followed, moving quickly, as Isabel went without hesitation. Then, suddenly, they were in clean air.

Geoffrey sank to the ground in relief, hearing the babble of voices as Henry was recognized, and people hurried forward to assist him. FitzNorman bounded up to Isabel, and there was a catch in his voice when he told her how worried he had been. Baderon went to Hilde, wiping her smoke-stained face with his sleeve. Bale arrived, and rested a shy hand on Geoffrey’s shoulder.

‘The horses are safe,’ he said. ‘But a number of people are missing. If they are still inside the hall or the guest house, they are dead for certain.’

Watching the flames, Geoffrey could only agree. He wanted to make sure that Agnes and Walter had not used the diversion to harm Giffard, but he did not have the energy. He was racked by coughing, and could not seem to suck enough air into his lungs.

‘Drink this,’ Margaret said, kneeling beside him. ‘It will make you feel better.’

It did, but it tasted foul, and he did not like to imagine what was in it. He looked up to see Isabel nearby, standing forlorn.

‘Margaret said you went to look for Ralph,’ he said, coughing again.

‘He was gone when I reached the guest house. He must have been looking for me, and we missed each other in the confusion. My father has gone to tell him I am safe. Can you see him?’

Geoffrey spotted Ralph some distance away, clearly uninterested in his former lover.

‘Do you know where the fire started?’ Geoffrey asked to avoid answering.

‘Not in the kitchens, or the guest house would have burnt before the manor, and it was the other way around,’ replied Margaret, grateful for the change of subject, for her niece’s sake. ‘The hall is relatively undamaged, but the rooms above it are burnt out. That means the fire must have started in one of them. I assume it was not yours?’

Geoffrey recalled the flames at the door. ‘No, but it was not far away. I supposed it was a carelessly tended hearth – fires spread quickly in wooden houses with thatched roofs.’

‘Our servants are careful,’ countered Margaret firmly. ‘None would have left a badly banked fire. This blaze was started deliberately.’

Geoffrey tried to think clearly. ‘If it started where you say, then it was not an attack on the King – he was in the guest house.’

Margaret grimaced. ‘No one will harm the King – not when so many of us have just arrived from Normandy. If Henry dies, then England will go to the Duke, and no one wants him , when Belleme is sure to follow, bringing violence and bloodshed. No, Geoffrey, this fire was set for another reason.’

Geoffrey rubbed his head and tried to remember who had been sleeping where. ‘You, Isabel and fitzNorman were in the room at the far end of the corridor – the farthest chamber from mine.’

Margaret made a dismissive gesture. ‘We have no reason to destroy our own home. And you and Giffard did not do it, either – neither of you would burn innocent people alive. That leaves the three rooms in the middle. One was occupied by Agnes Giffard and her son.’

Geoffrey recalled what he had overheard Agnes say, and wondered whether she and Walter had set the blaze to be rid of a meddlesome kinsman. ‘They may be the guilty party,’ he conceded.

Margaret nodded. ‘Giffard thinks they are killers, and anyone with a brain can see why: Agnes’ husband and her lover’s wife both dead at convenient times. Walter probably helped her. He is a stupid, malleable boy.’

Isabel’s head was cocked to one side as she scanned the babbling voices for the one that was most important to her, but she was paying attention to the discussion nonetheless. ‘Then perhaps Giffard did set the fire, to dispense some divine justice.’

‘Giffard was drunk,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Besides, I was with him. I would have seen him.’

‘Not necessarily – I put a sleeping draught in your milk,’ said Isabel. She sensed Geoffrey’s shock and turned defensive. ‘Only a light one, just enough to make sure you rested properly.’

‘Why?’ demanded Geoffrey. He recalled how heavily he had been asleep when Bale had woken him. He was lucky his squire had not shared the milk, or all three of them would have perished.

Isabel flinched at the anger in his voice. ‘Because you slept so poorly the night before. I wanted to help.’

‘One of those three middle rooms was occupied by Baderon’s knights,’ said Margaret, to bring the subject back to the fire and save Isabel from further recrimination. ‘Baderon himself was in the guest house, but Seguin and Lambert may have followed his orders.’