Simon Beaufort - Deadly Inheritance

‘Why?’ asked Geoffrey tiredly. ‘Who would he want to harm?’

‘My brother?’ suggested Margaret. ‘Baderon would gain, no matter what the outcome. Either my brother dies, which means Baderon is the only powerful lord in the region, or my brother survives – to be in trouble for almost incinerating the King. Baderon may also have wanted you dead, so he could take Goodrich.’

‘The last of those three rooms was occupied by Hilde and the women from Bicanofre,’ said Geoffrey, thinking Baderon was not the kind of man to set a house alight just to inherit a small manor. He was not stupid.

‘I doubt Hilde set the fire, considering she risked her life to save others,’ said Margaret. ‘But I have not seen Eleanor or Douce since the fuss began.’

Geoffrey recalled the figure in the red cloak, but then remembered that it had stopped for an embrace with a woman. He glanced around, but could not see Eleanor, although that meant nothing. People had scattered into small groups and she could have been anywhere.

‘Eleanor may have started the fire to rid herself of Hugh,’ Margaret went on. ‘He follows her everywhere, and must be tiresome.’

‘He loves her,’ said Isabel. ‘But why would she bother with a fire, when she has other skills at her disposal? She is a witch, after all.’

‘A witch ?’ asked Geoffrey uncertainly.

Isabel nodded. ‘She could be a great healer, but she dislikes helping people. You were lucky she did not poison you when she removed those splinters. Why do you think I came so quickly after she told me what she had done? I wanted to counter any evil she might have managed.’

‘Why would Eleanor want to harm me?’

‘You forgot to send the cart – and witches can be vindictive. But more importantly, her father would like her to marry you, and she does not want to.’

‘Few women do,’ said Geoffrey, thinking that Isabel, Margaret and Corwenna had already refused him, while Hilde was not keen, either.

‘Eleanor communes with the Devil,’ Isabel went on. ‘Why do you think toads and bats seek out her company, and ravens do her bidding?’

‘Oh, really, Isabel!’ Geoffrey said, his weariness making his tone a bit sharp. ‘That is nonsense!’

She gripped his hand. ‘It is not, and you would be a fool to ignore it.’

Geoffrey sat for some time, trying to summon the energy to move. Next to him, Isabel and Margaret fell silent, and soon Hilde came to join them, her brother at her side. Hugh curled into a ball and promptly went to sleep.

‘Have you seen Ralph?’ Isabel asked her.

‘Just moments ago, cursing the grooms in the stables,’ Hilde responded.

Isabel jumped to her feet, but did not get far before fitzNorman intercepted her. They exchanged words and, reluctantly, he turned to walk with her towards the horses.

‘Ralph is a mean-spirited bastard,’ said Geoffrey, watching them go.

Margaret nodded. ‘He is a pompous, arrogant fool, and does not deserve Isabel. She is usually astute where men are concerned, but he has blinded her. So to speak.’

‘I fell in love with a duchess once,’ admitted Geoffrey, immediately wondering why he had said it. ‘It was wrong, but there was nothing I could do to stop it. Love is difficult to control and impossible to predict.’

‘What happened to her?’ asked Margaret curiously.

Geoffrey shrugged. ‘She still lives with her husband.’

Margaret did not push him. She nodded towards Hugh. ‘He has the right idea. There is no more we can do, and it is sensible to rest. Everything will look better in the morning.’

‘I doubt it. Your home will be reduced to hot rubble; Isabel will still love Ralph; Agnes will still be suspected of killing Sibylla; and Giffard will still be stricken by sorrow.’

‘But we may feel better about it,’ argued Margaret. She left him and went to where Isabel was calling for Ralph. FitzNorman was standing helplessly, at a loss for what to do.

Geoffrey stood unsteadily, and walked to the hedge where Giffard still snored, oblivious to the chaos. Geoffrey flopped down beside him, bone-weary, and closed his eyes. His peace did not last.

‘Well, Geoffrey,’ said the King, outlined by the flames that still leapt into the air. ‘What do you make of this? FitzNorman claims someone set the blaze deliberately, while Baderon thinks it was careless servants.’

‘At first I thought it was set to harm you, but it was not,’ said Geoffrey, scrambling to his feet.

‘Why?’ asked Henry. ‘Do not look as though you wished you had not spoken, man. I asked a question, and I want an answer. You are one of the few people here who does not tell me what they think I should hear.’

‘If the fire had been aimed at you, it would have started in the guest house. But it almost certainly began above the hall – the room I shared with Giffard was there, and the fire raged very close to it.’

‘You think someone wants Goodrich without an heir?’

Geoffrey shook his head. ‘But the adjoining rooms contained fitzNorman, the Bicanofre women and Hilde, Agnes and Walter, and Baderon’s knights. The fire could have been directed at any of them.’

‘It could have been started by any of them, too,’ mused Henry. ‘Or by someone from the guest house. I heard Baderon slipping out to the latrines, while his son is apt to wander, too – I caught him watching me in my bedchamber last night, which was disconcerting.’

‘It could even be a disgruntled servant.’

‘Well, whoever it is, I shall not forget what you did tonight,’ said Henry, reaching out and grasping Geoffrey’s shoulder. ‘You saved my life while others ran to save their own skins.’

They both looked down when Giffard groaned and began to stir. Geoffrey helped him sit, but the Bishop’s eyes were bleary, and his breath carried the sweet scent of wine.

‘Lord!’ he muttered. ‘You should not have given me so much to drink, Geoff. My head is swimming, and there is a smell of burning in my nostrils that I cannot dispel.’

‘Giffard?’ asked Henry. ‘Thank God! I was worried about you.’

‘Why would you be worried?’ slurred Giffard, resting his head in his hands, evidently unaware that he was speaking to his King. ‘I am a Bishop.’

Henry glanced sharply at him. ‘I am saying that I do not want to lose you – there are few who can administer an important see as well as you.’

‘Bugger the see,’ spat Giffard truculently. ‘I am going home to Rouen, where a man can buy a decent sausage.’

Henry looked at Geoffrey in alarm. ‘What is the matter with him?’

‘Smoke, Sire,’ said Geoffrey diplomatically. ‘It can do strange things to a man’s wits.’

It was the early hours before the flames were under control. The main house still smouldered and crackled, and the thatches of surrounding buildings dripped with water. FitzNorman had abandoned his attempts at directing his men: he sat with his head drooped, while Margaret tried to comfort him. Isabel wandered hopelessly, while everyone prepared to make the best of a night outside. Durand flopped down next to Geoffrey.

‘You survived,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I hoped you would, because you may yet agree to work with me.’

It was typical of Durand that he should see Geoffrey’s escape in terms of his own interests, but Geoffrey was too tired to care. He handed back the gloves, which were wet and burnt through in places. ‘I am sorry; I am afraid they are ruined.’

‘They are,’ agreed Durand. ‘And they were virtually new, too. I should have known better than to trust you – you always were careless. Can I assume that they were of use?’

Geoffrey nodded: he could not have touched the hot beam without them, so they had made the difference between the King rescued and incinerated. ‘And you? You said you were burnt.’

‘Gashed.’ Durand showed him a cut on his hand. ‘But Isabel gave me a salve. It is a pity she has set her heart on Ralph, because he does not deserve her. He was standing next to her when she was calling for him, but he only slunk away. Indeed, there has been a lot of slinking tonight.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The King is safe, but I did not notice many folk rushing to his aid. I was weak from breathing smoke, but others were not – Baderon and his knights just stood and watched the blaze.’

‘What else could they have done? It was obvious the house was lost.’

‘You rushed into the flames without thought for your safety. I do not condemn Baderon for not doing so, but he could have directed people with water or organized shelter for the survivors. FitzNorman is numb with shock and Baderon should have stepped up. But he is probably chary of ordering his knights to do anything: he allows them to influence his decisions, when he should go with his instincts. That is something I learnt from you. You listen to ideas and suggestions, but you do not let them sway you from what you think is right.’

‘I taught you something, then?’ asked Geoffrey, who had assumed his old squire had gained nothing from the year in his service.

‘A great deal, although most of it is useless. Clerks of my status are seldom required to break locks with daggers or produce meals from grass and leaves. But Baderon is not the only one who acted shabbily. I do not like the way Agnes gloats over Giffard’s absence – she hopes he is dead.’

Geoffrey glanced to where the Bishop was sleeping again. ‘He is alive, but unwell.’

‘Smoke,’ said Durand, coughing raspingly himself. ‘Incidentally, everyone suspects Agnes of making an end of Sibylla, but the more I think about it, the more I am certain that the whole thing was Walter’s idea.’

‘Why?’ asked Geoffrey, trying to pay attention through his weariness. Durand was astute and might well have deduced something that would help solve the mystery.

‘Walter saved his belongings from the fire, but did not have time to pack them properly. He dropped a couple of items as he ran to safety – and this was one of them.’ Durand rummaged in the embroidered purse he carried on his belt and presented the knight with a tiny phial.

Geoffrey also recalled Walter’s inadequately buckled bags. ‘Do you know what is in it?’

Durand shook his head. ‘But it is the kind of ampoule that normally contains powerful medicines – Abbot Serlo keeps some in his abbey’s infirmary, for the very sick.’

Geoffrey suspected he was right. Strong potions tended to be stored in small quantities, and the phial that he held – which, despite being tiny, was made of hard-baked clay and possessed a sturdy stopper to prevent leakage – certainly looked as though it might contain something potent.

‘I wager a shilling that it contains something Walter should not have,’ said Durand. ‘There is writing on one side, but the language is not Latin or French. I cannot read it.’

‘Italian,’ said Geoffrey, struggling to make out the tiny letters in the remaining light of the fire. ‘Some of the inscription is eroded – this is a very old bottle – but I think it says “mandrake juice”.’

‘So, I was right,’ said Durand, pleased. ‘Mandrake is deadly. However, Walter will not be killing anyone now, because it is empty.’

Geoffrey pulled off the lid and saw that Durand was right. In fact, he imagined the pot had been empty for some time, because it was dry and dusty, and the scent of whatever had been inside was so faint as to be almost undetectable. He doubted the contents had been used to dispatch the Duchess, because her death was too recent. But it proved that Walter had a familiarity with poisons.