Simon Beaufort - Deadly Inheritance

‘Before the fire, the King told me I am to spend a few months with Bishop Giffard,’ said Durand after a while.

‘You must be disappointed,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I know you wanted to return to court.’

Durand grinned. ‘Henry said you suggested I stay with Giffard until the jealous wretches at Westminster have dispersed. You really should consider my offer, Geoffrey, because we understand each other so well that we would make an excellent team. I am delighted and grateful for your kindly word in Henry’s ear.’

‘You are?’ asked Geoffrey warily.

‘Giffard is Bishop of Winchester. And if there is a place in England that suits me more than Westminster, it is Winchester – where the royal treasury is, and where important decisions are made. But you know this: it is what prompted you to suggest it in the first place. However, before I go, Henry wants me to review what Baderon is doing.’

‘You mean his taxes?’ asked Geoffrey.

‘Ostensibly. But what I will really be doing is gathering other information. Henry thinks he may be forging too many Welsh alliances.’

‘He is probably right.’

Durand was thoughtful. ‘I despise Baderon. He treats me like a servant, whereas I am a landowner, worthy of respect. However, he is mannerly enough towards you. I want you to join with me to find out what he is doing. If he is uniting the Welsh against England, he should be exposed as a traitor.’

‘No,’ said Geoffrey firmly. ‘I cannot spy on my neighbours.’

‘Then help me by taking me back into your service. Baderon will not harm me if he knows I am under your protection. I will be your squire again, and will reside at Goodrich until I have completed my report. Then I shall go to Winchester.’

‘Hey, you!’ came a voice from behind them. It was Seguin, and he was snapping his fingers at Durand. ‘Clerk! Come here. I want you to write something.’

‘You see?’ said Durand. ‘That is the kind of treatment I can expect from Baderon’s household.’

‘I said come here !’ shouted Seguin, advancing angrily. ‘Do not pretend to be deaf.’

Durand squealed as he was yanked upright. ‘Geoffrey, tell him to stop!’

‘Well?’ sneered Seguin, addressing Geoffrey. ‘Will you tell me to stop?’

Seguin had tugged Durand away before Geoffrey could respond. Durand shot Geoffrey a foul look, but crouched on the damp grass next to Lambert and Corwenna and began to write an inventory of the belongings they had managed to salvage. Geoffrey thought he was a fool to let himself be bullied so, but it was none of his affair if Durand was too lily-livered to stand up for himself.

He looked at the phial that he held, then pushed it inside his surcoat before turning his attention to what possessing an ancient pot of mandrake might mean.

As the long night continued, fitzNorman progressed from shock to anger, and began looking for someone to blame. Geoffrey wanted no part of it, so he collected his horses and set out towards Goodrich, intending to find a glade where he could rest until dawn. With Giffard swaying in his saddle, and Bale behind, they reached the spot where Hilde had hailed Geoffrey, then passed along a narrow valley. Eventually, they found a small mud hut with a sheet of leather for a door. It was not much, but it sufficed. Bale tethered the horses, while Geoffrey made a fire and settled Giffard in a litter of dead leaves, covering him with a blanket from his saddlebag.

‘I do not like this place,’ said Bale with a shudder. ‘It feels evil, as if spirits linger.’

‘It is just a shepherd’s hut,’ retorted Geoffrey. ‘And you are safer here than you would be at Dene. I will stay awake to make certain we are not attacked.’

Bale shook his head. ‘You need rest more than me. I will wake you in an hour. In the meantime I will stand in the doorway, so that I do not doze off. I do not want woodland spirits coming to slit my throat as I lie dreaming.’

‘Doubtless you would prefer to slit theirs,’ said Geoffrey. He had not meant it to be a joke and did not like the manic grin Bale shot in his direction.

Geoffrey lay down, but was not sure he could trust Bale to be sufficiently watchful. The squire was still an unknown, and Geoffrey was not in the habit of putting his safety in the hands of men he did not know. He resolved not to sleep.

‘I did not do it, sir,’ whispered Bale, coming to crouch next to him.

Geoffrey edged away. ‘Do what?’

‘Kill my mother and father.’ Bale’s voice was little more than a hiss and it made the hairs stand up on the back of Geoffrey’s neck. He sat up as Bale continued. ‘Everyone assumed it was me, but I swear before God it was not.’ He crossed himself in the darkness.

‘There is no need to whisper,’ said Geoffrey, not liking the sibilantly sinister quality of the man’s voice. ‘I doubt you will disturb Giffard.’

‘All right.’ Bale’s normal speaking tones made Geoffrey feel a little more comfortable. But only a little. ‘My father had a liking for ale, and when he was drunk, he was free with his fists. He was not like the Bishop, who just sleeps. He was nasty in his cups.’

‘You mean he had enemies?’ surmised Geoffrey. ‘And one of them killed him?’

Bale nodded. ‘He had enemies, all right, but only one killer: your brother Henry.’

Geoffrey shot to his feet, dagger in hand. It sounded like a confession made just before vengeance was taken, but Bale only continued to stare into the darkness.

‘How do you know?’ Geoffrey asked, when it became clear that Bale was not going to move.

‘Because I saw him,’ replied Bale. ‘I saw him enter my house, and I know my father was alive, because I heard them shouting at each other. I saw Henry leave, but there was no shouting. I went inside, but my mother and father were dead. Stabbed.’

Geoffrey took a deep breath. ‘I am sorry, Bale.’

Bale shrugged. ‘I caught up with Henry and saw fresh blood on his dagger. But my father may have attacked him, so perhaps he was only defending himself.’

‘Why did you not tell anyone?’

Bale shrugged again. ‘What good would it have done? When they failed to prove I was the culprit, the whole thing died down. Henry saw to that, by forbidding people to talk about it.’

‘Did you kill Henry?’ asked Geoffrey.

‘I wish I had,’ said Bale. ‘But the truth is that I have not killed anyone, not even the man in that tavern brawl. He fell backwards and cracked his skull on a table.’

‘I see,’ said Geoffrey, not sure whether to believe him. ‘Why are you telling me all this?’

‘So you will know,’ said Bale simply. ‘You are uneasy with me, but there is no need.’

‘My brother killed your parents,’ said Geoffrey. ‘You may think I-’

‘You are not Henry, sir,’ interrupted Bale. ‘I like you; I did not like him. But it is late and you are tired. Sleep, and I will take the first watch.’

Geoffrey sat again, but kept his dagger in his hand, even more resolved not to sleep. Could Bale be believed when he said that he had not killed Henry? The bloody murder of his parents was certainly a good motive. Geoffrey closed his eyes to mull over the matter more carefully, and the next thing he knew was Bale’s hot breath against his cheek. He jumped into wakefulness, his hand moving instinctively to his sword.

‘Steady,’ said Bale. ‘It will be light soon, and I am too tired to stay awake any longer. It has been much longer than an hour, but I did not have the heart to wake you.’

Geoffrey staggered to his feet, stiff but refreshed. He was astonished that he had slept when he had been determined not to, and supposed Isabel’s milk must have been stronger than she had led him to believe. He stretched, and watched his squire curl up next to Giffard.

‘Thank you, Bale,’ he whispered.

‘You are welcome, sir,’ replied Bale drowsily. ‘I told you I would keep you safe.’

It was still twilight when Geoffrey stepped outside. In the distance he heard someone coming. He ducked into the shadows, but the figure strode briskly past the hut – not even glancing at it – and continued down the hillside.

The previous night had been too dark to see much, but Geoffrey could now make out the outlines of trees and rocks. The valley descended into a steep gorge, and he watched the figure move stealthily to the bottom. He was sure that the person was alone, but listened for some time, just to be certain. Then, cautiously, he followed.

At the bottom of the gorge, the figure bent to touch the ground, then began to sing. Immediately Geoffrey heard that it was a woman. Her song was deep and eerie, and it sent shivers down his spine. A sudden rustle in the trees set his heart pounding. When her singing grew stronger, so did the wind, and he ducked farther back into the undergrowth. He grasped his sword firmly, and told himself that the wind could do him no harm, but, even so, his hand was slippery with sweat.

Eventually, she stopped singing and began to walk back the way she had come. When she reached the undergrowth where Geoffrey hid, she hesitated, and he had the sense that she knew he was there. Then she was gone, apparently keen to be away now that she had finished her business.

Geoffrey took a deep breath and waited for his heart to stop pounding. He was disgusted with himself for being unsettled by a song and a gust of wind. But even though the rational part of his mind told him there was nothing to worry about, it took considerable willpower to look at what she had been doing. On a flat rock, which stood near a bubbling spring, were a variety of objects.

The first things to catch his eye were locks of hair, tied with twine and stuck to the stone with some sort of paste. A dark, sticky substance lay over them, which, in the grey light of dawn, he thought was blood. There were chalk drawings, too. In the centre was a crude depiction of a house with blood fashioned into flames: he could only assume that someone had wanted the manor to burn, and had appealed to sinister forces to make it happen. Then he heard rustling from the trees again and glanced upwards.

With horror, he saw the head of a goat hanging there, its horns splayed to either side and its teeth bared and yellow in the rictus of death. Flies had found its eyes, and, even as he watched, a maggot dropped from it on to his shoulder. He turned and clambered up the hill as fast as he could. He found it hard to catch his breath, and when he arrived at the hut his heart was thumping hard.

‘What is wrong?’ asked Giffard as he exploded inside. ‘You look as though you have seen a goat.’

‘ A goat ?’ echoed Geoffrey in alarm, wondering how the Bishop could have known.

‘I said ghost ,’ said Giffard, enunciating carefully. ‘Have you never heard the expression? It is quite common. Is there anything to eat? I need something to settle my stomach or I shall be sick.’

Geoffrey felt a little sick himself. He rubbed his head. ‘My ears are ringing.’

Giffard’s expression softened. ‘That is the bells of Dene. Come and sit down, and let your man prepare breakfast. We will both need our strength today.’

‘Why?’ asked Geoffrey warily.

Giffard frowned. ‘What is wrong with you? I am the one who drank too much – so much that I do not recall how I come to be here. I simply meant that we must discover whether Walter had a hand in murdering the Duchess, God rest her soul.’

‘You do not remember the fire?’

‘What fire?’

Geoffrey sat next to him, accepting the dry, hard bread that Bale handed him, with a cup of water to dip it in. He felt better when he had eaten it, and pondered what he had just seen, while Bale gave Giffard an account of the manor house blaze.