Simon Beaufort - Deadly Inheritance

‘No,’ said Durand, without a moment’s hesitation. ‘Seguin gives him a dagger with a ruby in it – a ruby, mark you, not a piece of glass – and he shoves it in a chest and does not realize it has been stolen for months? A likely story!’

‘But Goodrich’s servants say Baderon wanted Henry alive.’

Durand was dismissive. ‘He has a temper – you saw how quickly he attacked you in that church. I imagine he did the same to Henry, only Henry was drunk and unable to defend himself.’

Geoffrey supposed that was a possibility.

Durand continued. ‘Then this wretched Black Knife starts to rove all over the place. Joan wraps it in holy cloth, but Olivier removes it from their bedchamber and it disappears for a long time. Then you arrive, and it appears again. The King sees it passed to Baderon, and it is used to murder Baderon’s own son. But Baderon is a liar: I do not believe for a moment that he paid good silver to retrieve a dagger that might cause a rift between him and Goodrich.’

‘You do not like him, do you?’

‘No,’ declared Durand fervently. ‘He would have killed you, had you not ducked out of the way – and then he would have told Joan that he had nothing to do with the death of her youngest brother, either. No, I do not like him.’

Geoffrey imagined the real reason Baderon had earned Durand’s dislike was because of what had happened at Dene. Durand did not forgive insults to his dignity, and he was no doubt delighted to see Baderon in such dire straits. But although Durand was spiteful, his reasoning was flawless. Geoffrey saw Baderon was still very much a suspect.

They arrived at Goodrich, where people continued to discuss Hugh’s death. Giffard was quiet and withdrawn, so Geoffrey sat with him, hoping he would take comfort from a friend’s proximity. He knew exactly why Giffard was upset: the glance Agnes had shot her son had all but confessed Walter’s involvement in Sibylla’s death.

‘I should not have drawn my sword against you,’ Baderon said to Geoffrey as the company assembled for the midday meal. He looked old, weary and tearful. ‘You offended me, but you had good reason to do so. I hope my poor manners will not damage our friendship?’

Geoffrey accepted the apology with amiable grace and then left the hall, not wanting to discuss the matter further. Outside, Olivier was struggling in a strong wind to saddle his pony, and Geoffrey wondered why he did not do it in the stables. Then he recalled Olivier’s admission that he had avoided the stables since Henry’s death. It seemed ridiculous that a grown man should be so unnerved – especially since Geoffrey had removed the charms and dried blood – but Olivier tartly reminded him of his own unease in caves.

‘Where are you going?’ he asked, watching Olivier’s inept fumbling.

‘Out,’ replied Olivier. ‘I like visitors, but these guests are taxing.’

Geoffrey knew what he meant. ‘May I come with you?’

Olivier smiled. ‘I should be glad of the company – and the protection. This Black Knife is at large again, and who knows when the thing will strike next?’

‘Never, with luck. May I ride your palfrey? He is not exercised enough.’

‘Dun? Yes, but do not expect me to take a turn on him. I do not like undisciplined horses.’

Bale came to assist with the saddling, but was more hindrance than help. Eventually, Geoffrey climbed on Dun’s back, only to have the horse rear suddenly, as though he had never carried a rider before. Geoffrey was obliged to shorten the reins in order to control him.

‘He is a lively beast,’ said Olivier. ‘Baderon warned he was wild when he sold him to me. I would ask Eleanor for a charm to calm him, but she is gone God knows where and, unless you are prepared to take him, he must be sold, because there is no one else who can manage him.’

Geoffrey quickly discovered what he meant, as Dun shot off like an arrow from a bow, leaving Olivier behind. People scuttled out of the way as he rounded a corner far faster than was safe. He slowed as they passed the church, although Dun still reared and bucked furiously.

‘There is something wrong with him,’ he said, as Olivier caught up.

‘He is itching for exercise,’ explained Olivier, spurring his pony forward and heading for the woods. He bounced in his saddle like a sack of grain. ‘Give him his head; he will soon tire.’

‘Easy for you to say,’ muttered Geoffrey, who did not think that Dun’s behaviour had anything to do with excess energy. The beast pranced and then bucked hard, forcing Geoffrey to grip tightly with his knees. Another horseman was riding towards him: Seguin, followed by a servant with a cart.

‘Having trouble?’ Seguin asked, watching Dun’s antics with amusement. ‘He just needs a decent run. Or are you too frightened to let such an animal have his freedom?’

‘Why are you here?’ retorted Geoffrey. He glanced at the cart, which carried a wooden box and a blanket. ‘Have you come for Hugh? He is at Walecford, not Goodrich.’

Seguin scowled. ‘The message I received said he is at Goodrich – where he was murdered.’

‘Then it was wrong,’ replied Geoffrey coolly. ‘Incidentally, Baderon says you gave him a dagger with a ruby hilt. I do not suppose you have seen it recently?’

‘It was a fine weapon, but he shoved it in a chest,’ glowered Seguin. ‘The next thing I knew, it was in Henry. But I have not seen it since. If I do, you will be the first to know.’ He made a violent stabbing motion with his hand and rode away.

Gingerly, Geoffrey touched his heels to Dun’s sides and eased the pressure on the reins. The horse started to walk in an odd, sideways gait that told Geoffrey he wanted to go faster. He kept the animal tightly under control until they were well past the village, and caught up with Olivier, who was singing to himself. Olivier continued to warble, indicating with a gesture that music calmed horses. It seemed to work, and they reached the edge of the woods without further incident. A long, straight path stretched out in front of them, heading upwards into a twiggy tunnel.

‘I think I might trot,’ said Olivier, kicking his nag to a slightly quicker pace. The sudden cessation of music and another animal moving ahead were too much for Dun. Ignoring Geoffrey’s commands, he began to gallop. Supposing he might as well let him, Geoffrey eased his grip on the reins, as Dun moved like the wind. Then Dun started his curious bucking movements at speed, taking Geoffrey by surprise. He lurched forward roughly, then heard something snap. While he was still trying to regain his balance, Dun bucked again. Geoffrey felt the saddle loose underneath him. And then he was flying head over heels into a patch of brambles.

‘Good God!’ exclaimed Olivier, trotting up. ‘Are you all right?’

Geoffrey did a rough inventory. His head was spinning, but only his pride was damaged. ‘Yes.’

‘Do not struggle,’ instructed Olivier. ‘Or you will become more deeply entangled. Let me cut some of these thorns away.’

Geoffrey watched him sawing the thick, spiked branches. ‘I have not been thrown by a horse in years. Perhaps you should sell him, Olivier. He is too much for me, too.’

Olivier shoved his dagger in its sheath and offered Geoffrey his hand. Geoffrey half-expected them both to end up in the brambles, but Olivier soon had him extricated. Dun stood quietly, head down. Olivier held the bridle and crooned softly, while Geoffrey went to remove the saddle, which clung at an odd angle. He showed it to Olivier.

‘The strap is broken.’ Geoffrey felt better knowing that the accident resulted from faulty equipment.

‘Not broken,’ said Olivier, studying it. ‘Sawn through. You can see the smooth line of a cut made by a knife, then a jagged part that broke under the strain. Someone deliberately damaged it.’

Geoffrey was angry. ‘How could someone have been so stupid? Joan might have been killed!’

‘No,’ said Olivier. ‘This saddle is only ever used for Dun, and Joan does not use him. There was no chance of anyone riding Dun but you.’

Geoffrey gazed at him. ‘Someone did this to harm me?’

Olivier nodded. ‘Yes, because here is something else – metal shards twisted into the saddle. No wonder Dun bolted! These spikes, along with the damaged strap, were certain to cause an accident.’

‘Who would have done this?’ asked Geoffrey, bewildered.

‘Ralph, perhaps,’ mused Olivier. ‘Or fitzNorman, Baderon, Seguin or Corwenna. Or Agnes and Walter, who are determined to stop you from learning who killed the Duchess. Or perhaps even a servant who was not won over by your flamboyant gambling techniques.’

Geoffrey sighed. ‘A whole host of suspects, as usual.’

They walked back to the castle, leading their horses and discussing suspects. Olivier favoured Ralph, who, he declared, might well use a horse to do his dirty work. Geoffrey was more inclined towards Walter, whose stupidity meant he might not see that such a stunt could hurt the horse as well as his intended victim. They were still debating when they entered the bailey, and Bale came racing up to them grinning from ear to ear.

‘You had better come,’ he said to Geoffrey. ‘Someone has been stabbed in the priest’s house – and there is blood everywhere .’

Geoffrey followed his squire across the bailey, with Olivier at his side. In the street outside the castle people were spilling out of their homes, looking alarmed. Geoffrey left Olivier to allay their fears and headed for the house next to the church, where Father Adrian lived. The priest was in his garden, being sick on his winter cabbages, while Durand tried to comfort him.

‘Aim for the onions,’ Geoffrey recommended as he passed. ‘Joan says they are more resilient.’

‘Do not be flippant,’ snapped Durand. ‘It is not becoming under these circumstances.’

‘What circumstances?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Who is dead?’

Father Adrian emptied his stomach again and seemed incapable of speech, and Durand shrugged that he did not know, so Geoffrey entered the house. He had not been inside it for more than a year, but it was much as he remembered. A neat, clean place, with a fire flickering in the hearth, a pot of stew bubbling and an overfed cat sitting on a windowsill.

The room was full of people who had come running when Father Adrian raised the alarm. Agnes and Walter were there, regarding the victim with dispassionate interest, and Geoffrey realized that their horror over Hugh’s death had been an act, to convince Giffard that they were not killers. Ralph stood rather closer to Agnes than was necessary, while Giffard knelt by the dead man.

Nearby was fitzNorman, holding Isabel’s hand. Her head was tilted to one side, and Geoffrey suspected that she was listening for Ralph. He was glad she could not see him standing so close to Agnes. FitzNorman could, though, and his face was a mask of fury. Joan stood on Isabel’s other side; Geoffrey had the feeling that she was ready to step forward and intervene, should Ralph say or do anything unpleasant and fitzNorman react with anger.

Bale was right in that there was a good deal of blood, although it was no worse than many scenes Geoffrey had viewed. The body sat at Father Adrian’s table, resting its head on its arm as though it were asleep; the other hand lay in its lap. It looked as though its owner was sleeping – except for the gash in the middle of the back.

‘Seguin!’ exclaimed Geoffrey. ‘How did this happen? He was alive and well when I went riding with Olivier a short while ago.’