Simon Beaufort - Deadly Inheritance

Geoffrey took a deep breath and raised his bloodied sword to battle through the mass of men at the foot of the keep. The staircase had been removed, but the invaders had piled ladders against the wall and some were already inside. Roger and his men were still mounted, striking furiously at anyone entering the bailey gate, but Geoffrey could see none of his own horsemen, except for Bale, who was trying to keep raiders out of the stables.

Geoffrey’s armour and surcoat attracted the attention of many hoping to claim a knight among their kills, and it was some time before he reached the ladders. He was weak with fatigue, and one inferior swordsman came closer to skewering him than he should have. Finally, Geoffrey grasped the ladder and climbed, kicking out when someone grabbed his leg.

With sweat stinging his eyes, he reached the door. Joan’s once-pristine hall was stained with blood, and there were bodies everywhere, suggesting that it had not been taken easily. Giffard was in a corner wielding his stave against two attackers, while Olivier crouched behind him, hands raised to protect his head. Geoffrey moved quickly, and made short work of both invaders.

‘Joan?’ he gasped.

Giffard pointed to the opposite side of the hall, then braced himself as another man launched an attack with a war-like screech. The howl ended abruptly when Giffard’s stave met the man’s skull. Seeing the Bishop could fend for himself, Geoffrey fought his way across the room. At the centre of a tight knot of skirmishers was Joan, meeting Corwenna’s axe blows with a shield, while Baderon exchanged half-hearted swipes with Torva and Peter. Hilde, hair flying wildly about her face, was screaming at Corwenna.

‘They will surrender now!’ she howled. ‘Put up your weapon!’

‘Not until Joan is dead,’ hissed Corwenna.

‘Our fight is not with her!’ shouted Hilde, trying to pull Corwenna away.

Corwenna spun round and turned on Hilde, swinging the axe towards her unprotected head. Hilde ducked, and Joan struck Corwenna hard with the shield, but the blow had little impact. She raised her axe again, and Geoffrey saw her smile as Hilde backed up against a wall with no way to defend herself.

Hilde met Corwenna’s eyes without fear. The axe started to fall. Geoffrey snatched a shield from a corpse and hurled himself between them, feeling the force of the blow send agonizing tremors through his arm.

‘You!’ screamed Corwenna in fury, turning on him. Geoffrey lifted his sword, but before he could close with her, Joan stepped forward and brought down her shield on Corwenna’s head with all the force she could muster. Corwenna dropped to the floor and jerked convulsively before going limp.

‘Is she dead?’ asked Giffard uneasily. ‘God knows I am not a man to wish death on another human being, but the world will be a safer place without Corwenna in it.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Hilde, looking at the distorted shape of Corwenna’s skull. ‘She is dead.’

‘I think enough of us have died for one day,’ said Baderon loudly, dropping his sword and raising his hand to indicate Torva and Peter should desist their attack. ‘This fight is over.’

Those inside lowered their weapons, and Baderon and a trembling Olivier went together to end the skirmishes outside. Word spread quickly, and the sound of fighting petered out until only the groans of the wounded could be heard. Inside, Geoffrey looked at his broken home. He removed his helmet and scrubbed hard at his face. His arms were so sore from wielding his sword that he felt he might never raise them again. The faces of the others showed they felt the same.

‘Who won?’ asked Torva. ‘Them, because they managed to get into the hall? Or us, because we fended them off?’

‘I do not think there are any winners here,’ said Giffard soberly.

The silence that followed was broken by an urgent call.

‘Geoff!’ shouted Roger from the door. ‘Come quickly!’

Afraid there was a pocket where the fighting continued, Geoffrey forced his weary legs into a run. He caught up with Roger – beckoning urgently – near the stables. When they rounded a corner, there was Durand, sitting against a wall and clutching his bag to his chest.

‘Our traitor,’ Geoffrey said coldly. ‘What did you call me for? I want nothing to do with him.’

‘He was asking for you,’ said Roger. ‘He is dying.’

Geoffrey crouched to examine the clerk and was startled to see blood pooling in his lap. Durand’s face was ghastly white, although Geoffrey could see no injury. He tried to move the sack, but Durand clutched it tighter against him.

‘No,’ he whispered. ‘You cannot have it while I am still alive.’

‘I am looking for your wound, to stem the bleeding,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I do not want your silver.’

‘You can have it after I have gone,’ croaked Durand. ‘I bequeath it to you, but only on condition that you buy masses for my immortal soul.’

Geoffrey thought Durand’s sins were far too great to be tempered by prayers. ‘Let go of the bag,’ he ordered. ‘I may be able to save you.’

‘No,’ said Durand, fiercely clutching the sack. ‘You will steal it and leave me to die alone. I want you to hear what I have to say first.’

Feeling that he was betraying himself even being in Durand’s presence, Geoffrey sighed. ‘What? There are wounded men all over my bailey who need tending. I do not have time to chat.’

‘Everything you said is true. I killed Jervil, I killed Hugh and I killed Seguin. And I twice tried to kill you. I did it because it is not fair that you have fine lands and a loving family, and I do not.’

‘You have your demesne in Suffolk,’ Geoffrey said. ‘And it is better than mine – or so you have boasted on several occasions.’

‘ Suffolk! ’ sneered Durand. ‘The King insulted me when he gave me that estate. It is nothing!’

‘I do not understand,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Are you saying you committed your crimes because you are jealous of Goodrich?’

‘I wanted you to give up living here and work with me. We could have had a glittering future – earned a great fortune. Besides, the King promised me a better manor if I could entice you back into his service. I tried asking politely, but you refused. You left me with no alternative but to deprive you of home and family to make you change your mind.’

Geoffrey was appalled. ‘But it is not just me you damaged here. Baderon-’

‘ Baderon! The bastard who refused me appropriate respect. Your sister is no better. She did not even offer me the welcoming cup when we arrived. Everyone else was given wine, but not me.’

Geoffrey glanced at Roger, and saw that he was just as bewildered by the stream of invective. ‘If all this was because you wanted me to work with you, why did you try to kill me?’

‘I am not stupid.’ Durand’s voice was growing softer. ‘I knew you would never seriously consider my offer – even after I helped you by lending you my gloves and giving you that phial Walter dropped. You have always despised me.’

‘That is not true,’ said Geoffrey, not entirely truthfully. ‘I admire your intelligence and turned to you several times because I thought you were the best person to ask for advice.’

Durand’s sullen expression lifted for a moment, but then collapsed again in obvious disbelief. ‘So, being unable to bring you to my side, I decided to take away your happiness. I do not see why you – a brutal, cold ruffian – should grow old peacefully while I struggle.’

Geoffrey was baffled. ‘Let me see your wound, Durand,’ he said finally. ‘We can talk about this later.’

‘It is too late,’ whispered Durand. ‘I am dying. I should not have tried to destroy you, and I need your forgiveness before I meet my Maker, or I will never escape purgatory, and that would not be fair. You have to forgive me. I order it.’

Geoffrey recalled Durand’s earlier monastic aspirations and that, despite his crimes, he believed what the Church said happened to sinners. ‘You cannot order forgiveness. It must be freely given.’

‘Then give if freely,’ wheedled Durand. ‘If you do, I will tell you another secret – the last one I have that affects you.’

‘Forgiveness is not mine to grant,’ said Geoffrey, thinking about the grief Durand’s actions had brought to so many others.

‘It was you I wronged,’ said Durand weakly. ‘So it is you who must forgive me. I am begging you, Geoffrey. And then I will tell you something important.’

Geoffrey hesitated for the briefest of moments, but when he looked back, the clerk was dead. He removed the bag from Durand’s limp hands and saw that the blade of a knife protruded from it.

Roger stepped forward. ‘Baderon was dashing here and there to end the fighting, and Durand thought he was being chased. He ran away, and fell over in his haste to escape. He landed on his bag, and the knife he carried in it must have pierced his chest. But Baderon was not chasing Durand – he had no reason to, because he does not yet know that it was Durand who killed his son.’

Geoffrey inspected Durand’s wound, then sat back on his heels. ‘If he had let me see this, instead of assuming I wanted to steal his fortune, I would have been able to save him. The cut is not in his chest, but nicked a vessel in his groin. He bled to death from an injury that did not need to be fatal.’

‘Then it serves him right,’ said Roger. He nodded towards the bag. ‘He left you whatever is in that. Will you open it?’

Geoffrey hesitatingly obliged and was astonished to find it packed full of silver coins and jewellery. ‘There is a fortune here! Durand claimed to be envious of Goodrich, but he could have bought a manor three times its size with this.’

‘He saw you were happy,’ said Roger sagely. ‘And, because he equates happiness with wealth, he assumed you were rich, too. But there is something else in the bag.’

Something light flopped to the ground when Roger shook the sack, but Geoffrey’s attention was on the silver and he did not notice. Roger quickly shoved the bundle of documents in his surcoat before his friend noticed. Documents, he knew, would only bring trouble, and Geoffrey had endured more than his share of that at Durand’s instigation. It was better he remained ignorant of whatever was written on the neatly tied parchments.

Oblivious to Roger’s actions, Geoffrey shook the bag a final time, then jumped back in revulsion when the last object clattered to the ground. It was the knife that had killed Durand. The blade was still wet with his blood and the ruby in its hilt gleamed in a sudden burst of sunshine.

‘It is the Black Knife,’ whispered Roger. ‘And it has just claimed its latest victim.’

‘Its last victim,’ corrected Geoffrey softly. ‘Its reign of terror ends here.’

London, early summer 1103

St Paul’s Cathedral was full, and there was celebration in the air. Bells rang to announce the beginning of the ceremony, and, outside, crowds of Londoners gathered to watch the grand processions as the bishops of Winchester, Hereford and Salisbury prepared to accept their consecration from the Archbishop of York. People wore their best clothes, and ermine-lined cloaks, kirtles of expensive silk and jewel-encrusted shoes were everywhere. Geoffrey stood near the back of the church with Roger, wearing the new surcoat Joan had made for him. Its Crusader’s cross was bright and sharp, and Bale had made his mail gleam.

The great west door was thrown open, filling the cathedral with light. Geoffrey gazed in admiration at the elegant lines of the clerestory and the thick, sturdy piers. Giffard was obliged to poke him hard with a bony finger to get his attention.