Deadly Inheritance

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘You are not listening to me,’ Giffard hissed, uncharacteristically speaking during the sacred office. ‘I asked whether you have thought any more about Agnes and Sibylla.’

  ‘I cannot help you.’ Geoffrey saw hope fade from the Bishop’s eyes. ‘Not because I do not want to, but because I do not see how it can be done. If we were in Normandy, it might be different, but we are talking about something that happened far away. For all you know, the Duchess might have had many enemies – perhaps even the Duke himself.’

  ‘No,’ said Giffard firmly. ‘He loved Sibylla. The only person who wanted her gone was Agnes. I accept her guilt. All I want to know is whether Walter helped.’

  ‘Ask him,’ suggested Geoffrey. ‘You are his uncle.’

  Giffard grimaced. ‘I tried, but he told me to . . . well, let us say he was not polite. I need someone with your skills to find the truth.’

  The Bishop continued his appeal at breakfast in the hall. The King was there, and all was fuss and flurry as he and his courtiers prepared for a day of hunting. He wanted Giffard and Geoffrey to come, but the Bishop was alarmed by the prospect of slaughter, so Henry asked him to look at some documents from the Archbishop of Canterbury instead.

  As a knight, Geoffrey could hardly plead an aversion to killing, and had no choice but to accompany the royal party. He was about to mount up when he heard screams from a nearby storeroom. It was Hugh. When Geoffrey arrived, he found several others already there, including Seguin and Lambert.

  ‘It is nothing,’ said one of the King’s retinue as he pushed his way out. ‘Baderon’s half-wit son has himself in a bother over a rat.’

  Geoffrey entered the room to see Hugh on a table, while an equally terrified rodent quivered in a corner. The rat could not escape without passing Hugh, and Hugh was going nowhere as long as the rat was there. Cruelly, Seguin feinted towards the animal, which scurried in alarm and caused Hugh to begin another bout of anguished shrieks. Several onlookers laughed uproariously. Pleased by their response, Seguin made as if to do it again, but Geoffrey grabbed his arm.

  ‘Stop,’ he said quietly. ‘This is not kind.’

  ‘To the imbecile or the rat?’ quipped Seguin, shaking him off and making Lambert guffaw.

  Seguin took another step towards the rat, which bared its teeth, and Geoffrey saw tears of terror on Hugh’s face. Geoffrey shoved Seguin roughly towards the door.

  ‘Enough,’ he said sharply.

  Seguin gaped in astonishment and his hand went to his sword. ‘Do you dare tell me—’

  ‘Don’t,’ said Lambert, stepping between them. ‘Brawling will incur the displeasure of the King.’

  ‘You will certainly incur his displeasure if you follow Corwenna,’ said Geoffrey. ‘He will not be pleased if Baderon and his Welsh allies invade England.’

  ‘We will not invade England,’ said Lambert. ‘But we may attack Goodrich. We will tell His Majesty it was full of traitors. As long as the “invasion” goes no further, he will not risk a war just because your estates have been sacked.’

  He dragged his brother away, leaving Geoffrey with Hugh and the rat.

  ‘Take my hand, Hugh,’ Geoffrey said. ‘We are going outside.’

  ‘No!’ wept Hugh, putting his fingers over his eyes. ‘It will bite.’

  ‘It will not,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Look, I have my sword. Take my hand, and then we will find your sister.’

  Hugh shoved plump fingers towards Geoffrey, who helped him off the table. As soon as he moved, the rat aimed for the slop drain and its freedom. Hugh became calmer when it had gone.

  ‘That was kindly done,’ said Hilde from the door. ‘Hugh is frightened of rats. I am none too keen on them myself, and was wondering how I was going to extricate him.’

  Surprised there was something that could unsettle her, Geoffrey handed Hugh into her care and started towards his horse. Hilde caught his sleeve.

  ‘Seguin and Lambert are strong, aggressive and determined to make their fortunes. I do not like them, but they are the kind of men we need on our side if we are to have peace. Do not make enemies of them, Geoffrey. Look what happened to your brother when he did so.’

  Geoffrey regarded her uncertainly. ‘What are you saying? That they killed him?’

  She met his eyes. ‘I have heard rumours to that effect, although I have no proof. Nor have I heard them talking about it, as I might, had they been responsible – Seguin is boastful and revels in such tales. But your brother was murdered, and I would not like to see you go the same way.’

  ‘Your father would. Then he could take Goodrich for himself, which would be far better than an alliance by marriage.’

  ‘My father is not a murderer. He wants peace.’

  ‘Does he?’ asked Geoffrey.

  ‘I heard Margaret’s comments when you thought I was sleeping yesterday,’ Giffard said that evening, as he sat with Geoffrey in their chamber. The Bishop drained his goblet and held it out for Bale to fill. Bale raised his eyebrows, but said nothing as he obliged the thirsty prelate for the fifth or sixth time in a short period. ‘She also believes Agnes killed Sibylla. I am not alone in my suspicions.’

  Giffard’s face was flushed as he emptied his cup and thrust it out for yet more, and Geoffrey hoped that he was not one of those drunks who talked gloomily all night, because he wanted to sleep. Meanwhile, he drank some honeyed milk that Isabel had provided. She said it was her own concoction, and he did not want to offend her by tipping it out of the window. He usually avoided milk, on the grounds that it was for children, but Giffard’s wine had a strong, salty flavour, underlain with something unpleasant. The milk tasted much better.

  ‘Margaret was not a regular figure at the Duke’s court,’ Giffard went on. ‘So, if she suspects Agnes, others will do likewise.’

  ‘Probably,’ agreed Geoffrey, recalling that Durand had done just that.

  Giffard gagged slightly. ‘Wine really is a nasty substance. I do not know why people like it.’

  ‘You will be ill tomorrow, if you drink it like water,’ warned Geoffrey, wondering what was making the normally abstemious bishop guzzle the stuff.

  Giffard ignored him and took a healthy gulp. ‘It will not be long before everyone knows my family killed the most beloved woman in Christendom. I had already asked Margaret about Agnes, and she told me nothing. You had more from her in a few moments than I managed to prise from her in a week. Where is that damned squire? I want more wine.’

  ‘Have some milk,’ suggested Geoffrey, indicating with a nod that Bale was to remain in the shadows. Giffard had had enough for one night. ‘It tastes like sweet vomit.’

  ‘Why would I imbibe sweet vomit?’

  ‘As penance,’ said Geoffrey, ‘for forcing a poor knight to do your dirty work.’

  Giffard gave a startled smile. ‘You will do it? You will help me?’

  ‘I will try,’ said Geoffrey unhappily. ‘You would probably do the same for me.’

  ‘I would not,’ declared Giffard drunkenly. ‘I am not qualified, and would render matters worse. But I shall not forget your kindness.’ Tears formed in his eyes.

  ‘Tell me about Agnes and Walter,’ Geoffrey said hastily, knowing Giffard would be mortified the next morning if he lost control of his emotions. ‘She does not look old enough to be his mother.’

  ‘A combination of marrying young and potions,’ said Giffard, pronouncing the last word with considerable disapproval. ‘She looks better from a distance than close up, which is why she likes to come out at night, I suppose. It is dark and men are full of ale – less inclined to be critical.’

  ‘You sound like some old abbess, jealous of her younger nuns,’ said Geoffrey, watching Giffard lurch to his feet and fetch the wine himself. He was thoughtful. ‘Her knowledge of substances that keep her young may also extend to less benign purposes.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Giffard, flopping into his chair so hard that the contents of the cup spilt down his habit. When he tried to drink, he was
puzzled to find the cup empty.

  ‘I mean that she may know enough about poisons on her own, so had no need to recruit Eleanor,’ elaborated Geoffrey, wondering whether he should postpone the talk until Giffard was not so inebriated. ‘What else can you tell me?’

  ‘Her marriage to my brother was not happy.’ Geoffrey leant forward, obliged to concentrate on the Bishop’s slurred words in order to de-cipher them. ‘They fought constantly, and I am sure her affair with the Duke was by no means her first. She is greedy and very ambitious. You will see that the moment you speak to her – if she does not drag you into her bed first. Damned whore!’

  ‘Easy,’ said Geoffrey, seeing a drunkard’s rage in Giffard’s eyes. ‘And what about Walter?’

  ‘Ambitious and avaricious, like his mother. He was delighted when his father died, because he became Earl of Buckingham.’

  ‘It is odd that so many people in Normandy when Sibylla died are now in Dene.’

  Giffard hiccuped, and for a moment he looked as if he might be sick. Geoffrey prepared to dive out of the way.

  ‘Not really. Many barons with English manors own land in Normandy, and they travel together for safety. The roads in Normandy are very dangerous, with Bellême on the rampage. He is an evil bastard, burning villages, destroying crops, killing men who look at him the wrong way. Now Sibylla is not there, his power will increase. Our King is delighted, of course. A weak Normandy works in his favour: its barons will welcome him when he finally invades.’

  Geoffrey was shocked at Giffard’s bluntness. He knew it would not be long before King Henry turned greedy eyes on Normandy, but he had not expected to hear it from his loyal Bishop. ‘You are drunk. You will be sorry for saying these things tomorrow.’

  Giffard tried to stand, but fell back in his chair. ‘You are right. I should let you sleep, before I say anything else – although I trust you not to repeat my ramblings to the King. I shall pull my chair across the door, so any nocturnal invaders will have to pass me before they reach you.’

  ‘You will protect me, will you?’ Geoffrey was amused.

  Giffard nodded. ‘A drunk is a terrible object to surmount. He flops in your way, is heavy and almost impossible to steer where you want him to go, and when you think you have him under control, he is sick over you.’

  Geoffrey laughed. He had only previously seen Giffard drink water or weak ale, but supposed the Bishop might partake of powerful wines when unhappy. ‘Are you speaking from experience?’

  ‘From observation. My brother had a liking for wine. I cannot imagine why. Thank God my vocation gives me an excuse to decline it.’

  ‘Except for this evening. You have finished an entire jug on your own.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ slurred Giffard. ‘You had most of it. I had but a sip, and only because I am thirsty. Go to sleep, or you will have a thick head tomorrow.’

  The snores began before Geoffrey could reply. The knight moved a chair to the door himself, which Bale offered to occupy. When Geoffrey lay on the bed, confused thoughts washed inside his head. He was not sure that he could help Giffard – the only people who knew whether Agnes and Walter were guilty were Agnes and Walter themselves, and he did not expect them to confess. Others could only repeat rumours and speculation.

  Eventually, Geoffrey slept, but his dreams teemed with disjointed images. He spoke to people he did not know and walked through unfamiliar villages. Then he was in the tunnel under a castle Tancred had been besieging before it collapsed. Geoffrey had been trapped for days in the dark, with water rising around him. Even years later, his dreams sometimes took him back to the pitch-blackness and the prospect of slow, lonely suffocation. He knew it was only a nightmare, but he still could not breathe. Then Bale was shaking him. His squire’s hands clawed at his chest and throat, and, for a moment, he thought he was being strangled. He wrenched himself into wakefulness, but still could not catch his breath.

  ‘There is a fire!’ Bale was shouting. ‘Smoke is coming under the door!’

  Bale hauled Geoffrey to his feet. It was still the middle of the night, but people were screaming and there was a steady thump of footsteps on wooden floors. Terrified horses were whinnying in the stables, and dogs were barking furiously. Giffard was still slumped in the chair, so Geoffrey lurched across to him. The Bishop was either drunk or comatose from the smoke, and barely moved when Geoffrey shook him.

  ‘Look!’ Bale shrieked.

  Geoffrey followed the outline of his pointing finger and saw orange flickering under the door. The fire was close. He heard a dull roar and the light flared. The blaze would not be easy to control, and the house might already be lost. He crossed the room and touched the metal latch. It was searingly hot, and he jerked his hand away.

  ‘If we open that, flames will rush in, and the room will ignite like a haystack. We must escape through the window.’

  ‘It is too far down!’ cried Bale. ‘We will break our necks.’

  ‘There is a rope in my saddlebag. Tie it to the mullion.’

  With shaking hands, Bale rushed to do as he was told, then helped Geoffrey haul Giffard from his chair. The knight grimaced. Giffard had not been exaggerating when he described the difficulty of moving a drunk, and Geoffrey was sweating heavily by the time they had the Bishop lowered to the ground. He glanced at the door and knew that they did not have much time. The fire was hungry for air, and it would only be moments before the frail barrier disintegrated and flames tore into the room.

  Even as he turned, there was a crackle and the door was suddenly alive with fire. In the sudden brightness Bale grabbed him and almost hurled him through the window. He snatched at the rope and slid down it. Bale was directly above him, feet kicking wildly as he gripped the windowsill. Then a wave of heat washed over them, accompanied by a tongue of flames. Geoffrey jumped the last few feet; Bale quickly joined him.

  Geoffrey seized Giffard’s arm and tried to shake him awake. More flames shot out of the window and showers of sparks rained down on them, causing Bale to curse like a demon. He pushed Geoffrey aside, tossed the insensible Bishop over his shoulder and raced away. Geoffrey hurried after him, joining members of the household who were gathering in the yard.

  In the leaping flames it was difficult to recognize people, but he glimpsed Eleanor’s red cloak. Someone followed her closely, and Geoffrey saw the pair hand in hand, stopping only for a quick embrace. Then flames lit her companion’s face, revealing the pretty features of a woman. The wearer of the red cloak was not Eleanor at all, but a man with an identical garment – or perhaps he had borrowed it from her.

  A bell was clanging, and Geoffrey heard fitzNorman yelling to his servants. Orange flames shot high into the sky, and the soldiers who had been ordered to douse the blaze could not get close enough to do any good – the heat drove them back before their water could touch the flames. It was hopeless.

  Bale dumped Giffard, then raced towards the stables to save their horses. Geoffrey marvelled at his dedication to duty; Durand would not have thought of the animals. Geoffrey hauled Giffard to his feet and half-carried, half-dragged him to a hedge outside the main gate, where he would be safe and untrampled if the fire spread. He leant close and heard a snore that suggested Giffard was still drunk rather than overcome with fumes, so he rolled him on to his stomach, tucked his cloak around him and trotted back to the yard.

  He tried to locate Isabel and Margaret – he did not want them roasted for lack of a guiding hand – but he could not see them, so pushed his way into a confused throng. The first people he recognized were Seguin, Corwenna and Lambert. All three had smoke-blackened faces.

  ‘Have you see Isabel?’ he asked urgently. ‘Or Margaret?’

  Seguin barely looked at him as he hurried away. ‘I am more interested in my horse.’

  ‘Heroics will not win you Isabel,’ said Lambert. ‘She loves only Ralph. I paid her court myself – I am by far the richest of Baderon’s knights – but she was not interested. If she will not have me, she certainly
will not have you.’

  Geoffrey broke away from Lambert and moved through the survivors, peering into smoke-streaked faces. But Isabel was not there. He wondered if she had fallen, or been knocked down in the panic, and was disorientated and unable to find a way out. He recalled his own experience in the collapsed tunnel – especially vivid because of his dream – and thought it would be an awful way to die. He redoubled his efforts to find her.

  ‘Is Isabel safe?’ he shouted when he saw fitzNorman. The Constable was bellowing orders, clearly under the impression that he could still save his home.

  ‘I saw Margaret, and I assumed they were together,’ fitzNorman replied. He looked numb with shock. ‘What have I done to deserve this? And when the King is visiting, too!’

  ‘Where is the King?’ asked Geoffrey. If Henry had not escaped, fitzNorman would have to contend with far more serious issues than the loss of his manor – some people would conclude that the blaze was deliberately set to deprive England of her monarch.

  FitzNorman’s face grew whiter still. ‘I do not know.’

  ‘We should find him,’ said Geoffrey. ‘You go that way; I will look near the stable.’

  FitzNorman lumbered away, leaving Geoffrey to scan the faces of those still flooding from the buildings. Smoke swirled thick across the yard, and he raised an arm to protect his eyes, then collided heavily with someone doing the same. It was Serlo, holding Hugh by the hand. Baderon’s heir was sobbing helplessly.

  The Abbot responded to Geoffrey’s question about the King by gesturing vaguely towards the guest hall. Geoffrey moved on again, as another familiar figure approached, hacking and staggering.

  ‘I have been burnt!’ cried Durand, cradling a bloodied hand to his chest. ‘And my hair caught fire!’ His golden locks had been singed and, combined with the dirty water he had used to extinguish them, were a sorry mess.

  ‘Have you seen Isabel or the King?’ Geoffrey asked urgently.

  ‘I saw nothing,’ said Durand, coughing hard. ‘But I heard yells coming from the guest house. It sounded like Henry’s voice, but I think his servants are seeing to him.’