Deadly Inheritance

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘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.’

  Epilogue

  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.

  ‘I asked whether Goodrich was recovered.’

  The Bishop wore his ecclesiastical finery – a cope of gold and a mitre on which precious stones were sewn. He carried a silver crosier, and the holy ring on his finger was almost as large as his fist. Geoffrey smiled when he saw the ha
ir shirt still in place under the handsome vestments. The occasion had not touched Giffard with vanity.

  He nodded to his friend. ‘And there is peace. We sent grain to Caerdig, and he has married Mother Elgiva – who, as a wise woman, is greatly respected in Llan Martin.’

  ‘And you are betrothed to Hilde, to strengthen the truce,’ said Giffard. ‘That seems a major sacrifice.’

  ‘Hilde is a fine warrior,’ said Roger admiringly. ‘They will produce strong sons who will be great soldiers.’

  ‘Oh, good,’ said Giffard acidly. ‘More men spoiling war. But have you heard the news? Reinhelm of Hereford has declined to accept consecration today. He says he can only have it from the Archbishop of Canterbury. He has gone home.’

  ‘That still leaves you and Salisbury,’ said Roger, not understanding the Bishop’s point. ‘Two is not as good as three, but do not worry. We will still enjoy ourselves, especially at the feast tonight.’

  ‘I was not thinking about your fun,’ said Giffard irritably. ‘I was thinking of my conscience. Reinhelm is right: York does not have the authority, and if I allow him to consecrate me, I tell the King that he can order me to do what he likes, even when Canterbury forbids it.’

  Geoffrey was worried. ‘But you have known this for weeks. I thought you were pleased that the King had found a way to consecrate you while he and Canterbury are locked in this row. Henry will be furious if you refuse now.’

  Giffard swallowed. ‘If I flout Henry today, he will be my enemy forever. He will send me into exile and I can hardly rule my see from Normandy.’

  ‘Then do not flout him,’ urged Geoffrey.

  ‘And my conscience?’ asked Giffard. ‘It tells me something different. You follow yours, so do not tell me to ignore mine.’

  ‘I would never do that,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I would always trust you to do what is right.’

  Giffard was troubled. ‘The King has already questioned some of my actions. He took Agnes from the convent I put her in and she is back at court. Look, she is there.’

  Dressed in her ceremonial best, Agnes Giffard looked stunning, and triumph was in every line of her being. Next to her was Walter, wearing a sword to indicate that he had recently been granted his spurs; he was officially a knight.

  ‘She told the King she was acting in his interests by trying to kill the Duchess,’ Giffard went on. ‘There is no question that Sibylla’s death has damaged Normandy, and Henry says he believes her. I only hope he knows what he is doing.’

  ‘There are many rumours that she killed Sibylla,’ said Geoffrey. ‘By bringing Agnes to his court, Henry is perpetuating them. She is basking in her perceived success and is unlikely to confess that she failed. Do you not see what is happening?’

  Giffard frowned. ‘I am so repelled by the whole business that I cannot imagine what Henry hopes to achieve by flaunting her sins.’

  ‘He is taking attention away from someone who might have had an even greater reason to want the Duchess dead and Normandy weakened.’

  Giffard stared at him. ‘You think the King might have harmed Sibylla, and is using Agnes to obscure his guilt?’

  Geoffrey shrugged. ‘We will never know. But your ceremony is about to begin.’ He caught the Bishop’s hand as Giffard turned to leave. ‘And smile occasionally. You are happy, remember?’

  The grin Giffard shot him was sickly, and Geoffrey thought it would do more harm than good if seen by the masses. Giffard hurried to take his place in the procession, and with a flurry of horns, the magnificent event began. First a line of monks chanting a psalm, then a number of assistant bishops who were also to be consecrated, with Giffard and Salisbury bringing up the rear. The procession was an explosion of gold and white, jewels glinting in the sunlight that flooded through the clerestory. Geoffrey’s ears rang from the exultant singing, and he did not think he had ever seen such a display of splendour.

  The procession reached the high altar, and York began so speak, hushing even the rabble outside. More singing followed, then the heady scent of incense wafted up the aisles. In ringing tones, York invited the bishops to come before him and receive his blessing. Because Winchester had priority over Salisbury, Giffard went first. He knelt, then stood up.

  ‘I cannot do this,’ he announced. ‘It is not right.’

  He shrugged out of his cope and mitre, shoved his crosier at a startled monk and strode towards the door. For a moment, there was only stunned silence and the sound of Giffard’s sandals slapping the flagstones. Then pandemonium erupted. Monks surged forward, as if to drag him back, while others pressed towards the altar. The ceremony quickly degenerated into a scene of confusion, with York howling for Giffard to return, some applauding Giffard’s courage and others cursing him.

  Geoffrey ran to Giffard’s aid as people pressed around him. Tears coursed down the Bishop’s anguished face. Walter snatched his uncle’s arm and yelled that he was a traitor, and it was with some satisfaction that Geoffrey shot an elbow to the boy’s nose. Roger helped Geoffrey beat back those who wanted to haul Giffard to the altar and have him consecrated by force. Word quickly reached the common people, and they cheered Giffard for his courage. Eventually, Geoffrey managed to spirit him away.

  ‘Now you have done it,’ said Roger nervously. ‘The King will not be pleased.’

  ‘No, he will not,’ said Giffard with a serene smile. ‘But my conscience is clear.’

  A few hours later, Roger waylaid a royal clerk and offered him a silver coin to read the documents he had taken from Durand. Roger had an unpleasant feeling that Durand’s ‘final secret’ had something to do with the parchments. He knew he should give them to Geoffrey, to make up his own mind, but Roger could not rid himself of the notion that they would bring more problems to his friend’s door.

  The clerk, a man called Eudo, was one of Henry’s longest serving scribes. His kindly, honest features were a ruse: he was neither. However, he was absolutely and completely devoted to the King. He took the letters Roger proffered and began to read, making sure his face did not register the surprise he felt. They were missives sent from Prince Tancred to Geoffrey Mappestone, asking the knight to proceed to the Holy Land as soon as his business with King Henry was completed. Geoffrey’s wise counsel was missed, Tancred wrote, and there would always be a place for him in his Holy Land kingdom, no matter how often family obligations forced him to visit England. The tone was brotherly and affectionate, and it was clear the two men enjoyed a strong friendship.

  Then there were copies of other letters that Eudo’s skilled eye told him were not written by the same scribe. They were forgeries, albeit clever ones. These railed furiously at Geoffrey for not returning when he had promised, and the last was a brutal severing of all further correspondence in a manner that could not have been more different from the originals.

  There were also several missives signed by Geoffrey himself, apologizing for his tardiness in returning to his liege lord’s service and explaining his reasons in a clear, orderly manner. It was obvious these had never been sent. Notes on a scrap of parchment, along with several words mimicking Geoffrey’s writing, told what had been dispatched in their place – bald statements that verged on the insolent. Eudo was not surprised Tancred had professed himself concerned about his favourite commander’s health in his later replies: the letters Tancred had received were a far cry from the originals.

  Listening to Roger’s explanation of how he had come by the documents, Eudo managed to piece together the puzzle: Durand had taken over the correspondence between knight and prince. Tancred now believed Geoffrey could no longer be bothered to fight his cause, and Geoffrey was under the impression Tancred would kill him for disloyalty if he set foot in his kingdom. Even Eudo would not have stooped to use such tactics, but it was done, and there was a chance that the King might benefit from the situation . . .

  ‘You were right not to give these to your friend – or to show them to anyone else,’ Eudo said to Roger, who was watching with troubled eyes. ‘
They outline a treasonous plot against the King, led by Durand and in which Sir Geoffrey was to play a significant role.’

  ‘No!’ breathed Roger. ‘Durand might be that stupid, but Geoff has far too much sense.’

  Eudo smiled his kindly smile. ‘Then the best thing we can do is burn these and ensure they never fall into the wrong hands. It would be unfortunate if your friend was charged with treason, just because Durand penned some deranged thoughts of regicide.’

  Roger nodded eagerly, and they both watched as the letters were consumed by flame. Eudo knew the King would be keen to hear of Durand’s revenge on the two men he felt had tormented him. Their friendship was irreparably smashed, and neither was likely to write to the other again. Like other kings, Henry would soon have a Jerosolimitanus in his retinue.

  ‘There,’ said Roger, when the last letter was curled and black. ‘Now he is safe.’

  ‘We have taken a serious risk,’ said Eudo sternly. ‘If we tell another soul what we have done, we may be accused of treason ourselves – and your friend will be doomed for certain.’

  Roger rested his hand on the Crusader’s cross on his surcoat, and his face was grave. ‘I swear, by this holy symbol, that I will never tell anyone what we have just done.’

  ‘Good,’ said Eudo, who could see Roger meant every word. Only Eudo himself and the King would know what had really transpired between Tancred and his faithful knight.

  Goodrich, mid-summer 1103

  A few days after Geoffrey’s return from seeing Giffard board a ship into exile, he opened the chest in his room and removed the Black Knife. He knew he should have disposed of it sooner, but he had been too busy with castle repairs and trying to pay court to Hilde. Now, with Goodrich recovering, he could delay no longer. He put the charm from Eleanor around his neck and took the dagger in his hands. He knew it was his imagination, but he thought he sensed the thing vibrating.

  He shoved it in a sack, asked Bale to saddle his horse and rode out of the castle. He headed west, in the direction Eleanor had taken when she had gone to meet her lover, because he held the inexplicable belief that the weapon might cause less harm if closer to her. He had travelled about three miles when he met Olivier, returning from an amble. Olivier frowned when he saw Geoffrey’s preoccupied expression, and, when Geoffrey told him what he planned to do, turned his little pony to follow him.