Simon Beaufort - Deadly Inheritance
‘I will mention it to Joan,’ hedged Geoffrey.
Baderon smiled and patted his shoulder. ‘That is all I ask.’
He moved away, leaving Geoffrey contemplating, while absently staring at the pigs. Margaret thought the dried plums were sinister, while Baderon proffered an innocent interpretation. When he glanced away from his porcine companions, he saw Eleanor emerging from the kitchen, her veil and gloves in place. She carried a pot.
‘How are you?’ she asked. ‘Did you manage to sleep after I removed those splinters?’
He nodded. ‘And you?’
‘I rest during the day, when I have the room to myself. Can I test this ointment on you? I need to know whether you can detect a warming sensation, or whether it needs to be stronger. As I said last night, I am not good with medicines. My talents lie in other directions.’
‘What is it?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘Nothing that will do you any harm. Hold out your arm.’
Geoffrey tucked both hands in his surcoat. ‘My mother told me never to accept potions from strange women.’
‘You think I am strange, do you?’ Eleanor laughed. ‘Well, perhaps you are right: everyone else seems to think so, too. However, I devised this salve for the pigs. There is something wrong with them, and I do not like seeing animals suffer.’
‘Then test it on them.’
‘Yes,’ she said caustically. ‘But they will not tell me whether they feel a tingling sensation that means it is working, will they?’
‘Try it on yourself. Surely, you are the best one to judge its potency?’
‘I have an aversion to mandrake root. It makes my skin blister.’
He regarded her uneasily. ‘Mandrake root? I thought that was poisonous.’
‘Only when applied improperly. That is why I use so little, and why I need a person to tell me if there is warmth. I may have been too careful, and the pigs will not have any benefit.’
‘A simple wash would do them more good than potions. Or a clean sty.’
He left Eleanor looking for another victim, and was crossing the crowded hall when he met Durand. The clerk was wearing yet another outfit, this one a glorious deep red, cut so closely that it looked to be part of his skin. Geoffrey would never have worn such a revealing costume, especially if he had Durand’s paunch.
‘The King is here,’ said Durand, dancing a jig that had Seguin and Lambert gaping in astonishment. ‘My rescue is at hand. You cannot imagine how I yearn to be back in Westminster.’
Geoffrey was grateful he would not be the one to break the news of the sojourn with Giffard, and sincerely hoped Henry would not disclose the idea’s origin. ‘Have you considered Normandy? Its turbulence gives it much potential for a man who enjoys intrigue.’
Durand nodded. ‘I have, but it is safer here.’ He leant close to Geoffrey, who resisted the urge to move away when he was treated to a waft of flower water. ‘I hear tales of terrible happenings. And some of them include women you have been talking to.’
‘Isabel?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Or do you mean Margaret?’
‘Neither,’ said Durand dismissively. ‘I was referring to Eleanor. She has a way with poisons, and there is a suggestion that the Duchess died by foul means. What do you conclude from that?’
‘That you should ask yourself why Eleanor would want to murder Sibylla before spreading nasty stories about her,’ said Geoffrey tartly. ‘She has no reason to-’
‘She is friends with Walter Giffard,’ interrupted Durand. ‘And Walter’s mother was the Duke’s mistress. Of course, Eleanor helped him with a potion or two.’
He gave a smirk and minced away, leaving Geoffrey staring. Had Eleanor supplied poison to Walter, who had encouraged his mother to use it? Or was it Agnes who had asked Walter to procure the poison?
‘You were in the right place earlier,’ came an unpleasant voice at his side. Geoffrey jumped; so deep in his thoughts, he had not heard Corwenna approach. Seguin and Lambert were behind her. ‘Were you attracted to kindred spirits?’
‘Pigs,’ said Seguin, in case Geoffrey had not understood. ‘You were looking at the pigs.’
‘Enjoy them while you can,’ said Corwenna. The tone of her voice implied it was a threat.
It was not one Geoffrey understood. ‘Why? Are you planning to steal them when you go home?’
She glowered at him, and answered in Welsh. ‘Because your days are numbered. Soon my people will pit themselves against England.’
Geoffrey answered in the same tongue. ‘Baderon is trying to promote peace. That is what the King wants – and what his knights should want, too.’
She shrugged. ‘What the King wants is unimportant. We are interested in our own welfare. You will soon be crushed by a great enemy – we have not forgotten last summer.’
‘Last summer?’ asked Geoffrey, bewildered. ‘You mean when my brother was killed?’
‘Your brother is nothing,’ spat Corwenna. ‘Last summer we were ready to fight for Belleme, but Prince Iorwerth changed sides and we went home empty-handed. Since then, the English have chipped away at our lands, taking a manor here, a church there. Well, we have had enough, and will rise against you. You grain and cattle will be ours, and your lands will burn.’
Geoffrey was appalled at the prospect of a war along the Marches, and hoped Corwenna was exaggerating. But he had the feeling she was not. ‘Fighting will damage all our peoples, and-’
‘What is he saying?’ demanded Seguin, struggling to understand.
‘She is telling me that Baderon’s alliances will not work in the way he hopes,’ said Geoffrey. He knew Corwenna had spoken Welsh because she did not want her future husband to know she was plotting insurrection. ‘She claims his new “friends” will unite to attack England.’
‘I did not,’ said Corwenna sharply in Norman-French, and Geoffrey could see that they believed her. ‘I said he should leave the region before someone runs him through.’
‘Like someone did his brother,’ said Lambert.
‘Geoffrey did that himself,’ sneered Seguin. ‘To get his hands on Goodrich. I hear the stable where Henry died is full of dead birds, put there by his servants to make sure he does not murder them, too.’
‘When will this invasion take place?’ Geoffrey asked Corwenna. ‘And what will Baderon get out of it? I am sure he does not want to raid Goodrich for grain and cattle.’
‘We will never join Wales to attack England,’ said Seguin, laughing at the notion. ‘Baderon may be foolish, but he is not entirely stupid.’
They walked away, although not before Geoffrey saw the frown that crossed Lambert’s face. The discussion had sparked something in his mind, and he was not ready to laugh it off like his brother. Geoffrey watched them go uneasily. Would the Welsh princes use the alliances Baderon had forged for their own ends? Until now, everyone had assumed the alliance would work in England’s favour, but there was nothing to say that the Welsh would not capitalize on the situation.
Six
The next morning Geoffrey woke early following a restless night. He attended matins in the church of Dene, but found it difficult to concentrate. He was not the only one whose mind was elsewhere.
‘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.’
