Simon Beaufort - Deadly Inheritance
‘I did not say you had, but I would like an answer to my question.’
‘You already know what happened.’ Torva tried to free himself, but Geoffrey was strong and he soon abandoned the attempt. ‘Henry started to drink. He kicked Peter and Jervil, and he punched me.’ He pointed to the side of his jaw, and Geoffrey saw a small scar where Henry’s ring had cut it.
‘I am sorry,’ he said, releasing Torva when he realized that he was bullying the man, too. ‘My brother was too ready with his fists.’
‘Like you, he did not like being in the hall with us servants, so he went to the stables. Sir Olivier found him dead the next morning.’
‘Do you know who killed him?’ asked Geoffrey. He had actually left the hall for the servants’ benefit – so they could sleep without being disturbed – but doubted Torva would believe him.
‘I have a number of suspects,’ replied Torva. ‘FitzNorman, Isabel and Margaret; Baderon and Hilde; Wulfric and his children Ralph, Eleanor and Douce; and Corwenna and half of Wales. Henry was unkind to every servant, poor villein and free man from here to Monmouth; he maltreated peddlers; and he hanged three “poachers” he caught in our woods. Then there are Baderon’s knights – Seguin and Lambert. Would you like me to continue? It might be easier to list those who did not want to kill your brother.’
‘Then do so,’ said Geoffrey mildly, refusing to be drawn by the man’s hostility.
Torva thought for a long time. ‘Father Adrian,’ he said eventually. ‘Because he does not own a dagger with a double-edged blade.’
‘What happened to the weapon?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘I know the killer left it in Henry.’
‘Well, he would. You do not keep a Black Knife after it has done its work, do you?’
‘A black knife?’ asked Geoffrey, confused.
‘A Black Knife is a weapon strengthened with curses by a witch,’ said Torva, adding as if it were obvious: ‘You do not keep one after it has killed. It is too dangerous.’
‘And whose dagger underwent this particular transformation?’ asked Geoffrey, thinking it nonsense.
‘No one knows. But it may strike another Mappestone, if it chooses.’
‘Are you threatening me?’ asked Geoffrey coolly. ‘Or Joan?’
‘No, sir,’ said Torva with a false smile. ‘Not Joan.’ And then he was gone.
The next day was wet and cold, but warhorses needed to be exercised daily, so Geoffrey rode towards the hills that overlooked the river, taking the opportunity to familiarize himself with territory that he might have to defend one day. He hoped relations with Goodrich’s neighbours would not degenerate to the point where he might have to put his local knowledge to the test, but there was no harm in being cautious.
The land was an odd combination of familiar and alien after his long absence. Trees had grown or been cut down, and there were more settlements and houses, from which people emerged to watch him ride past. Few spoke to him, and none smiled.
In the middle of a wood, not far from the path, he heard a sharp rustle. His hand went to the hilt of his sword. Then he saw a deer staggering among the dead leaves that comprised the forest floor. He dismounted and approached slowly, angry to see its hind leg caught in a trap. It was too badly injured to set free, so reluctantly – he disliked killing anything not in a position to defend itself – he drew his sword. The deer gazed at him in mute terror and tried to squirm away. Knowing he would only prolong its misery by hesitating, he chopped at its skull, forcing himself not to close his eyes in his distaste for the task, lest he missed and hurt it further.
It died instantly. He wiped his weapon in the grass, then smashed the trap to ensure it would never be used again. Determined that whoever had set it would not enjoy venison for dinner, and since the animal had died on his land, he slung the corpse behind his saddle. Blood dripped down his horse’s flanks, and belatedly he wondered what people would make of him returning besmeared with gore.
In the afternoon he turned towards the castle. The sun was behind him, which meant he was near the Welsh border, and he hoped that he had not inadvertently strayed into hostile territory. The thought had no sooner crossed his mind than there was a snap behind him, as someone trod on a stick. His dog started to bark, and he spun around, hoisting his shield with one hand and drawing his sword with the other.
‘There is no need for that,’ came a man’s voice, although Geoffrey could see no one. ‘I once said there would always be a place for you at my hearth, but although you have been home for almost two weeks now, you have not deigned to visit.’
‘Caerdig?’ asked Geoffrey, smiling as the Welshman stepped from the undergrowth. ‘I was not sure I would still be welcome, given what I have heard about Henry.’
‘Speak Welsh,’ ordered Caerdig. ‘Or have you forgotten how?’
Geoffrey answered in the same tongue, ashamed that his grasp of it was not what it had been; although talented with languages, he struggled if he did not practise. ‘I trust you are well?’
‘Well enough, now Henry is dead,’ replied Caerdig bluntly. ‘He killed my son-in-law, you know.’
‘Joan told me,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘I am sorry.’
‘You are not your brother,’ replied the Welshman with a shrug. ‘My daughter may not agree, though, so do not be surprised if she is hostile when you see her. She still mourns Rhys.’ Caerdig’s attention quickly turned elsewhere. ‘I see you still have that fine dog. Will you sell him to me? I could do with a pack of savage beasts like him.’
‘You will have some anyway, if you leave your bitches unattended,’ laughed Geoffrey.
Caerdig laughed in turn. ‘We are not far from Llan Martin. Come and warm yourself at my fire.’
Geoffrey did not want to oblige, especially after hearing that the man’s daughter harboured ill feelings, but could think of no way to decline without causing offence. So he dismounted and fell in next to the Welshman.
‘Have you prospered?’ he asked conversationally.
Caerdig sighed. ‘No. We are all poorer than the meanest of your peasants. Joan sent us grain again last year – we would have starved without it. We repaid her, of course, with extra to express our gratitude.’ His expression was grim. ‘But we should not have put pride before practical considerations, because now we are short again.’
‘We can provide more,’ said Geoffrey, looking around as they entered Llan Martin. The houses looked as though they had barely survived the winter, and the faces of the people who came out to greet them were pinched and cold, although the welcome they gave was warm enough.
‘We might have to accept,’ said Caerdig resentfully. ‘Although it is not wise to rely on a neighbour’s charity every year. I suppose Joan has been after you to marry?’
Surprised, Geoffrey nodded.
‘You should listen to her. Goodrich is vulnerable when only you stand between it and the wolves that surround it. They may decide another murder is the best course of action.’
‘You think so?’ asked Geoffrey uneasily.
‘Listen to the advice of a man who means you well,’ said Caerdig. ‘Marry quickly – any heiress will do, because they are all of a muchness – make her with child and return to Jerusalem with all haste. Then come back at appropriate intervals to repeat the process. Only when you have at least three strong sons should you entertain living here.’
Geoffrey was amused at the notion of skulking in exile, returning only for lightning strikes on his hapless wife. ‘You think Goodrich is that dangerous?’
Caerdig did not smile back. ‘For you, yes.’
The Welshman pushed open the door to his home. It was dark inside and, even though the afternoon was cool and promised a frigid night, no fires were lit. The floor was of beaten earth, but scrupulously clean, and the few benches and stools were old and lovingly polished. There were bowls of spring flowers on the windowsills, adding touches of colour and a pleasant scent.
The room was large and surprisingly full. Geoffrey recognized Caerdig’s wife, and bowed to her. She inclined her head in return, and then asked how Goodrich’s grain stores were holding out. She seemed very interested in his answers, as did a number of folk who came to listen. There was an atmosphere of unease, and Geoffrey did not feel safe, although he resisted the urge to stand with his back to the wall, suspecting Caerdig would know what he was doing and be offended. He wished he had not dispensed with his armour.
‘Bring logs and tinder,’ ordered Caerdig, rubbing his hands as he strode towards the hearth. ‘No guest of Llan Martin sits before an empty fireplace.’
‘Then what are we?’ asked a man in Norman-French as Caerdig approached. He had been listening to a red-haired woman who muttered at his side, evidently translating what the others were saying. ‘I am a guest, but you did not order the fire lit for me.’
Geoffrey studied the man with interest. He had a dark complexion, and stood at least a head above the villagers. The cloak thrown carelessly across his shoulders was lined with fur, and his boots were of excellent quality. His bearing indicated that he was a man of some standing, used to having his orders obeyed. He had two companions, who also stood as Caerdig escorted Geoffrey to the hearth; both wore swords in their belts and mail tunics.
The man to the left was shorter, with long, wispy yellow hair and a sardonic smile. Geoffrey immediately saw they were kin. The man to the right was older. He had a thick, grey mane and a white beard that was carefully curled. His clothes were well cut, and his sword was a good one, with a sharp blade and a functional hilt. None were the kind of men Geoffrey would have expected to see in the home of poor Welshmen.
Caerdig forced a smile. ‘This is Sir Seguin de Rheims,’ he said to Geoffrey, speaking Norman-French with an accent that was almost impossible to decipher. Seguin apparently knew no Welsh.
‘I am his brother, Lambert,’ said the fair-headed knight. He indicated the older man. ‘And this is our friend.’
Geoffrey knew he was being misled: the last man was obviously the most important. He recalled Torva saying that two knights in Baderon’s service were called Seguin and Lambert. Unless Geoffrey was mistaken, the older man was a good deal more than their friend.
‘Lord Baderon,’ he said with a bow.
‘Baderon?’ asked Caerdig in alarm. He reverted to Welsh as he addressed Geoffrey. ‘Are you sure? The man himself has come to visit me?’
Baderon seemed amused that his ruse had been exposed. He smiled at Geoffrey. ‘How did you guess? We have not met before, because I would have remembered.’
‘Who are you?’ demanded Seguin.
‘He is Geoffrey Mappestone,’ supplied the red-haired woman, coming to inspect Geoffrey. ‘We played together as children, although he has grown since then. Do you remember me?’
Geoffrey was immediately on his guard, as he could see there was a good deal of animosity bubbling in Caerdig’s only daughter. The gangly child had grown into a beauty, with smooth skin and a poised elegance. However, what he remembered about playing with Corwenna was not what she had looked like, but the fact that she had devoted considerable effort in finding ways to ambush him in order to pull his hair.
‘I remember,’ he replied pleasantly. ‘You have grown, too.’
‘Are you calling me fat?’ she demanded, and he saw that he would have to be more careful with his words if he did not want an argument.
‘You are no longer a child,’ he replied gently. ‘That is all I meant.’
Before she could say anything else, Seguin stepped forward. ‘I am here to pay court to her,’ he declared. ‘So if you hope to secure her for Goodrich, you are wasting your time. She is promised to me.’
Geoffrey felt an instinctive dislike for the man. He saw Baderon wince at Seguin’s lack of manners, while Lambert stepped closer to his brother, as if expressing solidarity.
‘My marriage to Sir Seguin will improve Llan Martin’s fortunes – but, more importantly, it will weaken Goodrich,’ Corwenna explained nastily.
Geoffrey doubted it. Llan Martin was too poor to be a serious threat, although Caerdig’s word carried weight among other Welsh leaders. The previous night, Joan had mentioned Baderon’s penchant for marrying his knights to Welsh ladies, and he supposed that he was witnessing such a match.
‘Corwenna cannot remain a widow forever, so it is time we found her a profitable marriage,’ said Caerdig to Geoffrey, reverting to Welsh. ‘Sir Seguin is wealthy and, although not a Welshman, we are not in a position to be fussy.’
‘He is acceptable,’ said Corwenna in Norman-French, confident in the knowledge that Seguin would not know what she was talking about. She glowered at Geoffrey. ‘Of course, I would not be in this position, were it not for you.’
‘Me?’ asked Geoffrey, startled.
‘Take no notice,’ said Caerdig quickly. ‘She means no harm.’
‘Do I not?’ snarled Corwenna, turning on Geoffrey with such vehemence that he took an involuntary step back. He trod on his dog, which yelped and bit Lambert. Pandemonium erupted, although Corwenna seemed oblivious to the yells that ensued as Lambert tried to stab the dog and Caerdig tried to stop him. ‘You killed my Rhys.’
‘I did not,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘I never met him.’
‘Henry was your brother,’ she hissed. ‘Our customs say the blame is now yours to bear.’
‘Well, the King’s law does not,’ replied Geoffrey tartly. ‘How could I control what Henry did when I was not here? Besides, he is dead.’
She glared at him, but he saw out of the corner of his eye that Lambert had the dog cornered and was raising his sword to strike. He turned and tore the weapon from the man’s hands. Lambert regarded him in astonishment.
‘That brute bit me with no provocation.’
‘I apologize,’ said Geoffrey, handing the sword back. ‘He dislikes strangers.’
Lambert fingered the weapon in a way that indicated he was ready to use it. ‘What will you do to compensate me? Silver? Or a sister to entertain me for a night when I happen to be passing?’
‘I doubt you will want to be entertained by Joan,’ said Seguin. ‘She is the dragon who keeps Goodrich from hostile invasions. If you interfere with her, it will be the last thing you will do!’
Geoffrey was not prepared to stand by and hear Joan abused by the likes of Seguin. ‘Do you want to fight me?’ he asked coldly. ‘Is that why you insult my sister?’
Lambert stood at Seguin’s side; weapon ready to join him in any skirmish. Geoffrey regarded them with disdain, thinking the brothers had little honour if they were prepared to pitch two men against one in a private quarrel. He drew his own sword and waited to see who would attack first.
