Deadly Inheritance (8 page)

‘I know,’ said Bale with a grin, giving the impression that he had stabbed a few hapless victims himself. ‘But something arrived for you, and Sir Olivier said I should bring it.’

Geoffrey waited. Several moments passed, but Bale merely continued to beam. ‘What did Olivier tell you to bring?’ he asked, when he saw that they might be there all morning unless he spoke.

‘A letter,’ said Bale. ‘On scraped calfskin.’

‘Vellum,’ said Geoffrey, wondering who would send him a message on vellum when parchment was cheaper. Could it be Roger, who had appropriated a considerable quantity of silver from Bristol the previous winter, and who liked making extravagant gestures? He waited again. ‘Where is it?’

Bale fumbled in his unsavoury clothes and eventually found what he was looking for. He handed the message to Geoffrey and then came to loom over his shoulder.

‘I thought you said you could not read,’ said Geoffrey, moving away.

‘I cannot,’ replied Bale, following him.

Geoffrey edged away again, wanting to read the message in peace, but Bale moved with him, standing uncomfortably close. Geoffrey began to lose patience. ‘What are you doing?’

Bale was surprised. ‘Waiting for orders, Sir. Anything written on vellum is likely to be sinister, and you will not want to speak loudly. So I am standing close.’ He reconsidered. ‘Although, if anyone overhears, I can slit his throat to ensure his silence.’ He looked around hopefully.

Shaking his head, Geoffrey turned his attention to the letter. It carried a seal that he recognized immediately: William Giffard, the Bishop of Winchester. He was assailed by an immediate sense of unease. Giffard was a good man, but was entrusted with a lot of the King’s business. Geoffrey considered tossing the missive away, to remain oblivious to whatever Giffard wanted, but he supposed there was no point when Olivier, Bale and probably others knew it had been delivered. Reluctantly, he broke the seal.

The message was brief. It told him Giffard was currently at the nearby estate of Dene, and asked Geoffrey to visit. It was badly written, as if penned in a hurry, and its brevity lent it an urgency that the knight found worrisome.

‘I am going to Dene,’ he said. Despite the voice inside his head warning him that it might be wise to decline the summons, he liked Giffard, and did not want to fail him.

Bale fell into step beside him as he strode towards the castle, and began to chat. ‘The forest around Dene belongs to the King, and Constable fitzNorman looks after it and its animals – so the King can slaughter them whenever he likes.’

Geoffrey could think of no reply to such a remark, so he walked to the stable, where Jervil and Torva were talking. They stopped when they saw him.

‘We are off to Dene,’ Bale announced, shoving past them. ‘Move. I must saddle the horses.’

Groom and steward exchanged a glance. ‘Why Dene?’ asked Torva.

Geoffrey was inclined to tell them it was none of their affair, but said instead, ‘An old friend invited me.’

Jervil turned to Torva in agitation. ‘He is going to talk to Lord Baderon about Henry. And the Constable and his daughter and God knows who else. Will there be no end to this business?’

‘Seguin is a violent man,’ said Torva. ‘You would do well to stay well clear of him and his brother Lambert. And Baderon, for that matter.’

‘They are not at Dene,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I met them yesterday in Llan Martin. They—’

‘Baderon and his henchmen
are
at Dene,’ insisted Jervil. ‘For a week’s hunting. So do not try to mislead us.’

‘Here!’ snapped Bale, emerging from the stables with Geoffrey’s horse. ‘Watch your mouth. No one talks to him like that when
I
am here.’

‘I am not trying to mislead anyone,’ replied Geoffrey, stepping forward to prevent Bale from making good his threat. ‘However, I
will
find out what happened to Henry, no matter what it takes – and if that means talking to Baderon, Seguin and Lambert if I happen across them, then so be it.’

Torva indicated with a jerk of his head that Jervil and Bale were to leave them alone. Bale went to saddle his own horse, while Jervil, scowling, walked Geoffrey’s stallion a short distance away.

‘I am sorry if we seem rude,’ Torva began in a conciliatory voice. ‘But it really is better if you let Henry’s death lie.’

‘Better for whom?’ asked Geoffrey archly. ‘The killer?’

‘For all of us, including your sister. Henry was always vicious, but in the months before his death, he grew beyond control. He broke Sir Olivier’s arm, and beat a shepherd so badly that he died. He prowled the countryside picking fights, and it was only because Lady Joan is so respected that Goodrich was not razed to the ground.’

Geoffrey was not sure whether to believe him. ‘What precipitated Henry’s sudden wildness?’

‘Lady Joan made some wise investments, and Goodrich’s fortunes soared. It meant there was money for luxuries like wine. Henry could not keep from drinking. He started the moment he woke, and he continued until he slept.’

‘Did no one stop him? For his own good?’

‘Olivier tried – and had his arm snapped for his troubles. Joan locked Henry in the cellar for a week, hoping that forcing him to become sober would make him see the error of his ways. But he threatened to get a message to the King, and Joan did not want to attract royal attention. She was afraid the King might demand some favour from you, as payment for overlooking an unlawful imprisonment. From what I have heard, it was not an unreasonable fear.’

Geoffrey supposed it was not. ‘Then what happened?’

‘Henry was worse than ever. Ask anyone – they will all tell you the same.’

‘And that is why you want me to forget his murder? Because you think I will learn that someone here killed him? Jervil, for example.’

‘Jervil did not kill him,’ said Torva with absolute certainty. ‘He heard the scuffle, although he will never admit it to you. But he
saw
nothing.’

‘How do you know Jervil is not the killer?’

‘Because of the Black Knife that killed Henry,’ replied Torva. ‘It had a ruby in its hilt. Jervil could never afford such a valuable thing – and if he had, he would not have left it in a murdered corpse for everyone to identify. Jervil has light fingers where valuables are concerned, and nothing would have induced him to leave such a fine dagger in Henry.’

‘Whose was it, then?’

‘We do not know. But it belonged to a wealthy man, not a groom.’

‘FitzNorman?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Or Baderon?’

‘Not Baderon,’ replied Torva, again sounding certain. ‘But Seguin and Lambert are a dangerous pair. Baderon does not have them under his control, as he should vassal knights. I am not saying they are the killers, but they were the first ones who came into our minds when
we
saw the dagger.’

‘Where is this dagger now?’

‘Joan took it,’ replied Torva. ‘She has it locked away.’

Geoffrey donned full armour before he went to Dene: a mail tunic that reached his knees, his stained Crusader’s surcoat with its distinctive cross, a mail hood and his conical helmet. It was far in excess of what was required for a normal ride, but he did not want to meet Baderon or his knights unprotected.

He packed a bag with a few items he thought he might need for a day or two – a scroll to pass the time if Giffard could not see him immediately, a spare dagger and the needle and thread he used to repair damage to his armour. At the last moment, he included a tunic Joan had given him, which she said was the kind of thing worn when dining in polite company. It was green, and therefore a little bright for his liking, but it was smarter than the brown one he wore at Goodrich. He jammed it in and then buckled the sack closed. Slinging it over his shoulder, he walked down the stairs and into the bailey. Bale and Jervil were waiting with the horses, and even from a distance, Geoffrey could hear that they were arguing.

‘It is
not
wrong,’ Jervil was saying. ‘I am offering you a couple of pennies for doing nothing. I do not see why you are making such a fuss. It will be the easiest money you ever earn.’

‘No,’ said Bale, and Geoffrey could hear the stubbornness in his voice. ‘He is my master and I will not spy on him.’

‘You will
not
be spying,’ Jervil insisted, trying to press coins into the big man’s hand. ‘I only want to know if he meets Lord Baderon. Surely you can do that for two silver pennies?’

‘No,’ said Bale, pushing him away with considerable force.

Jervil replaced the coins in his purse. ‘Very well. It is your loss.’

He turned and walked away. Geoffrey rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Torva believed that Jervil had not murdered Henry, and had given reasons Geoffrey was prepared to accept. So, why was Jervil interested in whether Geoffrey met Baderon? Had Jervil left gates open and turned a blind eye while Henry was stabbed by someone from Baderon’s retinue? It made sense: Jervil should not have slept through the murder, no matter what he claimed, and was obviously protecting someone.

And what of Bale’s reaction to Jervil’s bribe? Was he really loyal to a man he had served for so short a time? Loyalty was earned, not bought overnight. So was Bale simply eager to serve his new master well, or was he already in someone else’s pay – someone more powerful than Jervil?

Geoffrey took the reins and set off with his squire behind him. He looked for his dog, but it was not to be seen, and he supposed it was just as well. It had bitten Lambert the last time, and he did not want another altercation. He was riding across the drawbridge when he met Joan.

‘Where are you going so heavily armed?’ she demanded.

Geoffrey smiled reassuringly. ‘Bishop Giffard is in Dene, and has asked me to visit. And it is a fine day for a ride.’

‘It is going to rain,’ countered Joan. ‘And Dene is not worth the journey – it is only a few miles distant, but the tracks are poor. You will not be able to travel there and back today.’

Geoffrey shrugged. It would not be the first time he had slept by the roadside.

‘Do not go,’ pleaded Joan. ‘Wait until Roger arrives. He will watch your back, and I will feel happier knowing he is with you.’

Geoffrey was surprised. ‘You think someone at Dene might try to harm me?’

‘FitzNorman might if you accuse him of killing Henry.’

‘Then I will not do it,’ promised Geoffrey, wondering why she had so little faith in him when his diplomatic skills had impressed kings and princes.

Joan sighed. ‘If you must go, then at least look at Margaret, Isabel and Hilde while you are there, and see if any meet your expectations. If they do, I can have you wed this week. And take this.’

‘I have knives,’ said Geoffrey, declining to accept the minuscule blade she proffered. It was no longer than his finger, and he wondered what she thought he could do with such a thing.

She tucked it into the cuff of his tunic, securing it there with a series of folds. ‘Your daggers are large and flagrant, but this is discreet.’

‘Speaking of daggers, I am told you have the one that killed Henry. Where is it?’

She gazed at him coolly. ‘Jervil wanted it, but I did not think it right that the blade that killed my brother should be used to remove stones from horses’ hoofs – although others thought it a suitable epitaph. I kept it in my bedchamber for a month, wrapped in cloth that had been soaked in holy water, but its presence disturbed me, so I gave it to Father Adrian. There was a ruby in its hilt, and I thought he could prise it out and sell it to buy bread for the poor. You must ask
him
what he did with it.’

‘It might help me identify his killer.’

‘How? None of us had seen it before and, if we do not know it, then how can you? You could look at it all day and it would tell you nothing.’

Without further ado, she reached up to touch his cheek, wished him God’s speed and returned to her business.

With Bale behind him, Geoffrey followed the path of the Wye as it meandered through the forest. The roots of trees snaked across the path, and in places Geoffrey was obliged to dismount, to make sure his horse did not stumble. Bale watched his every move and did the same, showing he was prepared to learn, which Durand had never been.

It was a cool day, with clouds slung low across a dark sky, and it was not long before it started to rain. Bale tugged his cloak over his bald head, and they rode in silence. Geoffrey was alert for any unusual sounds or movements. Forests were good places for ambushes, and he had not lived to the ripe old age of thirty-three by being careless. But no one else seemed to be out, and the only sound was the patter of rain.

They left the river and passed through Rwirdin, which Geoffrey’s mother had bequeathed him. He studied it with interest – he had only been there twice before – and saw a neat place with a sturdy manor house and well-tended houses. He stopped to pay his respects to the steward, and stayed longer than he should have.

It was mid-afternoon before he set out on the final leg of the journey, and he hoped Giffard would find him a corner that night, because a wind was picking up, carrying with it a drenching drizzle. It was no weather to be sleeping in the open. Geoffrey urged his horse to greater speed.

Suddenly from the shadows a woman stepped out on to the track in front of him and raised her hand imperiously.

Her appearance was so abrupt that it startled Geoffrey’s horse, and he was hard pressed to prevent it from riding her down. Warhorses were strong animals, capable of carrying a knight in full armour into battle, and were not always easily controlled. That evening, it was skittish, and only at the very last moment was Geoffrey able to pull away from the woman.

‘Keep still,’ she ordered. ‘I want to talk to you, and I cannot while you are prancing around like a maiden who has set eyes on a spider.’

Geoffrey was tempted to ignore her and give his horse free rein to thunder along the track to Dene, but the woman was well dressed and spoke Norman-French with an accent that suggested she had learnt it in the home of a high-ranking noble. He suspected that she was from fitzNorman’s entourage, so decided to be courteous. He dismounted.