Deadly Inheritance

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘That was easy,’ said Olivier. ‘I thought he would object.’

  ‘He just agreed,’ said Joan, pleased. ‘You saw him nod.’

  Geoffrey glanced up and wondered what he had done. ‘Marry?’ he asked, forcing his muddled wits to concentrate before he found himself in deep water.

  ‘Goodrich needs an heir,’ said Joan, making it sound like it was his fault it did not have one. ‘And the sooner you make a start, the better. If you die without one, the estate will pass to Baderon, our overlord. But fitzNorman will counterclaim, because part of Goodrich lies in the forest.’

  ‘And Wulfric de Bicanofre will become involved, too,’ added Olivier. ‘Some of the manors we own were once under his lordship – before the Conqueror divided them up.’

  ‘The only way to prevent a dispute is to provide heirs,’ said Joan. ‘At the moment you are the only thing standing between our neighbours and extra land. You should marry – to protect yourself, if for no other reason.’

  ‘Later,’ replied Geoffrey tiredly.

  Joan scowled. ‘No, soon. Within a month.’

  Geoffrey gaped at her. ‘A month?’

  ‘It is the price you pay when you inherit an estate that is strategically important and wealthy. There are several candidates to choose from.’

  ‘Henry did not marry within a month of inheriting Goodrich,’ Geoffrey pointed out resentfully.

  ‘He started thinking about it, though. As we said, he set his heart on Isabel fitzNorman – much good it did him.’ Joan’s eyes lit up. ‘Are you interested in her? She would certainly be the best, and an alliance with fitzNorman would solve numerous problems.’

  ‘After what Henry did to her?’ asked Geoffrey uneasily. ‘I doubt she will be very keen.’

  ‘She did dislike Henry,’ agreed Olivier. ‘But her father is a practical man who knows good value when he sees it.’

  ‘Speaking of which, did you speak to Helbye about stopping his tales of slaughter?’ asked Joan. ‘You will have greater value, and will be easier to sell, if people think you are polite and gentle.’

  ‘Sell?’ echoed Geoffrey, horrified. ‘I am not an animal.’

  ‘You are a commodity,’ countered Olivier. ‘Much like Baderon’s prize ram, which is the envy of the region. Both represent a way to greater wealth.’

  ‘Lord!’ breathed Geoffrey, shocked.

  ‘You said you wanted to be appraised of all the details surrounding Henry’s death,’ said Joan tartly. ‘And his wedding plans were certainly a factor: it is possible he was killed because someone thought he was looking in the wrong direction. Like you, he had six heiresses to choose from. FitzNorman was furious at what happened to his daughter, but, even so, Isabel would be my first choice. He is Constable of the Forest, and a favourite of the King.’

  ‘Then Isabel is out,’ said Geoffrey firmly. ‘I do not want to attract the King’s attention. Besides, if fitzNorman did kill Henry, he may believe that what worked for one brother will work for another. I do not want to be stabbed when he decides I am not appropriate for his daughter.’

  ‘He has a sister,’ said Joan tentatively. ‘Margaret – a gentle woman with a sizeable dowry . . .’

  ‘How old a sister?’ asked Geoffrey suspiciously.

  Joan was dismissive. ‘That does not matter. Since she is a widow, she knows her duties and will require little training.’

  ‘No,’ said Geoffrey. ‘For the same reasons as Isabel.’

  Joan pursed her lips. ‘Then there is Hilde, Baderon’s daughter. He would not normally be interested in us, but he has been ordered to secure peace in the region, and combining his estates with ours would certainly keep fitzNorman quiet.’

  ‘He has already tied three of his daughters – and several of his knights – to useful alliances, and is looking for a match for his son Hugh, as well as Hilde,’ added Olivier.

  ‘I will not marry Hugh,’ said Geoffrey flippantly.

  Joan ignored him. ‘Baderon offered Hilde to us once. He may be prepared to do so again.’

  ‘Why did Henry refuse her?’ asked Geoffrey warily.

  ‘He wanted someone pretty,’ said Olivier bluntly. ‘And someone . . . well, someone who does not behave like a man. I can see his point: Hilde seems just as happy wielding a battleaxe as a needle.’

  ‘There are rumours that she may be barren,’ Joan continued. ‘In which case, she will not suit our needs at all. But people have unkind tongues, and the rumour may have arisen because she is older than her sisters and not yet wed. I shall make enquiries.’

  ‘Did Henry refuse Hilde politely when she was offered?’ asked Geoffrey uncomfortably.

  Joan looked furtive. ‘Comments were made by both parties, which ended with her leaving in a rage. It was unfortunate, and I later berated him for not being more tactful.’

  Geoffrey sighed. ‘So Baderon – and Hilde – had a reason to kill Henry, too? Because he refused her in an unpleasant manner?’

  ‘Possibly,’ hedged Joan.

  ‘Then I do not want her, either. I cannot marry a woman who may have murdered my brother. It would be rash, to say the least.’

  Joan was becoming exasperated. ‘Then what about Wulfric de Bicanofre’s daughter – Douce?’

  ‘Did Henry refuse her, too?’

  ‘He pointed out that he could do better.’

  ‘God’s teeth!’ muttered Geoffrey. ‘Is there any woman whom Henry has not offended?’

  ‘Well, there is Wulfric’s older daughter,’ said Joan. ‘Eleanor. But you will not want her.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Just trust me,’ replied Joan. ‘There is also Caerdig’s daughter Corwenna, but an alliance with him would be of little benefit.’

  Geoffrey was surprised. ‘I thought good relations with the Welsh were important.’

  ‘They are, but Caerdig is too poor to risk open warfare. He would be delighted were you to accept Corwenna, but you can do better. Besides, she has no love for our family.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Geoffrey.

  ‘Because Henry killed her husband, Rhys,’ said Olivier. ‘Henry fired some cottages, and Rhys was trapped inside.’

  ‘Christ’s blood!’ muttered Geoffrey.

  ‘Caerdig knows grudges are detrimental to his people’s welfare, but his daughter is young,’ said Joan. ‘You could be the most charming man in Christendom, and she would not have you.’

  ‘So, she might have slipped a dagger into Henry, too?’ asked Geoffrey.

  Joan nodded. ‘It would have been easy for her to enter our stables after dark.’

  ‘I will make you my heir,’ said Geoffrey, suddenly inspired. ‘Special dispensation can be granted for women to inherit. I have read about such cases. Then I can remain single, and the problem of an heir will be yours.’

  ‘Baderon would never permit it,’ said Joan. ‘You would need his permission, and he will not give it when he stands to lose. You have no choice: you must marry, and you must do it soon, so these issues can be resolved.’

  ‘But I do not like the sound of any of these women,’ protested Geoffrey. ‘Perhaps Roger will know a suitable lady from Durham—’

  ‘That will do no good,’ said Joan firmly. ‘You must choose someone from here. And you will not be safe until you do.’

  Two

  When Joan and Olivier retired to their chamber, Geoffrey was not tired. He supposed it was not surprising, given that he had slept late that morning and then lain in a drunken slumber for most of the afternoon. He went to his room, but he could not settle. If there had been a tavern nearby, he would have gone, but the nearest was across the river.

  He sat at the table, struggling to read a scroll he had brought from the Holy Land. But he was not in the mood for philosophy, and his mind kept returning to Henry’s murder. Perhaps Joan was right: he would never discover the killer’s identity. But he knew that he would remain uneasy if he didn’t at least try, and he resolved to press on as diplomatically as he could. He was about to make a li
st of suspects – which included all six suitors and their fathers – when a scratching sound caused him to jump up and draw his dagger. He moved quickly to the door and ripped it open, causing the man outside almost to tumble in. The fellow recovered himself quickly, and his face went from alarm to an impassive mask.

  ‘Torva,’ said Geoffrey, recognizing Goodrich’s steward. Torva was thin-lipped, with greasy hair that parted in the middle and dangled limply around his shoulders. Joan swore that he was honest, but Geoffrey did not like the way the man looked at him.

  ‘Sir Geoffrey,’ replied Torva flatly.

  ‘Well?’ asked Geoffrey, when Torva said no more. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I saw a light under your door,’ said Torva expressionlessly. ‘We are always worried about fires, so I came to investigate.’

  ‘I was reading,’ explained Geoffrey, indicating the scroll on the table.

  ‘I see,’ said Torva, in a voice he might have used had Geoffrey confessed to chanting spells to summon the Devil. ‘Remember to blow out the candle before you sleep.’

  ‘Of course I will remember,’ said Geoffrey, wondering if the man thought him an idiot. He glanced down and saw that Torva carried a hefty dagger. Was it something he always wore, or just when he slunk around at night? Geoffrey could not recall seeing it before, but had not paid close attention. Then it occurred to him that Henry had bullied Torva, and the steward was yet another murder suspect. ‘What happened the night Henry died?’

  ‘I did not kill him,’ Torva said in alarm. He turned to leave, but Geoffrey caught his arm.

  ‘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 tho
ugh 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.