Deadly Inheritance

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘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.

  ‘Put up your weapons!’ ordered Caerdig, stepping between them. ‘There will be no fighting in my house.’

  ‘What did you expect, father?’ demanded Corwenna acidly. ‘You invited a Mappestone into our home, which meant it was only a matter of time before someone died.’

  Baderon raised his hands to appeal for calm. ‘Seguin should not have insulted Joan, but Sir Geoffrey’s dog should not have bitten Lambert. So we are even. Let us put an end to this nonsense.’

  Lambert complied willingly enough, but Seguin only sheathed his weapon when Lambert muttered something in his ear. Satisfied, Baderon went to the hearth. The feeble blaze did little to warm the house, however, nor did it do much for the atmosphere of frigid resentment that hung over Caerdig’s guests. Geoffrey saw that he was a fool to create enemies of Baderon’s knights, and knew he should make amends. He sat where Baderon indicated, and tried to be polite.

  ‘Lord Baderon wants to form alliances with his Welsh neighbours,’ said Lambert, addressing Geoffrey with equally forced amiability. ‘He has offered my brother a manor if he takes a Celtic bride. We both have lands in Normandy, but they are in an area ruled by Bellême, and he keeps attacking them. It is safer for us to be here.’

  ‘You leave your people to fend off Bellême alone?’ asked Geoffrey, startled. Bellême was a cruel and vicious tyrant, and the knights’ place should have been with their villagers.

  Seguin bristled, but Lambert did not take offence. ‘He is less likely to raid if we are away – there is no one to seize and hold to ransom, you see.’

  ‘A marriage here will suit me nicely,’ said Seguin. ‘And Lord Baderon is prepared to be very generous if I take Corwenna.’

  ‘I am,’ agreed Baderon. ‘The
King ordered me to pacify this region, and marriage between my knights and our Welsh neighbours is an excellent way to achieve a lasting truce.’

  Geoffrey nodded, although it occurred to him that such marriages might unite the Welsh against the English. He wondered how quickly he could leave without offending anyone – he did not want to be near Baderon’s fiery knights, or Corwenna.

  Caerdig beamed at his guests, relieved that they appeared to have put the spat behind them. ‘We must celebrate the upcoming match between Corwenna and Sir Seguin.’

  A man afflicted by a serious squint approached Caerdig and whispered in his ear. Geoffrey recalled his name was Hywel, and that he was Caerdig’s steward. ‘Celebrate with what? We have no ale, and we can hardly offer them water.’

  ‘I have some French claret in my saddlebag,’ said Geoffrey to Baderon, hoping the man was not a good judge of such things – it was a miserable brew from the south of England that he kept for medicinal purposes. ‘Shall we share a cup?’

  Hywel went to look for it, while Seguin talked about how the marriage would benefit him, although Geoffrey could not see what Caerdig would get out of the arrangement.

  ‘Seguin comes with a small herd of cows,’ replied Caerdig when Geoffrey asked him. He reverted automatically to Welsh. ‘Personally, I wanted a Mappestone to take her, but you are the only one left, and I suspect Joan has her eyes set on a bigger prize than Llan Martin.’

  ‘I would not wed him anyway,’ said Corwenna icily, also speaking Welsh. ‘I will not share my bed with a man who slaughtered his way to the Holy Land. I heard what those Crusaders did on their way to “liberate” Jerusalem.’

  ‘You played together as children,’ said Caerdig, trying to silence his daughter by gripping her knee in a painful pinch.

  ‘Stop babbling in that infernal tongue,’ ordered Seguin testily. ‘I will have no Welsh spoken in my home once we are married.’

  ‘Geoffrey speaks it badly anyway,’ said Corwenna venomously. ‘It hurts the ears when it comes from the mouth of a Norman. There should be a law against it.’

  ‘Corwenna!’ exclaimed Caerdig, aghast. ‘That is no way to speak to an honoured guest!’

  ‘He is not an honoured guest,’ retorted Corwenna hotly. ‘He is Henry’s brother – the man who slaughtered our cattle, burnt our granaries and murdered Rhys.’

  Seguin roared with laughter, while his brother grinned. Both evidently considered Corwenna’s bold temper a fine thing. Geoffrey wondered how amusing Seguin would find Corwenna’s sour moods when they were directed against him, and suspected it would only be a matter of time before they fell out.

  The tension eased when Hywel returned with the wine, and measured it into wooden cups. Maliciously, Geoffrey hoped it was acidic enough to make the Normans and Corwenna sick, although he bore Caerdig no ill will. When everyone held a goblet, Caerdig spoke.

  ‘To future liaisons,’ he said ambiguously, and everyone other than Geoffrey upended their cups, only to spit the contents out again.

  ‘God in Heaven!’ exclaimed Baderon, gagging. ‘Is this what you drink in the Holy Land?’

  ‘No,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘That is saddle oil. Hywel used the wrong flask.’

  Corwenna rubbed her lips with a cloth. ‘Why did you wait until we had swallowed it? Are you trying to poison us?’

  ‘It was a mistake,’ said Caerdig, although he had noticed that Geoffrey had not touched his own cup.

  Seguin spat into the fire and then stood. ‘It is time to go home. It will be dark soon, and not even knights are immune from outlaws in Wales.’

  Caerdig followed his guests outside. ‘It will not be pleasant having such a man in the family,’ he whispered to Geoffrey, ‘but Corwenna likes him, and the cattle he brings will be useful.’

  ‘He is a bag of air,’ declared Geoffrey, also in Welsh. He refrained from adding that Seguin and Corwenna deserved each other.

  ‘He is, but everyone seems happy about the union. It is only I who has reservations. I wish she was marrying you instead.’

  Geoffrey did not, much as he liked Caerdig. He did not care whether marriage brought him riches, and did not even mind if his wife was plain – he would settle for one capable of intelligent conversation. However, he certainly did not want one who hated him.

  ‘God’s blood!’ exclaimed Seguin, stalking towards Geoffrey’s horse. ‘That is a deer! And you killed it with a sword.’

  ‘It was caught in a trap,’ explained Geoffrey.

  ‘Where?’ demanded Baderon, suddenly angry. ‘Where precisely?’

  ‘In a clearing about three miles from here,’ said Geoffrey, wondering what was upsetting them. ‘It was on my land.’

  ‘How do you know?’ demanded Baderon hotly. ‘You have been away for two decades. How can you know your boundaries when they twist and turn so tortuously?’

  Seguin took a step towards Geoffrey. ‘FitzNorman enforces forest law vigorously on the lands under his control, and we do the same for Lord Baderon. No one kills his venison. It is a hanging offence.’

  ‘It is as well the venison is mine, then,’ said Geoffrey mildly. ‘I found the trap on a hill just south of the river, and even someone who has been away for twenty years cannot be mistaken about which side of the river he is on. It was Goodrich land.’

  ‘Then I shall believe you,’ said Baderon. ‘But I will not suffer thieves on my land, no matter who they are.’

  Geoffrey would have preferred to travel alone, but Baderon offered to accompany him part way, and he did not want to appear churlish by declining.

  ‘What do you think?” asked Caerdig in a whisper, holding the reins of Geoffrey’s horse while he mounted. ‘Will Baderon be a trustworthy ally?’

  ‘God knows,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘He is certainly determined to have you on his side, since he is prepared to give away a manor and cattle to make sure Seguin marries Corwenna.’

  Caerdig was thoughtful. ‘I sense he is a better man than his two knights.’

  ‘He barely controls them – they act more as equals than vassals. Do you want this deer? It will compensate you for the embarrassment of having served saddle oil to your guests.’

  Caerdig chuckled as he tugged the corpse from Geoffrey’s horse. ‘You can embarrass me any time, if you bribe me so handsomely. Stay here tonight and share it with us.’

  ‘Corwenna would have a knife in me,’ said Geoffrey. ‘The others are waiting, so I should go.’

  He followed Baderon, Lambert and Seguin, knowing they would take the same road for about half a mile before their paths diverged. Daylight was fading, and his horse skittered as old leaves blew in the wind. At first, Seguin and Baderon talked about poachers, while Lambert told Geoffrey about his own marriage prospects, naming women from three villages Geoffrey had never heard of. Then the path narrowed, so they were obliged to ride in single file. Conversation waned.

  Geoffrey allowed his mind to wander, wondering whether Corwenna had killed Henry. It took little strength to push a blade into a drunken man. His thoughts were interrupted when Baderon spoke.

  ‘Seguin’s union with Corwenna is an integral part of my plans for peace – to enhance the stability of the region,’ he said. ‘Caerdig is poor but respected, and the Welsh lords listen to him. Obviously, you appreciate that a good marriage is vital for good relations, because you are looking for a wife yourself. My daughter Hilde is—’

  ‘I do not want to marry,’ replied Geoffrey, with more heat than intended.

  ‘Marriage is a good thing: it saves you having to look for a whore,’ declared Seguin. ‘I am looking forward to having a ready wench in my bedchamber whenever I feel like her.’

  Geoffrey thought Seguin was deluded if he imagined Corwenna would be there whenever he ‘felt like her’.

  ‘I offered Hilde to your brother,’ Baderon went on. ‘He refused her rather cruelly. Still, it did not matter, because Hilde said she would not have Henry if he was the last man on Earth, and I could never force her to do what s
he does not want. No man could.’

  ‘I see,’ said Geoffrey, filing the information away: Hilde was fierce and ungovernable, which would not make for a peaceful domestic environment.

  ‘There are other ways, though,’ said Baderon enigmatically. Geoffrey had no idea what he meant. ‘But this is where our pathways part. Goodnight, Sir Geoffrey. Beware of outlaws.’

  Geoffrey nodded, then touched his heels to his horse’s flanks and rode away. He had not gone far before he spotted someone else. When the man saw him, he gave a yelp and turned to flee. It was Goodrich land, and the grim fate of the deer was still fresh in Geoffrey’s mind. With his dog barking furiously, he galloped after the shadow and quickly had the fellow by the scruff of the neck.

  ‘What do you want?’ the felon cried with rather more indignation than was warranted. ‘I have no money to give you.’

  The voice was instantly familiar – high and irritable. It sounded exactly like his old squire, Durand, although Geoffrey did not see how that was possible: Durand was currently enjoying a successful career as a royal clerk, revelling in the luxuries of courtly life. Geoffrey peered down at him, and was astonished to see flowing golden locks. There was only one person he knew who sported such glorious tresses.

  ‘Durand?’ he asked in disbelief. ‘It is you!’

  Relief broke over Durand’s face. ‘Sir Geoffrey? Thank God! I thought you were an outlaw!’

  ‘This is a Godforsaken part of the country,’ said Durand, while Geoffrey dismounted. His old squire had changed little, and was still small and slender, although regal dining had added a layer of lard around his middle. The beautiful yellow curls tumbled around his shoulders, and his clothes were exquisite, as befitted a man from the King’s court. They were grubby, however, and there were leaves in his hair.

  ‘It is my land,’ said Geoffrey, rather coolly. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Durand did not care that he might have offended; he never had. He grinned. ‘I heard you lived near here, and intended to pay you a visit. However, I did not anticipate enjoying our reunion in the depths of a wilderness at dusk.’