Deadly Inheritance

by Simon Beaufort

  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.

  ‘He is a fine beast,’ she remarked, inspecting the stallion with expert eyes. She wore a green kirtle that fitted rather too snugly over her ample hips, and a wimple that cut severely under her chin. Her face was square and determined, and it was clear that she was not a woman to be crossed. ‘You have ridden him too far today, and he is restless for oat mash and a bed of clean straw.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Geoffrey. ‘And you are keeping him from it. What are you doing out here on your own? It will be dark soon.’

  ‘I am not afraid of the dark,’ declared the woman. Geoffrey was sure she was not, and imagined there was very little that would disturb her. ‘I am Hilde, daughter of Lord Baderon.’

  ‘Even more reason why you should not be here alone,’ remarked Geoffrey. He was shocked to think that Joan considered her a suitable match for him – her plain face and powerful shoulders rendered her rather manly. ‘The kin of wealthy barons risk seizure by outlaws—’

  Hilde gave a gusty sigh. ‘No outlaw would be so foolish – I would kill him where he stood. But I am not alone. My brother Hugh is with me, and so is Eleanor de Bicanofre.’

  Two more people stepped from the shadows. Hugh was smaller than his sister, and his slack jaw and vacant expression indicated that he was not right in his wits. Although his clothes were fine, he wore them untidily, and he carried no sword or dagger, suggesting that he was not trusted with sharp implements.

  Geoffrey looked with considerably more interest at Eleanor – another of Joan’s suggested brides. She wore a kirtle that was tight enough to reveal every curve of her sensuous body and a bright red cloak with matching gloves. Oddly, for someone happy to flaunt herself, her lower face was concealed by a scarf-like veil. All he could see was a pair of very bright blue eyes.

  ‘You are Geoffrey Mappestone,’ she said. ‘Brother of dear Henry.’

  Geoffrey could not tell whether she was being facetious. Her voice was soft, his horse was breathing in his ear and he could not see enough of her face to judge her expression.

  ‘How do you know?’ he asked.

  ‘Your surcoat,’ said Hilde. ‘There are not many Jerosolimitani in these parts. You would not be our first choice to help us, but you will have to do. As you said, it will soon be dark.’

  Geoffrey noticed Hugh was leaning heavily on Eleanor, and supposed there had been an accident. ‘Do you need to borrow my horse?’

  ‘Hugh does not ride,’ said Hilde. ‘And certainly not a horse of that size. You must go to Dene and send someone back with a cart.’

  Geoffrey mounted, thinking he should hurry. Dusk would not be long in coming.

  ‘Tell them we are near the Angel Springs,’ said Eleanor. ‘Hugh followed me there, then slipped on wet stones and hurt his foot. He was lucky Hilde was close.’

  ‘I knew you intended to visit the springs this afternoon,’ said Hilde coolly. ‘And I know Hugh follows you. So, when I realized that he was missing, it seemed the obvious place to look. You are fortunate I used my wits, or you would both have been here all night.’

  Eleanor’s eyebrows went up, and Geoffrey had the impression that Hugh’s damaged foot would not have stopped her from returning to the castle.

  ‘I am going with Geoffrey,’ Eleanor said. ‘I do not want to wait until he returns.’

  Geoffrey offered her his hand, happy to have her company – and her directions – as he rode the last stage of the journey, but Hilde was having none of it. She stepped forward as Eleanor put her foot in the stirrup.

  ‘Hugh will be calmer with you here.’

  Eleanor’s eyes were furious, but Hilde clearly meant business, so she said no more. She went to sit on a tree stump, and Geoffrey could see she was in a poor mood, even without benefit of a face to assess. He raised his hand in a salute, and rode away in the direction that Hilde indicated.

  ‘I do not like them!’ exclaimed Bale, when they were out of earshot. ‘It is an odd business: Eleanor slipping off to visit the Angel Springs, and that lunatic Hugh going after her. And then Hilde following him. You should not marry either of them, Sir.’

  ‘Not Hilde, for sure,’ agreed Geoffrey. ‘But Eleanor looked all right – what I could see of her.’

  ‘It is the bits you cannot see that you should worry about,’ replied Bale enigmatically. ‘Just ask yourself what she was doing at the Angel Springs in the first place.’ He pronounced the name in a way that made it sound sinister.

  ‘Is it a holy place?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘A well or some such thing?’

  Bale regarded him through narrowed eyes. ‘The Angel Springs are not holy – at least, not to our God.’

  Geoffrey supposed he should have guessed as much from Bale’s pronunciation. ‘What, then? A pagan temple?’

  Bale’s eyes gleamed. ‘Witches linger there. I do not know what they do, but a knife left overnight will have a keen edge in the morning – especially if you leave a coin.’

  ‘Someone whets them during the night?’ Geoffrey supposed he should not be surprised that Bale had turned the conversation to the thing that seemed to interest him most: sharp knives.

  ‘They whet themselves,’ asserted Bale firmly. ‘And it is famous for other things, too.’

  ‘Enlighten me,’ encouraged Geoffrey.

  ‘Spells,’ elaborated Bale. ‘If you want a man to die, then you leave a lock of his hair and a coin at the Angel Springs and your enemy will be in his grave before the next moon appears.’

  Geoffrey did not believe a word of it.

  ‘So, if anyone offers you a haircut, refuse,’ Bale went on. ‘I would not like to lose you yet. Not before you have paid my first month’s wages.’

  It was farther to Dene than he had anticipated, but after a while, a sound caught Geoffrey’s attention, and he reined in, raising one hand to silence Bale.

  ‘Horses.’ Bale could also hear hoofs and the clink of metal.

  ‘Several of them,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Men riding together. It must be one of fitzNorman’s patrols.’

  ‘Or outlaws,’ said Bale, alarmed. ‘We should take cover, so we can ambush them before they attack us.
I will cut their throats, while you claim their horses.’

  Geoffrey laughed. ‘Outlaws will not be riding along a well-travelled path so close to fitzNorman’s stronghold, so these must be his men. We are on legitimate business; we have no reason to hide.’

  The group that rounded the corner was astonished to see him. It comprised a knight, a monk and several soldiers, and all reached for their weapons. Geoffrey raised his hands to show he did not mean to fight, but that did not prevent them from spurring their way towards him with drawn swords. A pair of archers fumbled for bows and soon had arrows pointing in his direction.

  ‘I told you we should hide,’ whispered Bale accusingly. ‘Now it will be us with slit throats.’

  ‘Hold!’ shouted Geoffrey, wondering whether Bale had been right to be cautious. He had assumed that a lone traveller and his squire would present no threat, but saw he had been wrong. ‘I am here to see Bishop Giffard.’

  ‘You are poaching,’ said the knight. Short grey hair poked from under his helmet, and his cloak was blue with an ermine trim. There was embroidery around the hem, sewn to accentuate the presence of several semi-precious stones. His eyes were small and black, and he did not look friendly. ‘There are laws against poaching.’

  ‘We are not poaching,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I have come to—’

  ‘There is blood on your saddle,’ snapped the knight, riding forward to inspect it. ‘I can tell when a man has slaughtered an animal and carried it on his horse.’

  Geoffrey tried to be patient. ‘I am here because Bishop Giffard summoned me.’

  ‘I know nothing about it,’ said the knight in a voice that suggested Geoffrey was lying.

  ‘I have a letter,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I can show you.’

  The knight gave a curt nod, so Geoffrey retrieved Giffard’s letter and handed it to the monk. The Benedictine was a small, wiry man in his sixties, and his habit was made from good wool. He was vaguely familiar, although Geoffrey was more concerned with the knight.

  ‘It is true, fitzNorman,’ said the monk. ‘This is a message from Giffard asking him to come to Dene as a matter of urgency.’

  FitzNorman laughed in an unpleasant manner, while Geoffrey regarded him with renewed interest. Here was the man who controlled the forest and was father to Isabel. He was large and fit, and his advanced age had apparently not reduced his readiness to fight. He also looked like the kind of man who would stop at nothing to have his own way – including murdering drunken neighbours.

  ‘I suppose Giffard summoned him over the Duke and his harlot,’ he said.

  Geoffrey regarded him uneasily. He did not like the sound of it, and hoped Giffard did not intend to drag him into intrigues involving nobles and their lovers.

  ‘I met Hilde Baderon near the Angel Springs,’ Geoffrey said, remembering his mission. ‘With Hugh and Eleanor de Bicanofre. Hugh has hurt his foot and they need a cart to—’

  FitzNorman spat. ‘A likely story! Hilde would not seek out Eleanor’s company, while Eleanor would have climbed on the back of your horse and insisted on riding with you. You lie!’

  The monk spoke before Geoffrey could reply. ‘The letter is addressed to Sir Geoffrey Mappestone.’

  FitzNorman’s eyes settled on Geoffrey. ‘The man whose brother despoiled my daughter?’

  Geoffrey was not sure how to reply. ‘Henry is dead these last six months, my Lord.’

  FitzNorman continued to stare. ‘He wanted to force my hand, so I would let him have Isabel. She loves Ralph de Bicanofre, and wanted him. So, Henry came one night, pretending to be Ralph. She is blind, and could not tell the difference. Now Henry is dead, but Ralph will not have her. Between them they have broken her heart.’

  Geoffrey had met other blind people, and they had developed other senses to make up for their lack of vision. He did not see why Isabel should be any different, and if she loved Ralph, she would recognize his smell, his voice and the feel of his body. Isabel mistaking Henry for Ralph seemed an odd tale, and not one he was ready to believe. But he could hardly say so to a doting father.

  ‘I am sorry he used such tactics,’ he said, seeing fitzNorman expected a reply and feeling uncomfortable with the men-at-arms clustering around him.

  FitzNorman seemed lost in thought. Then he suddenly hissed, ‘I swore no Mappestone would ever set foot on my lands again,’ and swung his sword at Geoffrey’s head.

  Four

  Geoffrey had sensed fitzNorman’s pent-up rage, so had been on guard. He raised his shield to fend off a blow so hard that splinters flew.

  ‘I have no quarrel with you!’ he cried.

  ‘I have a quarrel with you!’ yelled fitzNorman. ‘Your brother ruined my daughter’s reputation.’

  Seeing the futility of trying to reason, Geoffrey went on the offensive. It was not long before he had the older man backing away, although the archers stood ready, should Geoffrey pursue his advantage. Bale rode quickly to Geoffrey’s side, awaiting orders.

  ‘All right!’ fitzNorman finally shouted. ‘You have proved your point.’

  Geoffrey lowered his weapon, keeping a wary eye on the man and his companions.

  ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, attacking a man without provocation,’ said the monk to fitzNorman. He turned to Geoffrey. ‘I am Serlo, Abbot of Gloucester.’

  Serlo’s face clicked into place in Geoffrey’s mind. They had met before, although he hoped the monk would not remember. His mother had taken him to Gloucester Abbey when he was eleven, intending him to remain there. It took six months for Geoffrey to convince Serlo that he was unsuitable. Serlo had aged, and his brown hair had turned white, although his eyes were still filled with humour.

  ‘I hear your new church was consecrated two years ago,’ said Geoffrey politely.

  A wry gleam showed in Serlo’s eye. ‘Many things have changed since you were last there.’

  Meanwhile, fitzNorman gazed with hostility at Geoffrey. ‘Have you come to take up where your brother left off, to secure Isabel?’ he asked. ‘She will not have you, but I have a sister—’

  ‘No,’ interrupted Geoffrey. ‘I have come to see Giffard.’

  ‘And see him, you shall, for we should return to Dene for Vespers,’ said Serlo. His voice was commanding, and the soldiers immediately obeyed. He indicated Geoffrey was to come, too, but the knight hesitated, loath to travel with fitzNorman. Serlo sighed. ‘Come on!’

  FitzNorman led the way along a winding valley, and it was not long before the castle at Dene came into sight. It stood at the heart of the royal forest, with steep slopes on three sides and a gentler one on the fourth. It was a large complex, with a tower-topped motte and fenced bailey, but it was primarily an administrative and residential structure, not a military one.

  The largest building was the manor house, comprising a hall on the ground floor with five chambers above. To its left was a handsome stone edifice – newer, cleaner and containing real glass in its windows. Serlo told Geoffrey it was used when the King came to hunt in the forest, which he owned. Other buildings included a kitchen range, placed at the far end of the bailey to avoid fires, and stables, pantries, storerooms and a brewery.

  ‘I do not like it here,’ whispered Bale. He glared at fitzNorman’s back. ‘And I do not trust him.’

  Geoffrey agreed. ‘We will see Giffard, then be on our way. Will you make sure someone sends a cart for Hugh? I do not want Hilde accusing me of failing to keep my promises.’

  ‘You do not,’ agreed Bale. ‘Especially if they force you to marry her. I will see to it now.’

  Geoffrey caught his arm as he started to leave. ‘Thank you for standing with me.’ It made a pleasant change: Durand would have fled.

  Bale grinned, and bashfully rubbed a hand over his bald head. ‘You are welcome,’ he murmured, blushing. ‘It is what squires are for, is it not?’

  Geoffrey had never had a squire who had thought so. When Bale had gone, Geoffrey followed a servant to the room he was to sleep in that night. It was one o
f the five chambers on the upper floor of the main house, and the man said he would have to share with Bishop Giffard, because space was limited. Geoffrey was not entirely pleased to learn that the King was expected at Dene within the next few weeks, and local dignitaries were beginning to gather. Determined to meet Giffard and leave before His Majesty arrived, Geoffrey started to ask the servant where the Bishop might be, only to find him gone.

  ‘They are not well trained,’ came a familiar voice from the corridor. It was Durand, resplendent in an outfit that shimmered orange and red as he moved. Geoffrey supposed it was silk, another example of his old squire’s expanding fortunes. ‘FitzNorman has low standards where servants are concerned. He is a low-standards sort of man.’

  Geoffrey smiled at him. ‘I see you survived your night in the forest.’

  ‘Abbot Serlo led us halfway to Shropshire before we found someone to bring us here,’ grumbled Durand. ‘Now we are waiting for the King. He cannot arrive too soon, as far as I am concerned. I wish to leave this dull place and return to the centre of power.’

  Geoffrey felt the Marches held more than enough excitement for him, with his brother murdered and hostile neighbours with marriageable daughters converging at every turn. ‘I leave at first light tomorrow. Dene is about to become very crowded, and fitzNorman will not want me here.’

  ‘You want to be away before the King spots you,’ surmised Durand astutely.

  Geoffrey winced at being so transparent. Durand was the King’s man, so he should not let him know he did not want to meet the monarch. ‘Have you seen Giffard?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, but you will not – not tonight, at least. It is the eve of the Annunciation – and there is a vigil. You will not see Giffard until tomorrow, because he will not break from his devotions. Have you been asked to dine with fitzNorman tonight?’

  Geoffrey nodded. ‘But he did his best to kill me this afternoon, so I think I shall plead tiredness and stay here instead.’

  Durand settled on a chest near the window. Bale arrived and closed the door, then began to unpack the meagre contents of Geoffrey’s saddlebag.