‘There are locks of hair and a dead goat down there,’ interrupted Geoffrey.
‘Well, there would be,’ said Giffard. ‘I was saying to Bale, before you burst in, that I am surprised you brought me here. It is obviously a place frequented by heathens.’
‘It is not obvious to me,’ said Geoffrey.
Giffard gazed at him in astonishment. ‘This place reeks of evil, and there are pagan symbols everywhere. Just look at the ceiling, and the trees over there.’
Geoffrey glanced at the rafters and saw several dead birds hanging by their wings, while there was another goat in an oak outside. He was unable to repress a shudder.
‘I told you, sir,’ said Bale, reproachfully. ‘I said it felt wicked.’
Giffard stood. ‘It is not a place Christian men should linger. It is more for the likes of Eleanor of Bicanofre, whom I hear comes to recite spells and incantations.’
Unhappily, Geoffrey wondered how to tell Giffard that it had not been Eleanor who had sung to make the trees rustle, but Agnes.
As soon as Giffard had completed his morning prayers, Geoffrey led the way back to Dene and the devastation that a few hours had wrought. FitzNorman’s once fine home was a blackened shell, although most of the outbuildings had survived. Smoke still curled from the ruins, and when rain started to fall, it hissed as it hit the smouldering timbers.
The King had ordered his scribes to make an inventory of what and who had escaped, as fitzNorman was incapable of doing so. Several servants had died, and Eleanor was missing. Looking at the charred ruins, Geoffrey doubted they would be able to identify her body if it was found. He thought about the red-cloaked man from the previous night and supposed that the garment had been taken from her corpse in the chaos. Hugh was also missing, and some gossips were insisting that he and Eleanor were enjoying each other’s company elsewhere.
Geoffrey decided to leave for Goodrich immediately, desperate to be away from the grief-stricken servants. They reminded him of people in villages he had seen put to the torch after battles. He was on his way to tell Giffard when there was a howl from the stables.
‘What has happened?’ he asked, as Lambert emerged from the building.
‘Margaret,’ replied Lambert, ashen-faced. ‘She must have staggered from the fire and died – the grooms just found her when they came to saddle the King’s horses. His Majesty rides to Gloucester today.’
‘Margaret?’ asked Geoffrey, aghast. ‘But I saw her after the fire. She was fit and well.’
Lambert touched his shoulder in a rough gesture of sympathy. ‘We all liked Margaret, motherly soul that she was, and I understand you were considering her as a wife. She was old, but she would have made a kindly and affable partner.’
Geoffrey eased his way through the onlookers, and saw the King standing with fitzNorman, while Isabel knelt next to a prostrate form, crying. Henry was talking, and Geoffrey noticed the Constable was not too shocked to nod and bow obsequiously to whatever suggestions the monarch was making. Isabel was far more distressed than the hard-hearted old warrior.
‘This is a sorry way to begin the day,’ said Durand to Geoffrey. ‘Poor Margaret.’
‘Take her to the church and say a mass for her soul,’ Henry ordered Durand. ‘Make sure it is done properly; she was a good woman.’
‘She was, Sire,’ agreed Durand. ‘She will be in Heaven soon.’
Henry nodded, but everyone could see that he was chafing at the delay. He patted the stunned fitzNorman on the arm, muttered a few more words of sympathy and left. Most people were more interested in helping him mount up than in Margaret’s death, including fitzNorman. Geoffrey heard him apologizing for the blaze and assuring him that the castle would be rebuilt by the time His Royal Highness next visited. It was not long before the stable emptied, leaving only Geoffrey, Isabel, Bale and Durand.
‘Cover her face if it is not,’ said Isabel. ‘I do not want people staring. Does she look frightened or in pain?’
‘Neither,’ said Geoffrey. He had nothing appropriate to cover her, but Margaret had worn a veil that comprised a large square of clean linen. He started to unwrap it, intending to wind it around her head. When it fell from her neck, he gazed in shock. Dark bruises lay in an even line down both sides of her throat, and he saw that she had not died from smoke. Someone had strangled her, and the evidence was in eight fingers and two thumbs that had pressed into her pale skin.
‘She looks as though she is sleeping,’ said Durand, for Isabel’s benefit. He, too, had seen the marks and his face expressed horror. ‘She is peaceful.’
‘God help us, Sir!’ breathed Bale from the adjoining stall. ‘Margaret is not the only corpse here. So is Jervil, our groom!’
Shocked, Geoffrey saw that Bale was right. Why was Jervil in the Dene stables? Had he come to check on Geoffrey? Or had he carried a message from Joan and died in the smoke while looking for someone to give it to? Geoffrey searched Jervil’s clothes but could find no letter.
‘Jervil?’ asked Isabel, confused. ‘Goodrich’s stable-hand? Why would he be here?’
It was a good question, but she was more concerned with her aunt than the answer, and began to cry afresh. Durand took her hands in his, crooning gentle words to calm her.
Uncertain what prompted him to do so, Geoffrey moved the tunic around Jervil’s throat, where he saw that Margaret was not the only one to have been strangled: marks indicated that strong fingers had gripped Jervil’s neck, too. Geoffrey sat back on his heels, perplexed. How had Goodrich’s groom come to be killed in the same place and manner as fitzNorman’s sister? Had Jervil seen Margaret slain, and been murdered to ensure that he did not tell? Or was it the other way around? Or had Jervil killed Margaret, and then been dispatched in turn?
‘There is a knife in Jervil’s hand,’ said Durand.
Geoffrey moved straw away from the body and saw that Durand was right.
‘Was he attacking, or protecting himself?’ asked Bale.
Geoffrey frowned. ‘It is unusual to see a man wielding a knife in his left hand. Did he fight left-handed?’
Bale closed his eyes and went through an elaborate mime of some previous fight he had enjoyed with the groom. He jigged for so long that Geoffrey began to wonder whether the proximity of violent death had finally turned his mind.
‘No,’ he said eventually, opening his eyes. ‘He fought right-handed, like me.’
In the yard the King was issuing orders. Some people were instructed to remain at Dene, while others were to travel to Gloucester. Since a large area of virgin forest lay between Dene and Gloucester, Henry intended to hunt along the way, and a few courtiers were invited to accompany him in search of a large stag that had recently been seen. People hurried to collect their horses; among them were Baderon, his knights and fitzNorman.
‘Good God!’ exclaimed Lambert, peering over Geoffrey’s shoulder. ‘Is that Goodrich’s groom? What is he doing here?’
‘He must have been carrying a message from Lady Joan,’ said Bale, before Geoffrey could reply. ‘He died of smoke, just like poor Margaret.’
‘Dangerous stuff, smoke,’ said Baderon, in a way that made Geoffrey glance at him sharply. Evidently, the Lord of Monmouth suspected something odd, too, and Geoffrey wondered why.
‘That makes six dead,’ said fitzNorman, standing behind him and staring sadly at his sister’s remains. ‘Five servants and one noblewoman.’
‘And my son and Eleanor are missing,’ added Baderon. Geoffrey studied him closely and saw lines of worry etched into his face.
‘Eleanor will look after Hugh,’ said Seguin, exchanging a lewd grin with his brother.
Baderon frowned. ‘I hope you are right. Hilde is looking for him, but he might be anywhere.’
‘Will someone fetch Ralph?’ asked Isabel tearfully. ‘I need his comfort.’
Ralph was standing near the door with an unreadable expression on his face. He heard his former lover’s pathetic appeal, but turned and strode away.
‘I think he is looking for Eleanor,’ lied Durand.
‘Why would he do that?’ cried Isabel. ‘I need him and Eleanor is able to fend for herself.’
‘He thinks you have Margaret,’ said fitzNorman gruffly. ‘If only he knew.’
It was an odd thing to say, and Geoffrey wondered what he meant. He glanced at the Constable’s impassive features, and thought there was a good deal strange about the previous night’s events. However, sad though he was about the kindly woman who had wanted to be his friend, it was not his business to investigate her murder. He left the stable and walked towards Giffard. He stopped abruptly when he saw the King regarding him thoughtfully.
Baderon was burbling about the stag and Abbot Serlo talked simultaneously about a writ that required approval, but Henry raised a royal hand and they both faltered into silence.
‘We shall look for the stag as we ride, and I shall ratify the advowson at Gloucester,’ the King said, indicating that he was capable of listening to two monologues at the same time. But now he ignored both, as he edged his horse towards Geoffrey and Giffard.
‘There is something very wrong here,’ he said, after looking around to make sure that no one else could hear. ‘There was a lot of confusion during the fire, and I find myself puzzled as to what actually happened. Do you have any ideas, Giffard?’
‘None, Sire. I was overcome by smoke and recall nothing at all.’
Geoffrey regarded him with surprise. It was the first time he had ever heard Giffard lie. Unfortunately, the prelate immediately grasped the cross around his neck in a gesture that bespoke wretched guilt at the falsehood. Henry saw it and smothered a smile.
‘I have been told smoke can do strange things to a man’s wits. What about you, Geoffrey? We discussed the matter briefly last night. You told me it was not aimed at me. Well, then, who?’
Geoffrey shook his head slowly. ‘There is a lot I do not understand about the men who own these lands, and I cannot begin to imagine a solution, Sire.’
‘Do try,’ invited Henry drily. ‘I am sure you have been pondering the matter.’
Geoffrey looked at the people milling in the yard. ‘Baderon and fitzNorman are rivals. It is possible Baderon or one of his knights started the fire to make fitzNorman look careless in your eyes. Corwenna is a spiteful woman who does not care whom she harms. Eleanor de Bicanofre, who is said to be a witch, has disappeared, along with Hugh. The list is endless.’
Henry regarded him with his clear grey eyes. ‘Did you inspect Margaret’s body? I saw you kneel next to it. She did not die in the fire, did she?’
‘No, Sire.’
Henry sighed impatiently. ‘You are being remarkably obtuse this morning. Must I drag the information from you piece by piece? How did she die, man?’
‘She was strangled,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘One of Goodrich’s servants lies next to her, dead the same way.’
Henry was thoughtful. ‘Margaret was a good lady, and deserves to be avenged. And you must be concerned about the loss of a servant – for whatever reason he was killed. Would you like to find out why? Or shall I ask Giffard to do it?’
‘I will,’ said Geoffrey, not wanting anyone – even Giffard – prying into Goodrich’s affairs. And he had liked Margaret. He had talked to her about the only woman he had ever truly loved, and he did not tell just anyone about his duchess.
‘Good,’ said Henry. ‘But you cannot ask your questions here. We shall invite everyone to Goodrich for a few days, and you can do it there.’
‘No!’ exclaimed Geoffrey, not wanting possible killers near Joan.
‘No?’ queried Henry mildly. ‘One does not say “no” to one’s monarch quite so bluntly.’
‘I did not fight on the Welsh borders all summer only to invite murderers to Joan’s home.’
‘Joan can look after herself,’ said Henry wryly. ‘And she liked Margaret, too, so I am sure she will be supportive. I insist you do as I suggest. Durand will help. He has some spare time before he joins Giffard in Winchester.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Giffard, who had not been told about the new plans. ‘I cannot take Durand, Sire. He is far too venal, and I am a Bishop.’
‘It will do you good,’ Henry said firmly. ‘He may even bring a smile to those sombre features. But he will not be with you for a while yet. I am worried about the situation that is brewing with Baderon and his Welsh friends.’
‘Baderon wants peace on the Marches, but it is equally possible the Welsh will unite in war,’ said Geoffrey, relieved to share his concerns with a man in a position to do something about them.
Henry nodded. ‘I shall pass through Goodrich in a week or so, and Durand can report his findings then. Meanwhile, you can look into these three murders.’
‘Three murders?’ asked Geoffrey, startled. ‘Margaret, Jervil and . . .’
‘And Henry – your brother. My agents visited Goodrich after he died, and they told me that a man called Jervil was in the stables when Henry was killed. They took Jervil to a tavern and prised information from him while he was drunk. He did not see the killer, but he heard him.’
Geoffrey nodded. He had already established as much, although he doubted whether he could have persuaded Jervil to go to an inn and allow his wits to be pickled and rummaged for information. Perhaps that was why Jervil had been reluctant to answer further questions.
‘I saw Jervil arrive yesterday evening,’ Henry went on. ‘I happened to be looking out of my window when he rode into the yard, and I sent a squire to find out his business. I assumed he was carrying messages for me – strangers arriving at odd hours usually are. But Jervil said his business was with Baderon, which intrigued me, given that he was from Goodrich.’
Geoffrey gazed at him. It intrigued him, too. What business could a groom from his own manor have with the lord of a rival one?
Henry continued. ‘I saw Baderon speak to Jervil and pay him – handsomely.’
Geoffrey continued to stare. Jervil had asked whether Geoffrey was going to see Baderon, and had asked Bale to spy to find out. So why had he then come to Dene to meet Baderon himself? Geoffrey recalled Jervil and Torva’s belief that Henry had been killed by Baderon’s knights. Was the clandestine meeting about that? Geoffrey’s thoughts whirled.
‘There was no purse of money on Jervil’s body, Sire,’ he said eventually.
‘Perhaps he was killed for his earnings,’ suggested the King. ‘Of course, what happened to Margaret is obvious: clearly she was killed because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time – she happened to enter the stables when Jervil was murdered and was strangled to prevent her from telling anyone what she had seen.’
‘She was probably looking for Isabel,’ suggested Giffard.
‘There was something else about Jervil’s meeting with Baderon that was odd,’ said Henry. ‘I saw Baderon pass him a purse, but before that, I saw Jervil give Baderon a dagger.’
‘A dagger?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘Yes, a large one with a ruby in its hilt. I saw it quite clearly. Why would Jervil give an expensive thing like that to Baderon?’
‘I do not know,’ said Geoffrey, his thoughts tumbling inside his head. ‘But your description sounds very like the weapon that killed my brother.’
The King’s announcement that he wanted some of his subjects to meet him at Goodrich after his visit to Gloucester met a mixed response. FitzNorman was relieved, because he took the summons to mean that he had been forgiven for the fire. Baderon was bemused and his knights resentful, while Geoffrey heard Corwenna bluntly informing Seguin that she would not go. Her interpretation was that Geoffrey had persuaded the King to order it so that he could kill her.
Abbot Serlo, astride a fat donkey, came to speak to Geoffrey while he waited for the cumbersome train of horses and carts to begin their journey to Gloucester. ‘Has Giffard asked you to find out whether Walter and Agnes poisoned the Duchess?’ he asked without preamble. ‘I know he is concerned, and Durand tells me you have rare investi
gative skills.’
‘Durand is exaggerating.’
‘They had a lot to gain from Sibylla’s death, and Agnes has not capit-alized on it only because Giffard dragged her away before she could push her claws further into the Duke. I have been watching them carefully, but now you must be vigilant for Giffard’s safety. I do not want him poisoned, too. He is a friend.’
Geoffrey recalled that Serlo had been in Normandy when Sibylla had died. ‘Can you tell me anything to help? I know Walter owned a mandrake pot, but it has been empty too long to have been used on Sibylla.’
‘Mandrake,’ mused Serlo. ‘Its roots are its most dangerous part – they shriek when they are pulled from the ground. Any man hearing it will die, so the Italians use dogs to harvest them.’
‘So they grow in Italy?’ asked Geoffrey, recalling the Italian words carved on the pot and Walter’s use of the language.
‘Among other places. The leaves are also poisonous, and there is a red-yellow fruit like an apple. It is used in medicine, but only externally, because it is so strong. Witches use it in charms – to bring love.’
Geoffrey thought about the charms that he had seen at the Angel Springs, and wondered whether Eleanor employed mandrake. Then he thought about the dead birds at the shepherd’s hut and above the place where Henry had died. Had a witch put them there, or just superstitious peasants?
‘To bring love?’ he asked, dragging his thoughts back to Serlo.
‘It is supposed to produce strong and rampant lovers,’ explained Serlo. ‘With such a powerful plant, the line is a fine one: too little will not have the desired effect, while too much will kill.’
‘You seem to know a good deal about it,’ said Geoffrey warily.
Serlo smiled. ‘We have a fine library at Gloucester, as you know – you spent enough time there during your noviciate.’ He sketched a benediction, exhorted him again to look after Giffard, and took his place in the cavalcade.
‘So,’ announced the King in a ringing voice. ‘Baderon, fitzNorman, Bicanofre, Giffard and their households will travel to Goodrich today or tomorrow. The rest of you shall come with me.’
Deadly Inheritance Page 15
