‘Move back!’ shouted Torva, when he saw Geoffrey shoved again. ‘You are putting him off.’
There was an instant relief in the press around Geoffrey’s back, and he felt a little easier.
‘But I cannot see,’ objected Ynys. He stepped forward again, and this time the dagger jabbed hard enough to hurt. Geoffrey was unable to suppress a wince.
‘Ynys!’ snapped Peter. ‘Watch what you are doing! If you damage his new tunic, Lady Joan will be vexed.’ Ynys stepped back smartly, and Peter addressed Geoffrey in a softer voice. ‘What will you wager?’
‘Twenty raisins.’ There was an appreciative murmur around the hall at Geoffrey’s boldness.
‘Twenty!’ breathed Peter. ‘That would be quite a win for me.’
‘Raise, him, Peter!’ called one of the shepherds. ‘Tell him you want twenty-five.’
There was a growl of encouragement and a small cheer when Geoffrey added another five fruits. First Peter, then Geoffrey, rolled the dice, and there was a groan of disappointment when Geoffrey won. Peter handed Geoffrey three nails and an awl, and declared he could afford to lose no more. His game was over, although the onlookers begged him to continue.
‘I will wager against him,’ declared Torva, chin jutting forward with determination and a good deal of hostility. ‘Who will lend me something?’
Several items were dropped in front of him, including a buckle from Ynys’ shoe, a bundle of feathers that might have been a charm and several wads of dried meat. The crowd pressed forward again, and Geoffrey began to perspire. Making it look casual, he rested his hand on his dagger.
‘All this,’ said Torva, gesturing to his haul, ‘for thirty raisins.’
Geoffrey nodded without bothering to argue. He wanted the game to be over, so people would either leave or launch the attack he sensed was imminent. The waiting was unbearable, and his head was beginning to pound. It was impossible to look at everyone at once, and he had no idea who would be the first to strike.
He rolled first, but his score was low. He was surprised to hear one or two sighs of sympathy; a few people were on his side. Torva threw, but his score was lower still, evoking a loud moan of disappointment. The atmosphere crackled, and all Geoffrey wanted to do was lose, sensing it was the only way to escape alive. But for the time being, there was nothing to do but continue playing.
The game seemed to go on forever, and the tension made Geoffrey’s neck tight. His legs ached from crouching, but he did not dare move, afraid that coming to his feet would be considered hostile. Slowly, he wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.
‘All this against your last two peas,’ he said, indicating his pile of trinkets. There was a collective gasp of astonishment, and then absolute silence while Torva gazed at him open-mouthed.
‘You would risk all that for two peas?’ he asked in disbelief. ‘All of it?’
If he had not felt so fraught, Geoffrey would have laughed. But he simply nodded.
‘Are you sure?’ asked Peter worriedly. ‘There are a lot of raisins here, along with Ynys’ charm, the promise of three chickens and a good deal more. It is a lot to lose.’
Geoffrey nodded again, and drew an appreciative murmur from the crowd.
Torva shrugged, and then grinned. ‘Well, I have nothing to lose,’ he said, throwing the dice. It was a high score, but no one cheered.
With a prayer that his tally would be lower and the ordeal would end, Geoffrey threw the dice, then gaped in horror when he scored the highest amount possible. There was a brief silence, then Ynys gave a whoop of delight and pounded him on the back. Others joined in, and Geoffrey scrambled to his feet. But the hands that thumped him, although vigorous, were not hostile, and he could see glee in the faces around him. Torva elbowed people out of the way and grabbed his hand.
‘You are a brave man,’ he said with a grin. ‘What nerve! Anyone would think you wanted to lose. You have entertained us royally this evening.’
Geoffrey forced himself to smile back, feeling relief wash over him. He eased backwards until he was against a wall, feeling safer with no one behind him. He glanced at the people who clamoured around, pressing winnings into his hands, and wondered what they knew about Henry’s death. Torva was still laughing at Geoffrey’s last gamble, but there was a hard core in him that was unsettling. Fat Peter was grinning, too, but his eyes were watchful. And there were others, too – men who worked in the stables, sculleries and storerooms – strong, sober fellows who had tasted his brother’s fists.
‘I cannot take these,’ said Geoffrey, who did not want rusty nails, charms and promises of livestock. However, he did not want to offend anyone by refusing their treasures, so he added, ‘I will win them all back from you next time, anyway.’
There was more laughter, and people stepped forward to reclaim what they had lost. He was particularly pleased when the feathered charm was one of the first things to be retrieved.
‘Henry would have kept the lot,’ confided Ynys. ‘He did not play by our rules.’
‘It is the game that is important,’ explained Peter, when Geoffrey looked blank. ‘We never keep our winnings, because that would be gambling, which Father Adrian tells us is a sin.’
Geoffrey supposed he had had a lucky escape with his ‘generosity’.
‘Here are your raisins,’ said Ynys, pressing them into Geoffrey’s hand. ‘They are all there.’
Geoffrey pushed them in his purse, thinking he would throw them in the river the following day. They had been through numerous grubby hands, and he did not imagine that Joan would eat them now. Peter exchanged a glance with Torva, then indicated that Geoffrey was to sit with them near the embers of the fire, while the rest of the servants, still chattering and laughing, went about the business of hauling straw mattresses from the pile in the corner and distributing blankets.
‘You trust us,’ stated Peter.
Geoffrey was a little startled, because he did not.
Torva nodded. ‘You did not count the raisins, like Henry would have done. You believed us when we said they were all there.’
‘My mother always told me never to speak ill of the dead,’ began Peter in the kind of voice that suggested he was about to do just that. ‘But your brother was a nasty man.’
Geoffrey nodded, but said nothing, hoping his silence would encourage them to say more.
‘No one here killed him,’ added Torva. ‘I know you think otherwise, but you are wrong. This is a small manor, and we would have known by now.’
‘Olivier believes Henry committed suicide,’ Geoffrey said, to encourage speculation.
Torva shook his head. ‘The wound could have been self-inflicted, but it is unlikely. It was driven in with considerable force, by someone strong.’
‘Or someone angry.’ Geoffrey knew from experience that it did not take powerful arms to stab a man in the stomach.
‘Lots of people were angry with Henry,’ said Torva.
‘I am sorry Jervil is dead,’ said Geoffrey. He was tired of beating around the bush, so spoke bluntly. ‘But he went to Dene to sell Baderon a dagger with a ruby in its hilt. It was the weapon that killed my brother, the one Olivier threw in the river.’
They gazed at him. ‘How do you know that?’ asked Peter uneasily.
‘It does not matter,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Why did Baderon want this weapon?’
Torva and Peter exchanged another glance and then Torva gave a heavy sigh. ‘The ruby knife was Baderon’s. He wanted it back.’
Geoffrey finally felt he was getting somewhere. ‘But why now? It is months since Henry died.’
‘Because of you,’ said Peter, as if the answer were obvious. ‘Henry’s death was all but forgotten, but then you started asking questions. Baderon knew it was only a matter of time before you learnt Henry was killed with a ruby dagger, and that he had owned such a thing. By buying the weapon, he could deny it.’
Geoffrey had so many questions, he barely knew where to begin. ‘How did Jervil get the k
nife when Olivier had thrown it in the river?’
‘Because the Black Knife did not stay in the water,’ explained Torva. ‘We do not know how – perhaps Olivier did not hurl it as far as he thought – but it came back again, like the cursed thing it was. It appeared one day in the stables – where it had killed its victim.’
Geoffrey was sceptical. ‘It does not have legs to walk or wings to fly. So, how—’
‘It was a Black Knife,’ insisted Torva forcefully. ‘They always return. It brought itself back to the stables, where Jervil found it. It is what these things do, unless they are properly de-cursed.’
‘How do you “de-curse” one?’ asked Geoffrey.
Torva pursed his lips, as if Geoffrey were remiss for not knowing. ‘The man who commissions a Black Knife must destroy it – as soon as his victim is dead. If he fails to do so, it increases in power and starts to look for other victims.’
Peter nodded. ‘It is six months since Henry’s death, so the Black Knife is very strong – Baderon will not want it to do more damage. Since it was not with Jervil’s body, we must assume Baderon has it and will have to de-curse it. Of course, it is much easier to lay a curse than to break one.’
‘How did Jervil become involved?’
‘He told Baderon the dagger had reappeared and offered to sell it to him,’ explained Torva. ‘Baderon agreed, but insisted the exchange be in secret. But then you decided to ride for Dene, and Jervil was afraid you had guessed his plan. You almost overheard him telling me about it.’
‘Baderon said it was imperative that no one from Goodrich should witness the exchange,’ added Peter, ‘on the grounds that it would look bad.’
‘He was right,’ said Geoffrey grimly. ‘It does. And they did not manage the transaction very discreetly. The King saw them.’
‘Jervil may have been careless,’ acknowledged Peter. ‘He wanted the Black Knife passed to Baderon and the silver in his purse as quickly as possible.’
‘So it was Baderon who killed Henry,’ concluded Geoffrey, sorry Baderon had stooped so low as to stab a man deep in his cups.
‘No,’ said Peter, with certainty. ‘He did not, although I cannot speak for his knights.’
Torva agreed. ‘I do not trust Seguin and Lambert. It is only a matter of time before Corwenna encourages them to do us serious harm. But Baderon did not hurt Henry.’
‘You sound very sure,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Why?’
‘Baderon had too much to lose if Henry died,’ replied Torva. ‘They had an arrangement.’
‘What kind of arrangement? Henry marrying Hilde?’
‘Hilde would never have taken Henry,’ said Peter. ‘All I can tell you is that Baderon and Henry signed a document to their mutual advantage. I saw them doing it, and made my mark as a witness.’
‘What did this document say?’ asked Geoffrey. Father Adrian had also mentioned an agreement, while Baderon himself had said that there were ‘other ways’ to secure truces, and that he and Henry had ‘irons in the fire’.
‘I could not read it,’ said Peter. ‘I am a cook, not a scribe. They were both very pleased, though, and made many toasts to each other and the futures of both estates.’
Geoffrey wracked his brain for a solution, but none came. ‘When was this?’
‘Early September,’ replied Peter. ‘Three weeks before Henry’s death. I know you are sceptical – so are we, because we do not know the whole story, either. But Baderon was the last man who would kill Henry, because he needed him alive.’
The following morning Geoffrey woke early and considered what he knew. He had been informed that Baderon could not be Henry’s murderer, because of some secret arrangement. It was not a marriage, because Henry had hoped for Isabel. Or was that the problem – Henry had offered himself to Hilde, but had reneged for Isabel? Of course, the servants did not think so, and try as he might, Geoffrey could not imagine what Henry and Baderon might have devised. The Lord of Monmouth was still at Bicanofre, but would be back soon; Geoffrey resolved to ask him.
However, just because Baderon wanted peace did not mean Seguin and Lambert – fuelled by ambition and Corwenna’s hatred of Goodrich – felt the same. Geoffrey believed Torva and Peter were right when they said it was only a matter of time before they harmed the whole region.
He shifted into a more comfortable position, aware that people were moving in the hall below, and that he was likely to earn a reputation as a lie-abed if he lingered there much longer. But there were still many questions in need of answers – the most pressing, who had killed Jervil, and why was Baderon so determined to retrieve the dagger if he was not Henry’s killer?
Geoffrey’s thoughts turned to Duchess Sybilla. Walter had owned a pot of mandrake, although Geoffrey doubted its contents had killed Sibylla. Geoffrey had also discovered that Agnes knew about mandrake, and that she had courted the friendship of Eleanor. Eleanor was now missing. Could she be dead? And was Agnes telling the truth about her and Eleanor’s disagreement?
Knowing that he would solve nothing by lounging around, Geoffrey rose and went to the garderobe. He stared at the shelves that concealed the passage to the woods. He still had not asked Joan whether it was intact, and knew he was being remiss. If Goodrich came under attack, it might be a vital part of a plan to protect it. He took a deep breath and pushed the hidden door before his courage failed. It swung open, revealing a black, sinister slit with dusty steps. It was draped with cobwebs, and just looking at it made the bile rise in his throat.
‘Where does that go?’ whispered Bale from behind him, making him spin around in alarm.
Geoffrey pressed a hand over his thudding heart. ‘You must stop creeping up on me like that, Bale, or one of us is likely to die. It leads to the woods. I cannot remember where exactly.’
Bale’s eyes gleamed. ‘I might have known cunning old Godric Mappestone would have installed something like this when he raised Goodrich. Shall we explore it?’
‘I am not going down there,’ said Geoffrey firmly. He saw Bale’s surprise, but did not want to confess his weakness about such places. ‘Another time – I have work to do today.’
He pushed past the squire, and headed for the hall, to see if there was any breakfast. Bale followed, chatting about Olivier’s hawks, and Geoffrey saw that he was not in the least bit puzzled by his master’s disinclination to investigate the tunnel. Durand would have smelt a rat in an instant and set himself to learn why Geoffrey had bolted. Geoffrey smiled. Perhaps there was an advantage in having a servant who was not quite so sharp after all.
Torva nodded affably when they met near the stairs, while Peter, hauling a vat of pottage from the kitchens, gave Geoffrey a grin. Several others acknowledged him with waves, and he began to hope the game had been worth the aggravation – at least some servants no longer seemed to think that he was Henry’s more violent brother.
Tables bearing food were ready, although there were not many takers – most guests had either returned to Goodrich late, or had slept at Bicanofre. Joan and Olivier were on hand to make pleasant conversation, although the only person to arrive so far was Giffard. The prelate had declined to waste an evening on ‘singers with balls’.
‘You kept us awake last night with your noisy revelry,’ said Joan, when Geoffrey sat beside her. ‘What in God’s name were you doing to cause all that cheering and groaning?’
‘Nothing in God’s name,’ muttered Giffard. ‘I imagine he was gaming.’ He pronounced the last word as though it was a sin tantamount to sodomy.
‘He would not do that,’ said Joan. ‘He knows I do not allow it.’
Peter gave Geoffrey an enormous wink behind her back and tapped the side of his nose. But Geoffrey did not like the notion that he was part of a conspiracy.
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘we did play a game of chance, but Father Adrian says it was not gambling because no one kept his winnings.’
Joan glared at him, unconvinced. ‘If you do it again, I shall not be pleased.’
&nb
sp; Geoffrey felt like telling her he would do what he liked in his own house, but did not want to quarrel. He seldom gambled anyway, so it was not something he would miss. He nodded acquiescence, and she turned to make sure that Giffard had enough food.
‘You should not have confessed,’ muttered Peter, ladling pottage into his bowl. ‘We would not have told on you, not like we would have done Henry.’
Geoffrey supposed this represented an improvement in relations, and hoped they would not degenerate again if he were to discover that one of the servants had killed his brother. There was a clatter of hoofs outside, heralding the return of more guests from Bicanofre, so Joan and Olivier hurried to greet them, leaving Geoffrey and the Bishop alone.
‘What have you learnt?’ Giffard asked. ‘Has anyone confided in you yet? You do not have much time. Agnes fluttered her eyelashes at the King, and he is certain to take her to Westminster. Then she and Walter will be beyond my control.’
‘It is not looking good,’ Geoffrey admitted. ‘I am uneasy that she has gone to Bicanofre, where Eleanor lives. Eleanor knows a lot about poisons, although Agnes claims they are no longer friends. However, I am not sure I believe her.’
‘But Eleanor is missing,’ Giffard pointed out. ‘Probably dead in the fire. She is not at Bicanofre.’
Geoffrey thought about the charms at the Angel Springs, and was certain that Eleanor would not have been killed in a fire that had been planned there. Moreover, since Eleanor kept her face veiled, she could be walking around openly and no one would know. He wondered whether to tell Giffard that his nephew had owned mandrake, but decided it would serve no purpose.
‘Joan told me a messenger came to you yesterday,’ he said instead. ‘Did he bring good news?’
Giffard smiled at last. ‘There is one silver streak in the dark clouds around me. The King asked the Archbishop of York to consecrate me, and York agreed. I shall have God’s blessing for my work.’
‘That is good news,’ said Geoffrey, knowing it meant a great deal to his dour friend.
‘I would like you to come. The ceremony will be in St Paul’s Cathedral in London, and two other bishops – Salisbury and Hereford – will be blessed at the same time.’
Deadly Inheritance Page 20
