Deadly Inheritance - Simon Beaufort

‘Geoff!’ came a bellowing voice from the door of the hall. It was loud enough to still the buzz of conversation in the yard, and everyone turned to look. Geoffrey felt his spirits rise when he saw Goodrich had another visitor.

‘I almost forgot,’ said Joan, not entirely pleased. ‘Sir Roger of Durham arrived yesterday.’

Geoffrey smiled as the massive, familiar figure of his fellow Jerosolimitanus strode towards him. Roger was resplendent in a fur-lined cloak, fine boots and new surcoat, although the latter was already stained. The Crusader’s cross was bright and sharp, and proclaimed to all that here was one of those who had wrested Jerusalem from the infidel. His black hair was long, and he sported a fashionable beard: he was adapting to civilian life far better than Geoffrey.

‘I am glad to see you,’ Geoffrey said, as the friends embraced. ‘Life here is dull.’

‘That is not what I hear,’ said Roger, laughing. ‘You are looking into your brother’s death; Giffard wants you to find out if his nephew poisoned the Duchess of Normandy; the Welsh are girding their loins for war; and a groom and a noblewoman have been strangled. If you call that dull, we had better find a battle somewhere. And fast.’

Father Adrian was reciting mass when Geoffrey entered Goodrich’s little church the following morning. Joan had been directing a lively and erudite conversation around a blazing fire for those who preferred to be indoors, while Olivier had taken the others hawking. Even Geoffrey, who had never taken to the sport, could see that his brother-in-law was very good. With no social obligations, Geoffrey had decided to find out about the Black Knife.

Roger had accompanied him part way, but they had met Helbye, and a cup of ale with an old comrade held more appeal for Roger than seeing a priest. They agreed to meet later, although Geoffrey suspected it would be a good deal later. He stood at the back of the chapel, listening to Father Adrian and finding peace in the familiar words and cadences. Unlike many parish priests, Father Adrian’s Latin was good. Durand, who liked churches, nodded approvingly.

‘He is excellent,’ he whispered. ‘I could listen to him all day.’

Geoffrey soon saw they might have to: Father Adrian went on and on. Geoffrey left to roam in the graveyard, breathing in the spring-scented air. Eventually, he reached the area that held the Mappestones. Henry’s cross was down again, and it occurred to Geoffrey that it had not simply fallen – someone had forced it over. He began to pull it upright, but abandoned his labours when someone approached.

‘What happened to Jervil?’ demanded Torva. ‘Did you kill him?’

‘No,’ said Geoffrey firmly. ‘However, I do know he took a dagger with a ruby in its hilt and sold it to Baderon before he died. Why did he do that, Torva?’

‘I do not know,’ said Torva furtively.

‘I overheard Jervil trying to bribe Bale to spy on me,’ said Geoffrey, watching the steward’s reactions carefully. ‘Why?’

‘Why do you think?’ snapped Torva. ‘Because we need to know what you are up to. Now I have work to do.’

He hurried away, and Geoffrey could see that he was deeply worried. He decided to further question Torva later. After a while, Father Adrian emerged with those who had endured his mass. The parishioners nodded to Geoffrey as they passed, although few were familiar. To his surprise, Geoffrey saw that Ralph de Bicanofre had attended the service, too, with Douce and their father Wulfric. Geoffrey ducked behind the porch, not wanting Ralph to start another quarrel.

‘You are right to make yourself scarce,’ said Helbye’s wife – Geoffrey had no idea of her name, because Helbye never used it. She was one of Father Adrian’s most dedicated attendees and had seen Geoffrey move into hiding; uninvited, she joined him. ‘Ralph has a nasty temper.’

‘I am here, too,’ came a hot voice at Geoffrey’s ear, making him jump. It was Bale, and the three of them were uncomfortably cramped in the narrow space between porch and buttress. ‘Your sister told me where you were, so I thought I should make sure the priest does not do anything rash.’

‘Father Adrian?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘He is not violent.’

‘He keeps a knife under his altar,’ confided Bale. ‘A sharp one. I have seen it myself.’

‘It is the Black Knife that killed your brother,’ said Helbye’s wife. ‘Joan gave it to him, to sell for the poor. But it has lain in the church for months, and he has done nothing with it.’

‘It is not there now,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Jervil sold it to Baderon.’

‘Did he?’ asked Bale. He sounded sorry. ‘It was a fine thing, with a good, sharp blade. But Jervil was a fool if what you say is true. He risked his immortal soul if he stole from God.’

Geoffrey was bemused by Bale. He was brave and seemed honest, which made him a refreshing change from Durand. However, his fascination with pointed implements was sinister. He wondered if he ever would feel comfortable with the man, and tried to move away – but to no avail, as Mistress Helbye was wedged too firmly on his other side. He hoped no one could see them.

Bale, meanwhile, was gazing at Douce, who was dressed in a blue kirtle that fell in tidy folds to the ground. ‘You see her?’ he asked in a hoarse whisper. ‘Mistress Helbye says she is the woman you will wed.’

Geoffrey raised his eyebrows, but Helbye’s wife did not seem at all disconcerted that her confidences had been so baldly betrayed. ‘Wulfric brought her here today, so she can get a good look at you,’ she said. ‘I heard them talking earlier. She was due to meet you at Dene, but the fire started before you could be introduced.’

‘Ralph would never allow his sister to marry me.’

‘Ralph is not lord of Bicanofre,’ said Helbye’s wife dismissively. ‘Wulfric is, and he wants you for Douce, so he is here to point you out to her. She is slow in the wits, you see, and will need to be told which man to allure, or she may go after the wrong one.’

‘She will do,’ said Bale, assessing Douce critically. ‘She has fine hips for breeding and strong bones. A little long in the face, perhaps, but good teeth.’

‘The poor woman is not a horse,’ said Geoffrey, indignant on her behalf. Realizing that he could not hide forever, he struggled into the open and the family immediately sailed towards him.

‘Now is your chance to size her up,’ whispered Helbye’s wife helpfully. ‘Before Joan and Wulfric settle matters without you.’

The man who stepped forward to bow to Geoffrey wore clothes that were well cut, but too small, giving the impression that they had been hauled from storage especially for the occasion. Next to him, Ralph scowled. When Geoffrey studied Douce properly, he saw that Bale’s equine terminology was not misplaced. She had a long face with widely spaced eyes, large teeth and heavy lips.

‘I am Wulfric de Bicanofre, and this is my son, Ralph,’ Wulfric said gushingly.

‘Ralph and I have already met,’ replied Geoffrey.

Ralph looked away. Wulfric ignored the hostility between them, and his smile became simpering. ‘And this is my daughter Douce. She is twenty years old, has a dowry and is a virgin.’

Geoffrey glanced at Douce, to see whether she was chagrined by her father’s outrageous words, but she merely continued to beam in a way that made him wonder whether she was an idiot.

‘We are looking for a good match,’ said Ralph, lest his father’s words had been too subtle. ‘He thinks one will be found in Goodrich.’ The expression on his face made it clear that he did not concur.

‘A union between Bicanofre and Goodrich would be excellent for both manors,’ enthused Wulfric. ‘We hope you will look favourably on us. You are said to be more pleasant than your brothers, and a Jerosolimitanus, too. Douce would be honoured to accept you.’

‘What do you say, Douce?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Are you as keen to secure a husband as your family is?’

‘Of course she is,’ said Wulfric, while Douce continued to smile and nod. ‘A more demure soul you will never meet. She will make any man happy with her gentle manners. Nor is she the kind to object to you seeking pleasure elsewhere on occasion, if you take my meaning.’

‘But I would kill any man who used her badly, Jerosolimitanus or not,’ snarled Ralph.

‘We brought her here today, rather than attending our own church, so you could have a look at her,’ said Wulfric, stamping on his son’s foot to shut him up. ‘Then, if Joan mentions Douce, you will know who she is talking about.’

‘We are to have singers with balls tonight,’ announced Douce loudly.

‘Musicians and jugglers,’ explained Wulfric hastily, seeing Geoffrey’s confusion. ‘Bicanofre is a small manor compared to Goodrich, but we have offered your guests an evening of entertainment. I hope you will come. Douce will be there.’

‘What about Eleanor?’ Geoffrey asked. ‘Have you seen her since-’

‘You are interested in Eleanor?’ pounced Wulfric. ‘I had no idea anyone would take her! But, if you are willing, then of course we can reach an agreement.’

‘That is not what I meant,’ objected Geoffrey. He glanced at Douce, to see if she was offended, but she wore the same stupid smile, and he suspected that she was not following the conversation at all. ‘I was going to ask whether you had you seen her since the fire.’

‘She is missing.’ Wulfric sounded more annoyed than concerned. ‘But she likes to wander in the forest, and I am told her red cloak was seen flitting in the trees after the fire was out.’

‘Enough of this,’ blurted Ralph unpleasantly. ‘My father wants to know your decision about Douce. Will you consider her? I do not want to waste time if you have already decided against us.’

Geoffrey felt sorry for Douce. He ignored Ralph and offered to escort her to where a servant was waiting with their horses, bringing about a triumphant beam on her father’s face.

‘Is it far to Bicanofre?’ Geoffrey asked, flailing around for polite conversation.

‘Bicanofre,’ she said brightly. ‘It is a village.’

‘I know,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I asked how far it is from Goodrich.’

‘My brother Ralph has a green cloak with silver thread,’ burbled Douce happily. ‘And our cat had fifty kittens last week. Or was it five? I can never remember numbers.’

‘I see,’ said Geoffrey. He was relieved when they reached the horses and a servant stepped forward to help her into her saddle.

‘She is a good lass,’ said Wulfric, winking at Geoffrey. ‘You will never have any trouble from her – not like some of the others you could choose. Hilde is manly, Margaret is dead and Corwenna would kill you on your wedding night.’ He took the reins of his daughter’s horse and led her away.

‘I did as you asked, Father,’ Geoffrey heard her say. ‘I did not answer any questions I did not understand and I kept the discussion to pleasant, normal things.’

‘And Isabel?’ asked Geoffrey of Ralph, aware that Wulfric’s list had not included the fair, grieving figure. ‘What about her?’

‘She needs to do penance for her sin with your brother,’ said Ralph contemptuously.

‘She needs you,’ said Geoffrey, fighting the impulse to say he could not imagine why. ‘She grieves for Margaret, and has been asking for you.’

‘I no longer know her,’ said Ralph coldly. ‘And we will not speak of this matter again.’

‘God’s teeth!’ swore Geoffrey, as Bale and Helbye’s wife came to stand next to him to watch the Bicanofre contingent ride away. ‘That man is asking for my sword in his unfeeling heart.’

‘Isabel is better off without him,’ said Helbye’s wife. ‘Love is double-edged; it brings misery as well as happiness. People should try to avoid it, because it is such a gamble.’

‘I was in love once,’ said Bale. ‘But she said she would only marry me if I agreed never to bring a blade into the house. So I turned her down.’

‘What did you think of Douce?’ asked Helbye’s wife in the silence that followed.

‘She is half out of her wits.’

‘More than half,’ agreed Bale. ‘But that will not matter if she begets you children – and she will.’

‘What makes you so sure?’

‘She has already produced a couple, which is why her father wants her settled,’ replied Bale. ‘He will not want her worn out before she can produce legitimate ones.’

‘He said she was a virgin,’ objected Geoffrey.

‘Perhaps he thinks you will not know the difference. Well? What did you think of her? Helbye’s wife says she is the best of the batch. Now Margaret is dead and Isabel wants to take the veil, there is only Hilde, Corwenna and Douce left.’

‘Well, there is Eleanor,’ said Helbye’s wife. ‘I doubt she is dead. But you must not accept her, not if she was the last woman on God’s Earth.’ She folded her arms.

‘Why?’ said Geoffrey, understanding that he was expected to ask.

‘Her suitability,’ said Helbye’s wife, while Geoffrey thought that if insanity and pre-marital pregnancies did not make a woman unsuitable, then he could not imagine what Eleanor had done. But Helbye’s wife had had enough gossip, and moved away. Meanwhile, Geoffrey remembered why he had gone to the church in the first place.

‘Father Adrian!’ he called. ‘I want to talk to you.’

‘No,’ said Father Adrian in alarm. ‘Not about your brother, and not about any of those women Mistress Helbye has been telling you about, either. Joan will have her own views, and I will not interfere.’

‘It is about the dagger Joan gave you.’

‘She said I could sell it, to provide alms for the poor. So I took it to Rosse two days ago. A silversmith gave me three shillings for it. Why? Did you want it back?’

‘Three shillings is a good price,’ said Bale. ‘Did you tell this silversmith it was a Black Knife?’

Father Adrian looked furtive. ‘He did not ask. Besides, it had lain under my altar for months, so it was clean. The merchant would not have given me three shillings if I had told him its history. People can be superstitious.’

‘Including you,’ said Geoffrey, ‘if you felt it needed three months in a church before it was fit for sale.’

‘That is different,’ replied Father Adrian primly. ‘That is religion.’

Geoffrey was not sure where the line lay, but he wanted answers, not a debate. ‘How many people knew the dagger was there?’

‘The whole village,’ replied Father Adrian. ‘I asked people to pray for its purification, so it would raise money for the poor.’ He looked smug. ‘It worked: three shillings is a fine sum.’

‘Have you done business with this silversmith before?’ asked Geoffrey, wondering how it had gone from the Rosse craftsman to Jervil. Perhaps the groom had been uncomfortable stealing from a church but was not squeamish about robbing a merchant.