Simon Beaufort - Deadly Inheritance

• Название: Deadly Inheritance
• Автор: Simon Beaufort
• Жанр: Исторический детектив

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‘She did not look very interested when I encountered her in the woods.’

Baderon pursed his lips, while his knights exchanged knowing smirks. ‘You met her. Damn! I wanted to be there, to make sure . . .’ He trailed off, waving a hand expansively.

‘To make sure she did not bite you,’ Seguin chortled.

‘To make sure each knew who the other was,’ said Baderon, glaring at him. He forced a smile at Geoffrey. ‘You must visit us in Monmouth. I am told you are a favourite of the King, and the King’s friends are always welcome.’

‘It is always wise to be gracious to friends of the King,’ said Durand. ‘I-’

‘You are not a friend of His Majesty,’ said Baderon in surprise. ‘You are a clerk. Abbot Serlo told me. Why are you here, anyway? You should be dining with the servants at that table.’ He pointed to the corner.

Durand’s small, sharp face grew dark with anger. ‘I am a trusted agent, not a clerk. And I am a landowner, too.’

‘You are not,’ said Seguin in distaste, grabbing Durand by the scruff of the neck and propelling him away. ‘You sit at the lower end of the hall.’

Durand’s eyes flashed dangerously. ‘I resent you manhandling me.’

Seguin made as if to grab him again, and Geoffrey was about to intervene when others entered the hall. Seguin’s eyes lit up when he saw Corwenna among them, and Durand was forgotten. Magnificent in a violet kirtle, Corwenna smiled smugly as she took his arm and allowed him to lead her to her place. When she passed Geoffrey, she looked him up and down disdainfully.

‘FitzNorman allows anyone to dine here, I see,’ she remarked.

‘Take no notice,’ whispered Baderon. ‘She has a sharp tongue, but Seguin will blunt it once they are married.’

Geoffrey sincerely doubted it. He watched Seguin fuss, determined to impress her, and it occurred to him that Seguin might do anything to secure her favour. Would he stoop to murder, to rid her of the man she claimed had killed Rhys?

‘I wish she would blunt it on him!’ muttered Durand venomously. ‘Insolent bastard!’

‘Ignore him,’ said Geoffrey, seeing humiliation burn on Durand’s face. ‘Seguin is a lout.’

‘Not Seguin. He is nothing – a brainless bag of wind. I was talking about Baderon. How dare he tell me where I may sit! Does he not know who I am?’

Geoffrey was saved from a further tirade when fitzNorman arrived. On his arm was an older woman, with kind grey eyes and a surprisingly trim figure. She wore a kirtle with plain sleeves and a long, decorative girdle made of silk. As befitting a lady of rank, a veil covered her hair, although the chestnut curls showing at her temples indicated they were not yet touched by grey. FitzNorman nodded greetings to various guests, including Durand, then approached Geoffrey.

‘This is my sister Margaret,’ he said. ‘I would like you to sit with her this evening.’

‘Where is Isabel?’ asked Durand, of a mind to make trouble. ‘Is she too busy to dine with us?’

FitzNorman glared at him. ‘She is indisposed.’

‘She refuses to see you while she pines for Ralph de Bicanofre,’ muttered Durand, going to take a seat, not quite at the level of Baderon and his men, but not far away. Geoffrey saw he had indeed risen in society.

‘I hear your first meeting with my brother was eventful,’ said Margaret, leading Geoffrey to the dais. Uncomfortably, Geoffrey was aware of Corwenna and Seguin glaring at him from one side, and fitzNorman watching with hawk-like eyes on the other; Geoffrey wished that he had not dispensed with his armour. ‘Do not take him amiss. He wants an alliance with you.’

‘You mean by marrying you?’ asked Geoffrey bluntly.

Margaret was not embarrassed. ‘I do not want another husband, but I may have no choice, and neither may you. However, I will not try to beguile you with false words, if you do me the same courtesy.’

Geoffrey smiled. ‘But we can be friends?’

She looked as relieved as he felt. ‘I would like that very much.’

‘Tell me about your husband,’ said Geoffrey, as the meal wore on.

‘He went on the Crusade, although he did not live to enjoy his glory. He died at Antioch.’

As Margaret talked, her spouse’s face appeared in Geoffrey’s mind. He recalled a gentle knight with calm, brown eyes, who had spoken fondly of his wife. She was moved when he told her so, and asked many questions about Antioch and its towering walls. She believed her Robert had died in battle, although Geoffrey knew that he, like so many others, had died of the bowel disease that struck at those weakened by hunger and exhaustion. He did not tell her the truth.

‘Who is that?’ he asked, nodding towards the fellow he had offered to help when his cart had stuck in the Wye. With him was an older man and a young woman wearing a white wimple. Geoffrey had a fleeting impression of dark eyes and clear skin before someone stepped into his line of sight.

‘Wulfric de Bicanofre and his son Ralph. It is Ralph for whom Isabel pines, poor thing. The woman is Wulfric’s youngest daughter, Douce.’

But Ralph was being hustled from the hall by his father, and Douce followed. Ralph shouted something, and Geoffrey thought he heard, ‘Henry’. When he saw Ralph scowl in his direction, he was sure it was his presence that had caused the father to remove the son so hastily.

Margaret chuckled. ‘Ralph is a silly boy, all puffed-up pride. His father knows he will quarrel with you, and is afraid it will spoil Douce’s chances. If you were to take Douce – or Eleanor – it would improve Wulfric’s standing in the area, and he is keen to make a good impression.’

‘I had no idea Goodrich was so important,’ said Geoffrey.

‘It is strategically located, as you know. But you may as well enjoy being fawned over. It will not last.’

‘That is what my old squire, Durand, told me,’ said Geoffrey.

‘Poor Durand. Baderon should not have addressed him so rudely, and Seguin should not have shoved him. He is a favourite at Court, and is likely to remember insults. The King likes men who are resourceful, clever and devious.’

‘I hear the King will be here soon. Do you know when?’

‘So you can leave before he arrives?’ Margaret laughed when he looked alarmed. ‘It is obvious that you are not a man to hang around in the hope of securing some regal crumb. But His Majesty is not expected for days. You have plenty of time to see your bishop and escape.’

‘Tomorrow,’ vowed Geoffrey. ‘When Giffard has finished his vigil.’

‘He is a devout man, but deeply troubled. I hope you can ease his burden.’

‘What burden?’ asked Geoffrey.

‘I suspect it is something to do with his kinsmen and the Duke . . . What do you want?’ Her voice was suddenly cool, and Geoffrey glanced up to see Corwenna behind him, a knife in her hand.

‘I want some of Geoffrey’s hair,’ she said, reaching out. ‘It is part of an experiment, to see whether Norman or Celtic hair is stronger.’

Geoffrey was not particularly superstitious, but he recalled Bale’s warnings about hair, and leant away from her. Undaunted, she grabbed at him.

‘No,’ said Margaret, catching her wrist. ‘Choose another Norman. And go away.’

She met Corwenna’s angry gaze, until the Welsh woman gave a stiff bow and moved away. She did not approach anyone else, and Geoffrey doubted there was any such experiment.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘She would have taken it to the Angel Springs and had it cursed,’ said Margaret. ‘Personally, I do not believe such nonsense, but you cannot be too careful. Now, tell me more about the Fall of Jerusalem.’

She asked more questions about the Holy Land and then talked a good deal about her Robert. It was an easy, relaxed discussion, and Geoffrey was grateful for her company. He saw fitzNorman nod with satisfaction, as if drawing up wedding contracts in his mind, and was aware that Baderon watched with irritation. Eventually, Abbot Serlo stood and intoned grace: the meal was at an end.

Margaret patted Geoffrey’s hand in a motherly fashion as she bade him goodnight, and when she had gone, he went outside for air. He sat on some steps, but did not enjoy his solitude for long. A youth of fifteen or sixteen, whose clothes copied those favoured by the most fashion-conscious members of the King’s court, came to stand nearby. Despite his finery, he was unprepossessing, with a bad complexion, poor teeth and a large nose.

‘It is a beautiful morning,’ he said in heavily accented Italian. ‘And the cows are in the river.’

Geoffrey gazed at the boy in bemusement. ‘It is a cold night,’ he replied in Norman-French. ‘And I imagine the cows are in the byre.’

It was the youth’s turn to look surprised. ‘You know Italian?’

‘My liege lord comes from Italy,’ replied Geoffrey in Italian. ‘Have you been there?’

‘You are speaking too fast,’ snapped the boy in Norman-French. ‘And how do you know Italian? There cannot be any call for it in these Godforsaken parts.’

‘I like learning languages,’ replied Geoffrey, reverting to French. ‘And you?’

‘I love the sound of Italian.’ The boy closed his eyes, gesturing with his hands. ‘The bells chime in pigs. Dogs eat cabbages and the trees swear red.’

‘Very poetic.’

‘It impresses women,’ said the boy with a leering grin. ‘They think it is romantic, and invite you to kiss them.’

‘I shall remember that.’

The boy looked around. ‘I will demonstrate. You see that woman over there with the white veil? She is called Douce, and is the daughter of some upstart peasant. Watch me.’

He sauntered to where Douce stood with her brother and father. Both men gaped when the youth doffed his hat, accompanying the gesture with a stream of meaningless words about parsnips fighting inkwells and directions to the latrines.

Douce released a squawk of outrage. ‘Rude!’ she cried, cuffing him around the ears. ‘Rude!’

The boy regarded her with astonishment. ‘I was praising your beautiful eyes in the moonlight,’ he objected. ‘What did you clout me for?’

‘It sounded obscene,’ said Ralph angrily. ‘Push off.’

The boy sensed a lost cause and slunk away, pausing only to mutter to Geoffrey, ‘She is a peasant. It works better on ladies of the court.’

‘What are you staring at?’ demanded Ralph, suddenly recognizing Geoffrey.

Geoffrey was not in the mood to quarrel. He raised his hands to indicate he was sorry, and started to leave. Ralph followed, drawing his dagger, and Geoffrey was about to do likewise when Ralph suddenly beat a hasty retreat. Geoffrey watched in surprise, then jumped when a shadow loomed behind him. It was Bale.

‘He was going to fight you, sir,’ said Bale, who held Geoffrey’s broadsword in his meaty hands. ‘But he backed away when he saw he would have to contend with me, too.’

Geoffrey might have backed away from Bale, too. The squire looked especially intimidating in the dark, with his massive bulk and dome-shaped head. He thanked Bale for his watchfulness, although the squire’s attention was now on a commotion as the gates were hauled open.

Three people were ushered inside: Hilde, Hugh and Eleanor. Hilde carried her brother on her back, and when she set him on the ground, people converged to fuss over his injured foot. He was sobbing, and had evidently not enjoyed the trek. Geoffrey glanced at Bale, who stood with his hand over his mouth and his eyes wide with horror, indicating that he had forgotten to dispatch the cart. Hilde was furious, and Geoffrey tried to escape before she saw him. He was far too slow.

‘What happened to you?’ she demanded. ‘I had to carry Hugh, and Eleanor was all but useless.’

‘The cart did not arrive?’ Geoffrey asked feebly. ‘I am sorry. I-’

But, after shooting him a withering look, Hilde strode away, not waiting to hear excuses.

It was hot in the chamber that Geoffrey shared with Bale, and he was plagued by an itch from the splinters in his arm – as Durand had predicted. He finally abandoned his attempts to sleep, and went to see if there was wine left for guests in the kitchens. The night was pitch-black and he sensed dawn was a long way off. He moved stealthily, not wanting to disturb those sleeping.

His room was at the far end of a long corridor that had another four doors opening off it. Most were open, to allow air to circulate, and he could see people inside as he crept past. In the first were Seguin, Lambert and their servants; Baderon had been housed in the more sumptuous guesthouse. In the middle room were Hilde, Douce and various other women, while the next was occupied by the spotty boy who had spoken Italian and his retinue. In the last room fitzNorman snored, with his female kin around him.

Geoffrey was relieved when he reached the yard, breathing in deeply of the heady scent of wet trees and cold earth. He was waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the darkness when he saw that he was not alone.

‘Do not worry,’ said Eleanor, immediately recognizable by her veil and red cloak. ‘I am not as cross about the cart as Hilde.’

‘I should have seen it on its way. I was remiss to trust others to do it, and I apologize.’

She inclined her head. ‘Apology accepted. I do not mind the forest, although I prefer my own company. Hugh follows me everywhere, and nothing I say deters him. He is attracted by my veil. Most men are unnerved by it, but Hugh is not like other men.’

‘He seems simple-minded.’

‘Yes. He is Baderon’s only son, which is why Baderon uses his knights to establish peace – Hugh will not be capable of maintaining it once Baderon dies. He would like you for Hilde, but I doubt she will have you. Normally, a strong lord like Baderon would not care about the likes and dislikes of daughters, but Hilde has refused more suitors than you can imagine. Meanwhile, my father wants you for Douce. Or for me. But I expect your sights are set higher?’

‘They are not set at all. What are you doing out at this time of night?’

‘The same as you, I imagine. I want something to drink.’

They walked to the kitchens, where she lit a candle, then poured wine into a cup. When the heavy jug slipped in her grasp, she removed her scarlet gloves to hold it more securely, and Geoffrey saw that her hands were marred by a rash. Something had aggravated her skin, which perhaps explained why she covered everything except her eyes. He indicated she was to drink first, curious how she would do it without removing the veil. Her eyes crinkled in a smile, as if she knew what he was doing, and she turned away as she set the cup to her lips.

‘You keep scratching your arm,’ she said, as he sat near the dead hearth. ‘Let me see.’

She moved next to him, but he edged away. There was something unnerving about being inspected by a woman when only her eyes were showing, and he had a flashback to an unfortunate incident in the Holy Land, when he had inadvertently burst into a gathering of Muslim ladies. Covered from head to foot, he could only see their eyes, but there was no question that they were furious. Eleanor, however, was laughing at him.