Simon Beaufort - Deadly Inheritance

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

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‘I did not hear anything,’ Jervil said sullenly. ‘Not until morning, when Olivier started to yell.’

‘You heard Olivier, but not Henry? But Henry was drunk – there would have been a commotion.’

‘Perhaps there was,’ said Jervil. ‘But I sleep heavily.’

Geoffrey studied the groom. Jervil was rude, untruthful and impertinent, and may well have harmed Henry. Or was it fear of someone else that kept him silent? Then Geoffrey looked at Torva, who also refused to meet his eyes. Geoffrey found him impossible to read, but was certain of one thing: Torva and Jervil definitely knew something about Henry’s murder.

The following day was Sunday, and the members of Goodrich’s household attended mass in the chapel of St Giles – a pretty place, with a thatched roof and walls of wattle and daub. Standing in the nave and listening to Father Adrian’s precise Latin, Geoffrey looked around him.

Joan and Olivier were at the front, wearing their best clothes, although Olivier was by far the more elegant. They were talking in low voices. Behind them was Torva, and next to him was the cook, Peter, fat and smiling. Geoffrey had tried several times to draw Peter into conversation, but had been treated to blank stares. Jervil was with them, biting his nails. Joan claimed they were hard-working, sober men, but Geoffrey was unconvinced. All three had already reacted oddly to Geoffrey’s attempts to uncover the truth about Henry. Did their curious attitudes imply guilty consciences?

The mass ended, and Geoffrey walked outside, collecting his dagger as he went – Father Adrian had refused to let him inside until he had divested himself of weapons. Bale, his new squire, had offered to guard it, and during the interim had honed the blade to a vicious edge. It sliced through the sheath as Geoffrey slid it away.

‘God’s teeth!’ he exclaimed. ‘There is no need to make it quite so sharp, man.’

‘You never know when you might need to slit a throat,’ hissed Bale. ‘And a sharp knife is better than a blunt one.’

‘I do not envisage-’ began Geoffrey uneasily.

‘Slitting a throat is the best way to dispatch an enemy,’ interrupted Bale in a confidential whisper. ‘It is quiet and quick. I can show you.’

‘No,’ said Geoffrey, moving away in distaste. Bale followed.

‘A man can never have too many sharp knives,’ he went on, a manic light gleaming in his brown eyes. ‘I always carry at least three.’

Geoffrey regarded him warily, wondering whether he was entirely in control of his faculties. He was a massive man, standing half a head above Geoffrey, and his arms and shoulders were unusually powerful. His head was bald, kept free of hairs by constant shaving and application of some sort of shiny grease. He was too old to be a squire – at least five years Geoffrey’s senior – but Olivier had insisted Geoffrey take him. Geoffrey had accepted, but was having serious misgivings. Bale was far too interested in slaughter.

‘He is the epitome of violence,’ said Father Adrian, as he stood with Geoffrey and watched Bale pulling the heads off spring flowers. ‘It is only a matter of time before he commits other murders, and the sooner you take him away, the better.’

Geoffrey stared at the priest. ‘Other murders?’ Here was something Olivier had not mentioned.

Father Adrian was annoyed with himself. ‘I should not have said that – there was no proof, so I might be maligning an innocent man.’

‘Whom did he kill?’ demanded Geoffrey.

‘His parents,’ said Father Adrian, glancing around to make sure that Joan could not hear. ‘They were found butchered, although Bale claims he was in a tavern at the time. That was about two years ago. Then there was a brawl that ended in death, but witnesses say Bale was goaded.’

Bale’s company was sounding distinctly unappealing, and Geoffrey saw he had gone from one extreme to the other: Durand fainted if he saw blood, while Bale revelled in it.

‘Tell me about more about Henry,’ said Geoffrey, looking away as Bale went after a blackbird with his sword. ‘We were interrupted when we talked before, and you were beginning to tell me about his affair with Isabel fitzNorman.’

Father Adrian backed away. ‘Joan says it is a matter best left alone.’

Geoffrey followed him into the church. ‘Was Henry’s affection for Isabel reciprocated?’

‘She says not,’ said the priest. He changed the subject. ‘When will you marry?’

‘When I feel like it,’ replied Geoffrey tartly.

‘It will not be long. Joan will not let you leave until you have impregnated a wife.’

‘I am not a breeding bull,’ said Geoffrey, not liking the notion that an entire estate was waiting for him to perform his duties in the wedding bed.

‘Perhaps you will wed Isabel,’ mused Father Adrian. ‘If she already carries Henry’s child, then it makes sense for fitzNorman to give her to you.’

‘How do you know she carries Henry’s child?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Did she tell you so?’

‘I cannot say,’ said Father Adrian firmly.

‘The seal of confession?’

‘Joan said not to, and her wrath is more terrifying than breaking the sacred secrecy of a man’s business with God.’

‘Then I shall ask Isabel myself,’ said Geoffrey.

‘No! You will cause all manner of problems.’ Father Adrian rubbed a hand over his face. ‘Very well. Henry said bedding her was the best way to secure her as a bride.’

‘FitzNorman was against the match?’

Father Adrian nodded. ‘He wanted an alliance with Goodrich, but he disapproved of Henry taking Isabel before the marriage agreements were drawn up.’

‘And what about Isabel? Did he force her to lie with him?’

Father Adrian shrugged. ‘She says she thought he was someone else.’

Geoffrey raised his eyebrows. ‘Is she short of wits, then? Or fond of her wine?’

‘Neither,’ replied Father Adrian. ‘She is blind.’

The priest could not be persuaded to say more, and Geoffrey began to suspect that the only way to gain answers would be to visit Dene. He was mulling over the prospect when he became aware that someone was behind him. He turned quickly, dagger in hand.

‘Do not creep up on me like that, Bale,’ he advised irritably. ‘Most soldiers do not ask questions before they stab.’

‘I know,’ said Bale with a grin, giving the impression that he had stabbed a few hapless victims himself. ‘But something arrived for you, and Sir Olivier said I should bring it.’

Geoffrey waited. Several moments passed, but Bale merely continued to beam. ‘What did Olivier tell you to bring?’ he asked, when he saw that they might be there all morning unless he spoke.

‘A letter,’ said Bale. ‘On scraped calfskin.’

‘Vellum,’ said Geoffrey, wondering who would send him a message on vellum when parchment was cheaper. Could it be Roger, who had appropriated a considerable quantity of silver from Bristol the previous winter, and who liked making extravagant gestures? He waited again. ‘Where is it?’

Bale fumbled in his unsavoury clothes and eventually found what he was looking for. He handed the message to Geoffrey and then came to loom over his shoulder.

‘I thought you said you could not read,’ said Geoffrey, moving away.

‘I cannot,’ replied Bale, following him.

Geoffrey edged away again, wanting to read the message in peace, but Bale moved with him, standing uncomfortably close. Geoffrey began to lose patience. ‘What are you doing?’

Bale was surprised. ‘Waiting for orders, Sir. Anything written on vellum is likely to be sinister, and you will not want to speak loudly. So I am standing close.’ He reconsidered. ‘Although, if anyone overhears, I can slit his throat to ensure his silence.’ He looked around hopefully.

Shaking his head, Geoffrey turned his attention to the letter. It carried a seal that he recognized immediately: William Giffard, the Bishop of Winchester. He was assailed by an immediate sense of unease. Giffard was a good man, but was entrusted with a lot of the King’s business. Geoffrey considered tossing the missive away, to remain oblivious to whatever Giffard wanted, but he supposed there was no point when Olivier, Bale and probably others knew it had been delivered. Reluctantly, he broke the seal.

The message was brief. It told him Giffard was currently at the nearby estate of Dene, and asked Geoffrey to visit. It was badly written, as if penned in a hurry, and its brevity lent it an urgency that the knight found worrisome.

‘I am going to Dene,’ he said. Despite the voice inside his head warning him that it might be wise to decline the summons, he liked Giffard, and did not want to fail him.

Bale fell into step beside him as he strode towards the castle, and began to chat. ‘The forest around Dene belongs to the King, and Constable fitzNorman looks after it and its animals – so the King can slaughter them whenever he likes.’

Geoffrey could think of no reply to such a remark, so he walked to the stable, where Jervil and Torva were talking. They stopped when they saw him.

‘We are off to Dene,’ Bale announced, shoving past them. ‘Move. I must saddle the horses.’

Groom and steward exchanged a glance. ‘Why Dene?’ asked Torva.

Geoffrey was inclined to tell them it was none of their affair, but said instead, ‘An old friend invited me.’

Jervil turned to Torva in agitation. ‘He is going to talk to Lord Baderon about Henry. And the Constable and his daughter and God knows who else. Will there be no end to this business?’

‘Seguin is a violent man,’ said Torva. ‘You would do well to stay well clear of him and his brother Lambert. And Baderon, for that matter.’

‘They are not at Dene,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I met them yesterday in Llan Martin. They-’

‘Baderon and his henchmen are at Dene,’ insisted Jervil. ‘For a week’s hunting. So do not try to mislead us.’

‘Here!’ snapped Bale, emerging from the stables with Geoffrey’s horse. ‘Watch your mouth. No one talks to him like that when I am here.’

‘I am not trying to mislead anyone,’ replied Geoffrey, stepping forward to prevent Bale from making good his threat. ‘However, I will find out what happened to Henry, no matter what it takes – and if that means talking to Baderon, Seguin and Lambert if I happen across them, then so be it.’

Torva indicated with a jerk of his head that Jervil and Bale were to leave them alone. Bale went to saddle his own horse, while Jervil, scowling, walked Geoffrey’s stallion a short distance away.

‘I am sorry if we seem rude,’ Torva began in a conciliatory voice. ‘But it really is better if you let Henry’s death lie.’

‘Better for whom?’ asked Geoffrey archly. ‘The killer?’

‘For all of us, including your sister. Henry was always vicious, but in the months before his death, he grew beyond control. He broke Sir Olivier’s arm, and beat a shepherd so badly that he died. He prowled the countryside picking fights, and it was only because Lady Joan is so respected that Goodrich was not razed to the ground.’

Geoffrey was not sure whether to believe him. ‘What precipitated Henry’s sudden wildness?’

‘Lady Joan made some wise investments, and Goodrich’s fortunes soared. It meant there was money for luxuries like wine. Henry could not keep from drinking. He started the moment he woke, and he continued until he slept.’

‘Did no one stop him? For his own good?’

‘Olivier tried – and had his arm snapped for his troubles. Joan locked Henry in the cellar for a week, hoping that forcing him to become sober would make him see the error of his ways. But he threatened to get a message to the King, and Joan did not want to attract royal attention. She was afraid the King might demand some favour from you, as payment for overlooking an unlawful imprisonment. From what I have heard, it was not an unreasonable fear.’

Geoffrey supposed it was not. ‘Then what happened?’

‘Henry was worse than ever. Ask anyone – they will all tell you the same.’

‘And that is why you want me to forget his murder? Because you think I will learn that someone here killed him? Jervil, for example.’

‘Jervil did not kill him,’ said Torva with absolute certainty. ‘He heard the scuffle, although he will never admit it to you. But he saw nothing.’

‘How do you know Jervil is not the killer?’

‘Because of the Black Knife that killed Henry,’ replied Torva. ‘It had a ruby in its hilt. Jervil could never afford such a valuable thing – and if he had, he would not have left it in a murdered corpse for everyone to identify. Jervil has light fingers where valuables are concerned, and nothing would have induced him to leave such a fine dagger in Henry.’

‘Whose was it, then?’

‘We do not know. But it belonged to a wealthy man, not a groom.’

‘FitzNorman?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Or Baderon?’

‘Not Baderon,’ replied Torva, again sounding certain. ‘But Seguin and Lambert are a dangerous pair. Baderon does not have them under his control, as he should vassal knights. I am not saying they are the killers, but they were the first ones who came into our minds when we saw the dagger.’

‘Where is this dagger now?’

‘Joan took it,’ replied Torva. ‘She has it locked away.’

Geoffrey donned full armour before he went to Dene: a mail tunic that reached his knees, his stained Crusader’s surcoat with its distinctive cross, a mail hood and his conical helmet. It was far in excess of what was required for a normal ride, but he did not want to meet Baderon or his knights unprotected.

He packed a bag with a few items he thought he might need for a day or two – a scroll to pass the time if Giffard could not see him immediately, a spare dagger and the needle and thread he used to repair damage to his armour. At the last moment, he included a tunic Joan had given him, which she said was the kind of thing worn when dining in polite company. It was green, and therefore a little bright for his liking, but it was smarter than the brown one he wore at Goodrich. He jammed it in and then buckled the sack closed. Slinging it over his shoulder, he walked down the stairs and into the bailey. Bale and Jervil were waiting with the horses, and even from a distance, Geoffrey could hear that they were arguing.

‘It is not wrong,’ Jervil was saying. ‘I am offering you a couple of pennies for doing nothing. I do not see why you are making such a fuss. It will be the easiest money you ever earn.’

‘No,’ said Bale, and Geoffrey could hear the stubbornness in his voice. ‘He is my master and I will not spy on him.’

‘You will not be spying,’ Jervil insisted, trying to press coins into the big man’s hand. ‘I only want to know if he meets Lord Baderon. Surely you can do that for two silver pennies?’