Simon Beaufort - Deadly Inheritance

Was that true? It was possible, given that Geoffrey was already restless. Like Durand, he had developed a talent for investigating crimes and, although the cases he explored had been perilous, there had been something exhilarating about them.

‘Well?’ demanded Durand. ‘Come work with me. We will make a fortune.’

Geoffrey mounted his horse. Neither withering away at Goodrich nor working for the King held any appeal, but combining forces with the devious Durand was an appalling prospect, and not one he would consider in a hundred years. ‘It is a generous offer, but I must refuse.’

‘You are leaving?’ asked Durand in horror.

‘What do you expect me to do?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Stand guard outside your hut while you sleep?’

‘That is an excellent idea,’ said Durand gratefully. ‘No one will dare attack when there is a ruffian like you lurking outside.’

‘Good night, Durand,’ said Geoffrey, laughing.

‘Please!’ cried Durand, agitated. ‘Will you abandon an old friend in the middle of a hostile forest? I am no longer a servant; I am an important man. I own several manors in Suffolk – the King gave them to me as a mark of his esteem.’

Geoffrey raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘The King gave you land?’

Durand nodded. ‘My estates are almost as large as Goodrich. I am your equal now.’

Geoffrey was impressed that his old squire had made his fortune so quickly, and saw that he should not have been sceptical of Durand’s letters. He had indeed risen rapidly, and, if he was trusted to explore issues pertaining to taxation, it meant the King liked him. It would not be long before Durand was a force to be reckoned with.

‘Then I wish you well of it,’ he said. ‘But Serlo is right: there are no outlaws in this part of the forest. You are perfectly safe.’

Durand did not look convinced, but Geoffrey had no intention of spending the night away from the fire and warm bed at Goodrich. He raised his hand in salute and rode away. When he glanced behind him, he saw Durand standing alone and unhappy, and suspected he would sleep poorly. But Durand would survive. He always did.

Geoffrey spent another restless day at Goodrich, as Olivier pored over accounts and Joan issued orders. He offered to help Olivier – he was good with figures – but his brother-in-law pointedly suggested that Geoffrey might like to exercise his horse. With nothing else to do, Geoffrey tried to gain information about Henry from the servants, but they were wary and uncommunicative, and his attempts failed miserably. He had been a popular leader in Tancred’s service, and his amiable, easy temper meant people usually liked him. But at Goodrich, only Joan and Olivier seemed pleased he was there. He wondered why. Was it because the servants thought he might be like Henry? Or because they were afraid he might find his brother’s killer among them?

In the afternoon he splashed across the Wye ford, his dog at his side, and rode through the woods until he saw Bicanofre in the distance. Its little church huddled into the hillside, and its motte and bailey dominated the cluster of houses around it. Two women whom Joan had identified as potential wives lived there – Eleanor and Douce – and since he did not want to seem to be paying them court, he turned back, following the way he had come.

When he reached the ford again, a man with long, curly hair and a thin face was swearing furiously at some men for miring his cart in the shallows. Geoffrey could see from their resentful eyes that his fury was not helping. He supposed the foul-mouthed fellow was one of his new neighbours.

‘May I help?’ he offered politely.

The cart’s back wheels were fast in sticky mud, and the only way to extract them would involve some hard pushing. It would mean standing waist-deep in water, and Geoffrey was not enthusiastic about the idea, but in the interests of good relations . . .

‘Mind your own business,’ snapped the man.

Geoffrey touched his heels to his horse’s sides and continued on. When he reached a bend in the path, he glanced back and saw them still struggling, the thin man lashing the nags with a stick. The fellow could have been of more use by helping his men push, and Geoffrey felt sorry for the bewildered horses. But it was not his place to interfere. He cantered back to Goodrich, stopping on the way to visit Helbye. He drank some ale – although he was careful not to overindulge this time – and interrupted Helbye’s eulogy about his prize sow to tell him about meeting Durand.

‘So, Durand is reviewing taxes for the King,’ mused Helbye. ‘Well, he always was better at clerking than fighting.’

‘He asked me to work with him, to undertake the dangerous parts of his investigations.’

Helbye grimaced. ‘Doing the King’s dirty work involves meeting some very evil men, and he is right to want someone trustworthy. But not you: you must stay here and provide us with an heir.’

‘Just like your pig.’

Helbye nodded. ‘You and Henrietta are in much the same position. She will go in the pot as soon as she fails to produce a litter, and you . . . well . . .’

He left the rest of the sentence hanging. When Geoffrey arrived at the castle, Jervil – the most sullen of Goodrich’s servants – took his horse.

‘Have you worked here long?’ Geoffrey asked, attempting to be friendly.

‘Yes,’ replied Jervil, turning his back so brusquely, it verged on insolent. He led the horse inside the stable, and began unbuckling the saddle.

‘You have some fine horses in your care,’ Geoffrey said, struggling to remain patient. ‘Does Olivier inspect them every day?’

‘He does not visit the stables. A man was murdered here, in case you did not know.’

Geoffrey decided he had had enough disrespect. He would never have permitted such an attitude from his soldiers, nor should he be expected to tolerate it from his retainers.

‘Show me where Henry died,’ he ordered curtly.

Jervil regarded him uneasily, but walked to a stall about halfway down the building. It was occupied by a fierce, grey-brown stallion. Before Geoffrey could ask anything else, he saw stains that were instantly identifiable as blood. He glanced at Jervil and saw defiance combined with triumph, and supposed they had been kept as some kind of ghoulish trophy marking a victory over a hated man. He wondered why Joan had not ordered them scrubbed away.

He squeezed past the horse, and bent down to inspect them. In one place it appeared that blood had pooled on the ground, and there were several smears along the wall, giving the impression that Henry had lived for some time after he had been wounded, perhaps trying to climb to his feet. Geoffrey moved the straw and saw trails that looked like footprints: the killer had trodden in the gore. Or were they the prints of the people who had carried the body to the church?

Geoffrey was not superstitious, but the stables had an eerie feel, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to prickle. As he glanced up, he saw a number of dead birds hanging in the rafters – black ones with sharp black beaks and their eyes eaten away.

‘God’s teeth!’ he exclaimed. Dead crows were peculiar things to keep in a stable – the horses might react to the smell of blood, or simply to the sight of such strange things perched above them.

Suddenly, the stallion began to buck. Geoffrey threw himself to one side and avoided the hoofs that would have split his skull had they hit it, but in doing so tumbled to the floor. Heavy feet flailed above him, then started to descend.

Geoffrey rolled to one side, and the stallion’s hoofs thumped hard to the ground, again narrowly missing him. Then it began an awkward, prancing dance towards him, as though someone was encouraging it to move in a direction it did not want to take. He scrambled to his feet and shoved with both hands as its body crushed him against the wall. It was a heavy animal, and he was hard pressed to force it back. When it finally yielded, he squeezed out of the stall and glared at Jervil.