Simon Beaufort - Deadly Inheritance

‘Sorry,’ said Jervil, sounding more disappointed than apologetic. ‘He needs more exercise, so he is difficult to control.’

‘Especially when you hold the bridle tight enough to draw blood,’ snapped Geoffrey, snatching the strap and calming the agitated animal by rubbing its nose.

Its eyes rolled in pain, and it was some time before it settled.

‘ You should be doing this,’ he said, trying to keep the anger from his voice, lest it disturbed the horse. ‘And if he needs exercise, you should make sure he has it.’

When he received no response, Geoffrey fetched some oats and fed the animal, inspecting the cut on its lip as he did so. The injury had been caused by twisting the bridle to an agonizing tightness, and he was not surprised the beast had objected.

‘Why did you do this?’ he asked. ‘If you do not like horses, Joan will find you another post.’

For the first time emotion sparked into Jervil’s voice. ‘I do like them! Dun was bucking, so I had to hold the bridle tight. He did not like you behind him.’

Was it possible the cut had been caused by Jervil trying to control the animal? Somehow, Geoffrey did not think so.

‘Why did you not wash away Henry’s blood?’ he asked, changing the subject abruptly. ‘And why are there dead birds in the rafters?’ He glanced along the building; there were no decomposing crows above any other stalls.

‘The crows keep evil spirits away. And the blood tells the Devil to keep his distance.’

‘Does Joan know about this?’ asked Geoffrey.

‘She never comes here,’ replied Jervil, evasively. ‘Nor Sir Olivier.’

‘What happened that night?’ demanded Geoffrey. Jervil started to edge away, but Geoffrey grabbed him, finally exasperated into using force. ‘Tell me or you will be removed from this post.’

Jervil was angry. ‘There is nothing to say. It was harvest, and we were all tired after a hard day in the fields. I was woken the next morning by Sir Olivier shouting that Henry was dead.’

‘You sleep here?’

‘The horses rest easier when I am close,’ said Jervil, pointing to where a ladder led to a loft. ‘But we wondered how long it would be before you started getting rid of us and bringing in Normans.’ He spat in rank distaste.

‘Jervil!’ came a sharp voice from the door. It was Torva. ‘That is enough. Your insolence will see us all homeless.’

It was a hypocritical statement, when Torva had been insolent himself. Geoffrey noted that the dagger had been replaced by a small knife. Had Torva intended him harm two nights before?

‘There is no reason for anyone to lose his post – yet ,’ Geoffrey said. Torva and Jervil regarded him with unfriendly eyes, and he sensed that they wanted him gone from Goodrich. The knowledge made him determined to linger. ‘Tell me what you saw and heard the night Henry was stabbed, Jervil. Do not say nothing, because it will be a lie. Henry did not die quickly, because the bloodstains suggest he tried to gain his feet. He probably called for help.’

‘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.