Simon Beaufort - Deadly Inheritance

Geoffrey was sure they would not. Giffard would be appalled to have such a flagrant libertine in his household, while Durand would be horrified to be trapped with the dour, ascetic bishop. He sincerely hoped Henry would not tell them whose idea it had been.

‘But I want Durand to complete his work here first,’ said Henry. ‘You can watch him for a week or two, then escort him to Giffard when he has finished.’ He stood, business completed. ‘It is time I went hunting. You are dismissed – unless you would like to accompany me?’

‘My horse is lame, Sire,’ lied Geoffrey.

Geoffrey went to his bedchamber the moment Henry released him, and began to don his armour, intending to leave immediately. There was no need to linger and risk being asked for further favours. Giffard followed him from the hall, and watched him struggle into mail and surcoat.

‘The reason I summoned you had nothing to do with the King,’ he said. ‘He came here to hunt, and your meeting was pure chance. Do not think he engineered this encounter – he did not.’

‘ He probably did not,’ said Geoffrey, letting the unspoken accusation hang in the air.

Giffard winced. ‘I did not expect him until next week, which is why I thought it would be safe to ask you to meet me. I know you prefer to be away from court and its machinations.’

‘The King,’ corrected Geoffrey, not caring that he was speaking imprudently. ‘I prefer to be away from the King and his machinations.’

‘There is no need to blare your treasonous feelings for all to hear – and I already know what you think. But hear me out. I accompanied the King when he came this way because I need your help.’

Geoffrey was sceptical. ‘Henry told you to say that.’

Giffard sighed irritably. ‘He did not . He likes you, even though you verge on insulting him every time you meet. Could you not at least have pretended to be pleased to see him?’

‘He took me by surprise.’

Giffard went to stare out of the window. ‘I need your help, Geoffrey, and I swear, by all that is holy, the King has nothing to do with it. It is personal . . . I am at the edge of an abyss . . .’

Geoffrey did not like the sound of that at all. ‘What is wrong?’

Giffard beckoned him to the window, throwing wide the shutters. ‘You see that lady there?’

He pointed down to the yard below, to a dark-eyed woman, whose laugh revealed a mouth full of small white teeth. She was exquisitely beautiful, with an athletically curved body. She fluttered her eyelashes at fitzNorman, and the old warrior preened. She was confident of her beauty, and her laughter and the way she flirted said she was a woman who liked fun.

‘Her name is Agnes Giffard,’ said the Bishop softly.

‘ Giffard ?’ asked Geoffrey, startled. ‘She is your wife?’

Giffard shot him a withering glance. ‘That is a remarkably stupid question! How can I be married? I am in holy orders.’

Holy orders meant little where powerful prelates were concerned, as Giffard knew perfectly well, and the question was far from stupid. Sensing the Bishop’s temper derived from anxiety, Geoffrey forced himself to be patient. ‘Is she your sister? She does not look like you; she is attractive.’

Giffard raised his eyebrows. ‘Are you insulting me , now the King is not here to be a receptacle for your barbed tongue?’

‘She smiles more than you do,’ hedged Geoffrey, who had not meant to offend.

Giffard’s face was glum. ‘I find little to amuse me in this world. It is brutal, cunning and greedy. I wish I were not Bishop of Winchester. I am not even consecrated, did you know that? I am, in fact, only a deacon.’ His voice was uncharacteristically bitter.

Geoffrey was confused. ‘But you were invested with your pastoral staff and ring by the Archbishop of Canterbury himself. You said it was the most satisfying day of your life.’

‘Being invested is not the same as being consecrated,’ snapped Giffard. ‘I am able to perform my episcopal duties, but have not been properly blessed in my office by God .’

Geoffrey shrugged. ‘Ask Henry to arrange it.’

‘The problem is Archbishop Anselm, who is in a dispute with the King over who should pay homage to whom. Anselm will not consecrate anyone until the issue is resolved. Henry has asked the Archbishop of York to do it, but York is inferior to Canterbury.’

Geoffrey thought it sounded like a lot of fuss. Giffard was a powerful man and had the King’s favour, so consecration was a formality. ‘I am sure you will be consecrated soon,’ he said. ‘Archbishops and kings are always fighting over something, but these rows do not go on forever.’

Giffard took a deep breath, and Geoffrey saw that his hands were shaking.

‘Tell me about your sister,’ Geoffrey suggested, in order to take his mind off the problem. It did not work. Giffard’s frown became deeper; he had never seen the man so unhappy.

‘Agnes is not my sister. She is – was – my brother’s wife. Walter was the Earl of Buckingham, and he died last summer, when you and I were chasing rebels in the north. You see that boy standing near her? That is their son, also called Walter.’

‘The one with the yellow hat?’ asked Geoffrey, recognizing the would-be Italian speaker.

‘He is a cockerel and, as the new Earl of Buckingham, he has funds to indulge himself. I have tried to teach him restraint, but with a mother like Agnes, it was inevitable that he should transpire to be all fluff and no substance.’

‘You do not like him, then?’

‘I think he may have encouraged Agnes to . . . do what she did.’

‘And what was that?’ asked Geoffrey patiently.

Giffard took a shuddering breath. ‘I summoned them from Normandy as soon as I heard about Sibylla. But it will not be long before people realize that Agnes’ husband died last July and Sibylla died less than a month ago.’

Geoffrey had no idea what he was talking about. ‘Who is Sibylla?’

‘Sibylla de Conversano. The Duchess.’ Giffard turned an anguished face to Geoffrey. ‘I fear she was poisoned.’

Geoffrey was bemused by Giffard’s confidences. ‘The Duke of Normandy’s wife? But I heard she died from complications following childbirth.’

‘I have tried to crush the gossip,’ said Giffard. ‘But it is common knowledge that Agnes dallied with the Duke during Sibylla’s confinement.’

‘You think Agnes murdered Sibylla?’ asked Geoffrey, trying to follow what Giffard was saying. ‘So she could continue to frolic with the Duke?’

‘Worse. I think she killed Sibylla – and perhaps my brother, her husband, too – so she could marry the Duke, and rule Normandy with him.’

‘Then you thwarted her,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Agnes is here, and the Duke is in Normandy.’

‘That is not the point,’ snapped Giffard. ‘I fear evil deeds, and Sibylla was a beautiful and intelligent lady. Normandy is a poorer place without her careful hand on the Duke’s shoulder and, if someone did kill her, then a great wrong has been perpetrated.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Geoffrey. ‘But it is only a matter of time before our King – whom you serve – invades Normandy. He will be delighted that the Duke no longer has Sibylla at his side.’

‘But it is murder !’ whispered Giffard, turning haunted eyes on Geoffrey. ‘I knew Sibylla, and she was remarkable. I see her in my dreams, and hear her calling to me for vengeance. I need to know the truth: did Agnes and her brat poison Sibylla, or was her death due to tragic illness?’

‘You may not like what you find,’ warned Geoffrey. ‘And what if they did kill her? Will you tell Henry? He admires initiative, and might employ them to do it again.’