Simon Beaufort - Deadly Inheritance

Hugh shoved plump fingers towards Geoffrey, who helped him off the table. As soon as he moved, the rat aimed for the slop drain and its freedom. Hugh became calmer when it had gone.

‘That was kindly done,’ said Hilde from the door. ‘Hugh is frightened of rats. I am none too keen on them myself, and was wondering how I was going to extricate him.’

Surprised there was something that could unsettle her, Geoffrey handed Hugh into her care and started towards his horse. Hilde caught his sleeve.

‘Seguin and Lambert are strong, aggressive and determined to make their fortunes. I do not like them, but they are the kind of men we need on our side if we are to have peace. Do not make enemies of them, Geoffrey. Look what happened to your brother when he did so.’

Geoffrey regarded her uncertainly. ‘What are you saying? That they killed him?’

She met his eyes. ‘I have heard rumours to that effect, although I have no proof. Nor have I heard them talking about it, as I might, had they been responsible – Seguin is boastful and revels in such tales. But your brother was murdered, and I would not like to see you go the same way.’

‘Your father would. Then he could take Goodrich for himself, which would be far better than an alliance by marriage.’

‘My father is not a murderer. He wants peace.’

‘Does he?’ asked Geoffrey.

‘I heard Margaret’s comments when you thought I was sleeping yesterday,’ Giffard said that evening, as he sat with Geoffrey in their chamber. The Bishop drained his goblet and held it out for Bale to fill. Bale raised his eyebrows, but said nothing as he obliged the thirsty prelate for the fifth or sixth time in a short period. ‘She also believes Agnes killed Sibylla. I am not alone in my suspicions.’

Giffard’s face was flushed as he emptied his cup and thrust it out for yet more, and Geoffrey hoped that he was not one of those drunks who talked gloomily all night, because he wanted to sleep. Meanwhile, he drank some honeyed milk that Isabel had provided. She said it was her own concoction, and he did not want to offend her by tipping it out of the window. He usually avoided milk, on the grounds that it was for children, but Giffard’s wine had a strong, salty flavour, underlain with something unpleasant. The milk tasted much better.

‘Margaret was not a regular figure at the Duke’s court,’ Giffard went on. ‘So, if she suspects Agnes, others will do likewise.’

‘Probably,’ agreed Geoffrey, recalling that Durand had done just that.

Giffard gagged slightly. ‘Wine really is a nasty substance. I do not know why people like it.’

‘You will be ill tomorrow, if you drink it like water,’ warned Geoffrey, wondering what was making the normally abstemious bishop guzzle the stuff.

Giffard ignored him and took a healthy gulp. ‘It will not be long before everyone knows my family killed the most beloved woman in Christendom. I had already asked Margaret about Agnes, and she told me nothing . You had more from her in a few moments than I managed to prise from her in a week. Where is that damned squire? I want more wine.’

‘Have some milk,’ suggested Geoffrey, indicating with a nod that Bale was to remain in the shadows. Giffard had had enough for one night. ‘It tastes like sweet vomit.’

‘Why would I imbibe sweet vomit?’

‘As penance,’ said Geoffrey, ‘for forcing a poor knight to do your dirty work.’

Giffard gave a startled smile. ‘You will do it? You will help me?’

‘I will try,’ said Geoffrey unhappily. ‘You would probably do the same for me.’

‘I would not,’ declared Giffard drunkenly. ‘I am not qualified, and would render matters worse. But I shall not forget your kindness.’ Tears formed in his eyes.

‘Tell me about Agnes and Walter,’ Geoffrey said hastily, knowing Giffard would be mortified the next morning if he lost control of his emotions. ‘She does not look old enough to be his mother.’

‘A combination of marrying young and potions,’ said Giffard, pronouncing the last word with considerable disapproval. ‘She looks better from a distance than close up, which is why she likes to come out at night, I suppose. It is dark and men are full of ale – less inclined to be critical.’

‘You sound like some old abbess, jealous of her younger nuns,’ said Geoffrey, watching Giffard lurch to his feet and fetch the wine himself. He was thoughtful. ‘Her knowledge of substances that keep her young may also extend to less benign purposes.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Giffard, flopping into his chair so hard that the contents of the cup spilt down his habit. When he tried to drink, he was puzzled to find the cup empty.

‘I mean that she may know enough about poisons on her own, so had no need to recruit Eleanor,’ elaborated Geoffrey, wondering whether he should postpone the talk until Giffard was not so inebriated. ‘What else can you tell me?’

‘Her marriage to my brother was not happy.’ Geoffrey leant forward, obliged to concentrate on the Bishop’s slurred words in order to de-cipher them. ‘They fought constantly, and I am sure her affair with the Duke was by no means her first. She is greedy and very ambitious. You will see that the moment you speak to her – if she does not drag you into her bed first. Damned whore!’

‘Easy,’ said Geoffrey, seeing a drunkard’s rage in Giffard’s eyes. ‘And what about Walter?’

‘Ambitious and avaricious, like his mother. He was delighted when his father died, because he became Earl of Buckingham.’

‘It is odd that so many people in Normandy when Sibylla died are now in Dene.’

Giffard hiccuped, and for a moment he looked as if he might be sick. Geoffrey prepared to dive out of the way.

‘Not really. Many barons with English manors own land in Normandy, and they travel together for safety. The roads in Normandy are very dangerous, with Belleme on the rampage. He is an evil bastard, burning villages, destroying crops, killing men who look at him the wrong way. Now Sibylla is not there, his power will increase. Our King is delighted, of course. A weak Normandy works in his favour: its barons will welcome him when he finally invades.’

Geoffrey was shocked at Giffard’s bluntness. He knew it would not be long before King Henry turned greedy eyes on Normandy, but he had not expected to hear it from his loyal Bishop. ‘You are drunk. You will be sorry for saying these things tomorrow.’

Giffard tried to stand, but fell back in his chair. ‘You are right. I should let you sleep, before I say anything else – although I trust you not to repeat my ramblings to the King. I shall pull my chair across the door, so any nocturnal invaders will have to pass me before they reach you.’

‘You will protect me, will you?’ Geoffrey was amused.

Giffard nodded. ‘A drunk is a terrible object to surmount. He flops in your way, is heavy and almost impossible to steer where you want him to go, and when you think you have him under control, he is sick over you.’

Geoffrey laughed. He had only previously seen Giffard drink water or weak ale, but supposed the Bishop might partake of powerful wines when unhappy. ‘Are you speaking from experience?’

‘From observation. My brother had a liking for wine. I cannot imagine why. Thank God my vocation gives me an excuse to decline it.’

‘Except for this evening. You have finished an entire jug on your own.’

‘Nonsense,’ slurred Giffard. ‘You had most of it. I had but a sip, and only because I am thirsty. Go to sleep, or you will have a thick head tomorrow.’

The snores began before Geoffrey could reply. The knight moved a chair to the door himself, which Bale offered to occupy. When Geoffrey lay on the bed, confused thoughts washed inside his head. He was not sure that he could help Giffard – the only people who knew whether Agnes and Walter were guilty were Agnes and Walter themselves, and he did not expect them to confess. Others could only repeat rumours and speculation.