Simon Beaufort - Deadly Inheritance

‘I hope he is dead,’ Agnes muttered venomously.

‘Mother,’ said Walter sharply; he had seen Geoffrey. He smiled affably. ‘Have you seen my uncle? We are anxious for his safety.’

Geoffrey sent them in the wrong direction. Walter carried a knife, and Geoffrey did not like what Agnes had said. He dashed on, trying to orientate himself in the smoke.

Suddenly, someone grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around. It was Ralph, and Geoffrey only just evaded the dagger that was thrust at him.

Ralph’s face was twisted into a grimace. ‘It is time you paid for your brother’s deeds.’

Geoffrey gazed at Ralph in astonishment, scarcely believing he would choose such a time for a brawl. Ralph lunged again, and Geoffrey knocked his blow out of the way. The man fought with no skill, and his attack was more a nuisance than a threat.

‘I do not want to fight you,’ snapped Geoffrey, sidestepping Ralph’s next move.

‘I do not want to fight you, either,’ hissed Ralph. ‘I want to kill you.’

He launched himself at Geoffrey, but suddenly halted mid-move. Geoffrey’s mouth dropped as he saw Hilde holding his assailant in her burly arms. Ralph screamed his fury and frustration as he tried in vain to struggle free.

‘Have you seen Hugh?’ she asked, pinioning Ralph with effortless ease.

‘I hope he is with the Devil!’ shrieked Ralph, rather unwisely given his situation. But Hilde kept her eyes on Geoffrey as she waited for an answer.

‘He is safe,’ said Geoffrey.

Hilde closed her eyes in relief, but opened them as Geoffrey moved away. ‘You are going the wrong way. The flames are fiercer in that direction.’

‘Isabel is missing, and so is the King.’

‘It would serve Isabel right,’ said Ralph spitefully. ‘She is a whore, who-’

The diatribe stopped when Hilde tossed him away as though he were made of rags. Whether by accident or design, he landed in a slippery pile of compost.

‘I will help you look,’ she said. ‘But we will not waste time with vermin.’

Curses and threats followed them both. Smoke swirled, stinging Geoffrey’s eyes to the point where he could barely open them – not that it mattered, because he could not see anyway. Nor could he breathe easily, and his armour and surcoat were not garments he could pull over his face, as Hilde was doing. He buried his nose in his sleeve and staggered on, following the line of a wall.

As he reached a corner, the smoke thinned, and he felt a waft of clean air. The wind was blowing from the north, and they were finally upwind of the choking fumes. Geoffrey opened his smarting eyes and saw others had gathered there, gazing at the devastation. He headed towards them, and dropped to one knee beside Margaret, who sat weeping.

‘Where is Isabel?’

‘She was behind me one moment, and gone the next,’ cried Margaret. ‘I think she has gone to the guest house to find Ralph.’

‘Stay here,’ ordered Hilde. ‘Sir Geoffrey and I will find her.’

Geoffrey followed Hilde towards the thickest pall of smoke, not sure anyone would still be alive within. He saw Baderon and some courtiers standing with a tiny mound of salvaged possessions.

‘What caused this?’ demanded Baderon hoarsely. ‘How could it have taken hold so fast?’

‘It started in the manor house,’ replied a servant. ‘I assumed it was the kitchens – that is where fires usually begin – but they are still intact. It is very suspicious.’

Geoffrey’s thoughts whirled. Was the fire started deliberately? If so, was it directed against the King? Or did Agnes and her son want to make sure that gossip about the two of them and Sibylla did not spread? Or was it aimed at fitzNorman, to shame him before the King? Or Baderon, because his knights were too strong for him and he was forming alliances that were uniting the Welsh against the English?

Geoffrey tripped over a bucket of water, abandoned by someone who had fled. He grabbed Hilde’s arm and brought her to an abrupt stop, indicating she was to dip her cloak in it and put it over her head. She did not need to be told twice. Muscles bulging, she ripped the garment in two, jammed it in the bucket and then handed half to Geoffrey. With the material wrapped turban-like around their faces, they hurried on. When they reached the guest hall, Geoffrey stopped, chest heaving from exertion and lack of clean air.

He heard a voice. He listened harder, moving towards it. It was a man calling for help. He staggered on, using the voice to guide him, Hilde at his heels. He could see nothing but grey-whiteness, and could barely make out his own feet. He was dizzy, and considered escaping while he was still able, but then heard the voice again, louder and closer. It was the King.

‘Where are you?’ Geoffrey yelled.

‘Here!’ It was Isabel who answered. ‘We cannot go back because of the flames, and we cannot open the door.’

Geoffrey moved forward, feeling his way. The air was burning hot, and the water in the cloak was beginning to evaporate. Then his outstretched hands encountered wood. He moved his fingers down it, and located a beam lodged across the bottom of a door. Someone hammered furiously.

‘Open the damned door!’ bellowed the King. ‘Or we shall be roasted alive.’

The beam was not big, but it was jammed tight against the wall and was hot. Geoffrey and Hilde tugged with all their might – he grateful for the gloves Durand had lent him, and she using her sleeves to protect her hands – but it did not budge. Inside, Henry was growing angry with his would-be rescuers.

‘Open the door!’ he shouted furiously. ‘Now! The fire is getting closer while you play around. Do you want your King to die?’

‘No, Sire,’ gasped Geoffrey, scrabbling for something to use as a lever. The first piece of wood snapped like a reed, and he groped for something thicker. The piece he found was so heavy, he could barely lift it, and it took all his strength to manoeuvre it into place. Hilde helped him, but she was growing weaker as she ran out of air. Then she flopped to the ground, and he was on his own.

‘Geoffrey?’ shouted the King. ‘Is that you? Hurry, man!’

Geoffrey had no breath for talking and knew it would not be long before he collapsed like Hilde. There was a shriek from inside, followed by a low roar that suggested the flames were taking a firmer hold. Voices pleaded for him to hurry. He leant hard on his lever, but it slipped out of position and he crashed to his knees. He staggered up and was trying again when he saw that a leather strap was preventing the timber from moving. He needed to saw through it. But when he fumbled for his dagger, it was not there. He clawed at the leather with his hands, but it was hopeless – Isabel and the King would die because he could not break a strap. Then his cuff caught on a splinter and something jangled to the ground. It was the little knife that Joan had given him, since honed to a vicious edge by Bale.

For once he was grateful for his squire’s fetish, because the tiny blade cut through the tough leather like warm butter. Now only dimly aware of the cacophony of shrieks emanating from within, he summoned every last ounce of strength to lean on the lever as hard as he could. Blood pounded in his ears, and he felt the tendons in his arms and shoulders protest. Suddenly, the lever splintered, sending him sprawling backwards. But the beam also moved. It was not much, but it was enough for the trapped people to batter their way out. They spilt out of the building and staggered into the smoke-filled yard.

‘God’s blood!’ gasped Henry. ‘I can still barely breathe!’

Geoffrey climbed to his feet, legs wobbling. He saw a man grab Hilde and hoist her to her feet, urging her to walk.