Simon Beaufort - Deadly Inheritance

‘I almost forgot,’ said Joan, not entirely pleased. ‘Sir Roger of Durham arrived yesterday.’

Geoffrey smiled as the massive, familiar figure of his fellow Jerosolimitanus strode towards him. Roger was resplendent in a fur-lined cloak, fine boots and new surcoat, although the latter was already stained. The Crusader’s cross was bright and sharp, and proclaimed to all that here was one of those who had wrested Jerusalem from the infidel. His black hair was long, and he sported a fashionable beard: he was adapting to civilian life far better than Geoffrey.

‘I am glad to see you,’ Geoffrey said, as the friends embraced. ‘Life here is dull.’

‘That is not what I hear,’ said Roger, laughing. ‘You are looking into your brother’s death; Giffard wants you to find out if his nephew poisoned the Duchess of Normandy; the Welsh are girding their loins for war; and a groom and a noblewoman have been strangled. If you call that dull, we had better find a battle somewhere. And fast.’

Father Adrian was reciting mass when Geoffrey entered Goodrich’s little church the following morning. Joan had been directing a lively and erudite conversation around a blazing fire for those who preferred to be indoors, while Olivier had taken the others hawking. Even Geoffrey, who had never taken to the sport, could see that his brother-in-law was very good. With no social obligations, Geoffrey had decided to find out about the Black Knife.

Roger had accompanied him part way, but they had met Helbye, and a cup of ale with an old comrade held more appeal for Roger than seeing a priest. They agreed to meet later, although Geoffrey suspected it would be a good deal later. He stood at the back of the chapel, listening to Father Adrian and finding peace in the familiar words and cadences. Unlike many parish priests, Father Adrian’s Latin was good. Durand, who liked churches, nodded approvingly.

‘He is excellent,’ he whispered. ‘I could listen to him all day.’

Geoffrey soon saw they might have to: Father Adrian went on and on. Geoffrey left to roam in the graveyard, breathing in the spring-scented air. Eventually, he reached the area that held the Mappestones. Henry’s cross was down again, and it occurred to Geoffrey that it had not simply fallen – someone had forced it over. He began to pull it upright, but abandoned his labours when someone approached.

‘What happened to Jervil?’ demanded Torva. ‘Did you kill him?’

‘No,’ said Geoffrey firmly. ‘However, I do know he took a dagger with a ruby in its hilt and sold it to Baderon before he died. Why did he do that, Torva?’

‘I do not know,’ said Torva furtively.

‘I overheard Jervil trying to bribe Bale to spy on me,’ said Geoffrey, watching the steward’s reactions carefully. ‘Why?’

‘Why do you think?’ snapped Torva. ‘Because we need to know what you are up to. Now I have work to do.’

He hurried away, and Geoffrey could see that he was deeply worried. He decided to further question Torva later. After a while, Father Adrian emerged with those who had endured his mass. The parishioners nodded to Geoffrey as they passed, although few were familiar. To his surprise, Geoffrey saw that Ralph de Bicanofre had attended the service, too, with Douce and their father Wulfric. Geoffrey ducked behind the porch, not wanting Ralph to start another quarrel.

‘You are right to make yourself scarce,’ said Helbye’s wife – Geoffrey had no idea of her name, because Helbye never used it. She was one of Father Adrian’s most dedicated attendees and had seen Geoffrey move into hiding; uninvited, she joined him. ‘Ralph has a nasty temper.’

‘I am here, too,’ came a hot voice at Geoffrey’s ear, making him jump. It was Bale, and the three of them were uncomfortably cramped in the narrow space between porch and buttress. ‘Your sister told me where you were, so I thought I should make sure the priest does not do anything rash.’

‘Father Adrian?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘He is not violent.’

‘He keeps a knife under his altar,’ confided Bale. ‘A sharp one. I have seen it myself.’

‘It is the Black Knife that killed your brother,’ said Helbye’s wife. ‘Joan gave it to him, to sell for the poor. But it has lain in the church for months, and he has done nothing with it.’

‘It is not there now,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Jervil sold it to Baderon.’

‘Did he?’ asked Bale. He sounded sorry. ‘It was a fine thing, with a good, sharp blade. But Jervil was a fool if what you say is true. He risked his immortal soul if he stole from God.’

Geoffrey was bemused by Bale. He was brave and seemed honest, which made him a refreshing change from Durand. However, his fascination with pointed implements was sinister. He wondered if he ever would feel comfortable with the man, and tried to move away – but to no avail, as Mistress Helbye was wedged too firmly on his other side. He hoped no one could see them.

Bale, meanwhile, was gazing at Douce, who was dressed in a blue kirtle that fell in tidy folds to the ground. ‘You see her?’ he asked in a hoarse whisper. ‘Mistress Helbye says she is the woman you will wed.’

Geoffrey raised his eyebrows, but Helbye’s wife did not seem at all disconcerted that her confidences had been so baldly betrayed. ‘Wulfric brought her here today, so she can get a good look at you,’ she said. ‘I heard them talking earlier. She was due to meet you at Dene, but the fire started before you could be introduced.’

‘Ralph would never allow his sister to marry me.’

‘Ralph is not lord of Bicanofre,’ said Helbye’s wife dismissively. ‘Wulfric is, and he wants you for Douce, so he is here to point you out to her. She is slow in the wits, you see, and will need to be told which man to allure, or she may go after the wrong one.’

‘She will do,’ said Bale, assessing Douce critically. ‘She has fine hips for breeding and strong bones. A little long in the face, perhaps, but good teeth.’

‘The poor woman is not a horse,’ said Geoffrey, indignant on her behalf. Realizing that he could not hide forever, he struggled into the open and the family immediately sailed towards him.

‘Now is your chance to size her up,’ whispered Helbye’s wife helpfully. ‘Before Joan and Wulfric settle matters without you.’

The man who stepped forward to bow to Geoffrey wore clothes that were well cut, but too small, giving the impression that they had been hauled from storage especially for the occasion. Next to him, Ralph scowled. When Geoffrey studied Douce properly, he saw that Bale’s equine terminology was not misplaced. She had a long face with widely spaced eyes, large teeth and heavy lips.

‘I am Wulfric de Bicanofre, and this is my son, Ralph,’ Wulfric said gushingly.

‘Ralph and I have already met,’ replied Geoffrey.

Ralph looked away. Wulfric ignored the hostility between them, and his smile became simpering. ‘And this is my daughter Douce. She is twenty years old, has a dowry and is a virgin.’

Geoffrey glanced at Douce, to see whether she was chagrined by her father’s outrageous words, but she merely continued to beam in a way that made him wonder whether she was an idiot.

‘We are looking for a good match,’ said Ralph, lest his father’s words had been too subtle. ‘ He thinks one will be found in Goodrich.’ The expression on his face made it clear that he did not concur.

‘A union between Bicanofre and Goodrich would be excellent for both manors,’ enthused Wulfric. ‘We hope you will look favourably on us. You are said to be more pleasant than your brothers, and a Jerosolimitanus , too. Douce would be honoured to accept you.’

‘What do you say, Douce?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Are you as keen to secure a husband as your family is?’