Simon Beaufort - Deadly Inheritance

‘Bale!’ exclaimed Father Adrian, aghast. He glanced nervously at Geoffrey, who was not in a position to be squeamish, since he had poked fingers in wounds to assess their depths himself. Father Adrian hurriedly changed the subject. ‘It was an emerald, Geoffrey. And there was not enough blood to make a green stone red. I will give you the three shillings, if you want to buy it back, although the poor will suffer . . .’

‘I do not want it back,’ said Geoffrey absently, reviewing the facts. Joan had pulled a red-jewelled knife from their brother, and it was a red-jewelled knife that had been sold to Baderon. Yet Joan had given the knife to Father Adrian, whereupon the jewel had become an emerald. There was only one conclusion: someone had swapped it in her bedchamber. She said she could not look at it, so she had probably given it to Father Adrian without making sure that it was the same one. But who had access to Joan’s room?

He considered the servants. But an emerald was a valuable jewel, and no servant would casually provide one to swap for a ruby. The only sensible answer was that someone outside Goodrich had asked a servant to make the exchange, and had no doubt been delighted when the deception had gone so long undetected. Baderon came immediately to mind. But then why had Jervil waited to give it to him?

‘Henry’s grave,’ he said to Father Adrian, changing the subject when no answers were forthcoming. ‘I straightened his cross twice last week, but it was back on the ground again today.’

‘People come to spit and trample on it,’ said Father Adrian, more matter-of-fact than Geoffrey felt was warranted for such desecration. ‘But I have seen no one attacking it recently.’

‘It must stop,’ said Geoffrey firmly. ‘Henry is dead, and his sins are between him and God.’

‘I will try to dissuade them,’ said Father Adrian. ‘But it will not be easy.’

Geoffrey hovered in the churchyard while the priest closed the church door – then opened it again when he realized that he had shut someone inside. There emerged an ancient crone, devoid of teeth and with skin so brown and wrinkled, it looked more vegetable than human.

‘Mother Elgiva,’ said Father Adrian suspiciously. ‘What have you been doing?’

‘Listening,’ replied Elgiva with a predatory smile. ‘Folk seek my advice, so eavesdropping is helpful. It is astonishing what you can learn. For example, I know Sir Geoffrey has asked several people about the fate of his brother, but no one has told him anything useful. And I know most folk think he should marry Douce, despite her lack of wits and loose morals.’

‘Why do they favour her?’ asked Geoffrey. Personally, he was disturbed by Douce not knowing the difference between five and fifty. It did not auger well for household finances.

Elgiva began to list reasons on her gnarled fingers. ‘Hilde is too manly. Corwenna is comely, but she will not rest until your family lies dead.’

‘Not a good idea to marry her, then,’ said Geoffrey flippantly.

‘No.’ Elgiva frowned. ‘She was just another vengeful woman when she was Rhys’ widow, but her betrothal to Seguin has made her feel powerful. I fear her.’

‘There is no need,’ said Father Adrian gently. ‘Llan Martin is not in a position to harm us. Besides, Caerdig would never let it happen.’

Elgiva’s rheumy eyes flashed angrily. ‘That was true, but things have changed. Baderon listens too much to Seguin and Lambert. They are not interested in peace, but in expanding their wealth.’

‘You think they might bring us to war?’ asked Geoffrey.

‘I think Corwenna will try to use them so. And Baderon will not be able to stop her. We stand at the edge of a precipice, and I hope we do not all go clattering down it.’

Father Adrian shook the old woman’s arm. ‘Enough, Mother! You are unnerving me.’

‘Good,’ said Elgiva, before turning back to Geoffrey. ‘But we were talking about marriages. We have discounted Corwenna and Hilde, but there are others. Isabel, for example.’

Father Adrian tried to escort her from the churchyard. ‘No good will come from gossiping-’

Elgiva pulled away from him. ‘He needs to know. All these folk are staying at Goodrich, and it would be unfortunate if he was run through for saying something in ignorance.’

Geoffrey entirely agreed, finding her attitude refreshing. ‘Who killed Henry?’ he asked, aiming to make the most of someone willing to talk.

‘Most people say fitzNorman. Others think Ralph, because Isabel was a good match, and by coupling with Henry, she became untenable. No man wants his wife deflowered by another man.’

‘Yes and no,’ said Geoffrey. ‘First, Ralph did the deflowering himself; Henry came later. And second, people here seem to set great store by wealth. Isabel was no poorer after her night with Henry. Besides, Douce is no innocent, with her illegitimate children, but I am still expected to consider her.’

‘But Ralph has principles,’ said Father Adrian.

‘Not ones he applies to his sister,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Besides, I have principles, too. I am not marrying Douce.’

Elgiva took Father Adrian’s arm and walked towards the gate. Geoffrey trailed after them, his mind flitting between his brother’s death and the complex politics of acquiring a wife.

‘Do not speculate with Sir Geoffrey, Mother Elgiva,’ Father Adrian said. ‘Henry was an evil man, and I doubt many angels wept when he died. But some may weep if Sir Geoffrey discovers the killer, and a good man ends up kicking empty air under a gibbet – or if Geoffrey runs him through, as Jerosolimitani are wont to do.’

‘Good men do not murder those too drunk to defend themselves,’ retorted Geoffrey, resenting the implication that he enjoyed random slaughter.

Elgiva abandoned the priest and took Geoffrey’s arm instead. ‘My house is behind that barn. Come with me, and I will answer any questions you want.’

‘Do not demean yourself by listening to gossip,’ pleaded Father Adrian.

‘Why not?’ demanded Geoffrey. ‘No one else will tell me anything – including you.’

He followed the old woman to her home. It was a round shack, with a thatched roof and walls of hazel twigs packed with mud. Smoke billowed from the hearth, and Geoffrey started to cough as soon as he ducked around the leather sheet that served as a door. His throat was still raw from the blaze at Dene, and he was loath to spend more time hacking in confined spaces, but he supposed it was all in a good cause. Father Adrian hovered outside, and Geoffrey wondered why: did the priest think to prevent Elgiva giving information that would expose the killer?

Geoffrey continued to cough as he glanced around the hut. Unidentifiable objects hung from the rafters, and there were pots and jugs everywhere. Lurking beneath the odour of burning wood was an aroma of spices and potions that was vaguely pleasant. Elgiva pushed a three-legged stool in his direction, and he lowered himself on to it, watching her sit cross-legged on the floor.

‘This will cure your cough,’ she said, proffering something in a wooden cup. It looked like water, and he had taken a large gulp before a burning sensation gripped his chest. He gagged, feeling the potion sear into his stomach. Suddenly, he understood why the hut was so well endowed with pots and smells: Elgiva was a witch. And he had just swallowed a brew that seemed to be dissolving his innards.

‘Do not drink anything,’ advised Father Adrian from outside, although it was already too late. Geoffrey felt as though his insides were on fire, and it was difficult to breathe. He could not see, his eyes blinded by tears. Then the terrible burning eased and he found he could draw breath again.