Simon Beaufort - Deadly Inheritance

Geoffrey’s thoughts turned to Duchess Sybilla. Walter had owned a pot of mandrake, although Geoffrey doubted its contents had killed Sibylla. Geoffrey had also discovered that Agnes knew about mandrake, and that she had courted the friendship of Eleanor. Eleanor was now missing. Could she be dead? And was Agnes telling the truth about her and Eleanor’s disagreement?

Knowing that he would solve nothing by lounging around, Geoffrey rose and went to the garderobe. He stared at the shelves that concealed the passage to the woods. He still had not asked Joan whether it was intact, and knew he was being remiss. If Goodrich came under attack, it might be a vital part of a plan to protect it. He took a deep breath and pushed the hidden door before his courage failed. It swung open, revealing a black, sinister slit with dusty steps. It was draped with cobwebs, and just looking at it made the bile rise in his throat.

‘Where does that go?’ whispered Bale from behind him, making him spin around in alarm.

Geoffrey pressed a hand over his thudding heart. ‘You must stop creeping up on me like that, Bale, or one of us is likely to die. It leads to the woods. I cannot remember where exactly.’

Bale’s eyes gleamed. ‘I might have known cunning old Godric Mappestone would have installed something like this when he raised Goodrich. Shall we explore it?’

‘I am not going down there,’ said Geoffrey firmly. He saw Bale’s surprise, but did not want to confess his weakness about such places. ‘Another time – I have work to do today.’

He pushed past the squire, and headed for the hall, to see if there was any breakfast. Bale followed, chatting about Olivier’s hawks, and Geoffrey saw that he was not in the least bit puzzled by his master’s disinclination to investigate the tunnel. Durand would have smelt a rat in an instant and set himself to learn why Geoffrey had bolted. Geoffrey smiled. Perhaps there was an advantage in having a servant who was not quite so sharp after all.

Torva nodded affably when they met near the stairs, while Peter, hauling a vat of pottage from the kitchens, gave Geoffrey a grin. Several others acknowledged him with waves, and he began to hope the game had been worth the aggravation – at least some servants no longer seemed to think that he was Henry’s more violent brother.

Tables bearing food were ready, although there were not many takers – most guests had either returned to Goodrich late, or had slept at Bicanofre. Joan and Olivier were on hand to make pleasant conversation, although the only person to arrive so far was Giffard. The prelate had declined to waste an evening on ‘singers with balls’.

‘You kept us awake last night with your noisy revelry,’ said Joan, when Geoffrey sat beside her. ‘What in God’s name were you doing to cause all that cheering and groaning?’

‘Nothing in God’s name ,’ muttered Giffard. ‘I imagine he was gaming.’ He pronounced the last word as though it was a sin tantamount to sodomy.

‘He would not do that,’ said Joan. ‘He knows I do not allow it.’

Peter gave Geoffrey an enormous wink behind her back and tapped the side of his nose. But Geoffrey did not like the notion that he was part of a conspiracy.

‘Actually,’ he said, ‘we did play a game of chance, but Father Adrian says it was not gambling because no one kept his winnings.’

Joan glared at him, unconvinced. ‘If you do it again, I shall not be pleased.’

Geoffrey felt like telling her he would do what he liked in his own house, but did not want to quarrel. He seldom gambled anyway, so it was not something he would miss. He nodded acquiescence, and she turned to make sure that Giffard had enough food.

‘You should not have confessed,’ muttered Peter, ladling pottage into his bowl. ‘We would not have told on you, not like we would have done Henry.’

Geoffrey supposed this represented an improvement in relations, and hoped they would not degenerate again if he were to discover that one of the servants had killed his brother. There was a clatter of hoofs outside, heralding the return of more guests from Bicanofre, so Joan and Olivier hurried to greet them, leaving Geoffrey and the Bishop alone.

‘What have you learnt?’ Giffard asked. ‘Has anyone confided in you yet? You do not have much time. Agnes fluttered her eyelashes at the King, and he is certain to take her to Westminster. Then she and Walter will be beyond my control.’

‘It is not looking good,’ Geoffrey admitted. ‘I am uneasy that she has gone to Bicanofre, where Eleanor lives. Eleanor knows a lot about poisons, although Agnes claims they are no longer friends. However, I am not sure I believe her.’

‘But Eleanor is missing,’ Giffard pointed out. ‘Probably dead in the fire. She is not at Bicanofre.’

Geoffrey thought about the charms at the Angel Springs, and was certain that Eleanor would not have been killed in a fire that had been planned there. Moreover, since Eleanor kept her face veiled, she could be walking around openly and no one would know. He wondered whether to tell Giffard that his nephew had owned mandrake, but decided it would serve no purpose.

‘Joan told me a messenger came to you yesterday,’ he said instead. ‘Did he bring good news?’

Giffard smiled at last. ‘There is one silver streak in the dark clouds around me. The King asked the Archbishop of York to consecrate me, and York agreed. I shall have God’s blessing for my work.’

‘That is good news,’ said Geoffrey, knowing it meant a great deal to his dour friend.

‘I would like you to come. The ceremony will be in St Paul’s Cathedral in London, and two other bishops – Salisbury and Hereford – will be blessed at the same time.’

Geoffrey was torn. The cathedral was said to be a fabulous building, and he longed to visit it, but he did not want to see the King. He promised to think about it and headed outside, so the servants could clear the hall. Giffard followed, yawning.

‘You should sleep more,’ Geoffrey advised. ‘And pray less.’

‘I will,’ said Giffard, a little irritably, ‘if you cease staying up with the servants and making so much noise.’

Geoffrey left the hall and ran down the wooden stairs to the bailey. It was a fine day, and he felt his spirits soar. He rubbed his hands, trying to decide whether to go riding or to see if Roger fancied some swordplay.

‘You will be busy this morning,’ said Durand by way of greeting. ‘As your guests trickle back from Bicanofre, I assume you will be on hand to greet them.’

‘Do you think I should?’ asked Geoffrey, feeling his ebullience slip. ‘Joan and Olivier are here.’

‘You cannot delegate everything,’ said Durand. ‘It is unfair to them – and insulting to your visitors. I am always available when guests honour me with their presence.’

Geoffrey reluctantly resigned himself to a morning of duty. Only then did he notice that Durand was pale and his eyes heavy from a lack of sleep.

‘Did you enjoy yourself last night?’ he asked, assuming Bicanofre was the cause of the man’s shabby appearance.

Durand winced. ‘I was grossly misled. The singers were toneless and I can toss and catch balls better than those so-called jugglers. If that is the level of “entertainment” I am to expect here, then I must increase the pace of my investigation.’ He closed his eyes and fanned his face with his hand, looking like an elderly nun.

‘Do not expect nights of wild debauchery when you are with me,’ warned Giffard sternly, as he joined them. ‘My household retires to bed with the sun, and rises early for religious devotions. There is no levity.’

Durand looked alarmed that his sojourn in Winchester might not be as much fun as anticipated, and he swallowed hard. ‘Really?’ he asked in a small voice.