Simon Beaufort - Deadly Inheritance

‘Who? The King or fitzNorman?’

‘FitzNorman,’ said Hilde impatiently. ‘I am hardly likely to recommend you flaunt the King’s orders, am I? I do not want him to seize Goodrich. He would not be an easy neighbour.’

‘FitzNorman thinks Margaret was in the stables with Jervil for . . .’ Geoffrey trailed off, not liking to state the case too bluntly, out of his respect for Margaret.

‘For what ?’ asked Hilde. He watched her expression turn from puzzled to incredulous. ‘He told you they were there together ? That his own sister would seduce an uncouth servant?’

‘He did not say seduce exactly . . .’

‘What is wrong with the men in these parts? First there was Henry, a stupid brute. Then there is Ralph, an unmannerly pig. And now fitzNorman spreads that sort of tale about a good woman.’

‘I think I was right with my first assumption: Margaret was killed because she witnessed what happened to Jervil. If I learn who murdered Jervil, then I will have Margaret’s attacker, too. Do you know anything that might help?’

‘Nothing I have not already told you – and I was fond of Margaret, so I would like to be of assistance. Jervil was a thief, but Joan was patient with him, hoping kindness would cure his sticky fingers. I have no idea why he should have been in Dene. Did Joan send him with a message?’

‘He went to sell a dagger to your father,’ said Geoffrey, deciding to be honest. ‘They were seen.’

Hilde stared at him. ‘Then your witness is wrong. Jervil knew my father, certainly, because he delivered messages to us from Joan. But they did not have the kind of relationship where my father would buy anything from him. Jervil was a thief, and anything he brought to sell would almost certainly be stolen.’

She sounded very certain, and Geoffrey saw that there was no point in pressing her further. Either she knew about the ruby knife and was not going to admit it, or she was ignorant of the affair. Regardless, pursuing the matter would be a waste of time. Geoffrey abandoned the discussion, although he was determined to ask the same questions of Baderon as soon as he could.

‘Have you found Hugh?’ he asked instead.

She fiddled with a ring on her finger. ‘No. He has disappeared before and turned up safe, but I will only be easy when he is home. People think I am foolish to fuss, but he is my brother.’

‘It is not foolish at all,’ said Geoffrey gently. ‘And if I can help, please ask.’

Hilde smiled and he saw that she had pretty eyes – pale honey-brown, just a little darker than the curls that escaped from the scarf-like veil covering her head and neck. Suddenly there was a flurry of activity heralding the arrival of two servants from Dene. Hilde was after them in a trice, Geoffrey forgotten, as she demanded news of Hugh. Geoffrey hoped the man would be found soon, and that there would not be yet another death.

Geoffrey decided to speak to Baderon as soon as possible. He hovered in the yard, waiting for an opportunity, but Seguin and Lambert were with their master, and showed no sign of leaving. Since he did not want to interrogate Baderon while his knights listened, Geoffrey had no choice but to wait. He did so reluctantly.

While he kicked his heels, he heard someone shout his name. He looked up to see Roger striding towards him. The big knight looked pale, and his eyes were watery.

‘Had a good time, did you?’ asked Geoffrey wryly. Roger always gauged good times by how dreadful he felt the following day – the worse he felt, the better the occasion.

Roger grinned. ‘Helbye knows how to entertain – more than the Lord of Bicanofre, judging by the comments I have heard this morning. Did you go?’

‘I stayed here and won a pile of dried peas from the servants.’

‘Exciting!’ remarked Roger caustically. ‘I do not like it here, Geoff. That Welsh woman keeps scowling at me; Baderon’s louts insult me in low voices – just soft enough so I cannot hear and challenge them; fitzNorman threatened to wring my neck if I helped with your investigation; and Joan thinks I am a bad influence on her husband.’

Geoffrey regarded him in alarm. ‘You are not leaving, are you?’

‘I have business in Rosse.’

Geoffrey nodded, although he was disturbed. If ever he needed the comforting presence of Roger, it was now, and he was sorry that his friend felt compelled to leave. He doubted Roger had anything to do in Rosse – unless it was finding a tavern with willing wenches – and Geoffrey knew that he was just uncomfortable and wanted to be away.

Roger slapped his shoulder and set off to where his squire waited with his horse. ‘Just a few days, Geoff, I promise. And then I will be back.’

‘You are going now ?’ asked Geoffrey, startled by the haste. ‘At least have something to eat first.’

But Roger shook his head. ‘The sooner I go, the sooner I will return.’

And then he was gone, leaving Geoffrey staring after him in dismay. He turned to the activity in the bailey, where his guests were gathering for a day of hawking, and considered saddling his own horse and following Roger. But to abandon his investigation would deliberately flout the King’s orders, and Henry was not a forgiving man.

The prospect of continuing to play host depressed him, and he could foresee days filled with unpleasantness. Suddenly, it no longer seemed important to talk to Baderon, and he felt an urgent need for solitude. He started towards the stables, thinking to take a lone ride.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Giffard, following. ‘Hunting with Roger?’

‘Roger is not going hunting,’ said Geoffrey, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. He took a deep breath and pulled himself together. He was behaving like Ralph – petulant, because something had happened that he did not like. He grabbed his saddle and strapped it on, aware of the animal’s pleasure at the prospect of a gallop. ‘I am going to exercise my horse.’

‘You are not going hawking? I hear Olivier has some excellent birds – not that I would know about such things – and virtually everyone is going with him.’

‘Good,’ said Geoffrey, grateful that Olivier was prepared to be hospitable.

‘I shall join you, but I do not feel like mounting an overpowered beast,’ said Giffard, strolling the length of the stables to inspect what was present. ‘But here is a donkey. I shall ride that.’

Before Geoffrey could point out that ambling by the side of a plodding mule was not what he had in mind for his warhorse, Giffard had taken possession of the hapless beast. His long legs touched the ground on either side, and it snickered malevolently at the weight. But it was a feisty little animal and shot across the bailey towards the gate as soon as it was out of the stables, Giffard hauling for all he was worth on the reins. Geoffrey followed quickly, fearing an accident.

The donkey kept up gamely when Geoffrey cantered, then outstripped him when he reined in to pass through a muddy stretch. It reached the top of a mound not far from the castle, then did an immediate about-turn and raced home as though the hounds of Hell were after it, Geoffrey in anxious pursuit. They arrived breathless and a good deal sooner than Geoffrey had anticipated – he had wanted to be out all day, not just a few moments.

‘It is good it was not this thing that carried Our Lord into Jerusalem,’ Giffard muttered, straightening his legs and allowing the donkey to walk out from under them. ‘The triumphal Palm Sunday procession would have happened so fast that most people would have missed it.’

Geoffrey dared not laugh, lest Giffard had not meant to be amusing; the grim bishop was not a man to jest about religion. He was about to change the subject when there was a sudden yell, and people arrived in the bailey. It was Agnes and Walter, and even from a distance he could see that something was wrong. Agnes held herself stiffly, while Walter was frightened. Geoffrey was not entirely pleased to see Ralph with them, then felt the first stirrings of unease as Agnes flung herself from her horse and came tearing towards the Bishop.