Simon Beaufort - Deadly Inheritance

‘. . . From where Jervil retrieved it. He brought it to show me, but I frightened him into burying it, for his own safety. There it might have remained, but for you. Baderon did not want a feud when you discovered it was his weapon that had killed Henry.’

Geoffrey thought about it. ‘Baderon – like everyone except Olivier, Jervil and you – thought the real one was in Father Adrian’s church. That was the blade he paid Jervil to retrieve.’

‘But Baderon would have known Father Adrian’s was the wrong one, so Jervil dug up the Black Knife. I advised against it, but Baderon’s silver spoke louder than my wisdom.’

‘Was it coincidence that Baderon asked Jervil for help, when Jervil happened to be the one who had retrieved it from the river?’

‘Well, everyone knew Jervil was a thief. He was the obvious person to approach.’

Geoffrey resumed his analysis of the Black Knife’s fortunes. ‘Within hours of Baderon buying it, there was a fire at Dene, and he assumed it was destroyed with his other possessions.’

‘But he was wrong – Black Knives do not fall foul of accidents. It was probably found in the rubble. Whoever did so was overwhelmed by its power and used it on Hugh and Seguin. Now I understand it is with you. You should be careful.’

‘Thank you for telling me this,’ said Geoffrey, wishing she had done so sooner. He stood to leave, feeling tiredness wash over him in a great wave. But Elgiva had not finished.

‘Come here, and smell Jervil’s mouth when I push on his chest.’

‘No, thank you! I have had a long day, and sniffing corpses would not be a good way to end it.’

‘Come,’ said Elgiva. ‘You are not the kind of man who is unsettled by such a request. It will not take a moment.’

With considerable reluctance, Geoffrey did as she asked, hoping it was not a ghoulish trick. He leant close to Jervil’s mouth, and inhaled when she pushed on his chest. A slightly sweet smell came from it.

‘Now this,’ she said, handing him a tiny phial.

‘It is the same,’ said Geoffrey, watching her nod in satisfaction. ‘What is it?’

‘Poppy juice,’ said Elgiva. ‘It is a strong medicine used to induce sleep or ease pain in the very sick. Jervil must have swallowed a powerful measure, if we can still detect it after four days.’

Geoffrey rubbed his head. It was not the first time he had encountered the slightly sweet smell, and he tried to recall where he had come across it before. He knew it was recent, but the memory remained frustratingly beyond his grasp. He was just too tired to think.

‘Jervil was given a sleeping draught before he died?’ he asked.

Elgiva nodded. ‘The draught made him drowsy and weak – and then he was strangled.’

Geoffrey thought about Elgiva’s discovery regarding the poppy juice while he lay in bed. It proved that someone had badly wanted Jervil to die and had given him a soporific to ensure he did so. It also indicated that the groom had died before Margaret. But who was the culprit? He supposed Baderon was still his prime suspect, followed by Hilde, Seguin and Lambert, because they had the best reasons for wanting Jervil silenced. And then there was Ralph, whose manor was poor, and so would have coveted the silver Jervil had earned. Or was the villain Eleanor, so conveniently missing – unless she was dead, of course?

Although Geoffrey was bone-weary, sleep would not come, so he lit a candle and picked up the book Elgiva had given him. He found the page on mandrake, struggling to make out the tiny words and swearing when hot wax dripped on his fingers. Eventually, he doused the candle and closed his eyes. He was still dwelling on what he had read when the door opened and someone crept into the room and made himself comfortable on a straw mattress.

‘Bale?’ he called.

‘It is Durand; Bale is bedding Douce in the stables. Did I wake you? I was trying to be quiet.’

Since Durand did not sound sleepy, Geoffrey relayed everything Elgiva had told him, feeling a need for his former squire’s sharp wits.

‘The villain is Baderon,’ said Durand immediately. ‘He had the most to gain from Jervil’s death, as we have reasoned before. There is not only the fact that he would get his silver back, but he could be certain of silence. And it has been well worth his while.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Geoffrey.

‘I mean he has already employed the weapon at least twice since he bought it.’

‘But the victims have been his son and his friend. They are not men he wanted dead.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Durand. ‘Hugh was a half-wit, and maybe Baderon did not want an imbecile as his heir. And who can blame him? Meanwhile, Seguin was a brute, and perhaps Baderon regretted giving him so much power by betrothing him to Corwenna – the woman who has brought the region to the brink of war, when he has been striving for peace. Perhaps he killed Seguin in a futile attempt to prevent what has happened anyway.’

Geoffrey leant on one elbow. It was true. Baderon had been proud of the alliances he had forged and was convinced they would bring stability. But they had achieved the opposite, and now Baderon was powerless to control the monster he had created.

‘And do not forget that Hugh was found where Olivier disposed of the Black Knife,’ Durand went on. ‘Olivier thought he was destroying the thing, but it escaped from the river via Jervil. Now Jervil is dead, and Baderon’s only son is murdered at that exact same ford.’

‘That must be coincidence,’ said Geoffrey, although he was aware of the uncertainty in his voice. Was it possible? Had Hugh been strangled elsewhere and brought to the ford to make a point about the Black Knife?

‘You need me to guide you through these mazes of intrigue,’ said Durand smugly. ‘I am a much better companion than Bale.’

‘Bale saved me from the fire,’ said Geoffrey, suspecting that Durand would have let him burn.

‘I am not physically brave,’ admitted Durand. ‘But I have far more valuable assets. But you should sleep if you are to turn a rabble into an army tomorrow.’

Geoffrey tried to reassess the clues that rattled around his head, but he was almost instantly lost to the world. It seemed only moments later that he was woken by an urgent hammering and shaking of his shoulder. His first thought was that Goodrich was under attack, and he staggered to his feet, sword in hand. He found that he was weak and disorientated, and barely able to see.

‘Never mind weapons!’ shouted Durand. ‘Help me with the flames, before we are roasted alive.’

It took a moment for Geoffrey’s befuddled mind to grasp what was happening. There was a fire in the mattress next to his bed, which had filled the room with smoke. He saw Durand flapping furiously with a blanket to smother the flames. Then the clerk darted to the window and threw the shutters wide, before pushing Geoffrey towards them. The thumping at the door grew louder.

‘We cannot jump,’ said Geoffrey. ‘It is too far down.’

‘Just breathe the clean air,’ ordered Durand. ‘The blaze is almost out.’

And then it was over. Durand doused the remains of the fire with a bowl of water, and the blaze hissed into nothing. Durand waved the blanket in an attempt to usher the smoke through the window, then the door flew open and Joan stood there, Olivier behind her.

‘What happened?’ she cried. ‘I told the servants not to light a fire in your hearth, because you complain about the stuffiness. How did this come about?’

‘The fire was not in the hearth,’ said Geoffrey, coughing. ‘It was in the bed.’

‘We should have bolted the door,’ said Durand. ‘We assumed we were safe, but the castle is full of people who do not like you. We should have anticipated the attack.’