Simon Beaufort - Deadly Inheritance

‘You mean it was started deliberately?’ asked Joan, aghast.

Durand nodded, pointing at kindling still on the mattress. ‘We are lucky I woke when I did, or we would have burnt to cinders – and the whole castle with us.’

Olivier inspected the blackened mess. ‘We could not open the door, because someone did something to make it stick. I suspect someone did mean you harm, Geoff. Do not forget what happened with Dun’s saddle the other day.’

Geoffrey stared at the damage. Who would want him dead? Someone in Baderon’s pay – or Corwenna’s – to make sure he did not fight against them? Ralph, because he detested him? The same arsonist who had started the blaze at Dene – Eleanor, perhaps? One of the servants? Walter and Agnes, to prevent him learning the truth about the Duchess’s murder?

‘What woke you?’ he asked Durand when no answers came.

‘The smoke made me cough myself awake. I saw what was happening and set about dousing the flames. I yelled for your help, but you were dead to the world. Did you drink much wine last night?’

‘None,’ replied Geoffrey.

‘Well, it is over now,’ said Durand. He kicked the mattress and then hauled it to the window, where he tipped it out. ‘It will be cold, but we should leave the shutters open. I do not want to be suffocated by residual fumes.’

Awkwardly, Joan patted Geoffrey’s arm, then she gave Durand a shy smile as she left. ‘I would have been without a brother if you had not acted so quickly.’

Durand pursed his lips after she and Olivier had gone. ‘You should have listened to me in the first place, and then this would not have happened. You endangered me as well.’

Geoffrey was puzzled. ‘Listened to you about what?’

‘About the dangers of the Black Knife,’ snapped Durand. ‘It is here, in your chest, and now an attempt has been made on your life.’

Geoffrey was too tired to begin an argument about the efficacy of curses. He shot Durand a wan smile instead. ‘Thank you. I shall not forget what you did tonight.’

‘Good,’ said Durand. ‘Because neither shall I.’

An innate soldierly sense woke Geoffrey about an hour before the first streaks of dawn touched the hills. He rose immediately, hauled his mail tunic over his head, followed by his padded surcoat, a pair of boiled leather leggings with metal links sewn on for additional protection, his newest helmet and a mail hood that protected his neck and throat. It was the heaviest armour he owned, and that morning he was imbued with the sense that he would need it.

The servants were preparing breakfast in the hall, and he begged a goblet of watered ale and a piece of bread before striding into the bailey. His dog stood at his side with its ears pricked. It uttered a low whine, and Geoffrey stood stock-still, listening. He closed his eyes to blot out what he could see: Helbye walking towards him, faint lights on the battlements, the silhouette of walls against the night sky. And then he was certain.

‘Sound the alarm!’ he yelled. ‘Bale! Order the servants to their battle stations, and tell Torva to keep anyone not fighting inside the hall, out of the way.’

Olivier hurried to his side. ‘What is wrong? We are not under attack!’

‘We will be,’ said Geoffrey grimly. ‘There are horses in the woods to the west, and I can smell cooking fires. They are readying themselves. Tell Peter to prepare food as quickly as possible.’

As he sped away to oversee his troops, Geoffrey hoped it would not be their last meal. Soon, all was action. Villagers were issued arrows and staves, and stationed around the wooden palisade, augmenting the soldiers assigned to the fighting platforms. Geoffrey’s tiny unit of mounted men mustered in the bailey, looking nervous. He gave Joan and Olivier several more orders and rode out, flanked by Helbye and Bale. He heartily wished that Roger was there.

As first light began to illuminate the black countryside, Geoffrey took a small path that led south. His meticulous survey of the surrounding land told him exactly where the enemy would gather and how they would attack. He would not have chosen the west himself, because the hills were thickly wooded and thus unsuitable for the sort of warfare he was sure Corwenna and her raiders had in mind. However, the river lay to the east, and he supposed she did not relish the prospect of being trapped against it, should her attack fail.

Warning his men to move as quietly as possible, he eased around the foot of the nearest hill, then cut around its southern flank to turn north again. They dismounted and then began scrambling up it, cutting behind the enemy forces. The sound of curses, swords clanking on armour and cascading stones sounded like thunder to him. He increased the pace, hoping to launch an attack before the would-be invaders heard them. He arrived at the top of the hill, sweating and breathless, just as the sun’s first rays appeared.

Smoke curled through the tops of the trees, and he heard voices and the snicker of horses. He could smell bread, too, telling him they were still eating – they intended to wait until full light before making their move. His party eased down the hill, and he arranged his cavalry into two lines, then climbed on his horse. He drew his sword and raised it above his head, looking both ways until he was sure that he had the attention of every man. Then, screaming a battle cry learnt from the Saracens, he plunged forward.

The camp erupted in confusion. The men were eating, and their weapons were not readily to hand. Some fled, unwilling to be slaughtered by wheeling swords, but others stayed. Geoffrey killed two who faced him; one of whom released an arrow that soared across his shoulder and narrowly missed Bale. Then the assault disintegrated, with Geoffrey’s horsemen surrounded by enemy foot soldiers who hacked at their legs and saddles.

‘Back!’ Geoffrey yelled, hoping his men would remember what he had drilled into them the previous day. ‘Fall back! Now!’

He was relieved when they obeyed, breaking off the attack and swinging around to follow him. He glanced behind and saw, as he expected, whooping raiders following, sensing a rout. He waited until they were strung out, then wheeled his horse around hard and bore down on them again, using a tactic that had proven successful for Norman armies in the past: feigning flight, so pursuers were scattered and unable to fight as a unit. The invaders stopped in horror when they saw that they had rushed into a trap. The few who tried to fight were quickly dealt with, and Geoffrey rode for the camp itself. One of the first people he saw was Caerdig, kneeling next to his servant Hywel. There was a gaping wound in Hywel’s shoulder, which Geoffrey knew would be fatal. He saw Bale set off after the fleeing Welsh and yelled for him to come back.

‘I can get more of the bastards!’ cried Bale. He was smeared in blood from head to toe, and there was a ferocious gleam in his eyes.

‘Not in the woods. They will drag you off your horse and kill you.’

Bale was pale in the dawn light. ‘This is the first time I have taken a man’s life. It feels . . . unreal.’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Geoffrey. ‘I was sick the first time I engaged in battle.’

‘I did not say I was sick ,’ said Bale. ‘I said it is unreal. But it is not unpleasant, and I shall be happy to do it again.’

It was no place for such a discussion. Geoffrey turned to Caerdig.

‘Stop this,’ he said, when Caerdig looked up at him with an anguished expression. ‘I do not want to fight, and neither do you.’

‘We can defeat them!’ yelled Corwenna, appearing from nowhere and grabbing her father by the arm, as if she intended to shake her courage into him. ‘Most of our warriors escaped – we will win.’