Simon Beaufort - Deadly Inheritance

He was so engrossed in his thoughts that it was some time before he realized he had ridden farther than he should have, and the sun was on the wrong side – it was behind him, meaning he had travelled east instead of south. He was angry with himself as he wheeled around and rode back the way he had come. Then he reached a fork and turned westward, but the track soon doubled back on itself, and it was not long before he was lost.

While the sun was up, he knew which way to go, but with dusk came clouds and rain, and it was soon too dark to see. He was furious that he had been so careless and desperately hoped Corwenna would not attack Goodrich that night. Visions of Joan battling against the hordes drove him on, but the night was pitch-black, and he had no idea which way he was travelling. He knew he should stop and find shelter until dawn, but he could not rid himself of the notion that he would be needed. He dismounted when the pony stumbled a second time and continued on foot.

By now he was hopelessly lost, no longer even on a path. He stood still for a moment with his eyes closed, trying to let his innate sense of direction take over. It did not work, leaving him to move blindly through wet branches that scratched at his face, knowing he would not see a path if he walked across it. Then the ground suddenly disappeared from beneath his feet. He managed to release the bridle before he fell, so the horse was not dragged down with him, and slid down a slope thick with dead leaves. He started to skid faster, and then he was airborne, landing with a splash in agonizingly cold water.

Weighed down by full armour, with water soaking into his surcoat, his first thought was that he was going to drown, but his feet touched the bottom and he was able to stand. He saw that he should not have been impatient, and that finding shelter had been the right thing to do. Now, not only was he hopelessly lost, he did not even have the pony.

However, the place seemed familiar, and he suddenly realized it was the Angel Springs. He could just make out the flat stone altar. He eased towards it, but the objects that had been there on his previous visit had gone. Then his feet skidded on the rain-slicked rocks and he fell again. Cold, disgusted and with a nasty ache from a wrenched knee, he released a litany of oaths of the kind he never used in company, comprising a lot of Anglo-Saxon and a bit of very expressive Arabic.

‘That is fine language for a knight,’ came a mocking voice from the darkness. ‘It is a good thing I do not understand any of it, or we would both be heartily embarrassed.’

The voice made Geoffrey jump so violently that he almost lost his balance again. He fumbled for his dagger, cursing fingers that were numb from the cold. ‘Who is there?’

‘Eleanor, of course. Can you not see me? I am right above you.’

Geoffrey strained his eyes, and could just make out a figure standing on the bank. There was a sudden flare of light as she removed whatever had been covering her torch.

‘Well?’ she asked. ‘Are you going to stand in the stream all night, or would you like to sit by my fire?’

Geoffrey scrambled after her, noting that she wore her red cloak and the veil still covered her face. He struggled to catch up, eager to accept her offer of warmth.

‘Where have you been?’ he asked breathlessly.

‘I like to be alone,’ she replied enigmatically. ‘I thought I would have some peace when I returned from Normandy without being married off like some prize sow. But people started talking about weddings and alliances again, and it was worse than ever.’

‘I know how you feel,’ muttered Geoffrey. They reached the top of the hill and she led him to the little shepherd’s hut, indicating that he should precede her inside. Reluctantly, he held back. ‘My horse. I should-’

‘I tethered it and removed its saddle,’ said Eleanor. ‘It is quite comfortable. Sit by the fire and drink this – and do not look suspicious! It is only a little concoction of my own devising.’

‘That is what I am worried about,’ said Geoffrey ungraciously, so she took the first sip behind her veil and handed him the rest. It tasted fairly pleasant, and he felt warmer after finishing it. He removed his sopping surcoat, which she placed near the fire, but he kept his armour on. He glanced at the ceiling and saw that the dead birds had been removed from the rafters.

‘I heard Hugh is dead,’ Eleanor said, following his look. ‘So, I thought I had better hide any evidence that indicates I am still alive. I do not want to be accused of his murder.’

Geoffrey did not blame her. ‘You have been here all the time?’

‘Here or nearby. Few people linger at the Angel Springs, which is how I like it. Hugh followed me occasionally, but he was no trouble – and no one listened to him, anyway.’

Geoffrey remembered what Bale had said about the Angel Springs. ‘You sharpen knives. My squire leaves them with a coin and thinks spirits hone them.’

She laughed. ‘A number of folk have been obliging in that way, and a little money does not go amiss. I have none of my own, and neither does my lover.’

‘Your lover? Is that why you ran away after the fire? To be with him?’

Eleanor nodded. ‘We did not see each other for months when I was in Normandy, so I escaped as soon as I could – the fire provided a useful diversion. However, I did not know murders had been taking place.’

Geoffrey thought about the woman kissed by the red-cloaked figure as they fled the fire. He reached out and tugged off the veil, revealing a face that was impish in its prettiness, and certainly not missing a jaw.

‘Your lover is not a man, but a woman,’ he surmised. ‘That is why you have refused to marry – and have been to such pains to pretend you are disfigured. You do not want men to pester you.’

‘You guessed that rather easily,’ she said, frowning. ‘How?’

‘You do not speak as though you were minus a mandible, but it is certainly a disfigurement that would make most men think twice. Who is she?’

‘She is Welsh, of noble birth – from one of the villages that declines to join Corwenna’s assault on Goodrich. That wretched woman has destabilized the entire region, so I am removing any evidence of me being here, lest I am accused of causing the war by witchcraft. You know how people are – regardless of the victor, someone will look for a scapegoat.’

‘And who better than a sorceress?’ agreed Geoffrey. ‘Do you know what happened to Hugh?’

‘When he followed me after the fire, I went north and lost him. I thought he would find his own way home, but I was wrong. I am sorry he is dead. He was a stupid lump, but he did no harm – unlike those with more wits. Your brother, for a start.’

‘Tell me about the dagger that killed Henry,’ said Geoffrey, remembering what Olivier had seen. ‘I know you cursed it, but who asked you for such a spell?’

‘That I shall never reveal, because he knows the identity of my lover. If I tell, so will he.’

‘But it is a man,’ said Geoffrey, supposing he could cross Hilde off his list of suspects. ‘Do you really believe that putting a spell on an object can imbue it with an evil life of its own?’

She nodded earnestly. ‘Of course. And so do many others.’

‘The Black Knife has killed both Seguin and Hugh since it dispatched Henry,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I locked it in my room, and the next night someone tried to set me alight.’

Eleanor shrugged. ‘That is what Black Knives do. You must take it deep into the forest and bury it under an old oak – as old as you can find – with mistletoe growing on it. That should stop it in its tracks.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Geoffrey. ‘Are you sure?’