Simon Beaufort - Deadly Inheritance

‘ Geoffrey told me to give Seguin the message!’ cried Durand, eyes flashing. ‘And now he is trying to make you think the murder was my fault. Who do you believe? The man who slaughtered Seguin? Or the man who opened the gate for you?’

When put like that, Geoffrey saw that he was not in a strong pos-ition. He hurried to resume his tale, hoping Durand would yet incriminate himself in his increasing panic. ‘When Father Adrian left to fetch Seguin some ale, Durand crept into the house and stabbed him.’

‘How?’ sneered Durand. ‘Do I look like a man who could take on a strong, well-armed knight? Of course not! Nor do I stab folk as they sit at tables.’

‘See?’ pounced Geoffrey. ‘How could he know Seguin was at a table unless he was the killer?’

‘I saw the body,’ snapped Durand. ‘Later, after Father Adrian had raised the alarm.’

‘You did not,’ countered Geoffrey. ‘You were outside the whole time, while Father Adrian was sick.’

‘ You killed Seguin!’ shouted Durand accusingly. ‘ You lured him to Goodrich by ordering me to fetch him, and you stabbed him because you thought he murdered Henry.’ He looked at Corwenna, his face pale and covered in sweat. ‘He told me so, late one night, when he had too much ale.’

‘Do not worry, Durand,’ said Corwenna, patting the clerk’s shoulder. ‘I believe you.’

‘Jervil, Hugh and Seguin,’ said Geoffrey to Durand. ‘You tried to kill me, too – it was you who started the fire in the mattress. I probably even gave you the idea, since Bale saving me from the blaze at Dene was one of the last things we talked about before I fell asleep.’

Durand was disdainful. ‘I saved your life, and now you accuse me of trying to burn you alive.’

‘You woke me because Joan came. If she had not, you would have succeeded. But that was your second attempt. The first was with the damaged straps and the spikes in Dun’s saddle. You hoped I would break my neck riding him in the forest.’

‘I wish you had,’ muttered Durand fervently.

‘No more!’ roared Corwenna. ‘Fight me, Geoffrey, and stop blathering.’

‘If I win, will you leave Goodrich?’ he asked.

‘You will not win,’ she snarled, swinging her axe in a series of fancy manoeuvres that made the air sing. Geoffrey jumped out of the way, but stumbled when one of her men tripped him. Before he regained his balance, another kicked him in the knee. He barely avoided Corwenna’s axe as it plummeted down, splitting one of the tables.

Geoffrey went on the offensive again, his blows forcing Corwenna back against the wall. Her men moved to help her, so he feinted left and reached out to grab her by the neck, dropping his sword as he did so. Then he her pulled close against him, his dagger at her throat. She struggled furiously, gouging his hand with her fingernails. He intensified his grip, pressing his knife into her exposed skin.

She sagged in defeat. ‘I surrender. Let me go, you have made your point.’

‘No!’ cried Durand in horror. ‘You cannot let him win! What will happen to me? I will hang for Seguin’s murder and for trying to dispatch Geoffrey.’

Corwenna ignored him. ‘You heard that worm, Geoffrey,’ she said. ‘He admitted murdering Seguin. Let us bring an end to this bloodshed. Let me go.’

Geoffrey lowered his dagger, although he did not relinquish it. Corwenna eased his hand away from her neck.

‘Thank you,’ she said, darting away too fast for him to stop her. She glanced at her men. ‘Well? What are you waiting for? Kill him while I fire the castle and rid us of Joan. Durand may have killed Seguin, but Henry killed Rhys, and his kin will pay the price.’

All Geoffrey could hear was Durand’s mocking laughter as Corwenna left the room and her men moved forward. Other sounds began to pervade his consciousness – the roar of desperate battle as the defenders of Goodrich gave way inch by inch. Through the open door he could see arrows raining down from the battlements, and the ground was thick with dead and wounded men. He was so tired, he could barely raise his arms, let alone fight six fresh swordsmen, but his anger against Durand renewed his strength.

He launched a wild attack that took them by surprise and momentarily pushed them back, but they rallied quickly, and then it was he who was retreating.

‘Is it true?’ asked one of them – the captain. ‘All you said? Remember you are about to die, and you will go to Hell for eternity if you do so with a lie on your lips.’

‘It is true,’ said Geoffrey, darting behind a table and waiting to see whether he should duck right or left to avoid the next foray.

‘You said you know Henry’s murderer,’ said the captain, indicating that his men should hold back. ‘Who?’

‘Someone from Goodrich,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘Not Baderon, and not a Welshman.’

‘Durand?’ asked the captain.

‘I never even met Henry!’ cried Durand indignantly, snatching up a bag he had brought in with him.

‘Caerdig is my cousin,’ said the captain, ignoring him. ‘He has always spoken well of you, and I believe you are telling the truth. You may go.’

‘What?’ exclaimed Durand, watching aghast as the captain sheathed his sword. ‘And what will you tell Corwenna when she asks you whether you obeyed her orders?’

‘And you can take him with you,’ said the captain, eyeing Durand with distaste. ‘I would kill him, but I do not want to soil my blade with the blood of a snake. Go.’

He stood aside, and gestured for the others to do the same. They hesitated, but did as he ordered. Geoffrey edged past them, anticipating a trick, but they allowed him to walk unharmed across the kitchen and into the bailey. What he saw there sickened him. Everywhere lay the dead and injured, some in silent agony, others screaming for friends, water or God. It was a sight he had seen many times before, but not in his own home. He swung round, a blind rage gripping him, but Durand was already running away, hugging his bag as he went.

‘Save your sister,’ said the captain, nodding towards the hall. ‘Corwenna will kill her otherwise.’

‘What will you do?’ asked Geoffrey uneasily, inclined to resist the advice of an enemy.

The captain indicated his sheathed sword. ‘Go home and take my men with me. My name is Rhodri of Llangarron, and you can remember it if you win this fight and have grain to spare.’

Geoffrey took a deep breath and raised his bloodied sword to battle through the mass of men at the foot of the keep. The staircase had been removed, but the invaders had piled ladders against the wall and some were already inside. Roger and his men were still mounted, striking furiously at anyone entering the bailey gate, but Geoffrey could see none of his own horsemen, except for Bale, who was trying to keep raiders out of the stables.

Geoffrey’s armour and surcoat attracted the attention of many hoping to claim a knight among their kills, and it was some time before he reached the ladders. He was weak with fatigue, and one inferior swordsman came closer to skewering him than he should have. Finally, Geoffrey grasped the ladder and climbed, kicking out when someone grabbed his leg.

With sweat stinging his eyes, he reached the door. Joan’s once-pristine hall was stained with blood, and there were bodies everywhere, suggesting that it had not been taken easily. Giffard was in a corner wielding his stave against two attackers, while Olivier crouched behind him, hands raised to protect his head. Geoffrey moved quickly, and made short work of both invaders.

‘Joan?’ he gasped.

Giffard pointed to the opposite side of the hall, then braced himself as another man launched an attack with a war-like screech. The howl ended abruptly when Giffard’s stave met the man’s skull. Seeing the Bishop could fend for himself, Geoffrey fought his way across the room. At the centre of a tight knot of skirmishers was Joan, meeting Corwenna’s axe blows with a shield, while Baderon exchanged half-hearted swipes with Torva and Peter. Hilde, hair flying wildly about her face, was screaming at Corwenna.