Simon Beaufort - Deadly Inheritance

‘Then it serves him right,’ said Roger. He nodded towards the bag. ‘He left you whatever is in that. Will you open it?’

Geoffrey hesitatingly obliged and was astonished to find it packed full of silver coins and jewellery. ‘There is a fortune here! Durand claimed to be envious of Goodrich, but he could have bought a manor three times its size with this.’

‘He saw you were happy,’ said Roger sagely. ‘And, because he equates happiness with wealth, he assumed you were rich, too. But there is something else in the bag.’

Something light flopped to the ground when Roger shook the sack, but Geoffrey’s attention was on the silver and he did not notice. Roger quickly shoved the bundle of documents in his surcoat before his friend noticed. Documents, he knew, would only bring trouble, and Geoffrey had endured more than his share of that at Durand’s instigation. It was better he remained ignorant of whatever was written on the neatly tied parchments.

Oblivious to Roger’s actions, Geoffrey shook the bag a final time, then jumped back in revulsion when the last object clattered to the ground. It was the knife that had killed Durand. The blade was still wet with his blood and the ruby in its hilt gleamed in a sudden burst of sunshine.

‘It is the Black Knife,’ whispered Roger. ‘And it has just claimed its latest victim.’

‘Its last victim,’ corrected Geoffrey softly. ‘Its reign of terror ends here.’

London, early summer 1103

St Paul’s Cathedral was full, and there was celebration in the air. Bells rang to announce the beginning of the ceremony, and, outside, crowds of Londoners gathered to watch the grand processions as the bishops of Winchester, Hereford and Salisbury prepared to accept their consecration from the Archbishop of York. People wore their best clothes, and ermine-lined cloaks, kirtles of expensive silk and jewel-encrusted shoes were everywhere. Geoffrey stood near the back of the church with Roger, wearing the new surcoat Joan had made for him. Its Crusader’s cross was bright and sharp, and Bale had made his mail gleam.

The great west door was thrown open, filling the cathedral with light. Geoffrey gazed in admiration at the elegant lines of the clerestory and the thick, sturdy piers. Giffard was obliged to poke him hard with a bony finger to get his attention.

‘I asked whether Goodrich was recovered.’

The Bishop wore his ecclesiastical finery – a cope of gold and a mitre on which precious stones were sewn. He carried a silver crosier, and the holy ring on his finger was almost as large as his fist. Geoffrey smiled when he saw the hair shirt still in place under the handsome vestments. The occasion had not touched Giffard with vanity.

He nodded to his friend. ‘And there is peace. We sent grain to Caerdig, and he has married Mother Elgiva – who, as a wise woman, is greatly respected in Llan Martin.’

‘And you are betrothed to Hilde, to strengthen the truce,’ said Giffard. ‘That seems a major sacrifice.’

‘Hilde is a fine warrior,’ said Roger admiringly. ‘They will produce strong sons who will be great soldiers.’

‘Oh, good,’ said Giffard acidly. ‘More men spoiling war. But have you heard the news? Reinhelm of Hereford has declined to accept consecration today. He says he can only have it from the Archbishop of Canterbury. He has gone home.’

‘That still leaves you and Salisbury,’ said Roger, not understanding the Bishop’s point. ‘Two is not as good as three, but do not worry. We will still enjoy ourselves, especially at the feast tonight.’

‘I was not thinking about your fun,’ said Giffard irritably. ‘I was thinking of my conscience. Reinhelm is right: York does not have the authority, and if I allow him to consecrate me, I tell the King that he can order me to do what he likes, even when Canterbury forbids it.’

Geoffrey was worried. ‘But you have known this for weeks. I thought you were pleased that the King had found a way to consecrate you while he and Canterbury are locked in this row. Henry will be furious if you refuse now.’

Giffard swallowed. ‘If I flout Henry today, he will be my enemy forever. He will send me into exile and I can hardly rule my see from Normandy.’

‘Then do not flout him,’ urged Geoffrey.

‘And my conscience?’ asked Giffard. ‘It tells me something different. You follow yours, so do not tell me to ignore mine.’

‘I would never do that,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I would always trust you to do what is right.’

Giffard was troubled. ‘The King has already questioned some of my actions. He took Agnes from the convent I put her in and she is back at court. Look, she is there.’

Dressed in her ceremonial best, Agnes Giffard looked stunning, and triumph was in every line of her being. Next to her was Walter, wearing a sword to indicate that he had recently been granted his spurs; he was officially a knight.

‘She told the King she was acting in his interests by trying to kill the Duchess,’ Giffard went on. ‘There is no question that Sibylla’s death has damaged Normandy, and Henry says he believes her. I only hope he knows what he is doing.’

‘There are many rumours that she killed Sibylla,’ said Geoffrey. ‘By bringing Agnes to his court, Henry is perpetuating them. She is basking in her perceived success and is unlikely to confess that she failed. Do you not see what is happening?’

Giffard frowned. ‘I am so repelled by the whole business that I cannot imagine what Henry hopes to achieve by flaunting her sins.’

‘He is taking attention away from someone who might have had an even greater reason to want the Duchess dead and Normandy weakened.’

Giffard stared at him. ‘You think the King might have harmed Sibylla, and is using Agnes to obscure his guilt?’

Geoffrey shrugged. ‘We will never know. But your ceremony is about to begin.’ He caught the Bishop’s hand as Giffard turned to leave. ‘And smile occasionally. You are happy, remember?’

The grin Giffard shot him was sickly, and Geoffrey thought it would do more harm than good if seen by the masses. Giffard hurried to take his place in the procession, and with a flurry of horns, the magnificent event began. First a line of monks chanting a psalm, then a number of assistant bishops who were also to be consecrated, with Giffard and Salisbury bringing up the rear. The procession was an explosion of gold and white, jewels glinting in the sunlight that flooded through the clerestory. Geoffrey’s ears rang from the exultant singing, and he did not think he had ever seen such a display of splendour.

The procession reached the high altar, and York began so speak, hushing even the rabble outside. More singing followed, then the heady scent of incense wafted up the aisles. In ringing tones, York invited the bishops to come before him and receive his blessing. Because Winchester had priority over Salisbury, Giffard went first. He knelt, then stood up.

‘I cannot do this,’ he announced. ‘It is not right.’

He shrugged out of his cope and mitre, shoved his crosier at a startled monk and strode towards the door. For a moment, there was only stunned silence and the sound of Giffard’s sandals slapping the flagstones. Then pandemonium erupted. Monks surged forward, as if to drag him back, while others pressed towards the altar. The ceremony quickly degenerated into a scene of confusion, with York howling for Giffard to return, some applauding Giffard’s courage and others cursing him.

Geoffrey ran to Giffard’s aid as people pressed around him. Tears coursed down the Bishop’s anguished face. Walter snatched his uncle’s arm and yelled that he was a traitor, and it was with some satisfaction that Geoffrey shot an elbow to the boy’s nose. Roger helped Geoffrey beat back those who wanted to haul Giffard to the altar and have him consecrated by force. Word quickly reached the common people, and they cheered Giffard for his courage. Eventually, Geoffrey managed to spirit him away.