Deadly Inheritance (16 page)

Giffard tried to stand, but fell back in his chair. ‘You are right. I should let you sleep, before I say anything else – although I trust you not to repeat my ramblings to the King. I shall pull my chair across the door, so any nocturnal invaders will have to pass me before they reach you.’

‘You will protect me, will you?’ Geoffrey was amused.

Giffard nodded. ‘A drunk is a terrible object to surmount. He flops in your way, is heavy and almost impossible to steer where you want him to go, and when you think you have him under control, he is sick over you.’

Geoffrey laughed. He had only previously seen Giffard drink water or weak ale, but supposed the Bishop might partake of powerful wines when unhappy. ‘Are you speaking from experience?’

‘From observation. My brother had a liking for wine. I cannot imagine why. Thank God my vocation gives me an excuse to decline it.’

‘Except for this evening. You have finished an entire jug on your own.’

‘Nonsense,’ slurred Giffard. ‘You had most of it. I had but a sip, and only because I am thirsty. Go to sleep, or you will have a thick head tomorrow.’

The snores began before Geoffrey could reply. The knight moved a chair to the door himself, which Bale offered to occupy. When Geoffrey lay on the bed, confused thoughts washed inside his head. He was not sure that he could help Giffard – the only people who knew whether Agnes and Walter were guilty were Agnes and Walter themselves, and he did not expect them to confess. Others could only repeat rumours and speculation.

Eventually, Geoffrey slept, but his dreams teemed with disjointed images. He spoke to people he did not know and walked through unfamiliar villages. Then he was in the tunnel under a castle Tancred had been besieging before it collapsed. Geoffrey had been trapped for days in the dark, with water rising around him. Even years later, his dreams sometimes took him back to the pitch-blackness and the prospect of slow, lonely suffocation. He knew it was only a nightmare, but he still could not breathe. Then Bale was shaking him. His squire’s hands clawed at his chest and throat, and, for a moment, he thought he was being strangled. He wrenched himself into wakefulness, but still could not catch his breath.

‘There is a fire!’ Bale was shouting. ‘Smoke is coming under the door!’

Bale hauled Geoffrey to his feet. It was still the middle of the night, but people were screaming and there was a steady thump of footsteps on wooden floors. Terrified horses were whinnying in the stables, and dogs were barking furiously. Giffard was still slumped in the chair, so Geoffrey lurched across to him. The Bishop was either drunk or comatose from the smoke, and barely moved when Geoffrey shook him.

‘Look!’ Bale shrieked.

Geoffrey followed the outline of his pointing finger and saw orange flickering under the door. The fire was close. He heard a dull roar and the light flared. The blaze would not be easy to control, and the house might already be lost. He crossed the room and touched the metal latch. It was searingly hot, and he jerked his hand away.

‘If we open that, flames will rush in, and the room will ignite like a haystack. We must escape through the window.’

‘It is too far down!’ cried Bale. ‘We will break our necks.’

‘There is a rope in my saddlebag. Tie it to the mullion.’

With shaking hands, Bale rushed to do as he was told, then helped Geoffrey haul Giffard from his chair. The knight grimaced. Giffard had not been exaggerating when he described the difficulty of moving a drunk, and Geoffrey was sweating heavily by the time they had the Bishop lowered to the ground. He glanced at the door and knew that they did not have much time. The fire was hungry for air, and it would only be moments before the frail barrier disintegrated and flames tore into the room.

Even as he turned, there was a crackle and the door was suddenly alive with fire. In the sudden brightness Bale grabbed him and almost hurled him through the window. He snatched at the rope and slid down it. Bale was directly above him, feet kicking wildly as he gripped the windowsill. Then a wave of heat washed over them, accompanied by a tongue of flames. Geoffrey jumped the last few feet; Bale quickly joined him.

Geoffrey seized Giffard’s arm and tried to shake him awake. More flames shot out of the window and showers of sparks rained down on them, causing Bale to curse like a demon. He pushed Geoffrey aside, tossed the insensible Bishop over his shoulder and raced away. Geoffrey hurried after him, joining members of the household who were gathering in the yard.

In the leaping flames it was difficult to recognize people, but he glimpsed Eleanor’s red cloak. Someone followed her closely, and Geoffrey saw the pair hand in hand, stopping only for a quick embrace. Then flames lit her companion’s face, revealing the pretty features of a woman. The wearer of the red cloak was not Eleanor at all, but a man with an identical garment – or perhaps he had borrowed it from her.

A bell was clanging, and Geoffrey heard fitzNorman yelling to his servants. Orange flames shot high into the sky, and the soldiers who had been ordered to douse the blaze could not get close enough to do any good – the heat drove them back before their water could touch the flames. It was hopeless.

Bale dumped Giffard, then raced towards the stables to save their horses. Geoffrey marvelled at his dedication to duty; Durand would not have thought of the animals. Geoffrey hauled Giffard to his feet and half-carried, half-dragged him to a hedge outside the main gate, where he would be safe and untrampled if the fire spread. He leant close and heard a snore that suggested Giffard was still drunk rather than overcome with fumes, so he rolled him on to his stomach, tucked his cloak around him and trotted back to the yard.

He tried to locate Isabel and Margaret – he did not want them roasted for lack of a guiding hand – but he could not see them, so pushed his way into a confused throng. The first people he recognized were Seguin, Corwenna and Lambert. All three had smoke-blackened faces.

‘Have you see Isabel?’ he asked urgently. ‘Or Margaret?’

Seguin barely looked at him as he hurried away. ‘I am more interested in my horse.’

‘Heroics will not win you Isabel,’ said Lambert. ‘She loves only Ralph. I paid her court myself – I am by far the richest of Baderon’s knights – but she was not interested. If she will not have me, she certainly will not have you.’

Geoffrey broke away from Lambert and moved through the survivors, peering into smoke-streaked faces. But Isabel was not there. He wondered if she had fallen, or been knocked down in the panic, and was disorientated and unable to find a way out. He recalled his own experience in the collapsed tunnel – especially vivid because of his dream – and thought it would be an awful way to die. He redoubled his efforts to find her.

‘Is Isabel safe?’ he shouted when he saw fitzNorman. The Constable was bellowing orders, clearly under the impression that he could still save his home.

‘I saw Margaret, and I assumed they were together,’ fitzNorman replied. He looked numb with shock. ‘What have I done to deserve this? And when the King is visiting, too!’

‘Where
is
the King?’ asked Geoffrey. If Henry had not escaped, fitzNorman would have to contend with far more serious issues than the loss of his manor – some people would conclude that the blaze was deliberately set to deprive England of her monarch.

FitzNorman’s face grew whiter still. ‘I do not know.’

‘We should find him,’ said Geoffrey. ‘You go that way; I will look near the stable.’

FitzNorman lumbered away, leaving Geoffrey to scan the faces of those still flooding from the buildings. Smoke swirled thick across the yard, and he raised an arm to protect his eyes, then collided heavily with someone doing the same. It was Serlo, holding Hugh by the hand. Baderon’s heir was sobbing helplessly.

The Abbot responded to Geoffrey’s question about the King by gesturing vaguely towards the guest hall. Geoffrey moved on again, as another familiar figure approached, hacking and staggering.

‘I have been burnt!’ cried Durand, cradling a bloodied hand to his chest. ‘And my hair caught fire!’ His golden locks had been singed and, combined with the dirty water he had used to extinguish them, were a sorry mess.

‘Have you seen Isabel or the King?’ Geoffrey asked urgently.

‘I saw nothing,’ said Durand, coughing hard. ‘But I
heard
yells coming from the guest house. It sounded like Henry’s voice, but I think his servants are seeing to him.’

‘You
think
?’ asked Geoffrey uneasily. ‘You do not
know
?’

‘Several men ran in that direction, but the flames were fierce and the smoke too thick to see. I did not want to be in the way, so I left them to it.’

He staggered and almost fell, so Geoffrey took his arm and bundled him along until he was sure that he could make his own way. When they parted, Durand shoved something at him. It was a pair of gloves, which he said would protect his hands, should he need to touch anything. Geoffrey tugged them on. He rounded a corner and saw Agnes and Walter together, hurrying along under a wet cloak. They were loaded down with bags that were inadequately buckled and Walter was struggling to keep their contents from spilling out.

‘I hope he is dead,’ Agnes muttered venomously.

‘Mother,’ said Walter sharply; he had seen Geoffrey. He smiled affably. ‘Have you seen my uncle? We are anxious for his safety.’

Geoffrey sent them in the wrong direction. Walter carried a knife, and Geoffrey did not like what Agnes had said. He dashed on, trying to orientate himself in the smoke.

Suddenly, someone grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around. It was Ralph, and Geoffrey only just evaded the dagger that was thrust at him.

Ralph’s face was twisted into a grimace. ‘It is time you paid for your brother’s deeds.’

Geoffrey gazed at Ralph in astonishment, scarcely believing he would choose such a time for a brawl. Ralph lunged again, and Geoffrey knocked his blow out of the way. The man fought with no skill, and his attack was more a nuisance than a threat.

‘I do not want to fight you,’ snapped Geoffrey, sidestepping Ralph’s next move.

‘I do not want to
fight
you, either,’ hissed Ralph. ‘I want to
kill
you.’

He launched himself at Geoffrey, but suddenly halted mid-move. Geoffrey’s mouth dropped as he saw Hilde holding his assailant in her burly arms. Ralph screamed his fury and frustration as he tried in vain to struggle free.

‘Have you seen Hugh?’ she asked, pinioning Ralph with effortless ease.

‘I hope he is with the Devil!’ shrieked Ralph, rather unwisely given his situation. But Hilde kept her eyes on Geoffrey as she waited for an answer.

‘He is safe,’ said Geoffrey.

Hilde closed her eyes in relief, but opened them as Geoffrey moved away. ‘You are going the wrong way. The flames are fiercer in that direction.’

‘Isabel is missing, and so is the King.’

‘It would serve Isabel right,’ said Ralph spitefully. ‘She is a whore, who—’

The diatribe stopped when Hilde tossed him away as though he were made of rags. Whether by accident or design, he landed in a slippery pile of compost.

‘I will help you look,’ she said. ‘But we will not waste time with vermin.’

Curses and threats followed them both. Smoke swirled, stinging Geoffrey’s eyes to the point where he could barely open them – not that it mattered, because he could not see anyway. Nor could he breathe easily, and his armour and surcoat were not garments he could pull over his face, as Hilde was doing. He buried his nose in his sleeve and staggered on, following the line of a wall.

As he reached a corner, the smoke thinned, and he felt a waft of clean air. The wind was blowing from the north, and they were finally upwind of the choking fumes. Geoffrey opened his smarting eyes and saw others had gathered there, gazing at the devastation. He headed towards them, and dropped to one knee beside Margaret, who sat weeping.

‘Where is Isabel?’

‘She was behind me one moment, and gone the next,’ cried Margaret. ‘I think she has gone to the guest house to find Ralph.’

‘Stay here,’ ordered Hilde. ‘Sir Geoffrey and I will find her.’

Geoffrey followed Hilde towards the thickest pall of smoke, not sure anyone would still be alive within. He saw Baderon and some courtiers standing with a tiny mound of salvaged possessions.

‘What caused this?’ demanded Baderon hoarsely. ‘How could it have taken hold so fast?’

‘It started in the manor house,’ replied a servant. ‘I assumed it was the kitchens – that is where fires usually begin – but they are still intact. It is very suspicious.’

Geoffrey’s thoughts whirled. Was the fire started deliberately? If so, was it directed against the King? Or did Agnes and her son want to make sure that gossip about the two of them and Sibylla did not spread? Or was it aimed at fitzNorman, to shame him before the King? Or Baderon, because his knights were too strong for him and he was forming alliances that were uniting the Welsh against the English?

Geoffrey tripped over a bucket of water, abandoned by someone who had fled. He grabbed Hilde’s arm and brought her to an abrupt stop, indicating she was to dip her cloak in it and put it over her head. She did not need to be told twice. Muscles bulging, she ripped the garment in two, jammed it in the bucket and then handed half to Geoffrey. With the material wrapped turban-like around their faces, they hurried on. When they reached the guest hall, Geoffrey stopped, chest heaving from exertion and lack of clean air.

He heard a voice. He listened harder, moving towards it. It was a man calling for help. He staggered on, using the voice to guide him, Hilde at his heels. He could see nothing but grey-whiteness, and could barely make out his own feet. He was dizzy, and considered escaping while he was still able, but then heard the voice again, louder and closer. It was the King.