Deadly Inheritance (32 page)

‘I know,’ said Elgiva. ‘You mentioned it last time. I probably should have told you what I knew then, but I wanted to find out more about you first.’

‘What do you know about the dagger?’ Geoffrey asked, struggling to mask his irritation.

‘Sir Olivier threw the real one in the river,’ said Elgiva. ‘I overheard him at confession, although he should have asked
my
advice, not God’s. I could have told him the Wye was no place for a Black Knife. Two things conspired to bring it back again. Do you know what they were?’

Geoffrey was far too tired for mental games, but strove to oblige her. ‘Jervil’s liking for treasure and Olivier’s feeble throw?’

Elgiva cackled her appreciation. ‘You have a quick mind! Jervil happened to see Sir Olivier toss the Black Knife in the water. It landed in the shallows, so he fished it out.’

Geoffrey tried to make sense of the dagger’s travels, starting at the beginning. ‘So, Seguin gave a ruby-handled dagger to Baderon as a gift. It was stolen from Baderon during the Feast of Corpus Christi and taken to Eleanor for cursing. It was used to kill Henry, spent a week or two in Joan’s bedchamber wrapped in holy cloth, was hurled in the river . . .’

‘. . . From where Jervil retrieved it. He brought it to show me, but I frightened him into burying it, for his own safety. There it might have remained, but for you. Baderon did not want a feud when you discovered it was
his
weapon that had killed Henry.’

Geoffrey thought about it. ‘Baderon – like everyone except Olivier, Jervil and you – thought the real one was in Father Adrian’s church.
That
was the blade he paid Jervil to retrieve.’

‘But Baderon would have known Father Adrian’s was the wrong one, so Jervil dug up the Black Knife. I advised against it, but Baderon’s silver spoke louder than my wisdom.’

‘Was it coincidence that Baderon asked Jervil for help, when Jervil happened to be the one who had retrieved it from the river?’

‘Well, everyone knew Jervil was a thief. He was the obvious person to approach.’

Geoffrey resumed his analysis of the Black Knife’s fortunes. ‘Within hours of Baderon buying it, there was a fire at Dene, and he assumed it was destroyed with his other possessions.’

‘But he was wrong – Black Knives do not fall foul of accidents. It was probably found in the rubble. Whoever did so was overwhelmed by its power and used it on Hugh and Seguin. Now I understand it is with you. You should be careful.’

‘Thank you for telling me this,’ said Geoffrey, wishing she had done so sooner. He stood to leave, feeling tiredness wash over him in a great wave. But Elgiva had not finished.

‘Come here, and smell Jervil’s mouth when I push on his chest.’

‘No, thank you! I have had a long day, and sniffing corpses would not be a good way to end it.’

‘Come,’ said Elgiva. ‘You are not the kind of man who is unsettled by such a request. It will not take a moment.’

With considerable reluctance, Geoffrey did as she asked, hoping it was not a ghoulish trick. He leant close to Jervil’s mouth, and inhaled when she pushed on his chest. A slightly sweet smell came from it.

‘Now this,’ she said, handing him a tiny phial.

‘It is the same,’ said Geoffrey, watching her nod in satisfaction. ‘What is it?’

‘Poppy juice,’ said Elgiva. ‘It is a strong medicine used to induce sleep or ease pain in the very sick. Jervil must have swallowed a powerful measure, if we can still detect it after four days.’

Geoffrey rubbed his head. It was not the first time he had encountered the slightly sweet smell, and he tried to recall where he had come across it before. He knew it was recent, but the memory remained frustratingly beyond his grasp. He was just too tired to think.

‘Jervil was given a sleeping draught before he died?’ he asked.

Elgiva nodded. ‘The draught made him drowsy and weak – and then he was strangled.’

Twelve

Geoffrey thought about Elgiva’s discovery regarding the poppy juice while he lay in bed. It proved that someone had badly wanted Jervil to die and had given him a soporific to ensure he did so. It also indicated that the groom had died before Margaret. But who was the culprit? He supposed Baderon was still his prime suspect, followed by Hilde, Seguin and Lambert, because they had the best reasons for wanting Jervil silenced. And then there was Ralph, whose manor was poor, and so would have coveted the silver Jervil had earned. Or was the villain Eleanor, so conveniently missing – unless she was dead, of course?

Although Geoffrey was bone-weary, sleep would not come, so he lit a candle and picked up the book Elgiva had given him. He found the page on mandrake, struggling to make out the tiny words and swearing when hot wax dripped on his fingers. Eventually, he doused the candle and closed his eyes. He was still dwelling on what he had read when the door opened and someone crept into the room and made himself comfortable on a straw mattress.

‘Bale?’ he called.

‘It is Durand; Bale is bedding Douce in the stables. Did I wake you? I was trying to be quiet.’

Since Durand did not sound sleepy, Geoffrey relayed everything Elgiva had told him, feeling a need for his former squire’s sharp wits.

‘The villain is Baderon,’ said Durand immediately. ‘He had the most to gain from Jervil’s death, as we have reasoned before. There is not only the fact that he would get his silver back, but he could be certain of silence. And it has been well worth his while.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Geoffrey.

‘I mean he has already employed the weapon at least twice since he bought it.’

‘But the victims have been his son and his friend. They are not men he wanted dead.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Durand. ‘Hugh was a half-wit, and maybe Baderon did not want an imbecile as his heir. And who can blame him? Meanwhile, Seguin was a brute, and perhaps Baderon regretted giving him so much power by betrothing him to Corwenna – the woman who has brought the region to the brink of war, when he has been striving for peace. Perhaps he killed Seguin in a futile attempt to prevent what has happened anyway.’

Geoffrey leant on one elbow. It was true. Baderon
had
been proud of the alliances he had forged and was convinced they would bring stability. But they had achieved the opposite, and now Baderon was powerless to control the monster he had created.

‘And do not forget that Hugh was found where Olivier disposed of the Black Knife,’ Durand went on. ‘Olivier thought he was destroying the thing, but it escaped from the river via Jervil. Now Jervil is dead, and Baderon’s only son is murdered at that exact same ford.’

‘That must be coincidence,’ said Geoffrey, although he was aware of the uncertainty in his voice. Was it possible? Had Hugh been strangled elsewhere and brought to the ford to make a point about the Black Knife?

‘You need me to guide you through these mazes of intrigue,’ said Durand smugly. ‘I am a much better companion than Bale.’

‘Bale saved me from the fire,’ said Geoffrey, suspecting that Durand would have let him burn.

‘I am not physically brave,’ admitted Durand. ‘But I have far more valuable assets. But you should sleep if you are to turn a rabble into an army tomorrow.’

Geoffrey tried to reassess the clues that rattled around his head, but he was almost instantly lost to the world. It seemed only moments later that he was woken by an urgent hammering and shaking of his shoulder. His first thought was that Goodrich was under attack, and he staggered to his feet, sword in hand. He found that he was weak and disorientated, and barely able to see.

‘Never mind weapons!’ shouted Durand. ‘Help me with the flames, before we are roasted alive.’

It took a moment for Geoffrey’s befuddled mind to grasp what was happening. There was a fire in the mattress next to his bed, which had filled the room with smoke. He saw Durand flapping furiously with a blanket to smother the flames. Then the clerk darted to the window and threw the shutters wide, before pushing Geoffrey towards them. The thumping at the door grew louder.

‘We cannot jump,’ said Geoffrey. ‘It is too far down.’

‘Just breathe the clean air,’ ordered Durand. ‘The blaze is almost out.’

And then it was over. Durand doused the remains of the fire with a bowl of water, and the blaze hissed into nothing. Durand waved the blanket in an attempt to usher the smoke through the window, then the door flew open and Joan stood there, Olivier behind her.

‘What happened?’ she cried. ‘I told the servants not to light a fire in your hearth, because you complain about the stuffiness. How did this come about?’

‘The fire was not in the hearth,’ said Geoffrey, coughing. ‘It was in the bed.’

‘We should have bolted the door,’ said Durand. ‘We assumed we were safe, but the castle is full of people who do not like you. We should have anticipated the attack.’

‘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.