Deadly Inheritance (34 page)

‘Have you come to surrender?’ asked Lambert, emerging from the tent with a scowl. He gestured to his troops. ‘You should: you cannot defeat us.’

‘Where is Baderon?’ asked Geoffrey.

The next person to emerge from the tent, however, was Corwenna.

‘It is Geoffrey Mappestone!’ she exclaimed, pulling a dagger from her belt. ‘This is better than I hoped. We shall send his head back to Joan – that will show her what we think of her attempts to negotiate.’

‘Tempting, but unwise,’ said Lambert laconically. ‘It is not how these things are done.’

‘Hywel was killed this morning,’ she hissed. ‘And my father is a broken man, refusing to fight. Do not talk to
me
about what is right!’ She spat on the ground at Geoffrey’s feet, and there was a murmur of approval from those nearby.

Baderon emerged at last, with Hilde behind him. Hilde wore a mail tunic over her kirtle and a hefty sword strapped to her side.

‘You should not have come,’ Hilde said. ‘You have risked your life for nothing, because there can be no peace. These men will not disperse until they have the spoils they have been promised.’ She glared at Corwenna.

‘It is true,’ said Baderon hoarsely. ‘Either their food supplies are low and they need an excuse to take cattle and grain, or they have been promised plunder in return for their services. Neither faction will agree to leave empty-handed.’

‘They will be disappointed,’ warned Geoffrey. ‘Our livestock have been hidden, and there are men standing by to fire the granaries if we are overrun. And Goodrich has little to please mercenaries – it is not a wealthy estate. Tell your men that. It may make them less willing to squander their lives when they will have nothing in return.’

‘I am in an impossible position,’ said Baderon. ‘I wanted alliances with my Welsh neighbours, but it has all gone sour. I do not understand—’

‘We shall send Geoffrey’s corpse to Joan,’ interrupted Corwenna imperiously. ‘Then we shall burn Goodrich and slaughter every one of its inhabitants. I do not care about cattle, grain and loot. I just want to see blood spilt to avenge my murdered husband.’

Geoffrey addressed Baderon. ‘Corwenna’s vengeance will cost you dearly. Many men will die – including those who should be planting crops for next year. Your people will take nothing of ours with you; Joan will see to that.’

‘I am sure she will,’ said Hilde. ‘I would do the same in her position.’

‘No grain?’ asked one of the Welsh captains, struggling to understand the Norman-French.

‘Every granary will be fired the moment you appear,’ replied Geoffrey, speaking Welsh to ensure he understood. ‘You will not have a single kernel.’

This caused considerable consternation, and Geoffrey saw the extent to which hunger drove some of them.

‘He lies,’ Corwenna said with contempt. ‘Normans do not destroy grain.’

Geoffrey did not need to press his point: the Welshmen had understood him perfectly. He addressed them directly. ‘We have corn aplenty, and we are prepared to share it with you – but only if you retreat by this evening.’

‘Do not listen,’ hissed Corwenna. ‘He will wait until you have disbanded, then destroy you one by one. And you will see none of his corn. I know what the word of a Mappestone means.’

‘Goodrich helped Llan Martin through lean times last year,’ said one of the captains. ‘And I trust Caerdig: if
he
will not fight, we should reconsider.’

Another leader agreed, pointing out the futility of fighting if there was no booty to take home. They began to argue, while Corwenna watched, aghast.

‘They are going to back down,’ she breathed.

‘What were you telling them?’ demanded Lambert of Geoffrey.

‘He said he would pay each captain ten pieces of silver if they abandon you now,’ said Corwenna before Geoffrey could answer. ‘And another ten if they bring him your head and Baderon’s on pikes.’

Lambert steamed across to the conferring Welsh and began to rail at them, while Corwenna ‘translated’. Geoffrey tried to interrupt, but swords were drawn and he was ordered back. He closed his eyes in despair when Corwenna informed her countrymen that Goodrich intended to trick them: that Roger’s recent arrival with mercenaries was evidence that they intended to attack Wales. Baderon watched for a moment, then ducked back inside the tent, his shoulders bowed.

‘Did you offer them silver to back down, Geoffrey?’ asked Hilde uneasily.

‘Of course not,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Do you think me a fool?’

‘I do not,’ Hilde said softly. She was silent for a moment, then spoke in a rush. ‘I have been thinking about the deaths of Hugh and Seguin, and I do not believe you are responsible.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Geoffrey drily. ‘It is a pity Lambert does not think the same.’

‘You had no reason to want them dead,’ Hilde continued. ‘If you had been willing to marry me, I might have assumed you wanted Hugh out of the way, but you do not. And you never let Seguin’s ill manners bother you much, either. You are not their killer.’

‘Well, despite all the evidence that points to his guilt, I do not believe your father killed my brother, either. He does not behave like a murderer, and the servants at Goodrich think there was a secret pact – a marriage contract, perhaps – between him and Henry, which makes it highly unlikely that your father is the culprit.’

Hilde sighed. ‘They are right, in part. We
did
have an arrangement that only Henry and my family knew about, but it was nothing to do with him marrying me. I would never have agreed to that. It is a pity he was not you – I would not have minded you.’

‘You are not so bad yourself,’ said Geoffrey, feeling some sort of reciprocal compliment was in order. ‘Better than the others.’

Unexpectedly, Hilde laughed. ‘You have a silver tongue, Geoffrey Mappestone, there is no doubt about that!’

Geoffrey smiled. ‘What was this arrangement with Henry, if it did not involve an alliance by marriage?’

‘I did not say it was not an alliance by marriage. It was just not between him and me.’

Geoffrey looked confused. ‘Who then?’

‘Joan. To Hugh.’

Geoffrey regarded her askance. ‘But Joan has Olivier.’

‘Olivier had an accident last summer,’ said Hilde. ‘He broke his arm, but Henry led us to believe it was more serious, and offered Joan for Hugh.’

Geoffrey stared at her. ‘I do not think Joan would have appreciated that.’

‘Neither would Hugh, whose heart was set on Eleanor. But it would have served its purpose: Henry could have had Isabel
and
secured an alliance with us. It would have united three Houses.’

‘But Joan has not produced heirs for Olivier, so her marriage with Hugh would have been equally barren. How would it have benefited Goodrich?’

‘Joan had children. Did you not know? Like Henry’s, they were taken by fevers, and then Olivier had an illness that means he cannot . . . well,
she
could provide heirs for a different husband.’

Geoffrey had not known about such children and realized, yet again, that there was a good deal about his sister and her life that was a closed book to him.

‘Henry misled us over Olivier’s broken arm,’ Hilde went on. ‘And we have since learnt he attacked the poor man, clearly intending to kill him to provide a wife for Hugh. But I would be obliged if you keep this to yourself – if Joan were to find out that we were even remotely associated with a plot that almost saw Olivier murdered, we would never have peace.’

‘So that is why our servants think your father would not have killed Henry.’ Geoffrey rubbed his head; then an unpleasant thought occurred to him. ‘Are you sure Joan did not know about this?’

‘Positive,’ said Hilde firmly. ‘If she had learnt that Henry had attempted to kill Olivier, do you think she would have murdered him by stealth? Of course not! She would have hanged him from the castle walls.’

Geoffrey glanced at Corwenna and Lambert, who were still trying to persuade the wary Welshmen against leaving. He started to move towards them, but swords blocked him a second time, and Hilde pulled him back with a surprisingly strong arm.

‘Even if you do convince the Welsh that they are making a mistake, Lambert and Corwena will still have their Normans and mercenaries,’ she said. ‘Goodrich remains outnumbered by a considerable margin. If I thought you would listen, I would urge you to turn around and aim for the Holy Land, because there is nothing but death left for you here.’

‘And leave my sister?’ asked Geoffrey archly.

There was no more to be said, so Geoffrey went to his horse and mounted. Then there was a sudden blur of movement as Corwenna snatched a crossbow from a guard, and fired.

Geoffrey reacted instinctively, throwing himself to one side. Dun reared up in confusion and the bolt hit his chest. With a piercing whinny, the horse crashed to the ground. Hands dragged Geoffrey to safety, but he twisted away from them and knelt next to Dun, trying to stem the gush of blood with his fingers. It seemed a long time before the horse’s desperate, agonized battle for life was over.

Geoffrey looked at the blood staining his hands and climbed slowly to his feet. The Welsh captains stood in a shocked, mute circle around him, while Hilde looked as angry as Geoffrey felt. He liked horses, and for his to have been killed by Corwenna was more than his temper could bear. He stalked towards her.

‘Easy, man,’ said Lambert uncomfortably. ‘She did not mean to hurt the horse. She was aiming for you.’

Geoffrey was not sure why this was expected to make him feel better. Corwenna did not flinch when he reached her. Instead, she smiled, her eyes carrying an expression of intense satisfaction; she was delighted to see the death of the horse had touched him.

‘You have a long walk ahead of you,’ she said smugly. ‘You had better start, if you do not want to be alone in the forest after dark. It is dangerous for those who are not welcome.’

Geoffrey had never before experienced such a strong urge to put his hands around someone’s throat and choke the life out of them. But an enemy camp, where he was surrounded by hostile forces, was not the place for it. He allowed Hilde to tug him away.

‘Take my horse,’ she said. ‘You can give him back when all this is over.’

Geoffrey did not trust himself to speak. He shot Corwenna a glare filled with loathing, then turned away, half-expecting her to launch another attack while his back was turned. He followed Hilde to where Lambert was already saddling up a sturdy pony, snatched the reins and rode out of the camp. He did not look back.

Bitterly, he saw that Roger, Joan and Olivier had been right: he had risked his life for nothing – and lost a good horse in the bargain. He had learnt of Henry’s plans for Joan, but they seemed unimportant now. How many men would die because Henry had been a brute and Corwenna hated him for it? And could Goodrich hold out against such a huge horde, even if the Welsh captains did see sense and go home?

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.’

Thirteen

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.