Deadly Inheritance

‘Just like your pig.’

Helbye nodded. ‘You and Henrietta are in much the same position. She will go in the pot as soon as she fails to produce a litter, and you . . . well . . .’

He left the rest of the sentence hanging. When Geoffrey arrived at the castle, Jervil – the most sullen of Goodrich’s servants – took his horse.

‘Have you worked here long?’ Geoffrey asked, attempting to be friendly.

‘Yes,’ replied Jervil, turning his back so brusquely, it verged on insolent. He led the horse inside the stable, and began unbuckling the saddle.

‘You have some fine horses in your care,’ Geoffrey said, struggling to remain patient. ‘Does Olivier inspect them every day?’

‘He does not visit the stables. A man was murdered here, in case you did not know.’

Geoffrey decided he had had enough disrespect. He would never have permitted such an attitude from his soldiers, nor should he be expected to tolerate it from his retainers.

‘Show me where Henry died,’ he ordered curtly.

Jervil regarded him uneasily, but walked to a stall about halfway down the building. It was occupied by a fierce, grey-brown stallion. Before Geoffrey could ask anything else, he saw stains that were instantly identifiable as blood. He glanced at Jervil and saw defiance combined with triumph, and supposed they had been kept as some kind of ghoulish trophy marking a victory over a hated man. He wondered why Joan had not ordered them scrubbed away.

He squeezed past the horse, and bent down to inspect them. In one place it appeared that blood had pooled on the ground, and there were several smears along the wall, giving the impression that Henry had lived for some time after he had been wounded, perhaps trying to climb to his feet. Geoffrey moved the straw and saw trails that looked like footprints: the killer had trodden in the gore. Or were they the prints of the people who had carried the body to the church?

Geoffrey was not superstitious, but the stables had an eerie feel, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to prickle. As he glanced up, he saw a number of dead birds hanging in the rafters – black ones with sharp black beaks and their eyes eaten away.

‘God’s teeth!’ he exclaimed. Dead crows were peculiar things to keep in a stable – the horses might react to the smell of blood, or simply to the sight of such strange things perched above them.

Suddenly, the stallion began to buck. Geoffrey threw himself to one side and avoided the hoofs that would have split his skull had they hit it, but in doing so tumbled to the floor. Heavy feet flailed above him, then started to descend.

Geoffrey rolled to one side, and the stallion’s hoofs thumped hard to the ground, again narrowly missing him. Then it began an awkward, prancing dance towards him, as though someone was encouraging it to move in a direction it did not want to take. He scrambled to his feet and shoved with both hands as its body crushed him against the wall. It was a heavy animal, and he was hard pressed to force it back. When it finally yielded, he squeezed out of the stall and glared at Jervil.

‘Sorry,’ said Jervil, sounding more disappointed than apologetic. ‘He needs more exercise, so he is difficult to control.’

‘Especially when you hold the bridle tight enough to draw blood,’ snapped Geoffrey, snatching the strap and calming the agitated animal by rubbing its nose.

Its eyes rolled in pain, and it was some time before it settled.

‘You should be doing this,’ he said, trying to keep the anger from his voice, lest it disturbed the horse. ‘And if he needs exercise, you should make sure he has it.’

When he received no response, Geoffrey fetched some oats and fed the animal, inspecting the cut on its lip as he did so. The injury had been caused by twisting the bridle to an agonizing tightness, and he was not surprised the beast had objected.

‘Why did you do this?’ he asked. ‘If you do not like horses, Joan will find you another post.’

For the first time emotion sparked into Jervil’s voice. ‘I do like them! Dun was bucking, so I had to hold the bridle tight. He did not like you behind him.’

Was it possible the cut had been caused by Jervil trying to control the animal? Somehow, Geoffrey did not think so.

‘Why did you not wash away Henry’s blood?’ he asked, changing the subject abruptly. ‘And why are there dead birds in the rafters?’ He glanced along the building; there were no decomposing crows above any other stalls.

‘The crows keep evil spirits away. And the blood tells the Devil to keep his distance.’

‘Does Joan know about this?’ asked Geoffrey.

‘She never comes here,’ replied Jervil, evasively. ‘Nor Sir Olivier.’

‘What happened that night?’ demanded Geoffrey. Jervil started to edge away, but Geoffrey grabbed him, finally exasperated into using force. ‘Tell me or you will be removed from this post.’

Jervil was angry. ‘There is nothing to say. It was harvest, and we were all tired after a hard day in the fields. I was woken the next morning by Sir Olivier shouting that Henry was dead.’

‘You sleep here?’

‘The horses rest easier when I am close,’ said Jervil, pointing to where a ladder led to a loft. ‘But we wondered how long it would be before you started getting rid of us and bringing in Normans.’ He spat in rank distaste.

‘Jervil!’ came a sharp voice from the door. It was Torva. ‘That is enough. Your insolence will see us all homeless.’

It was a hypocritical statement, when Torva had been insolent himself. Geoffrey noted that the dagger had been replaced by a small knife. Had Torva intended him harm two nights before?

‘There is no reason for anyone to lose his post – yet,’ Geoffrey said. Torva and Jervil regarded him with unfriendly eyes, and he sensed that they wanted him gone from Goodrich. The knowledge made him determined to linger. ‘Tell me what you saw and heard the night Henry was stabbed, Jervil. Do not say nothing, because it will be a lie. Henry did not die quickly, because the bloodstains suggest he tried to gain his feet. He probably called for help.’

‘I did not hear anything,’ Jervil said sullenly. ‘Not until morning, when Olivier started to yell.’

‘You heard Olivier, but not Henry? But Henry was drunk – there would have been a commotion.’

‘Perhaps there was,’ said Jervil. ‘But I sleep heavily.’

Geoffrey studied the groom. Jervil was rude, untruthful and impertinent, and may well have harmed Henry. Or was it fear of someone else that kept him silent? Then Geoffrey looked at Torva, who also refused to meet his eyes. Geoffrey found him impossible to read, but was certain of one thing: Torva and Jervil definitely knew something about Henry’s murder.

The following day was Sunday, and the members of Goodrich’s household attended mass in the chapel of St Giles – a pretty place, with a thatched roof and walls of wattle and daub. Standing in the nave and listening to Father Adrian’s precise Latin, Geoffrey looked around him.

Joan and Olivier were at the front, wearing their best clothes, although Olivier was by far the more elegant. They were talking in low voices. Behind them was Torva, and next to him was the cook, Peter, fat and smiling. Geoffrey had tried several times to draw Peter into conversation, but had been treated to blank stares. Jervil was with them, biting his nails. Joan claimed they were hard-working, sober men, but Geoffrey was unconvinced. All three had already reacted oddly to Geoffrey’s attempts to uncover the truth about Henry. Did their curious attitudes imply guilty consciences?

The mass ended, and Geoffrey walked outside, collecting his dagger as he went – Father Adrian had refused to let him inside until he had divested himself of weapons. Bale, his new squire, had offered to guard it, and during the interim had honed the blade to a vicious edge. It sliced through the sheath as Geoffrey slid it away.

‘God’s teeth!’ he exclaimed. ‘There is no need to make it quite so sharp, man.’

‘You never know when you might need to slit a throat,’ hissed Bale. ‘And a sharp knife is better than a blunt one.’

‘I do not envisage-’ began Geoffrey uneasily.

‘Slitting a throat is the best way to dispatch an enemy,’ interrupted Bale in a confidential whisper. ‘It is quiet