Deadly Inheritance

gather. Determined to meet Giffard and leave before His Majesty arrived, Geoffrey started to ask the servant where the Bishop might be, only to find him gone.

‘They are not well trained,’ came a familiar voice from the corridor. It was Durand, resplendent in an outfit that shimmered orange and red as he moved. Geoffrey supposed it was silk, another example of his old squire’s expanding fortunes. ‘FitzNorman has low standards where servants are concerned. He is a low-standards sort of man.’

Geoffrey smiled at him. ‘I see you survived your night in the forest.’

‘Abbot Serlo led us halfway to Shropshire before we found someone to bring us here,’ grumbled Durand. ‘Now we are waiting for the King. He cannot arrive too soon, as far as I am concerned. I wish to leave this dull place and return to the centre of power.’

Geoffrey felt the Marches held more than enough excitement for him, with his brother murdered and hostile neighbours with marriageable daughters converging at every turn. ‘I leave at first light tomorrow. Dene is about to become very crowded, and fitzNorman will not want me here.’

‘You want to be away before the King spots you,’ surmised Durand astutely.

Geoffrey winced at being so transparent. Durand was the King’s man, so he should not let him know he did not want to meet the monarch. ‘Have you seen Giffard?’ he asked.

‘Yes, but you will not – not tonight, at least. It is the eve of the Annunciation – and there is a vigil. You will not see Giffard until tomorrow, because he will not break from his devotions. Have you been asked to dine with fitzNorman tonight?’

Geoffrey nodded. ‘But he did his best to kill me this afternoon, so I think I shall plead tiredness and stay here instead.’

Durand settled on a chest near the window. Bale arrived and closed the door, then began to unpack the meagre contents of Geoffrey’s saddlebag.

‘If you do not attend willingly, he may drag you there by force,’ said Durand. ‘His sister will be wanting to inspect you, and so will the paupers from Bicanofre.’

‘I am supposed to inspect them, too,’ said Geoffrey. ‘We will be like wives at a meat market.’

Durand giggled. ‘Enjoy it! You will never have the chance to make this sort of decision again.’

‘I will if I outlive whichever lucky lady catches my eye.’

‘You will not do that,’ predicted Durand confidently. ‘Not the way you court danger. But I understand there are six women to choose from – I have been bored, so I have amused myself by assessing them for you. Do you want to hear my conclusions?’

Geoffrey did not, but Durand intended to tell him anyway.

‘Isabel is the prettiest, but she is in love with someone else. Her aunt Margaret is old enough to be your mother, but is a pleasant woman. You will like her, and she may still be young enough to give you the son you need.’

‘She gave her last husband two,’ added Bale. ‘Fine, strong gentlemen.’

‘And who,’ asked Durand, giving him a cool stare, ‘are you? Why do you interrupt me?’

Bale nodded at Geoffrey. ‘His squire.’

Durand pursed his lips. ‘My successor! A great, stupid, ugly ape! You have gone down in the world, Geoffrey.’

‘Actually, women find me very handsome,’ protested Bale.

‘Well, I do not,’ said Durand. He turned his back on Bale and continued his analysis. Geoffrey braced himself for trouble, but Bale only made an obscene gesture as repayment for the insult.

‘Then there are the Bicanofre women – Eleanor and Douce,’ Durand went on. ‘Eleanor is too clever, Douce not clever enough, and there is something odd about both. They are poor and a marriage with either is a waste. The same is true of Corwenna of Llan Martin, although her father would be willing.’

‘She is being courted by someone else,’ said Geoffrey.

‘Sir Seguin de Rheims,’ said Durand, nodding. ‘A shallow man who will not be able to control her. His brother Lambert is the same – they think they will take Welsh wives and continue their wild bachelor habits. Fools! And finally, there is Baderon’s Hilde. He is sure to foist her on you, but you should resist. I know you like a challenge, but she will prove too much.’

Geoffrey was amused. ‘So, which would you choose?’

Durand considered carefully. ‘I would leave immediately, and not have any of them – unless you like your women old, stupid, cunning, mannish or insane.’

Geoffrey rubbed his chin. He had come to much the same conclusion, but it was disconcerting to hear it so succinctly summarized. His future looked bleak, and he was overwhelmed by the desire to grab his horse and ride hard for the Holy Land. He would sooner take his chances with Tancred’s anger than live out his days with a local wife.

‘You cannot go to Tancred,’ said Durand, reading his thoughts. ‘You showed me the last letter he wrote, and to say it was hostile is an understatement. Do you want to be slaughtered in his next battle, because he orders you to a futile skirmish? You would do better joining forces with me. It will allow you to escape from Goodrich and use your wits.’

Durand’s offer was beginning to sound more attractive, but he thought about Joan and knew he could not shirk his responsibilities. ‘I cannot.’

Durand shrugged. ‘Then you have my deepest sympathy. Your future looks dismally grim, and I would not be in your position for a kingdom. Where are you going?’

Geoffrey had stood when a bell rang to announce the evening meal. ‘To the hall. You said I should go willingly or risk being dragged.’

Durand was aghast. ‘You cannot go dressed like that! FitzNorman would be insulted. Your full armour tells him you do not feel safe in his house.’

‘I do not,’ said Geoffrey, surprised anyone should think otherwise.

‘Perhaps so, but you cannot announce it by dining in mail! Besides, he will not attack you tonight. There will be too many witnesses.’

‘That did not stop him earlier,’ grumbled Geoffrey, although he suspected Durand was right. Reluctantly, he divested himself of his armour, while Bale tried to clean his boots. He inspected his equipment and saw with annoyance that fitzNorman’s attack had damaged his shield, which had, in turn, left several splinters in his arm.

‘You should get those out before they fester,’ advised Bale. ‘My knife is sharp-’

‘You do not use a knife for splinters,’ said Durand disdainfully. ‘It would be like using a bucket to serve fine wine.’ He glanced at Bale in a way that suggested he thought the squire probably did just that. ‘You must prise them out with your teeth. I will do it.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Geoffrey hastily, not liking the sound of either option. ‘Joan will do it tomorrow – without recourse to knives or teeth.’

‘Suit yourself,’ said Durand with a shrug. ‘But they will itch furiously tonight.’ Geoffrey took the green tunic from his saddlebag, and Durand’s jaw dropped in horror. ‘What is that?’

‘My best tunic,’ replied Geoffrey, mystified by his reaction.

Durand glared at Bale. ‘You packed it as though it were a rag, and now it looks like one. Do you want him to appear shabby among the suitors? What kind of squire are you?’

Bale snatched the offending garment and shook it so hard that one of the hems began to unravel. ‘The other creases will fall out by the end of the evening.’

‘But by then, everyone will be drunk, and it will not matter,’ said Durand. ‘Give it to me.’

With the help of water and a lot of judicious flattening, Durand eventually had the garment looking reasonably wrinkle-free, and Geoffrey pulled it over his head. The hem Bale had ruined began to drop, so Geoffrey pinned it in place with the tiny dagger Joan had given him. It pulled the skirt at an odd angle, and bumped against his leg when he moved, but it could not be helped. Durand pursed his lips in disapproval when he saw the result, and circled for some time, patting and tugging, before pronouncing himself satisfied.

‘It will have to do. At least these hapless women will know in advance what an untidy ruffian you are.’

Feeling self-conscious after Durand’s fuss, Geoffrey walked to the hall. Bale disappeared to eat with the other squires, but Durand accompanied Geoffrey to the tables near the dais, where those of significance dined. He