Deadly Inheritance

assumed Durand knew what he was doing – he was in the King’s household, after all, and had a strong sense of his social standing.

The first people he met were Baderon and his knights. All three wore finery, and Geoffrey was grateful Durand had insisted that he change.

‘You have come to visit fitzNorman,’ said Baderon coolly. ‘Might I ask why?’

Geoffrey’s immediate reaction was to tell him he might not, but chose not to antagonize him. ‘I am here to see Bishop Giffard,’ he replied instead.

Baderon seemed relieved. ‘I thought fitzNorman might have summoned you to inspect Margaret and Isabel. But you must meet my daughter Hilde later. She has expressed an interest in you, and such an alliance would be most beneficial.’

‘She did not look very interested when I encountered her in the woods.’

Baderon pursed his lips, while his knights exchanged knowing smirks. ‘You met her. Damn! I wanted to be there, to make sure . . .’ He trailed off, waving a hand expansively.

‘To make sure she did not bite you,’ Seguin chortled.

‘To make sure each knew who the other was,’ said Baderon, glaring at him. He forced a smile at Geoffrey. ‘You must visit us in Monmouth. I am told you are a favourite of the King, and the King’s friends are always welcome.’

‘It is always wise to be gracious to friends of the King,’ said Durand. ‘I-’

‘You are not a friend of His Majesty,’ said Baderon in surprise. ‘You are a clerk. Abbot Serlo told me. Why are you here, anyway? You should be dining with the servants at that table.’ He pointed to the corner.

Durand’s small, sharp face grew dark with anger. ‘I am a trusted agent, not a clerk. And I am a landowner, too.’

‘You are not,’ said Seguin in distaste, grabbing Durand by the scruff of the neck and propelling him away. ‘You sit at the lower end of the hall.’

Durand’s eyes flashed dangerously. ‘I resent you manhandling me.’

Seguin made as if to grab him again, and Geoffrey was about to intervene when others entered the hall. Seguin’s eyes lit up when he saw Corwenna among them, and Durand was forgotten. Magnificent in a violet kirtle, Corwenna smiled smugly as she took his arm and allowed him to lead her to her place. When she passed Geoffrey, she looked him up and down disdainfully.

‘FitzNorman allows anyone to dine here, I see,’ she remarked.

‘Take no notice,’ whispered Baderon. ‘She has a sharp tongue, but Seguin will blunt it once they are married.’

Geoffrey sincerely doubted it. He watched Seguin fuss, determined to impress her, and it occurred to him that Seguin might do anything to secure her favour. Would he stoop to murder, to rid her of the man she claimed had killed Rhys?

‘I wish she would blunt it on him!’ muttered Durand venomously. ‘Insolent bastard!’

‘Ignore him,’ said Geoffrey, seeing humiliation burn on Durand’s face. ‘Seguin is a lout.’

‘Not Seguin. He is nothing – a brainless bag of wind. I was talking about Baderon. How dare he tell me where I may sit! Does he not know who I am?’

Geoffrey was saved from a further tirade when fitzNorman arrived. On his arm was an older woman, with kind grey eyes and a surprisingly trim figure. She wore a kirtle with plain sleeves and a long, decorative girdle made of silk. As befitting a lady of rank, a veil covered her hair, although the chestnut curls showing at her temples indicated they were not yet touched by grey. FitzNorman nodded greetings to various guests, including Durand, then approached Geoffrey.

‘This is my sister Margaret,’ he said. ‘I would like you to sit with her this evening.’

‘Where is Isabel?’ asked Durand, of a mind to make trouble. ‘Is she too busy to dine with us?’

FitzNorman glared at him. ‘She is indisposed.’

‘She refuses to see you while she pines for Ralph de Bicanofre,’ muttered Durand, going to take a seat, not quite at the level of Baderon and his men, but not far away. Geoffrey saw he had indeed risen in society.

‘I hear your first meeting with my brother was eventful,’ said Margaret, leading Geoffrey to the dais. Uncomfortably, Geoffrey was aware of Corwenna and Seguin glaring at him from one side, and fitzNorman watching with hawk-like eyes on the other; Geoffrey wished that he had not dispensed with his armour. ‘Do not take him amiss. He wants an alliance with you.’

‘You mean by marrying you?’ asked Geoffrey bluntly.

Margaret was not embarrassed. ‘I do not want another husband, but I may have no choice, and neither may you. However, I will not try to beguile you with false words, if you do me the same courtesy.’

Geoffrey smiled. ‘But we can be friends?’

She looked as relieved as he felt. ‘I would like that very much.’

‘Tell me about your husband,’ said Geoffrey, as the meal wore on.

‘He went on the Crusade, although he did not live to enjoy his glory. He died at Antioch.’

As Margaret talked, her spouse’s face appeared in Geoffrey’s mind. He recalled a gentle knight with calm, brown eyes, who had spoken fondly of his wife. She was moved when he told her so, and asked many questions about Antioch and its towering walls. She believed her Robert had died in battle, although Geoffrey knew that he, like so many others, had died of the bowel disease that struck at those weakened by hunger and exhaustion. He did not tell her the truth.

‘Who is that?’ he asked, nodding towards the fellow he had offered to help when his cart had stuck in the Wye. With him was an older man and a young woman wearing a white wimple. Geoffrey had a fleeting impression of dark eyes and clear skin before someone stepped into his line of sight.

‘Wulfric de Bicanofre and his son Ralph. It is Ralph for whom Isabel pines, poor thing. The woman is Wulfric’s youngest daughter, Douce.’

But Ralph was being hustled from the hall by his father, and Douce followed. Ralph shouted something, and Geoffrey thought he heard, ‘Henry’. When he saw Ralph scowl in his direction, he was sure it was his presence that had caused the father to remove the son so hastily.

Margaret chuckled. ‘Ralph is a silly boy, all puffed-up pride. His father knows he will quarrel with you, and is afraid it will spoil Douce’s chances. If you were to take Douce – or Eleanor – it would improve Wulfric’s standing in the area, and he is keen to make a good impression.’

‘I had no idea Goodrich was so important,’ said Geoffrey.

‘It is strategically located, as you know. But you may as well enjoy being fawned over. It will not last.’

‘That is what my old squire, Durand, told me,’ said Geoffrey.

‘Poor Durand. Baderon should not have addressed him so rudely, and Seguin should not have shoved him. He is a favourite at Court, and is likely to remember insults. The King likes men who are resourceful, clever and devious.’

‘I hear the King will be here soon. Do you know when?’

‘So you can leave before he arrives?’ Margaret laughed when he looked alarmed. ‘It is obvious that you are not a man to hang around in the hope of securing some regal crumb. But His Majesty is not expected for days. You have plenty of time to see your bishop and escape.’

‘Tomorrow,’ vowed Geoffrey. ‘When Giffard has finished his vigil.’

‘He is a devout man, but deeply troubled. I hope you can ease his burden.’

‘What burden?’ asked Geoffrey.

‘I suspect it is something to do with his kinsmen and the Duke . . . What do you want?’ Her voice was suddenly cool, and Geoffrey glanced up to see Corwenna behind him, a knife in her hand.

‘I want some of Geoffrey’s hair,’ she said, reaching out. ‘It is part of an experiment, to see whether Norman or Celtic hair is stronger.’

Geoffrey was not particularly superstitious, but he recalled Bale’s warnings about hair, and leant away from her. Undaunted, she grabbed at him.

‘No,’ said Margaret, catching her wrist. ‘Choose another Norman. And go away.’

She met Corwenna’s angry gaze, until the Welsh woman gave a stiff bow and moved away. She did not