Deadly Inheritance

‘The only person in Dene with decent healing skills is Isabel – and you will not want her doing this. She is blind.’

‘My sister will do it,’ said Geoffrey, trying to pull away.

‘It might fester by then. Sit still. I have almost finished.’

He did as he was told, and it was not long before she was done. Then she scattered powder into the wine they had been sharing, and indicated he should drink.

‘What did you put in it?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘Why? Do you think I might poison you? I am unlikely to kill a man after I have put myself through the annoyance of removing splinters. Drink the draught, and I will send Isabel to you. She has more patience with soothing poultices than I.’

‘I do not need poultices or Isabel. But you have been kind.’

‘You will return the favour at some point,’ she said, as though he had no choice. ‘If you drink my potion, you will sleep soundly tonight. Or, if you prefer, give me a lock of your hair, and I shall say a charm that will work just as well.’

‘That is not necessary,’ he said hurriedly.

Her eyes crinkled in another smile and she shrugged. When she left, he poured the doctored wine down the slop drain and refilled his cup from the jug. It was not long before he was joined by another sleepless guest: Durand, complaining about Abbot Serlo’s snoring.

‘You can hear him from here, and he is in the room above the buttery! He was put there, rather than the guest hall, because he is such a noisy sleeper. But I am obliged to share with him.’

Geoffrey could indeed hear someone breathing hard and strong. Durand drank two cups of wine in quick succession, claiming they would make him drowsy.

‘I saw Eleanor leaving just now,’ he said, pouring a third. ‘I waited until she had gone, because I did not want to meet her in the dark.’

‘Why not?’

‘She is more comfortable during the night than is appropriate for a young woman,’ said Durand primly, although Geoffrey was not sure what he meant. ‘She still wore her veil. I thought she might not bother in the dark, when her face cannot be seen. I hear she is dreadfully scarred.’

‘Is that so,’ said Geoffrey without interest.

Durand sensed his reluctance to gossip, so changed the subject. ‘Corwenna hates you. What have you done to her?’

‘My brother killed her husband.’

‘But then your brother was killed in his turn. Did Corwenna do it? Or Seguin or Lambert?’

‘Why would Lambert-’

‘He loves his brother – you can see his devotion a mile away. He might have killed Henry at Seguin’s request. Or perhaps they did it together.’

Without waiting for a response, Durand reeled away, across the yard towards the buttery. Geoffrey settled into the chair again, swearing under his breath when, no matter how hard he scratched, he could not stop his arm from itching.

‘That is not polite language,’ came a soft voice from behind him.

Geoffrey came to his feet and studied the woman who had glided into the room so softly that he had not heard. Everything about her was pale. Her hair, coiled into circles over her ears – a fashion adopted by women in the privacy of their quarters, but never in public – was so fair it was almost silver. Her skin had a delicate translucency, and he had never seen eyes such a light shade of blue. He saw the way she looked past his shoulder.

‘Isabel?’

She inclined her head. ‘Eleanor told me your arm itches. Is that why you are swearing?’

She indicated he was to sit, then knelt beside him, groping for his hand. He started to object, but she began to rub a white paste on his arm that almost instantly relieved the itching.

‘Now you should be able to sleep, especially if you drink Eleanor’s poppy juice – although I hope you did not give her your hair. She does odd things at the Angel Springs, I am told.’

‘I hope she did not wake you for this.’

‘I was awake anyway.’ There was a catch in her voice. ‘I seldom sleep these days.’

‘I am sorry,’ he said gently. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘You can agree not to marry me. I sense you are a good man, but I do not want you. My heart lies elsewhere.’

‘With Ralph.’ He could not imagine what she saw in such a surly fellow.

The mention of Ralph’s name drew a smile. ‘I have loved him since we were children. But your brother . . .’ She took a shuddering breath. ‘Now Ralph will not have me. He says I am tainted, even though . . .’ She did not finish, and tears spilt down her cheeks.

‘He is young,’ he said, thinking about what Margaret had said. ‘When he sees your devotion, he may recant.’

She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. ‘Do you think so? Then perhaps everything will work out. But you should sleep now.’

And she was gone.

When Geoffrey awoke, his first thought was whether to don armour or the green tunic. He was still undecided when he climbed out of bed, and, to his amazement, Isabel glided in. He wondered whether she would have entered so blithely had she known he was clad only in undergarments. Aware that it would not look good if anyone found them, he hauled his tunic over his head and tugged on his boots, eluding her outstretched hands until he was properly dressed.

‘Stand still,’ she ordered. ‘I want to assess if you need more of my ointment.’

‘I do not,’ he said. ‘But thank you for asking.’

‘You are nothing like your brother. I paid a priest to say a mass for him when he died, although it will not be enough to free him from purgatory. He was not a good man.’

Isabel had been kind to Geoffrey, but that was no reason to duck from the truth. Her unfinished statements from the previous night had allowed him to deduce exactly what had happened the night Henry invaded her bedchamber – and it was not what most people believed.

‘You risked a great deal to protect Ralph, did you not?’ he said, watching her intently.

He saw alarm flit across her face. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You lay with Ralph and then discovered you carried his child. Not wanting your father to kill him for despoiling you, you allowed Henry into your chamber – or perhaps you invaded his, as you have just done to mine. It would not matter if your father killed Henry, because no one liked him.’

She was appalled. ‘What a horrible thing to say! You question my virtue and Ralph’s honour.’

‘You slept with Henry to protect Ralph. I know from personal experience that your father strikes first and hears explanations second. You did not want him to hurt Ralph.’

‘I was wrong,’ said Isabel coldly. ‘You are like your brother.’

‘You are not with child,’ said Geoffrey, noting her body’s slender lines. ‘Were you mistaken?’

Isabel gave a choking sob, and he thought she might flee. Instead she groped for the bed and sat heavily, shoulders heaving with silent weeping.

‘The baby came too soon, so I buried her in the churchyard.’ She took a deep breath as more tears spilt down her cheeks. ‘Why am I telling you this, when I have even kept it from my confessor? Only my aunt Margaret knows the truth. And Ralph, although he . . .’

‘But the child was not Henry’s?’

‘Ralph’s. We must have made her the first or second time we . . .’

‘You took a risk,’ said Geoffrey, thinking he had never come across a more flawed plan. ‘What would you have done if your father had ordered you to marry Henry – or if Henry had insisted on marrying the mother of his heir?’

‘Henry did insist,’ said Isabel unhappily. ‘I thought he would not – I made no effort to please him. But he did not have very high standards – or perhaps the quality of love did not matter to him.’