Deadly Inheritance

others were not – Baderon and his knights just stood and watched the blaze.’

‘What else could they have done? It was obvious the house was lost.’

‘You rushed into the flames without thought for your safety. I do not condemn Baderon for not doing so, but he could have directed people with water or organized shelter for the survivors. FitzNorman is numb with shock and Baderon should have stepped up. But he is probably chary of ordering his knights to do anything: he allows them to influence his decisions, when he should go with his instincts. That is something I learnt from you. You listen to ideas and suggestions, but you do not let them sway you from what you think is right.’

‘I taught you something, then?’ asked Geoffrey, who had assumed his old squire had gained nothing from the year in his service.

‘A great deal, although most of it is useless. Clerks of my status are seldom required to break locks with daggers or produce meals from grass and leaves. But Baderon is not the only one who acted shabbily. I do not like the way Agnes gloats over Giffard’s absence – she hopes he is dead.’

Geoffrey glanced to where the Bishop was sleeping again. ‘He is alive, but unwell.’

‘Smoke,’ said Durand, coughing raspingly himself. ‘Incidentally, everyone suspects Agnes of making an end of Sibylla, but the more I think about it, the more I am certain that the whole thing was Walter’s idea.’

‘Why?’ asked Geoffrey, trying to pay attention through his weariness. Durand was astute and might well have deduced something that would help solve the mystery.

‘Walter saved his belongings from the fire, but did not have time to pack them properly. He dropped a couple of items as he ran to safety – and this was one of them.’ Durand rummaged in the embroidered purse he carried on his belt and presented the knight with a tiny phial.

Geoffrey also recalled Walter’s inadequately buckled bags. ‘Do you know what is in it?’

Durand shook his head. ‘But it is the kind of ampoule that normally contains powerful medicines – Abbot Serlo keeps some in his abbey’s infirmary, for the very sick.’

Geoffrey suspected he was right. Strong potions tended to be stored in small quantities, and the phial that he held – which, despite being tiny, was made of hard-baked clay and possessed a sturdy stopper to prevent leakage – certainly looked as though it might contain something potent.

‘I wager a shilling that it contains something Walter should not have,’ said Durand. ‘There is writing on one side, but the language is not Latin or French. I cannot read it.’

‘Italian,’ said Geoffrey, struggling to make out the tiny letters in the remaining light of the fire. ‘Some of the inscription is eroded – this is a very old bottle – but I think it says “mandrake juice”.’

‘So, I was right,’ said Durand, pleased. ‘Mandrake is deadly. However, Walter will not be killing anyone now, because it is empty.’

Geoffrey pulled off the lid and saw that Durand was right. In fact, he imagined the pot had been empty for some time, because it was dry and dusty, and the scent of whatever had been inside was so faint as to be almost undetectable. He doubted the contents had been used to dispatch the Duchess, because her death was too recent. But it proved that Walter had a familiarity with poisons.

‘Before the fire, the King told me I am to spend a few months with Bishop Giffard,’ said Durand after a while.

‘You must be disappointed,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I know you wanted to return to court.’

Durand grinned. ‘Henry said you suggested I stay with Giffard until the jealous wretches at Westminster have dispersed. You really should consider my offer, Geoffrey, because we understand each other so well that we would make an excellent team. I am delighted and grateful for your kindly word in Henry’s ear.’

‘You are?’ asked Geoffrey warily.

‘Giffard is Bishop of Winchester. And if there is a place in England that suits me more than Westminster, it is Winchester – where the royal treasury is, and where important decisions are made. But you know this: it is what prompted you to suggest it in the first place. However, before I go, Henry wants me to review what Baderon is doing.’

‘You mean his taxes?’ asked Geoffrey.

‘Ostensibly. But what I will really be doing is gathering other information. Henry thinks he may be forging too many Welsh alliances.’

‘He is probably right.’

Durand was thoughtful. ‘I despise Baderon. He treats me like a servant, whereas I am a landowner, worthy of respect. However, he is mannerly enough towards you. I want you to join with me to find out what he is doing. If he is uniting the Welsh against England, he should be exposed as a traitor.’

‘No,’ said Geoffrey firmly. ‘I cannot spy on my neighbours.’

‘Then help me by taking me back into your service. Baderon will not harm me if he knows I am under your protection. I will be your squire again, and will reside at Goodrich until I have completed my report. Then I shall go to Winchester.’

‘Hey, you!’ came a voice from behind them. It was Seguin, and he was snapping his fingers at Durand. ‘Clerk! Come here. I want you to write something.’

‘You see?’ said Durand. ‘That is the kind of treatment I can expect from Baderon’s household.’

‘I said come here!’ shouted Seguin, advancing angrily. ‘Do not pretend to be deaf.’

Durand squealed as he was yanked upright. ‘Geoffrey, tell him to stop!’

‘Well?’ sneered Seguin, addressing Geoffrey. ‘Will you tell me to stop?’

Seguin had tugged Durand away before Geoffrey could respond. Durand shot Geoffrey a foul look, but crouched on the damp grass next to Lambert and Corwenna and began to write an inventory of the belongings they had managed to salvage. Geoffrey thought he was a fool to let himself be bullied so, but it was none of his affair if Durand was too lily-livered to stand up for himself.

He looked at the phial that he held, then pushed it inside his surcoat before turning his attention to what possessing an ancient pot of mandrake might mean.

As the long night continued, fitzNorman progressed from shock to anger, and began looking for someone to blame. Geoffrey wanted no part of it, so he collected his horses and set out towards Goodrich, intending to find a glade where he could rest until dawn. With Giffard swaying in his saddle, and Bale behind, they reached the spot where Hilde had hailed Geoffrey, then passed along a narrow valley. Eventually, they found a small mud hut with a sheet of leather for a door. It was not much, but it sufficed. Bale tethered the horses, while Geoffrey made a fire and settled Giffard in a litter of dead leaves, covering him with a blanket from his saddlebag.

‘I do not like this place,’ said Bale with a shudder. ‘It feels evil, as if spirits linger.’

‘It is just a shepherd’s hut,’ retorted Geoffrey. ‘And you are safer here than you would be at Dene. I will stay awake to make certain we are not attacked.’

Bale shook his head. ‘You need rest more than me. I will wake you in an hour. In the meantime I will stand in the doorway, so that I do not doze off. I do not want woodland spirits coming to slit my throat as I lie dreaming.’

‘Doubtless you would prefer to slit theirs,’ said Geoffrey. He had not meant it to be a joke and did not like the manic grin Bale shot in his direction.

Geoffrey lay down, but was not sure he could trust Bale to be sufficiently watchful. The squire was still an unknown, and Geoffrey was not in the habit of putting his safety in the hands of men he did not know. He resolved not to sleep.

‘I did not do it, sir,’ whispered Bale, coming to crouch next to him.

Geoffrey edged away. ‘Do what?’

‘Kill my mother and father.’ Bale’s voice was little more than a hiss and it made the hairs stand up on the back of Geoffrey’s neck. He sat up as Bale continued. ‘Everyone assumed it was me, but I swear before God it was not.’ He crossed himself in the darkness.

‘There is no need to whisper,’ said Geoffrey, not liking the sibilantly sinister quality of the man’s voice. ‘I doubt you will disturb Giffard.’

‘All right.’ Bale’s normal speaking tones made Geoffrey feel a little more comfortable. But only a little. ‘My father had a liking for ale, and when he was drunk, he was free with his fists. He was not like the Bishop, who just sleeps. He was nasty in his cups.’