Deadly Inheritance

salaciousness.

She pouted. ‘You prefer Eleanor to me? I am prettier.’

‘I could not say: I have never seen Eleanor’s face.’

‘She has no lower jaw,’ confided Agnes. ‘One of her magic potions blew it off.’

Geoffrey laughed, thinking it an outrageous claim. ‘What were you really doing at the spring? Was it you who did the drawing of the manor?’

‘That was probably Eleanor. I went to cancel the spell, so the fire would not break out again. My actions were noble.’

‘You know about cancelling spells, do you?’

His questions were making her angry, and her answer was sharp. ‘I learnt from my mother, who was a very wise woman.’

‘Did she teach you about poisons, too?’

‘As I told you before, I know nothing about those.’

Geoffrey was relieved when Goodrich’s sturdy walls appeared. He was tired of Giffard’s misery, Agnes’ attempts to make him behave indiscreetly and her son’s resentful looks.

‘My mother is recently widowed,’ Walter said tightly. ‘And she loves the Duke, so leave her alone. I did not teach you how to seduce women in Italian so you could have her.’

‘Where did you learn Italian?’ Geoffrey asked, before he felt compelled to box the boy’s ears for his impudence.

‘I spent much of my life in Italy,’ replied Walter loftily.

‘How much of your life?’ asked Geoffrey, wondering why he had not, then, learnt the language properly.

‘A whole week. There is much that is admirable about Italy.’

‘Including its poisons?’ asked Geoffrey.

‘You must ask Eleanor the witch about that,’ replied Walter.

‘I would, but she seems to be missing. Have you seen her since the fire?’

‘I saw her before the blaze, playing some game with Hugh that made him squeal like a pig,’ replied Walter. ‘But not after. I hope they are dead.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Hugh is an imbecile, and I want Baderon to leave his property to Hilde – if he does, then I might marry her: she will be sufficiently wealthy. And because Eleanor is a witch.’

‘I thought you and Eleanor were friends.’

‘We were – but she turned against me when I tried to bed her. I cannot imagine why, because I spoke Italian. I do not like women who are friendly one moment and hostile the next.’

‘There are rumours the Duchess was poisoned,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Do you think Eleanor provided the toxin?’

‘It would be the kind of thing she would do,’ agreed Walter spitefully.

When the travellers arrived at Goodrich, smartly dressed servants hurried out to tend the horses. Joan and Olivier appeared almost as quickly with wine. Olivier served Baderon and his knights, while Joan offered it to Giffard – who refused with a shudder – Agnes and then Geoffrey, who was touched by the courtesy. Durand was given a sip of ale by Torva.

‘Why is he here?’ whispered Joan. A plain-speaking woman herself, she did not like Durand’s slippery, unscrupulous ways, or that he had earlier been disloyal to Geoffrey.

‘To spy on Baderon. Henry thinks the alliances with the Welsh might not be good for England.’

Joan was thoughtful. ‘Henry is right. It is always better to have hostile nations divided into factions. Baderon is knitting them together too efficiently. They have been restless for war ever since Prince Iorwerth promised them one last summer. And many are starving. It is only a matter of time before they encourage each other to raid English granaries, and ours will be one of the first.’

‘It will, if Corwenna has any say in the matter,’ said Geoffrey, looking to where she sat astride her horse, frostily refusing the wine that Olivier proffered.

Joan grimaced. ‘She made a vow to see us in our graves. I have tried to win her round, but she is implacable. Still, as long as she is here, she is not encouraging the Welsh to unite against us.’

‘Do they listen to her?’

‘She is Caerdig’s daughter, and he is highly respected. Also, she likes to orate about honour and glory, and knows the kind of talk to get men’s blood up. Still, if the King is aware of the problem, I imagine it will soon be resolved.’

‘I hope so,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Have you heard about Jervil?’

She nodded. ‘Bale told us when you sent him ahead with the news that we were to expect guests. It is a pity; he was not nice, but he had a way with horses. But what was he doing at Dene?’

‘I wish I knew.’ Geoffrey lowered his voice. ‘The King saw him talking to Baderon, and says money changed hands.’

Joan’s eyes narrowed. She did not like the King, either. ‘Do you believe him, or was he making up tales so you would agree to conduct another of his investigations?’

Geoffrey thought about it. ‘He had no reason to lie.’

‘None you know about,’ corrected Joan. ‘He is crafty, with many plans and agendas. But assuming he was being honest for once, why did Baderon pay Jervil?’

‘In exchange for a dagger – one with a ruby in its hilt.’

Joan stared at him. ‘That sounds like . . . like the blade that killed our brother. I suppose Father Adrian finally sold it. Did I tell you I wrapped it in holy cloth once I removed it from Henry’s corpse? Nevertheless, it felt tainted, and I could not even bring myself to look at it when I gave it to Father Adrian.’

‘So, how did it go from Father Adrian to Jervil. Did Jervil steal it?’

Joan shook her head. ‘Even Jervil would not steal from a church.’

‘Father Adrian kept a murder weapon in his church?’ asked Geoffrey, startled.

‘It was a Black Knife, and needed to be somewhere holy – to cleanse it. Father Adrian put it under the altar and said it must remain there until Easter. By then, it would have lost its evil.’

‘None of this answers why Jervil sold it to Baderon. Was it Baderon’s in the first place? If it was valuable, then it probably did belong to a nobleman. But, if it was Baderon’s, then it means he or one of his men killed Henry.’

Joan sighed. ‘Baderon is low on my list of suspects. I like him: he is weak, but essentially decent. Top are fitzNorman and Ralph.’ She faltered into silence, watching the arrival of the wagons full of their guests’ possessions.

‘I hope you do not mind half of the county descending on you,’ said Geoffrey apologetically. ‘The King gave me no choice.’

‘I like visitors,’ said Joan. ‘Now we have the funds to entertain them, they are a pleasure. But I should see to your friend the Bishop. He looks unwell.’

‘Geoff!’ came a bellowing voice from the door of the hall. It was loud enough to still the buzz of conversation in the yard, and everyone turned to look. Geoffrey felt his spirits rise when he saw Goodrich had another visitor.

‘I almost forgot,’ said Joan, not entirely pleased. ‘Sir Roger of Durham arrived yesterday.’

Geoffrey smiled as the massive, familiar figure of his fellow Jerosolimitanus strode towards him. Roger was resplendent in a fur-lined cloak, fine boots and new surcoat, although the latter was already stained. The Crusader’s cross was bright and sharp, and proclaimed to all that here was one of those who had wrested Jerusalem from the infidel. His black hair was long, and he sported a fashionable beard: he was adapting to civilian life far better than Geoffrey.

‘I am glad to see you,’ Geoffrey said, as the friends embraced. ‘Life here is dull.’

‘That is not what I hear,’ said Roger, laughing. ‘You are looking into your brother’s death; Giffard wants you to find out if his nephew poisoned the Duchess of Normandy; the Welsh are girding their loins for war; and a groom and a noblewoman have been strangled. If you call that dull, we had better find a battle somewhere. And fast.’

Father Adrian was reciting mass when Geoffrey entered Goodrich’s little church the following morning. Joan had been directing a lively and erudite conversation around a blazing fire for those who preferred to be indoors,