Deadly Inheritance

Several items were dropped in front of him, including a buckle from Ynys’ shoe, a bundle of feathers that might have been a charm and several wads of dried meat. The crowd pressed forward again, and Geoffrey began to perspire. Making it look casual, he rested his hand on his dagger.

‘All this,’ said Torva, gesturing to his haul, ‘for thirty raisins.’

Geoffrey nodded without bothering to argue. He wanted the game to be over, so people would either leave or launch the attack he sensed was imminent. The waiting was unbearable, and his head was beginning to pound. It was impossible to look at everyone at once, and he had no idea who would be the first to strike.

He rolled first, but his score was low. He was surprised to hear one or two sighs of sympathy; a few people were on his side. Torva threw, but his score was lower still, evoking a loud moan of disappointment. The atmosphere crackled, and all Geoffrey wanted to do was lose, sensing it was the only way to escape alive. But for the time being, there was nothing to do but continue playing.

The game seemed to go on forever, and the tension made Geoffrey’s neck tight. His legs ached from crouching, but he did not dare move, afraid that coming to his feet would be considered hostile. Slowly, he wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

‘All this against your last two peas,’ he said, indicating his pile of trinkets. There was a collective gasp of astonishment, and then absolute silence while Torva gazed at him open-mouthed.

‘You would risk all that for two peas?’ he asked in disbelief. ‘All of it?’

If he had not felt so fraught, Geoffrey would have laughed. But he simply nodded.

‘Are you sure?’ asked Peter worriedly. ‘There are a lot of raisins here, along with Ynys’ charm, the promise of three chickens and a good deal more. It is a lot to lose.’

Geoffrey nodded again, and drew an appreciative murmur from the crowd.

Torva shrugged, and then grinned. ‘Well, I have nothing to lose,’ he said, throwing the dice. It was a high score, but no one cheered.

With a prayer that his tally would be lower and the ordeal would end, Geoffrey threw the dice, then gaped in horror when he scored the highest amount possible. There was a brief silence, then Ynys gave a whoop of delight and pounded him on the back. Others joined in, and Geoffrey scrambled to his feet. But the hands that thumped him, although vigorous, were not hostile, and he could see glee in the faces around him. Torva elbowed people out of the way and grabbed his hand.

‘You are a brave man,’ he said with a grin. ‘What nerve! Anyone would think you wanted to lose. You have entertained us royally this evening.’

Geoffrey forced himself to smile back, feeling relief wash over him. He eased backwards until he was against a wall, feeling safer with no one behind him. He glanced at the people who clamoured around, pressing winnings into his hands, and wondered what they knew about Henry’s death. Torva was still laughing at Geoffrey’s last gamble, but there was a hard core in him that was unsettling. Fat Peter was grinning, too, but his eyes were watchful. And there were others, too – men who worked in the stables, sculleries and storerooms – strong, sober fellows who had tasted his brother’s fists.

‘I cannot take these,’ said Geoffrey, who did not want rusty nails, charms and promises of livestock. However, he did not want to offend anyone by refusing their treasures, so he added, ‘I will win them all back from you next time, anyway.’

There was more laughter, and people stepped forward to reclaim what they had lost. He was particularly pleased when the feathered charm was one of the first things to be retrieved.

‘Henry would have kept the lot,’ confided Ynys. ‘He did not play by our rules.’

‘It is the game that is important,’ explained Peter, when Geoffrey looked blank. ‘We never keep our winnings, because that would be gambling, which Father Adrian tells us is a sin.’

Geoffrey supposed he had had a lucky escape with his ‘generosity’.

‘Here are your raisins,’ said Ynys, pressing them into Geoffrey’s hand. ‘They are all there.’

Geoffrey pushed them in his purse, thinking he would throw them in the river the following day. They had been through numerous grubby hands, and he did not imagine that Joan would eat them now. Peter exchanged a glance with Torva, then indicated that Geoffrey was to sit with them near the embers of the fire, while the rest of the servants, still chattering and laughing, went about the business of hauling straw mattresses from the pile in the corner and distributing blankets.

‘You trust us,’ stated Peter.

Geoffrey was a little startled, because he did not.

Torva nodded. ‘You did not count the raisins, like Henry would have done. You believed us when we said they were all there.’

‘My mother always told me never to speak ill of the dead,’ began Peter in the kind of voice that suggested he was about to do just that. ‘But your brother was a nasty man.’

Geoffrey nodded, but said nothing, hoping his silence would encourage them to say more.

‘No one here killed him,’ added Torva. ‘I know you think otherwise, but you are wrong. This is a small manor, and we would have known by now.’

‘Olivier believes Henry committed suicide,’ Geoffrey said, to encourage speculation.

Torva shook his head. ‘The wound could have been self-inflicted, but it is unlikely. It was driven in with considerable force, by someone strong.’

‘Or someone angry.’ Geoffrey knew from experience that it did not take powerful arms to stab a man in the stomach.

‘Lots of people were angry with Henry,’ said Torva.

‘I am sorry Jervil is dead,’ said Geoffrey. He was tired of beating around the bush, so spoke bluntly. ‘But he went to Dene to sell Baderon a dagger with a ruby in its hilt. It was the weapon that killed my brother, the one Olivier threw in the river.’

They gazed at him. ‘How do you know that?’ asked Peter uneasily.

‘It does not matter,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Why did Baderon want this weapon?’

Torva and Peter exchanged another glance and then Torva gave a heavy sigh. ‘The ruby knife was Baderon’s. He wanted it back.’

Geoffrey finally felt he was getting somewhere. ‘But why now? It is months since Henry died.’

‘Because of you,’ said Peter, as if the answer were obvious. ‘Henry’s death was all but forgotten, but then you started asking questions. Baderon knew it was only a matter of time before you learnt Henry was killed with a ruby dagger, and that he had owned such a thing. By buying the weapon, he could deny it.’

Geoffrey had so many questions, he barely knew where to begin. ‘How did Jervil get the knife when Olivier had thrown it in the river?’

‘Because the Black Knife did not stay in the water,’ explained Torva. ‘We do not know how – perhaps Olivier did not hurl it as far as he thought – but it came back again, like the cursed thing it was. It appeared one day in the stables – where it had killed its victim.’

Geoffrey was sceptical. ‘It does not have legs to walk or wings to fly. So, how-’

‘It was a Black Knife,’ insisted Torva forcefully. ‘They always return. It brought itself back to the stables, where Jervil found it. It is what these things do, unless they are properly de-cursed.’

‘How do you “de-curse” one?’ asked Geoffrey.

Torva pursed his lips, as if Geoffrey were remiss for not knowing. ‘The man who commissions a Black Knife must destroy it – as soon as his victim is dead. If he fails to do so, it increases in power and starts to look for other victims.’

Peter nodded. ‘It is six months since Henry’s death, so the Black Knife is very strong – Baderon will not want it to do more damage. Since it was not with Jervil’s body, we must assume Baderon has it and will have to de-curse it. Of course, it is much easier to lay a curse than to break one.’

‘How did Jervil become involved?’

‘He told Baderon the dagger had reappeared and offered to sell it to him,’ explained Torva. ‘Baderon agreed, but insisted the exchange be in secret. But then you decided to ride for Dene, and Jervil was afraid you had guessed his plan. You almost overheard him telling me about it.’

‘Baderon said it was imperative that no one from Goodrich should witness the exchange,’ added Peter, ‘on