Twelve
Geoffrey thought about Elgiva’s discovery regarding the poppy juice while he lay in bed. It proved that someone had badly wanted Jervil to die and had given him a soporific to ensure he did so. It also indicated that the groom had died before Margaret. But who was the culprit? He supposed Baderon was still his prime suspect, followed by Hilde, Seguin and Lambert, because they had the best reasons for wanting Jervil silenced. And then there was Ralph, whose manor was poor, and so would have coveted the silver Jervil had earned. Or was the villain Eleanor, so conveniently missing – unless she was dead, of course?
Although Geoffrey was bone-weary, sleep would not come, so he lit a candle and picked up the book Elgiva had given him. He found the page on mandrake, struggling to make out the tiny words and swearing when hot wax dripped on his fingers. Eventually, he doused the candle and closed his eyes. He was still dwelling on what he had read when the door opened and someone crept into the room and made himself comfortable on a straw mattress.
‘Bale?’ he called.
‘It is Durand; Bale is bedding Douce in the stables. Did I wake you? I was trying to be quiet.’
Since Durand did not sound sleepy, Geoffrey relayed everything Elgiva had told him, feeling a need for his former squire’s sharp wits.
‘The villain is Baderon,’ said Durand immediately. ‘He had the most to gain from Jervil’s death, as we have reasoned before. There is not only the fact that he would get his silver back, but he could be certain of silence. And it has been well worth his while.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘I mean he has already employed the weapon at least twice since he bought it.’
‘But the victims have been his son and his friend. They are not men he wanted dead.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Durand. ‘Hugh was a half-wit, and maybe Baderon did not want an imbecile as his heir. And who can blame him? Meanwhile, Seguin was a brute, and perhaps Baderon regretted giving him so much power by betrothing him to Corwenna – the woman who has brought the region to the brink of war, when he has been striving for peace. Perhaps he killed Seguin in a futile attempt to prevent what has happened anyway.’
Geoffrey leant on one elbow. It was true. Baderon
‘And do not forget that Hugh was found where Olivier disposed of the Black Knife,’ Durand went on. ‘Olivier thought he was destroying the thing, but it escaped from the river via Jervil. Now Jervil is dead, and Baderon’s only son is murdered at that exact same ford.’
‘That must be coincidence,’ said Geoffrey, although he was aware of the uncertainty in his voice. Was it possible? Had Hugh been strangled elsewhere and brought to the ford to make a point about the Black Knife?
‘You need me to guide you through these mazes of intrigue,’ said Durand smugly. ‘I am a much better companion than Bale.’
‘Bale saved me from the fire,’ said Geoffrey, suspecting that Durand would have let him burn.
‘I am not physically brave,’ admitted Durand. ‘But I have far more valuable assets. But you should sleep if you are to turn a rabble into an army tomorrow.’
Geoffrey tried to reassess the clues that rattled around his head, but he was almost instantly lost to the world. It seemed only moments later that he was woken by an urgent hammering and shaking of his shoulder. His first thought was that Goodrich was under attack, and he staggered to his feet, sword in hand. He found that he was weak and disorientated, and barely able to see.
‘Never mind weapons!’ shouted Durand. ‘Help me with the flames, before we are roasted alive.’
It took a moment for Geoffrey’s befuddled mind to grasp what was happening. There was a fire in the mattress next to his bed, which had filled the room with smoke. He saw Durand flapping furiously with a blanket to smother the flames. Then the clerk darted to the window and threw the shutters wide, before pushing Geoffrey towards them. The thumping at the door grew louder.
‘We cannot jump,’ said Geoffrey. ‘It is too far down.’
‘Just breathe the clean air,’ ordered Durand. ‘The blaze is almost out.’
And then it was over. Durand doused the remains of the fire with a bowl of water, and the blaze hissed into nothing. Durand waved the blanket in an attempt to usher the smoke through the window, then the door flew open and Joan stood there, Olivier behind her.
‘What happened?’ she cried. ‘I told the servants not to light a fire in your hearth, because you complain about the stuffiness. How did this come about?’
‘The fire was not in the hearth,’ said Geoffrey, coughing. ‘It was in the bed.’
‘We should have bolted the door,’ said Durand. ‘We assumed we were safe, but the castle is full of people who do not like you. We should have anticipated the attack.’
‘You mean it was started deliberately?’ asked Joan, aghast.
Durand nodded, pointing at kindling still on the mattress. ‘We are lucky I woke when I did, or we would have burnt to cinders – and the whole castle with us.’
Olivier inspected the blackened mess. ‘We could not open the door, because someone did something to make it stick. I suspect someone
Geoffrey stared at the damage. Who would want him dead? Someone in Baderon’s pay – or Corwenna’s – to make sure he did not fight against them? Ralph, because he detested him? The same arsonist who had started the blaze at Dene – Eleanor, perhaps? One of the servants? Walter and Agnes, to prevent him learning the truth about the Duchess’s murder?
‘What woke you?’ he asked Durand when no answers came.
‘The smoke made me cough myself awake. I saw what was happening and set about dousing the flames. I yelled for your help, but you were dead to the world. Did you drink much wine last night?’
‘None,’ replied Geoffrey.
‘Well, it is over now,’ said Durand. He kicked the mattress and then hauled it to the window, where he tipped it out. ‘It will be cold, but we should leave the shutters open. I do not want to be suffocated by residual fumes.’
Awkwardly, Joan patted Geoffrey’s arm, then she gave Durand a shy smile as she left. ‘I would have been without a brother if you had not acted so quickly.’
Durand pursed his lips after she and Olivier had gone. ‘You should have listened to me in the first place, and then this would not have happened. You endangered me as well.’
Geoffrey was puzzled. ‘Listened to you about what?’
‘About the dangers of the Black Knife,’ snapped Durand. ‘It is here, in your chest, and now an attempt has been made on your life.’
Geoffrey was too tired to begin an argument about the efficacy of curses. He shot Durand a wan smile instead. ‘Thank you. I shall not forget what you did tonight.’
‘Good,’ said Durand. ‘Because neither shall I.’
An innate soldierly sense woke Geoffrey about an hour before the first streaks of dawn touched the hills. He rose immediately, hauled his mail tunic over his head, followed by his padded surcoat, a pair of boiled leather leggings with metal links sewn on for additional protection, his newest helmet and a mail hood that protected his neck and throat. It was the heaviest armour he owned, and that morning he was imbued with the sense that he would need it.
The servants were preparing breakfast in the hall, and he begged a goblet of watered ale and a piece of bread before striding into the bailey. His dog stood at his side with its ears pricked. It uttered a low whine, and Geoffrey stood stock-still, listening. He closed his eyes to blot out what he could see: Helbye walking towards him, faint lights on the battlements, the silhouette of walls against the night sky. And then he was certain.
‘Sound the alarm!’ he yelled. ‘Bale! Order the servants to their battle stations, and tell Torva to keep anyone not fighting inside the hall, out of the way.’
Olivier hurried to his side. ‘What is wrong? We are not under attack!’
‘We will be,’ said Geoffrey grimly. ‘There are horses in the woods to the west, and I can smell cooking fires.
