Deadly Inheritance

‘Time is passing, and you should leave,’ said Geoffrey, ignoring the older man’s suggestion. He was already having second thoughts about allowing a killer to go free.

He watched them ride away, before seeking Roger in the battlements. While talking, he fingered the charm around his neck, and found himself wondering if he had enough time to find an old oak draped with mistletoe. On a whim, he decided to collect the Black Knife, but to his horror, found it had gone. He sat back on his heels, wondering who might have taken it.

He was still thinking when Durand burst into the room, flopped on to the bed and began a litany of complaints about Joan assigning him to a group to defend the well. A man of his status and wealth should be exempt from such duties, he said.

‘The Black Knife has gone,’ Geoffrey interrupted.

Durand gaped at him, before turning recriminatory. ‘I told you to get rid of it, and now someone else will die. Why did you not take it to Rosse, instead of attempting to parley with men determined to fight?’

‘Who else knew it was here?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Other than you?’

‘The whole castle,’ replied Durand. ‘Roger found it while he was browsing through your possessions this morning and took it downstairs to quiz Joan about it. She made him put it back, but everyone knows where he got it from.’

‘Damn!’ muttered Geoffrey. He had forgotten Roger’s disagreeable habit of rifling through Geoffrey’s belongings to assess what was valuable. ‘We must get it back before-’

He was interrupted by a series of shouts. Assuming they were under attack, he raced down the stairs and tore across the bailey. But the soldiers were not looking outside the castle, they were looking within. Geoffrey’s dog had found something concealed behind several water butts. Pleased with itself, it wagged its tail and pushed its nose against what looked to be a leg. When Geoffrey pulled the dog away, he saw Ralph. The heir to Bicanofre had been stabbed in the chest.

‘There is your Black Knife,’ said Durand, peering over the knight’s shoulder. ‘And it does not require a great deal to work out who murdered him!’

‘No,’ agreed Geoffrey. He thought about Eleanor’s warning: Do not be fooled by fair eyes filled with tears. He should have paid more heed to what was very good advice.

‘Is there any point in going after Isabel?’ asked Durand doubtfully. ‘She will be halfway to Shropshire by now, where she plans to live with a distant cousin.’

‘Gloucester,’ corrected Geoffrey. ‘She is going to join a convent.’

‘She told me York,’ countered Joan.

‘FitzNorman told me it was Normandy,’ said Olivier. ‘Or perhaps Anjou.’

Geoffrey shook his head in disgust.

The following morning, after a night in which every sound made him start into wakefulness, Geoffrey’s head was still heavy with regret over Isabel’s deceit. To make amends for his failure in one case, he determined to succeed in another, and decided to resolve the question of Sibylla’s death once and for all. He thought he could do it, armed as he was with Eleanor’s words, what he had read in Elgiva’s book and his own suspicions.

He secured Roger’s help, asking him to occupy Agnes and Walter. The big knight promptly gave Walter a lesson in swordplay, demonstrating to his alarmed mother that the boy had been exceedingly poorly trained.

Meanwhile, Geoffrey shut himself inside the chamber where the pair had slept and began a close inspection of their luggage. It was not long before he found what he was looking for: a small, heavy box with an Italian label brazenly claiming its contents to be mandrake. Inside were several dried fruits and a list of suggestions for their use, also in Italian. Geoffrey read it, then rubbed his chin. He understood the instructions perfectly, but was equally sure Agnes and Walter had not. He went in search of Giffard.

The bishop, wearing mail under his monastic habit, was talking to Father Adrian. Although he deplored violence, Giffard was a practical man and knew that Geoffrey had done all in his power to avert a catastrophe. He was willing to support his friend’s cause, and carried a wooden staff, which he would use if necessary. Adrian was less pragmatic and had informed Goodrich’s inhabitants that they would go to Hell if they fought – a statement promptly retracted when Giffard had quietly ordered him to desist or risk an early visit to Hell himself.

‘I am sorry Isabel could not resist such an evil choice,’ said Giffard. ‘I suppose she accepted that she could not have Ralph, so decided no one else would, either. It is a pity – I could have told her Agnes would not have bothered with him for much longer.’

‘Ralph still would not have taken Isabel,’ said Father Adrian. ‘Her adoration delighted him initially, but the incident with Henry showed him her affection was fanatical. Too much love can be suffocating.’

‘Isabel did not kill Ralph,’ said Geoffrey. ‘That was fitzNorman. Isabel could not have hidden Ralph’s body behind the water butts or found the Black Knife in my chamber – you need eyes to do both.’

‘You are probably right,’ said Father Adrian sadly. ‘He will deny all when he returns, and she will be safely in her secret refuge. You will never prove what happened. Poor Wulfric. He has lost two children – Eleanor’s veil was found in the rubble at Dene yesterday, and only one conclusion can be drawn: she is dead.’

Geoffrey thought about Eleanor’s absence from the hut two nights before. She had taken his suggestion seriously, and would be delighted to know the ruse had worked.

‘Come with me,’ he said, indicating Giffard was to follow him outside. ‘I want you to hear something.’

They walked to where Agnes was screeching at Roger to be careful, while Walter dashed in circles to avoid being nicked by the big knight’s sword. Walter was furious at the humiliation, and his hand shook in rabid outrage as he pointed at Geoffrey.

‘You have no right to make me fight such an ox! He might have killed me!’

‘And he might have taught you something that will save your life,’ said Geoffrey, grabbing Roger’s arm before he took offence. ‘His lessons will be far more valuable than the ones your mother taught you – about mandrake and lighting fires to kill those who stand in your way.’

Giffard regarded him uneasily. ‘Isabel set Dene alight, to secure the affection of her lover. You told me she admitted it.’

‘But someone put the idea in her mind and encouraged her to follow it through. And that person had her own motives. Do you remember the wine you drank that night?’

Giffard shuddered, while Agnes’ eyes narrowed into hard, spiteful slits. ‘It was revolting stuff and made me ill.’

‘It tasted salty – someone had added salt to make you thirsty, so you would drink more of it. But it contained more than wine and salt, did it not, Agnes?’

‘I do not know what you are talking about,’ she said coldly.

‘Two days ago Mother Elgiva made me smell something. It was poppy juice, which had been given to Jervil to make him unable to resist when his killer strangled him. The scent was familiar, although I could not place it. But now I remember: it was in the wine you gave Giffard.’

‘You are talking nonsense,’ snapped Agnes. ‘That wine was-’

‘Giffard seldom drinks, so could not tell that your gift contained substances it should not have done,’ Geoffrey cut in. ‘Salt and a sleeping draught.’

‘Why would I do such a thing?’ demanded Agnes. ‘Poppy juice syrup is expensive.’

‘Because you did not want him to wake when the fire took hold. You wanted him to die.’

Giffard gaped at him. ‘You must be mistaken!’

Agnes’ red lips parted in a sensual smile, and she took Giffard’s hand. ‘Geoffrey is deluded! I did give you wine, but it was to soothe your ragged spirits. You seemed so sad.’

‘That is right,’ declared Walter. ‘Only a fool would not notice salt in his wine.’ He gave Giffard a patently false smile. ‘And you are not a fool.’

‘He is not,’ agreed Geoffrey. ‘But he still does not know a good brew from a poor one. You were also ready to kill him later, in the confusion of the fire. I heard you. You saw me listening and promptly changed the subject.’

Agnes opened her mouth to protest her innocence again, but Walter was less skilled at dissembling. He sighed with impatient resignation, as if he had been caught cheating at dice rather than in a plot to kill his uncle.

‘Well, we did not know what else to do. He will not let us do what we want, and he ruins our plans by interfering all the time.’