Deadly Inheritance

‘You have your demesne in Suffolk,’ Geoffrey said. ‘And it is better than mine – or so you have boasted on several occasions.’

‘Suffolk!’ sneered Durand. ‘The King insulted me when he gave me that estate. It is nothing!’

‘I do not understand,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Are you saying you committed your crimes because you are jealous of Goodrich?’

‘I wanted you to give up living here and work with me. We could have had a glittering future – earned a great fortune. Besides, the King promised me a better manor if I could entice you back into his service. I tried asking politely, but you refused. You left me with no alternative but to deprive you of home and family to make you change your mind.’

Geoffrey was appalled. ‘But it is not just me you damaged here. Baderon-’

‘Baderon! The bastard who refused me appropriate respect. Your sister is no better. She did not even offer me the welcoming cup when we arrived. Everyone else was given wine, but not me.’

Geoffrey glanced at Roger, and saw that he was just as bewildered by the stream of invective. ‘If all this was because you wanted me to work with you, why did you try to kill me?’

‘I am not stupid.’ Durand’s voice was growing softer. ‘I knew you would never seriously consider my offer – even after I helped you by lending you my gloves and giving you that phial Walter dropped. You have always despised me.’

‘That is not true,’ said Geoffrey, not entirely truthfully. ‘I admire your intelligence and turned to you several times because I thought you were the best person to ask for advice.’

Durand’s sullen expression lifted for a moment, but then collapsed again in obvious disbelief. ‘So, being unable to bring you to my side, I decided to take away your happiness. I do not see why you – a brutal, cold ruffian – should grow old peacefully while I struggle.’

Geoffrey was baffled. ‘Let me see your wound, Durand,’ he said finally. ‘We can talk about this later.’

‘It is too late,’ whispered Durand. ‘I am dying. I should not have tried to destroy you, and I need your forgiveness before I meet my Maker, or I will never escape purgatory, and that would not be fair. You have to forgive me. I order it.’

Geoffrey recalled Durand’s earlier monastic aspirations and that, despite his crimes, he believed what the Church said happened to sinners. ‘You cannot order forgiveness. It must be freely given.’

‘Then give if freely,’ wheedled Durand. ‘If you do, I will tell you another secret – the last one I have that affects you.’

‘Forgiveness is not mine to grant,’ said Geoffrey, thinking about the grief Durand’s actions had brought to so many others.

‘It was you I wronged,’ said Durand weakly. ‘So it is you who must forgive me. I am begging you, Geoffrey. And then I will tell you something important.’

Geoffrey hesitated for the briefest of moments, but when he looked back, the clerk was dead. He removed the bag from Durand’s limp hands and saw that the blade of a knife protruded from it.

Roger stepped forward. ‘Baderon was dashing here and there to end the fighting, and Durand thought he was being chased. He ran away, and fell over in his haste to escape. He landed on his bag, and the knife he carried in it must have pierced his chest. But Baderon was not chasing Durand – he had no reason to, because he does not yet know that it was Durand who killed his son.’

Geoffrey inspected Durand’s wound, then sat back on his heels. ‘If he had let me see this, instead of assuming I wanted to steal his fortune, I would have been able to save him. The cut is not in his chest, but nicked a vessel in his groin. He bled to death from an injury that did not need to be fatal.’

‘Then it serves him right,’ said Roger. He nodded towards the bag. ‘He left you whatever is in that. Will you open it?’

Geoffrey hesitatingly obliged and was astonished to find it packed full of silver coins and jewellery. ‘There is a fortune here! Durand claimed to be envious of Goodrich, but he could have bought a manor three times its size with this.’

‘He saw you were happy,’ said Roger sagely. ‘And, because he equates happiness with wealth, he assumed you were rich, too. But there is something else in the bag.’

Something light flopped to the ground when Roger shook the sack, but Geoffrey’s attention was on the silver and he did not notice. Roger quickly shoved the bundle of documents in his surcoat before his friend noticed. Documents, he knew, would only bring trouble, and Geoffrey had endured more than his share of that at Durand’s instigation. It was better he remained ignorant of whatever was written on the neatly tied parchments.

Oblivious to Roger’s actions, Geoffrey shook the bag a final time, then jumped back in revulsion when the last object clattered to the ground. It was the knife that had killed Durand. The blade was still wet with his blood and the ruby in its hilt gleamed in a sudden burst of sunshine.

‘It is the Black Knife,’ whispered Roger. ‘And it has just claimed its latest victim.’

‘Its last victim,’ corrected Geoffrey softly. ‘Its reign of terror ends here.’

Epilogue

London, early summer 1103

St Paul’s Cathedral was full, and there was celebration in the air. Bells rang to announce the beginning of the ceremony, and, outside, crowds of Londoners gathered to watch the grand processions as the bishops of Winchester, Hereford and Salisbury prepared to accept their consecration from the Archbishop of York. People wore their best clothes, and ermine-lined cloaks, kirtles of expensive silk and jewel-encrusted shoes were everywhere. Geoffrey stood near the back of the church with Roger, wearing the new surcoat Joan had made for him. Its Crusader’s cross was bright and sharp, and Bale had made his mail gleam.

The great west door was thrown open, filling the cathedral with light. Geoffrey gazed in admiration at the elegant lines of the clerestory and the thick, sturdy piers. Giffard was obliged to poke him hard with a bony finger to get his attention.

‘I asked whether Goodrich was recovered.’

The Bishop wore his ecclesiastical finery – a cope of gold and a mitre on which precious stones were sewn. He carried a silver crosier, and the holy ring on his finger was almost as large as his fist. Geoffrey smiled when he saw the hair shirt still in place under the handsome vestments. The occasion had not touched Giffard with vanity.

He nodded to his friend. ‘And there is peace. We sent grain to Caerdig, and he has married Mother Elgiva – who, as a wise woman, is greatly respected in Llan Martin.’

‘And you are betrothed to Hilde, to strengthen the truce,’ said Giffard. ‘That seems a major sacrifice.’

‘Hilde is a fine warrior,’ said Roger admiringly. ‘They will produce strong sons who will be great soldiers.’

‘Oh, good,’ said Giffard acidly. ‘More men spoiling war. But have you heard the news? Reinhelm of Hereford has declined to accept consecration today. He says he can only have it from the Archbishop of Canterbury. He has gone home.’

‘That still leaves you and Salisbury,’ said Roger, not understanding the Bishop’s point. ‘Two is not as good as three, but do not worry. We will still enjoy ourselves, especially at the feast tonight.’

‘I was not thinking about your fun,’ said Giffard irritably. ‘I was thinking of my conscience. Reinhelm is right: York does not have the authority, and if I allow him to consecrate me, I tell the King that he can order me to do what he likes, even when Canterbury forbids it.’

Geoffrey was worried. ‘But you have known this for weeks. I thought you were pleased that the King had found a way to consecrate you while he and Canterbury are locked in this row. Henry will be furious if you refuse now.’

Giffard swallowed. ‘If I flout Henry today, he will be my enemy forever. He will send me into exile and I can hardly rule my see from Normandy.’