Deadly Inheritance

could think of no way to decline without causing offence. So he dismounted and fell in next to the Welshman.

‘Have you prospered?’ he asked conversationally.

Caerdig sighed. ‘No. We are all poorer than the meanest of your peasants. Joan sent us grain again last year – we would have starved without it. We repaid her, of course, with extra to express our gratitude.’ His expression was grim. ‘But we should not have put pride before practical considerations, because now we are short again.’

‘We can provide more,’ said Geoffrey, looking around as they entered Llan Martin. The houses looked as though they had barely survived the winter, and the faces of the people who came out to greet them were pinched and cold, although the welcome they gave was warm enough.

‘We might have to accept,’ said Caerdig resentfully. ‘Although it is not wise to rely on a neighbour’s charity every year. I suppose Joan has been after you to marry?’

Surprised, Geoffrey nodded.

‘You should listen to her. Goodrich is vulnerable when only you stand between it and the wolves that surround it. They may decide another murder is the best course of action.’

‘You think so?’ asked Geoffrey uneasily.

‘Listen to the advice of a man who means you well,’ said Caerdig. ‘Marry quickly – any heiress will do, because they are all of a muchness – make her with child and return to Jerusalem with all haste. Then come back at appropriate intervals to repeat the process. Only when you have at least three strong sons should you entertain living here.’

Geoffrey was amused at the notion of skulking in exile, returning only for lightning strikes on his hapless wife. ‘You think Goodrich is that dangerous?’

Caerdig did not smile back. ‘For you, yes.’

The Welshman pushed open the door to his home. It was dark inside and, even though the afternoon was cool and promised a frigid night, no fires were lit. The floor was of beaten earth, but scrupulously clean, and the few benches and stools were old and lovingly polished. There were bowls of spring flowers on the windowsills, adding touches of colour and a pleasant scent.

The room was large and surprisingly full. Geoffrey recognized Caerdig’s wife, and bowed to her. She inclined her head in return, and then asked how Goodrich’s grain stores were holding out. She seemed very interested in his answers, as did a number of folk who came to listen. There was an atmosphere of unease, and Geoffrey did not feel safe, although he resisted the urge to stand with his back to the wall, suspecting Caerdig would know what he was doing and be offended. He wished he had not dispensed with his armour.

‘Bring logs and tinder,’ ordered Caerdig, rubbing his hands as he strode towards the hearth. ‘No guest of Llan Martin sits before an empty fireplace.’

‘Then what are we?’ asked a man in Norman-French as Caerdig approached. He had been listening to a red- haired woman who muttered at his side, evidently translating what the others were saying. ‘I am a guest, but you did not order the fire lit for me.’

Geoffrey studied the man with interest. He had a dark complexion, and stood at least a head above the villagers. The cloak thrown carelessly across his shoulders was lined with fur, and his boots were of excellent quality. His bearing indicated that he was a man of some standing, used to having his orders obeyed. He had two companions, who also stood as Caerdig escorted Geoffrey to the hearth; both wore swords in their belts and mail tunics.

The man to the left was shorter, with long, wispy yellow hair and a sardonic smile. Geoffrey immediately saw they were kin. The man to the right was older. He had a thick, grey mane and a white beard that was carefully curled. His clothes were well cut, and his sword was a good one, with a sharp blade and a functional hilt. None were the kind of men Geoffrey would have expected to see in the home of poor Welshmen.

Caerdig forced a smile. ‘This is Sir Seguin de Rheims,’ he said to Geoffrey, speaking Norman-French with an accent that was almost impossible to decipher. Seguin apparently knew no Welsh.

‘I am his brother, Lambert,’ said the fair-headed knight. He indicated the older man. ‘And this is our friend.’

Geoffrey knew he was being misled: the last man was obviously the most important. He recalled Torva saying that two knights in Baderon’s service were called Seguin and Lambert. Unless Geoffrey was mistaken, the older man was a good deal more than their friend.

‘Lord Baderon,’ he said with a bow.

‘Baderon?’ asked Caerdig in alarm. He reverted to Welsh as he addressed Geoffrey. ‘Are you sure? The man himself has come to visit me?’

Baderon seemed amused that his ruse had been exposed. He smiled at Geoffrey. ‘How did you guess? We have not met before, because I would have remembered.’

‘Who are you?’ demanded Seguin.

‘He is Geoffrey Mappestone,’ supplied the red-haired woman, coming to inspect Geoffrey. ‘We played together as children, although he has grown since then. Do you remember me?’

Geoffrey was immediately on his guard, as he could see there was a good deal of animosity bubbling in Caerdig’s only daughter. The gangly child had grown into a beauty, with smooth skin and a poised elegance. However, what he remembered about playing with Corwenna was not what she had looked like, but the fact that she had devoted considerable effort in finding ways to ambush him in order to pull his hair.

‘I remember,’ he replied pleasantly. ‘You have grown, too.’

‘Are you calling me fat?’ she demanded, and he saw that he would have to be more careful with his words if he did not want an argument.

‘You are no longer a child,’ he replied gently. ‘That is all I meant.’

Before she could say anything else, Seguin stepped forward. ‘I am here to pay court to her,’ he declared. ‘So if you hope to secure her for Goodrich, you are wasting your time. She is promised to me.’

Geoffrey felt an instinctive dislike for the man. He saw Baderon wince at Seguin’s lack of manners, while Lambert stepped closer to his brother, as if expressing solidarity.

‘My marriage to Sir Seguin will improve Llan Martin’s fortunes – but, more importantly, it will weaken Goodrich,’ Corwenna explained nastily.

Geoffrey doubted it. Llan Martin was too poor to be a serious threat, although Caerdig’s word carried weight among other Welsh leaders. The previous night, Joan had mentioned Baderon’s penchant for marrying his knights to Welsh ladies, and he supposed that he was witnessing such a match.

‘Corwenna cannot remain a widow forever, so it is time we found her a profitable marriage,’ said Caerdig to Geoffrey, reverting to Welsh. ‘Sir Seguin is wealthy and, although not a Welshman, we are not in a position to be fussy.’

‘He is acceptable,’ said Corwenna in Norman-French, confident in the knowledge that Seguin would not know what she was talking about. She glowered at Geoffrey. ‘Of course, I would not be in this position, were it not for you.’

‘Me?’ asked Geoffrey, startled.

‘Take no notice,’ said Caerdig quickly. ‘She means no harm.’

‘Do I not?’ snarled Corwenna, turning on Geoffrey with such vehemence that he took an involuntary step back. He trod on his dog, which yelped and bit Lambert. Pandemonium erupted, although Corwenna seemed oblivious to the yells that ensued as Lambert tried to stab the dog and Caerdig tried to stop him. ‘You killed my Rhys.’

‘I did not,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘I never met him.’

‘Henry was your brother,’ she hissed. ‘Our customs say the blame is now yours to bear.’

‘Well, the King’s law does not,’ replied Geoffrey tartly. ‘How could I control what Henry did when I was not here? Besides, he is dead.’

She glared at him, but he saw out of the corner of his eye that Lambert had the dog cornered and was raising his sword to strike. He turned and tore the weapon from the man’s hands. Lambert regarded him in astonishment.

‘That brute bit me with no provocation.’

‘I apologize,’ said Geoffrey, handing the sword back. ‘He dislikes strangers.’