Deadly Inheritance (28 page)

Roger slapped his shoulder and set off to where his squire waited with his horse. ‘Just a few days, Geoff, I promise. And then I will be back.’

‘You are going
now
?’ asked Geoffrey, startled by the haste. ‘At least have something to eat first.’

But Roger shook his head. ‘The sooner I go, the sooner I will return.’

And then he was gone, leaving Geoffrey staring after him in dismay. He turned to the activity in the bailey, where his guests were gathering for a day of hawking, and considered saddling his own horse and following Roger. But to abandon his investigation would deliberately flout the King’s orders, and Henry was not a forgiving man.

The prospect of continuing to play host depressed him, and he could foresee days filled with unpleasantness. Suddenly, it no longer seemed important to talk to Baderon, and he felt an urgent need for solitude. He started towards the stables, thinking to take a lone ride.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Giffard, following. ‘Hunting with Roger?’

‘Roger is not going hunting,’ said Geoffrey, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. He took a deep breath and pulled himself together. He was behaving like Ralph – petulant, because something had happened that he did not like. He grabbed his saddle and strapped it on, aware of the animal’s pleasure at the prospect of a gallop. ‘I am going to exercise my horse.’

‘You are not going hawking? I hear Olivier has some excellent birds – not that I would know about such things – and virtually everyone is going with him.’

‘Good,’ said Geoffrey, grateful that Olivier was prepared to be hospitable.

‘I shall join you, but I do not feel like mounting an overpowered beast,’ said Giffard, strolling the length of the stables to inspect what was present. ‘But here is a donkey. I shall ride that.’

Before Geoffrey could point out that ambling by the side of a plodding mule was not what he had in mind for his warhorse, Giffard had taken possession of the hapless beast. His long legs touched the ground on either side, and it snickered malevolently at the weight. But it was a feisty little animal and shot across the bailey towards the gate as soon as it was out of the stables, Giffard hauling for all he was worth on the reins. Geoffrey followed quickly, fearing an accident.

The donkey kept up gamely when Geoffrey cantered, then outstripped him when he reined in to pass through a muddy stretch. It reached the top of a mound not far from the castle, then did an immediate about-turn and raced home as though the hounds of Hell were after it, Geoffrey in anxious pursuit. They arrived breathless and a good deal sooner than Geoffrey had anticipated – he had wanted to be out all day, not just a few moments.

‘It is good it was not
this
thing that carried Our Lord into Jerusalem,’ Giffard muttered, straightening his legs and allowing the donkey to walk out from under them. ‘The triumphal Palm Sunday procession would have happened so fast that most people would have missed it.’

Geoffrey dared not laugh, lest Giffard had not meant to be amusing; the grim bishop was not a man to jest about religion. He was about to change the subject when there was a sudden yell, and people arrived in the bailey. It was Agnes and Walter, and even from a distance he could see that something was wrong. Agnes held herself stiffly, while Walter was frightened. Geoffrey was not entirely pleased to see Ralph with them, then felt the first stirrings of unease as Agnes flung herself from her horse and came tearing towards the Bishop.

She hurled herself at Giffard’s feet and began to cry, grasping the hem of his habit. Walter stood behind her, biting his lip, looking as though he might cry himself. Ralph joined them.

‘You must help me, my Lord Bishop!’ Agnes howled. ‘You must, or I am undone.’

‘My child!’ exclaimed Giffard, moved by her distress. ‘What is the matter?’

‘It is Hugh,’ said Agnes, raising a tear-streaked face towards Giffard. ‘Baderon’s son.’

‘What about him?’ demanded Geoffrey.

‘He is dead,’ wept Agnes, keeping her eyes on Giffard. ‘And his father is sure to blame me.’

‘Or me,’ added Walter. ‘And that would be worse, because I have my whole life in front of me, while you are already old.’

Agnes scowled at him, then resumed her appeal to Giffard. ‘You have always been a friend, so be one now. Tell Baderon it was not
me
who stabbed Hugh and left him dead at the Wye ford.’

Agnes’ words created quite a stir among the guests who had gathered to go hawking, although Baderon and his knights were not among them, and neither was Hilde. Joan told Geoffrey that they had gone into the forest at Hilde’s insistence, to again look for their missing kinsman.

‘Why would Baderon think you killed Hugh?’ asked Geoffrey. His first instinct upon hearing the news and witnessing Agnes’ reaction was to assume that she had. Why else would she be so alarmed?

‘Because I was
there
!’ Agnes cried, refusing to look at anyone except Giffard. The prelate laid a calming hand on her head. ‘There are those who accuse me of killing Duchess Sibylla, just because I happened to be in her chamber the night she died.’

Giffard’s hand dropped away. ‘Were you? Then did you?’

‘Of course not! There are others you must ask about that.’ Agnes’ eyes slid towards Walter, but then returned to Giffard. ‘You
must
believe I had nothing to do with Hugh’s death!’

‘How do you know he is dead?’ asked Durand. His practical question calmed the buzz of speculation that had broken out among the crowd.

‘His body was at the river,’ replied Walter. ‘It is all bloody and wet.’

‘Was Eleanor there, too?’ asked Geoffrey, wondering whether there was a second nearby.

‘Eleanor!’ exclaimed Walter, grasping a ready-made solution with relief. ‘
She
killed Hugh! They went missing together, so it must have been her. She tired of him and stuck a dagger in his heart.’

Geoffrey watched Agnes consider the possibility, her small, delicate features hard and calculating. ‘Eleanor might be the culprit,’ she said slowly. ‘However, it was not us, and you must protect me if Baderon and his knights try to say it was. All we did was find the body.’

‘That is what happens when you have a reputation for murder,’ said Durand unfeelingly. ‘It comes back to haunt you at inconvenient times.’

It was obvious that a fear of comments like Durand’s was exactly what had thrown Agnes into such paroxysms of alarm. She grabbed Giffard’s hand, kissing his ecclesiastical ring.

‘Please, my Lord Bishop,’ she sobbed. ‘You must believe I am innocent of bringing about
any
death. Pray over me, then you will see I have God’s favour. He will strike me down if I am guilty. But when He does not, you will see I am telling the truth.’

‘Be careful, Mother,’ said Walter in alarm. ‘Think about what you are saying.’

Agnes shot him a look that might have killed him, too, if eyes had been weapons. ‘Join us,’ she ordered. ‘Come and prove your innocence.’

Walter swallowed hard and looked away, a reaction that did not escape Giffard. The Bishop’s hands shook when he rested them on Agnes’ head and began to pray. Geoffrey saw the look of triumph that flickered across her face, and, recalling the views she had expressed about religion, suspected that Giffard’s God held no terrors for her. Walter kicked at a stone, uncertain of what to do, and Durand backed away, pulling Geoffrey with him.

‘What are you doing?’ Geoffrey demanded.

‘She is committing a grievous sin,’ hissed Durand. ‘Surely you saw the looks that passed between her and Walter? Neither is innocent, and they are challenging God. I do not want to be close when divine lightning forks from the sky and strikes them.’

He spoke with such conviction that Geoffrey took another step away.

‘She is lying,’ Joan remarked as she passed Geoffrey on her way to the hall, disgusted with the entire spectacle. ‘She may have convinced Giffard that she had nothing to do with Sibylla’s death, but she does not fool me.’

‘Nor me,’ said Durand. ‘I do not like the fact that she flew here so quickly, protesting her innocence about Hugh, either. It smacks of a felon committing a crime then dashing to claim sanctuary.’

Geoffrey remembered his manners, aware that he ought to make some hospitable gesture, even to guests like Agnes, Walter and Ralph. He offered them wine and indicated that they should precede him into the hall.

‘That is a good idea,’ said Walter, pushing past him. ‘I have had a nasty shock and need something to calm my nerves. It is not every day I see a murdered man.’ He crossed himself, adding in Italian, ‘The fruits fall from the bushes like thunder.’

‘
Murdered
?’ queried Durand, following the party inside. ‘You said he was stabbed.’

Ralph took the best seat at the hearth and then waved a peremptory hand to indicate that he wanted a drink. Torva obliged in his own time, making sure he received the dregs. The others came to stand around him.

‘Stabbing generally means murder,’ Ralph said in surprising support of Walter. ‘It is not an outrageous conclusion to draw.’

‘My brother was stabbed,’ Joan pointed out. ‘But Olivier believes he did it himself. Being stabbed does not necessarily imply someone else struck the blow.’

‘It does in this case,’ said Ralph tartly. ‘The wound was in his back.’

‘Tell us from the beginning,’ ordered Geoffrey, ‘How did you come to find him?’

‘What authority do
you
have to question us?’ demanded Ralph.

Geoffrey hesitated. Ralph was right: he had no authority. But Durand stepped in.

‘You can tell Sir Geoffrey now, or you can tell the King when he arrives,’ he said coldly. ‘His Majesty dislikes vassals who allow murders to go unremarked, and if you interfere with Sir Geoffrey’s attempts to identify the culprit,
I
shall make sure he knows about it.’

‘My mother and I found Hugh when we were on our way from Bicanofre,’ said Walter sullenly, while Ralph fumed silently. ‘We left later than everyone else, because my mother had been enjoying Ralph’s company.’

‘He was showing me his collection of silk hats,’ elaborated Agnes smoothly, as more than one person shot her speculative looks.

‘
Silk hats
?’ asked Geoffrey in disbelief.

Agnes glared at him, and Ralph was on his feet. ‘You dishonour a good lady’s name with your suspicious tone!’ he snapped. ‘What do you infer?’

‘He was inferring nothing,’ said Joan, also standing. Ralph sank down again when she took a step towards him. ‘It is
your
hostile manner that makes us not want to believe her.’

Ralph became piqued, but continued the tale. ‘Agnes and I were longer than we intended with the hats, and only became aware of the time when Douce disturbed us.’

‘They did not appear at breakfast,’ added Walter. Geoffrey saw that he was jealous of the time his mother had spent with Ralph and was determined to make them suffer. ‘And this examination of headwear began the previous night, so Ralph must have a lot of hats.’

‘Where were you all that time?’ asked Geoffrey, supposing Ralph and Agnes had lingered under the blankets while the other guests had returned to Goodrich. Or had they? It was equally possible that one had slipped out and stuck a knife in the hapless Hugh, although he could not imagine why. Unless, of course, Hugh had witnessed something sensitive during the fire at Dene, and someone had decided to silence him for it.

‘
I
slept in Bicanofre’s hall,’ replied Walter sullenly. ‘But I kept myself to myself and spoke to no one. I was not in the mood for idle chatter.’

Geoffrey was sure he was not, while his mother frolicked in bed with Ralph. But his lack of an alibi was unfortunate nonetheless.

‘Why did
you
not accompany them?’ Giffard demanded of Ralph. ‘It sounds as though it was your fault they were delayed.’

‘Because Douce was fretting about Eleanor,’ said Ralph curtly. ‘And I was obliged to calm her. I followed as soon as I could.’

‘When we reached the ford, we spotted someone lying face-down in the shallows,’ continued Walter. ‘I thought it was a peasant at first, who had fallen in a drunken stupor and drowned. I dismounted to look and recognized Hugh. There was a great bloody wound between his shoulder blades. We started back for Bicanofre for help.’

‘We met on the road,’ finished Ralph. ‘I begged a cart from Walecford and arranged to have the body taken to the village church.’

Geoffrey was thoughtful. Others had returned earlier than Agnes and Walter, and if the body had been at the ford then, they would have seen it first. He concluded that Hugh had been killed not during the night, but some time that morning.

‘Who do you think is responsible for Hugh’s death?’ he asked.

Ralph’s expression was spiteful. ‘That is for
you
to find out, King’s man. All I can say is it was not me.’

‘It must have been Eleanor,’ said Agnes, ‘as Walter suggested. She is missing, too, and we all know the kind of thing
she
does when alone in the forest.’

There was a general murmur of agreement. ‘I am afraid it is true,’ said Ralph. ‘My sister
is
in the habit of disappearing into the woods on occasion, and she
does
have a penchant for un Christian activities.’

Geoffrey gazed at him with dislike. He felt sorry for Eleanor, having a brother who thought nothing of tossing her to the wolves on the whim of his latest lover. It was clear that he was besotted with Agnes, who no doubt intended to keep him that way until she no longer needed a protector.

‘But you can see why we are worried,’ Agnes was saying to Giffard. ‘I have been accused of murder ever since I arrived, so I am the obvious scapegoat here.’

‘Baderon will want someone hanged,’ agreed Ralph.

‘Baderon does not hang innocent people,’ declared Joan, casting an icy glance towards fitzNorman, to indicate the same could not be said of him. ‘If you have done nothing wrong, you have nothing to worry about.’