Deadly Inheritance Read online

  Yelling for everyone else to retreat to the keep, Geoffrey joined Roger and his mounted mercenaries in brutal combat with the first of the invaders to stream in. Gradually, the press of men forced the defenders back until they were in the narrow space between stables and kitchen. Geoffrey’s foot soldiers rushed to aid them, and the bailey was a hive of skirmishes, ringing with war cries, screams of pain and the clang of desperately wielded weapons.

  A group of enemy soldiers recognized Geoffrey’s surcoat and launched a concerted attack to separate him from his troops. Slowly, they drove him into the kitchen. Geoffrey was tiring, but suddenly, Durand appeared. The clerk slipped a knife between one man’s ribs and, with better odds, Geoffrey dispatched two more. The remainder fled.

  Durand watched dispassionately as the man he had stabbed choked on his own blood.

  ‘There,’ he said, glancing at Geoffrey. ‘I do not want you dead. Not yet, at least.’

  Geoffrey dropped his hands to his knees and tried to catch his breath. Durand’s words slowly registered in his fatigued mind. ‘Not yet?’ he gasped. ‘What do you mean?’

  Durand waved his arm outside the door. Recognizing the danger too late, Geoffrey moved forward, but Corwenna and half a dozen of her followers were already racing into the room. He could only gaze at Durand in horror.

  ‘What have you done?’

  ‘I have backed the side that will win,’ replied Durand calmly. ‘I always do. You said yourself you could not defeat Baderon, so do not blame me for changing my allegiance. I am simply being practical.’

  Geoffrey was dumbfounded by the enormity of Durand’s betrayal. He saw his old squire regarding him with complete lack of emotion, and several facts came together in his mind as he watched Durand turn to Corwenna.

  ‘There is a tunnel that leads from the keep to the woods. Geoffrey wanted me to smuggle his civilians down it.’

  Corwenna’s face curled into a gloating sneer. She beckoned to one of her men, ordering him to find the passage and kill anyone attempting to use it. Geoffrey felt sick.

  ‘Now we shall make an end of this,’ said Corwenna. ‘I will take your head and show it to Joan. It will be the last thing she will see; then we shall be free of the Mappestone curse. My Rhys will be avenged, and I will dance on your grave, just as I do Henry’s.’

  Geoffrey thought about the fallen cross. ‘I might have known.’

  ‘Fight me, Geoffrey,’ she urged, eyes glittering madly. ‘Just you and me.’

  He regarded her warily, wondering whether he had misheard. He was a trained knight, and there was no way Corwenna could defeat him, no matter how filled she was with hate. ‘Just you and me?’

  ‘Why?’ she snapped. ‘Are you afraid? I have waited a long time for this.’

  She darted forward with her axe, but he immediately went on the offensive, attacking her with strong strokes that forced her back against the wall. He was on the brink of cutting her down when her men darted forward and forced him back. It was clearly not going to be a fair fight, and he could see by her alarmed expression that she knew she had underestimated him.

  ‘I will kill you,’ he warned. ‘I am not as easy as Henry.’

  The mention of his brother re-lit her impetus, but blind fury was no replacement for skill, and he soon had her retreating again. He was obliged to keep a wary eye on her men, as they jabbed their blades at him if he went too close. He wondered what would happen when he killed her, certain that he did not have the strength to defeat them all, too.

  ‘Hurry up, Corwenna!’ snapped Durand. ‘I have done what you asked, and I want my reward.’

  ‘You opened the gate!’ spat Geoffrey in disgust, thinking about the speed with which their defences had failed. ‘How could you?’

  ‘I did what was best for me,’ replied Durand. ‘I was promised a sack of silver for opening the gate, and another if I delivered you alive.’

  ‘You should watch whom you trust,’ Geoffrey said to Corwenna, as she retreated to the far side of the room and the temporary safety of her men. ‘Durand killed Seguin.’

  ‘I did not,’ said Durand, a sudden tremor in his voice. ‘Do not accuse me—’

  Corwenna lunged at Geoffrey, and for a few moments his attention was concentrated on parrying her blows. Although delivered with great venom and strength, they lacked the requisite skill to break him. He held her at arm’s length until the fury of her attack subsided, then kicked her legs from under her so she fell. Her men again stepped forward protectively, and all Geoffrey could do was step back and try to catch his breath. His sword felt slippery and heavy in his aching hands.

  ‘Like the King, you saw Baderon pay Jervil,’ said Geoffrey to Durand while Corwenna was recuperating. ‘You are greedy and you gave Jervil drugged wine to celebrate his sale, then strangled him. You have strangled men before – you killed a monk last year in the forest near Westminster – and I should have seen immediately that you were the culprit.’

  ‘You are speaking nonsense,’ said Durand, glancing nervously towards Corwenna.

  Geoffrey continued, noticing he had Corwenna’s reluctant attention. ‘I assumed Jervil died first and Margaret second, but I was wrong. Isabel killed Margaret, then fled, appalled by what she had done. But you had watched her, and it gave you an idea.’

  ‘You cannot prove I killed anyone,’ hissed Durand.

  ‘Oh, the knife you planted on Jervil’s body does that. You were the one who drew attention to it, but you could not have seen it from where you were standing – it was covered with straw. I was kneeling right next to him, and I could not see it. The only way you could have known was if you put it there yourself. And the knife was in his wrong hand. Only someone like you, who knows nothing about fighting, would shove a dagger in a right-fisted fighter’s left hand.’

  Durand glanced at Corwenna. ‘Hurry, woman.’

  ‘In my own time,’ said Corwenna. ‘I am interested in what he has to say about Seguin.’ She heaved her axe on to her shoulder and indicated that Geoffrey should continue.

  ‘Baderon thought the Black Knife was destroyed in the fire. But it had been stolen before that. I met Durand running from the guest house during the fire. But he should not have been there: he was supposed to have been with Abbot Serlo above the buttery – in the opposite direction.’

  ‘Everything was in chaos,’ said Durand dismissively. ‘You could not tell where I—’

  ‘He grabbed the Black Knife and was cut,’ Geoffrey went on. ‘He told me he had been burnt, but later claimed it was a gash. They are not similar injuries. That is why he gave me his gloves – the injury meant he could not wear them anyway.’

  ‘All this is fascinating,’ said Corwenna caustically. ‘But I want to know about Seguin.’

  ‘Durand killed Hugh before he murdered Seguin,’ Geoffrey continued, trying to keep the exhaustion from his voice. ‘He knocked him on the head to stun him, then strangled him. The Black Knife was thrust into his corpse to cause trouble between Goodrich and Baderon. It succeeded.’

  ‘Seguin!’ snapped Corwenna, growing impatient. ‘Lambert said you killed him, because you thought he killed Henry.’

  ‘Seguin did not kill Henry,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I have known for some time who did that, and it was not Seguin. Seguin was lured to his death, just as Lambert claimed. But not by me.’

  ‘Shut up!’ yelled Durand furiously. He turned to Corwenna again. ‘Kill him, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Who carried the message to Llan Martin, telling Seguin that Hugh’s body was at Goodrich and that Baderon wanted it collected?’ asked Geoffrey.

  Corwenna’s eyes flicked towards Durand. ‘He did.’

  ‘I was told to give Seguin that message!’ shouted Durand. ‘And I was told Hugh was at Goodrich. You cannot blame me for passing on what I was ordered to say.’

  ‘Think,’ said Geoffrey to Corwenna. ‘Why would Baderon tell Seguin to collect Hugh, when he was here himself? And why would he send for Seguin and not a servant? And why
would Durand – who owns estates in Suffolk – allow himself to be used as a messenger by a man he despised?’

  ‘Geoffrey told me to give Seguin the message!’ cried Durand, eyes flashing. ‘And now he is trying to make you think the murder was my fault. Who do you believe? The man who slaughtered Seguin? Or the man who opened the gate for you?’

  When put like that, Geoffrey saw that he was not in a strong pos-ition. He hurried to resume his tale, hoping Durand would yet incriminate himself in his increasing panic. ‘When Father Adrian left to fetch Seguin some ale, Durand crept into the house and stabbed him.’

  ‘How?’ sneered Durand. ‘Do I look like a man who could take on a strong, well-armed knight? Of course not! Nor do I stab folk as they sit at tables.’

  ‘See?’ pounced Geoffrey. ‘How could he know Seguin was at a table unless he was the killer?’

  ‘I saw the body,’ snapped Durand. ‘Later, after Father Adrian had raised the alarm.’

  ‘You did not,’ countered Geoffrey. ‘You were outside the whole time, while Father Adrian was sick.’

  ‘You killed Seguin!’ shouted Durand accusingly. ‘You lured him to Goodrich by ordering me to fetch him, and you stabbed him because you thought he murdered Henry.’ He looked at Corwenna, his face pale and covered in sweat. ‘He told me so, late one night, when he had too much ale.’

  ‘Do not worry, Durand,’ said Corwenna, patting the clerk’s shoulder. ‘I believe you.’

  ‘Jervil, Hugh and Seguin,’ said Geoffrey to Durand. ‘You tried to kill me, too – it was you who started the fire in the mattress. I probably even gave you the idea, since Bale saving me from the blaze at Dene was one of the last things we talked about before I fell asleep.’

  Durand was disdainful. ‘I saved your life, and now you accuse me of trying to burn you alive.’

  ‘You woke me because Joan came. If she had not, you would have succeeded. But that was your second attempt. The first was with the damaged straps and the spikes in Dun’s saddle. You hoped I would break my neck riding him in the forest.’

  ‘I wish you had,’ muttered Durand fervently.

  ‘No more!’ roared Corwenna. ‘Fight me, Geoffrey, and stop blathering.’

  ‘If I win, will you leave Goodrich?’ he asked.

  ‘You will not win,’ she snarled, swinging her axe in a series of fancy manoeuvres that made the air sing. Geoffrey jumped out of the way, but stumbled when one of her men tripped him. Before he regained his balance, another kicked him in the knee. He barely avoided Corwenna’s axe as it plummeted down, splitting one of the tables.

  Geoffrey went on the offensive again, his blows forcing Corwenna back against the wall. Her men moved to help her, so he feinted left and reached out to grab her by the neck, dropping his sword as he did so. Then he her pulled close against him, his dagger at her throat. She struggled furiously, gouging his hand with her fingernails. He intensified his grip, pressing his knife into her exposed skin.

  She sagged in defeat. ‘I surrender. Let me go, you have made your point.’

  ‘No!’ cried Durand in horror. ‘You cannot let him win! What will happen to me? I will hang for Seguin’s murder and for trying to dispatch Geoffrey.’

  Corwenna ignored him. ‘You heard that worm, Geoffrey,’ she said. ‘He admitted murdering Seguin. Let us bring an end to this bloodshed. Let me go.’

  Geoffrey lowered his dagger, although he did not relinquish it. Corwenna eased his hand away from her neck.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, darting away too fast for him to stop her. She glanced at her men. ‘Well? What are you waiting for? Kill him while I fire the castle and rid us of Joan. Durand may have killed Seguin, but Henry killed Rhys, and his kin will pay the price.’

  All Geoffrey could hear was Durand’s mocking laughter as Corwenna left the room and her men moved forward. Other sounds began to pervade his consciousness – the roar of desperate battle as the defenders of Goodrich gave way inch by inch. Through the open door he could see arrows raining down from the battlements, and the ground was thick with dead and wounded men. He was so tired, he could barely raise his arms, let alone fight six fresh swordsmen, but his anger against Durand renewed his strength.

  He launched a wild attack that took them by surprise and momentarily pushed them back, but they rallied quickly, and then it was he who was retreating.

  ‘Is it true?’ asked one of them – the captain. ‘All you said? Remember you are about to die, and you will go to Hell for eternity if you do so with a lie on your lips.’

  ‘It is true,’ said Geoffrey, darting behind a table and waiting to see whether he should duck right or left to avoid the next foray.

  ‘You said you know Henry’s murderer,’ said the captain, indicating that his men should hold back. ‘Who?’

  ‘Someone from Goodrich,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘Not Baderon, and not a Welshman.’

  ‘Durand?’ asked the captain.

  ‘I never even met Henry!’ cried Durand indignantly, snatching up a bag he had brought in with him.

  ‘Caerdig is my cousin,’ said the captain, ignoring him. ‘He has always spoken well of you, and I believe you are telling the truth. You may go.’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Durand, watching aghast as the captain sheathed his sword. ‘And what will you tell Corwenna when she asks you whether you obeyed her orders?’

  ‘And you can take him with you,’ said the captain, eyeing Durand with distaste. ‘I would kill him, but I do not want to soil my blade with the blood of a snake. Go.’

  He stood aside, and gestured for the others to do the same. They hesitated, but did as he ordered. Geoffrey edged past them, anticipating a trick, but they allowed him to walk unharmed across the kitchen and into the bailey. What he saw there sickened him. Everywhere lay the dead and injured, some in silent agony, others screaming for friends, water or God. It was a sight he had seen many times before, but not in his own home. He swung round, a blind rage gripping him, but Durand was already running away, hugging his bag as he went.

  ‘Save your sister,’ said the captain, nodding towards the hall. ‘Corwenna will kill her otherwise.’

  ‘What will you do?’ asked Geoffrey uneasily, inclined to resist the advice of an enemy.

  The captain indicated his sheathed sword. ‘Go home and take my men with me. My name is Rhodri of Llangarron, and you can remember it if you win this fight and have grain to spare.’

  Geoffrey took a deep breath and raised his bloodied sword to battle through the mass of men at the foot of the keep. The staircase had been removed, but the invaders had piled ladders against the wall and some were already inside. Roger and his men were still mounted, striking furiously at anyone entering the bailey gate, but Geoffrey could see none of his own horsemen, except for Bale, who was trying to keep raiders out of the stables.

  Geoffrey’s armour and surcoat attracted the attention of many hoping to claim a knight among their kills, and it was some time before he reached the ladders. He was weak with fatigue, and one inferior swordsman came closer to skewering him than he should have. Finally, Geoffrey grasped the ladder and climbed, kicking out when someone grabbed his leg.

  With sweat stinging his eyes, he reached the door. Joan’s once-pristine hall was stained with blood, and there were bodies everywhere, suggesting that it had not been taken easily. Giffard was in a corner wielding his stave against two attackers, while Olivier crouched behind him, hands raised to protect his head. Geoffrey moved quickly, and made short work of both invaders.

  ‘Joan?’ he gasped.

  Giffard pointed to the opposite side of the hall, then braced himself as another man launched an attack with a war-like screech. The howl ended abruptly when Giffard’s stave met the man’s skull. Seeing the Bishop could fend for himself, Geoffrey fought his way across the room. At the centre of a tight knot of skirmishers was Joan, meeting Corwenna’s axe blows with a shield, while Baderon exchanged half-hearted swipes with Torva and Peter. Hilde, hair flying wildly about her face, wa
s screaming at Corwenna.

  ‘They will surrender now!’ she howled. ‘Put up your weapon!’

  ‘Not until Joan is dead,’ hissed Corwenna.

  ‘Our fight is not with her!’ shouted Hilde, trying to pull Corwenna away.

  Corwenna spun round and turned on Hilde, swinging the axe towards her unprotected head. Hilde ducked, and Joan struck Corwenna hard with the shield, but the blow had little impact. She raised her axe again, and Geoffrey saw her smile as Hilde backed up against a wall with no way to defend herself.

  Hilde met Corwenna’s eyes without fear. The axe started to fall. Geoffrey snatched a shield from a corpse and hurled himself between them, feeling the force of the blow send agonizing tremors through his arm.

  ‘You!’ screamed Corwenna in fury, turning on him. Geoffrey lifted his sword, but before he could close with her, Joan stepped forward and brought down her shield on Corwenna’s head with all the force she could muster. Corwenna dropped to the floor and jerked convulsively before going limp.

  ‘Is she dead?’ asked Giffard uneasily. ‘God knows I am not a man to wish death on another human being, but the world will be a safer place without Corwenna in it.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Hilde, looking at the distorted shape of Corwenna’s skull. ‘She is dead.’

  ‘I think enough of us have died for one day,’ said Baderon loudly, dropping his sword and raising his hand to indicate Torva and Peter should desist their attack. ‘This fight is over.’

  Those inside lowered their weapons, and Baderon and a trembling Olivier went together to end the skirmishes outside. Word spread quickly, and the sound of fighting petered out until only the groans of the wounded could be heard. Inside, Geoffrey looked at his broken home. He removed his helmet and scrubbed hard at his face. His arms were so sore from wielding his sword that he felt he might never raise them again. The faces of the others showed they felt the same.

  ‘Who won?’ asked Torva. ‘Them, because they managed to get into the hall? Or us, because we fended them off?’

  ‘I do not think there are any winners here,’ said Giffard soberly.

  The silence that followed was broken by an urgent call.