It was clear to Geoffrey that Bertrada’s introduction was intended to be offensive to Stephen, although Stephen did not seem to resent it. He gave Geoffrey a conspiratorial grin, and slapped him on the shoulder in a friendly fashion. He did not look in the least bit like the gangling eighteen-year-old Geoffrey remembered. He was tall, although he lacked the bulk of Henry and Walter, and his reddish hair was cut very short under his cap, so that he looked like the soldiers who had been shorn after an outbreak of ringworm at the Citadel in Jerusalem. And, since Henry and Bertrada had wives, Geoffrey assumed it must have been Stephen’s spouse who had died the previous year, and whose name the Mappestone scribe had not bothered to mention in the letter he had sent to the Holy Land.
Stephen knelt, and earned the immediate affection of the dog by handing it something brown and nasty looking from his pocket. Seeing the dog’s attentions were occupied, Hedwise stepped forward again, oblivious or uncaring of Henry’s resentful stare.
“Henry and I were married five years ago,” she said. “We already have one heir, and we are hoping another is on the way.” She patted her stomach meaningfully.
Heir to what? thought Geoffrey. As a third son, Henry’s chances of inheriting anything of value from his father were virtually negligible-only slightly better than Geoffrey’s.
“Hedwise. Is that a Saxon name?” he asked, searching about for a subject that would not be contentious.
“Yes, it is!” spat Henry, striding forward and dragging Hedwise away from Geoffrey. “And we are proud of our Saxon heritage!”
“You are a Norman, Henry,” said Walter with a weariness that suggested this was not the first time the subject had been raised. “Being born in England rather than Normandy changes nothing.”
“That is not the opinion of our King!” said Henry, standing with his legs astride and his arms folded. “And if anyone claims different, I will reveal him as a traitor!”
Geoffrey looked from Henry to Walter in bewilderment. So much for his choice of a frictionless subject. Stephen shook his head and sighed, and continued the dangerous business of tickling the dog’s stomach.
“Let us not discuss Saxons and Normans tonight either,” said Bertrada grimly. “Perhaps Geoffrey will tell us about the Crusades …”
“Why should we not discuss my heritage now?” demanded Henry. “Is it just because he has deigned to grace us with his presence, just as Godric is about to die? Well, I for one do not care! None of us asked him here, and none of us want him, despite the way the rest of you are fawning around him.” He swung round to Geoffrey. “This manor is rightfully mine, and I mean to have it-whatever I need to do to get it!”
Geoffrey studied him thoughtfully. And did that include poisoning their father, he wondered.
Geoffrey yawned as he sat in the great wooden chair near the fireplace, and wished he were anywhere but at Goodrich Castle. Next to him, Walter and Stephen perched on stools and stretched their hands towards the flames in the hearth, while Bertrada and Hedwise affected attitudes of boredom.
“I will have Goodrich!” Henry declared as he paced back and forth, fuelling his anger by repeated swigs from the wine that he carried in a stained skin tied to his belt.
“How?” asked Geoffrey, genuinely curious to know why his brother thought he would stand even the remotest chance of inheriting Goodrich over his two older brothers and Joan.
“Walter was born in Normandy, as were Joan and Stephen. I was the first to be born here and, by rights, this English manor is mine! The King himself laid claim to the English throne on exactly the same …” He paused, struggling to find the correct word.
“Pretext?” supplied Geoffrey helpfully.
Henry glared at him. “King Henry is like me in more than name. And he supports my claim to the manor entirely.”
“He does not!” cried Bertrada, outraged. “You have never spoken to the King!”
“Oh, but I have, Bertrada,” said Henry smugly, “and he sees a similarity between his claim to the English throne, and mine to the manor of Goodrich. He says he will back me in any court of law.”
“How could you have met the King?” said Walter derisively. “You would never have been permitted into his presence.”
“Wrong, brother. I met the King at Chepstow around Christmastime, when I took him that letter from our father.”
“Rubbish!” snapped Walter. “The letter might have reached the King-although I sincerely doubt it-but you certainly would not have done.”
“What letter was this?” asked Stephen, looking up from where he was still rubbing the dog’s stomach. “I know of no letter our father sent to the King.”
“Some legal document or other about Lann Martin,” said Walter dismissively. “Nothing of any importance.”
Geoffrey suspected that the letter had contained something rather more than petty legal niceties regarding Lann Martin. The King had received a letter from Godric around Christmas, containing details of his alleged poisoning, and it seemed as though Henry, quite unwittingly, had delivered it for him.
“Sir Olivier arranged for me to be introduced,” said Henry, turning to the black-haired knight.
“Olivier?” queried Stephen, abandoning the dog and turning on the small knight. “Why should Olivier do such a thing?”
“Well, it was not me, exactly,” said Olivier quickly, shooting Henry a withering glance for his lack of tact. “It was more Joan’s idea.”
Geoffrey wondered what the chances were of slipping unnoticed from the hall, saddling up his horse, and riding as far as possible from Goodrich and its quarrelling inhabitants. He saw exactly what was happening: Walter, Joan, Stephen, and Henry had been arguing about how Godric’s estates should be divided for years, and unfortunately for Geoffrey, he had arrived at a time when these long-standing battles were intensified because of their father’s impending death.
Walter was the eldest, and by rights should inherit the bulk of the manor-and since Godric Mappestone had been adding to it ever since he had been granted his initial, quite sizeable tract of land by the Conqueror, it was an inheritance worth owning. Not only did it include Goodrich Castle but it boasted several profitable bridges and fords over the River Wye, as well as the little castle at Walecford.
Joan seemed to have secured herself a decent dowry-Geoffrey’s manor-in addition to a well-connected husband, but it seemed that Olivier was seeking further to improve his fortunes by adding Goodrich to it.
Geoffrey glanced at Stephen, who seemed uninterested in the conversation, although that was not to say that he was uninterested in Godric’s will. As the second son, Stephen was to inherit a manor and several villages in the Forest of Dene. But there were rigid laws that applied to settlements in forests, and it was not an especially appealing inheritance. It would certainly interfere with the breeding of hounds-apparently Stephen’s passion-because all dogs in the woods were required by law to have three claws removed to ensure they did not chase the King’s deer. Stephen would almost certainly prefer to inherit Goodrich, but his chances of doing so while Walter lived were non-existent.
And Henry-regardless of the trumped-up reasons he might have invented for him to inherit Goodrich-would never do so as long as Walter and Stephen were alive.
“You probably do not fully understand the validity of my Henry’s claim,” said Hedwise sweetly, forcing Geoffrey to pay attention to her. “You have been away for so long that you cannot know what has been happening in our country. Well, you see, King William Rufus was killed in a hunting accident in the New Forest last August, and our new King is Henry, his younger brother.”
“I have been in the Holy Land, not on the moon,” said Geoffrey, smiling at her notion that he could be so uninformed. “I am not so out of touch that I do not know who is the King of England.”