this minute, surely?’
Geoffrey’s eyes were alight with excitement. ‘I am afraid so, sir.’
Sighing, Richard straightened and emerged from Roland’s stall. ‘If they are envoys,’ he said, grimacing at his half-naked state, ‘I’m not dressed to receive them.’
‘You’ll want to receive me, my lord.’ A man pushed past Geoffrey and extended a hand in greeting. ‘You are Sir Richard of Asculf, garrison commander?’
My lord? ‘Indeed, but who the devil are you?’ Snatching his chainse, his undershirt, from the partition, Richard wiped his face. The man, a knight to judge by his costly armour, wore a grim expression. Judging from the growth on his chin, he had not shaved for some days.
‘Sir Jean Sibley, my lord, and at your service.’ The man’s gaze flickered briefly to the wound on Richard’s shoulder.
Richard gestured that they should move outside. My lord? Out in the bailey, the other knights who had accompanied Sir Jean had already dismounted. Richard felt their eyes rest curiously on him.
‘My lord.’ Sir Jean pressed a bundle of crimson fabric into his hands.
A knight’s pennon? No…
A betraying gleam of gold had ice skittering down Richard’s spine. ‘My cousin,’ he managed, ‘something has happened to my cousin.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
Bemused, scarcely able to credit what was happening, Richard watched as Sir Jean and the other knights bent their heads in respect. ‘My lord, I regret to inform you that your cousin, Count Martin of Beaumont, died a week since and—’
‘Martin? What the hell happened?’ Richard unfolded the crimson fabric. Martin’s pennon. It was almost the twin of his, the only difference being that the pale, the line through the centre of the Beaumont pennon, was gold rather than silver. A count ranked higher than a knight. Face set, Richard opened it out, and swallowed. This would be hard to accept. He had not seen his cousin in over a year, but as boys they had been fostered together. They had been as close as brothers. Martin is—was—too young to die, Richard thought, though he knew full well that many younger than Martin had died since King William had come to England. That poor mite he had seen cut down in the North was but one of many—even now that child haunted his dreams…
Putting the child out of his mind, Richard focused on the man in front of him.
‘It was an accident, my lord,’ Sir Jean was saying. ‘The Count was drilling the men and his horse threw him. You know how he was.’
Richard nodded. ‘He would have to take part.’
‘Exactly so, my lord. The Count fell and dislocated his shoulder. At first we thought that was the sum of it. But sadly…’ Sir Jean spread his hands ‘…sadly it appears there were other, hidden injuries.’
‘Internal ones?’
‘There must have been. The Count died a week since. And in the absence of heirs, you, my lord Count, have inherited the title.’
Gesturing for Sir Jean and his men to follow, Richard strode across the bailey, the Beaumont pennon crushed tight in one fist, his tunic and chainse in the other. ‘No children? I would have thought it possible that he and Lady Aude—’
‘My lord, they were not yet married.’
Richard blinked. His cousin and Aude de Crèvecoeur had been betrothed since she was still a child and Martin had worshipped her. ‘He never married Lady Aude?’
‘No, my lord.’
‘Why the delay?’ Aude de Crèvecoeur was not to Richard’s taste, and if it had been he who had been betrothed to the woman, then he would have delayed, till Doomsday. But, chacun à son gout, Martin had adored her…It made no sense.
‘I do not know, my lord. The Count did not confide in me regarding his marriage plans.’
‘It happened at Beaumont?’
‘My lord?’
‘The accident happened at Beaumont?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Are you certain no foul play was involved?’ Entering the hall, Richard lowered his voice. ‘Both my lords of Alençon and Argentan have long had their eyes fixed on Beaumont.’
‘The thought crossed our minds, too, my lord. But, no, the Count died of injuries from the fall, there was nothing more sinister.’
Reaching a trestle, Richard dropped the pennon on the table and dragged on his chainse. Geoffrey busied himself with serving wine. ‘It’s a damn waste,’ Richard said. ‘Martin was a fine man, a fine count.’
‘Yes, Lord Richard. But I am sure that you, as heir to your cousin’s estates, will also make a fine count.’ Sir Jean gave him a direct look and spoke with a new intensity. ‘If I may speak plainly, you are needed in Beaumont. As you say, Alençon and Argentan are on the prowl. How long will you need to settle your affairs in England?’
Richard took a cup of wine from Geoffrey. ‘That will depend on King William. As Duke of Normandy he will have to approve my inheriting the Beaumont estate. It is his right.’
‘Of course, my lord, but surely he is bound to agree? William needs good men in his Duchy, as well as in his kingdom here.’
‘That may be so, but in the past he has shown a marked reluctance to let me leave England.’
Confidentially, Sir Jean leaned closer. ‘That must change, my lord. Beaumont’s position is of strategic importance to him, which is why both Alençon and Argentan would like to get their hands on it. The Duke must agree to your accession and soon. Delay could be disastrous for his interests in Normandy. We have tried to keep news of Count Martin’s death from both Argentan and Alençon, but it is only a matter of time before they hear the news. And then…’ His expression darkened.
‘I understand. Nevertheless, I need King William’s permission before I can leave England. And until then, I remain Sir Richard of Asculf.’ He lifted his wine-cup to his lips.
‘Of course, my l—sir. And I must mention a further pressing matter. May I ask, will you now take the Lady Aude as your wife?’
Richard all but choked. ‘Marry Aude de Crèvecoeur? Lord, man, why the devil do you ask me that?’
Sir Jean cleared his throat. ‘Her brother, Count Edouard, may expect it.’
‘Expect it?’
‘Lady Aude was betrothed to your cousin some years ago. She has been brought up to be Countess of Beaumont. Since you will be Count in your cousin’s place, her brother may hope you will honour the arrangement.’
‘He can hope away,’ Richard spoke bluntly. ‘I do not wish to marry her.’
‘There may be trouble, L—Sir Richard. At home there
