A Head for Poisoning (24 page)

“I wish you would,” said Geoffrey fervently. “I do not want anything from Goodrich. It is tainted with greed, selfishness, and corruption.”

“Monk!” taunted Godric.

Geoffrey rubbed his head again, and admonished himself for engaging in futile arguments with a dying man. He wondered if his malady was due to the wine. He looked at the ruby red liquid in his cup, and set it down. Godric seemed very partial to it, and since the jug always stood uncovered next to the bed, it would be an easy matter for any of his family to slip something poisonous into it. He picked up the cup again and smelled it. He could detect nothing other than wine, but that did not mean to say there was nothing wrong with it. He decided to ask the physician. Godric kept exhorting Geoffrey to speak to the medical man about his alleged poisoning, so Geoffrey resolved that he would do so at the earliest opportunity.

Godric watched him examining the contents of his goblet. “Has the strong wine given you a headache?” he asked sneeringly. “Run to the kitchens, boy, and ask Mabel to give you some milk sops.”

Geoffrey stared at him, and wondered whether he would end his life like Godric—bitter, mean, and self-interested, taunting his children into wishing he was dead, and loved by no one. He decided the best option was to stay single, and to volunteer for all the battles he could once he sensed he was growing unpopular. Better a death of his own choosing than of someone else's.

“So, why
did
Joan marry Olivier and not her other suitors?” he asked, to change the subject. “A marriage to the heir of Lann Martin would have brought those Welsh lands under Mappestone control, and better a man of integrity like Caerdig than a lying coward like Olivier.”

“Joan married Olivier because she wanted him, and what Joan wants, Joan always takes,” said Godric. “Caerdig asked for Enide, too, when he saw he was not going to have Joan. As if I would let my Enide go to the likes of him! Enide was a splendid woman!
She
did not take her wine watered!”

Geoffrey was not certain that his father's frank admiration for his dead sister was necessarily a good sign, and for the first time he began to wonder whether Enide was all he remembered. Perhaps she had changed from the happily mischievous girl he had left behind.

“So, Joan married Olivier, Enide died, and Caerdig was left with a war on his hands,” said Godric gleefully. “But Caerdig will survive. He is a capable lad—not like those mewling brats who think they are mine—Walter the Illegitimate, Stephen my brother's son, and Henry the Lout.”

Geoffrey turned away, repelled by the raw malice in Godric's glittering eyes. No wonder his children hated him so. Geoffrey had been home a few days, and was already considering ways to leave. He picked up the rag and began cleaning again, while Godric watched critically.

“Not so hard, boy! And you have missed a bit over there—that bishop is supposed to be wearing a golden coronet, not a crown of thorns!”

Geoffrey stood back to try to see what he meant. He had never seen anything quite like Godric's mural, and he hoped he never would again. Black was the predominant colour, with a good deal of red to depict outpourings of blood that far exceeded plausibility. Even after Geoffrey's vigorous cleaning, the painting remained dark and sullen. He scrubbed for a while longer, then dropped the cloth into the bucket and sat down, leaning back against the wall and wiping his face with his sleeve.

“This vinegar water smells foul. May I open the shutters on the window?”

“You may not!” said Godric indignantly. “I am a sick man. Do you want to kill me? Bertrada tried that back at Yuletide, but I thwarted her. She opened the window shutters in the night, hoping that I would take a fatal chill.”

Before Geoffrey could stop him, Godric had embarked on yet another tale of how he had survived a murderous attack by his children. Geoffrey had already heard so many similar tales that he was inclined to believe Bertrada had been right, and that Godric's accusations were simply the desperate, pathetic attempts of a fading warrior to claim that his impending death was a result of a battle, rather than due to some invisible, sinister enemy that was eating away at his innards.

“You are beginning to concede that my suspicions have some foundation, I see,” said Godric, aware that Geoffrey had not tried to dismiss his latest claim with the calm voice of reason. Geoffrey did not answer. He climbed stiffly to his feet and came to ease Godric under the bedclothes so that the old man would sleep—thus allowing Geoffrey to escape for some fresh air in the courtyard.

Godric attempted to stop him, wanting to talk, not sleep. He thrashed around, his arms flailing, causing dense clouds of particles to rise into the air that made Geoffrey cough.

“It is these vile mattresses that are killing you,” he said, backing away to rub at his eye, where something had lodged. “They are filthy and full of dust.”

“They make for the most comfortable bed in Christendom,” objected Godric. “Your sister Enide said she always had a good night's sleep on them—when I was in her room with my whore.”

“You should let Bertrada shake them out,” said Geoffrey, eyes watering.

“She would steal them for herself,” replied Godric. “These mattresses came from no less a person than the Abbot of Hereford. The lower one is full of straw and provides firmness, while the upper one is a mixture of hay and feathers and gives softness.”

“And why did the Abbot part with such a fine bed?” asked Geoffrey, wiping his eye on his sleeve and advancing once more to make Godric lie down.

“The monks sold off his possessions after his death,” said Godric. “That fine chest at the end of the bed was his, too.”

His spurt of struggling had left him weak, and he was unresisting when Geoffrey straightened the covers and helped him to lie flat. The old man watched Geoffrey intently with his sharp, almost bird-like, eyes.

“You are wondering why I do not ask you to take me to safety if I am so convinced that someone is poisoning me,” he said. “Well, my physician tells me it is too late, and that my innards are irreparably damaged. So, I have decided to stay here, and watch the escalating battles over my worldly fortunes. At least my last few weeks will be entertaining.”

“A priest would tell you that your energies should be concentrated elsewhere,” said Geoffrey, pouring some wine from the monstrous jug and helping Godric to sip it.

“Priests!” muttered Godric, finishing the wine in a single swallow. “Do not bring one of those here until I am within a hair of my death. It does not matter when I repent my sins, only that I do so. And I only intend to repent them once—I do not want to be revealing all my sins while I am alive for someone to use against me. Now, give me more wine.”

After drinking, he began to cough violently, while Geoffrey knelt next to him, wiping foamy blood from his lips. Eventually, he slept, and Geoffrey slipped away to walk around the courtyard in the icy night air.

Two mornings later, Geoffrey was still asleep when Bertrada brought Godric his breakfast. She nudged him with her foot.

“Get up, will you? I will not have you here lying around doing nothing all day. We already have Olivier and his fine friends doing that—eating our food and drinking our wine.”

“You mean Drogo and Malger?” asked Geoffrey, sitting up, and holding his head as an uncustomary dizziness seized him.

“Them and others,” said Bertrada, slapping a breakfast tray down where Godric had to strain to reach it. “Olivier does nothing but flaunt his expensive clothes and his fine war-horse, while my poor Walter struggles here to make ends meet.”

“Rubbish, woman!” said Godric. “Goodrich is rolling in money—that is why you are all so keen to get your grasping hands on my estates. Walter is just too mean to spend any of it.”

Their voices drifted down the stairwell after him as Geoffrey made his escape. He donned his leather leggings and hauberk in the hall, and set off to see if Julian could find him something poison-free for breakfast. His stomach was cramped and his head swam, so that he wondered whether the poisoner had already started work on him.

Julian provided two crusts of bread and a pear that was so rotten it exploded across the floor when Geoffrey dropped it. His dog appeared from nowhere, a large ham in its jaws.

“Lord save us!” exclaimed Julian. “Bertrada has been looking everywhere for that ham!”

“Well, I doubt she will want it now,” said Geoffrey, seeing that the gnawed exterior dripped with the dog's saliva.

“She will,” said Julian, with utter conviction.

Geoffrey wondered what his chances were of eating with Helbye again, and determined that if Bertrada produced ham for dinner, he would not take any, especially if it had tooth marks—and even more especially if it were smothered in the ghastly fish sauce, a pot of which already simmered and bubbled evilly over the kitchen fire.

With the dog, still carrying its ham, at his heels, Geoffrey left the castle intending to visit the physician, to learn once and for all whether Godric really was being poisoned, or whether his father's mortal sickness was making him delusional. The guard at the gate also informed Geoffrey that Bertrada was looking for the ham, but declined Geoffrey's invitation to retrieve it from the dog himself.

Taking in deep breaths of fresh air, Geoffrey strode along the main street of the village, and made for the physician's house, a shabby stone building near the church. He knocked at the door, but, receiving no reply, walked to the rear where a sizeable garden was surrounded by a low wall. The garden contained neat rows of plants and several outbuildings. The sound of singing came from one of them.

Geoffrey called out, but the chanting went on uninterrupted. He vaulted over the low wall and poked his head around the door. Inside, it was dark and gloomy, and the walls were lined with an unbelievable array of bottles and phials. Bending over a flame was a small man with white hair that leapt from his head at a variety of angles. He wore the red gown of the physician, although it had seen better days, and the overfilled pockets and large number of sacks and pouches that dangled from unexpected places made him appear peculiarly shaped.

“Excuse me,” called Geoffrey loudly.

“I have already told you, I will not discuss this matter,” said the physician, not looking up from his work. “Go away.”

“I beg your pardon?”

The physician looked up. “Oh!” he exclaimed, startled. “I thought you were that grubby Mark Ingram coming to ask questions about the poisonings at the castle again. Cheeky young beggar! As if it is any of his concern!”

“Why should he be interested in that?” asked Geoffrey, puzzled by his soldier's unseemly fascination with his family. “He has been asking questions in the tavern, too.”

“He probably intends to blackmail you somehow,” said the physician comfortingly. “You are Geoffrey Mappestone, I suppose, come to find out whether your father is being poisoned? Well, I can tell you, quite categorically, that the answer is yes: Godric is being murdered by degrees, just as surely as you are standing at my door.”

Geoffrey rubbed his head. “What kind of poison is this killer using?”

“Come in,” said the physician. “And close the door behind you.” He straightened, and looked at Geoffrey with a pleased smile. “How kind. You have brought me a ham!”

Geoffrey looked to where the physician pointed, and saw that the dog had abandoned its treasure on the floor, and was scrabbling back over the garden wall. He supposed that it had discovered something else to steal, although its backward glance suggested there was something about the physician's garden that it did not like. The physician picked up the gnawed meat and placed it on a table.

“One of Bertrada's own, I see,” he said gleefully. “Although I am sure she did not send it to me herself. She is always mean with her supplies, despite the fact that she knows I like her hams. What happened to this one? Have you had a go at it yourself?”

“My dog did,” explained Geoffrey. “To be honest, I do not think you should eat it. It—”

“Nonsense,” said the physician brusquely. “A quick rinse in clean water and all will be well. Now, what can I do for you? You are pale. Do you need a physic?”

“Thank you, no,” said Geoffrey, “But I would like to hear what you have to say about my father's poisoning.”

“Very little, is the answer to that,” said the physician. “My name is Master Francis, by the way. Are you sure you would not like a physic? I can prepare you one quite quickly. In fact, I was thinking of making one for myself—the balance of my humours is not all it should be this morning, and I feel in need of a tonic before I go out to visit my patients today. Sit down, and I will have you feeling better in no time.”

“No,” said Geoffrey. “I just want to know about this poison.”

“There is not much I can tell you. Godric is being poisoned. He first became aware of the symptoms last spring, and they have gradually grown worse ever since. By the summer, Walter and Stephen were running his estates completely, and so Godric had ample time in which to rest and recover. But although he did everything I told him to, he did not get better. When I first realised that he was being poisoned, I recommended that he should hire Torva to prepare and serve all his food.”