A Head for Poisoning (29 page)

Geoffrey left them to it, and went to his father's room, taking a candle from a sconce on the stairs so that he could see where he was going. The dog slunk from under a table, and went with him, uncharacteristically subdued. Geoffrey wondered whether the Earl had kicked it.

He started back as someone emerged on the stairs above him, and cursed yet again for allowing himself to be caught weaponless within the treacherous walls of Goodrich Castle. A young woman stepped out of the shadows, her face tear-stained.

“I thought you were Sir Olivier,” she said unsteadily.

“Do I look like a peacock—all feathers and no courage?” he demanded, and was immediately sorry. He had no right to take out his residual anger at the Earl on someone he had never met.

The girl gazed at him with large, troubled eyes. “I am Rohese. You must be Sir Godfrey.”

“Geoffrey. And you are my father's …” He had been about to say whore.

“Chambermaid, yes. But Godric will not be able to save me!” She began to cry.

“Save you from whom?” asked Geoffrey, confused. “Sir Olivier? I cannot see that he would present much of a threat to anyone.”

“Not Olivier.
Him.
The Earl!” Her voiced faded to a horrified whisper.

“Ah.”

“Will you help me?” she pleaded, clutching his arm, and gazing up at him with wide eyes that leaked tears. “Do not let him take me, Sir Godfrey. Joan says that if he wants me, I have no choice but to go to his bedchamber.”

Geoffrey studied her. She was tiny, and had a delicate heart-shaped face with large blue eyes. Tendrils of golden hair escaped from the veil she wore over her head, and his heart softened when he saw she was only about sixteen.

“But what can I do?” he asked. “The Earl, it seems, is a law unto himself—what the Earl wants, the Earl takes.”

“I will die rather than let him have me!” she said, with a frail attempt at courage. “Give me your dagger. I will kill myself here and now!”

“You would be better justified in using it on the Earl,” said Geoffrey. “Is he expecting you?”

“He is in his chamber, and Joan said she would send Sir Olivier for me if I did not go to him of my own accord.” She swallowed noisily as footsteps sounded on the stairs below.

“Rohese?” called Sir Olivier softly. “The Earl is waiting.”

Rohese gave a noise halfway between a groan and a sob, and almost swooned against the wall. Geoffrey took her by the wrist and hauled her into Godric's room, closing the door behind them. Now what? he thought, looking around and wondering what he had let himself in for. Godric's chamber was likely to be the first room that would be searched if the Earl's amorous intentions were serious. There were few places Rohese could hide—unless she could fit down the garderobe shaft—a desperate option, but one that Geoffrey had employed himself on occasion before he had grown too large. But Godric's chamber was on the top floor, and even if Rohese survived the fall, she was likely to drown in the foul, sucking mud that comprised much of the castle moat.

Olivier's footsteps were coming closer, and Rohese gazed at the door in mute terror. Geoffrey hauled open the chest at the foot of the bed and bundled her inside. He was sitting on it and buckling to his waist the Arabian dagger that the Earl had rejected when Olivier entered.

“Have you seen Rohese the whore?” Olivier asked, lifting the covers of Godric's bed to peer underneath it.

“Is she back then?” Geoffrey asked. “That is good news. My father has missed her.”

“Well, he can have her tomorrow,” said Olivier, going to the tiny room at the far end of Godric's chamber to look down the garderobe shaft. “But tonight, the Earl would like her. Damn it all! Where can she have gone?”

“I take it the opportunity to revel in the pleasure of the Earl's company is less than appealing to her?”

“What nonsense are you talking?” mumbled Olivier. “If you are asking whether she wants to go to him, that is wholly irrelevant. Do you mind standing? I want to look in that chest.”

“I have been sitting on it,” said Geoffrey. “How could she have climbed inside without my noticing?”

“I had not thought of that,” said Olivier, scratching his head. “Help me look for her, Geoffrey. The Earl will be wanting me to stand in, if I cannot find her!”

Geoffrey gazed at him, and wondered what kind of man the Earl was.

“I meant by supplying Joan,” said Olivier hastily. “And she will not approve of that!”

“I doubt the Earl would make much progress with Joan if she were not willing,” said Geoffrey, certain that his assertive sister would not stand for any nonsense—unless she viewed the arrangement positively, of course. He stood, and looked under Godric's bed, and then went to check the garderobe shaft.

“She is not here,” said Olivier, slumping down on the chest. I wonder where she could have gone.”

“Perhaps she has hurled herself off the battlements,” suggested Geoffrey. “I might, if the alternative was a night with the Earl of Shrewsbury.”

“You would not last a night with him,” said Olivier with conviction. “You would be unable to keep a civil tongue in your head, and he would run you through long before dawn.”

“I had noticed that the Earl seems to prefer sycophants over people with independent minds,” said Geoffrey, smiling as Olivier looked blankly at him. “But you had better go and find Rohese, or you will have to answer to Joan.”

“Lord, yes!” said Olivier, hurrying from the room.

“You are playing a dangerous game, Godfrey,” said Godric, lifting his head from the pillow, where he had been pretending to sleep. “Do not make an enemy of the Earl. He is barely on this side of sanity, and I would not like to imagine you in his clutches.”

Geoffrey sighed. “So I have been told several times recently.”

He opened the lid of the chest, and helped Rohese out. She ran to Godric and buried her head in the folds of his nightgown, sobbing softly.

“You have been decent over this,” said Godric, stroking her hair, and looking up at Geoffrey. “None of the others would dare risk the Earl's wrath over a serving wench.”

“We have not won yet,” said Geoffrey. “They will be back, and we need to find another hiding place.”

He glanced around the bare room, and began to reconsider the garderobe option.

“She can slip between my mattresses,” whispered Godric. “They will not look there, and better a little discomfort than entertaining the Earl.”

“Better a good deal of discomfort, I should say,” muttered Geoffrey. He heaved the light, upper mattress high enough for Rohese to climb underneath it, and let it down gently. “Do not lie that way, you will suffocate. Keep your head this end. Good. And if father will keep his legs to the left, you might yet survive the night un-Earled.”

He was just tucking in the bedcovers when the door was flung open and Olivier marched in, flanked by Drogo and Malger.

“Does no one ever think to knock before entering?” Geoffrey demanded angrily. “This is my father's bedchamber. He is ill, and does not need you bursting in every few moments.”

“My apologies,” stammered Olivier, disconcerted by Geoffrey's display of temper. “But the Earl has sent us to search again. I have looked down the garderobe, Drogo,” he added as the thick-set knight went towards it.

“Why? Does he not trust you to carry out as simple a task as searching a room for a whore?” asked Geoffrey acidly. “For God's sake, man, you have looked once already. Where do you think she might be? Between the floorboards? Blending in with the wall-paintings?”

“Even a whore would have problems blending in with those,” muttered Malger, eyeing them disparagingly. “Drogo, look in the chest.”

Drogo flung open the lid of the chest, and began to stab around in it with his sword.

“Oh, well considered, Sir Drogo,” said Geoffrey facetiously, sitting on the edge of the bed and hoping he was not crushing Rohese. “If she were hidden there, you would be presenting the Earl with a whore with ventilation for his night of debauchery.”

Drogo whipped his sword out of the chest and he made towards Geoffrey menacingly. Malger intercepted him, and held him back only with difficulty.

“Not now, Drogo,” said Malger, glowering at Geoffrey. “But we will not have long to wait, given his insolent tongue. How he survived the Earl tonight is a mystery to me.”

“Are you leaving?” asked Geoffrey as the trio made for the door. He tore the bedcovers away from Godric, revealing the emaciated body that lay helpless underneath. “Are you sure you would not like to inspect my father, lest he has his whore secreted inside his nightgown? Perhaps she lies underneath him. Shall I lift him for you?”

Drogo was across the floor in an instant, hauling his hunting knife from its scabbard. But Geoffrey was quicker by far, and when Drogo felt the tip of Geoffrey's Arabian dagger pricking his throat he stopped dead, breathing hard, his small eyes blazing with a mixture of fear and anger. Gradually, he lowered his weapon, and took a step backwards. Geoffrey made no move to follow, but kept his own dagger raised.

“The whore is not here, as you can see,” he said softly. “Now, my father is tired, and he needs his rest. He would appreciate some peace, entertaining though your company has been.”

Without a word, Drogo turned and stalked out. Malger snapped his fingers at Olivier.

“Come, Olivier. We should be organising the guards on the gatehouse, not chasing a whore. Surely your wife can find her? Meanwhile, I want archers on the palisade—if this miserable hole can supply us with any, that is.”

Olivier watched Malger leave, and then turned horrified eyes on Geoffrey, his naked fear very much at odds with his knightly attire. He said nothing, but shook his head despairingly at Geoffrey and scuttled after his friends, closing the door behind him. Geoffrey dropped the dagger to his side.

“God's blood, Godfrey, you
do
play a dangerous game!” said Godric admiringly, reaching out a feeble hand to try to pluck the bedcovers back over him. “But have a care, boy. I did not leave you Goodrich so you could hold it for a week—you would do well to be more prudent around the Earl and his henchmen. And whatever you do, do not let Joan catch you hiding my whore. She would skin you alive.”

Geoffrey rubbed his eyes, knowing very well that Joan would be none too pleased if she was forced to spend a night in merry debauchery with the Earl because her brother had secreted Rohese away. He smiled at the notion, and went to help Godric with his blankets. Rohese's head appeared at the bottom of the bed.

“I would stay there tonight, if I were you, Rohese,” said Geoffrey, suddenly weary. “Can you manage? Can you breathe under there with all that dust?”

She nodded tearfully, and ducked out of sight.

Godric sighed, and turned a face that was grey with fatigue to Geoffrey. “By the Devil, I am tired. Fetch me a cup of that wine, Godfrey.”

The massive jug had been refilled, and was so heavy that it was easier for Geoffrey simply to dip the goblet in it and draw some out, than it was to pour. He helped Godric take several small sips, and settled him down for the night, pushing him to the left side of the bed for Rohese's comfort. When Godric slept, Geoffrey hunted around for a spare blanket, wrapped himself up in it, and lay on the floor near the fire, placing the Arabian dagger near his hand. Within the last hour, he had made himself new enemies, and it always paid to be cautious. The dog settled next to him, its head resting on its paws.

Geoffrey had scarcely begun to doze when the door opened yet again, and Hedwise slipped in with Stephen behind her. Wearily, Geoffrey pulled himself back from the brink of sleep and sat up. Would they never leave him alone? Hedwise held out a bowl to him, which Geoffrey accepted with some caution.

“In all the confusion of the Earl arriving, we never offered you anything to eat,” she said, softly so as not to waken Godric. “But here is some fish broth to last you until morning.”

“And here is some wine,” said Stephen, holding out a bottle. He began to hand the bottle to Geoffrey, but then took it back to break the seal for him. “There. This is excellent wine, but the seals are sometimes difficult to remove. I would not like to think of you here with a bottle of wine that you could not open.”

“I am sure I would have managed,” said Geoffrey, for whom awkward seals were never a problem. “But thank you.”

Stephen gave a sudden laugh. “Forgive me—I do not mean to be patronising. I am sure a man who forced the walls of the Holy City would have no problems undoing a bottle of wine. Perhaps tomorrow we can open one together. I would like to hear more about the Crusade.”

Geoffrey nodded, and examined the bottle. Marks in the glass suggested that it had come from France, and was a far cry from the bitter local brew that was usually consumed at Goodrich. He smiled at Stephen to show his appreciation.