A Head for Poisoning (32 page)

The Earl eyed him sharply, and then laughed. “Is that what they advised you last night? I wondered what Stephen was muttering about. So, it seems I have him, and not you, to thank for my Arabian daggers. In which case, you are still in my debt, Sir Geoffrey Mappestone. I would take the third dagger, but I think I will decline, given its recent use. I will claim something else in due course, when the fancy takes me.”

If the Devil does not take you first, thought Geoffrey, wishing he had aimed a little more accurately at the Earl's expensive boots.

“I wish you well,” muttered Walter bitterly, seeing that the Earl was not going to leave until he had his satisfaction. He gave a clumsy bow, and was away, tugging his wife behind him. One by one, the others followed suit, leaving to make their way back to the hall, presumably to engage in another of their violent discussions.

“And you, Sir Geoffrey? Will you not offer me your felicitations?” asked the Earl smoothly, leaning down to look Geoffrey in the eye.

“I wish you as much joy of Goodrich as it has brought me,” said Geoffrey.

“That is ambiguous!” said the Earl, with arched eyebrows. “But I have come to expect as much from you.” He coughed gently. “You realise, of course, that you owe me your life?”

“Really?” asked Geoffrey without conviction. “And how is that?”

“Despite what I said to Henry, you are still my prime suspect for the murder of Godric.” When Geoffrey did not answer, the Earl continued. “Your pretence of drunkenness is nothing more than that—how can you be drunk, and yet not smell of the wine you consumed? But I saved you from Henry's vengeful hands anyway. You would have been kicking empty air by now, had I not intervened.”

This was very possibly true, thought Geoffrey. “But unless you are prepared to settle for a book, or the dagger that murdered my father, I have nothing that would interest you,” he said.

“There is always Rwirdin,” said the Earl casually. “Of course, it is nothing like the prize of Goodrich and its castles and bridges, but it is well situated for hunting in the Forest of Dene, and it is a pretty place by all accounts.”

“It seems you do not need my permission to take it,” said Geoffrey, nodding to the copy of the will that Walter had hurled to the ground in a futile display of temper.

The Earl could always fake wills, as he had appeared to have done to secure possession of Godric's lands. Had the Earl also ordered one of his henchmen to slip up the stairs in the dead of night and slay the dying Godric too? After all, it would save him the inconvenience of returning later to present his claim, after Godric had died a natural death.

The Earl gazed at him with his beady eyes. “You are more astute than I gave you credit for. Yes, I will take Rwirdin if the fancy takes me. But I am inclined to let you keep it for a little while longer, for two reasons. First, I do not want your treacherous brothers and sisters hanging around my court claiming that they are homeless, and demanding that I take their brats into my household. And second, you were once in the service of the Duke of Normandy, and he is a man for whom I feel some kinship.”

“I do not understand,” said Geoffrey, wishing the Earl would leave, so he could lie down and sleep. “Why should my association with the Duke stay your hand?”

“There will be a time when the Duke will come to England to claim what King Henry has stolen from him—the crown. I have not yet decided whom I will support, but at this point in time, the Duke has a greater hold over my loyalties. You might well be here—the Duke will need every fighting man he can muster, because King Henry has grown powerful.”

“You spared me from being hanged because you anticipate that I will fight for the Duke of Normandy against the King of England?” asked Geoffrey, stupefied by the convoluted logic.

“Put like that, it sounds a little crass,” said the Earl, smiling. “But you have grasped the essence of my argument. Of course, should I decide to fight for King Henry, you will need to make another choice. But that is an issue for future discussion. What will you do now? Will you visit your manor at Rwirdin?”

“Rwirdin was Joan's dowry,” said Geoffrey. “It is no longer mine.”

“But Joan's possession of it is illegal, and would never stand up in a court of law. So, Sir Geoffrey, I am still your liege lord, and you had better expect to encounter me again. And, despite the little agreement we have just made, if you have not learned the folly of your insolent ways by then, I will kill you.”

“If I do not kill you first,” whispered Geoffrey to himself, watching the Earl stride across the courtyard to where his retinue awaited him.

‘Sir Geoffrey!” cried Helbye, hurrying across the yard shortly after the Earl and his cavalcade had gone. “What is all this I hear about Sir Godric being dead and Walter being dispossessed? What will happen to the village if the Earl of Shrewsbury comes to Goodrich?” He stopped short when he saw Geoffrey, and knelt beside him in horror. “Lord save us, lad! What have they done to you?”

“They poisoned him,” said Julian, appearing from nowhere. “Just like they did with Enide.”

“Enide?” echoed Helbye. “My wife says she was beheaded, not poisoned. And who would want to poison Sir Geoffrey? You are out of your wits, boy!”

“They poisoned Enide too, just as they poisoned Sir Godric,” insisted Julian. “She tried to find out who and why, and it was then that she was murdered.”

“I feel dreadful, Will,” mumbled Geoffrey.

For the first time, he truly believed his father's claims that someone at the castle had been poisoning him. He could think of no reason—other than poison—that could be responsible for the way he felt at that moment. He put his head in his hands.

“Did you take much ale or wine last night?” asked Helbye, sitting back on his heels and regarding Geoffrey sympathetically.

“None at all,” said Geoffrey. But that was not true, he recalled. He had drunk some of the wine Stephen had brought him before he had fallen asleep. He vividly recalled Stephen breaking the seal on the wine to offer it to him. But had he? What if the seal had already been broken and the poison already added? Was Stephen the poisoner, then? Or was the toxin contained within Hedwise's revolting broth, which Walter had insisted that he finish? Or perhaps the poisoner was Malger or Drogo, or even the Earl himself—who was reputed to be familiar with such potions. Thinking was making Geoffrey's head ache, and he rubbed it, longing for sleep.

“You must not sleep until you have seen the physician,” said Julian firmly, trying without the least success to pull the knight to his feet. “We will go to see him now. He will make you feel better.”

Helbye took Geoffrey's hand. “You are very cold—perhaps the lad is right. I saw the physician entering the house of Father Adrian on my way here. It is not far. Come on.”

Helped by Helbye, Geoffrey staggered to his feet and made for the gatehouse. The ground tipped and swirled, and he felt inclined to sit again, but after a moment, the dizziness receded and he began to walk more steadily.

“Where are you going?” demanded Henry from the top of the stairs to the keep. “Fleeing the scene of your crime?”

Without a backwards glance, Geoffrey was past the gatehouse and down the steps leading to the barbican. The guards opened the wicket gate to let him pass, slamming it shut behind him. Once outside, Geoffrey slackened his pace, leaning against Helbye as his shaking legs threatened to deposit him in the mud of the village's main street.

The church was not far, and Geoffrey followed Julian slowly through the overgrown graveyard to the priest's house, a tiny structure set well away from the road and surrounded by neat vegetable plots. While Julian darted inside, Geoffrey let himself slide down the wall, all but exhausted after his efforts.

“Come inside,” came a kindly voice. “The grass is wet and is no place for a sick man to be sitting.”

“I am not sick,” said Geoffrey, squinting up to see the young priest standing over him, clad in his threadbare black habit. “I was well enough yesterday.”

“Well, come inside anyway,” said Adrian, helping him to his feet. “You should rest.”

“Those at the castle have poisoned him,” announced Julian, leading the way into the priest's small but clean house.

“Really? Just as they are doing to his father, then,” came another voice. It was Francis the physician, sitting at Adrian's table and enjoying a cup of ale. He stretched out a hand to feel Geoffrey's forehead, and frowned. “This is odd. You should be hot, not cold. And your lifebeat is sluggish when it should be faster. This is not the same poison that afflicted your father and Enide.”

Geoffrey could think of nothing to say. Did that mean that there were two poisoners in his family, each with a supply of something deadly? Or perhaps it was only one person, experimenting with a different toxin when supplies of the first grew low?

“I suppose you did not think to bring a sample of what you ate and drank last night?” asked Francis, not overly hopeful. “What is that on your sleeve?”

Geoffrey looked at the pale brown stain, and recalled the dog knocking into him and spilling the soup and the wine. Impatient with his sluggishness, Francis grabbed his arm, and smelled the material cautiously.

“Ah!” he exclaimed with great satisfaction. “I thought so! Ergot!”

“Ergot,” mused Geoffrey blearily. “The fungus called St. Anthony's fire?”

“Yes, indeed,” said the physician, impressed. “Enide said you were a man of learning. I thought Godric might be suffering from ergot poisoning, since it can take many months to kill a man, but his limbs were healthy, and, as you will know, ergot causes the skin to die over time. But the concoction used on you was intended to have a more immediate effect.” He pointed to Geoffrey's sleeve. “This is strong. No wonder you feel unwell!”

“But it is not the same poison as that used on my father?”

“The one used on Sir Godric is of a more insidious nature. I still cannot identify it, although I have laboured many nights with tests and experiments.”

“Sir Godric is dead,” Helbye informed him bluntly. “He was murdered last night.”

Priest and physician gaped at him. “That cannot be true,” said Francis eventually. “Why should someone want to kill Godric? He has only a few days left to him anyway. What happened?”

“He was stabbed with my dagger during the night,” said Geoffrey, wondering if they, like his brothers, would immediately assume his guilt. “I was asleep in the same room, but heard nothing until awakened by my family this morning, and by then, my father was dead.”

“I must attend his body,” said Adrian, standing and beginning to collect together the items he would need to give last rites. “He died unshriven.”

“The Earl of Shrewsbury's priest attended him before he died,” said Geoffrey.

“How did the Earl know to send a priest?” Francis pounced. “Did the Earl slay Sir Godric, then? Those two have never seen eye to eye.”

“Not so loud!” exclaimed Adrian in alarm, going to the window to look out. “The Earl does not like you, either. Now that Godric is dead, you will need to guard your tongue.”

“No more than do you,” retorted Francis. “But you have not answered my question, Sir Geoffrey. Do you know who killed poor Godric as he lay dying? Was it the Earl? Or did one of Godric's sons, or even that harpy, Joan, finally lose patience with their subtle poison and do away with him?”

Geoffrey shook his head, and then leaned his elbows on the table to hold it with both hands as his world buzzed and blackened at the sudden movement. “I have no idea,” he said weakly.

“Do your business, physician,” said Adrian, nodding towards Geoffrey. “Or you will lose another patient today.”

“There is no danger of that,” said Francis practically. “He has already survived the worst the poison can do, or he would not have woken at all this morning. I will make him a brew of pennyroyal, mint, and honey, and he must drink as much of it as he can, to wash the poison's residues from his body.”

“Well, go on, then,” said Adrian as the physician made no move to prepare the potion.

Francis stood, rummaging around in his ample collection of pouches for the herbs he wanted. There were so many of them that Geoffrey wondered whether he might be made ill a second time through a case of simple misidentification. Eventually, the physician set a large bowl in front of him.

“Drink this—all of it—and then sleep. By the time you wake, you will feel better. Probably.”

He gathered up his pouches and strode from the room. Geoffrey looked doubtfully at the bowl in front of him, wondering whether Francis's brew might inadvertently complete the task where someone else had failed.

“Drink it,” said Adrian, smiling at his hesitancy. “Francis would never harm Enide's favourite brother, and he is a good physician, despite his eccentric appearance.”