A Head for Poisoning (37 page)

Geoffrey was unable to prevent a shudder. “Where did you say this tunnel comes out?” he asked, thinking that the entrance to the other end might not be so hideous, and that he might yet avoid entering the sinister black slit.

“Down by the trees near the river. But you will not find it unless you know where to look. Godric could not have kept it a secret for so long if its exit was obvious.”

In his heart of hearts, Geoffrey knew this was true, and it was becoming increasingly apparent that he was not going to be able to escape exploring the tunnel. He wondered whether Julian might go, but the girl had kicked up such a fuss when she had seen Godric's corpse that Geoffrey was sure that she would be inconsolable if she stumbled upon the body of her sister down there.

But Geoffrey had other things that he needed to do, and was thus able to postpone the unpleasant task of investigating dank and poky tunnels until later. He knew he should read the documents he had found in Enide's hiding place, and he wanted to ask the physician to test the bed for poison before the killer removed all traces of it—just as he had with the fish-soup bowl that had been wiped clean, and the bottle of wine that had replaced the one that Geoffrey had sipped from. And Geoffrey knew that he should send a message to the King, informing him that he had failed in his duty, and that the Earl of Shrewsbury now had Goodrich manor to add to his domains.

With Enide's documents still tucked inside his shirt, he clattered down the stairs intending to visit the physician first, and then to look in the woods near the river to see if he could find Rohese—if she had escaped the Earl by running away down the tunnel, the woods at the other end seemed as good a place as any to start a search. He deliberately did not allow himself to admit that the tunnel itself was probably a better point to begin looking.

He reached the hall, and collided with a servant who was scurrying to carry a basket of bread to the trestle tables that were being set up for the mid-day meal. Geoffrey's dog made an appearance as the bread scattered, and by the time the agitated scullion had retrieved the food from the filthy rushes, the basket was considerably emptier than it had been.

“Geoffrey!” called Bertrada from the far end of the hall. “We are about to dine. I am sure you would like to join us.”

Geoffrey was sure he would not, and gave an apologetic wave of his hand before striding towards the door. He was intercepted by Stephen, coming in from outside and bringing a brace of pheasants with him.

“My hunting hounds got these,” he said proudly, slinging them onto a bench. As quick as lightning, Geoffrey snatched them up again, and his dog's expectant jaws snapped into thin air.

“I will take him with me next time I go,” said Stephen admiringly, leaning down to ruffle the dog's thick fur. “He is quick and he learns fast. He would make an excellent hunter.”

“But you would never benefit from it,” said Geoffrey, handing the pheasants back to Stephen. “You would never see anything he caught, and it would be more than your life is worth to try to wrest it from him.”

“Give him to me for a week,” said Stephen, smiling a challenge. “I will prove you wrong.”

Geoffrey had serious misgivings. He did not want the animal to acquire any further skills that would render it more difficult to control, and he was certain that Stephen would be unable to quench the hard spark of self-preservation and greed that guided the dog in all things. Stephen draped his arm around Geoffrey's shoulders in a friendly fashion, and gestured to the table at the far end of the hall.

“Please, eat with us,” she said. “If the Earl was serious in his command for us to pack up and leave Goodrich in a few days, then this might be one of the last meals we have here together.”

“No, thank you,” said Geoffrey. “I have a great deal I need to do.”

“Such as what?” asked Stephen. He eyed Geoffrey's chain-mail and surcoat. “Does this mean that you are thinking of leaving us?”

“I plan to leave as soon as I can,” said Geoffrey.

“Then you should spare a few moments to dine with your family,” said Bertrada, walking down the hall to take his arm. “You have scarcely seen us at our best since you returned, and we do not want you harbouring an unfavourable impression until you visit us again after another twenty years.”

It was a little late for such concerns, but Geoffrey had questions he very much wanted to ask certain members of his family—such as whether Walter had heard anything during the night of Godric's murder and, if he could manage to do it discreetly, who were the people who might have access to ergot and poppy powder. Geoffrey yielded to the insistent tugging of Bertrada's hands on his arm, and followed her back down the hall.

The Mappestone family dined at the table near the hearth, at the end of the hall farthest from the door. As Godric's youngest son, Geoffrey's place had usually been far distant from the centre of power in the middle. This had suited Geoffrey well, for he had not wanted to be overly close to the irascible and unpredictable Godric, and being set apart from his siblings had meant that he and Enide had been left pretty much to their own devices and conversations.

But Bertrada had decided differently, and Geoffrey found himself placed between her and Walter in the seat of honour. He glanced at Henry, wondering how he would take such an affront to his dignity, but Henry merely met his eyes and then looked away. Geoffrey was immediately on his guard. They wanted something from him.

Walter passed him a tray containing lumps of undercooked meat, first spearing a piece for himself with his hunting knife. Geoffrey took a smaller portion, supposing that, unless the entire tray were poisoned, it would be safe to eat. The same was true of the bread, although Geoffrey was mildly concerned about the tumble it had taken in the lice-infested rushes that lay scattered on the floor.

While Walter fell upon his meat as though it were the last he would ever devour, Bertrada entertained Geoffrey. She told him about the successful harvest the previous year, and a little about the uneasy relations with the landlords whose estates bordered their own.

“It is all the doing of the Earl of Shrewsbury,” said Henry, from where he sat farther down the table. “Before he came to power, relations were strained, but not so vicious.”

“I do not think so,” said Walter, gesticulating with his meat and splattering grease across the table. “He is trying to ensure that all the landowners in these parts unite with a common purpose, and so he wants them to be friends with each other, not enemies.”

“And what might that purpose be?” asked Geoffrey. Defence against the Welsh, he wondered, or consolidating the border lands ready to fight for the Duke of Normandy against King Henry?

“It is not yet forty years since the Conqueror took England,” said Stephen. “But despite all the castles he built and the fact that virtually all positions of power in the country are held by Normans, the kingdom remains uneasy. And it will do for a generation yet.”

“But the problems of a kingdom are not concerns of ours,” said Bertrada, bored. “What is our problem, of course, is the fact that we have lost Goodrich.”

There was a silence, broken only by the sound of Walter's teeth cracking the bones on his piece of meat, followed by some furious slurping as he sucked the grease from his fingers.

“We need to consider what we should do about it,” said Stephen. “I, for one, do not believe that the battle is completely lost yet.”

He reached inside a pouch at his belt, and drew out a crumpled piece of parchment. It was the will that the Earl of Shrewsbury had presented to the startled Mappestones, claiming that he, and none of them, was Godric's heir. Stephen smoothed out the parchment, and then handed it to Geoffrey. Everyone—Walter, Bertrada, Stephen, Henry, Hedwise, Joan, and Olivier—watched intently.

Geoffrey took the parchment and read what was written there. It stated that Godric, as lord of various manors, was of sound mind and named the Earl of Shrewsbury as the sole successor to his estates, because his sons were the offspring of an annulled marriage. At the bottom of the writ was Godric's unmistakable sign—a Latin cross, representing a sword, surrounded by a circle—and the seals of the witnesses, who were the Earl himself and his knight Sir Malger of Caen.

Geoffrey finished reading and looked up.

“Well?” asked Walter. “What does it say?”

“Exactly what Shrewsbury said it did,” said Geoffrey. “It names him as the sole beneficiary of all Goodrich's estates and bears Godric Mappestone's mark. Surely you must have asked Norbert to read it to you?”

“Norbert has left us,” said Stephen. “Since he clearly knew of this will, yet did not see fit to warn any of us about it, it seems he has decided to flee. He has not been seen since the Earl departed.”

Geoffrey did not blame Norbert. It would not be pleasant to be faced with the scheming Shrewsbury on the one hand, and the thwarted greed of the Mappestones on the other. He wished he had joined the clerk and was even now riding through the countryside on his destrier, miles away from Goodrich and its murderers and squabblers.

“But is the will a forgery?” demanded Henry.

Geoffrey shrugged. “I could not possibly say. What do you think? You must have seen Father make his mark many times. Does it look genuine to you?”

Stephen snatched the parchment back and all three brothers pored over it before giving their considered opinions: Henry thought it was forged; Walter believed it to be genuine; and Stephen was not prepared to say.

“You should think about the timing of all this, though,” said Geoffrey, musing as he speared another piece of meat with his dagger.

He lifted his goblet to his lips, but then set it down again, untouched. While he could be reasonably certain that the meat was probably untainted—everyone without exception had taken a piece and eaten it before Geoffrey had touched his—he was not so sure about the wine.

He leaned back, thinking. “Our father sent a message to the Earl of Shrewsbury a few weeks ago to say that he was being poisoned, and that he thought the culprit was one of you.”

“Vicious, evil lies!” spat Bertrada.

“The Earl duly arrived,” Geoffrey went on, ignoring her, “and Father seems to have regaled him with information about the question of Walter's legitimacy and Stephen's paternity.”

Walter rose to his feet. “I will hear none of this at my table—”

Henry sneered. “It is not your table and it never will be. I have the better claim—”

“If we do not put aside our differences and listen to Geoffrey, none of us will have a claim,” snapped Stephen, his voice uncharacteristically loud. “Sit down, Walter, and pay attention. Geoffrey, forgive us. Please continue.”

“Father seems to have informed the Earl that neither Walter nor Stephen had a legitimate claim to Goodrich for various reasons. We know this because the Earl mentioned it himself. Father stated that he wanted to make a new will citing his heir as Godfrey in the service of the Duke of Normandy.”

“You will never have Goodrich!” yelled Henry, leaping up with his dagger in his hand. “How can you listen to this, Stephen? He is thinking that he can secure our help to get Goodrich for himself!”

He made a threatening move towards Geoffrey, but stopped uncertainly when Geoffrey also rose to his feet, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Stephen imposed himself between them.

“If you cannot listen without interrupting, then leave us,” he said sharply to Henry. “Time is running out. We have six days before the Earl comes to claim Goodrich, and I do not want to spend that time listening to you ranting and raving. You have nothing new to say!”

Henry's face flushed a deep red and he looked murderous. Joan intervened.

“Do sit down, Henry.” She sighed, exasperated. “How can I eat with you glowering and squawking like a fiend from Hell? Carry on, Geoffrey. I am interested in what you have to say, even if Henry is not.”

“Father said he made a will citing Godfrey as his heir,” reiterated Geoffrey, sitting again and casting Henry a contemptuous look. “He said there were two copies. One he kept in the chest at the end of his bed—that was the one that Henry found and that Norbert read aloud to you all the day that Father pretended to be dead—and the other was placed in the safe-keeping of the Earl himself.”

“But we know all this,” said Stephen, when Geoffrey paused. “What is it that you have concluded from it?”

Geoffrey held up the parchment that proclaimed the Earl as heir. “Father could not read. Therefore, he would not know what he was signing, and only had it on trust that the will contained what he had dictated.”

“Are you saying that the Earl simply substituted his own name for Godfrey's and Godric just signed it anyway?” asked Walter in disbelief.

“It is certainly a possibility,” said Geoffrey. “How would Father know he was being misled? He could not read the thing himself.”