A Head for Poisoning (39 page)

Recent rains had washed the weapon, but under the hilt, traces remained of the blood that had stained it. Geoffrey recalled the small wound in Godric's stomach, and gazed down at the knife. Here, then, was the weapon that had inflicted the fatal wound on Godric. Someone had hurled it from the keep after he was dead, along with the wine. Geoffrey looked at it for a few more moments, before dropping it back where he had found it. He supposed he could have taken it back to the others, but could not be sure that they would not accuse him of stealing the stones out of it, or worse, of using it to kill Godric. He did not want to be found with it on his person.

He plodded his way back through the muck, and climbed up the rocky bank near the path. He was greeted by two friendly brown eyes and a wagging tail, as the dog wound energetically around his legs, interested in the smell of offal on his boots. He retraced his steps back to the drawbridge, and then walked into the village to visit the physician to ask him to test Godric's bed for traces of poison. Francis was not at home, and rather than waste the day waiting for him to return, Geoffrey left the main street and wandered towards the river, to the woods that stood behind the castle.

It was not long before he realised that Mabel had been right, and that his task was hopeless. Geoffrey explored every inch of the palisade that ran along the northern rim of the castle's outer ward, and found nothing. Godric had not intended for his fortress to have an easily breached back door, and so Geoffrey supposed that he should not be surprised. But he was disappointed, nevertheless, because he knew that if he did not find Rohese soon, he would have no alternative but to brave the tunnel.

When the shadows began to grow long and the sun sank in a great ball of orange, Geoffrey abandoned his search, and turned towards home. He was almost back on the path, when he tripped and stumbled over the partly hidden root of a tree. Swearing, he righted himself, only to come face to face with a quivering arrow embedded in a thick trunk inches from his face; it had missed him only because of his clumsiness.

He ducked back down among the bushes and listened intently. Somewhere off to his right, he heard the sound of a twig snapping as someone trod on it. He began to creep towards the sound, careful to keep his head below the bushes. He heard another noise, the rustle of footsteps in frosty leaves. He edged closer, his own progress all but silent. And then he glimpsed him—a man with a bow weaving in and out of the trees, moving cautiously. Abandoning stealth, Geoffrey was up and tearing through the undergrowth after him. The man partly turned, saw Geoffrey bearing down on him, and fled in the direction of the path that ran along the river-bank.

Geoffrey was not attired for racing through bushes. His surcoat flapped around his legs and snagged on branches. Also, his leggings and mail tunic were heavy, and weighed him down. His breath came in ragged gasps, but he was gaining on the bowman nevertheless. The man stopped and turned, bringing his bow up as he did so. The arrow, loosed more in the hope that it would slow Geoffrey down than to hit its mark, sped harmlessly to the left, and cost the archer valuable moments. Geoffrey could sense the panic in the man, who forced himself into a desperate spurt of speed as he neared the path.

Without breaking speed, Geoffrey ducked to the right as the arrow hissed past, and hurtled after him, knowing the would-be killer was almost within his grasp. He was close enough to see the man's breath billowing out of his mouth in the cold winter air.

And then disaster struck. A small donkey-drawn cart was already on the track, lumbering along it towards the village. The archer tore across its front to disappear into the bushes that lined the river, causing the donkey that drew it to buck in fright. Geoffrey, following fractionally later, went crashing into the side of the cart, toppling it and its driver over into the litter of dried leaves and dead twigs that lay along the river-bank. Geoffrey lost his footing, and his momentum took him flying head over heels to land sprawling in a frozen patch of mud on the other side.

His vision swirling from the tumble, Geoffrey hauled himself up onto his hands and knees just in time to see his quarry disappearing into the shrubs that grew profusely along that part of the river bank. Geoffrey tried to scramble to his feet, but his senses swam and he fell to his knees again. As he did so, the bowman glanced fearfully backwards, so that Geoffrey had a fleeting impression of his face, before he disappeared into the dense undergrowth that led to the water's edge. Geoffrey rubbed his eyes, trying to clear his vision, realising with a lurching disappointment that he had not seen enough to recognise who it was who had almost succeeded in killing him.

Trying to catch his breath, Geoffrey stood unsteadily, knowing that further pursuit of the archer was hopeless. Instead, he went to see whether he had harmed the driver of the cart. It lay on its side, one wheel bent, and the other lying in pieces next to it. The mule was trotting up the path, already some distance away. Sitting among the wreckage was the parish priest, rubbing his wrist and surveying the remains of his cart in shock.

“Oh, Lord!” muttered Geoffrey, torn between mounting a hunt for the archer and helping Father Adrian. “Are you hurt?”

Adrian shook his head and allowed Geoffrey to assist him to his feet. “But unfortunately, the same cannot be said for my cart. I doubt even the best blacksmith could repair that.”

“I am sorry,” said Geoffrey, genuinely contrite. “I will buy you another one.”

“Will you, now?” asked Adrian, the hint of a smile playing about his eyes. “And what with? I hear you brought no booty home from the Holy Land, unlike your young men-at-arms.”

“I have some books that I could sell,” said Geoffrey defensively.

The priest shook his head, and laughed. “Never sell a book, Sir Geoffrey. They are not so easy to come by that they can be dispensed with so casually.”

“I have an Arabian dagger, then,” said Geoffrey. “Should your taste extend to murder weapons.”

Adrian shuddered. “It does not. But never mind the cart—I was lucky it survived the winter, and I will not be needing it now that I hear Goodrich is to pass to the Earl of Shrewsbury. I doubt
he
will be requiring my services as parish priest.”

“He has a priest of his own,” said Geoffrey. “He acts as his scribe. Let me see your hand. Is it broken, do you think?”

“No,” said Adrian, flexing it. “Although it might well have been, given the speed at which you hurled yourself from the woods. What were you doing? What if I had been an old woman or a small child, instead of a young and resilient priest?”

“I am sorry,” said Geoffrey, a second time. “The man I was chasing fired an arrow at me. As you can imagine, I was keen to catch him and ask him why.”

“An arrow?” echoed Adrian. He rubbed at the bristles on his chin. “Bows and arrows are not common around here, because we are in the King's forest. It will not have been one of Goodrich's villagers. Perhaps it was someone from Lann Martin, doing some illegal hunting.”

“Caerdig told me that none of his villagers hunt,” said Geoffrey, thinking about Aumary's death. “Do you know different?”

Adrian shook his head. “Not for certain, but it has been a long winter and food is scarce. It would not surprise me to know that some people transgress the King's laws and hunt for hares and fowl. I suppose it is even possible that Caerdig might not know about it.”

“He cannot be a good leader,” said Geoffrey, “if he does not know that his people break the law.”

“He does well enough,” said Adrian. He took a deep breath. “Help me move this wreckage off the path, or it will cause another mishap.”

“Shall I fetch back your mule?” asked Geoffrey, watching the animal amble round a corner and disappear from view.

“It knows its way home,” said Adrian. “But I am concerned about this archer. I hope this nasty incident will not herald the return of outlaws to the area. It is possible that rumours have already spread that Godric has died and that the Earl of Shrewsbury is to inherit, and the villains of the area are massing to take advantage of the chaos that is inevitable when one master takes over from another.”

Geoffrey suspected that the archer's attempt to kill him had nothing to do with mere outlaws, and was more likely to be connected to one of the murderous occupants of the castle, but he did not want to discuss it with the priest.

He searched his memory yet again for some recognition of the face he had glimpsed so briefly, but the features remained shadowy and blurred. He was fairly certain it was not one of his brothers, since they all had good reason to want him alive. Was it one of the Earl's retinue—Malger, perhaps, or Drogo? Could it have been someone employed by his brothers—their truce was only a recent agreement, and perhaps news had not yet reached their hired assassins? He looked down the path after the mule, and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“What were you doing in the woods anyway?” asked Adrian. “It is almost dark.”

Geoffrey saw no reason not to tell him. “I was looking for Rohese. She went into hiding the night the Earl favoured Goodrich with his presence, and has not been seen since.”

“Poor child!” said Adrian, horrified. “I heard the Earl intended to have her, but that she could not be found. Do you think she might be in these woods? How could she have escaped from the castle?”

Geoffrey shrugged. “Perhaps she did not, but no one has seen her in it.”

“Poor child,” said Adrian again. “Can I help you look? It is growing dark, but there is light enough to see by yet.”

“I do not think she is here,” said Geoffrey. Not alive, anyway, he added to himself. “I will look in the castle again.”

“You are kind to be so concerned,” said Adrian. “Enide told me you had a good heart. No one else at the castle seems concerned for their father's whore.”

“Chambermaid,” corrected Geoffrey. He caught Adrian's eye and they smiled at each other.

“I was coming to the castle anyway,” said Adrian. “I have had word that Godric is finally laid out in the chapel, and I wanted to say a mass for him.”

Geoffrey was sure that Godric's black soul was in need of all the masses it could get, so he led Adrian along the path to the front of the castle, and hammered on the gates to be let in. The guards did not even break their conversation—something to do with pig breeding—to acknowledge them. Geoffrey was certain that their futures would be bleak indeed if they did not look more lively when the Earl came into power.

The castle chapel contained no Godric, and Geoffrey assumed that Walter had still not moved him out of his bedchamber. He wondered whether Godric's poor corpse would even manage to arrive at its own funeral, given the stately progress of the body to its grave so far. Meanwhile, the hall was deserted, and so Geoffrey led Adrian up the stairs to Godric's room.

Godric looked considerably more decent than he had that morning. The bedcovers had been straightened, and the body laid neatly on top of them. It was clean, too, and wrapped in Mabel's grey sheet. Coins were placed across the eyes to keep them closed—although Geoffrey wondered if they would be there the following morning if no vigil were kept—and two candles had been lit, one at the head and the other at the feet.

Meanwhile, Geoffrey still had not examined the documents that he had retrieved from Enide's old hiding place. He sat on a low bench in the garderobe passage, and pulled them from inside his shirt, listening with half an ear to the dull mutter of Adrian's prayers coming from the bedchamber. Since the passage was dark, he lit a candle.

Geoffrey looked at what lay in his hands. There were two documents, folded together and held in place by a small metal pin, and the leather pouch. He unfastened the pin, and inspected the parchments first. One was an itinerary of a journey Godric had taken around Normandy from January to April 1063 with the Conqueror. Geoffrey was bemused until he realised that Stephen had been born in the November of 1063. Here then was the alleged proof that Stephen was no son of Godric's, since Godric had been absent at the time that Stephen had been conceived. The second document stated that Godric had been married to Herleve of Bayeux in the spring of 1059, with a note scrawled across the bottom to say that one Walter Mappestone, a babe in arms, had been among the wedding guests.

Geoffrey had seen the spidery writing of these parchments before—when he had received letters from Godric to ask for money and to inform him about Enide's death. It was a distinctive hand, with peculiarly formed vowels, and Geoffrey had no doubt whatsoever that it belonged to his father's scribe. Geoffrey knew that Norbert had not been in Godric's service before Geoffrey had left. And that meant that the documents Geoffrey held had been written a good many years after the events in question, and could not possibly be genuine. In a nutshell, Norbert had forged them.

Further, it showed him that Enide had not destroyed these so-called incriminating documents as Godric had claimed. Geoffrey wondered what could have possessed her to keep them. Surely
she
had not been planning to stake a claim on Godric's inheritance and try to use them as evidence against her older brothers? Geoffrey could not imagine that any such plot had passed her mind. She had never written of it in her letters to him, and he felt sure she would have mentioned something of such significance.