A Head for Poisoning (49 page)

“But someone still stabbed Sir Godric, lad,” said Helbye. “Twice, you tell me. And someone put ergot in your wine and broth, and later hid the evidence. And someone went to some trouble to see that you would be found asleep in the chamber where Godric was murdered. Was that Enide, too?”

Geoffrey sighed. “I cannot see how,” he said. “I suppose she might have come up the tunnel while I lay drugged, but I do not see how she could have arranged for me to be drugged in the first place.”

“I expect Stephen did it,” said Helbye. “It was Stephen who gave you the wine, and Stephen who took your dog so it would not bark and wake you when Enide sneaked in to kill Godric.”

It made sense to Geoffrey. Francis had said that Stephen's wife was involved in the plot to kill Rufus, and Geoffrey could well imagine that his sly second brother might prepare the way for someone else to kill Godric and ensure that Geoffrey was blamed for it.

“That paint caused Walter to lose Goodrich, you know,” mused Helbye. “If Godric had not been so certain he was being poisoned, he would not have informed King Henry and the Earl of Shrewsbury about it. And Shrewsbury would never have come up with his faked wills.”

“The wills were not the only things that were faked,” said Geoffrey. “The documents proclaiming that Walter was illegitimate and that Stephen was no son of Godric's were written by Norbert, who was not in Godric's service at those times. With Walter and Stephen out of the picture, and me away on Crusade, Enide would only have had Henry and Joan ahead of her to succeed to Goodrich.”

“Your brother Henry is unpopular in these parts,” said Helbye. “Especially after the murder of Ynys of Lann Martin. He would not live long if
he
were lord of Goodrich with his violent ways. That only leaves Joan.”

Geoffrey was silent, trying to come to terms with the waves of conflicting emotions that flowed and ebbed through his mind. He had been at Goodrich less than nine full days, during which time he had learned that his favourite sister had been horribly murdered, and then that she was alive and well and happily desecrating corpses; that she was behind a thwarted plot to kill King William Rufus, but planned to try again with King Henry; that no one in the castle or village had the slightest qualms about procuring bodies to suit their needs; and that the real killer of his father, undoubtedly the same person who had intended that Geoffrey should hang for the crime, was still very much at large.

He rubbed his eyes, trying to formulate a plan of action. He would try to speak to the King in Monmouth and warn him of what might be afoot. And then he would leave England forever, and his squabbling family could kill each other or fight as they would. His father was an evil, scheming liar, who had planned to kill a king. Someone else could avenge his murder. And someone else could deal with the treacherous Enide too, because Geoffrey did not want to meet her.

E
arly morning in the Forest of Dene was a miserable affair, and the sky remained a dull, leaden grey long after the sun was up. It was cold, too, and Geoffrey grew more and more chilled as he, Helbye, and Barlow rode along the path to Monmouth. Then it began to rain. It was not a downpour, but it was persistent, and of the kind that Geoffrey knew would be likely to continue all day. On either side of the increasingly sticky track stood the forest itself, a vast expanse of trees and heath that stretched right across to the mighty River Severn.

Geoffrey spoke little, ignoring the complaints of Barlow as they grew wetter, thinking about the web of intrigue that his family had spun. It had been bad enough to learn that one of his brothers or Joan had wanted him hanged for his father's murder, and it had not been pleasant to suspect that Sir Aumary's fate had been intended for him, but these were nothing when Geoffrey considered the actions of his youngest sister.

He drove bitter thoughts from his mind as the path crested a hill and the little hamlet of Genoreu came into view. It was an unprepossessing place, squashed into a dip between two hills, and comprised a rickety wooden church and several shabby hovels. The path degenerated almost immediately into a morass of thick, black mud through which Geoffrey's destrier was loath to walk. Geoffrey steered it to one side, easing it through the long grass and weeds that grew at the path edge.

Behind him, Barlow began to moan even louder, and Geoffrey wondered what he had done to deserve men-at-arms like Ingram and Barlow. One detested him sufficiently to rob graves in order to extract money from him, while the other was always too cold, too hot, thirsty, hungry, or tired. He forced uncharitable thoughts about Barlow from his mind: the lad was no longer obliged to follow any orders of Geoffrey's, but he had volunteered to come along with him nevertheless.

Genoreu was deserted except for a straggly chicken that did not long survive the dog's ready jaws. Geoffrey was uneasy at the silence, and drew his sword. Helbye watched him.

“You
have
been away a long time, lad,” he said. “It is Wednesday.”

“So?” asked Geoffrey, standing in his stirrups to gain a better view of the track that wound ahead.

“Market day,” said Helbye. “It is the only way that the people who live in this place can make enough money for bread. They catch fish—and perhaps a few hares or birds, although they will not be sold openly, given that hunting is illegal in the King's forest—and they gather sticks to sell at the market. With luck, they will earn enough to buy flour for bread for the next week.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” said Geoffrey, relaxing. He replaced his sword, and urged his horse past the village towards the next hill crest. The dog, with tell-tale feathers around its mouth, trotted next to him, but then stopped dead with an ominous growl. Geoffrey knew the dog was as likely to growl at a large cat as a potentially hostile army, but he slowed his pace nonetheless. Helbye and Barlow followed suit as another small band of riders rode over the crest of a hill.

“Geoffrey!” exclaimed Stephen in surprise, reining in next to his brother.

“I knew it!” yelled Henry furiously. “Geoffrey is off to the King to stake his claim while he thought we were all otherwise engaged. His fine plan was just a ploy to get us out of the way.”

“If I did want to see the King without your knowledge, I would hardly choose to travel the road that you would use on your way back,” said Geoffrey. “Do you take me for a fool?”

Henry was about to reply in the affirmative when Stephen intervened.

“What is wrong, Geoffrey? Where are you going? Has the Earl arrived early?”

Geoffrey shook his head, wondering how best to answer. He did not think that Stephen or Henry would take kindly to the knowledge that Geoffrey was on his way to warn the King that their sister Enide had designs on the regal life—especially given that she was supposed to be dead, and even more particularly because Henry had hanged her supposed murderers himself.

And of course, Geoffrey had his suspicions that Stephen might well know all about the plot to kill the King anyway. On the spur of the moment, however, he could think of no lie that they would believe. He decided a little honesty might not go amiss—first, it would allow him to gauge Stephen's reaction, and second, Henry was unlikely to believe anything Geoffrey told him anyway, so there was no point in spinning elaborate yarns.

“I believe there may be a plot afoot to kill the King,” he said. “I am going to warn him.”

“The King is not at Monmouth,” said Stephen, frowning slightly. “He left at dawn to hunt.”

Geoffrey gazed at him in horror. Was history about to repeat itself? Was there another Tirel standing in the trees, ready to loose an arrow as a king hunted in the forest?

“Then I must try to find him,” said Geoffrey. “Do you have any idea where he might be?”

“I might,” said Henry with satisfaction. “But I will not tell you. And this is a big forest—who knows what might happen to you as you wander through it.”

“You tried that once before, and you were unsuccessful,” said Geoffrey, thinking of Aumary, killed with an arrow and all but forgotten by Geoffrey in the turmoil of life at the castle. “What makes you think your luck would be better today?”

“Tried what?” demanded Henry. “If I had tried anything, you would not be sitting there so proud and fine on your splendid horse!”

“The King went Lann Martin way,” said Stephen, glaring at Henry for his belligerence to the man who might yet cheat the greedy Earl of Shrewsbury of the inheritance they all wanted. “But I would not go there, if I were you. Caerdig will not take kindly to uninvited Mappestones on his land.”

“And of course, you do not want me dead before you have used me to file your claim against Shrewsbury,” said Geoffrey dryly.

“That is right! We do not!” exclaimed Henry, oblivious to the irony in Geoffrey's comment. “I forgot. But Lann Martin is where the King has gone. It is said that a great white stag has been seen there, and the King means to have it before he leaves the area.”

“Let's hope that is all he leaves with,” murmured Geoffrey, urging his destrier back the way he had come. “And not an arrow in his heart like his brother Rufus.”

“What are you muttering about?” called Henry after him, spurring his own mount to follow. “You have taken to muttering since you got back. You never used to mutter.”

“Do not antagonise him, Henry,” shouted Stephen, keen not to be left behind. “If we win our claim, and it is ruled that Geoffrey owns Goodrich, you will not be able to negotiate for a share if you have driven him to dislike you.”

Dislike! thought Geoffrey, amused despite his growing concerns that he was already too late to help the King.

“You will not win any claim if anything happens to the King,” he shouted over his shoulder as he rode. “Because then there will be no one to stop the relentless advance of Shrewsbury, and by the time the Duke of Normandy sails from France to take the vacant throne, the Earl will have taken a good deal more than Goodrich.”

“You are right,” said Stephen, breathing hard as he tried to keep up. “But on what evidence do you base your claim? How do you know that someone means the King harm?”

“Francis the physician is dead, and he told me of a plot,” replied Geoffrey vaguely, not wanting to reveal too much to Stephen.

“Geoffrey, stop!” shouted Henry, as Geoffrey spurred his horse to a faster pace still. “We cannot go to Lann Martin—Caerdig would kill us for certain. It is all very well for you wearing all that armour, but what about us?”

“You do not have to come,” replied Geoffrey, blinking as mud kicked up by Helbye's horse in front of him splattered into his face. “Go back to Goodrich and wait for me there.”

“But what if you do not return?” cried Henry. “Then our last chance to claim Goodrich will be gone.”

“I am touched by your fraternal concern,” yelled Geoffrey. “But with all due respect, Goodrich can go to the Devil!”

“It
will
go to the Devil if you do not come back,” said Stephen quietly. “And that Devil is the Earl of Shrewsbury! Return to Goodrich if you like, Henry. I am riding with Geoffrey. Caerdig would never dare attack a knight like him, anyway.”

Geoffrey wished Caerdig had known that before his ambush nine days earlier. He slowed his horse as they approached an especially muddy stretch of land, and Stephen was able to trot next to him.

“The King was furious when he heard what the Earl had done to get Goodrich. We told him your theories about the forged wills, and he is going to back our claim. But he said only the will citing Godfrey as heir stands any chance of succeeding, because it was made recently, but apparently we will need to provide incontrovertible proof that Godfrey was an affectionate name used for you by our father.”

“That might be difficult,” said Geoffrey, not particularly interested in fighting for something that his brothers intended to wrest from him at the first opportunity anyway. “Father is dead; the physician is dead; Norbert has disappeared; and Father Adrian is a less than reliable witness.”

“Adrian is a well-respected man,” said Stephen. “He might be persuaded to come to our assistance in this matter.”

“You mean Adrian might be persuaded to lie for you?” asked Geoffrey dryly.

“Unfortunately not,” said Stephen with real regret. “Adrian is a man of scruples, more is the pity. Perhaps one of our neighbours might help us out—no one is going to want the Earl of Shrewsbury living next door. We could offer some of our sheep as an incentive.”

“Why am I even listening to you?” wondered Geoffrey aloud. “The King is about to be murdered as he hunts, and all you can do is think about which one of your neighbours you can bribe to lie in court. Believe me, Stephen, Shrewsbury will offer any witnesses you can find a good deal more than a few sheep. He might even agree not to murder them.”