A Head for Poisoning (55 page)

“And that is why you killed Ynys!” yelled Caerdig back. “You struck a coward's blow in the dark, so that you could inherit! Well, Lann Martin stands on Welsh soil, and by Welsh law, it belongs to me, as his named successor.”

“I did not kill Ynys—”

“Enide arranged for Drogo to kill Ynys,” said Geoffrey quietly. Despite his low voice, the other two turned and regarded him with disbelief.

“Henry's belligerence is all the proof I need of
his
guilt,” said Caerdig. “I was prepared to let Ynys's slaying go unavenged—he would not have wanted it to have caused continued bloodshed—but I will not do so if Henry is not man enough even to admit to his crime.”

“Enide arranged Ynys's death,” persisted Geoffrey. “She wanted Henry accused of the murder, so that no one would raise questions when Henry was stabbed in the back one dark night. And then, doubtless, it would have been your turn, Caerdig—you would have been the prime suspect for Henry's murder, and either hanged or slain by an act of revenge by some unidentified member of the Mappestone household. Then Enide would have had not only Goodrich but Lann Martin, too.”

“My God!” breathed Caerdig. “And this was the woman I offered to take as my wife?”

“Enide fooled many people,” said Geoffrey. “But the real issue is will you agree to a truce? If you two continue to fight, Enide will have won a small victory, and I am loath to see her win any at all. The people on both estates are suffering—you should stop wasting funds on this silly squabble and put them into the welfare of the people you need to make your lands profitable.”

Henry pursed his lips and folded his arms across his barrel chest. Caerdig scratched his chin thoughtfully.

“We can try, I suppose,” said Henry eventually. “I have never liked Lann Martin much anyway. It is full of Welshmen. And anyway I have Goodrich now. Take Lann Martin, Caerdig. It is yours.”

Caerdig gave him a look of dislike. “Then we will start our peace by allowing you to pass unmolested through our lands. And as an act of faith, we will not follow you to ensure you leave. Go home, and bury your dead.”

Geoffrey supposed it was as good a start as he was likely to accomplish. Henry took the reins of his horse and led the small procession on. Geoffrey lingered as the others left, and caught Caerdig's arm as he made to stride away.

“I saw who drove the boar forward when Enide was about to kill me,” he said.

“It did not go quite according to plan,” said Caerdig ruefully. “I was almost too late for a start, and I did not intend for the wretched thing to attack you. A deer would have been a better animal to use, but time was short and the boar was the only beast available to me.” He grinned suddenly. “You should have seen Enide run when she saw it coming!”

Geoffrey could well imagine. There was little as dangerous or aggressive in an English forest as a furious wild boar. His arm still ached from where the animal's tusks had raked him, and he knew the repairs to his chain-mail would be expensive.

Caerdig reached out and punched Geoffrey lightly on the shoulder. “We are even now, you and I. You spared my life when we tried to ambush you, and I prevented that witch from driving her dagger through your ribs. Do you think Henry will honour my right to Lann Martin now?”

“I do not know,” said Geoffrey. “He is as likely to break a promise as to make one.”

Caerdig grimaced. “Well, there will always be a hearth for you in Lann Martin if Goodrich becomes too hostile. Do not forget that, Geoffrey. You may need a haven from time to time. Enide and Stephen may be dead, but there are still Walter, Joan, and the dreadful Henry to contend with.”

He called to his men to follow him and walked away, leaving Geoffrey to make his way home alone with Stephen's body. By the time the sturdy bulk of Goodrich Castle came into view, Geoffrey felt drained. He was cold and wet from the rain; his body was stiff and bruised from his fight with Drogo and Malger; and his chain-mail was damaged in several places. He felt he barely had the energy to reach the castle.

Geoffrey trudged through the mud, leading his destrier by the reins with Stephen's body still flopping across the back of it. Henry had met Father Adrian by the ford, and the two of them were waiting for him, watching in silence while Geoffrey waded through the icy water. Adrian said nothing when he saw Stephen's body, but his face was grey and his hands shook as he opened his Psalter to begin reciting prayers for the dead.

When they reached the castle, the gates stood wide open and the guards were nowhere to be seen. Geoffrey felt a surge of anger at their negligence, until he looked inside the barbican gatehouse and saw the two bodies that lay inside. Abandoning his horse to Julian, he ran up the steps into the inner ward. It was deserted.

Geoffrey bounded up the stairs to the keep and shot into the hall, Henry and Adrian not far behind him. Bertrada sat at the far end of the chamber, near the hearth, cradling Walter on her knees. Next to her was Joan, holding a bowl of water and gently wiping Walter's face. Olivier stood by his wife's side, resting his hand on her shoulder and muttering what sounded to be comforting words, while Hedwise knelt in front of the fire to stoke it up.

“Oh no!” groaned Geoffrey, sagging against the door frame.

Henry elbowed him out of the way. “God's blood!” he exclaimed. “Who has done this? Was it Caerdig, do you think, while we were otherwise engaged?”

“Of course it was not Caerdig,” snapped Geoffrey, rubbing a hand across his face and continuing to stare. “How could he? He was in the forest all morning helping the King to slaughter deer.”

“Who then?” demanded Henry. “Old Sir Roger from Kernebrigges way? He has not liked Walter since we cheated him over those rams.”

“Enide,” said Geoffrey in a whisper. “Who do you think?”

“But Enide is dead!” cried Henry. “She was shot by the King's chief huntsman!”

“Apparently not,” said Geoffrey.

He walked down the hall and came to stand over his eldest brother. Walter's eyes were closed, and his balding pate was a curious purple colour and strangely flattened. Geoffrey knew he had been beyond any ministrations that Bertrada and Joan could offer him from the moment he had been struck. The blow, although it had caused virtually no bleeding, had smashed the skull and crushed the brain beneath.

Joan looked up at Geoffrey. “Olivier says Enide came and attacked Walter,” she said, bending and wiping the dead man's face again.

“Olivier has been at the wine,” said Bertrada, her voice harsh with shock. “Enide has been in her grave these last four months.”

“Enide has been everywhere but her grave,” said Geoffrey. “She has been living in a room at the end of the passage that ran from Godric's chamber to the woods outside.”

“In that filthy tunnel?” queried Joan. “She would have been better in her grave!”

So, Joan knew about the passage, thought Geoffrey. And in that case, so probably did Olivier. Were they the killers of Godric? Or was that Stephen, who confessed to using the tunnel when he found himself locked out of the castle the night that Godric was killed?

“Enide is dead,” said Bertrada flatly. “I saw her corpse. Father Adrian said there could be no mistake, despite the fact that they had stolen her head. The priest is a good man with no reason to lie.”

Adrian closed his eyes in despair and guilt. “It was not Enide's body,” he said in an agonised whisper. “She was afraid that one of you would kill her, as she believed one of you had been poisoning Godric, and she asked me to help her feign her death. The body you saw was not hers.”

“But why would she want to harm Walter in particular?” asked Joan, wiping again. “He has never done her ill.”

“None except to be Godric's oldest son,” said Olivier. “Perhaps she intends to kill you all one by one, and then reappear to claim Goodrich.”

“Do not be ridiculous, Olivier!” snapped Bertrada. “How could she hope to wrest Goodrich from the Earl of Shrewsbury? It is he who owns Goodrich now.”

“So, what happened?” asked Geoffrey quickly, before they could start one of their arguments.

“I was coming from the stables a short while ago,” said Olivier, “when I saw someone entering the hall. It was Enide. At first, I thought someone must have been poisoning
me,
and that I was dreaming, but it was Enide sure enough. By the time I had reached the hall from the stables, she was standing over Walter's body with that skillet in her hand.”

He pointed to a large, heavy cooking pan that had been used for toasting chestnuts over the fire when Geoffrey had last seen it.

“Did she say anything?” he asked.

“I asked her what she had done.” He pursed his lips. “A foolish question, I suppose, given the circumstances. She told me she killed Walter because he had slain Godric.”

“What?” cried Bertrada. “Walter did not kill Godric! Geoffrey is the most likely one of us to have done that. It is
he
who should be lying here, not my Walter!”

Had Walter killed Godric, Geoffrey wondered. Why not? Godric had died the night after he presented his children with a will proclaiming Godfrey as sole inheritor—before the Earl of Shrewsbury had come up with his own ideas on the matter. Perhaps Walter had thought that by killing Godric he might invalidate the will somehow, and that his own claim by primogeniture—the first-born—would be upheld.

“Did Enide say anything else?” Geoffrey asked of Olivier.

“She told me that if I let her leave unmolested she would not harm me. So I did.”

“You let her go?” exploded Henry in disbelief. “Good God, man! You are a knight and she is a woman! Why did you not prevent her from leaving, and keep her here to answer for her crimes? Call yourself a warrior?”

“Leave him alone!” snarled Joan. “What action Olivier chose to take is none of your affair. He did not know when he let her out that Walter lay fatally injured.”

“Well, it is obvious that Walter did not faint with the delight of seeing her,” said Hedwise, taking part in the conversation for the first time.

“Where did Enide go?” asked Geoffrey. “Did she go to Godric's room?”

“No,” said Olivier, puzzled by his suggestion. “She ran out of the hall and down through the inner ward to the barbican. Then I saw Sir Drogo emerging from the gatehouse. He had horses at the ready and they left.”

“We will never catch them now,” said Henry, disappointed. “They could be anywhere!”

“I do not think they will get far,” said Geoffrey. “Where could they go?”

“Well, they will not stay around here,” said Henry. “It is far too dangerous. But what of Walter, Joan? Shall I ride for a physician? There is a good one in Walecford.”

“It is too late,” said Geoffrey. “Walter is already dead.”

Bertrada bit back a sob.

“No,” said Joan. “He is just stunned. He will awaken given time.”

“He will not,” said Geoffrey gently. “The blow probably killed him instantly. He needs Father Adrian, not a physician.”

“But there is no blood!” protested Joan. “And the wound is only slight.”

“His head is flattened,” said Father Adrian, peering closer. “He is dead, Joan. Let him go.”

Geoffrey leaned down and helped Bertrada to her feet, while Olivier solicitously helped Joan, fussing about her and smoothing wrinkles from her gown.

“Is it true?” Joan asked of the small knight. “Is Walter really dead?”

Olivier nodded, and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. “You did all you could for him. Come away now. You, too, Bertrada. We should let the priest see to him.

Bertrada allowed herself to be assisted to a chair near the fire, while Adrian knelt and began intoning prayers for the dead.

“Now what?” asked Henry in an undertone to Geoffrey. “It seems that Enide is intent on wiping out everyone connected with Goodrich. Who will be next, I wonder. You or me?”