Simon Beaufort - A Dead Man's secret

‘ I would not have enjoyed the Crusade,’ said Edward. ‘I understand there were flies. I do not like flies.’

‘You mean Saracens?’ asked Roger, puzzled. ‘There were plenty of those.’

‘I mean flies,’ said Edward with a fastidious shudder. ‘Creatures that land on rotting meat and then buzz around your head afterwards. Dreadful things!’

‘I kill them by the hundred,’ said Richard. ‘My brother made me a gift of a special implement with which to swat them. That was before his change, of course. Afterwards, he told me they are God’s creations and so worthy of mercy. I ignored him.’

‘Flies are not God’s creations,’ proclaimed Mabon authoritatively. ‘They are the Devil’s. So swat away.’

‘Tell us more about your loot, Sir Roger,’ invited Cornald. ‘Did anyone try to stop you, or were you given free rein to take what you liked?’

‘People did try to stop me,’ admitted Roger. ‘But I usually killed them.’

Hilde regarded him coolly. ‘You had better not try to kill Geoffrey, should he ever attempt to instil a sense of honesty into you.’

‘He knows better than to try,’ said Roger carelessly. He turned to Sear. ‘Why did you not volunteer for the Crusade? Was it beyond your martial skills?’

‘Not everyone can jaunt off for pleasure when there is work to be done,’ replied Sear tartly. ‘I remained to tend to my responsibilities, like any decent man.’

‘Tell us about your adventures in battle, Abbot Mabon,’ said Olivier quickly.

‘Later, perhaps.’ Mabon raised a small phial and shook it jovially at the little knight. ‘It is time to take my tonic, you see. This miraculous substance is what makes me the man I am.’

‘Really?’ asked Pulchria. She shot a speculative glance at her husband. ‘Where do you buy it?’

‘In Kermerdyn,’ replied Mabon. ‘The apothecary makes it for me.’

‘It contains mandrake juice,’ said Gwgan. ‘And other ingredients to make a man feel invincible.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Edward. ‘I appreciate that a counsellor is obliged to amass a wealth of knowledge if he is to serve his prince, but I would not have thought an intimacy with the contents of Abbot Mabon’s medicine would be necessary.’

Gwgan laughed. ‘My wife told me – she is interested in herb lore.’

‘My sister Isabella,’ nodded Hilde. ‘She has always been fascinated by the medicinal properties of plants.’

‘Well, I do not care what is in it, only that it does me a power of good,’ declared Mabon. ‘And not just me, either. Richard swears by it, too.’

Richard produced an identical pot. ‘Three sips a day. But this expedition has taken longer than I expected, and I have run out. Give me some of yours, Mabon.’

‘I certainly shall not,’ said Mabon fervently. ‘Because then I will not have enough to see me home, and I do not want to be found lacking by the ladies.’

Richard scowled, and Geoffrey braced himself to intervene when it looked as though he might take the potion by force. Roger’s hand went to his dagger, giving the impression that he thought a brawl would round the evening off very nicely.

‘Music!’ declared Olivier quickly. ‘Where is my lute?’

Without further ado, he began to sing a popular ballad about a lovelorn maiden. He had a beautiful voice and played well. Richard’s scowl faded, Gwgan’s mocking smile was replaced by something softer, Edward clapped his hands in girlish delight, and Mabon closed his eyes to listen.

‘Look at Richard,’ murmured Hilde in Geoffrey’s ear. ‘He will have Mabon’s potion later, no doubt about it. I only hope they do not kill each other over it.’

So did Geoffrey – at least, not before he had given them the King’s letters.

Warm and dry for the first time in weeks, Geoffrey allowed himself to relax. It was a mistake, because Hilde plied him with wine on one side and Joan from the other. By the time people began to withdraw to their sleeping quarters, he was decidedly unsteady on his feet. It also encouraged him to be reckless, and he decided he would deliver the letters to Richard and Gwgan that night.

He cornered Richard first, withdrawing the missive from inside his shirt, and checking that Richard’s name and Pepin’s diamond were on it before following him outside. It was a clear night, with masses of stars pricking the black sky. Had he been sober, he would have waited longer before grabbing Richard’s shoulder and shoving the letter in his hand. Fortunately, Richard was drunk, too, and did not understand that it was Geoffrey’s fault that he reeled and almost fell.

‘That is from King Henry,’ said Geoffrey in response to the questioning glance.

Richard regarded it warily. ‘Does it contain orders? Or is it just from Eudo, telling me how much meat to feed my garrison? He is constantly pressing me with stupid instructions.’

‘I am afraid neither of them confided its contents to me.’

Richard started to break the seal, but then stopped. ‘I shall ask Gwgan to read it tomorrow. I doubt it is urgent.’

‘I was sorry to learn about your brother,’ said Geoffrey, taking the opportunity to question him. Then he winced. William had been dead seven years, so condolences were late, to say the least, and he realized he should leave his investigations until his wits were not floating in wine. Fortunately, Richard was drunker than he was, and it did not occur to him that sympathy for the death of a man so long in his grave was peculiar.

‘Everyone liked William.’ Richard’s expression grew pained. ‘I would have liked his secret, because I would not mind being popular myself.’

‘You think his secret made him popular?’

Richard nodded so earnestly that he almost toppled over. ‘He was like me before he found it – he had a temper and was disinclined to laugh at frivolous things. Then along came his secret, and he changed. He became kindly and tolerant, just and wise. And people loved him for it. I still grieve for him.’

‘What was his secret?’ asked Geoffrey tipsily.

‘I wish I knew, but it was something to do with the Blessed Virgin. Mabon thinks it was connected to William’s swims in the river, but he is wrong. It does not matter any more, though, because the secret is gone. He did not tell any of us enough on his deathbed to allow us to find it.’

‘Are you sure?’

Richard nodded again. ‘Yes. My brother was a saint, and no one else fits that description in Kermerdyn. If anyone did find his secret, then it did not have the same effect.’

‘Was he murdered?’ asked Geoffrey. The question was out before he realized he should have phrased it more tactfully.

Richard’s scowl was back. ‘No one would have killed William, although there were tales to the contrary. It was probably because his fingers turned black, but the physician said that can happen with many ailments. He was not murdered, and anyone who says otherwise is a liar.’

‘I was only asking,’ said Geoffrey, backing away with his hands in the air when Richard’s dagger started to come out of its sheath. ‘I meant no disrespect.’

‘Good,’ snarled Richard. ‘Because I will kill anyone who speaks dishonourably about William. He was the best man who ever lived.’

‘I see,’ said Geoffrey, startled to see tears begin to flow.

He watched Richard stagger away and was inclined to believe his grief was genuine. It was difficult to feign emotions after swallowing so much wine, and there was no doubt that Richard had loved his brother dearly. Did that mean he would not have killed him? Geoffrey found he was not yet ready to say.

When Richard had gone, Geoffrey looked for Gwgan, but the counsellor was in neither the hall nor the bailey. Then he remembered that he had letters from Maurice to deliver, as well as the ones from the King, and one of them was to Cornald. The others – to Bishop Wilfred, Isabella and Robert the steward – would have to wait until he reached Kermerdyn, but he could be rid of the one.