Simon Beaufort - A Dead Man's secret

‘Cornald went to the kitchen,’ supplied Sear, when Geoffrey asked whether anyone had seen him. ‘The ample feast your sister provided was not enough for him, so he has gone to see what more he can scavenge.’

Sear was dicing with Alberic and Roger by the fire. Edward was nearby, strumming Olivier’s lute, and Geoffrey hoped he would suppress the inevitable quarrel that would arise when Roger’s loaded dice came into play. Mabon lounged in Joan’s favourite chair, while Delwyn sat at his feet, dozing restlessly.

‘What about Gwgan?’ Geoffrey asked. ‘Where is he?’

‘Probably with his horse,’ replied Edward. ‘It was lame earlier. But it is late and I am tired. We should all sleep now if you will insist on riding for Kermerdyn at dawn. Put up your dice, Roger.’

Geoffrey was surprised when Roger did as he was told, but supposed the big knight did look weary. So did Sear, Alberic and Edward, and Geoffrey saw the journey from La Batailge had taken its toll on them, too. Perhaps he was unreasonable to force them on so soon. Mulling over the notion of a respite, he walked to the kitchen block – a separate building to reduce the risk of fire.

Cornald was indeed raiding the pantries, and his cheeks bulged as he browsed along the shelves with a candle in hand. Pulchria was with him, and the unfriendly look she cast Geoffrey indicated she had not liked her advances being repelled earlier. He handed over the letter, with the brief explanation that it had been entrusted to him by the Bishop of London.

‘From Maurice?’ Pulchria asked wistfully, leaving Geoffrey in no doubt that she had helped the lecherous prelate with his medicine. ‘How nice.’

Cornald scanned it quickly, his face alight with pleasure. ‘He hopes we are both well, and confers blessings on us. What a lovely man! And he has included a recipe for cheese that he thinks might work well with Welsh milk. How thoughtful! Is he a friend of yours, Sir Geoffrey?’

Geoffrey nodded, then promptly forgot his resolve to leave his enquiries until his wits were sharper. ‘He told me a lot about Kermerdyn, including an account of the death of William fitz Baldwin, whom he admired.’

‘Everyone admired William,’ said Cornald sadly. ‘He was a wonderful man.’

‘I preferred him when he was a sinner,’ muttered Pulchria.

‘You were at his deathbed,’ said Geoffrey. ‘And-’

‘Not this again!’ sighed Pulchria. ‘I thought I had answered these questions already.’

‘You did?’ asked Cornald. ‘When? You told me you spent all afternoon praying in the chapel.’

‘I am about to go there again,’ said Pulchria. The sultry look was back as she addressed Geoffrey. ‘A night vigil always leaves me so refreshed. Perhaps you would care to join me?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Geoffrey. ‘But I imagine Roger and Sear will oblige.’

‘She is a pious lady,’ said Cornald, placing an affectionate arm around her shoulders. ‘She spends most nights and much of the day in prayer. Is that not true, dearest?’

‘Yes,’ said Pulchria. Geoffrey wondered how the butterer could be so blind.

‘To return to William,’ said Cornald, ‘Pulchria and I were at his deathbed, and so was anyone of note in Kermerdyn. He had a secret, you see, and we all hoped he would reveal it. Not for our personal use, but so we could send it to His Majesty. Or even to the Archbishop, to be used for the glory of God.’

‘Right,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Maurice told me a tale of poisoned butter-’

‘No!’ Cornald’s voice was sharp and angry. ‘There was a tale, but it was a lie. My butter is made from the finest ingredients, and even if it was a little past its best, it would not kill a man by turning his fingers black. It might drive him to the latrines, but nothing worse. William was not poisoned, Sir Geoffrey.’

‘As I told you earlier,’ added Pulchria irritably.

‘You mentioned a secret,’ said Geoffrey. ‘What was-’

‘William talked about it often,’ said Cornald. ‘He called it his “recipe for happiness”. He was fond of fine food, and I believe he had stumbled across the perfect diet. That was his secret.’

Geoffrey regarded him warily. ‘What?’

‘A man is what he eats,’ explained Cornald. ‘I am in the business of creating victuals, so I know what I am talking about. Too much of one food or too little of another will cause imbalances in the body and lead to unhappiness. But I think William discovered the perfect harmony, and it was that which made him so good and kindly.’

‘God’s teeth!’ muttered Geoffrey, not liking to imagine what Henry would say if presented with that theory.

‘I do not agree,’ said Pulchria. ‘I believe he added something to his food – a herb of some kind that made him inclined to beneficence. I have read about such substances.’

Geoffrey had, too, and had seen them in action in the Holy Land. He supposed it was possible that William had dosed himself with powerful medicines. Indeed, it made a lot more sense than Cornald’s hypothesis. And he would be more than happy to ply the King with herbs that might render him a better person. God knew, Henry needed them.

There was no more to be learned from Cornald and Pulchria, so Geoffrey went in search of Gwgan. He saw the discussion had spoiled the butterer’s appetite, because Cornald followed him out of the pantry and disappeared into the bailey. Pulchria aimed for the wooden hut called the ‘chapel’, although it was rarely used and contained no altar or religious regalia.

When he reached the stables, still far from sober, he suddenly remembered that it was the place where one of his brothers had been murdered. He rarely thought about the incident and supposed too much wine had made him maudlin that night. He hesitated for a moment before putting his hand to the door, and it was that which saved him.

The crossbow bolt smacked into the place where his head would have been, had he kept moving. Reacting instinctively, he dived behind a water butt, listening intently. The bailey was silent, but then he heard footsteps running away. He abandoned his cover and gave chase.

But it was hopeless – whoever it was had too great a lead and Goodrich contained too many outbuildings. Geoffrey looked around wildly. Alberic and Sear loitered by the chapel, and he saw Pulchria framed in the doorway there. All three seemed breathless, but Geoffrey could not tell whether it was anticipation or because they had been running. Meanwhile, Gwgan appeared from a direction that meant he had not been in the stables, and Edward was sitting on the hall steps. Cornald was chatting to Delwyn, and even shy Leah was hurrying from the latrines. Virtually everyone was out and might have taken a shot at their host.

Geoffrey retraced his steps and inspected the missile. It was one of Goodrich’s own – distinctive, with a slight Saracen curve. Did it mean a servant was responsible? He did not think so, especially as he had not yet provided them with an heir. But which of the guests wanted him dead? Or had the culprit been aiming at someone else? The bailey was dark, and all knights tended to look similar in the clothes they wore when at leisure. Except Edward, of course.

Geoffrey stalked towards the Constable of Kadweli, who was taking deep breaths in an apparent effort to clear his head of wine fumes.

‘Have you seen this before?’ he asked, shoving the quarrel into Edward’s hands.

Edward examined it in the faint light emanating from the hall. ‘No, but it is a very peculiar shape. Why? Surely, you do not think we should have a shooting contest now? Wait until the morning, when we shall be able to see the targets.’

Geoffrey was about to press the matter further, when he saw Sear and Alberic coming towards them, aiming for the hall. They were speaking softly in low voices. As they passed, Edward addressed them.