Simon Beaufort - A Head for Poisoning

He paid the forester and went on his way, the others trotting behind him. The night had been mild, and the sun of the previous afternoon had thawed the frozen ground. The path that had provided easy riding the day before was now a sticky morass of clinging mud, and their progress was slow. It was late afternoon before Caerdig stopped at a small, muddy river.

“This is where we part. My lands lie this side of the stream, and your family’s start from the other bank.” He hesitated, and regarded Geoffrey uncertainly. “I said I would escort you to Mappestone territory. Do you accept that I have fulfilled my part of the bargain?”

Geoffrey nodded. “Once again, my apologies for trespassing. It is what happens when you follow the advice of another, rather than trusting your own instincts.”

He allowed his gaze to stray to Helbye, who immediately began to study the river, looking for the best place to cross.

Caerdig still hesitated. “You spared my life-twice if you count not telling the King the fact that his messenger was slain during my ambush. But I have kept my end of the agreement.”

“So you have already said,” said Geoffrey, wondering where this was leading.

Caerdig sighed. “By Welsh law, you saved me-so I might be obliged to do the same for you at some point in the future.”

“That might be useful around here,” said Geoffrey. “Where lies the problem?”

“The problem lies in your brothers,” said Caerdig. “I swore a solemn oath to rid my people of them, and so you and I might yet find ourselves on the opposite sides of another skirmish. The bargain that we made was that you spared my life, and I would see you safely off my lands. So, now we are even.”

“I see,” said Geoffrey. “You are saying that next time we meet, I should assume that you are about to kill me, and act first?”

“Well, I did not mean it quite like that,” mumbled Caerdig. He scrubbed hard at his face, and smiled suddenly at the amused knight. “Actually, I suppose I did. But I do not like this state of war between our families. I will not-cannot-trust any of your siblings to make peace, but I would be willing to consider terms with you. Just bear that in mind the next time you say so glibly that you want nothing belonging to your father.”

With a curt nod to Geoffrey, Caerdig rode away into the gathering dusk, taking with them the mule that Barlow had borrowed after his own mount had been killed by the mysterious archer. Barlow watched them go resentfully.

“We should have slain him while we had the chance,” he said. “I was expecting to feel a dagger between my shoulder blades every step of the way.”

Ingram readily agreed. “We could slip after him now,” he said, addressing Geoffrey. “It would only take a moment, and think how pleased your family will be when they hear we have dispensed with one of their enemies. They might even reward us.”

“And so might I,” said Geoffrey dryly. “But not in a way you would appreciate. What is wrong with you? We had an agreement with the man. Have you no honour?”

“Horses are worthy of honourable treatment,” said Ingram, fondly rubbing the velvet nose of Geoffrey’s destrier. “But not people. Especially not enemies.”

And who was the enemy? Geoffrey wondered. In the Holy Land it was usually obvious, but Geoffrey was about to enter a household in which one of his siblings was poisoning his father, had attempted to kill his sister, and had very possibly tried to shoot him three days before.

He stood next to Helbye, pointing out the shallowest route across the stream. Then they went through the charade they had played out each time they had reached water on their long journey home. Destriers were far too valuable to be allowed to splash blindly through rivers where they might stumble and injure themselves, and so someone had to lead them. Helbye always offered to perform this invariably unpleasant task for his lord-rivers were often deep and usually muddy. But Geoffrey knew that Helbye suffered from aching joints, and that being wet made them worse.

Yet he also knew that the older man’s pride was a delicate matter, and that he would never admit to such incapacity. So each time Helbye offered to lead Geoffrey’s mount, Geoffrey declined on a variety of pretexts, ranging from a sudden desire to cool his feet to a need to stretch his legs by walking. This worked to the advantage of Ingram and Barlow, for Geoffrey could scarcely accept an offer from them after declining Helbye.

Watching the swirling black water, Geoffrey silently cursed Helbye’s pride, which meant that he, and not one of his soldiers, would be fording the river on foot. He wondered what his fellow knights would think, had they known to what extent his soft-heartedness had led him.

A sudden pitiful whine gave him his excuse this time. Geoffrey’s dog darted this way and that along the bank, declining to step into the chilly water, but sensing it would have to cross.

“I need to carry my dog,” he said, snatching up the black-and-white animal. It was heavy, and he wondered how it had managed to gain weight on a journey that had left everyone else leaner.

Barlow climbed onto Ingram’s horse, pretending not to notice Geoffrey’s disapproval at the way the poor beast staggered under the combined weight of two men and their heavy baggage.

“I can take the dog,” called Barlow cheerfully, holding out one hand.

“I hardly think so,” said Geoffrey coolly. “Unless you plan to walk. That poor horse is overloaded as it is.”

“It is my horse,” muttered Ingram resentfully, so low that Geoffrey was not certain whether he had heard him correctly. At any other time, Geoffrey would not have tolerated such insolence from his men, but they were only a few miles from home, where the young soldiers would no longer be under his command, and Geoffrey felt he could not be bothered.

“If you will not consider your horse, then think of yourself,” said Geoffrey, hoisting his struggling dog over his shoulder. “If you fall off because the horse stumbles, you will sink because your armour will drag you down. And then you might drown.”

The two soldiers exchanged a look of consternation. Geoffrey was right. Although neither wore the weighty chain-mail, heavy surcoat, and hefty broadsword that Geoffrey did, their boiled leather leggings and hauberks would certainly be enough to make swimming difficult.

“We will not fall off,” said Ingram, after a moment of doubt.

Barlow shivered, and his voice took on a wheedling quality. “It is January, Sir Geoffrey, and not a month for wading through rivers. Look-there is ice at the edge. And anyway, I do not want to arrive home after four years all sodden and bedraggled. What would they think of us?”

“Please yourself,” said Geoffrey tiredly. He did not relish the thought of stepping into the icy water himself, but he was certainly not prepared to risk his destrier just because he did not want to get his feet wet. Taking the horse’s reins in one hand and holding the whining dog over his shoulder, he stepped off the bank and into the river.

The cold was so intense it took his breath away, and he immediately lost the feeling in his legs. Helbye followed on horseback, while Ingram ignored the route they were taking and chose one of his own. The water was deeper than Geoffrey had anticipated, and swirled around his waist, tugging at his long surcoat, so that he began to doubt whether he would be able to keep his balance. He wrapped his hand more tightly round the reins, and forced himself to move faster. And then he was across, splashing through the shallows and scrambling up the bank on the other side. Geoffrey dropped the dog, which immediately began to bark at the trees, and turned to wait for Ingram and Barlow.