Simon Beaufort - A Head for Poisoning

Not surprisingly, Ingram’s horse was having problems. The weight of two riders and the pull of the deeper water chosen by Ingram were proving too much for it. Ingram tried to spur it on, but it was already up to its withers and was becoming alarmed. Geoffrey could see that it was only a matter of time before Ingram and Barlow were tipped off.

Helbye made a gesture of annoyance as he watched. “We must help them, Sir Geoffrey, or you will be forced to break the news to their families that you brought them unscathed through four years of battles, only to lose them in the river a couple of miles from home.”

Geoffrey took a length of rope he occasionally used to tether the dog, and waded back into the river, cursing Ingram under his breath. Barlow was already in the water, clinging desperately to the saddle with one hand, while the other gripped his treasure-laden saddlebags. Geoffrey felt his feet skidding and sliding on the weed-clad rocks of the riverbed, and realised that the current was much stronger here than where he had crossed. He threw his rope to Ingram, who caught it and gazed at it helplessly.

“Tie it round the horse’s neck,” yelled Geoffrey exasperated, and wondering how someone with Ingram’s speed of thinking had managed to survive the Crusade. “And let go of your bags, Barlow! Hold on to the saddle with both hands, or you will be swept away.”

“No!” cried Barlow, clutching harder still at his booty. He was silenced from further reply by a slapping faceful of water.

Geoffrey hauled on the rope, urging the horse towards him. Ingram, white-faced, began to slip off his saddle, and then he fell just as Geoffrey had managed to coax the horse to shallower water. Geoffrey’s lunge at his hair brought him spluttering and choking to his feet.

“Now, the next time Sir Geoffrey tells you that your horse is overloaded, you might listen to him,” shouted Helbye angrily from the riverbank. “Foolish boy!”

“Where is Barlow?” asked Geoffrey sharply.

All three of them gazed at the empty saddle: Barlow had lost his grip and had been swept away, just as Geoffrey had predicted.

“Oh, no!” whispered Helbye, white-faced. “Not Barlow! His father is my oldest friend, and I promised him I would look after the lad! What will I tell him now?”

“Stay with the horses!” Geoffrey ordered Ingram, who was gaping at the swirling river in horror. “Helbye, come with me!”

He waded back to the bank, and began to run downstream, feeling even more burdened down than usual, with the lower half of his surcoat sopping wet and adding to the weight of his chain-mail. His breath came in ragged gasps-the dense armour of fully equipped knights was not designed for running. He crashed through the undergrowth with the dog barking in excitement at his heels, and came to a wide pond located at a bend in the river. With sudden, absolute clarity, he recalled swimming in it as a child, and remembered that it was very deep.

He slithered down the bank and saw that, as he had predicted, Barlow had been washed into it. Geoffrey could just see him floundering just under the surface. Holding on to an overhanging branch, he slipped into the water and took a firm hold on Barlow’s collar. While the young soldier flailed and struggled, Geoffrey shoved him to where Helbye waited to pull him out. The bank was slippery, and it was some moments before they were all clear of the slick mud.

Helbye fussed over Barlow, banging him on the back to make him cough up the water he had swallowed, and then gave an exclamation of disbelief. Geoffrey glanced over at them, and saw Barlow summon a weak grin, and raise his saddlebags in the air triumphantly. Geoffrey pushed dripping hair from his eyes and gave a resigned sigh.

“Well, I am glad I risked my life for two bags of treasure,” he said tiredly. “But I have lost my helmet. You must have knocked it off with all that thrashing around.”

“I got that, too,” croaked Barlow, pleased with himself, holding up Geoffrey’s bassinet with his other hand. “I saw it fall off, and I grabbed it as it sank. I thought you might like to have it back.”

Geoffrey gazed at him astounded, wondering how the young man could be considering such matters when he was in imminent danger of death by drowning. It was often said that the singular outstanding characteristic of Normans was their acquisitiveness, and Barlow, whose Norman ancestry went back generations, was a prime example. Geoffrey was certain he would not have been so calculating under the circumstances, Norman ancestry notwithstanding. Without a word, he hauled himself to his feet, and began to walk back towards the horses. With each step, water slopped from his boots, and he was uncomfortably aware that the light breeze, which had been pleasant for unhurried riding, was now serving to chill him to the bone. He strode briskly, trying to restore some warmth to his frozen body.

When he reached the ford, he stopped dead, and Helbye, close on his heels, bumped into him. Ingram was standing alone in the centre of the clearing, gazing at Geoffrey like a cornered animal-an unappealing combination of fear and guilt.

“Now what?” muttered Geoffrey, regarding the young soldier with deep apprehension.

“I saved the destrier,” Ingram squeaked. “They did not take that-they only stole your saddlebags.”

The forest was silent, except for the soft hiss of the fast-flowing river. Geoffrey watched Ingram expressionlessly, waiting for an explanation. Ingram was trembling, partly from cold, but mostly from fear of Geoffrey.

“What happened?” demanded Helbye. “Where is Sir Geoffrey’s saddle?”

“They came out of nowhere,” wailed Ingram, not meeting the sergeant’s eyes. “There were at least twenty of them. They had me covered. There was nothing I could do!”

Geoffrey looked from the shaking soldier to his destrier. His saddlebags were gone, slashed away with a knife. For a fleeting moment, Geoffrey wondered whether Ingram might have stolen them himself, but then dismissed the notion as ridiculous. Ingram knew exactly what Geoffrey’s treasure had comprised, and he was wholly uninterested in the knight’s collection of ancient books. Throughout the entire journey, he and Barlow had complained about their weight, while Helbye had often suggested that Geoffrey should trade them for something more saleable. But Geoffrey had shown scant interest in the riches that had attracted the other Crusaders, and his most loved possession was an illustrated copy of Aristotle’s Metaphysics , salvaged after the looting of Nicaea.

And now it was gone. Geoffrey felt his heart sink as he realised that the thieves would not understand the value of what they had, and would probably dump the precious tome in the river when they found books and not treasure in his luggage.

Barlow approached shyly, and offered Geoffrey the smaller of the two bags that he had gripped throughout his brush with death in the river. Geoffrey was touched, knowing how keenly Barlow had guarded it and pored over it since leaving Jerusalem.

“Which way did they leave?” he snapped, interrupting Ingram’s whining attempts to justify why he, a trained soldier armed with an impressive array of swords and knives, had failed to thwart the opportunistic thieves. Absently, Geoffrey took the bag Barlow proffered, and Barlow watched it go with sad eyes.

Ingram indicated where the robbers had gone by pointing. Slinging Barlow’s treasure over his shoulder, Geoffrey followed the path a short distance, until his eye caught something fluttering white in the breeze. With an exclamation of delight, he scooped it up. It was the Aristotle. Nearby were his saddlebags, up-ended, and the contents rifled through. His spare clothes were gone, along with a silver chalice that Tancred had given him. But his precious books were there. Carefully, he gathered them up, and repacked them before walking back to the others.