Simon Beaufort - A Head for Poisoning

“They took the silver cup?” asked Helbye sympathetically, after a brief glance in the bags.

“Yes,” said Geoffrey dismissively. “But they left my books.”

“Books!” muttered Helbye in disdain. “Never mind books! They stole that beautiful cup! Is anything else missing?”

“Just some scrolls,” said Geoffrey. “They are quite fine, but of no great value. They are in Hebrew and Arabic, and the Patriarch of Jerusalem gave them to me because he said he did not know anyone else able to read them. It is a pity they have gone, because I planned to use my spare time to translate them into Latin. I cannot think why anyone would steal them, but leave the books. This Aristotle dates back more than a century, and is priceless.”

“Is it?” asked Helbye doubtfully. “Well, I would not give much for it, and neither would anyone else I know. Will you sell it to some abbey somewhere?”

“Never,” said Geoffrey, taking it from his bag, and running his hands over the soft leather of its bindings. “It is a work of art. Just look at these decorated capitals.”

“Very pretty,” said Helbye, glancing over his shoulder. “But we should not be standing around here in the cold, with everyone soaked to the skin and robbers lurking in the area. They might be back for more, since they failed to get much from you.”

Barlow and Ingram needed no second bidding, and had their bags secured on Ingram’s still skittish mount in an instant. When Geoffrey was slower, cold hands fumbling with the slashed straps, Helbye elbowed him out of the way to do it for him. While the sergeant cursed the damage, Ingram retold the tale in which he was now outnumbered thirty to one in the contest for Geoffrey’s books. Meanwhile, Geoffrey removed his boots and poured out the water.

“Perhaps the thieves stole your foreign scrolls because they thought they might be able to sell the vellum for reuse,” suggested Barlow as he waited. “They might get a few pennies for them, if it is of good quality. It would be much more difficult to use a book so.”

Geoffrey supposed Barlow might be right, although he could not imagine that there was a thriving market in used vellum on the Welsh border. He let the matter drop, just grateful that his books were now back in his loving care.

“Do you still want my treasure now that you have most of yours back?” asked Barlow guilelessly. Geoffrey had forgotten Barlow’s generous gesture. Despite the fact that he was still angry with him and Ingram for disregarding his advice about overloading the horse and landing them in such a dangerous situation, he could not help but smile at Barlow’s transparent acquisitiveness. Barlow grinned back at him, and went to secure his returned loot on Ingram’s long-suffering horse.

Geoffrey’s saddle was beyond any repairs Helbye could effect without proper tools, but Geoffrey, shivering from the cold, decided he would be warmer walking anyway. Helbye was horrified.

“Take my saddle,” he insisted. “You cannot make an appearance at your home after twenty years leading your own horse! You are one of the most respected knights to return from the Holy Land alive! Think of appearances.”

“I do not care about appearances,” said Geoffrey tiredly. “I will take a solitary chair near a blazing fire over any glorious welcome my family might give me. Anyway, it will be dark when we arrive. They will probably be asleep and will refuse to answer the door. I might have to beg a bed from you for the night, and try again in the morning.”

“They will let you in!” said Helbye, shocked. “For one thing, they will imagine you have come laden with riches, and will want to secure your good will.”

That was certainly true, thought Geoffrey. “Then it will not matter whether I gallop into their bailey on a battle-hungry war-horse, or walk in soaking wet. My welcome will be the same.”

Helbye accepted his logic, but not happily, and mounted his own horse to follow Geoffrey along the path that led away from the river.

In front of him, Geoffrey was lost in thought. He realised he had committed several grave errors of judgment that might have cost them their lives: he should have insisted that Barlow ford the river on foot; he should have made Ingram follow the route Helbye had chosen across the water, instead of allowing him to select his own path; he should have paid heed to the dog’s barking when they had reached the far bank-it was likely the animal had sensed the presence of strangers; and he should not have abandoned his destrier to Ingram’s care while he tore off after Barlow-he was lucky he still had it. Such mistakes in the Holy Land might have been fatal. He wondered whether the dampness and cold were affecting his brain, or whether he was losing the skills he had acquired through years of painful trial and error.

Behind him, Ingram was still defensive about his passive role in the theft, while Barlow was full of curiosity as to who would have risked stealing from a knight.

“It must have been that Caerdig,” said Barlow to Ingram.

“It was not him, but he might have sent his men,” said Ingram, eager to find a culprit. “After all, he commented on our treasure while he rode with us, so he knew we had some. And he must have been aware that the ford was not safe and that we would run into difficulties crossing it.”

“The ford would have been perfectly safe, if you two had listened to Sir Geoffrey,” said Helbye. The two young soldiers exchanged furtively guilty glances.

“And of course, Caerdig has good reason for killing a Mappestone,” said Barlow a moment later, reluctant to let the subject drop. “Bearing in mind Enide and all that.”

“Barlow!” said Helbye in a low voice. “Take care what you say.”

“Sorry,” muttered Barlow, genuinely contrite.

“Ah, yes!” said Ingram, pretending not to hear Helbye’s warning. “Enide.”

Geoffrey had not been paying much attention to his men’s speculations-he was still berating himself for his poor control over them at the ford-but their curious exchange caught his interest.

“Enide?” he asked, looking round at Barlow. “My younger sister Enide?”

“We are just blathering,” said Helbye before Ingram could respond. He leaned forward to stroke his horse’s mane. “I wonder what my wife will have cooked to welcome me home.”

“Probably nothing,” said Barlow, clearly relieved to be talking about something else. “She does not know exactly when you will arrive. And who is to say that the letters Sir Geoffrey wrote ever reached her?”

“I sent her no letters,” said Helbye, his voice thick with disapproval at the very notion. “I sent word with Eudo of Rosse.”

“What were you going to say?” asked Geoffrey of Barlow, refusing to be distracted by Helbye’s clumsy attempts to side-track him. “What has Enide to do with Caerdig?”

“They were lovers,” said Ingram with relish, ignoring Helbye’s warning glower.

“Ingram! You have no proof to claim such a thing,” said Helbye angrily. “So shut up before you say something for which you will later be sorry.”

“I have proof,” said Ingram, smugly confident. “We heard all about it from a soldier at Chepstow who had spent time at Goodrich last summer.”

“That was nothing but gossip,” snapped Helbye. “How could you trust someone like that?”

“What did you hear?” asked Geoffrey, confused by the exchange.

“Caerdig wanted to marry Enide,” said Ingram quickly, before Helbye could stop him. “But her father and Ynys of Lann Martin prevented the match-”

“That is enough, Ingram!” said Helbye sharply. “This is all speculation. You have no evidence to be saying any of this.”

“Enide did have a lover,” mused Geoffrey, more to himself than to the others. “She wrote to me about him often, although she never mentioned his name. Was that who it was? Caerdig?”