Simon Beaufort - A Head for Poisoning

“It was a falling sickness,” proclaimed Francis, with pompous confidence. “I have never seen an attack of this nature that has not been fatal. I doubt she knew much about it once it had started.”

“She looked scared to death to me,” said Sir Godric, looking down at his dead daughter-in-law. “Do not try to tell me she did not know what was happening to her, Francis.”

The physician frowned petulantly, not pleased at being contradicted in front of the whole village. “Well, at least I can offer you one comforting thought: there are few in this parish who could benefit more from dying on consecrated ground than Lady Pernel.”

“That is certainly true!” muttered Godric. “The lovely Pernel certainly led my son Stephen a merry dance while she was his wife. He will be well rid of her!”

Enide cast him a withering look for his lack of tact-no matter what Godric thought of his daughter-in-law’s behaviour towards his son, it was not appropriate to discuss it over her corpse in front of the entire village. Oblivious to her displeasure, Godric strode away to shout for servants to take Pernel’s body back to the castle. The others stood in an uncertain circle around the corpse, unsettled by the sudden appearance of Death among them.

“The physician is right,” said Adrian in a low voice to Enide. “Lady Pernel did not exactly lead a blameless life, and she may well benefit from breathing her last on sacred ground.”

“Really, Father!” exclaimed Sir Olivier, overhearing. “You slander my sister-in-law’s good name with such assertions.”

“What good name?” muttered Tom Ingram to the assembled villagers. “She was a devil! God took her because she had no right to set her wicked feet in His holy place!”

There were murmurs of agreement from the watching crowd, and even Pernel’s two sisters-in-law seemed disinclined to argue with the sentiment. Sir Olivier spluttered with indignation, but Joan placed a restraining hand on his arm, and he said nothing more. Deciding not to wait for the servants to bring a bier, Malger lifted the body from the ground, and began to carry it to the castle. Enide, Olivier, and Joan followed in silence, and the villagers watched them go.

“I would exorcise this graveyard if I were you, Father,” said Tom Ingram sagely. “The Devil has just entered it to snatch away his own!”

2 AUGUST 1100

NEW FOREST, ENGLAND

The men walked into the forest clearing, and looked around them appraisingly. The glade was a long, grassy expanse of bog and meadow fringed on all sides by a thick wall of trees. The King nodded his approval to the chief huntsman, and the man slipped away to indicate to the beaters that the hunt was to begin. The King and his companions separated, each searching for the best vantage point from which he would be able to shoot his arrows at the animals that would soon be driven towards him. The King selected a spot in the woods to the east, while his companions moved towards the marshy area in the south. Walter Tirel, Count of Poix and friend of the monarch, was surprised by the King’s choice: the setting sun was slanting into the clearing, and he would be squinting into it as he took aim.

But the King’s position was no business of his, so Tirel eased himself back into the scrubby bushes at the edge of the marsh and waited. After a while, the noise of the beaters began-yells and whistles and the crackle of sticks against undergrowth as men swept through the forest in a great arc, driving deer, hares, and birds towards the men who waited. Tirel inched farther back, not wanting the animals to catch sight of his red tunic and run away from him. He sighed, and turned his face to the warmth of the fading sun. It was pleasant to be out in the forest after a day of doing nothing indoors. The ancient trees were a brilliant green, shimmering in the heat of the late afternoon. Around him droned the buzz of marsh insects, audible even over the shouts of the beaters and the baying of excited dogs.

On the other side of the clearing, the King waited in eager anticipation, heart thumping with the excitement that hunting always brought to him. An arrow was already nocked in his bow, and wanted only to be drawn and aimed before it sped towards its quarry. He screwed up his eyes against the sun, and scanned the bank of trees to his right as the sounds of the beaters drew nearer. At any moment now, the beasts of the forest would begin to emerge. A few birds would come first, flapping the air in panic, feathers spiralling downwards as they flew to safety. But the King was not interested in birds. He had a household to feed, and nothing short of a stag would suffice.

A sudden frantic rustling in a tree nearby told him that a pheasant had taken flight. Not long now. The howling of the dogs was close, and he thought he could glimpse one of the beaters off to the right. And then a deer burst out of the trees. The King’s fingers tightened on the bow, and he began to draw the string back. He took his eyes off the deer for an instant, just long enough to see Tirel acknowledge that the deer was his. Meanwhile, a second stag had broken through the forest into the clearing. Tirel would get it, the King thought with confidence; the Count of Poix was, after all, one of the best shots at court.

The King’s arrow sped towards the fleeing deer, and he immediately began to fumble for another quarrel. He swore to himself as the animal changed direction suddenly, and his arrow fell harmlessly to one side. He ran forward a few paces, and dropped to one knee to fire again. The sun was slanting directly into his eyes, making it difficult to see, let alone aim. Beyond the deer, the King had a fleeting impression of a man, silhouetted against the red-gold light, but then his whole attention was taken by the approaching deer.

The second arrow was never loosed. Startled, the King felt something hit him in the chest. What was it? A stone kicked up by the terrified stag? Then he found he could not breathe, and the strength ebbed suddenly from his legs. He pitched forward, his world darkening as he did so. As he toppled, he felt something drive farther into his chest, and then nothing.

The deer bolted across the clearing and disappeared into the thicket of trees on the other side. Tirel’s stag, bleeding from a slight graze across its back, followed. After the animals had gone, the beaters emerged into the glade, moving cautiously, because it would not be the first time that one of them had been mistaken for game and shot in the thrill of the chase. But there was no one to be seen. Puzzled, they inched forward, calling out halfheartedly for the courtly hunters, and taking aimless swipes at the long grass with their sticks. The chief huntsman pushed past them and strode towards a flutter of yellow that he glimpsed to one side. He stopped short, and turned to the bewildered beaters, his face suddenly bloodless with shock.

“The King!” he whispered, aghast. “The King is dead!”

There were bemused glances and exclamations of disbelief, and then the other nobles in the royal hunting party began to gather, peering down at the huddled corpse of the King that lay sprawled under an oak tree. For shocked moments, there was nothing but a chaotic babble of voices, asking questions that no one could answer, and looking from one to the other with a mixture of fear and horror. Then the sound of horses” hooves caught their attention.

“That is Tirel!” cried one, pointing to where a lone horseman thundered down one of the forest tracks away from them.

“And that is Prince Henry!” exclaimed another, pointing to where the King’s younger brother and two of his closest companions galloped in the opposite direction.

“But his brother lies dead!” whispered Robert fitz-Hamon, the King’s oldest and most trusted friend, appalled. “How can he just abandon the body like that?”