Simon Beaufort - A Head for Poisoning

The bitten man nodded slowly. “Perhaps I can mate him with one of my bitches. His kind of aggression would be good for the dogs we use to patrol our boundaries. I am willing to wager that your hound is an excellent guard.”

“Not really,” said Geoffrey, uneasy at the notion of his savage dog being let loose on potentially valuable animals. “He only bites people he does not fear, and he flees at the first sign of trouble. He even-”

He had been about to say it had even fled when Caerdig had ambushed them, but then remembered his resolve to say nothing until he had discovered more about who might have killed Sir Aumary.

“He even what?” asked the balding man, curious.

“What happened to Enide?” Geoffrey asked abruptly, ignoring the question. “No one told me the details. I only know that she died.”

There were some covert glances. “We will tell you what you want to know tomorrow,” said Bertrada, standing quickly. “You have journeyed from Jerusalem to England and that is a long way, Geoffrey. I am sure you are weary.”

“I have not travelled the entire distance today,” said Geoffrey, not needing to be told that the mileage he had covered was considerable. “And I would like to know about Enide now.”

“That is perfectly understandable,” said Olivier gently. “But it is a sad tale, and one that would better be told in the morning, when you are rested.”

Geoffrey made a sound of exasperation, and came to his feet fast. As one, his family took several steps backwards. He regarded them in puzzlement. Were they nervous because they were guilty of something, or because the presence of an armoured, potentially hostile Crusader knight in their hall was something that would make most people less than easy?

Henry released a malicious burst of laughter. “You are all afraid of him! Well, I am not too timid to tell him what he wants to know. Enide was murdered by two poachers, brother. I caught them in the forest. They confessed to her killing, and I hanged them. And that was that.”

“Are you certain these poachers were the culprits?” asked Geoffrey doubtfully. “What was their motive for killing Enide?”

“What do you think?” Henry sneered. “Enide was an attractive woman, and she was out alone early one morning to attend mass. When they had finished with her, they cleaved her head from her shoulders.”

“But if their intention was rape, why did they kill her?” pressed Geoffrey. “And why in that manner? It is not a common mode of murder.”

“I am not familiar with the way criminals think,” said Henry coldly. “So I could not say. What does it matter anyway? The poachers killed her and they died for it.”

“We suspected that Caerdig of Lann Martin might have been responsible at first,” said the bitten man casually, as though he were discussing the weather and not the callous murder of Geoffrey’s favourite sister. “We thought he might have hired the poachers to kill Enide. He had been asking to marry Enide in a feeble attempt to use her to protect his miserable estates, you see.”

“Those ‘miserable estates’ should have been mine,” snapped Henry, turning on him. “It galls me to see a snivelling coward like Caerdig trying to run them. Our mother left me Lann Martin, just as she left Geoffrey the manor of Rwirdin.”

“But Lann Martin was not hers to leave,” reasoned Olivier gently. “The arrangement that was signed by Ynys and Sir Godric all those years ago said that it would only revert to you if Ynys named no heir. And Ynys made it very clear that he wanted his nephew Caerdig to succeed him.”

“Did he now?” demanded Henry, taking a few menacing steps towards Sir Olivier, who immediately retreated behind Bertrada. “It is easy for you to dismiss my rights so glibly. You would not be so smug if it were Rwirdin that Caerdig stole. That is why you married Joan, is it not?”

Olivier opened his mouth to speak, but he hesitated and his chance to respond was gone.

“If Joan had married Caerdig when he asked, none of this would have happened,” said the woman with the golden hair who had tried to restrain Henry earlier. “It is Joan’s fault that Henry lost Lann Martin and that Geoffrey has lost Rwirdin.”

“Did Caerdig ask Joan to marry him, as well as Enide?” asked Geoffrey, bewildered by the mass of information that was coming to him in disconnected bursts.

The bitten man nodded. “Joan first, then Enide. He was determined to have peace at any cost. Personally, I would prefer a state of perpetual war to marriage with either of those two!”

“Was Caerdig Enide’s lover?” asked Geoffrey before he could stop himself. He realised too late that it was not a prudent question to ask out of the blue.

The bitten man did not seem surprised or offended by the enquiry, however. He mused for a moment. “It is possible, I suppose, although I would have thought it unlikely. Enide had better taste than to take Caerdig to her bed-he always smells of leeks!”

“Are you satisfied that Henry killed the right men for her murder?” asked Geoffrey of the bitten man, as the others started to argue among themselves about whether Enide was or was not sufficiently desperate to succumb to the rough attentions of the leek-scented Caerdig.

The bitten man shrugged. “They confessed to the crime.”

“Yes, they confessed!” shouted Henry, pushing Bertrada out of the way as he stormed over to where Geoffrey stood. “Do you think I would have extracted vengeance from innocent men?”

Geoffrey said nothing.

“Enough of this!” said Bertrada firmly, as she grabbed a table to regain her balance after Henry’s rough passage. “The events surrounding Enide’s death were dreadful, but they are all over. Let us talk of more pleasant things tonight.”

“Caerdig, of course, spread rumours that one of us was responsible,” said the bitten man, ignoring her. “But they fizzled out once Henry had hanged the poachers.”

“Enough!” shrieked Bertrada.

Her voice shrilled through the hall, and silenced even Henry, who had been about to add something else. She gave Geoffrey a hefty shove in the chest to make him sit again, and fought to bring her temper under control.

“There is something else I would like to know,” said Geoffrey. Bertrada glowered at him. “I am sorry, but it has been a long time, and I do not know who most of you are. Henry I recognise, but …” He stopped and shrugged.

The balding man smiled. “Of course. And you, too, are unfamiliar to us, although you look so much like Enide that no one could ever doubt who you are. However, you have changed from the boy we saw off to Normandy twenty years ago.”

He paused and studied Geoffrey carefully, so that it was obvious that he regretted his comment about family likeness, because he realised it had lost him the opportunity to disclaim Geoffrey as an impostor. Evidently, the others thought the same, for Geoffrey suddenly found himself the object of some intensive scrutiny.

“You have changed,” said the bitten man, eyeing him speculatively.

“Do not try to fool yourselves,” said Henry heavily. “It is obvious he is exactly who he claims. Look at his eyes-it is Enide staring at you! And on his chin is that small scar I made with Walter’s sword when we were young.”

There were reluctant murmurs of agreement, and then Bertrada began with the introductions.

“I am Bertrada, and this is Walter-my husband and your oldest brother.”

She indicated the balding man with a wave of her hand, and continued.

“Joan is away at the moment, but we are expecting her back in a few days. Her husband is Sir Olivier d’Alencon.”

Geoffrey rose to return the bow that served more to display Olivier’s courtly manners than civility to his visitor.