Simon Beaufort - A Head for Poisoning

“Olivier is a kinsman of the Earl of Shrewsbury, and so we are deeply honoured to have him in our family.”

Bertrada’s tone of voice was odd, and Geoffrey looked at her sharply, detecting undercurrents that he did not yet understand. But he certainly understood her reference to the Earl of Shrewsbury. It seemed that he could go nowhere without encountering reference to the infamous baron.

“I trained under the Earl,” said Olivier, not quite nonchalantly enough to prevent him from sounding boastful. “I entered his service when I was fifteen, and was a knight by the time I was twenty-which you will know is very young. The Earl taught me everything I know.”

Geoffrey thought this was nothing to be proud of, given the fact that Shrewsbury was not noted for his chivalry or his attention to the other knightly arts. Uncharitably, Geoffrey wondered how much Olivier’s knighthood had cost him, for he was certain that the chicken-hearted man whom he had encountered outside could never have lasted long in any serious battle.

As if sensing his reservations, Olivier set out to prove him wrong, reciting a list of his military successes. Geoffrey listened with growing astonishment, until Olivier mentioned his leading role in the Battle of Civitate. Geoffrey was no military historian, but he knew about the battle in which Tancred’s ancestors had captured Pope Leo IX, and he also knew it had taken place almost fifty years before. If Olivier had even been born then, he would have been little more than a babe in arms.

“I see,” said Geoffrey, somewhat at a loss for words after Olivier had described in detail the way in which he had pitted his few loyal troops against the superior numbers of the enemy. Olivier’s eyes gleamed with fervour, and Geoffrey wondered whether he might have misheard. “The Battle of Civitate, you say?” he asked, to be certain.

“The very same,” said Olivier proudly. “It was I who captured that crafty old Pope and flung him into my deepest dungeon. I kept him there for years.”

“Really?” queried Geoffrey lightly. He wondered whether Olivier thought he was a half-wit to be mislead by impossible stories, or whether the small knight was trying to test his intelligence in some bizarre manner. “But I understood that Pope Leo was released as soon as he had renounced his holy war against the de Hautevilles.”

Olivier shot him an unpleasant look at this contradiction. “Quite so. But he was in my dungeon first. And of course, I was at the Battle of Elgin, when King Duncan was slain …”

Since that battle occurred sixty years before, Geoffrey began to doubt whether Olivier was in complete control of his faculties.

“I could teach you Crusaders a thing or two. And then there was the battle of-”

“You could talk about your victories all night, Sir Olivier,” said Bertrada smoothly. “But you should save something with which to entertain Geoffrey tomorrow.” She turned to Geoffrey. “Now, you say you remember Henry, but this is his wife Hedwise, whom you have never met.”

The golden-haired Hedwise stepped forward, smiling with the face of an angel, although her eyes held an unmistakable glint of something far from seraphic. “Henry has told me a lot about you.”

Geoffrey was sure he had. He bowed politely over her proffered hand, but was discomfited when she clutched his fingers and refused to let go. On the opposite side of the room, Henry rose to his feet at the ambiguous gesture, and Geoffrey was uncertain whether to snatch his hand away, or to leave it where it was. For once, the dog proved it could be of occasional value, and came to his rescue by sniffing around her gown and then beginning to raise its back leg. Hastily, Hedwise abandoned Geoffrey and moved away.

“That is an extraordinary animal,” observed the bitten man in some admiration. “Although you have all but ruined it. Have you not trained it at all?”

“And this is Stephen, your middle brother,” said Bertrada flatly, indicating him with a dismissive flap of her hand. “As you may have guessed, his main interest in life is dogs.”

It was clear to Geoffrey that Bertrada’s introduction was intended to be offensive to Stephen, although Stephen did not seem to resent it. He gave Geoffrey a conspiratorial grin, and slapped him on the shoulder in a friendly fashion. He did not look in the least bit like the gangling eighteen-year-old Geoffrey remembered. He was tall, although he lacked the bulk of Henry and Walter, and his reddish hair was cut very short under his cap, so that he looked like the soldiers who had been shorn after an outbreak of ringworm at the Citadel in Jerusalem. And, since Henry and Bertrada had wives, Geoffrey assumed it must have been Stephen’s spouse who had died the previous year, and whose name the Mappestone scribe had not bothered to mention in the letter he had sent to the Holy Land.

Stephen knelt, and earned the immediate affection of the dog by handing it something brown and nasty looking from his pocket. Seeing the dog’s attentions were occupied, Hedwise stepped forward again, oblivious or uncaring of Henry’s resentful stare.

“Henry and I were married five years ago,” she said. “We already have one heir, and we are hoping another is on the way.” She patted her stomach meaningfully.

Heir to what? thought Geoffrey. As a third son, Henry’s chances of inheriting anything of value from his father were virtually negligible-only slightly better than Geoffrey’s.

“Hedwise. Is that a Saxon name?” he asked, searching about for a subject that would not be contentious.

“Yes, it is!” spat Henry, striding forward and dragging Hedwise away from Geoffrey. “And we are proud of our Saxon heritage!”

“You are a Norman, Henry,” said Walter with a weariness that suggested this was not the first time the subject had been raised. “Being born in England rather than Normandy changes nothing.”

“That is not the opinion of our King!” said Henry, standing with his legs astride and his arms folded. “And if anyone claims different, I will reveal him as a traitor!”

Geoffrey looked from Henry to Walter in bewilderment. So much for his choice of a frictionless subject. Stephen shook his head and sighed, and continued the dangerous business of tickling the dog’s stomach.

“Let us not discuss Saxons and Normans tonight either,” said Bertrada grimly. “Perhaps Geoffrey will tell us about the Crusades …”

“Why should we not discuss my heritage now?” demanded Henry. “Is it just because he has deigned to grace us with his presence, just as Godric is about to die? Well, I for one do not care! None of us asked him here, and none of us want him, despite the way the rest of you are fawning around him.” He swung round to Geoffrey. “This manor is rightfully mine, and I mean to have it-whatever I need to do to get it!”

Geoffrey studied him thoughtfully. And did that include poisoning their father, he wondered.

Geoffrey yawned as he sat in the great wooden chair near the fireplace, and wished he were anywhere but at Goodrich Castle. Next to him, Walter and Stephen perched on stools and stretched their hands towards the flames in the hearth, while Bertrada and Hedwise affected attitudes of boredom.

“I will have Goodrich!” Henry declared as he paced back and forth, fuelling his anger by repeated swigs from the wine that he carried in a stained skin tied to his belt.

“How?” asked Geoffrey, genuinely curious to know why his brother thought he would stand even the remotest chance of inheriting Goodrich over his two older brothers and Joan.

“Walter was born in Normandy, as were Joan and Stephen. I was the first to be born here and, by rights, this English manor is mine! The King himself laid claim to the English throne on exactly the same …” He paused, struggling to find the correct word.