Simon Beaufort - A Head for Poisoning

“Why not?” asked Olivier, looking over Bertrada’s shoulder. “It is a pretty enough thing. Some woman might like it for her boudoir, or perhaps a wealthy monk might buy it.”

“Well, I would not give good money for it,” said Walter, watching as Bertrada handed it to Hedwise to see. “I do not see the point of owning such a thing, even if the covers are nice.”

“Not just the covers,” said Geoffrey, although he knew he was fighting a battle that was already lost. “Look at the quality of the illustrations and the writing. It must have taken years for someone to produce such a masterpiece.”

“What a waste of a life,” muttered Walter. “He would have been better breeding sheep out in the fresh air, not cooped up in some dingy cell all his days.”

“It is beautiful, Geoffrey,” said Hedwise softly, touching one of the illustrations with the tip of a delicately tapering finger. “I can see why you cherish such a thing.”

Henry looked at her sharply and then tore the book from her hands when she returned Geoffrey’s smile. Geoffrey’s quick reactions snatched the precious book from the air as it sailed towards the fire. He replaced it in his saddlebag, and slowly rose to his feet. Henry took several steps backwards, and Geoffrey was gratified that even the simple act of standing could unsettle his belligerent brother.

However, once Geoffrey had demonstrated that he was going to make no one rich, his family lost interest in him, and he was abandoned to fend for himself when everyone else went to bed. He took some logs from a pile near the hearth, and set about building up the fire. He hauled his surcoat over his head and set it where it might dry, but when he came to unbuckle his chain-mail, he hesitated, recalling Henry’s glittering hatred.

Easing himself inside the hearth, as close to the fire as possible, Geoffrey settled down to sleep, resting his back against the wall with his dagger unsheathed by his hand. Perhaps Henry would not risk murdering his brother as he slept, but Geoffrey was not prepared to gamble on it. His chain-mail remained in place.

When a rustle of rushes brought him to his feet in a fighting stance with his knife at the ready, it was morning, and pale sunlight slanted in through the open shutters.

“And good morning to you, too, brother,” said Walter, jumping away from the weapon’s reach. “Tomorrow, you can fetch your own breakfast!”

He handed Geoffrey a beaker and a bowl of something grey. Geoffrey was about to thank him, when the sound of shouting came from one of the chambers above. Walter made a sound of impatience.

“That is Stephen,” he said. “He will wake Godric if he carries on so.”

The shouting was followed by a clatter of footsteps on the stairs, and Stephen emerged into the hall.

“Come quickly!” he yelled. “Godric is breathing his last!”

At Stephen’s words, there was a concerted rush to the staircase, Bertrada jostling Hedwise as they vied for first place. And then the hall was silent again, except for the muffled thump of footsteps on the wooden ceiling above, and the occasional hiss of collapsing wood in the fire. Geoffrey sat on a stool and stretched his hands out to the glowing embers.

“You should come, too, Geoffrey,” said Stephen, walking down the hall towards him. “I know Godric would like to see you before he dies. He has always liked you better than the rest of us.”

“If he ever said that, it was only because I was not here,” said Geoffrey wryly. “He does not usually even remember my name.”

Stephen smiled. “But you wanted to see him. Come now, or you might find your journey was in vain.”

Geoffrey followed his brother towards the stairs. On the way up, they met Hedwise, who was descending.

“You are too late,” she said, without the merest trace of grief. “He is already dead. You called us too late, Stephen.”

“He cannot be dead yet,” said Stephen, startled. “You must be mistaken! He spoke to me only moments ago. I told him Geoffrey was back and he grinned at me. Then he informed me he thought his end was near and that I should fetch everyone. He cannot have slipped away so fast!”

He ran ahead of Geoffrey and disappeared into a chamber on the uppermost floor. Geoffrey followed more slowly, pausing to glance through a door at the tiny chamber in the thickness of the wall, which he had once shared with Walter, Henry, and Stephen. It now seemed to be Walter and Bertrada’s room, with plain, dirty walls and an unpleasant, all-pervading odour of stale clothes.

He reached his father’s bedchamber and poked his head around the door, just in time to see Walter pulling at a ring on the dead man’s finger. On the other side, Bertrada was rifling through the corpse’s clothes, while Henry, Stephen, and Olivier watched them like hawks. When they saw Geoffrey, Walter turned his tugging into a clumsy attempt to lay out the body, while Bertrada pretended to be straightening the covers.

“As a mark of respect, you might consider waiting a little while before you plunder his body,” said Geoffrey, unable to stop himself. Although he had seen many acts of greed during the Crusades, most men-even knights-were not usually so ruthless with their kinsmen.

“You would think that.” Henry sneered. “You who could not even loot a city properly! Where is that dagger of Godric’s, Stephen-the one he claims the Conqueror gave him?”

“If I knew, I would not tell you,” said Stephen. “He always said that I should have that.”

“Rubbish!” said Walter, abandoning his pretence of laying out the body, and beginning to haul at the ring again. “The dagger should be mine because I am his eldest son. Look in that chest, Bertrada. It will be in there.”

“It is not,” said Stephen. “Believe me, I have checked. The old goat has hidden it somewhere, so that none of us will be able to find it.”

“Do you mean that thin, worn thing he used at the dining table?” asked Olivier disdainfully. “Why would any of you want that?”

“The hilt is silver,” explained Henry. “It can be melted down and made into something else.”

Geoffrey looked around the room, surprised at the changes in it since he had last been there. Gone were the practical whitewashed walls, and in their place were dark-coloured paintings depicting gruesome hunting scenes and improbably gory battles. There were soft rugs on the floor where there had once been plain wood, and the pile of smelly furs had been exchanged for a large bed heaped with multi-hued covers. He imagined that his military-minded father must have softened indeed to substitute his functional quarters for a room that reminded Geoffrey of the Holy Land brothels.

“There are a great many things to do now,” said Olivier, edging towards the door. “I must inform the Earl of Shrewsbury that Sir Godric Mappestone is dead.”

“You are going nowhere,” said Walter, abandoning his father’s hand, and leaping across the room to slam the door closed as Olivier reached it. Henry bounced over the bed, uncaring for the corpse that lay on it, and took up pulling at the ring where Walter had left off.

Walter glared at Olivier. “You will stay here until I have secured my hold on the manor. I do not want you running off to the Earl of Shrewsbury until I am ready.”

“I only want to inform him about this sad death,” protested Olivier in hurt tones. “And he must be told quickly, because the will is contested and he is your overlord. You might think that you are due to inherit, Walter, but remember what we discovered only last summer-that there is some question regarding your legitimacy. If that is true, then my wife Joan is the next in line, and although it is unusual to inherit through the female line, it is not unknown.”