Simon Beaufort - A Head for Poisoning

“I know how,” said Stephen thoughtfully. He turned to his brothers. “It is coincidental that Ine arrived home from the Crusade so soon after Torva died, is it not? That is because Geoffrey dispatched him from Jerusalem to do his dirty work!”

As one, Walter, Bertrada, Stephen, Olivier, Hedwise and Henry cast accusing eyes towards Geoffrey. Geoffrey regarded them aghast. In the bed, Godric cackled in wheezy delight, and made no attempt to support the innocence of his newly created heir. While Geoffrey had anticipated that his home-coming would not be as pleasant as that of Barlow and Ingram, he had certainly not expected to be charged with the murder of his father. He took a deep breath, and fought against the unreasonable desire to run them all through there and then, and really provide them something with which to accuse him.

“No,” he said firmly. “I have never heard of Ine, and I most certainly do not want Goodrich. The will must be changed back to favour Walter, as it should.”

“Should it? Should it?” shouted Henry bitterly. “Well, I do not think anything of the kind!”

“Then change it to favour you,” said Geoffrey, losing patience. “I do not care one way or the other. I want nothing to do with it.”

“But Goodrich should be mine,” said Stephen. “And I do not believe I am Sigurd’s son-he would have told me if I were.”

How Godric had gone from four perfectly legitimate sons to only one within a matter of moments, defied Geoffrey’s imagination. He glanced down at his father, who was thoroughly enjoying the consternation and friction his revelations had caused.

“Norbert,” said Stephen suddenly, elbowing Walter out of the way to grab the clerk’s sleeve. “What exactly does this will say?”

Clearing his throat, Norbert began to read. “‘This is the last will and testament of Sir Godric Mappestone, lord of the manor of Goodrich, Kernebrigges, Druybruk-’”

“Druybruk?” queried Henry. “I did not know we had that.”

“There is much you do not know, little brother,” sneered Walter. “Continue Norbert.”

“‘Druybruk, Dena-’”

“Yes, yes,” said Walter, impatiently. “We know all this.”

“Well, some of us do,” added Stephen, with a malicious glance at Henry.

“‘… am in sound mind and body …’”

Bertrada gave a snort of derision.

“‘and I leave my complete estate and all my riches to my youngest son, Godfrey Mappestone, who is in the service of the Duke of Normandy in the Holy Land. The rest of my brood can go to the Devil. Signed this eighteenth day of the month of December, in the year of Our Lord 1100.’”

Stephen released Norbert’s arm, eyes glittering with savage delight. “I thought as much! He has no legitimate son called Godfrey, and certainly none in the service of the Duke of Normandy. The old fool never could remember Geoffrey’s name, and Geoffrey is now in the service of Tancred, as he told us last night. This new will means nothing at all! We can contest it!”

Geoffrey heaved a sigh of relief, grateful beyond measure that his father’s long-standing lapse of memory had at last worked to his advantage.

“No!” cried Godric angrily. “The Earl of Shrewsbury will see that my last wishes are upheld! Godfrey is a nickname, and everyone will know which son I mean to inherit.”

“Not I,” said Stephen. “I know of no Godfrey, nickname or not.”

“Nor I,” said Henry.

“Enough of this,” said Geoffrey. He could see his father was tiring, and he had no wish to spend the entire day arguing over a will that no one had any intention of honouring. “Contest the will if you like, but I relinquish all part in it. I will remain in Goodrich until Father … well …”

“Until he begins his journey to Hell,” supplied Bertrada, glaring at the sick man.

“As you will. And then I will leave you. I do not want Goodrich, and Tancred will not allow me to stay here anyway. If ever I do return to England, I will be quite happy with Rwirdin.”

“Oh, you will not like that at all,” said Walter quickly, casting a guilty glance at Olivier. “It is a miserable place all surrounded by hills and forest. When I am lord of Goodrich, I will find you something better.”

Geoffrey sighed. “Very well. But let us discuss this another time. Father is tiring. He should be allowed to rest.”

“Causing family discord is tiring,” said Bertrada icily. “Everyone seems surprised that he claims one of his family is poisoning him, but if they knew him as we do, the surprise would be that he has lived his sixty-six years without one of us trying it before.”

“That is a cruel thing for a daughter to say,” said Stephen. “What will Geoffrey think when he hears you so callously chattering about Godric’s poisoning?”

“You mean his alleged poisoning,” snapped Bertrada. “We all know he is making it up. He has a wasting sickness, and is dying of purely natural causes. He is spreading these vicious rumours about us because he loves to see us fight.”

“I am being poisoned just as surely as I lie here,” said Godric. “My physician will provide any proof that is needed. And one of you miserable dogs is responsible!”

“How?” demanded Bertrada. “Ine prepares all your food and, despite what you are trying to tell Geoffrey about Ine being bribed by one of us, you were ill when Torva prepared it, too. You are not being poisoned; you are dying because a disease is eating your innards away.”

“If you really believe what you claim, why do you not leave Goodrich?” asked Geoffrey, reluctant to continue the subject, but puzzled by Godric’s seemingly passive role in his own death.

“It is far too late now,” snapped Godric. “I am already too ill to recover.”

“But what about earlier?” persisted Geoffrey. “Why did you not leave when you first had your suspicions? It is not as if you have no other manors in which to live.”

“Two reasons, you cheeky young whelp!” hissed Godric. He was pale, and his breathing was shallow and strained. “First, Goodrich is mine, and I will not be driven out of it by some poisoner. And second, they would have followed me. They are all too frightened that one might gain an advantage over the other, and none of them dares leave my side.”

“Then perhaps you should consider bequeathing everything to the Church,” suggested Geoffrey, looking down dispassionately at the panting man in the bed. “That would put an end to all this wrangling, and give you some peace.”

“How dare you interfere!” yelled Henry, hurling himself at Geoffrey, fists at the ready. Geoffrey side-stepped him neatly, and used his brother’s momentum to send him crashing into the wall.

“Enough!” he roared as Walter and Stephen seemed about to rally to Henry’s defence. His voice was loud and angry enough to stop them in their tracks and to silence Henry’s groans. He glared round at them. “Our father-poisoned or not-is ill. Sick people’s minds often wander and cause them to say things we would rather they did not. Either accept this, or do not come to see him. Now, he is tired, and he needs to rest-or would you kill him here and now by simple exhaustion?”

From the expressions on their faces, Geoffrey could see that they would like that very much, but reason eventually prevailed, and everyone left Godric to sleep. Geoffrey helped the sick man swallow the dregs of some wine he found stored in an impressively large metal pitcher that took both hands to lift. Godric clearly wanted to talk further, but was too weary and Geoffrey had listened to more than enough accusations for one day. He straightened the bedclothes, and stood back to allow Hedwise to feed the sick man some broth.

“You want to watch her, son,” said Godric, in a hoarse whisper a little later, nodding to where Hedwise was stoking up the fire. “She has a preference for men other than her husband.”