Simon Beaufort - A Head for Poisoning

“So do I,” said Geoffrey fervently, drawing a wheezy chuckle from the dying man.

The morning’s squabble had left Godric exhausted, and Geoffrey sat with him for the remainder of the day to ensure he was allowed to rest in peace. He stayed in Godric’s chamber, and repelled a continuous stream of visitors who were anxious that Godric might be getting better. It was tedious work, and he began to regret his offer to stay at Goodrich until his father rallied or died.

Godric’s room was gloomy, a sensation enhanced by the dismal wall-paintings with their macabre themes. Whether the subject was hunting or battle, there were impossible volumes of blood, and Geoffrey wondered what fevered mind had produced such a testament to violence. He threw open the window shutters, for the room stank of dirty rushes, sickness, and paint, but Godric complained that he was cold, and refused to sleep until Geoffrey had closed them again.

Geoffrey grew restless, unused to such an extended period of inactivity, but found he was unable to concentrate on much-even on his precious books. The cheap tallow candles, which smoked and spat and added their own eye-watering odour to the hot room, did not provide sufficient light by which to read, and they gave him a headache. By the end of the evening, when Hedwise came to feed Godric his broth, Geoffrey felt sick and his limbs had a sluggish, aching feel in them. He supposed he must have caught a chill from his dip in the river, and went to sit near the fire, hoping the feeling would pass after a good night’s sleep.

He had already dispensed with his chain-mail-if his family attacked him as he slept, Geoffrey decided there was more advantage in being able to move quickly than encumbered with heavy armour, and anyway, it did not seem appropriate to be in a sickroom wearing full battle gear. He tugged off the boiled leather jerkin he wore for light protection, and prepared to sleep wearing shirt and leggings.

“Fetch me my scribe,” ordered Godric imperiously, as Geoffrey’s eyelids began to droop. “I wish to see him immediately.”

“What, now?” asked Geoffrey, startled awake. “It is very late. He is probably asleep.”

“Then go and wake him,” said Godric, punctuating each word as if he were talking to a child. “Do you think I pay him to doze all night? Anyway, he is probably off practising with that silly crossbow of his. He thinks I do not know how he spends his free time, but I have seen him.”

“Where will I find him?” asked Geoffrey, climbing to his feet to do his father’s bidding. “Does he sleep in the hall?”

“How should I know?” snapped Godric petulantly. “I have barely left this chamber since Christmas. How am I supposed to know who sleeps with whom in this place?”

Geoffrey suppressed an impatient response. “I will ask Walter,” he said, opening the door.

“You will do no such thing!” roared Godric with surprising force. “I do not want Walter asking questions about what I plan to do. My business is between me and Norbert, and none of my greedy whelps-including you.”

“Fine,” said Geoffrey, reminding himself that Godric was a sick man, and that grabbing him by the throat to shake some manners into him was not appropriate. “But if you do not know where Norbert might be found, and I am forbidden to ask, how am I supposed to bring him to you?”

“Insolent cur!” hissed Godric. “I leave you my manor and you repay me by acting with rank discourtesy! I have a good mind to disinherit you in favour of one of the others.”

“I will be back in a while,” said Geoffrey. Henry might have risen to Godric’s baiting, but Geoffrey would not.

He closed the door on Godric’s outrage and went down the stairs to the hall. It was late evening, and several lamps were lit, casting long shadows across the room. Walter sat near the fire with Stephen, arguing about the merit and flaws of some hunting dog or other, while Henry slouched in a corner, well away from them, honing a sword that already looked razor-sharp and refreshing himself from a large flagon of wine. Bertrada and Hedwise crouched together over a tapestry, straining their eyes in the poor light to add the stitches, while Olivier amused himself by watching them. At the far end of the room, a group of servants had gathered, and were listening to a travelling entertainer strumming softly on a rebec as he sang a sad ballad.

Geoffrey looked among them for Norbert, but the scribe was not there. Opening the door, he left the hall and stepped outside into the cracking cold of a January night. The sky was clear, and stars were blasted all over it. Geoffrey gazed up at them for a moment, recalling how different they had looked in the Holy Land. He took several deep breaths, and felt the residual queasiness that had been plaguing him most of the day begin to recede. Since he was out, he went to check on his destrier.

As he was walking, he saw a shadow flit from the stables to one of the outhouses. Curious, he followed, pushing open the door and peering inside. At first he thought the outhouse was in complete darkness, but there was a faint light coming from the far end. Clumsily tripping over discarded pieces of saddlery and a pile of broken tools, he made his way towards it.

Norbert sat at a crude table, his habitually pale face moonlike in the dim flame of the candle. But what caught Geoffrey’s attention, and what sent him starting backwards so that he almost fell, was the bow that the scribe had aimed at Geoffrey’s chest.

“Sir Geoffrey!” said Norbert, rising to his feet and lowering the weapon. “I am sorry if I alarmed you. Please come in.”

On closer inspection, Geoffrey saw that the bow was quite harmless because there was no string. Embarrassed by his dramatic response to a disabled weapon, he went to stand next to the table.

“This seems an odd item for a scribe to possess,” he said, studying the bow with the critical eye of the professional. It was a wretched thing-old and cracked-and he wondered whether the effort of re-stringing it would be worthwhile.

“I grew up around here,” said Norbert with a smile, gesturing to a box on which Geoffrey might sit. “I could shoot a bow before I could write, and was providing food for all my family by the time I was ten. That was many years ago, though, before hunting in the King’s forests was forbidden.”

“The people who live in the forest must deeply resent those laws,” said Geoffrey, thinking about Caerdig and his half-starved rabble of villagers. “Especially when food is scarce.”

“It is my main objection to the rule of King Henry,” said Norbert, nodding.

“This bow would not present much danger to his beasts,” remarked Geoffrey. He picked up an arrow that was lying on the table, noting that the wood was cheap and the balance was poor.

Norbert smiled again. “Not much danger to anyone attacking Godric’s castle, either,” he said wryly. “And this is one of the best that we have. I own a crossbow, but the winding mechanism is broken and the blacksmith says he does not know how to repair it. But even if we had the best bows England had to offer, it would do us no good, because there is no one at Goodrich who could hit a horse at twenty paces.”

“I had noticed that the guards were somewhat lacking in military skills,” admitted Geoffrey. “It surprised me, because I thought my father would be concerned that Goodrich might come under attack by all these hostile neighbours he seems to have accumulated.”

“None of those are likely to attack the castle,” said Norbert. “They might harass the odd traveller, and the likes of Caerdig of Lann Martin are always after our cattle, but our neighbours do not have the weapons, skill, courage, or stupidity to attack Goodrich directly.”