Simon Beaufort - A Head for Poisoning

“What about that horrible fish broth Hedwise keeps feeding him?” asked Geoffrey.

“That vile stuff would be enough to poison the most robust-stomached man,” agreed Francis. “But again, I have conducted several tests using rats and birds, and there is nothing to indicate that the broth has been poisoned.”

“Well, what else is there?” asked Geoffrey. “The stuff must be getting to him somehow.”

“Most astute of you,” said Francis condescendingly. “And I have been pondering the question for months, but I can come up with no answer. Your sister Enide suffered similar symptoms several times, and we thought she was being poisoned, too. But she died of other causes, and I am still no further forward in discovering the source of Godric’s illness.”

There was a loud bang from the bench, followed by an unpleasant smell.

“Oh, damn it all!” exclaimed Francis. “I should have been concentrating, not chatting. Now I will have to start again.”

“What were you doing?” asked Geoffrey curiously, looking at the bubbling liquids and mysterious brown powders that were neatly placed along the bench.

“Making a potion to seal wounds,” said the physician. “You do not have any, do you? Only it would be good to try it out on someone.”

“No,” said Geoffrey, thinking that he would have to be at Death’s door before he allowed something capable of exploding near any injury of his. “But do you make ink? I have run out, and it is not something that is easy to buy in Goodrich.”

“I make excellent ink,” said Francis with pride. “Just ask Father Adrian. It is smooth and dries slowly, so that you can leave the lid off as you write. What colour would you like?”

“Colour?” asked Geoffrey, puzzled. “Well, black, I suppose. Or brown. I want to do some writing, not illustrating.”

“Pity,” said Francis. “I have been experimenting with red, and I would like someone to try it and tell me what they think. And I have a beautiful azure blue.”

“I want black,” said Geoffrey firmly. “If my family see me writing with all colours of the rainbow, they will consider me to have lost my wits and will lock me away.”

Francis laughed. “They might! I make paints, too. It was I who supplied the pigments for your father’s wall paintings.”

If Geoffrey had supplied the paints for Godric’s violent foray into art, he would have kept quiet about it. He smiled politely.

“Here they are,” said Francis, gesturing to several buckets of pitch-black paint. “I suppose they will never be used now. It is a pity, because they were expensive to concoct. I use only the finest compounds.”

“Such as what?” asked Geoffrey dubiously.

“Such as pitch, certain oils and refined pig grease, lead powder, various herbs to bind it. For my yellows I use saffron. For my reds I use pig’s blood.”

“Pig’s blood is not expensive,” said Geoffrey, crouching down to inspect the pots.

“No, but saffron is,” said the physician. “And I add saffron to all my colours except the blacks and the browns. I use a little of Hedwise’s famous fish sauce in those.”

“No wonder they smell so unpleasant,” said Geoffrey, standing up. The thought of Hedwise’s fish sauce made his stomach churn, and he thought he might be sick. He walked quickly outside, and took some deep breaths of fresh air.

“I told you that you looked pale,” said the physician, following him. “You should have taken the physic I offered you. What ails you?”

“Hedwise’s fish sauce,” said Geoffrey, smiling ruefully. “I have never liked fish, and it seems to feature in every meal the castle has to offer.”

“Hedwise is proud of that fish sauce,” said Francis. “And her fish broth. I am not interested in the broth, but the sauce is an excellent thickener for my paints.”

“Please,” said Geoffrey with a shudder. Although he did not like fish, he ate it if he had to, and it did not usually make him ill. He wondered what secret ingredient Hedwise added that seemed to please everyone else, but left him gagging.

Godric was asleep again by the time Geoffrey returned, and so the knight decided to go riding while he could. Olivier joined him and they cantered towards Coppet Hill again, Olivier chattering like a magpie, and boasting in ever greater detail about his role in the Battle of Civitate. He had just reached the climax when a sudden rustling from the undergrowth silenced him. Geoffrey carried a lance, and he drew it out of its holder when he heard the unmistakable snuffling of a wild boar.

Boars were large animals and could be dangerous, especially when frightened or enraged. Fortunately, the one that ambled towards them was neither, although Olivier took one look at it and sent his horse crashing blindly through the undergrowth to escape. Geoffrey and the wild boar watched the fleeing knight in bemusement, and parted to go their own ways without a blow being exchanged. The boar was more interested in the juicy roots that were growing around the base of a tree, and Geoffrey did not feel inclined to drive his lance into the contentedly foraging animal as most knights would have done.

He reached the top of the hill, and sat for a long time gazing across the rolling countryside that spread out in front of him. In the distance, he could see the dense forest and tatty rooftops of Lann Martin, while Goodrich Castle dominated the land with its great tower of grey and brown stone, and its wicked wooden palisades.

His mind wandered back to twenty years before, when he and Enide had climbed the hill together to escape the bullying attentions of their older siblings. For the first time since learning about her horrible death, Geoffrey became aware of an acute sense of loss and his stomach contracted with a dizzying sense of grief. He felt the ground tip and sway in front of him, and quickly dismounted before he fell, clutching the reins for support and trying to bring his emotions under control.

Who could have killed Enide? And why? Was it the same person who Francis the physician seemed so sure was killing Godric? Would one of his brothers or their wives really poison their father? Or was it Joan and the cowardly Olivier, desperate for more lands to pay for Olivier’s extravagant lifestyle and scrounging friends?

Eventually, the pounding in his head lessened, and he began to feel better. He mounted his horse again and set it galloping across the smooth turf of the hilltop, enjoying the sense of power and speed as he gave the beast its head. When it was spent, he reluctantly turned it around and headed towards Goodrich.

As he rode, the light drizzle turned into a persistent downpour. Hot after his exertions, Geoffrey enjoyed the feel of cool rain on his face, although he was less keen on the sensation of cold water trickling down the back of his neck as the heavy drops seeped through his armour. Julian came racing out to meet him, and flung himself into his arms. Geoffrey was startled and somewhat embarrassed.

“Whatever is the matter?” he asked, bewildered. “Julian, please! People are looking at us!”

“Olivier told me a boar had got you,” the boy sobbed. “He said it was the biggest one he had ever seen, and that it felled your horse and was mauling you. He is waiting for the rain to stop so that he can take Walter and Henry to collect your body.”

Given Olivier’s penchant for fabrication, Geoffrey supposed he should not be surprised by the tale, but it was cruel to upset a child needlessly.

“Nothing happened,” he said, gently disengaging himself. “Like Olivier himself, the boar was more interested in food than in fighting.”

Julian rubbed a hand across his face, and took the reins from Geoffrey to lead the destrier into the stables, still snuffling. Geoffrey strode across the bailey to where Olivier was watching two servants slaughter a goat.