Simon Beaufort - A Head for Poisoning

As it turned out, it was Geoffrey who did most of the talking, entertaining-and at the same time disappointing-his father with tales from the Crusade.

“It seems to me that you have fallen in with the wrong crowd, Godfrey,” his father mused in some disgust that evening. “You say this Tancred of yours actually tried to protect those people on the Dome of the Rock? It was lucky that the Duke of Normandy and Bohemond and the others were not so womanly, or the whole Crusade might have turned back before it reached Constantinople.”

Geoffrey was not sure if that would have been such a bad thing. He was about to say so when the door burst open and Walter strolled in, Bertrada and Olivier at his heels. Behind them were Stephen and Hedwise, walking rather more closely together than was usual for a man and a woman not married to each other. Walter made himself comfortable by the fire, while the others clustered around the bed, eyeing Godric speculatively, assessing whether the old man was continuing his remorseless decline in health, or whether the worst had happened and he was rallying. Godric eased himself up onto his elbows, simultaneously gratified by and uncomfortable with the attention.

“What do you lot want, and what is all that racket?” he complained, as through the window came the sounds of shouting from the courtyard below, mingled with the snorting of horses and the jangle of weapons. Walter threw open the shutters and leaned out.

“It is the Earl of Shrewsbury!” he exclaimed in surprise. “What is he doing here?”

Everyone looked at Olivier. “His visit has nothing to do with me,” said the small knight defensively.

“Joan,” said Walter heavily, still peering out of the window. “Joan is with him. She must have told him that Godric was near his end. Is that true Olivier?”

“It is nothing to do with me,” the small knight repeated, playing with the hilt of a highly decorated dagger with which Geoffrey would not have deigned to peel fruit, let alone carry at his side. “But Godric was very ill when she left a week ago. I imagine she thought he had not long for this world.”

“But Godric seems to have rallied somewhat now,” said Bertrada, looking hard at Geoffrey, her tone suggesting that this was not good tidings.

“I suppose the Earl has brought the copy of this wretched new will of Godric’s,” said Walter. He pursed his lips, and looked at Geoffrey. “Are you sure you did not send for him?”

“I most certainly did not,” said Geoffrey.

The Earl of Shrewsbury was one of the last people Geoffrey would invite anywhere. If the King were sufficiently worried to recruit Geoffrey to ensure that the Earl was kept away from Godric’s inheritance, then Geoffrey would just as soon not meet the Earl at all.

Godric’s eyes gleamed in anticipation of recriminations and arguments to come. “You had better attend to Shrewsbury, then,” he said to Walter. “And send Rohese to me.”

Walter opened the door, and held it open for Geoffrey to precede him.

“Not a chance,” said Geoffrey, sitting near the fire. “The black-hearted Earl is your guest, not mine. I will stay here and ensure that father rests.”

Stephen walked towards the door, and there was an almost comical jostle as he and Walter tried to be the first one out to greet the Earl. The others followed, leaving Geoffrey alone with Godric.

It was not long before laughter and other sounds of gaiety drifted up from the hall, as the Earl and his retinue were treated to a welcome quite different to the one Geoffrey had received. A sound from the doorway caused Geoffrey to glance up from where he was helping Godric to sip some of his strong red wine. A woman stood just outside the door, beckoning to him. Reluctantly, Geoffrey went to see what she wanted.

“I see your taste in clothes has not improved since I last saw you,” she said, putting her hands on her hips and surveying his borrowed hose and shirt with some amusement. “You always were a ruffian.”

“Joan?” Geoffrey asked, subjecting his older sister to the same meticulous attention as she had given him. Her thick, curly brown hair was dusted with silver, and her slender figure had thickened since she had reached her forties. But she still possessed the restless energy that Geoffrey remembered, and the hard lines around her mouth suggested that time had honed, rather than softened, her domineering tendencies. He had entertained hopes that he might fare better with Joan than with his brothers in terms of civility, but such rashly held fantasies were rapidly dismissed.

“Of course I am Joan,” she retorted. “Who else is left, bird-brain? You have met our esteemed sisters-in-law Bertrada and Hedwise, and surely even you can see that I am not Enide risen from the grave!”

Geoffrey winced. For the first time since he had met him, Geoffrey felt sorry for Sir Olivier.

“Where is Rohese?” came a querulous voice from the bed.

“She will be with you as soon as she has warmed herself from the journey,” called Joan. “And before you say it, she will do better by the fire than tumbling about in this chilly hole with you.” She cast a disparaging glance around at Godric’s room and shuddered. “This place reminds me of a whore-house!”

“Well, you should know!” shouted Godric furiously. Joan threw him a contemptuous glower, and began to walk down the stairs.

“The Earl of Shrewsbury has ordered that you attend him in the hall,” she said over her shoulder to Geoffrey as she left.

“Then the Earl of Shrewsbury can go to the Devil,” retorted Geoffrey. “I am not his vassal, especially since Walter seems to have used my manor of Rwirdin to secure Olivier d’Alencon for you.”

Joan paused and glared at him. “You should have been here, then, if you wanted Rwirdin so much. You cannot cheerfully leave our father and poor Walter to run your estate for you, and then swan back and demand it on whim.”

“Their stewardship of my manor has made a good deal of money for our father and poor Walter,” said Geoffrey acidly. “I do not think you will hear them complain.”

“Well, Rwirdin is mine now and you cannot have it back,” said Joan in a tone that suggested that, as far as she was concerned, the topic was laid to rest for good. “Now, do not be foolish and make an enemy of the Earl. He is waiting for you.”

“Then he can wait,” said Geoffrey, walking back into his father’s chamber. “I do not care if I make an enemy of the Earl or not-I do not plan to be here long enough for that to matter.”

Joan stamped back up the stairs. “Do not be stupid, man! Do you know nothing of the Earl and his reputation?”

“Enough to know I do not want him as any acquaintance of mine,” said Geoffrey. “So, you can tell him to take his orders and-”

“Sweet Jesus, Geoffrey!” whispered Joan, casting an anxious glance back towards the stairs. “Do not play with fire in our house! If you will not come for yourself, then come for your family. We have no wish to draw his wrath down upon us!”

“I did not invite him here, you did,” said Geoffrey, as Stephen appeared behind Joan.

“What is keeping you?” Stephen demanded of Geoffrey. “The Earl is becoming impatient. Not only that, but your dog has just bitten him. You had better come and explain its foreign manners before he has it run through.”

Reluctantly, Geoffrey followed his brother and sister down the stairs, and his resolve to leave Goodrich as soon as possible strengthened with each step. At the far end of the hall, seated comfortably in front of a blazing hearth was Robert de Belleme, the Earl of Shrewsbury, laughing loudly at some anecdote that Olivier was telling him-probably his bold encounter with the wild boar. Despite his reticence, Geoffrey was interested to see in the flesh the man whom much of England and Normandy held in such fear. He was not disappointed. Geoffrey was a tall man, but the Earl was immense. Even seated, he dominated the hall. Falling to his shoulders was a mane of sparse grey-black hair, and his eyes were like tiny pieces of jet in his big, red face.