Simon Beaufort - A Head for Poisoning

As Geoffrey walked closer, the Earl stopped laughing and affixed him with eyes that, on closer inspection, were reptilian. Geoffrey was not a man easily unsettled, and he had faced more enemies than he cared to remember, but there was something about the Earl’s beady gaze that transcended any malevolence he had encountered before. He had a sudden conviction that King Henry’s suspicion that Shrewsbury might have had a hand in the killing of William Rufus might not have been so outlandish after all.

He paused in front of the hearth and looked down at the Earl, before kneeling and rising so soon again that his obeisance was only just within the realms of courtesy. The Earl continued to regard him, and the hall was silent as everyone waited for the great man to speak.

“So,” he said eventually, tearing his eyes away from Geoffrey’s steady gaze, and looking him up and down. “You are Sir Geoffrey Mappestone, newly returned from the Crusade.” His voice was deep and powerful, and Geoffrey could well imagine it directing the many battles that he was said to have fought and won.

The Earl continued when Geoffrey did not reply. “You do not look like a knight. Where is your chain-mail?”

“I was about to retire for the night,” replied Geoffrey coolly. “I do not usually wear it to bed.”

Olivier’s imprudent laughter was silenced by a flick of the Earl’s expressionless eyes. “I see,” he said. He took a hearty swig from the goblet he held and changed the subject abruptly. “Your sister tells me your father is near his end. You have timed your return well.”

“It was not timed at all,” said Geoffrey. “And he is not as ill as everyone seems to believe.”

He was certainly not too ill to consider a romp with his whore Rohese, thought Geoffrey. He looked at the assembled people and wondered which one she was-a woman brave enough, or feeble-minded enough, to serve both Godric and Joan.

“Really?” asked the Earl in a voice so soft it was sinister. “Your brothers are not under that impression, and so I have taken the liberty of bringing my personal priest to give Sir Godric last rites.”

He snapped imperious fingers, and a fat priest slid out from the ranks of the courtly retinue to disappear up the stairs.

“Thank you,” said Geoffrey politely. “That was a kindly thought.”

The Earl looked startled. “No one has called me kindly for many years-if ever. But tell me, Sir Geoffrey, how was the looting in the Holy Land? Did you bring many items of value home with you? Might I see them?”

“He brought nothing but a sackful of books,” said Henry, spitefully gesturing to Geoffrey’s saddlebags near the Earl’s chair.

“And three Arabian daggers,” added Walter helpfully.

“Books?” asked the Earl, confused. “Whatever for? Do you intend to renounce your worldly ways and take the cowl now you are home? I understand many knights have done so.”

“Absolutely not,” said Geoffrey. “I intend to return to my lord Tancred de Hauteville in the Holy Land as soon as possible.”

“Are you asking us to believe that you have made a dangerous journey of several weeks” duration, simply so that you can turn around and go back?” asked the Earl with arched eyebrows.

“Believe what you will,” said Geoffrey, shrugging. “It is the truth.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Stephen gesturing desperately to him, urging him to be more polite, while the rest of his family appeared horrified by his disrespect to the Earl. But Geoffrey had no intention of being interrogated about his personal affairs by Shrewsbury or anyone else. If his family did not care for his attitude and threw him out of the castle, then so much the better-it would be an excellent excuse to escape the obligations imposed on him by the King, and the whole household could murder each other to their hearts” content.

“Well, you are here now,” said the Earl, sitting back in his chair, his eyes never leaving Geoffrey’s face. “So, I suppose we had better make the best of it. How would you like to join my service for a few months? I can always use a good knight.”

Geoffrey was taken aback, and he was reminded of the murders he had solved in Jerusalem, when he had been recruited to the task by more than one of the warring princes who held power there. He had vowed that he would never allow himself to be put into a similar situation again, and since he was already under orders from the King, the Earl of Shrewsbury was out of luck.

“Thank you, no,” he said, forcing himself to be civil. “I will not be in England long, and anyway, I am already in the service of Tancred de Hauteville.”

“But I was given leave to understand that you are a knight in the retinue of the Duke of Normandy,” said the Earl, looking at Stephen briefly before bringing his cold eyes back to bear on Geoffrey. “What has possessed you to abandon the Duke and flee to the service of another?”

“It was on the orders of the Duke that I went to Tancred,” said Geoffrey, nettled by the implication that his loyalties were cheap, “although I fail to see what concern that is of yours.”

The sharp intakes of breath from the Earl’s courtiers and the horrified faces of his family suggested that Geoffrey’s answer might have been less than prudent. For several moments, the Earl did nothing but stare at Geoffrey, his expression unreadable.

“I meant no offence,” the Earl said finally, although his tone was anything but conciliatory. “I asked merely because the Duke is a good friend of mine, and I always look to the interests of my friends. But we waste time here, Sir Geoffrey. I called you to me for two reasons. First, so that I could see you and make my own assessment of Godric’s youngest son. And second, so that you could make reparation to me for the nasty nip I have suffered from that evil beast you call a dog.”

Geoffrey’s heart sank, and he looked around for the animal.

“Have no fear,” said the Earl. “I have not ordered it to be dispatched. Yet. But what have you to offer me in recompense for my wound, other than books, of course?”

“Just advice,” said Geoffrey, as determined that the Earl should not intimidate him into offering compensation as the Earl was to have it. “Dogs bite. Stay away from them.”

This time, there were no sharp intakes of breath: Geoffrey had gone too far. Blood drained from the Earl’s face as he rose from his chair, his big body taut with anger. He advanced on Geoffrey, his thick fingers resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. Geoffrey cursed himself for dispensing with his chain-mail and weapons. He was never without them while out on patrols, and the situation at Goodrich ever since he had arrived was every bit as dangerous as was chasing Saracens in the desert. He did not back away as the Earl drew nearer, but he was tense, ready to leap to one side if the Earl were to haul his gigantic broadsword from his belt.

“What about one of these Arabian daggers, my lord?” asked Walter hastily, hauling them from Geoffrey’s saddlebags. Once out, he eyed them dubiously. “What peculiar-looking things!”

The Earl had been close enough to treat Geoffrey to wafts of his bad breath but, intrigued by the puzzlement in Walter’s voice, he turned abruptly to inspect the daggers. Geoffrey forced himself to breathe normally, and looked around quickly to assess which of the Earl’s assortment of knights and squires he might most easily overpower to grab a weapon. Olivier’s two friends, Malger and Drogo, were present. Malger appeared amused by Geoffrey’s behaviour, but Drogo was clearly outraged. Neither of them would present an easy target, but nearby was a scrawny clerk who carried a handsome sword at his side. Geoffrey edged closer to him, surreptitiously looking for any buckles that might interfere with his snatching of it.