Simon Beaufort - A Head for Poisoning

He pulled his surcoat tighter around him against the cold, and listened to the sounds of Olivier’s noisy search for Rohese in all manner of improbable places. A picture of the Earl’s face swam before him, the dark face twisted with loathing, so that Geoffrey felt disinclined to sleep, although he was bone weary. In the end, he rose and moved the chest from the end of the bed against the door, reeling from a sudden wave of dizziness as he did so. Satisfied that anyone trying to enter the room would now make sufficient noise to waken him, he slipped into a deep sleep.

‘What have you done? How could you? Are you some kind of monster to do such a vile thing under your father’s own roof?”

Geoffrey was vaguely aware of strident voices, and of someone prodding him hard with the toe of a boot. The shouting seemed very distant, and he was certain it could have nothing to do with him. He settled back to sleep again.

“Oh, no you don’t! Come on! Wake up!”

The voices became more insistent, and Geoffrey felt himself being pulled upright. Then he was jolted awake with a start as a bucket of icy water was dashed over him. He gasped in shock, trying to force his eyes to focus on the people who surrounded him.

“That did the trick!” announced Henry grimly, flinging the bucket into a corner. “He is all yours.”

He stepped back to reveal the Earl of Shrewsbury behind him. Geoffrey squinted up at them, wondering why the light was lancing so painfully into his eyes. He tried to stand, but his legs were like rubber, and would not hold him up.

“Stay where you are,” said the Earl sharply. “Now. Tell me why you saw fit to murder your own father. He was dying anyway. You only had to wait a short while longer.”

Geoffrey thought he was in the depth of some dreadful nightmare, and tried to force himself awake. But a vicious kick from Henry when he did not answer convinced him that he was indeed awake, but that he might be better dreaming.

“Do not just sit there!” yelled Henry. “The Earl asked you a question and is expecting a reply.”

Geoffrey tried to speak, but his tongue felt as though it belonged to someone else and the sounds he managed to produce made no sense to anyone, least of all to himself.

“What is the matter with him?” demanded the Earl, glaring at Henry. “He was not so inarticulate when he bandied words with me last night. Has he been at the wine?”

“I should say,” said Stephen from his father’s bedside, hefting up the enormous jug. “This flagon was filled to the brim with the strong red wine Godric likes only yesterday, and it is now completely empty.” He used both hands to tip it upside down, lest anyone did not believe him.

Their voices buzzed in Geoffrey’s head, and he began to feel sick. He took a deep breath, and tried to speak a second time.

“What has happened? Why are you all shouting?”

They stared at him. “Who would not shout after coming to find Godric most foully murdered?” demanded Walter, eyeing him angrily. “And I believed you the other day, when you told us that you did not approve of the slaughter of unarmed people!”

“What are you talking about?” asked Geoffrey, bewildered. “Who murdered Godric?”

“He is feigning innocence,” said Henry, striding over to Geoffrey, and hauling him to his feet. “Come and see your handiwork!”

Geoffrey reeled, and grabbed at the Earl to prevent himself from falling over.

“He does not smell of wine,” said the Earl, standing back as Stephen hurried forward to relieve him from Geoffrey’s embrace. “Are you certain he is drunk?”

“He downed the wine to rid his brain of the unpleasant memory of what he has done,” said Henry harshly. “Look there, Geoffrey. Now what have you got to say for yourself?”

Geoffrey gazed down at the sprawled corpse of Godric Mappestone with a confused jumble of feelings, the strongest of which was nausea. Godric had been stabbed in the chest, and whoever had killed him had done so with Geoffrey’s Arabian dagger-the one of the three that the Earl had declined to take the night before. Geoffrey closed his eyes in despair, but opened then again when the blackness threatened to overwhelm him.

“The chest was against the door,” he said weakly. “How could anyone enter?”

“What chest?” demanded the Earl. “You mean that one?”

He pointed to the chest that stood at the end of the bed, where it had been before Geoffrey had moved it. Had Geoffrey dreamed that he had dragged it across the floor to the door? But there were fresh scratches on the floor, where the heavy box had slightly damaged it. Was it Walter who had killed Godric in the night, and who had then moved the chest back to its original position so that he could leave? And had Rohese witnessed the murderer, and was she still hidden between the mattresses? Geoffrey felt he could hardly look with the Earl watching.

He tugged one arm free from Stephen and rubbed it across his face. He felt as though he were suffocating from the heat of the room, and yet he felt icy cold.

“Can we go outside?” he asked, thinking that if he did not, he might well be sick. “I cannot breathe in here.”

“He does not like to be in the same room as his victim,” said Walter. “What do you say, Stephen? Shall we leave Bertrada to lay Godric out and adjourn to the hall?”

“I am not laying him out!” declared Bertrada indignantly. “He has been murdered!”

“It is not contagious,” said the Earl dryly.

In Goodrich Castle, Geoffrey was not so sure. Taking advantage of their bickering, he shrugged off Stephen’s restraining hands, staggered towards the door, and lunged down the stairs. Once in the hall, he weaved his way unsteadily across it, making for the door.

“Do not let him escape!” yelled Henry, in hot pursuit, although the only person in the inner ward to hear was Julian, who saw Geoffrey and hurried forward to help him.

“I knew it!” she exclaimed, as Geoffrey slumped heavily on the bottom step, unable to walk any further. “I was certain you were not the kind of man to kill Sir Godric as he slept. You have been poisoned, just like he was!”

“I most certainly have,” said Geoffrey pulling his knees up in front of him and resting his swimming head on his arms. “But by whom? And was it the same person who killed my father?”

“Well, I should say so!” said Julian with conviction. “It is unlikely that there are two poisoners in the castle. Enide was also poisoned, of course, but she never did find out who did it.”

“Now you have had some fresh air, do you remember anything else?” asked the Earl, coming over to where Geoffrey sat.

He leaned against a wall, nonchalantly inspecting his fingernails, but lurking in the depths of his eyes was a black malice. Joan, Stephen, and Godric had been right when they had advised Geoffrey against making an enemy of the powerful Earl of Shrewsbury, and he wished he had given their advice a little more thought before dismissing it in such a cavalier manner.

“You are in quite a predicament, Geoffrey, so you had better hope you recall something useful,” put in Bertrada helpfully.

“I went to sleep after Walter did, and I remember nothing until you woke me this morning,” said Geoffrey. “Although Hedwise and Stephen brought me some broth and wine that Walter was most insistent that I finished.”

He looked from one to the other, trying to see whether any of them betrayed themselves by guilty glances, but they stood with the light behind them, and his vision was still too blurred to see any incriminating looks anyway.

“So, are you saying that you slept through the murder?” asked Bertrada with heavy sarcasm. “Is that what you are telling us?”