Simon Beaufort - A Head for Poisoning

He paused to look around at them, enjoying the stunned expressions on their faces. Geoffrey was certain that the souls of Godric and his wife were the last things on the Earl’s mind. The Earl saw the doubt in his eyes, and gave the faintest of smiles before continuing.

“Quite by chance, the news that the Pope had agreed to the annulment came the day Godric himself summoned me on account of his claim that he was being poisoned by one of his family.”

He paused again, aware that he had the undivided attention of his small audience.

“Godric was distressed by this information, of course, but he made another will immediately.”

“But who could be his heir?” cried Stephen. “It seems we are now all his illegitimate offspring!”

“He did what many of my loyal subjects have done,” said the Earl. “He left everything to me.”

If Geoffrey had not felt so dreadful, he would have laughed at the expressions on the faces of his brothers and sister. All went from shocked disbelief to cold fury within the space of a few moments.

“But we have seen this new will,” said Walter, the first to recover himself sufficiently to speak. “It says that Godric has bequeathed everything to Geoffrey.”

“To Godfrey,” corrected Stephen. “In the service of the Duke of Normandy.”

The Earl raised querying eyebrows. “And who might this Godfrey be?”

“There is no such man,” said Stephen. “It-”

“Then this other will is of no consequence,” said the Earl dismissively “And it is quite irrelevant, anyway.” He snapped his fingers and his fat priest hurried forward. “Here is the will Godric made in my presence, citing me as sole beneficiary. Would you like to read it?”

“Geoffrey will,” said Walter, stepping forward and snatching the parchment from the fat priest’s damp fingers. He thrust it at Geoffrey, and everyone waited. Geoffrey tried to make the black lines on the parchment stay still long enough for him to read them, but they wriggled and swirled and threatened to make him sick.

“I cannot,” he said, dropping his head back onto his arms, and letting the parchment flutter to the ground. Walter retrieved it, and turned it this way and that helplessly.

“I thought he was literate,” said the Earl, turning to Joan in surprise. “You told me that he could read and write in several languages.”

“Enide always said he could,” said Bertrada, “although I never saw any evidence of it myself. Perhaps he has been deceiving us all these years.”

“Just like he has deceived us by hiring Ine to poison Godric,” said Stephen bitterly.

“Are you accusing him of hiring a poisoner as well as stabbing Godric?” asked the Earl sternly. “I thought I had just told you that I do not appreciate people trying to mislead me. If you have evidence for your charges, then let me see it. If not, you will desist from your wild accusations.”

Stephen was the first to look away from the Earl’s piercing gaze.

“I have no evidence,” he admitted. “But I have my suspicions. Geoffrey is a liar-you just saw that he cannot read when he has always pretended to us that he can. And he returned to Goodrich solely so that he could claim to be this Godfrey in the service of the Duke of Normandy.”

“Of course he can read,” snapped Joan. “Show them, Geoffrey!”

“Geoffrey thought he was this mythical Godfrey, did he?” asked the Earl, ignoring her. “Well, it does not matter that he cannot read for you. Your clerk will do that later. The will you hold is a copy, by the way: the original is safely in Shrewsbury. Now, I am sure you will not be so rash, nor so ungrateful for my protection all these years, as to hurt my feelings by contesting the will?”

“But what will we do?” asked Bertrada in a small voice. “Where will we go?”

“To Rwirdin, I suppose, if Sir Geoffrey will have you there,” said the Earl. “What you do is really none of my concern, and I honestly do not care. But I want you out of my castle, and off my land within a week. I shall be back then to take possession, and I will deal harshly with anyone who is still here.”

“But this cannot be happening!” cried Walter, still clutching the offending piece of paper. He leaned down and jerked Geoffrey’s head up by the hair. “For God’s sake, man! Read it before it is too late!”

The Earl made a hasty, crab-like movement to one side as Geoffrey’s stomach protested against the sudden movement.

“Have a care, Walter,” he said angrily. “He was almost sick over me, and these boots cost me a fortune. And whether he reads it or not will make no difference: it will say the same thing whoever reads it to you. The manor is mine. Now, let us not part on bad terms. I would like your congratulations on my new acquisition before I leave.”

He stood, hands on hips, displaying the fine cut of his clothes, and waited.

“Do not make an enemy of a man like the Earl of Shrewsbury,” said Geoffrey, squinting up at his brothers and sister. “Do you not know of his reputation?”

The Earl eyed him sharply, and then laughed. “Is that what they advised you last night? I wondered what Stephen was muttering about. So, it seems I have him, and not you, to thank for my Arabian daggers. In which case, you are still in my debt, Sir Geoffrey Mappestone. I would take the third dagger, but I think I will decline, given its recent use. I will claim something else in due course, when the fancy takes me.”

If the Devil does not take you first, thought Geoffrey, wishing he had aimed a little more accurately at the Earl’s expensive boots.

“I wish you well,” muttered Walter bitterly, seeing that the Earl was not going to leave until he had his satisfaction. He gave a clumsy bow, and was away, tugging his wife behind him. One by one, the others followed suit, leaving to make their way back to the hall, presumably to engage in another of their violent discussions.

“And you, Sir Geoffrey? Will you not offer me your felicitations?” asked the Earl smoothly, leaning down to look Geoffrey in the eye.

“I wish you as much joy of Goodrich as it has brought me,” said Geoffrey.

“That is ambiguous!” said the Earl, with arched eyebrows. “But I have come to expect as much from you.” He coughed gently. “You realise, of course, that you owe me your life?”

“Really?” asked Geoffrey without conviction. “And how is that?”

“Despite what I said to Henry, you are still my prime suspect for the murder of Godric.” When Geoffrey did not answer, the Earl continued. “Your pretence of drunkenness is nothing more than that-how can you be drunk, and yet not smell of the wine you consumed? But I saved you from Henry’s vengeful hands anyway. You would have been kicking empty air by now, had I not intervened.”

This was very possibly true, thought Geoffrey. “But unless you are prepared to settle for a book, or the dagger that murdered my father, I have nothing that would interest you,” he said.

“There is always Rwirdin,” said the Earl casually. “Of course, it is nothing like the prize of Goodrich and its castles and bridges, but it is well situated for hunting in the Forest of Dene, and it is a pretty place by all accounts.”

“It seems you do not need my permission to take it,” said Geoffrey, nodding to the copy of the will that Walter had hurled to the ground in a futile display of temper.

The Earl could always fake wills, as he had appeared to have done to secure possession of Godric’s lands. Had the Earl also ordered one of his henchmen to slip up the stairs in the dead of night and slay the dying Godric too? After all, it would save him the inconvenience of returning later to present his claim, after Godric had died a natural death.