Simon Beaufort - A Head for Poisoning

He left Julian and strode out of the barbican. It was early afternoon, and a pleasant day for January. The sun shone from a cloudless sky, and the ground underfoot was hard with a light sprinkling of frost. His leather-soled boots skidded on the icy wood of the drawbridge that spanned the moat, and his sword accidentally bumped against the dog, which was trotting at his heels. With a yelp, it shot off down a path that cut parallel to the moat. Geoffrey sighed with exasperation, knowing that unless he found it, there would be livestock slaughtered and hell to pay. Reluctantly, he followed it.

The moat was a great, wide crevasse, which was hewn from the living rock to present a formidable barrier before any would-be attacker ever reached the palisade. In parts, refuse thrown from the castle and periods of rain had turned it into a morass of thick, evil-smelling muck. Geoffrey grimaced in distaste and hurried on, glancing up at the sturdy stone walls of the keep as he did so.

He stopped. In a great dark red triangle below Godric’s window was the stain of the wine that someone had thrown out-so that it would appear that Geoffrey had drunk it. The mark was so large that it could only have come from the contents of Godric’s huge jug. Glancing around to ensure that he was not being watched, Geoffrey scrambled down the steep side of the moat near the path, and picked his way across the marshy bottom to the other side.

He began to poke about among the weeds with his sword, searching for he knew not what. He found several items of discarded clothing that were brown and hard with age, and one or two of the paint pots that Godric had been using to despoil his room. Hidden deep in a patch of nettles was something metallic. Geoffrey bent to pick it up. It was a knife with a long thin blade, and a hilt that was worn smooth with use-and it was one that Geoffrey recognised instantly. It had belonged to Godric, who had claimed that he had been given it by the Conqueror himself, and it had been one of his most prized possessions. Geoffrey’s brothers had squabbled over it when they mistakenly thought that Godric was dead. He wondered what had possessed the old man to toss it from his window, until he inspected it more closely and the answer became horribly clear.

Recent rains had washed the weapon, but under the hilt, traces remained of the blood that had stained it. Geoffrey recalled the small wound in Godric’s stomach, and gazed down at the knife. Here, then, was the weapon that had inflicted the fatal wound on Godric. Someone had hurled it from the keep after he was dead, along with the wine. Geoffrey looked at it for a few more moments, before dropping it back where he had found it. He supposed he could have taken it back to the others, but could not be sure that they would not accuse him of stealing the stones out of it, or worse, of using it to kill Godric. He did not want to be found with it on his person.

He plodded his way back through the muck, and climbed up the rocky bank near the path. He was greeted by two friendly brown eyes and a wagging tail, as the dog wound energetically around his legs, interested in the smell of offal on his boots. He retraced his steps back to the drawbridge, and then walked into the village to visit the physician to ask him to test Godric’s bed for traces of poison. Francis was not at home, and rather than waste the day waiting for him to return, Geoffrey left the main street and wandered towards the river, to the woods that stood behind the castle.

It was not long before he realised that Mabel had been right, and that his task was hopeless. Geoffrey explored every inch of the palisade that ran along the northern rim of the castle’s outer ward, and found nothing. Godric had not intended for his fortress to have an easily breached back door, and so Geoffrey supposed that he should not be surprised. But he was disappointed, nevertheless, because he knew that if he did not find Rohese soon, he would have no alternative but to brave the tunnel.

When the shadows began to grow long and the sun sank in a great ball of orange, Geoffrey abandoned his search, and turned towards home. He was almost back on the path, when he tripped and stumbled over the partly hidden root of a tree. Swearing, he righted himself, only to come face to face with a quivering arrow embedded in a thick trunk inches from his face; it had missed him only because of his clumsiness.

He ducked back down among the bushes and listened intently. Somewhere off to his right, he heard the sound of a twig snapping as someone trod on it. He began to creep towards the sound, careful to keep his head below the bushes. He heard another noise, the rustle of footsteps in frosty leaves. He edged closer, his own progress all but silent. And then he glimpsed him-a man with a bow weaving in and out of the trees, moving cautiously. Abandoning stealth, Geoffrey was up and tearing through the undergrowth after him. The man partly turned, saw Geoffrey bearing down on him, and fled in the direction of the path that ran along the river-bank.

Geoffrey was not attired for racing through bushes. His surcoat flapped around his legs and snagged on branches. Also, his leggings and mail tunic were heavy, and weighed him down. His breath came in ragged gasps, but he was gaining on the bowman nevertheless. The man stopped and turned, bringing his bow up as he did so. The arrow, loosed more in the hope that it would slow Geoffrey down than to hit its mark, sped harmlessly to the left, and cost the archer valuable moments. Geoffrey could sense the panic in the man, who forced himself into a desperate spurt of speed as he neared the path.

Without breaking speed, Geoffrey ducked to the right as the arrow hissed past, and hurtled after him, knowing the would-be killer was almost within his grasp. He was close enough to see the man’s breath billowing out of his mouth in the cold winter air.

And then disaster struck. A small donkey-drawn cart was already on the track, lumbering along it towards the village. The archer tore across its front to disappear into the bushes that lined the river, causing the donkey that drew it to buck in fright. Geoffrey, following fractionally later, went crashing into the side of the cart, toppling it and its driver over into the litter of dried leaves and dead twigs that lay along the river-bank. Geoffrey lost his footing, and his momentum took him flying head over heels to land sprawling in a frozen patch of mud on the other side.

His vision swirling from the tumble, Geoffrey hauled himself up onto his hands and knees just in time to see his quarry disappearing into the shrubs that grew profusely along that part of the river bank. Geoffrey tried to scramble to his feet, but his senses swam and he fell to his knees again. As he did so, the bowman glanced fearfully backwards, so that Geoffrey had a fleeting impression of his face, before he disappeared into the dense undergrowth that led to the water’s edge. Geoffrey rubbed his eyes, trying to clear his vision, realising with a lurching disappointment that he had not seen enough to recognise who it was who had almost succeeded in killing him.

Trying to catch his breath, Geoffrey stood unsteadily, knowing that further pursuit of the archer was hopeless. Instead, he went to see whether he had harmed the driver of the cart. It lay on its side, one wheel bent, and the other lying in pieces next to it. The mule was trotting up the path, already some distance away. Sitting among the wreckage was the parish priest, rubbing his wrist and surveying the remains of his cart in shock.

“Oh, Lord!” muttered Geoffrey, torn between mounting a hunt for the archer and helping Father Adrian. “Are you hurt?”

Adrian shook his head and allowed Geoffrey to assist him to his feet. “But unfortunately, the same cannot be said for my cart. I doubt even the best blacksmith could repair that.”