Simon Beaufort - A Head for Poisoning

“The Duke would not permit Shrewsbury so much power,” said Francis weakly. “And anyway, Shrewsbury has his own estates to run in Normandy. He will not bother with England.”

“He is massing his strength in this area so that he will be ready to aid the Duke when he attacks England to seize the throne from Henry,” said Geoffrey. “Shrewsbury admitted as much himself. He claimed that the Duke would appoint him as regent.”

Francis shook his head. “The Duke would not leave England once he had taken the throne, and the country will be ruled by a just and noble leader who will make good laws.”

“But the Duke did not make good laws to rule Normandy before he pawned it so he could go Crusading,” objected Geoffrey. Loyal though he might be to the Duke, he was not blind to the fact that the weak and vacillating Robert of Normandy left a lot to be desired as far as leadership went.

But Geoffrey could see that his arguments were lost on the physician, whose eyes gleamed with the light of fanaticism. He studied the old man. He looked benign, grandfatherly almost, and yet had embarked upon a plot that would not only leave the King dead but that might plunge the country he professed to love into a state of anarchy.

“Is that why Ingram killed you?” he asked. “Because you are involved in a plot to kill King Henry?”

Francis’s eyes closed. “You are a fool, despite what Enide said about you. How could a boy like that know of our plans? We kept our group deliberately small, so that there would be less chance that someone would betray us.”

“So the group comprised my father, Enide, Stephen’s wife, and you,” said Geoffrey. “And who else? Father Adrian?”

Francis’s mouth opened in astonishment, and he gave a wheeze that Geoffrey thought was meant to be a laugh. “Adrian? Just because he was Enide’s lover does not mean that he shared our plans! The man is a weakling.”

Geoffrey’s still-aching side belied Adrian’s reputed aversion to violence. “Who, then? Olivier? He is a kinsman of the Earl of Shrewsbury and would have a good deal to gain.”

“He is an even greater weakling than the priest!” said Francis, with the ghost of a smile. “If you will not join us, you will get nothing more from me.”

“So that is why my father was being poisoned,” said Geoffrey, understanding slowly. “Because someone was trying to prevent him from killing every king foolish enough to take the English crown. And Enide was poisoned for the same reason.”

“Enide was certainly slain because of her involvement,” said Francis. “You see, Pernel was delighted to be a part of the plan that would rid England of Rufus. She was too open with her feelings on the matter, and someone at the castle betrayed her.”

“Stephen’s wife was murdered, too?” asked Geoffrey, confused.

“But Lady Pernel died of a falling sickness,” said Helbye’s wife, shaking her head to Geoffrey to indicate that the physician was speaking nonsense. “I was there. She emerged from the church and fell down dead. Half the village saw it happen.”

“It seems to me that Father Adrian’s masses are dangerous events,” said Geoffrey. “Enide, too, died after attending one of his services.”

“There are poisons that can make a person’s death appear to be a falling sickness,” said Francis. “Perhaps Adrian fed it to her in the Host. He acted most oddly after Enide’s death too-the man was blindly in love with her, and yet his grief was short and shallow.”

Geoffrey stared at him. He thought about what he had been told about Enide’s death. She had emerged from the church and Adrian had found her body shortly afterwards. Adrian had no one to corroborate his story, but no one had thought to disbelieve him. So, had Adrian killed her? But why? Was Adrian not a priest at all but an agent for one of the kings who Enide had plotted to kill? Since King Henry seemed to know that Goodrich was a hotbed of insurrection, it might make sense to place such an agent in it. But Henry had only been King for a few months, and Adrian had been at Goodrich for years. Geoffrey sighed. It made no sense.

“Godric was poisoned for his role in our plot,” Francis continued. “What other reason would there be to kill him?”

“His lands,” said Geoffrey. “Or because Goodrich Castle is stuffed full of his avaricious offspring who are desperate to lay their hands on his money.”

“You might be right,” said Francis, swallowing with difficulty. “Although I would not have credited any of that brood with choosing such a subtle poison that I have never been able to trace it.”

“It was in his room, I am sure,” said Geoffrey, thinking back to what he had reasoned as he sat with Godric’s body. “It was not in the food or the drink. It was not in the mattress.”

But it was certainly in the chamber, because Geoffrey had been ill each time he had slept in it. Geoffrey was a man who generally enjoyed robust good health, and was seldom ill. But he had felt unwell several times since arriving at Goodrich-mostly in the castle, although he had almost thrown up in Francis’s outhouse when he had visited the physician to ask about Godric’s alleged poisoning. Something clicked in Geoffrey’s mind, but Francis had slipped into a semi-conscious doze, and was no longer in a condition to engage in analytical conversation.

Geoffrey rubbed his eyes. “What a mess,” he said to Helbye. “Is there anyone in this godforsaken place who is not a murderer, or who would not like to be? Enide, this Pernel, and my father were aiming to kill Rufus; my father and the physician, cheated of killing Rufus, then set their sights on the death of King Henry. Meanwhile, someone was slowly poisoning my father; two others stabbed him during the night with different knives; there are at least two severed heads circulating; and someone has tried to poison me, and has shot at me twice in the woods. I tell you, Will, the Holy Land is nothing compared to this!”

Helbye raised his shoulders in a shrug. “It looks as though we should plan a visit to Monmouth soon, Sir Geoffrey,” he said stoically.

Early the following morning, long before the sun was up, Geoffrey waited impatiently by the river for Helbye. His horse snorted and pawed at the ground, its breath billowing out in great clouds of white, while his dog snuffled about in the grass. Mist rose from the silent river as it meandered glassily southwards, and the forest was silent and still.

Geoffrey had passed what remained of the night in Helbye’s house, spending most of it talking, for the elderly soldier was as reliable a friend as Geoffrey had in Goodrich. Helbye had listened in silence, not in the least bit unsettled by the devious plots that had been hatched in the castle. The sergeant had heard him sympathetically, and had said little, but the simple act of talking had allowed Geoffrey to clarify in his mind at least some twists and turns of the plot.

Geoffrey tensed as he heard a sound from the woods, and drew his sword in anticipation of a hostile encounter.

“Father Adrian!” he exclaimed, as the priest walked towards him. “Have you buried Enide yet?”

The priest shook his head. “I will do that when we return.”

“Return from where?” asked Geoffrey. “Where are you going?”

“With you,” said Adrian. “To Monmouth.”

“Not a chance,” said Geoffrey. “You would be too slow. And anyway, you might stab me again. Go back to your church and bury your dead.”

The priest looked down the river. “The head you brought to my house last night belonged to a woman who lived in the village, and who died in childbirth some months ago. I cannot imagine how you came to be in possession of it.”

“More to the point,” said Geoffrey, “how did she come to lose it?”