Simon Beaufort - A Head for Poisoning

“And Enide and Sir Godric both became ill around the time that Sir Godric gave up his manor to Walter and Stephen, so he assumed he was being poisoned because they wanted him out of the way once he had started to delegate his powers,” said Helbye, nodding.

“Quite. He saw that the onset of his illness corresponded with the time he began to relinquish his authority, and drew the conclusion that there was a direct link. The link was actually indirect: the more ill he became, the more responsibilities he needed to delegate to his sons; and the less time he spent running his estate, the more time he spent painting.”

“And the more painting he did, the more sick he became,” finished Helbye. “I see.”

They rode in silence for a while, until Helbye spoke again.

“Actually, I do not see. You told me that Sir Godric painted other chambers, too. Joan was never ill, and neither was Rohese, and everyone in the village knows that their chamber was painted, because Joan was so angry about it.”

“I think that was because only the dark colours contained whatever it was that made father and Enide ill,” said Geoffrey. “Father painted the other chambers in pale greens and yellows, saving the blacks and browns for his own chamber. Rohese never slept in father’s room, because she did not like the paintings-luckily for her, or she might have been dying, too. When Enide insisted that Father make use of her chamber-ostensibly because she was being kind to Rohese, but really so she could use the tunnel-she saved Rohese from being poisoned, but fell victim to it herself.”

“But someone still stabbed Sir Godric, lad,” said Helbye. “Twice, you tell me. And someone put ergot in your wine and broth, and later hid the evidence. And someone went to some trouble to see that you would be found asleep in the chamber where Godric was murdered. Was that Enide, too?”

Geoffrey sighed. “I cannot see how,” he said. “I suppose she might have come up the tunnel while I lay drugged, but I do not see how she could have arranged for me to be drugged in the first place.”

“I expect Stephen did it,” said Helbye. “It was Stephen who gave you the wine, and Stephen who took your dog so it would not bark and wake you when Enide sneaked in to kill Godric.”

It made sense to Geoffrey. Francis had said that Stephen’s wife was involved in the plot to kill Rufus, and Geoffrey could well imagine that his sly second brother might prepare the way for someone else to kill Godric and ensure that Geoffrey was blamed for it.

“That paint caused Walter to lose Goodrich, you know,” mused Helbye. “If Godric had not been so certain he was being poisoned, he would not have informed King Henry and the Earl of Shrewsbury about it. And Shrewsbury would never have come up with his faked wills.”

“The wills were not the only things that were faked,” said Geoffrey. “The documents proclaiming that Walter was illegitimate and that Stephen was no son of Godric’s were written by Norbert, who was not in Godric’s service at those times. With Walter and Stephen out of the picture, and me away on Crusade, Enide would only have had Henry and Joan ahead of her to succeed to Goodrich.”

“Your brother Henry is unpopular in these parts,” said Helbye. “Especially after the murder of Ynys of Lann Martin. He would not live long if he were lord of Goodrich with his violent ways. That only leaves Joan.”

Geoffrey was silent, trying to come to terms with the waves of conflicting emotions that flowed and ebbed through his mind. He had been at Goodrich less than nine full days, during which time he had learned that his favourite sister had been horribly murdered, and then that she was alive and well and happily desecrating corpses; that she was behind a thwarted plot to kill King William Rufus, but planned to try again with King Henry; that no one in the castle or village had the slightest qualms about procuring bodies to suit their needs; and that the real killer of his father, undoubtedly the same person who had intended that Geoffrey should hang for the crime, was still very much at large.

He rubbed his eyes, trying to formulate a plan of action. He would try to speak to the King in Monmouth and warn him of what might be afoot. And then he would leave England forever, and his squabbling family could kill each other or fight as they would. His father was an evil, scheming liar, who had planned to kill a king. Someone else could avenge his murder. And someone else could deal with the treacherous Enide too, because Geoffrey did not want to meet her.

Early morning in the Forest of Dene was a miserable affair, and the sky remained a dull, leaden grey long after the sun was up. It was cold, too, and Geoffrey grew more and more chilled as he, Helbye, and Barlow rode along the path to Monmouth. Then it began to rain. It was not a downpour, but it was persistent, and of the kind that Geoffrey knew would be likely to continue all day. On either side of the increasingly sticky track stood the forest itself, a vast expanse of trees and heath that stretched right across to the mighty River Severn.

Geoffrey spoke little, ignoring the complaints of Barlow as they grew wetter, thinking about the web of intrigue that his family had spun. It had been bad enough to learn that one of his brothers or Joan had wanted him hanged for his father’s murder, and it had not been pleasant to suspect that Sir Aumary’s fate had been intended for him, but these were nothing when Geoffrey considered the actions of his youngest sister.

He drove bitter thoughts from his mind as the path crested a hill and the little hamlet of Genoreu came into view. It was an unprepossessing place, squashed into a dip between two hills, and comprised a rickety wooden church and several shabby hovels. The path degenerated almost immediately into a morass of thick, black mud through which Geoffrey’s destrier was loath to walk. Geoffrey steered it to one side, easing it through the long grass and weeds that grew at the path edge.

Behind him, Barlow began to moan even louder, and Geoffrey wondered what he had done to deserve men-at-arms like Ingram and Barlow. One detested him sufficiently to rob graves in order to extract money from him, while the other was always too cold, too hot, thirsty, hungry, or tired. He forced uncharitable thoughts about Barlow from his mind: the lad was no longer obliged to follow any orders of Geoffrey’s, but he had volunteered to come along with him nevertheless.

Genoreu was deserted except for a straggly chicken that did not long survive the dog’s ready jaws. Geoffrey was uneasy at the silence, and drew his sword. Helbye watched him.

“You have been away a long time, lad,” he said. “It is Wednesday.”

“So?” asked Geoffrey, standing in his stirrups to gain a better view of the track that wound ahead.

“Market day,” said Helbye. “It is the only way that the people who live in this place can make enough money for bread. They catch fish-and perhaps a few hares or birds, although they will not be sold openly, given that hunting is illegal in the King’s forest-and they gather sticks to sell at the market. With luck, they will earn enough to buy flour for bread for the next week.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” said Geoffrey, relaxing. He replaced his sword, and urged his horse past the village towards the next hill crest. The dog, with tell-tale feathers around its mouth, trotted next to him, but then stopped dead with an ominous growl. Geoffrey knew the dog was as likely to growl at a large cat as a potentially hostile army, but he slowed his pace nonetheless. Helbye and Barlow followed suit as another small band of riders rode over the crest of a hill.

“Geoffrey!” exclaimed Stephen in surprise, reining in next to his brother.