Simon Beaufort - A Head for Poisoning

“I knew it!” yelled Henry furiously. “Geoffrey is off to the King to stake his claim while he thought we were all otherwise engaged. His fine plan was just a ploy to get us out of the way.”

“If I did want to see the King without your knowledge, I would hardly choose to travel the road that you would use on your way back,” said Geoffrey. “Do you take me for a fool?”

Henry was about to reply in the affirmative when Stephen intervened.

“What is wrong, Geoffrey? Where are you going? Has the Earl arrived early?”

Geoffrey shook his head, wondering how best to answer. He did not think that Stephen or Henry would take kindly to the knowledge that Geoffrey was on his way to warn the King that their sister Enide had designs on the regal life-especially given that she was supposed to be dead, and even more particularly because Henry had hanged her supposed murderers himself.

And of course, Geoffrey had his suspicions that Stephen might well know all about the plot to kill the King anyway. On the spur of the moment, however, he could think of no lie that they would believe. He decided a little honesty might not go amiss-first, it would allow him to gauge Stephen’s reaction, and second, Henry was unlikely to believe anything Geoffrey told him anyway, so there was no point in spinning elaborate yarns.

“I believe there may be a plot afoot to kill the King,” he said. “I am going to warn him.”

“The King is not at Monmouth,” said Stephen, frowning slightly. “He left at dawn to hunt.”

Geoffrey gazed at him in horror. Was history about to repeat itself? Was there another Tirel standing in the trees, ready to loose an arrow as a king hunted in the forest?

“Then I must try to find him,” said Geoffrey. “Do you have any idea where he might be?”

“I might,” said Henry with satisfaction. “But I will not tell you. And this is a big forest-who knows what might happen to you as you wander through it.”

“You tried that once before, and you were unsuccessful,” said Geoffrey, thinking of Aumary, killed with an arrow and all but forgotten by Geoffrey in the turmoil of life at the castle. “What makes you think your luck would be better today?”

“Tried what?” demanded Henry. “If I had tried anything, you would not be sitting there so proud and fine on your splendid horse!”

“The King went Lann Martin way,” said Stephen, glaring at Henry for his belligerence to the man who might yet cheat the greedy Earl of Shrewsbury of the inheritance they all wanted. “But I would not go there, if I were you. Caerdig will not take kindly to uninvited Mappestones on his land.”

“And of course, you do not want me dead before you have used me to file your claim against Shrewsbury,” said Geoffrey dryly.

“That is right! We do not!” exclaimed Henry, oblivious to the irony in Geoffrey’s comment. “I forgot. But Lann Martin is where the King has gone. It is said that a great white stag has been seen there, and the King means to have it before he leaves the area.”

“Let’s hope that is all he leaves with,” murmured Geoffrey, urging his destrier back the way he had come. “And not an arrow in his heart like his brother Rufus.”

“What are you muttering about?” called Henry after him, spurring his own mount to follow. “You have taken to muttering since you got back. You never used to mutter.”

“Do not antagonise him, Henry,” shouted Stephen, keen not to be left behind. “If we win our claim, and it is ruled that Geoffrey owns Goodrich, you will not be able to negotiate for a share if you have driven him to dislike you.”

Dislike! thought Geoffrey, amused despite his growing concerns that he was already too late to help the King.

“You will not win any claim if anything happens to the King,” he shouted over his shoulder as he rode. “Because then there will be no one to stop the relentless advance of Shrewsbury, and by the time the Duke of Normandy sails from France to take the vacant throne, the Earl will have taken a good deal more than Goodrich.”

“You are right,” said Stephen, breathing hard as he tried to keep up. “But on what evidence do you base your claim? How do you know that someone means the King harm?”

“Francis the physician is dead, and he told me of a plot,” replied Geoffrey vaguely, not wanting to reveal too much to Stephen.

“Geoffrey, stop!” shouted Henry, as Geoffrey spurred his horse to a faster pace still. “We cannot go to Lann Martin-Caerdig would kill us for certain. It is all very well for you wearing all that armour, but what about us?”

“You do not have to come,” replied Geoffrey, blinking as mud kicked up by Helbye’s horse in front of him splattered into his face. “Go back to Goodrich and wait for me there.”

“But what if you do not return?” cried Henry. “Then our last chance to claim Goodrich will be gone.”

“I am touched by your fraternal concern,” yelled Geoffrey. “But with all due respect, Goodrich can go to the Devil!”

“It will go to the Devil if you do not come back,” said Stephen quietly. “And that Devil is the Earl of Shrewsbury! Return to Goodrich if you like, Henry. I am riding with Geoffrey. Caerdig would never dare attack a knight like him, anyway.”

Geoffrey wished Caerdig had known that before his ambush nine days earlier. He slowed his horse as they approached an especially muddy stretch of land, and Stephen was able to trot next to him.

“The King was furious when he heard what the Earl had done to get Goodrich. We told him your theories about the forged wills, and he is going to back our claim. But he said only the will citing Godfrey as heir stands any chance of succeeding, because it was made recently, but apparently we will need to provide incontrovertible proof that Godfrey was an affectionate name used for you by our father.”

“That might be difficult,” said Geoffrey, not particularly interested in fighting for something that his brothers intended to wrest from him at the first opportunity anyway. “Father is dead; the physician is dead; Norbert has disappeared; and Father Adrian is a less than reliable witness.”

“Adrian is a well-respected man,” said Stephen. “He might be persuaded to come to our assistance in this matter.”

“You mean Adrian might be persuaded to lie for you?” asked Geoffrey dryly.

“Unfortunately not,” said Stephen with real regret. “Adrian is a man of scruples, more is the pity. Perhaps one of our neighbours might help us out-no one is going to want the Earl of Shrewsbury living next door. We could offer some of our sheep as an incentive.”

“Why am I even listening to you?” wondered Geoffrey aloud. “The King is about to be murdered as he hunts, and all you can do is think about which one of your neighbours you can bribe to lie in court. Believe me, Stephen, Shrewsbury will offer any witnesses you can find a good deal more than a few sheep. He might even agree not to murder them.”

“You are right,” said Stephen. “We need something better than livestock.”

He dropped back, deep in thought, as Geoffrey urged his horse forward again. The knight glanced behind at him. Stephen and Henry had three of the guards from the castle with them, all mounted and well armed, although Geoffrey had seen nothing to suggest that they were competent. And Geoffrey had Helbye and Barlow. He imagined that they should have no problem with Caerdig, should he make an appearance. Geoffrey had bested him once before with three fewer men than were with him this time-although, of course, none of them had been the slippery Stephen, the hateful Henry, or the incompetent gatehouse guards.

He reached a fork in the road and slowed. To the right lay the long route back to Goodrich; to the left lay Caerdig’s lands.