Simon Beaufort - A Head for Poisoning

Looking at Malger, Geoffrey saw it was true. The knight had fallen onto one of his own arrows, which had wedged itself point-up on a rotting piece of wood, and had slipped through a gap in his poorly maintained chain-mail. Malger, thus, had died in very much the same way as had his victim Aumary-with an arrow in his back.

“Quickly!” urged Drogo, tearing his eyes away from Malger’s body. “Get that dagger and make an end to him while I hold him still. We might yet escape.”

“You killed my Malger,” Enide whispered, turning eyes filled with hurt on her brother.

“You did, actually,” Geoffrey gasped, struggling to breathe against the increased pressure of Drogo’s arm. “You threw the stone that stunned him and made him fall, not me.”

His voice seemed to bring her out of her dazed shock. Her eyes snapped into alertness, and she pulled herself together. Quickly, she bent to retrieve the knife, and moved towards Geoffrey with an expression of purpose that left him in no doubt that this time there would be no escape. The knife blade glittered dully in her hand, and Geoffrey looked away from it into her face. She was concentrating on the task in hand; her eyes were searching for the best place to stab him and nothing else. She chose her spot and began to push. Geoffrey closed his eyes, waiting for the searing pain that would end his life.

Suddenly, there was a high-pitched squeal of terror, and Geoffrey opened his eyes to see something large, brown, and hairy hurtling towards them. Drogo released Geoffrey with a muttered obscenity and shoved him forwards, directly into the path of the enraged wild boar.

For a moment, Geoffrey was aware of nothing but the sound of the boar’s screaming and flashes of yellow-white as its tusks flailed at him. Then one of them struck home, slashing through the chain-mail on his forearm, and he came to his senses. He staggered to his feet, kicking out at the furious animal as it attacked. He groped for his dagger, but it was not there, and he could not recall where he had lost it. The animal crashed into his legs, knocking him from his feet.

He covered his head with his arms, feeling its pointed feet gouging into him. Despite his predicament, Geoffrey could not help but see the ironic side. He had survived attacks by two fully armed knights and an insane sister, only to fall under the tusks of a pig! He felt the animal’s hot breath on his cheek, and then he realised he was not alone.

Something black and white was at the corner of his vision, worrying at the boar and snapping at its legs. More enraged than ever, the animal shifted its attention from Geoffrey and turned on the dog, standing stock-still for an instant in readiness for a charge. The dog eyed it uncertainly, realising too late that it had attacked something larger and stronger than itself. It braced itself to bolt. And then an arrow thudded into the boar, and the dog ambled forwards to sniff at it nonchalantly. Geoffrey struggled away from the dying animal, and looked for Enide and Drogo. A short distance away, two branches swayed gently, as though someone had recently passed between them, but the forest was otherwise as still and silent as the grave.

King Henry stood over Geoffrey, graciously accepting the accolades of his fellow huntsmen for his excellent shot. Geoffrey sat on the ground trying to make sense out of what had happened.

“My brother the Duke of Normandy did not train you very well if he taught you to fight boar with your bare hands, Geoffrey Mappestone,” said the King when his courtiers had finally finished with their praises.

“I seem to have lost my dagger,” said Geoffrey, dazed and climbing slowly to his feet.

“My point is proven,” said the King, turning to his retinue in amusement. “Most of us would hunt the boar with a bow or, if we were feeling exceptionally vigorous, a lance. None of us would consider taking one on with a dagger. Or even a sword!”

His entourage laughed politely. Well, not all of them, Geoffrey noticed. The Earl of Shrewsbury was not smiling.

“So we are even,” said the King. “I shot the boar that was mauling you, and you thwarted the archer who tried to kill me. His body is there, I see. I suppose you do not know his name, do you?”

“Norbert,” said Geoffrey. “He was my father’s scribe, but became embroiled in a plot to kill first your brother Rufus and now you.”

The King’s eyes narrowed. “Plot?”

Geoffrey took a deep breath to try to control the tremble of exhaustion in his voice. “Last year, a small group of fanatics planned to kill Rufus because they considered him an inappropriate ruler. The murder was to take place in the New Forest, it was to be a hunting accident, and it was to occur this coming summer when the Duke of Normandy would be well placed to take advantage of the vacant throne. But Rufus died of a hunting accident quite by chance before these people had the opportunity to put their plan into action.”

Geoffrey paused, aware that he had not only the King’s complete attention but that of his entire retinue.

“Pray continue,” said the King, his expression unreadable.

“Rufus’s death did not achieve what these plotters intended, however. He died too soon for the Duke of Normandy to take advantage of the situation, and they found themselves not with the Duke as King, but with you. Rather than abandon a plan that had promised to be so rewarding, they simply put it into action again, the only difference being that this time, you were to be the victim.”

“I see,” said the King. His eyes were dark, and Geoffrey was not sure whether the King believed a word he had said. “And who are these plotters?”

“I am not sure of all of them, my lord,” said Geoffrey. “But Norbert was one, Malger who lies dead over there, another-”

“Malger of Caen?” asked the King, taking a few steps to examine the body Geoffrey had indicated. He looked from it to the Earl of Shrewsbury. “He was in your service, Shrewsbury. Am I correct?”

“I do not think so, my lord,” said the Earl, striding forward and poking at Malger with his foot. “He does not seem familiar.”

“Really?” asked Geoffrey, his astonishment at the Earl’s blatant falsehood making him incautious. “Malger was under the impression that he was one of your most valued henchmen.”

“Then that was probably just wishful thinking on his part,” said the Earl, bringing his cold, reptilian eyes to bear on Geoffrey. “I do not know this man. But you have only recently returned to the country after an absence of many years, so it is not surprising that you cannot recall whom you saw where.”

Geoffrey saw that, short of calling the Earl a liar, he was not going to win this argument. He wondered who the King’s retinue was more likely to believe-an impoverished Crusader knight, or the great Earl of Shrewsbury.

“The other plotters include …” He paused, uncertain how to proceed. Would it be prudent to claim that one of them was another knight in the service of the Earl of Shrewsbury, while the others included his sister and father?

“These alleged plotters,” said the King, as Geoffrey hesitated. “Are they alive or dead?”

“Mostly dead,” replied Geoffrey, disconcerted by the King’s abrupt loss of interest in the plotters” identities. “Only two remain alive that I know.”

“My chief huntsman will track them down and kill them,” said the King.

He snapped his fingers, and a burly man in forest greens slipped out of the ranks and disappeared into the trees, several similarly clad men on his heels.

“Of course,” the King continued, “if they cannot find this pair, I shall expect you to ferret them out and dispatch them yourself. And then we will say no more about this business. You have done well, Sir Geoffrey. Now, I understand you have recently lost your father?”