Simon Beaufort - A Head for Poisoning

“I have just seen Enide risen from the grave!” blubbered Henry, his face white. “And Stephen has been shot and mortally wounded!”

So, it is over,” said Helbye in satisfaction, watching as the last of the King’s men rode away from the forest clearing. “The attempt on the King’s life has failed; Goodrich belongs to the Mappestones again; Malger and Enide are dead; Drogo will flee back to hide under the Earl’s skirts; and Stephen will not live to see the sun set tonight.”

“Do not be so sure all is finished,” muttered Geoffrey, kneeling in the grass with the dying Stephen. Henry crouched opposite, rubbing Stephen’s bloodless hand in a rough-and belated-attempt at affection. “The King’s huntsman said he thought he injured Enide, not that he killed her.”

“He killed her sure enough,” said Henry, looking across at him. “The fellow is the chief huntsman, for God’s sake. He would not hold that position unless he were an excellent shot. He might not have killed her outright, but it will not be long before she is dead.”

“We will see,” said Geoffrey, unconvinced. “The hounds found no trace of her.”

“The place is boggy,” said Henry, exasperated. “The scents are confused, and the dogs did not really know what they were supposed to be sniffing for. But I can assure you, Enide’s corpse will appear sooner or later. And then we can put it back underground, where it belongs.”

“I saved that fine dog of yours,” said Stephen breathlessly, squinting up at Geoffrey. “He ran almost directly into the line of that arrow, but I managed to save him.”

Geoffrey looked to where the dog lay, unconcerned, a short distance away, happily chewing at something it had nuzzled out of Stephen’s pocket.

“I hope you are not telling me that someone tried to shoot the dog and that you put yourself into the arrow’s path,” he said nervously. The greedy, selfish black-and-white dog certainly had done nothing in its miserable life to deserve that kind of sacrifice.

“Not quite,” said Henry, when Stephen could not summon the strength to reply. “I saw what happened. You know how it is with hunting-there are only a few moments between the time when you see a movement that heralds the appearance of your prey, and the time when it will disappear from your range. You shoot instinctively.”

“I know,” said Geoffrey, guessing that he had probably been on a good many more hunts than Henry. And Henry’s horse had bolted, too, suggesting that he had little or no experience of controlling it in such situations. “But what did Stephen do?”

Henry paused, and looked down at his dying brother with a mixture of pity and resignation. “Your dog darted out from the trees and someone fired. Intent on grabbing it to save it from entering anyone else’s line of fire, Stephen rushed after it and was felled by the King’s arrow. He did not deliberately put himself between the dog and the quarrel, but the outcome was the same.”

“The King shot Stephen?” said Geoffrey, appalled. “But he did not say so. He-”

“Well, he would not, would he?” snapped Henry. “The King would hardly admit to killing one of his own subjects. It was probably an accident anyway.”

“Was it an accident?” Geoffrey asked Stephen.

Stephen swallowed. “Who knows? I only wanted to save the dog.”

“Did Enide really try to kill the King?” asked Henry of Geoffrey in a horrified whisper. “After she was dead, too! I always knew there was something sinister about her. Even in her grave she cannot help spreading wickedness.”

“And you avenged her death by hanging two poachers in the forest,” said Geoffrey coolly. “What have you to say about that?”

“They had her veil,” said Henry defensively. “And I told them that I would cut them into little pieces if they did not tell me the truth. They confessed to killing her, so I hanged them.”

“They told you what you wanted to hear,” said Geoffrey wearily. “I might confess to murder if there was someone like you threatening to tear me from limb to limb.”

“But they had her veil!” insisted Henry.

“And how did they tell you they came by it?” asked Geoffrey. “Did they claim it had been given to them by a beautiful woman, who had told them she no longer had need of it because she was going to become a nun.”

“How did you know that?” asked Henry, astonished.

“Because Enide is nothing if not thorough,” said Geoffrey with a sigh. “With the death of two men found in possession of her veil, the business of her alleged murder was at an end. No one would think any more about it-which was what Father Adrian said she had intended. She wanted to disappear as completely as possible, and she did not want discussions of her unsolved murder to keep her memory fresh in people’s minds.”

“Are you accusing me of slaying innocent men?” demanded Henry.

“Since you saw Enide alive yourself a few moments ago, what do you think?” said Geoffrey, eyeing his brother askance. Henry had always been slow, but increasing age had made him much worse. “They made a false confession to you because you terrified them into it.”

“Oh!” said Henry. “What have I done?”

“What indeed?” asked Geoffrey. “Next time you kill someone, you might want to pay a little more attention to detail. Such as whether you have the right victim. And now, since you killed their menfolk, you are responsible to ensure that their families do not starve-assuming that they have not done so already. You should bring them to Goodrich, and find some employment for them.”

“I will do that,” said Henry fervently. “I will. Lord save us. What a mess! That Enide! What has she done to us?” He rose to his feet again. “I will kill her for this!”

“You told me the King’s chief hunter has already had that honour,” said Geoffrey.

“Would that he had not!” shouted Henry. “I would sooner slay her myself. The treacherous, murdering, lying, evil-”

“Initially, the conspirators were Enide, Godric, Norbert, the physician, Malger, Drogo, and your wife,” said Geoffrey to Stephen, ignoring Henry’s futile rage. “Pernel was killed because she was too gleeful about the plot, and Enide was afraid she might betray them all with her indiscretion.”

“I always suspected Enide had something to do with poor Pernel’s death,” said Stephen weakly. “And I threatened to kill her for it. But someone got there before me-or at least I thought they had.”

Geoffrey nodded. That made sense. Enide had decided to disappear after she had become ill from the paints in Godric’s room and had erroneously deduced that someone was trying to kill her. Since Stephen had threatened to do exactly that, to avenge his wife’s death, Enide had probably assumed he was already trying, and so she had inveigled Adrian into faking her death so that she would be free to act without Stephen dogging her every step.

“That business with Pernel is long since done and forgotten,” said Henry soothingly. “Do not dwell on the matter now.”

“She is not forgotten by me,” said Stephen, so softly he was difficult to hear. “She was my wife.”

“But she cuckolded you,” said Henry harshly. “She slept with any knight who visited the castle, and she was greedy, cruel, and selfish.”

“She must have fitted in well at Goodrich, then,” murmured Geoffrey, although not loud enough for Stephen to hear.

Stephen’s eyes welled tears. “Perhaps she was not all a wife should have been,” he said in a whisper. “But I still loved her. She was so beautiful!”

Geoffrey rubbed his chin and looked down at his brother. Stephen’s short hair was wet from sweat, and his eyes were black and sunken. Geoffrey took a deep breath, and pressed on. There was not much time left.