Simon Beaufort - A Head for Poisoning

Henry, King of England and youngest son of William the Conqueror, had just returned from hunting in the southern reaches of the Forest of Dene. His face was flushed from the exercise and fresh air, and he was basking in the accolades of his fellow huntsmen for having brought down a great brown stag. The stag and several fallow deer were being displayed in the hall before they were whisked off to the kitchens to be used to feed the King’s sizeable household. Trestle tables laden with food lined one wall, so that the King and his men could stave off their immediate hunger until the regular meal was served later. Salivating helplessly, Geoffrey’s dog aimed for them. Geoffrey caught it by the scruff of its neck, and told a squire to take it outside before it could indulge itself and have Geoffrey and his companions evicted from the King’s presence.

The duty sergeant whispered something to another squire, who in turn went to the constable of the castle, the man who would decide whether Geoffrey’s business was of sufficient importance with which to disturb the King. Apparently, it was not, for the constable strode forward to greet them himself, leaving the King to enjoy the company of his sycophants. He bent over the litter that had been placed at the far end of the hall, and lifted the cloak to inspect Sir Aumary’s face.

“I do not know this man,” he said. “He had dispatches for the King, you say?”

Geoffrey handed over the pouch that had been hidden inside his surcoat. The constable opened it, and inspected the documents it held.

“The seal is that of Domfront,” he said, holding one upside down and revealing to Geoffrey that he was not a man of letters. “But I cannot imagine that these missives contain much of importance. Domfront is just a small castle in Normandy that our King is rather fond of. Was this Sir Aumary carrying anything else?”

Geoffrey raised his hands in a shrug. “The pouch seemed to be the thing of greatest value-Aumary was always very protective of it. But I admit I did not search his body for other documents.”

The constable looked down at the swathed figure. “I will inform the King about this at a convenient moment. I do not think it is of sufficient merit to bother him with now. Please remain in or near the castle until I am able to arrange an audience with you.”

He promptly turned on his heel and strode away, leaving Geoffrey and Caerdig with nothing to do but hope that the King would not make them wait for days. Geoffrey wanted to leave immediately, but now that he had made an appearance, he was obliged to stay until it was the King’s pleasure to see him, waiting his turn with the other hopefuls who believed meeting the King would solve all their problems.

Ignoring the frustrated sighs of Caerdig at his side, Geoffrey sat on a bench and gazed around him, interested as always in architecture and art. The hall at Chepstow might be grand, he thought as he studied parts of it closely, but it was neither beautiful nor refined compared to the Saracen buildings in Jerusalem and Antioch that he had seen while on Crusade. In true Norman spirit, Chepstow was sturdy and functional, but it was most certainly not-

“And these are the men you mentioned?”

At the unexpected sound of the King’s voice so close to him, Geoffrey started to his feet. He dropped onto one knee in the usual homage of a knight to a king, wondering how long the King had been watching him while he pondered the relative merits of Christian and Arab building techniques. The King gestured for him to rise.

“This is the body of Sir Aumary de Breteuil,” explained the constable, gesturing to the corpse. “He was bringing you dispatches from France, but was struck down by an unknown assailant a few miles from here.”

“Unfortunate,” said the King, turning his gaze to Geoffrey. “And who are you?”

“This is Sir Geoffrey Mappestone,” said the constable. “He claims he was with Sir Aumary when the attack occurred.”

Geoffrey found himself the subject of intense scrutiny from the King’s clear, grey eyes.

“Was he indeed? And did you see this unknown assailant, Geoffrey Mappestone?”

“I did not, my lord,” said Geoffrey, aware that behind him Caerdig was holding his breath. “Aumary became separated from the rest of us during the attack. When we returned to find him later, his destrier was roaming loose and he lay dead in the grass.”

“I see,” said the King, suddenly much more interested now that he knew the dead man had owned some property. “And where is this destrier now?”

Geoffrey had heard that the King was avaricious, but he had not anticipated that his greed would be quite so transparent. “The horse has been placed in your stables.”

“Good,” said the King, rubbing his hands with pleasure. “Is it a passable beast?”

“It looks handsome enough, but it has been poorly trained,” said Geoffrey.

It was clear Aumary’s widow in France would not be gaining anything from having her husband slain in the service of the King.

“Poor training can be remedied,” said the King dismissively. “Now, this man was bringing me dispatches, you say?”

The constable handed him the pouch, and the King broke the seals.

“They are accounts from my castle at Domfront,” he said, sorting through them quickly and efficiently. Geoffrey remembered that the King was already being called “Beauclerc” because he, unlike most noblemen, could read and write. “It is always pleasant to learn that one’s estates are profitable, but this is scarcely information for which to kill.”

“Perhaps he also carried other messages,” suggested the constable. “It would not be unknown for a messenger to draw attention away from something important by flaunting something unimportant.”

“I suppose that must be it,” said the King doubtfully. “Perhaps you will search the body for me, assuming that Sir Geoffrey has not done so already?”

Geoffrey shook his head. “Aumary only ever seemed to be concerned about the dispatches in his pouch. I assumed they were all he had-he told me they were of vital importance.”

The King smiled. “The more important the messages, the better paid the messenger,” he said wryly. “But what of this attack on you? Was Aumary the only fatality?”

Geoffrey nodded. “Unless you include one of my horses. This was the arrow that killed Aumary.” He held the bloodstained arrow out to the King, who inspected it minutely, but declined to take it in his own hands.

“I see,” said the King after a while. “All very intriguing. Did you see your assailants?”

“I saw no archers,” replied Geoffrey ambiguously, aware of the anxiety of Caerdig behind him.

“There is a Godric Mappestone who owns the manor of Goodrich and several other profitable estates to the north of the Forest of Dene,” said the King, his eyes straying back to the arrow in Geoffrey’s hands. “Is he a relative of yours?”

“My father.”

“I see,” said the King again. He looked Geoffrey up and down. “Your surcoat proclaims that you have been crusading, like my brother, the Duke of Normandy. I take it you have returned to England to claim any inheritance your father might leave you?”

Geoffrey shook his head. “I am not his heir, my lord. I have three older brothers to claim precedence. I have come only to pay my respects, and then I will be on my way again.”

“Back to the Holy Land?”

Geoffrey nodded.

“I was a fourth son, you know,” the King mused, regarding Geoffrey with half-closed eyes. “And now I am King of England. You should not underestimate your chances of inheritance, Sir Geoffrey. You never know what fate might hold in store for you.”

“But I do not want Goodrich,” said Geoffrey, more forcefully that he had intended. “Even if it did fall to me, I would decline it. I do not want to be a landlord.”