Simon Beaufort - A Head for Poisoning

“Enide,” said Geoffrey in a whisper. “Who do you think?”

“But Enide is dead!” cried Henry. “She was shot by the King’s chief huntsman!”

“Apparently not,” said Geoffrey.

He walked down the hall and came to stand over his eldest brother. Walter’s eyes were closed, and his balding pate was a curious purple colour and strangely flattened. Geoffrey knew he had been beyond any ministrations that Bertrada and Joan could offer him from the moment he had been struck. The blow, although it had caused virtually no bleeding, had smashed the skull and crushed the brain beneath.

Joan looked up at Geoffrey. “Olivier says Enide came and attacked Walter,” she said, bending and wiping the dead man’s face again.

“Olivier has been at the wine,” said Bertrada, her voice harsh with shock. “Enide has been in her grave these last four months.”

“Enide has been everywhere but her grave,” said Geoffrey. “She has been living in a room at the end of the passage that ran from Godric’s chamber to the woods outside.”

“In that filthy tunnel?” queried Joan. “She would have been better in her grave!”

So, Joan knew about the passage, thought Geoffrey. And in that case, so probably did Olivier. Were they the killers of Godric? Or was that Stephen, who confessed to using the tunnel when he found himself locked out of the castle the night that Godric was killed?

“Enide is dead,” said Bertrada flatly. “I saw her corpse. Father Adrian said there could be no mistake, despite the fact that they had stolen her head. The priest is a good man with no reason to lie.”

Adrian closed his eyes in despair and guilt. “It was not Enide’s body,” he said in an agonised whisper. “She was afraid that one of you would kill her, as she believed one of you had been poisoning Godric, and she asked me to help her feign her death. The body you saw was not hers.”

“But why would she want to harm Walter in particular?” asked Joan, wiping again. “He has never done her ill.”

“None except to be Godric’s oldest son,” said Olivier. “Perhaps she intends to kill you all one by one, and then reappear to claim Goodrich.”

“Do not be ridiculous, Olivier!” snapped Bertrada. “How could she hope to wrest Goodrich from the Earl of Shrewsbury? It is he who owns Goodrich now.”

“So, what happened?” asked Geoffrey quickly, before they could start one of their arguments.

“I was coming from the stables a short while ago,” said Olivier, “when I saw someone entering the hall. It was Enide. At first, I thought someone must have been poisoning me, and that I was dreaming, but it was Enide sure enough. By the time I had reached the hall from the stables, she was standing over Walter’s body with that skillet in her hand.”

He pointed to a large, heavy cooking pan that had been used for toasting chestnuts over the fire when Geoffrey had last seen it.

“Did she say anything?” he asked.

“I asked her what she had done.” He pursed his lips. “A foolish question, I suppose, given the circumstances. She told me she killed Walter because he had slain Godric.”

“What?” cried Bertrada. “Walter did not kill Godric! Geoffrey is the most likely one of us to have done that. It is he who should be lying here, not my Walter!”

Had Walter killed Godric, Geoffrey wondered. Why not? Godric had died the night after he presented his children with a will proclaiming Godfrey as sole inheritor-before the Earl of Shrewsbury had come up with his own ideas on the matter. Perhaps Walter had thought that by killing Godric he might invalidate the will somehow, and that his own claim by primogeniture-the first-born-would be upheld.

“Did Enide say anything else?” Geoffrey asked of Olivier.

“She told me that if I let her leave unmolested she would not harm me. So I did.”

“You let her go?” exploded Henry in disbelief. “Good God, man! You are a knight and she is a woman! Why did you not prevent her from leaving, and keep her here to answer for her crimes? Call yourself a warrior?”

“Leave him alone!” snarled Joan. “What action Olivier chose to take is none of your affair. He did not know when he let her out that Walter lay fatally injured.”

“Well, it is obvious that Walter did not faint with the delight of seeing her,” said Hedwise, taking part in the conversation for the first time.

“Where did Enide go?” asked Geoffrey. “Did she go to Godric’s room?”

“No,” said Olivier, puzzled by his suggestion. “She ran out of the hall and down through the inner ward to the barbican. Then I saw Sir Drogo emerging from the gatehouse. He had horses at the ready and they left.”

“We will never catch them now,” said Henry, disappointed. “They could be anywhere!”

“I do not think they will get far,” said Geoffrey. “Where could they go?”

“Well, they will not stay around here,” said Henry. “It is far too dangerous. But what of Walter, Joan? Shall I ride for a physician? There is a good one in Walecford.”

“It is too late,” said Geoffrey. “Walter is already dead.”

Bertrada bit back a sob.

“No,” said Joan. “He is just stunned. He will awaken given time.”

“He will not,” said Geoffrey gently. “The blow probably killed him instantly. He needs Father Adrian, not a physician.”

“But there is no blood!” protested Joan. “And the wound is only slight.”

“His head is flattened,” said Father Adrian, peering closer. “He is dead, Joan. Let him go.”

Geoffrey leaned down and helped Bertrada to her feet, while Olivier solicitously helped Joan, fussing about her and smoothing wrinkles from her gown.

“Is it true?” Joan asked of the small knight. “Is Walter really dead?”

Olivier nodded, and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. “You did all you could for him. Come away now. You, too, Bertrada. We should let the priest see to him.

Bertrada allowed herself to be assisted to a chair near the fire, while Adrian knelt and began intoning prayers for the dead.

“Now what?” asked Henry in an undertone to Geoffrey. “It seems that Enide is intent on wiping out everyone connected with Goodrich. Who will be next, I wonder. You or me?”

That night, Geoffrey sat in Godric’s chamber, staring into the flames that licked at the damp logs. The window shutters stood wide open so that the poisonous fumes from Godric’s paintings might be dissipated, and the wind that gusted in chilled the room and made the flames dance and roar.

Geoffrey rubbed at the bridge of his nose, and glanced at the hour candle that stood in a protected corner of the room. He sighed, and then stood to pace for a while to prevent himself from falling asleep. It was well past midnight, and still she had not come. Perhaps Henry was right after all. When Geoffrey had stated his intention to wait for Enide to come through the secret tunnel, Henry had sneered in derision, maintaining that Enide was no fool, and would be well on her way to the coast to avoid being hanged for treason by the King. Olivier had agreed, while Joan had seemed too confused to think anything.

Hedwise had wept bitterly when she had learned of Stephen’s death, and Geoffrey asked himself whether their relationship had been all it should. Joan and Olivier had retired to their chamber, and Geoffrey had heard them talking in low voices behind the door he was certain had been barred.

Bertrada had seen her husband laid out in the chapel next to his father and brother, and announced that she would be leaving Goodrich as soon as Walter was buried. Geoffrey had studied her sharp, hard features in the flickering light from the sconce. Her mouth was drawn in a bitter, bloodless line, and her eyes were cold and calculating. Was she fleeing the scene of her crime, he wondered, now that Enide had ensured that Walter would never inherit Goodrich? Was it Bertrada who had stabbed Godric, so that Walter could have the estates and the uncertainty would be over? Seeing him staring at her, she gave a mirthless smile, and offered him mulled wine that he refused.