Simon Beaufort - A Head for Poisoning

He set the bowl on the table and Hedwise gave him a poke with the dagger.

“Broth is meant to be drunk hot. Pick it up.”

Geoffrey lifted it. “But you did not kill Father, did you? You might have intended to, but you did not actually do it.”

He could hear her breathing behind him. “No. He was already dead when I came for him. He often calls out in the night, and so would have thought nothing odd about me bringing him fish soup around dawn. But, as you seem to know, he was already dead. Now I realise that Enide must have killed him.”

“She did not,” said Geoffrey. “In fact, she was one of the very few for whom Father’s murder would have been impossible. Rohese heard him alive and arguing with Stephen, and then stayed with him until he died. At father’s insistence, Rohese fled to the tunnel after he was dead. No one used it after that, so while Enide might well have come up it to kill him, she could not have left that way. And any other way would have been difficult, since everyone but Stephen thought she was dead. It would have caused a stir to say the least.”

“Well, who did kill him then?” asked Hedwise. “Do you know?”

“Actually, no one killed him,” said Geoffrey. “I think he killed himself.”

There was a pause, and then Hedwise laughed. “I know what you are trying to do. You think you can distract me by spinning wild tales. Drink the broth, Geoffrey, or it will be cold. Then it will not be nice at all.” The dagger pricked again, adding venom to her words.

Geoffrey pretended to take another sip from the dish, almost gagging as the smell of fish long past its best wafted into his face. He had no intention of drinking the stuff, and Hedwise was right: Geoffrey intended to talk to her and tell her what he had reasoned until an opportunity arose that would allow him to overpower her.

“Stephen met Enide, and he learned from her that she planned to kill King Henry in Monmouth. Stephen then told Father, who was appalled and started to shout his objections to the plot. Rohese heard him carrying on, but I did not because I was drugged. Walter had already left by then. Father knew that he would be implicated in the plot, guilty or not, and rather than risk the shame and inevitable punishment that such an accusation would bring in the last few days of his life, he decided to take his own life, so that his reputation could never be so besmirched.”

“He killed himself to avoid a scandal?” asked Hedwise in disbelief.

“More or less. The King had overlooked Father’s part in the plot to kill Rufus, but he would not overlook one to kill himself. Father had been given his chance, and so could not expect to evade justice a second time. He decided to kill himself, so that no one could accuse him of anything. I have seen men kill themselves with daggers before. The way he died was very typical of a self-inflicted stroke.”

“But you have no evidence! This is all supposition.”

“Not all,” said Geoffrey. “Father was killed with the dagger that William the Conqueror gave him-I found it bloodstained in the moat a couple of days ago. You had all been hunting around for it when you thought he was dead-just after I arrived-and he told me he had hidden it where no one would find it. It was clear that none of you knew where it was-and therefore none of you could have killed him with it. He retrieved it from wherever it was secreted, and stabbed himself.”

“But he would go to Hell for suicide,” said Hedwise, unconvinced.

“I do not think he saw it as suicide,” said Geoffrey. “Rohese said he blamed us for killing him-he believed that his children had murdered him because he saw us as responsible for putting him in the situation where he was forced to take his own life. Anyway, he always maintained that as long as he confessed his sins before he died, he would go more or less straight to the pearly gates. Shrewsbury’s fat priest had heard his confession that very night, and had given him last rites. What better a time?”

She was silent. Geoffrey swirled the contents of the bowl around absently.

“And then you came in,” he continued. “You found that I was still alive, but that Father was dead. You took my dagger and plunged it into his chest in the hope that one of us-Walter or me-would be accused of his murder. You tipped the wine out of the window to make it appear as though I had been drinking heavily, and then you threw his precious dagger after it.”

“Very good,” said Hedwise. “But enough of all this speculation. Drink the damn broth!”

Geoffrey half lowered the broth, and then with a sudden, abrupt movement, he hurled it over his head directly into her face. She gagged and choked and staggered backwards. At the same time, he heard a sound from the garderobe passage.

He leapt towards his armour and snatched up his sword, just as Enide emerged into the chamber. She smiled when she saw the sword and stepped aside. Drogo entered, carrying a bow with an arrow already nocked and his right hand ready to draw back the bowstring and fire.

“Good God, Geoffrey. What have you done to Hedwise?” said Enide, suddenly aware of the gagging figure crawling on hands and knees on the floor.

“She has just tried her nasty fish soup,” said Geoffrey. “Would you like some?”

Geoffrey stood in Godric’s chamber and looked at his sister Enide, shifting from foot to foot and assessing his chances of diving at Drogo before the older knight had the opportunity to loose the arrow that was pointing unwaveringly at him.

“I hoped you would be here,” said Enide, moving to one side to give Drogo space to operate. “You killed Malger, a man who has been more dear to me than any other. I mean to make you pay.”

On the floor, Hedwise gurgled pitifully, scrabbling at her throat with her fingers as she struggled to breathe. For the poison to have had such a dramatic effect in such a short space of time implied that she had added a powerful dose to her vile fish broth-she had wanted no mistakes this time. Enide followed his gaze and gave an unexpected chuckle.

“Stephen told me that someone had poisoned you. It was Hedwise, was it? I congratulate her. I did not think she possessed the intelligence or the courage.”

“Stephen is dead,” said Geoffrey, realising too late that he should have maintained his silence.

“Did you kill him?” she asked, intrigued. “Poor Stephen! He connived and lied and plotted, and prided himself on the misconception that he was the most devious of us all.”

“I see you hold that honour,” said Geoffrey.

“He was spineless, too,” she continued as though he had not spoken. “Pernel was different. She had the courage to follow her convictions. Stephen had no strength at all.”

“I do not blame him,” said Geoffrey. “It was Pernel’s courage that led her to plotting to kill a king, and brought about her murder by her co-conspirators.”

“Stephen was not happy about that,” said Enide. “But she had to go.”

“Why not kill him too? Why did you risk letting him live, if you are so cautious?”

“He knew nothing of consequence,” said Enide with contempt. “Godric wanted to bring him into our plan to slay Rufus, but we all argued against that, even Pernel.”

“Then Stephen was not your ‘one other”?” asked Geoffrey, surprised to feel relieved that the one brother he had almost started to like had not been involved.

“Do not be ridiculous, Geoff!” said Enide. “I have just told you several good reasons why he was not to be trusted. Walter was the last of us. Could you not even work that out?”

“Walter?” echoed Geoffrey in astonishment. He forced himself to concentrate. “Walter did not support King Henry, and he was loyal to the Duke of Normandy. But he was so open about it.”