Simon Beaufort - A Head for Poisoning

“So?” asked Enide. “Why should he not be? He felt very strongly that the Duke of Normandy would make a better king than his duplicitous younger brother. But, like Pernel, Walter was becoming unstable. I brained him with the skillet to ensure that he did not panic after our lack of success yesterday afternoon and tell everyone what we had attempted to do. And now I have come for you and the deplorable Henry.”

“I do not understand why you are doing this,” said Geoffrey, bewildered by the intensity of her hatred. “What caused you to plot to kill kings?”

“I grew tired of plotting to kill brothers,” said Enide. “Oh, Geoffrey, do you really not understand? It was so tedious here. The only fun to be had was setting our brothers at each others” throats, but even that became so easy it was not worthwhile.”

“But Father Adrian told me that you went to see King Henry in June-before he was king-in Monmouth. Adrian believes you told him about the plot to kill Rufus.”

“And so I did,” said Enide. “He thanked me most courteously, and informed me that he would tell his brother to be on his guard. Then he dismissed me from his presence. And as if that were not bad enough, he claimed the throne after Rufus’s death before the poor Duke of Normandy could do a thing to stop him.”

Geoffrey laughed, despite the gravity of the situation. “I see. So you told King Henry of the plot to kill Rufus, so that he could be ready to support the Duke of Normandy, but all you really did was to warn him to be alert to the opportunity of grabbing the crown for himself. You could not have done him a greater favour. He should have given Goodrich to you!”

“I will have Goodrich yet,” said Enide coldly. “When you are dead and Henry is dead, it will be mine. The Earl will never allow Joan and Olivier to hold it-Olivier is too feeble.”

“But you will have no Malger at your side,” said Geoffrey, playing with fire. “Which other lover will you take to help you run it? Drogo? Adrian?”

Geoffrey had expected her to hurl herself at him in fury-had hoped she would, so that he might turn the situation to his advantage somehow-but he had underestimated her capacity for self-control. She smiled icily and refused to be drawn.

“Charming though it has been chatting with you again, I am a busy woman, and have a good deal to do before I leave.” She turned to Drogo. “Do get it right this time.”

Drogo was in the process of drawing back the bowstring, when there was an almighty crash and the door burst open. Drogo jumped in alarm, and Geoffrey used his momentary confusion to grab his surcoat from where it lay on the floor, and fling it towards the startled knight. It entangled itself on the arrow, and Drogo swore as he tried to shake it away. Geoffrey leapt at Drogo, but a mailed fist shot out in a punch that set Geoffrey’s senses reeling. He fell backwards, scrabbling to keep his grip on Drogo as the older man fumbled for his dagger.

As Henry darted into the room with his own bow, Enide leapt towards the garderobe passage.

“Shoot!” yelled Geoffrey as Drogo’s knife came out of its sheath and missed his cheek by the breadth of a hair.

Geoffrey seized Drogo’s wrist and tried to push it away, while his other hand fought to prevent Drogo from striking his eyes with splayed fingers. At first, Geoffrey thought he could force Drogo to drop the dagger, but Drogo was far stronger than he looked, and Geoffrey felt the dagger being forced relentlessly towards him, coming closer and closer to his throat. He tried to struggle away, kicking at Drogo’s legs, but although the older knight grunted and swayed slightly, his chain-mail prevented Geoffrey’s blows from doing real harm.

Geoffrey squirmed away as the cold tip of the dagger grazed against his skin, but Drogo thrust Geoffrey up against the wall so hard that it drove the breath from his body. The dagger dipped towards him again, and Geoffrey knew that he did not have the strength to stop it. He tried to shout to Henry for help, but no sound came.

And then Drogo crumpled suddenly, the dagger clattering harmlessly from his nerveless fingers. Joan stood over him, holding the same skillet that had been used to brain Walter.

“That will teach him not to tangle with the Mappestones,” she muttered. She turned on Henry. “Foolish boy! What were you thinking of? Why did you not shoot? Could you not see that this oaf was about to slit Geoffrey’s throat?”

“I could not fire,” stammered Henry, his face white.

“And why did you bring a bow?” snapped Joan. “Surely, even you should have been able to see that a sword would have been the weapon of choice for fighting in a small room.”

“It was what came most readily to hand,” mumbled Henry. “And anyway, my sword is with the blacksmith for sharpening-we cannot be too careful now that Caerdig of Lann Martin thinks he has a truce with us.”

“But you did not even fire your bow,” pressed Joan.

“I could not,” said Henry in a low voice. “It was too close.”

“What was too close?” demanded Joan, the skillet still clutched in one meaty hand.

Henry hung his head. “I could not be certain I would get the right one,” he mumbled.

And which one would that be? wondered Geoffrey, looking down at the crumpled form of Drogo, and feeling his neck to see if the dagger had nicked him. Henry gave a gasp of horror as his eyes fell on the still-gagging figure of Hedwise lying on the floor.

“My God! What have you done to Hedwise?”

“She swallowed some of her ergot soup,” said Geoffrey. “But I do not think she has taken enough to kill her. But while we have been chattering here, Enide has escaped!”

He darted towards the garderobe passage, but Enide was long gone and the door was closed. He rushed towards it, hauling on the handle, but it had been locked from the inside. He thumped it in frustration with his balled fists.

“Kick it open,” instructed Joan, following him in. “The bolt on the other side is not very strong.”

Geoffrey had already surmised Joan knew about the secret tunnel, but he was impressed that she had observed the size of the bolt. He stood back and aimed a hefty kick at the door, which shuddered and groaned but showed no signs of opening.

“Again!” ordered Joan.

Geoffrey obliged, and saw it budge slightly. He kicked it a third time, and it went crashing back against the wall, the sound reverberating all over the castle.

“Henry?” said Joan imperiously. “Come with me. Not unarmed, man! Bring your bow! And arrows might help, too,” she added facetiously as Henry made to come without them. “Olivier, bind Hedwise and Drogo, and ensure they do not escape. Geoffrey, take your sword and follow me.”

“Down there?” asked Geoffrey in horror.

“Of course down there!” said Joan, looking at him askance. “That is where Enide went, after all. Look lively, Geoffrey! We have a murderer to catch.”

“I could go the other way,” temporised Geoffrey. “I could block the exit at the far end.”

He expected her to argue, but she gave him a soft and somewhat unexpected smile. “You will be too late by the time you run round the river path. She will have gone. Stay here if you would rather, and guard this pair of ruffians. Olivier! Come with me.”

Geoffrey could not, in all conscience, allow Enide to escape because he had entrusted her capture to the likes of Olivier and Henry. Joan, he imagined, would probably do better, but she possessed no real weapons. Filling his mind with images of Stephen, Godric, and Walter, all dead, directly or indirectly, because of Enide, he snatched the torch from Joan and marched into the black slit of the tunnel.

Geoffrey had not taken more than a few steps before the torch started to splutter, and he faltered. Was the air too old and stale in the passage to allow the thing to burn properly, or was it just a poorly made torch? The thought had barely formed in his mind, before whatever imperfection had been in the flare had righted itself, and it burned bright and steady again. Geoffrey forced himself to walk on.