A Head for Poisoning

by Simon Beaufort

  He wondered what were the chances of escape, if he defied the King, and rode for Portsmouth without stopping at Goodrich to see his ailing father. Godric had never had much affection for his youngest son—rare were the days when he had even recalled Geoffrey’s correct name. Geoffrey had not seen his family for twenty years, and the only one who had made the slightest effort to maintain contact had been Enide. And she was dead, perhaps poisoned by the very brother or sister who may have tried to shoot Geoffrey in the forest.

  He rubbed the bridge of his nose, and sighed softly. He knew it was not wise to disobey orders from a King; even if Geoffrey did manage to reach the Holy Land without being caught by the King’s agents, his defiance was surely likely to catch up with him some time in the future.

  Geoffrey realised with a sense of impending doom that he had little choice but to go to Goodrich, and at least be seen to be following the King’s orders. A few days, or a week, should be sufficient to convince the King that Geoffrey believed that Goodrich would remain in Mappestone hands, and then he would be free to leave England—forever.

  “It is late,” he said, feeling that the Welshman was watching him in the darkness. “Go to sleep.”

  “You should sleep, too,” said Caerdig, settling down in the straw. “And do not worry about me bothering myself to slit your throat during the night. Your brothers will save me that trouble, if I wait long enough.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Dawn the next day was misty and damp. Geoffrey rubbed the sleep from his eyes and ran his fingers through his short, brown hair to remove the pieces of straw that were entangled in it. His customary toilet completed, he went in search of something to eat, and persuaded the forester to part with another of his unappetising loaves and some tiny, sour apples. His dog had done its own scavenging, and was eating something that looked a good deal more appealing than Geoffrey’s meagre breakfast. The knight considered taking it from him, but his hands still bore the scars from the last time he had attempted such a rash act, and anyway, Geoffrey already knew who would be the winner in such a contest.

  He paid the forester and went on his way, the others trotting behind him. The night had been mild, and the sun of the previous afternoon had thawed the frozen ground. The path that had provided easy riding the day before was now a sticky morass of clinging mud, and their progress was slow. It was late afternoon before Caerdig stopped at a small, muddy river.

  “This is where we part. My lands lie this side of the stream, and your family’s start from the other bank.” He hesitated, and regarded Geoffrey uncertainly. “I said I would escort you to Mappestone territory. Do you accept that I have fulfilled my part of the bargain?”

  Geoffrey nodded. “Once again, my apologies for trespassing. It is what happens when you follow the advice of another, rather than trusting your own instincts.”

  He allowed his gaze to stray to Helbye, who immediately began to study the river, looking for the best place to cross.

  Caerdig still hesitated. “You spared my life—twice if you count not telling the King the fact that his messenger was slain during my ambush. But I have kept my end of the agreement.”

  “So you have already said,” said Geoffrey, wondering where this was leading.

  Caerdig sighed. “By Welsh law, you saved me—so I might be obliged to do the same for you at some point in the future.”

  “That might be useful around here,” said Geoffrey. “Where lies the problem?”

  “The problem lies in your brothers,” said Caerdig. “I swore a solemn oath to rid my people of them, and so you and I might yet find ourselves on the opposite sides of another skirmish. The bargain that we made was that you spared my life, and I would see you safely off my lands. So, now we are even.”

  “I see,” said Geoffrey. “You are saying that next time we meet, I should assume that you are about to kill me, and act first?”

  “Well, I did not mean it quite like that,” mumbled Caerdig. He scrubbed hard at his face, and smiled suddenly at the amused knight. “Actually, I suppose I did. But I do not like this state of war between our families. I will not—cannot—trust any of your siblings to make peace, but I would be willing to consider terms with you. Just bear that in mind the next time you say so glibly that you want nothing belonging to your father.”

  With a curt nod to Geoffrey, Caerdig rode away into the gathering dusk, taking with them the mule that Barlow had borrowed after his own mount had been killed by the mysterious archer. Barlow watched them go resentfully.

  “We should have slain him while we had the chance,” he said. “I was expecting to feel a dagger between my shoulder blades every step of the way.”

  Ingram readily agreed. “We could slip after him now,” he said, addressing Geoffrey. “It would only take a moment, and think how pleased your family will be when they hear we have dispensed with one of their enemies. They might even reward us.”

  “And so might I,” said Geoffrey dryly. “But not in a way you would appreciate. What is wrong with you? We had an agreement with the man. Have you no honour?”

  “Horses are worthy of honourable treatment,” said Ingram, fondly rubbing the velvet nose of Geoffrey’s destrier. “But not people. Especially not enemies.”

  And who was the enemy? Geoffrey wondered. In the Holy Land it was usually obvious, but Geoffrey was about to enter a household in which one of his siblings was poisoning his father, had attempted to kill his sister, and had very possibly tried to shoot him three days before.

  He stood next to Helbye, pointing out the shallowest route across the stream. Then they went through the charade they had played out each time they had reached water on their long journey home. Destriers were far too valuable to be allowed to splash blindly through rivers where they might stumble and injure themselves, and so someone had to lead them. Helbye always offered to perform this invariably unpleasant task for his lord—rivers were often deep and usually muddy. But Geoffrey knew that Helbye suffered from aching joints, and that being wet made them worse.

  Yet he also knew that the older man’s pride was a delicate matter, and that he would never admit to such incapacity. So each time Helbye offered to lead Geoffrey’s mount, Geoffrey declined on a variety of pretexts, ranging from a sudden desire to cool his feet to a need to stretch his legs by walking. This worked to the advantage of Ingram and Barlow, for Geoffrey could scarcely accept an offer from them after declining Helbye.

  Watching the swirling black water, Geoffrey silently cursed Helbye’s pride, which meant that he, and not one of his soldiers, would be fording the river on foot. He wondered what his fellow knights would think, had they known to what extent his soft-heartedness had led him.

  A sudden pitiful whine gave him his excuse this time. Geoffrey’s dog darted this way and that along the bank, declining to step into the chilly water, but sensing it would have to cross.

  “I need to carry my dog,” he said, snatching up the black-and-white animal. It was heavy, and he wondered how it had managed to gain weight on a journey that had left everyone else leaner.

  Barlow climbed onto Ingram’s horse, pretending not to notice Geoffrey’s disapproval at the way the poor beast staggered under the combined weight of two men and their heavy baggage.

  “I can take the dog,” called Barlow cheerfully, holding out one hand.

  “I hardly think so,” said Geoffrey coolly. “Unless you plan to walk. That poor horse is overloaded as it is.”

  “It is my horse,” muttered Ingram resentfully, so low that Geoffrey was not certain whether he had heard him correctly. At any other time, Geoffrey would not have tolerated such insolence from his men, but they were only a few miles from home, where the young soldiers would no longer be under his command, and Geoffrey felt he could not be bothered.

  “If you will not consider your horse, then think of yourself,” said Geoffrey, hoisting his struggling dog over his shoulder. “If you fall off because the horse stumbles, you will sink because your armour will drag y
ou down. And then you might drown.”

  The two soldiers exchanged a look of consternation. Geoffrey was right. Although neither wore the weighty chain-mail, heavy surcoat, and hefty broadsword that Geoffrey did, their boiled leather leggings and hauberks would certainly be enough to make swimming difficult.

  “We will not fall off,” said Ingram, after a moment of doubt.

  Barlow shivered, and his voice took on a wheedling quality. “It is January, Sir Geoffrey, and not a month for wading through rivers. Look—there is ice at the edge. And anyway, I do not want to arrive home after four years all sodden and bedraggled. What would they think of us?”

  “Please yourself,” said Geoffrey tiredly. He did not relish the thought of stepping into the icy water himself, but he was certainly not prepared to risk his destrier just because he did not want to get his feet wet. Taking the horse’s reins in one hand and holding the whining dog over his shoulder, he stepped off the bank and into the river.

  The cold was so intense it took his breath away, and he immediately lost the feeling in his legs. Helbye followed on horseback, while Ingram ignored the route they were taking and chose one of his own. The water was deeper than Geoffrey had anticipated, and swirled around his waist, tugging at his long surcoat, so that he began to doubt whether he would be able to keep his balance. He wrapped his hand more tightly round the reins, and forced himself to move faster. And then he was across, splashing through the shallows and scrambling up the bank on the other side. Geoffrey dropped the dog, which immediately began to bark at the trees, and turned to wait for Ingram and Barlow.

  Not surprisingly, Ingram’s horse was having problems. The weight of two riders and the pull of the deeper water chosen by Ingram were proving too much for it. Ingram tried to spur it on, but it was already up to its withers and was becoming alarmed. Geoffrey could see that it was only a matter of time before Ingram and Barlow were tipped off.

  Helbye made a gesture of annoyance as he watched. “We must help them, Sir Geoffrey, or you will be forced to break the news to their families that you brought them unscathed through four years of battles, only to lose them in the river a couple of miles from home.”

  Geoffrey took a length of rope he occasionally used to tether the dog, and waded back into the river, cursing Ingram under his breath. Barlow was already in the water, clinging desperately to the saddle with one hand, while the other gripped his treasure-laden saddlebags. Geoffrey felt his feet skidding and sliding on the weed-clad rocks of the riverbed, and realised that the current was much stronger here than where he had crossed. He threw his rope to Ingram, who caught it and gazed at it helplessly.

  “Tie it round the horse’s neck,” yelled Geoffrey exasperated, and wondering how someone with Ingram’s speed of thinking had managed to survive the Crusade. “And let go of your bags, Barlow! Hold on to the saddle with both hands, or you will be swept away.”

  “No!” cried Barlow, clutching harder still at his booty. He was silenced from further reply by a slapping faceful of water.

  Geoffrey hauled on the rope, urging the horse towards him. Ingram, white-faced, began to slip off his saddle, and then he fell just as Geoffrey had managed to coax the horse to shallower water. Geoffrey’s lunge at his hair brought him spluttering and choking to his feet.

  “Now, the next time Sir Geoffrey tells you that your horse is overloaded, you might listen to him,” shouted Helbye angrily from the riverbank. “Foolish boy!”

  “Where is Barlow?” asked Geoffrey sharply.

  All three of them gazed at the empty saddle: Barlow had lost his grip and had been swept away, just as Geoffrey had predicted.

  “Oh, no!” whispered Helbye, white-faced. “Not Barlow! His father is my oldest friend, and I promised him I would look after the lad! What will I tell him now?”

  “Stay with the horses!” Geoffrey ordered Ingram, who was gaping at the swirling river in horror. “Helbye, come with me!”

  He waded back to the bank, and began to run downstream, feeling even more burdened down than usual, with the lower half of his surcoat sopping wet and adding to the weight of his chain-mail. His breath came in ragged gasps—the dense armour of fully equipped knights was not designed for running. He crashed through the undergrowth with the dog barking in excitement at his heels, and came to a wide pond located at a bend in the river. With sudden, absolute clarity, he recalled swimming in it as a child, and remembered that it was very deep.

  He slithered down the bank and saw that, as he had predicted, Barlow had been washed into it. Geoffrey could just see him floundering just under the surface. Holding on to an overhanging branch, he slipped into the water and took a firm hold on Barlow’s collar. While the young soldier flailed and struggled, Geoffrey shoved him to where Helbye waited to pull him out. The bank was slippery, and it was some moments before they were all clear of the slick mud.

  Helbye fussed over Barlow, banging him on the back to make him cough up the water he had swallowed, and then gave an exclamation of disbelief. Geoffrey glanced over at them, and saw Barlow summon a weak grin, and raise his saddlebags in the air triumphantly. Geoffrey pushed dripping hair from his eyes and gave a resigned sigh.

  “Well, I am glad I risked my life for two bags of treasure,” he said tiredly. “But I have lost my helmet. You must have knocked it off with all that thrashing around.”

  “I got that, too,” croaked Barlow, pleased with himself, holding up Geoffrey’s bassinet with his other hand. “I saw it fall off, and I grabbed it as it sank. I thought you might like to have it back.”

  Geoffrey gazed at him astounded, wondering how the young man could be considering such matters when he was in imminent danger of death by drowning. It was often said that the singular outstanding characteristic of Normans was their acquisitiveness, and Barlow, whose Norman ancestry went back generations, was a prime example. Geoffrey was certain he would not have been so calculating under the circumstances, Norman ancestry notwithstanding. Without a word, he hauled himself to his feet, and began to walk back towards the horses. With each step, water slopped from his boots, and he was uncomfortably aware that the light breeze, which had been pleasant for unhurried riding, was now serving to chill him to the bone. He strode briskly, trying to restore some warmth to his frozen body.

  When he reached the ford, he stopped dead, and Helbye, close on his heels, bumped into him. Ingram was standing alone in the centre of the clearing, gazing at Geoffrey like a cornered animal—an unappealing combination of fear and guilt.

  “Now what?” muttered Geoffrey, regarding the young soldier with deep apprehension.

  “I saved the destrier,” Ingram squeaked. “They did not take that—they only stole your saddlebags.”

  The forest was silent, except for the soft hiss of the fast-flowing river. Geoffrey watched Ingram expressionlessly, waiting for an explanation. Ingram was trembling, partly from cold, but mostly from fear of Geoffrey.

  “What happened?” demanded Helbye. “Where is Sir Geoffrey’s saddle?”

  “They came out of nowhere,” wailed Ingram, not meeting the sergeant’s eyes. “There were at least twenty of them. They had me covered. There was nothing I could do!”

  Geoffrey looked from the shaking soldier to his destrier. His saddlebags were gone, slashed away with a knife. For a fleeting moment, Geoffrey wondered whether Ingram might have stolen them himself, but then dismissed the notion as ridiculous. Ingram knew exactly what Geoffrey’s treasure had comprised, and he was wholly uninterested in the knight’s collection of ancient books. Throughout the entire journey, he and Barlow had complained about their weight, while Helbye had often suggested that Geoffrey should trade them for something more saleable. But Geoffrey had shown scant interest in the riches that had attracted the other Crusaders, and his most loved possession was an illustrated copy of Aristotle’s Metaphysics, salvaged after the looting of Nicaea.

  And now it was gone. Geoffrey felt his heart sink as he realised that the thieves would not understand the
value of what they had, and would probably dump the precious tome in the river when they found books and not treasure in his luggage.

  Barlow approached shyly, and offered Geoffrey the smaller of the two bags that he had gripped throughout his brush with death in the river. Geoffrey was touched, knowing how keenly Barlow had guarded it and pored over it since leaving Jerusalem.

  “Which way did they leave?” he snapped, interrupting Ingram’s whining attempts to justify why he, a trained soldier armed with an impressive array of swords and knives, had failed to thwart the opportunistic thieves. Absently, Geoffrey took the bag Barlow proffered, and Barlow watched it go with sad eyes.

  Ingram indicated where the robbers had gone by pointing. Slinging Barlow’s treasure over his shoulder, Geoffrey followed the path a short distance, until his eye caught something fluttering white in the breeze. With an exclamation of delight, he scooped it up. It was the Aristotle. Nearby were his saddlebags, up-ended, and the contents rifled through. His spare clothes were gone, along with a silver chalice that Tancred had given him. But his precious books were there. Carefully, he gathered them up, and repacked them before walking back to the others.

  “They took the silver cup?” asked Helbye sympathetically, after a brief glance in the bags.

  “Yes,” said Geoffrey dismissively. “But they left my books.”

  “Books!” muttered Helbye in disdain. “Never mind books! They stole that beautiful cup! Is anything else missing?”

  “Just some scrolls,” said Geoffrey. “They are quite fine, but of no great value. They are in Hebrew and Arabic, and the Patriarch of Jerusalem gave them to me because he said he did not know anyone else able to read them. It is a pity they have gone, because I planned to use my spare time to translate them into Latin. I cannot think why anyone would steal them, but leave the books. This Aristotle dates back more than a century, and is priceless.”