A Head for Poisoning

by Simon Beaufort

  “And before you ask, there was not a mark on his body,” said Stephen, rather too quickly for Geoffrey’s liking. “He was drunk and he drowned. End of story.”

  End of Torva, too, thought Geoffrey. “And did you hire another servant to take Torva’s place?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Godric. “But I am uncertain as to whether he can be trusted. With Torva, I told him that if I became worse, I would kill him—so he had an incentive to keep me alive. But young Ine knows that I am not in a position to carry out such a threat on him. Why should he not take a bribe from the villain who is killing me by degrees?”

  “Godric has been spreading these lies all over the county,” said Bertrada to Geoffrey. “He even sent for the Earl of Shrewsbury, who arrived with his personal physician. Neither found anything amiss—the physician said Godric has a wasting disease, for which there is no cure.”

  “You have come just in time, Godfrey,” whispered Godric, the softness of his voice forcing Geoffrey to lean close to hear him.

  Not wanting to miss anything, the others clustered round, jostling each other to secure the best places. The old man’s eyes gleamed with malice when he saw them elbowing each other just to listen to his whispered conversation with Geoffrey, and Geoffrey suspected that his father derived a great deal of pleasure from the dissension and suspicion that festered between his children and their spouses.

  “Three weeks ago, when Stephen told me that Godfrey was returning, I made a new will,” Godric said, just loud enough for the others to hear.

  His eyes glittered as he spoke, and Geoffrey’s spirits sank. He sensed he was about to hear something he would rather not know.

  There was a stunned silence in the bedchamber as the old man made his announcement. Seeing he had his family’s complete attention, Godric leaned back in Geoffrey’s arms with a weak grin of satisfaction.

  “I have made a new will,” he said again.

  “But the old one will stand,” said Walter loudly. “No court in the land will countenance another made while you are far from sound in mind and body.”

  “The Earl of Shrewsbury himself witnessed it,” said Godric, his grin widening as he witnessed his eldest son’s consternation. “Will you tell him that he is an inadequate judge, or shall I? Godfrey, come closer. The new will is hidden in the chest at the end of the bed, under my shirts. Find it, and bring it to me.”

  Gently easing Godric’s head onto the pillow, Geoffrey did as he was bidden, watched intently by his kinsmen. At first he thought Godric was mistaken, because he could find nothing, but when Henry grabbed a handful of shirts and shook them impatiently, a scroll of parchment dropped to the floor. There was an undignified scramble for it, which Geoffrey watched dispassionately. Since none of them could read, possession of it would do them little good.

  Not surprisingly, Henry emerged triumphant from the skirmish, and broke the seal with his thick fingers. The others clustered round, Stephen fingering a split lip, and Bertrada pushing her tousled hair back under her wimple.

  “What does it say?” enquired Geoffrey provocatively, as Henry turned it this way and that in frustration.

  Henry flashed him a vicious look. “Where is that lazy clerk? Norbert!” he yelled down the stairwell. “Norbert, where are you?”

  Norbert the scribe appeared almost immediately, suggesting to Geoffrey that his brothers and sisters-in-law were not the only ones party to what had been happening in his father’s bedchamber. He wondered how many more of the household were gathered on the stairs to listen to the unsavoury twists and turns of his family’s affairs.

  “Read this,” ordered Henry, shoving the scroll into Norbert’s hands. From the bed, Godric gave a low cackle of amusement.

  “Norbert knows full well what is in it: he was present when it was drawn up—although it was actually written by that fat priest who acts as the Earl’s scribe, because Norbert’s writing is not all it should be. And do not think that destroying it will do you any good, because the Earl has a copy. I am not so foolish as to believe that any of you will honour my last wishes when there is wealth at stake.”

  “What mischief have you done?” protested Walter in horror. “You know I am your rightful heir. You have always said so.”

  “But I have not always been dying from poison,” said Godric, his lips still parted in the smile that reminded Geoffrey of a wall-painting he had once seen of the Devil. “And anyway, you, Walter, were born out of wedlock, so you have no claim at all. Ask my brother Sigurd if you doubt my word.”

  “Hah!” exclaimed Henry with spiteful satisfaction.

  “But Sigurd has never liked me!” cried Walter. “Of course he will support such a claim. He has always favoured Stephen.”

  Henry gave an unpleasant laugh that brought Walter towards him with a murderous expression on his face. Stephen interposed himself between them.

  “Then the manor is mine?” he asked, prising his brothers apart. “I am legitimate, and you always said I looked like our mother. I am no bastard.”

  “But you are also no son of mine,” said Godric, with a malice that unnerved Geoffrey. “You, Stephen, are the spawn of your mother’s lover.”

  “Father!” intervened Geoffrey, shocked. “Consider what you say. You slander our mother’s good name.”

  “What good name?” queried Godric, shifting his gaze from Stephen to Geoffrey. “She cuckolded me every bit as much as I was unfaithful to her. She chose my brother with whom to couple, and Stephen is the result. Why do you think Sigurd has taken such an interest in him all his life? No one could believe it is because of his appealing personality. And where do you think that red hair comes from? It is not from me—but Sigurd has red hair.”

  “What a pity,” mused Walter to Stephen. “If I could have chosen which brother to rid myself of, it would have been Henry, not you.”

  “So, my claim will stand,” crowed Henry triumphantly. He snatched the will from Norbert and made for the door. “I am away to see the King and to ensure that no one pre-empts me. I am legitimate, the son of Godric, and I was born on English soil. What more need be said?”

  “No,” said Godric, his soft voice stopping Henry dead in his tracks. “You have always claimed you were born on English soil, but you never bothered to verify it with the people who really know—your mother and myself. In fact, Henry, you were born in France, after the Conqueror’s fleet had left. The Conqueror was King of England days before your mewling presence was known on English soil.

  “You are right,” said Henry to Bertrada, after a moment of reflection. He regarded the gloating face on the bed with a look of pure loathing. “Godric rambles; he does not know what he is saying.”

  “But Joan’s claim would come before Henry’s, regardless of where he was born,” began Olivier timidly from the other side of the room.

  “Remove that whining coward from my presence!” ordered Godric hotly, pointing a thin finger at Olivier. “He parades around pretending to be a warrior, and he is not fit to breathe the same air as me.”

  Geoffrey began to suspect that this was not the first time such a scene had been played out at his father’s supposed death-bed. Godric, weak and dying though he might be, was not too frail to manipulate his children and to take sadistic pleasure from their quarrelling.

  “If Walter is illegitimate and Stephen is not your son, then I am next in line,” said Henry, pulling himself up to his full height. “Whether I was born in England, France, or on the Channel, matters not one bit!”

  “Godfrey is the only one of my sons who cannot have poisoned me,” said Godric, enjoying Henry’s anger. “The new will names him as my successor.”

  “But I do not want it!” cried Geoffrey in horror, rising so abruptly that the sick man had to grab Walter to prevent himself from being tipped off the bed. “Please! I have no wish to be fettered here.”

  And he certainly had no wish to be the sole target for his displaced brothers” ire for the remainder of what would doubtless prove to be
a very short life.

  “That is quite a brilliant bit of acting, Geoffrey,” said Walter bitterly as he pushed Godric back on the bed. “So now we know why your arrival home is so timely—you must have been planning this for months.”

  “I do not want Goodrich,” said Geoffrey forcefully. “I am not interested in such things. If I were, I could have had an estate ten times the size of Goodrich in the Holy Land.”

  “But you have already shown yourself to be less than efficient at looting,” said Bertrada. “I was in the village this morning, and I learned that even that feeble lout Mark Ingram came home with more booty than you did. I think you failed to secure your fortune there, and so have come to steal away what is rightfully ours.”

  “You knew all along what Godric was planning, and you contrived to hasten his end,” continued Henry in the same vein. “None of us is poisoning Godric. You are!”

  “Oh, Henry!” said Geoffrey, exasperated by the lack of logic. “How can that be possible? I have been thousands of miles away!”

  “I know how,” said Stephen thoughtfully. He turned to his brothers. “It is coincidental that Ine arrived home from the Crusade so soon after Torva died, is it not? That is because Geoffrey dispatched him from Jerusalem to do his dirty work!”

  As one, Walter, Bertrada, Stephen, Olivier, Hedwise and Henry cast accusing eyes towards Geoffrey. Geoffrey regarded them aghast. In the bed, Godric cackled in wheezy delight, and made no attempt to support the innocence of his newly created heir. While Geoffrey had anticipated that his home-coming would not be as pleasant as that of Barlow and Ingram, he had certainly not expected to be charged with the murder of his father. He took a deep breath, and fought against the unreasonable desire to run them all through there and then, and really provide them something with which to accuse him.

  “No,” he said firmly. “I have never heard of Ine, and I most certainly do not want Goodrich. The will must be changed back to favour Walter, as it should.”

  “Should it? Should it?” shouted Henry bitterly. “Well, I do not think anything of the kind!”

  “Then change it to favour you,” said Geoffrey, losing patience. “I do not care one way or the other. I want nothing to do with it.”

  “But Goodrich should be mine,” said Stephen. “And I do not believe I am Sigurd’s son—he would have told me if I were.”

  How Godric had gone from four perfectly legitimate sons to only one within a matter of moments, defied Geoffrey’s imagination. He glanced down at his father, who was thoroughly enjoying the consternation and friction his revelations had caused.

  “Norbert,” said Stephen suddenly, elbowing Walter out of the way to grab the clerk’s sleeve. “What exactly does this will say?”

  Clearing his throat, Norbert began to read. “‘This is the last will and testament of Sir Godric Mappestone, lord of the manor of Goodrich, Kernebrigges, Druybruk—’”

  “Druybruk?” queried Henry. “I did not know we had that.”

  “There is much you do not know, little brother,” sneered Walter. “Continue Norbert.”

  “‘Druybruk, Dena—’”

  “Yes, yes,” said Walter, impatiently. “We know all this.”

  “Well, some of us do,” added Stephen, with a malicious glance at Henry.

  “‘… am in sound mind and body …’”

  Bertrada gave a snort of derision.

  “‘and I leave my complete estate and all my riches to my youngest son, Godfrey Mappestone, who is in the service of the Duke of Normandy in the Holy Land. The rest of my brood can go to the Devil. Signed this eighteenth day of the month of December, in the year of Our Lord 1100.’”

  Stephen released Norbert’s arm, eyes glittering with savage delight. “I thought as much! He has no legitimate son called Godfrey, and certainly none in the service of the Duke of Normandy. The old fool never could remember Geoffrey’s name, and Geoffrey is now in the service of Tancred, as he told us last night. This new will means nothing at all! We can contest it!”

  Geoffrey heaved a sigh of relief, grateful beyond measure that his father’s long-standing lapse of memory had at last worked to his advantage.

  “No!” cried Godric angrily. “The Earl of Shrewsbury will see that my last wishes are upheld! Godfrey is a nickname, and everyone will know which son I mean to inherit.”

  “Not I,” said Stephen. “I know of no Godfrey, nickname or not.”

  “Nor I,” said Henry.

  “Enough of this,” said Geoffrey. He could see his father was tiring, and he had no wish to spend the entire day arguing over a will that no one had any intention of honouring. “Contest the will if you like, but I relinquish all part in it. I will remain in Goodrich until Father … well …”

  “Until he begins his journey to Hell,” supplied Bertrada, glaring at the sick man.

  “As you will. And then I will leave you. I do not want Goodrich, and Tancred will not allow me to stay here anyway. If ever I do return to England, I will be quite happy with Rwirdin.”

  “Oh, you will not like that at all,” said Walter quickly, casting a guilty glance at Olivier. “It is a miserable place all surrounded by hills and forest. When I am lord of Goodrich, I will find you something better.”

  Geoffrey sighed. “Very well. But let us discuss this another time. Father is tiring. He should be allowed to rest.”

  “Causing family discord is tiring,” said Bertrada icily. “Everyone seems surprised that he claims one of his family is poisoning him, but if they knew him as we do, the surprise would be that he has lived his sixty-six years without one of us trying it before.”

  “That is a cruel thing for a daughter to say,” said Stephen. “What will Geoffrey think when he hears you so callously chattering about Godric’s poisoning?”

  “You mean his alleged poisoning,” snapped Bertrada. “We all know he is making it up. He has a wasting sickness, and is dying of purely natural causes. He is spreading these vicious rumours about us because he loves to see us fight.”

  “I am being poisoned just as surely as I lie here,” said Godric. “My physician will provide any proof that is needed. And one of you miserable dogs is responsible!”

  “How?” demanded Bertrada. “Ine prepares all your food and, despite what you are trying to tell Geoffrey about Ine being bribed by one of us, you were ill when Torva prepared it, too. You are not being poisoned; you are dying because a disease is eating your innards away.”

  “If you really believe what you claim, why do you not leave Goodrich?” asked Geoffrey, reluctant to continue the subject, but puzzled by Godric’s seemingly passive role in his own death.

  “It is far too late now,” snapped Godric. “I am already too ill to recover.”

  “But what about earlier?” persisted Geoffrey. “Why did you not leave when you first had your suspicions? It is not as if you have no other manors in which to live.”

  “Two reasons, you cheeky young whelp!” hissed Godric. He was pale, and his breathing was shallow and strained. “First, Goodrich is mine, and I will not be driven out of it by some poisoner. And second, they would have followed me. They are all too frightened that one might gain an advantage over the other, and none of them dares leave my side.”

  “Then perhaps you should consider bequeathing everything to the Church,” suggested Geoffrey, looking down dispassionately at the panting man in the bed. “That would put an end to all this wrangling, and give you some peace.”

  “How dare you interfere!” yelled Henry, hurling himself at Geoffrey, fists at the ready. Geoffrey side-stepped him neatly, and used his brother’s momentum to send him crashing into the wall.

  “Enough!” he roared as Walter and Stephen seemed about to rally to Henry’s defence. His voice was loud and angry enough to stop them in their tracks and to silence Henry’s groans. He glared round at them. “Our father—poisoned or not—is ill. Sick people’s minds often wander and cause them to say things we would rather they did not. Either accept this, or do
not come to see him. Now, he is tired, and he needs to rest—or would you kill him here and now by simple exhaustion?”

  From the expressions on their faces, Geoffrey could see that they would like that very much, but reason eventually prevailed, and everyone left Godric to sleep. Geoffrey helped the sick man swallow the dregs of some wine he found stored in an impressively large metal pitcher that took both hands to lift. Godric clearly wanted to talk further, but was too weary and Geoffrey had listened to more than enough accusations for one day. He straightened the bedclothes, and stood back to allow Hedwise to feed the sick man some broth.

  “You want to watch her, son,” said Godric, in a hoarse whisper a little later, nodding to where Hedwise was stoking up the fire. “She has a preference for men other than her husband.”

  “So do I,” said Geoffrey fervently, drawing a wheezy chuckle from the dying man.

  The morning’s squabble had left Godric exhausted, and Geoffrey sat with him for the remainder of the day to ensure he was allowed to rest in peace. He stayed in Godric’s chamber, and repelled a continuous stream of visitors who were anxious that Godric might be getting better. It was tedious work, and he began to regret his offer to stay at Goodrich until his father rallied or died.

  Godric’s room was gloomy, a sensation enhanced by the dismal wall-paintings with their macabre themes. Whether the subject was hunting or battle, there were impossible volumes of blood, and Geoffrey wondered what fevered mind had produced such a testament to violence. He threw open the window shutters, for the room stank of dirty rushes, sickness, and paint, but Godric complained that he was cold, and refused to sleep until Geoffrey had closed them again.

  Geoffrey grew restless, unused to such an extended period of inactivity, but found he was unable to concentrate on much—even on his precious books. The cheap tallow candles, which smoked and spat and added their own eye-watering odour to the hot room, did not provide sufficient light by which to read, and they gave him a headache. By the end of the evening, when Hedwise came to feed Godric his broth, Geoffrey felt sick and his limbs had a sluggish, aching feel in them. He supposed he must have caught a chill from his dip in the river, and went to sit near the fire, hoping the feeling would pass after a good night’s sleep.