A Head for Poisoning

by Simon Beaufort

  Helbye’s jaw dropped. “Is that it? Is there nothing more that needs to be done?”

  “Nothing,” said Adrian, still smiling. “Your marriage to her was the first one, and will stand over the second in any court of law and before God. I will give you the relevant documentation this evening.”

  “Useful, this business of writing,” said Geoffrey to his sergeant. “But what about your wife’s other husband? What will become of him?”

  “Norbert?” asked Helbye’s wife carelessly. “Oh, he will manage, I expect.”

  “Not Norbert, the scribe?” asked Geoffrey. “My father’s clerk?” He recalled the forlorn figure standing away from the celebrations when Helbye had returned, his face masked in shadow.

  “That’s the one,” said Helbye. “Norbert has always had an eye for her. The day I left for the Crusade, he told me that he would marry her if I failed to return, cheeky beggar! He was always hanging around our house, trying to get glimpses of her.”

  “And I suppose this is why you are always so suspicious of reading and writing,” asked Geoffrey. “Because Norbert is a scribe?”

  “Not at all,” objected Helbye. “Writing is the Devil’s skill, and only the Devil’s minions learn it.”

  “Devil’s minions like Father Adrian and me?” asked Geoffrey. He continued when he saw Helbye’s embarrassment. “So, did you not want me to write to your wife in case Norbert read it?”

  Helbye scratched his head. “I did not like the thought of her going to him to have it read. Who knows what price he might have extracted for such a service?”

  “Will Helbye!” exclaimed the priest, laughing. “Norbert is not like that! He is a good enough man, and would never have made such a bargain.”

  “And I can assure you I would not have paid such a price,” said Helbye’s wife stiffly. “I would have gone to Father Adrian to have it read, anyway.”

  They walked back through the churchyard, Geoffrey listening with half an ear to the good-humoured banter between Helbye and his wife. Poor Norbert, he thought, abused by Godric and his unpleasant household, and thwarted in love by Helbye’s unexpected return.

  “There is that Mark Ingram,” said Helbye’s wife, pointing across the street. “He has been in the tavern asking all sorts of questions, I am told.”

  “What sort of questions?” asked Adrian.

  “Questions about Enide Mappestone,” she answered. “He seems to have it in his head that the poachers were not the ones who killed her.”

  “And what business is it of his?” asked Geoffrey, watching the young soldier slink along the main road in the direction of his home. Ingram, aware that he was being watched, turned, and stared back insolently before continuing on his way.

  “Charming,” said Helbye. “I thought his temper might improve once he was home, but evidently I am mistaken.”

  “I must go,” said Adrian. “Old Mistress Pike has asked for last rites, and there is sickness in the tinker’s family. Then I must try to persuade Walter to mend the roofs on the dairymen’s cottages, because they will not survive another downpour. If he will not pay, I will have to sell the church silver to buy new thatching.”

  He nodded to Geoffrey, and set off up the main street. Helbye watched him go.

  “Father Adrian is a good man,” he said. “He works among the poor and the sick, and he is never afraid he might catch something himself. If Walter will not give him the money for his cottages, perhaps I will offer him some of my treasure.”

  “But Walter should pay,” said Geoffrey. “He is the landlord.”

  “I doubt he will,” said Helbye’s wife. “No money for repairs has been forthcoming since Sir Godric fell ill. Walter is a skinflint!” She ignored Helbye’s warning elbow in her ribs. “I do not care, Will. Sir Geoffrey should know the truth! His brother is making people’s lives a misery. Look at poor Caerdig of Lann Martin, struggling to keep his villagers fed, while Walter and Henry demand high tolls each time anyone crosses the Wye! It is disgraceful!”

  She turned on her heel and strode off after Adrian. After a moment of indecision, Helbye flung Geoffrey an apologetic look and hurried after her. Geoffrey rubbed the bridge of his nose. Perhaps he should have considered more carefully when he so cavalierly dismissed the notion of taking loot to his family. Goodrich Castle was clearly in need of repair, as attested by the crumbling battlements he had seen the night before, and the village was shabby and unkempt.

  “Barlow!” he yelled, seeing his other man-at-arms strolling down the main street, resplendent in a new cloak and fine boots. “Where can I find a man called Ine?”

  “Your father’s servant?” asked Barlow, walking across to him. “He lives at the castle, but at this time of day, you will find him in the tavern. Your father is mean with his wages, and so Ine is forced to boost them by washing plates in the mornings.”

  “Thank you,” said Geoffrey, wondering if there were a living soul anywhere in England who had a good word to say for his family—other than Adrian who, it seemed, had a good word for anyone.

  The tavern was a single-roomed building at the far end of the village, with a filthy beaten-earth floor and grimy horn windows. It was chilly, and the small fire in the hearth that hissed and smoked from the wet wood did little to alleviate the cold but a good deal to reduce visibility. Geoffrey coughed, his eyes watering at the burning wood, and looked for Ine.

  Leaning over a bucket of cold water in one corner was a tall, thin man with a bad complexion. He was taking greasy plates from a pile on a table, dunking them in the water, and then redistributing the remaining food with a dirty rag. Geoffrey went to sit next to him.

  “Ale?” Ine asked. Without waiting for Geoffrey’s answer, he went to fetch it, returning in a few moments with a large cup containing ale that was unexpectedly good.

  “You are Ine?” asked Geoffrey, watching as the man dipped his cold, red hands back into the pail of scummy water.

  “Yes, and you are Geoffrey Mappestone. You want to ask me if your father is being poisoned.”

  “Is he?”

  “Ask the physician,” said Ine, still not looking up. “He is away in Rosse today, but he will be back tomorrow.”

  “I am asking you,” said Geoffrey, taking a long draught of the ale.

  “I do not answer questions about that, said Ine. “As I have already told your man.”

  “My man? You mean Mark Ingram?” asked Geoffrey. “He asked you about Godric?”

  “You know he did,” said Ine, looking up for the first time, “because you told him to. But I know nothing of any poison. I told Ingram, and now I am telling you: I tasted all Sir Godric’s food and his wine, but you can see that I am fit and well, and I am sure it contained nothing to make him ill. I know nothing more.”

  “Why are you afraid?” asked Geoffrey. “Is someone threatening you?”

  “No,” said Ine. “The Mappestones barely speak to me, and Sir Godric only addresses me in curses. None of them waste their time threatening the likes of me. But Goodrich Castle is an evil household, and the quicker I can escape from it the better.”

  “I know the feeling,” agreed Geoffrey. “But in what way is it evil?”

  Ine shuddered. “I could not say—only that it has an atmosphere of wickedness about it.”

  This line of discussion was going to get him nowhere. Geoffrey changed the subject. “What about the death of Torva? Was that an accident, as everyone believes? Or was it more sinister?”

  “Torva drank heavily each night,” said Ine. “And the drawbridge across the castle moat is in poor repair. It was clear someone was going to fall off it at some point. It just happened to be Torva.”

  “Do you believe his death was an accident, then?” persisted Geoffrey.

  Ine shrugged. “Perhaps it was, perhaps it was not. But Torva was a man who asked a good many questions—because he wanted the reward Godric offered him if he could discover who was the poisoner.”

  “Do you think that Torva’s inves
tigations might have led to his death?”

  Ine shrugged again. “I cannot say. I only know that he walked home the same way and at the same time each night, and that he was always drunk. And I know that he had been asking questions. I ask no questions, Sir Geoffrey. And from now on I will not answer them either.”

  Geoffrey leaned back against the wall and considered. Short of bullying Ine, Geoffrey did not think he was going to gain any more information from him. He was not sure that the man had any to give in any case, since the answers he did deign to provide seemed to be based on speculation rather than fact. But it was clear that Ine believed Torva’s death was too coincidental to be an accident, and that he was fearful that he himself might go the same way if he began to investigate Godric’s illness. And if Ine’s suspicions were correct, then Geoffrey could deduce that someone had silenced Torva because he was coming near to the truth. Which meant that someone at Goodrich Castle had a secret that he or she very much wanted to keep.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Geoffrey was not inclined to eat at the castle with a poisoner lurking, so he inveigled an invitation to dine with Helbye. Helbye’s wife was a considerably better cook than anyone at the castle, and Geoffrey was served the best meal he had been given since landing in England. There was a delicately spiced pigeon pie with leeks, followed by a rich custard tart with stewed apples. Geoffrey, not knowing when he might get another edible dinner, ate too much and almost made himself ill.

  The meal on offer at the castle the previous day had been something that Bertrada had mysteriously called “numbles,” which had transpired to be hard, stale kidneys in a powerful fish sauce. Everyone had praised the fish sauce, which had been made from a recipe of Hedwise’s, while Geoffrey, who liked neither fish nor kidneys, wrestled to attain an acceptable balance between eating sufficient so as not to appear rude, but not enough to make him sick. As he finished his third helping of custard, he wondered whether he would be able to wrangle enough invitations from Helbye to avoid starving.

  The large meal had made him drowsy, and he felt the need for some exercise. He strolled back to the castle, and called for Julian to saddle up his horse. Delighted to be entrusted with such a task, Julian came scurrying to obey, while Geoffrey leaned against the stable wall and wished he had not been so greedy.

  As he waited, Olivier emerged from the hall, flanked by two knights whom Geoffrey had not seen before.

  “Going riding?” called Olivier pleasantly, walking towards him. “We plan to trot up to Coppet Hill through the woods. It is a pleasant journey of no more than six miles there and back, and you get a fine view of the castle from the top.”

  “We want to exercise our war-horses, not go on some womanly jaunt,” muttered one of the other knights, a squat, heavy-set man in dark chain-mail.

  “Yes, of course, Sir Drogo,” said Olivier hastily. “The path is good, and will put the beasts through their paces.”

  “I do not believe that we have met,” said the second of Olivier’s two companions, a man of about Geoffrey’s height, with reddish silver hair and a ruddy complexion. He wore light but strong chain-mail, and his well-honed sword was no plaything like Olivier’s. Despite his elegant cloak and soft deerskin leggings, he looked to Geoffrey like a man who knew how to fight.

  Olivier became flustered. “Oh, dear! Forgive my poor manners. This is my brother-in-law, Sir Geoffrey Mappestone, lately returned from the Crusade. Geoffrey, this is Sir Malger of Caen and Sir Drogo of Bayeux. Like me, both are in the service of the Earl of Shrewsbury.”

  Malger smiled, and affected a courtly bow. “I have heard much about the Crusade,” he said. “I am told the looting was beyond the wildest dreams of even the most ambitious of knights.”

  Geoffrey bowed in return. “I do not know about that. Many knights have very wild dreams indeed.”

  Malger laughed and turned to Olivier. “Where are your grooms, man? Sleeping off their dinner? Are we to wait here until nightfall for them?”

  Olivier bustled away, calling for the grooms, but the hem of his expensive cloak caught in one of his spurs, and sent him staggering in the mud. Drogo and Malger exchanged a look of amusement, and Geoffrey wondered yet again how a man like Olivier had ever earned his knighthood. Meanwhile, Julian emerged with Geoffrey’s destrier.

  “I can do it,” he said eagerly to Olivier, who was furtively brushing himself off. “I can saddle up your war-horses.”

  “Out of the question!” said Olivier brusquely. “And keep your hands off my animals. Ah, Ned. There you are. Saddle us up, and be quick about it.”

  “But not so quick that you forget to fasten the buckles properly,” muttered Julian under his breath before stalking away towards the kitchens.

  “Julian seems efficient enough,” said Geoffrey, straightening from where he had been checking his saddle. The boy had done a good job—the straps were firm, but not too tight, and he had even polished the well-worn leather. “Why do you not trust him?”

  “Never you mind,” said Olivier. He rubbed his hands together, oblivious of the mud on his gloves from his tumble, and then scratched his nose. The resulting blob of filth on his face brought a second grin of amusement from his friends.

  Eventually, they were ready, and the four knights set off through the village. Geoffrey was disturbed to note that their progress through the village was followed with an even greater resentment than his own had been that morning. At one point, he was certain a small boy had hurled a handful of dirt at them before being whisked into his house by his terrified mother.

  Once away from the village, Geoffrey relaxed, enjoying the ride despite the cold, dull weather. Olivier chattered about a wide range of political and legal matters, although on most of them he was ill-informed, if not downright wrong. The others generally ignored him. Malger was concerned about a slight limp his horse had developed the previous day, and Drogo did not seem to be capable of rational conversation at all. He was surly, bad-tempered, and Geoffrey’s suspicion that he was not quite in control of all his mental faculties was confirmed when he gave an enthusiastic grunt as Olivier praised Hedwise’s rank fish sauce.

  “That concoction is truly delicious,” said Olivier happily. “I am indeed blessed to have been given such a sister-in-law.”

  Malger leered unpleasantly. “But you took your time over marrying Joan. Were you waiting for a woman like the delectable Hedwise instead?”

  “Oh, no!” protested Olivier, his eyes wide and guileless. “I am more than content with my Joan. She is due back within the next two or three days, and I long to see her.”

  “Do you?” asked Malger uncertainly.

  Unless Joan had changed a good deal from the caustic, critical woman who Geoffrey remembered from his youth, then Malger was right to be suspicious of Olivier’s protestations of devotion.

  “Oh, drat,” said Olivier with a sigh, raising an upturned palm skywards. “It has started to rain. We must go back.”

  “What for?” asked Geoffrey, bemused.

  “Because if we go on, we will get wet,” Olivier replied with a pursing of his lips. He turned his horse around, and set it to walk back the way they had come.

  Geoffrey watched him, open-mouthed.

  “There goes the fearless hero of the Battle of Civitate,” remarked Malger, laughing at Geoffrey’s reaction. “He took a wily old Pope captive while he was only three months old, but he is afraid of a few drops of rain. What about you, Sir Geoffrey? Drogo? Will you return with him, or can you withstand a little shower?”

  Drogo growled some response that Geoffrey did not understand, and spurred his horse forward. Still laughing, Malger followed, leaving Geoffrey watching the diminishing figure of Sir Olivier in amazement.

  By the time Malger, Drogo, and Geoffrey had returned, the rain was persistent. Olivier hurried out to greet them, clucking and fussing over his friends” sodden surcoats and saturated cloaks. Malger and Drogo were whisked away to the hall to be offered hot spiced wine and some of the inevitable
fish soup, while Geoffrey was left to fend for himself. Duty obliged him to spend the rest of the day with his father.

  To pass the time, and at his father’s request, he cleaned away some of the wood-smoke that had stained the dreary wall-paintings that adorned the room. Godric directed his efforts from his bed.

  “You have scrubbed at it too hard,” he snapped, trying to sit so that he could see better. “That part took me a week to do.”

  “You painted this?” asked Geoffrey, surprised that his restless, irritable father had possessed the patience to pay such attention to fine detail. “I did not know you boasted such talent.”

  “I suppose you think you inherited your love of the arts from your mother?” asked Godric acidly. “Well, you are quite wrong. She was like Henry, and it was her energetic spirit and fiery nature that attracted me to her. She was more warrior than many of the knights who rode with the Conqueror, and would have been at my side at Hastings had Henry not been about to favour the world with his presence. Then the battle would not have lasted so long! Your mother had a fabulous touch with the mace!”

  Geoffrey, recalling the formidable woman who had easily held her own against the vile-tempered Godric, had no reason to doubt him.

  “So when did you begin painting?” asked Geoffrey. “After she died?”

  “Lord, no!” said Godric. “My greedy whelps would have thought that I had gone soft in the head with grief. Last spring, I decided to turn the running of my estates over to Walter and Stephen—between them I imagined they would do an acceptable job. I started this painting then, to while away the days, although I had already started to dabble with a mural here and there.”

  “It is … beautiful,” said Geoffrey hesitantly, wanting to be kind, yet uncertain how best to describe the lurid, violent scenes that emblazoned the walls.

  “Beautiful be damned!” said Godric, offended. “Splendid was the effect for which I was aiming, Godfrey! Or noble, perhaps. Beautiful is what I intended for my whore’s room. You can see that if you go into the chamber across the passage. Do not look so startled, boy! Do you think I have been a monk since your mother died?”