A Head for Poisoning

by Simon Beaufort

  “Of course not, but—”

  “But most men do not keep their whores in the bosom of their family? Is that what you were going to say? Your mother was right about you—you should have become a priest! But you will like young Rohese when you meet her. She is a good lass.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She is away with Joan. She performs a dual function here—or did, when I was more able-bodied. She attended me at night, while during the day she is your sister Joan’s tiring-woman. She used to be Enide’s maid, but Joan took her on after Enide’s death. Enide—now there was a fine lass, by God! A better daughter a man could not have wished for. I would have left her the manor, had she lived.”

  “I wish I could have met her again,” said Geoffrey, wiping sweat from his eyes with his sleeve and looking at Godric. “I last saw her when she was eleven.”

  “You would not have recognised her, Godfrey,” said Godric, his eyes shining. “She was a magnificent woman—taller than that vicious dog, Henry, and she had more brains that all the rest of you put together. She was kind, too. My whore, Rohese, does not like this room, so Enide willingly changed with me whenever I asked, so that I could have my whore happy and not babbling that my paintings frightened her while I wanted her attention on me. What other daughter would do such a thing for her old father, eh?”

  “It does seem a somewhat curious arrangement,” said Geoffrey, scrubbing hard at the malevolent image of a black dog that held an equally sinister-looking black rabbit in its jaws.

  “You would think that,” said Godric disdainfully. “Enide held no such monkish qualms. I wish that Joan was more like her. But Joan should be back soon—she and Rohese are visiting your manor at Rwirdin.”

  “Joan’s manor at Rwirdin, you mean,” said Geoffrey, crouching down to wring out the cloth in a bucket of water and vinegar. “It seems to have been part of her dowry.”

  “That transaction was not legal,” said Godric. “You can contest it any time you like, and no court in the land would find in favour of Joan. But, you see, Walter had to find something to entice Olivier to marry her—that wretched little man had been courting her for more years than I can remember. In fact,” he said, heaving himself up on his elbows, “I remember that they started paying each other attention shortly after I sent you away.”

  “Olivier seems fond of her,” said Geoffrey, concentrating on wiping smoke stains from the most wicked-looking pheasant he had ever seen—he had not believed that such an inoffensive bird could be depicted to appear so malignant.

  “I really have no idea whether he likes the woman or not,” said Godric carelessly. “But while I was away a couple of years ago, Walter decided that Olivier had dallied with her affections quite long enough, and offered him your manor as an incentive to do the decent thing.”

  “So I gathered.”

  “None of us expected you to survive the Crusade, you see, and so Walter did not think it would matter that he had illegally appropriated your inheritance. Anyway, Walter anticipated that it would rid Goodrich of the pair of them once and for all.”

  “But it did not, did it?” said Geoffrey. “It seems that they still spend a good deal of time here.”

  Godric laughed unpleasantly. “Walter’s plan backfired badly, because now he has Joan and Olivier watching his every move like hawks. That will teach him to meddle behind my back! Still, I applaud his efforts. We were all beginning to wonder whether Irresolute Olivier was ever going to make an honest woman of Joyless Joan, although none of us blamed him for not wanting to take the plunge.” He gave a dramatic shudder.

  “What do you mean?” asked Geoffrey. “Olivier would not have courted her for so many years if there had not been some affection.”

  “You wait until you meet her,” said Godric, grinning nastily. “Then you will not ask such stupid questions. Other than the fact that she is scarcely endowed with what even the most charitable of men would call a sweet disposition, she was not young and she had pursued Olivier with all the subtlety of a pack of hunting dogs after a hare for two decades. But you will see all this for yourself when she comes home.”

  “Why did Walter choose Olivier as her husband?” asked Geoffrey. “I was told that Caerdig requested her, and I should have thought Walter would have gained more from her marriage to him than her marriage to Olivier.” And so might Joan, he thought uncharitably.

  He rubbed hard at his temples where his head had started to ache, and went to pour a cup of wine from Godric’s enormous jug near the bed. It was strong and acidic, and did nothing to quench his thirst.

  Godric gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Poor old Caerdig would have married Henry to bring peace to Lann Martin! He is desperate for a truce.”

  “Is that so bad?” asked Geoffrey, pouring some water into the wine to dilute it. “But what happened to reduce Caerdig to such a state? I do not recall there being such problems with neighbours while you were more active.”

  “Very true,” said Godric smugly. “And it is most satisfying to see Walter, Henry, and Stephen make such an appalling mess where I handled matters with ease.”

  “So you do not care that the good relations you spent your lifetime developing have been destroyed within a few months by Walter’s niggardliness and Henry’s taste for killing?”

  Godric shrugged. “That is what Caerdig keeps saying. But no, why should I care? It means that people will look back on my rule with pleasure, and my memory will be revered.”

  “That is a selfish attitude to take,” said Geoffrey, unable to disguise the distaste in his voice. “Why should Caerdig’s villagers, or ours, suffer just so that people will look back with fondness on the Golden Days of Godric?”

  The old man’s eyes narrowed. “You insolent dog! If I were thirty years younger, I would run you through.”

  “You would probably try,” said Geoffrey, regarding his father with dislike. “It seems to be the Mappestone way of solving problems.”

  “You sound just like that mewling Olivier,” said Godric, returning Geoffrey’s look with every bit as much hostility. “He is always trying to find a solution to problems that means he will not need to put his delicate skin in danger.”

  “On occasion, that might be construed as prudence,” said Geoffrey, taking a sip of his wine and adding yet more water. “God’s teeth, this is a vile brew! How can you drink it unwatered?”

  “You are no better than Olivier is,” spat Godric. “You cannot even take a man’s drink without adding water. I have a good mind to alter my will again and ensure that you get nothing at all.”

  “I wish you would,” said Geoffrey fervently. “I do not want anything from Goodrich. It is tainted with greed, selfishness, and corruption.”

  “Monk!” taunted Godric.

  Geoffrey rubbed his head again, and admonished himself for engaging in futile arguments with a dying man. He wondered if his malady was due to the wine. He looked at the ruby red liquid in his cup, and set it down. Godric seemed very partial to it, and since the jug always stood uncovered next to the bed, it would be an easy matter for any of his family to slip something poisonous into it. He picked up the cup again and smelled it. He could detect nothing other than wine, but that did not mean to say there was nothing wrong with it. He decided to ask the physician. Godric kept exhorting Geoffrey to speak to the medical man about his alleged poisoning, so Geoffrey resolved that he would do so at the earliest opportunity.

  Godric watched him examining the contents of his goblet. “Has the strong wine given you a headache?” he asked sneeringly. “Run to the kitchens, boy, and ask Mabel to give you some milk sops.”

  Geoffrey stared at him, and wondered whether he would end his life like Godric—bitter, mean, and self-interested, taunting his children into wishing he was dead, and loved by no one. He decided the best option was to stay single, and to volunteer for all the battles he could once he sensed he was growing unpopular. Better a death of his own choosing than of someone else’s.

 
“So, why did Joan marry Olivier and not her other suitors?” he asked, to change the subject. “A marriage to the heir of Lann Martin would have brought those Welsh lands under Mappestone control, and better a man of integrity like Caerdig than a lying coward like Olivier.”

  “Joan married Olivier because she wanted him, and what Joan wants, Joan always takes,” said Godric. “Caerdig asked for Enide, too, when he saw he was not going to have Joan. As if I would let my Enide go to the likes of him! Enide was a splendid woman! She did not take her wine watered!”

  Geoffrey was not certain that his father’s frank admiration for his dead sister was necessarily a good sign, and for the first time he began to wonder whether Enide was all he remembered. Perhaps she had changed from the happily mischievous girl he had left behind.

  “So, Joan married Olivier, Enide died, and Caerdig was left with a war on his hands,” said Godric gleefully. “But Caerdig will survive. He is a capable lad—not like those mewling brats who think they are mine—Walter the Illegitimate, Stephen my brother’s son, and Henry the Lout.”

  Geoffrey turned away, repelled by the raw malice in Godric’s glittering eyes. No wonder his children hated him so. Geoffrey had been home a few days, and was already considering ways to leave. He picked up the rag and began cleaning again, while Godric watched critically.

  “Not so hard, boy! And you have missed a bit over there—that bishop is supposed to be wearing a golden coronet, not a crown of thorns!”

  Geoffrey stood back to try to see what he meant. He had never seen anything quite like Godric’s mural, and he hoped he never would again. Black was the predominant colour, with a good deal of red to depict outpourings of blood that far exceeded plausibility. Even after Geoffrey’s vigorous cleaning, the painting remained dark and sullen. He scrubbed for a while longer, then dropped the cloth into the bucket and sat down, leaning back against the wall and wiping his face with his sleeve.

  “This vinegar water smells foul. May I open the shutters on the window?”

  “You may not!” said Godric indignantly. “I am a sick man. Do you want to kill me? Bertrada tried that back at Yuletide, but I thwarted her. She opened the window shutters in the night, hoping that I would take a fatal chill.”

  Before Geoffrey could stop him, Godric had embarked on yet another tale of how he had survived a murderous attack by his children. Geoffrey had already heard so many similar tales that he was inclined to believe Bertrada had been right, and that Godric’s accusations were simply the desperate, pathetic attempts of a fading warrior to claim that his impending death was a result of a battle, rather than due to some invisible, sinister enemy that was eating away at his innards.

  “You are beginning to concede that my suspicions have some foundation, I see,” said Godric, aware that Geoffrey had not tried to dismiss his latest claim with the calm voice of reason. Geoffrey did not answer. He climbed stiffly to his feet and came to ease Godric under the bedclothes so that the old man would sleep—thus allowing Geoffrey to escape for some fresh air in the courtyard.

  Godric attempted to stop him, wanting to talk, not sleep. He thrashed around, his arms flailing, causing dense clouds of particles to rise into the air that made Geoffrey cough.

  “It is these vile mattresses that are killing you,” he said, backing away to rub at his eye, where something had lodged. “They are filthy and full of dust.”

  “They make for the most comfortable bed in Christendom,” objected Godric. “Your sister Enide said she always had a good night’s sleep on them—when I was in her room with my whore.”

  “You should let Bertrada shake them out,” said Geoffrey, eyes watering.

  “She would steal them for herself,” replied Godric. “These mattresses came from no less a person than the Abbot of Hereford. The lower one is full of straw and provides firmness, while the upper one is a mixture of hay and feathers and gives softness.”

  “And why did the Abbot part with such a fine bed?” asked Geoffrey, wiping his eye on his sleeve and advancing once more to make Godric lie down.

  “The monks sold off his possessions after his death,” said Godric. “That fine chest at the end of the bed was his, too.”

  His spurt of struggling had left him weak, and he was unresisting when Geoffrey straightened the covers and helped him to lie flat. The old man watched Geoffrey intently with his sharp, almost bird-like, eyes.

  “You are wondering why I do not ask you to take me to safety if I am so convinced that someone is poisoning me,” he said. “Well, my physician tells me it is too late, and that my innards are irreparably damaged. So, I have decided to stay here, and watch the escalating battles over my worldly fortunes. At least my last few weeks will be entertaining.”

  “A priest would tell you that your energies should be concentrated elsewhere,” said Geoffrey, pouring some wine from the monstrous jug and helping Godric to sip it.

  “Priests!” muttered Godric, finishing the wine in a single swallow. “Do not bring one of those here until I am within a hair of my death. It does not matter when I repent my sins, only that I do so. And I only intend to repent them once—I do not want to be revealing all my sins while I am alive for someone to use against me. Now, give me more wine.”

  After drinking, he began to cough violently, while Geoffrey knelt next to him, wiping foamy blood from his lips. Eventually, he slept, and Geoffrey slipped away to walk around the courtyard in the icy night air.

  Two mornings later, Geoffrey was still asleep when Bertrada brought Godric his breakfast. She nudged him with her foot.

  “Get up, will you? I will not have you here lying around doing nothing all day. We already have Olivier and his fine friends doing that—eating our food and drinking our wine.”

  “You mean Drogo and Malger?” asked Geoffrey, sitting up, and holding his head as an uncustomary dizziness seized him.

  “Them and others,” said Bertrada, slapping a breakfast tray down where Godric had to strain to reach it. “Olivier does nothing but flaunt his expensive clothes and his fine war-horse, while my poor Walter struggles here to make ends meet.”

  “Rubbish, woman!” said Godric. “Goodrich is rolling in money—that is why you are all so keen to get your grasping hands on my estates. Walter is just too mean to spend any of it.”

  Their voices drifted down the stairwell after him as Geoffrey made his escape. He donned his leather leggings and hauberk in the hall, and set off to see if Julian could find him something poison-free for breakfast. His stomach was cramped and his head swam, so that he wondered whether the poisoner had already started work on him.

  Julian provided two crusts of bread and a pear that was so rotten it exploded across the floor when Geoffrey dropped it. His dog appeared from nowhere, a large ham in its jaws.

  “Lord save us!” exclaimed Julian. “Bertrada has been looking everywhere for that ham!”

  “Well, I doubt she will want it now,” said Geoffrey, seeing that the gnawed exterior dripped with the dog’s saliva.

  “She will,” said Julian, with utter conviction.

  Geoffrey wondered what his chances were of eating with Helbye again, and determined that if Bertrada produced ham for dinner, he would not take any, especially if it had tooth marks—and even more especially if it were smothered in the ghastly fish sauce, a pot of which already simmered and bubbled evilly over the kitchen fire.

  With the dog, still carrying its ham, at his heels, Geoffrey left the castle intending to visit the physician, to learn once and for all whether Godric really was being poisoned, or whether his father’s mortal sickness was making him delusional. The guard at the gate also informed Geoffrey that Bertrada was looking for the ham, but declined Geoffrey’s invitation to retrieve it from the dog himself.

  Taking in deep breaths of fresh air, Geoffrey strode along the main street of the village, and made for the physician’s house, a shabby stone building near the church. He knocked at the door, but, receiving no reply, walked to the rear where a sizea
ble garden was surrounded by a low wall. The garden contained neat rows of plants and several outbuildings. The sound of singing came from one of them.

  Geoffrey called out, but the chanting went on uninterrupted. He vaulted over the low wall and poked his head around the door. Inside, it was dark and gloomy, and the walls were lined with an unbelievable array of bottles and phials. Bending over a flame was a small man with white hair that leapt from his head at a variety of angles. He wore the red gown of the physician, although it had seen better days, and the overfilled pockets and large number of sacks and pouches that dangled from unexpected places made him appear peculiarly shaped.

  “Excuse me,” called Geoffrey loudly.

  “I have already told you, I will not discuss this matter,” said the physician, not looking up from his work. “Go away.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  The physician looked up. “Oh!” he exclaimed, startled. “I thought you were that grubby Mark Ingram coming to ask questions about the poisonings at the castle again. Cheeky young beggar! As if it is any of his concern!”

  “Why should he be interested in that?” asked Geoffrey, puzzled by his soldier’s unseemly fascination with his family. “He has been asking questions in the tavern, too.”

  “He probably intends to blackmail you somehow,” said the physician comfortingly. “You are Geoffrey Mappestone, I suppose, come to find out whether your father is being poisoned? Well, I can tell you, quite categorically, that the answer is yes: Godric is being murdered by degrees, just as surely as you are standing at my door.”

  Geoffrey rubbed his head. “What kind of poison is this killer using?”

  “Come in,” said the physician. “And close the door behind you.” He straightened, and looked at Geoffrey with a pleased smile. “How kind. You have brought me a ham!”