“He should suit you very well, then,” said Godric. “But you are trying to distract me. I was telling you about Enide. I thought you said you were fond of her.”
Geoffrey paused as he unbuckled his chain-mail, but did not reply.
“Why they should kill her is beyond me,” mused Godric. “You have some loose links there, Godfrey: you should mend them before you next go out. The castle was a much more pleasant place when Enide was in it.”
“There are vile rumours about her death,” said Geoffrey. “Ingram told me that Caerdig had killed her.” He stopped, and rubbed the bridge of his nose, disgusted that he had allowed himself to embark on speculations about Enide’s death with his father after he had determined that he would not do so. Such a conversation would scarcely lead to a peaceful night’s slumber for Godric, and would only serve to make the old man more paranoid than ever.
“Perhaps Caerdig did kill her,” said Godric. “Someone did—she did not cleave her own head from her shoulders.”
Geoffrey sighed. “But Henry assures me he hanged the culprits.”
“So he claims,” said Godric bitterly. He made a sound of exasperation. “Stop fiddling, Godfrey, and come and stand where I can see you. Now, I know you do not believe that I am being poisoned, and I accept that. I am beyond caring for myself, but Enide I loved dearly. Find who killed her for me, Godfrey, and I promise that I will never ask anything of you again.”
“If you will make another will and leave me out of it, I will do what I can,” said Geoffrey. “Meanwhile, I am wet. Can I borrow a shirt? I have lost all mine.”
“Then you can buy some new ones,” snapped Godric, his wheedling tone instantly superseded by his customary evil temper. “Just because you think I am about to die does not mean that you can have the clothes from my person. You are just like the others—all clamouring for the dagger that the Conqueror gave me. Well, they shall not have it. None of you shall. I have hidden it away, and no one—not a single living soul—knows where I have put it. And you shall not have the clothes from my poor body until I am gone.”
“I do not intend to walk around the castle in your nightshift,” retorted Geoffrey, eyeing the garment that Godric’s “poor body” wore. “I want to borrow a shirt. I only have one, and it is wet and probably needs to be washed.”
“Yes, it does,” said Godric, eyeing him distastefully. “What do you mean by coming into your poor father’s death chamber wearing a dirty shirt?”
“Can I borrow this one?” asked Geoffrey, holding one of the ones stored in the chest at the end of the bed.
“I suppose so,” said Godric reluctantly. “And take some clean hose, too. Yours are really quite disgusting. Hedwise will wash them for you. But in return, will you do what I ask? Enide did not deserve to die, and her death must not go unavenged. She was being poisoned too, but the villain responsible decided he could not wait, and struck off her head as she came out of the church. I envy her in a way, for I would rather die from a sword blow than by slow poisoning.”
“Even if you are right,” said Geoffrey, “what can I do now? I have asked questions, and discovered nothing.”
He dropped his sodden shirt onto the floor, and pulled the dry one over his head.
“I will provide you with a list of suspects that you can interrogate. First, there is Henry, who hated her as he hates you—because you are more clever than he is. Then there are Walter and Bertrada. It was Enide who discovered Walter was illegitimate. I would have kept it from him, just for a peaceful life, and—”
“How could Enide discover such a thing?” asked Geoffrey, startled. “And anyway, I do not believe that Walter was born out of wedlock. Someone would have mentioned it long before now, if it were true—especially you.”
“I have a chest where I store old documents,” explained Godric. “I cannot read, so I had no idea what was in it. Enide was sorting it out for me one day, and she found the evidence.”
“What evidence?” asked Geoffrey tightly, sensing that Godric was about to make him very angry.
“A writ giving Walter’s birthdate, and a certificate with details of my marriage to your mother. The dates do not tally. And there are also documents that prove I was away at the time of Stephen’s conception, so that I could not possibly have sired him without supernatural help. Enide came to tell me what she had learned. While I was explaining—perhaps more loudly than I should have done—my other villainous whelps overheard.”
“And so poor Enide had information thrust upon her that made her a danger to Walter and Stephen?” said Geoffrey coldly. “No wonder you think she has been done away with! How could you have kept such documents? Why did you not burn them?”
“Easy for you to say!” snapped Godric. “You can read—you would know which ones were which. There are important writs in that chest. How could I be certain that I was not destroying one of those?”
“You could have asked Norbert,” said Geoffrey, unappeased. “Your clerk. That is why you employ him, surely? To read and write for you?”
“I could not trust him with such delicate information!” said Godric, appalled. “He would have used it to his own advantage.”
“Unlike you,” pointed out Geoffrey bitterly. “What a mess all this is. Where are these documents now?”
“Enide destroyed them,” said Godric.
“But by then everyone knew of the existence of these writs and their contents anyway, so technically, Enide should not have been a greater risk than anyone else,” said Geoffrey, trying to reason it all out. “So that still does not explain why someone chose to kill her.”
“You will have to work that out for yourself,” said Godric. “I cannot tell you everything. And do not leave Joan and Sir Fearful out of your reckonings, either. Poor Enide’s head was severed with a sword, so perhaps that snivelling coward performed the foul deed.”
Geoffrey’s thoughts whirled with confusion. Was there even the most remote grain of truth in what Godric had just told him? Or was it simply a ploy to make Geoffrey remain at Goodrich and take on the manor? He rubbed his head where his helmet had chafed it, and went to the heavy pitcher that stood on the floor for some wine. He slopped some into a cup, and took a gulp. He resisted the urge to spit it out again: seldom in his life had he tasted anything so bitter and vile that was not medicine.
He looked dispassionately at Godric, who lay in his bed staring up at the ceiling. He raised the cup to his lips again, but even the smell of the powerful brew was too much. He slammed it down on the windowsill, and fought the desire to snatch up his sword, and race down to the hall to dispatch the whole lot of them.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Geoffrey awoke with a start to see Hedwise towering over him. His momentary consternation that she had come for him was relieved when he realised she was only bringing breakfast to Godric.
“That is fine. Now go,” Godric said forcefully as Hedwise set a tray on the chest at the foot of his bed. Hedwise glowered at him and then gave a soulful look to Geoffrey before pulling the door shut behind her.
“You will have to beware of that vixen today, lad,” Godric said with a leer. “Henry has gone off hunting with Olivier and his friends, so she will be on the prowl and you just might be the prey.”
Geoffrey felt groggy and sluggish and was concerned that Hedwise had been able to enter the room without waking him. In the Holy Land, any knight who slept so deeply would risk never waking at all, and Geoffrey prided himself on his ability to snap awake, to be alert and ready for a possible attack. The fact that it was Hedwise who had managed to slip past his defences made it just that much more potentially problematic.
He did not relish the prospect of spending an entire day indoors with his father, but given the alternatives—Hedwise unrestrained or his family still inflamed by Godric’s changed will—he decided to continue his cleaning of the paintings, while hoping to glean some information from Godric that might help solve the mystery of Enide’s murder.
As it t
urned out, it was Geoffrey who did most of the talking, entertaining—and at the same time disappointing—his father with tales from the Crusade.
“It seems to me that you have fallen in with the wrong crowd, Godfrey,” his father mused in some disgust that evening. “You say this Tancred of yours actually tried to protect those people on the Dome of the Rock? It was lucky that the Duke of Normandy and Bohemond and the others were not so womanly, or the whole Crusade might have turned back before it reached Constantinople.”
Geoffrey was not sure if that would have been such a bad thing. He was about to say so when the door burst open and Walter strolled in, Bertrada and Olivier at his heels. Behind them were Stephen and Hedwise, walking rather more closely together than was usual for a man and a woman not married to each other. Walter made himself comfortable by the fire, while the others clustered around the bed, eyeing Godric speculatively, assessing whether the old man was continuing his remorseless decline in health, or whether the worst had happened and he was rallying. Godric eased himself up onto his elbows, simultaneously gratified by and uncomfortable with the attention.
“What do you lot want, and what is all that racket?” he complained, as through the window came the sounds of shouting from the courtyard below, mingled with the snorting of horses and the jangle of weapons. Walter threw open the shutters and leaned out.
“It is the Earl of Shrewsbury!” he exclaimed in surprise. “What is he doing here?”
Everyone looked at Olivier. “His visit has nothing to do with me,” said the small knight defensively.
“Joan,” said Walter heavily, still peering out of the window. “Joan is with him. She must have told him that Godric was near his end. Is that true Olivier?”
“It is nothing to do with me,” the small knight repeated, playing with the hilt of a highly decorated dagger with which Geoffrey would not have deigned to peel fruit, let alone carry at his side. “But Godric was very ill when she left a week ago. I imagine she thought he had not long for this world.”
“But Godric seems to have rallied somewhat now,” said Bertrada, looking hard at Geoffrey, her tone suggesting that this was not good tidings.
“I suppose the Earl has brought the copy of this wretched new will of Godric’s,” said Walter. He pursed his lips, and looked at Geoffrey. “Are you sure you did not send for him?”
“I most certainly did not,” said Geoffrey.
The Earl of Shrewsbury was one of the last people Geoffrey would invite anywhere. If the King were sufficiently worried to recruit Geoffrey to ensure that the Earl was kept away from Godric’s inheritance, then Geoffrey would just as soon not meet the Earl at all.
Godric’s eyes gleamed in anticipation of recriminations and arguments to come. “You had better attend to Shrewsbury, then,” he said to Walter. “And send Rohese to me.”
Walter opened the door, and held it open for Geoffrey to precede him.
“Not a chance,” said Geoffrey, sitting near the fire. “The black-hearted Earl is your guest, not mine. I will stay here and ensure that father rests.”
Stephen walked towards the door, and there was an almost comical jostle as he and Walter tried to be the first one out to greet the Earl. The others followed, leaving Geoffrey alone with Godric.
It was not long before laughter and other sounds of gaiety drifted up from the hall, as the Earl and his retinue were treated to a welcome quite different to the one Geoffrey had received. A sound from the doorway caused Geoffrey to glance up from where he was helping Godric to sip some of his strong red wine. A woman stood just outside the door, beckoning to him. Reluctantly, Geoffrey went to see what she wanted.
“I see your taste in clothes has not improved since I last saw you,” she said, putting her hands on her hips and surveying his borrowed hose and shirt with some amusement. “You always were a ruffian.”
“Joan?” Geoffrey asked, subjecting his older sister to the same meticulous attention as she had given him. Her thick, curly brown hair was dusted with silver, and her slender figure had thickened since she had reached her forties. But she still possessed the restless energy that Geoffrey remembered, and the hard lines around her mouth suggested that time had honed, rather than softened, her domineering tendencies. He had entertained hopes that he might fare better with Joan than with his brothers in terms of civility, but such rashly held fantasies were rapidly dismissed.
“Of course I am Joan,” she retorted. “Who else is left, bird-brain? You have met our esteemed sisters-in-law Bertrada and Hedwise, and surely even you can see that I am not Enide risen from the grave!”
Geoffrey winced. For the first time since he had met him, Geoffrey felt sorry for Sir Olivier.
“Where is Rohese?” came a querulous voice from the bed.
“She will be with you as soon as she has warmed herself from the journey,” called Joan. “And before you say it, she will do better by the fire than tumbling about in this chilly hole with you.” She cast a disparaging glance around at Godric’s room and shuddered. “This place reminds me of a whore-house!”
“Well, you should know!” shouted Godric furiously. Joan threw him a contemptuous glower, and began to walk down the stairs.
“The Earl of Shrewsbury has ordered that you attend him in the hall,” she said over her shoulder to Geoffrey as she left.
“Then the Earl of Shrewsbury can go to the Devil,” retorted Geoffrey. “I am not his vassal, especially since Walter seems to have used my manor of Rwirdin to secure Olivier d’Alençon for you.”
Joan paused and glared at him. “You should have been here, then, if you wanted Rwirdin so much. You cannot cheerfully leave our father and poor Walter to run your estate for you, and then swan back and demand it on whim.”
“Their stewardship of my manor has made a good deal of money for our father and poor Walter,” said Geoffrey acidly. “I do not think you will hear them complain.”
“Well, Rwirdin is mine now and you cannot have it back,” said Joan in a tone that suggested that, as far as she was concerned, the topic was laid to rest for good. “Now, do not be foolish and make an enemy of the Earl. He is waiting for you.”
“Then he can wait,” said Geoffrey, walking back into his father’s chamber. “I do not care if I make an enemy of the Earl or not—I do not plan to be here long enough for that to matter.”
Joan stamped back up the stairs. “Do not be stupid, man! Do you know nothing of the Earl and his reputation?”
“Enough to know I do not want him as any acquaintance of mine,” said Geoffrey. “So, you can tell him to take his orders and—”
“Sweet Jesus, Geoffrey!” whispered Joan, casting an anxious glance back towards the stairs. “Do not play with fire in our house! If you will not come for yourself, then come for your family. We have no wish to draw his wrath down upon us!”
“I did not invite him here, you did,” said Geoffrey, as Stephen appeared behind Joan.
“What is keeping you?” Stephen demanded of Geoffrey. “The Earl is becoming impatient. Not only that, but your dog has just bitten him. You had better come and explain its foreign manners before he has it run through.”
Reluctantly, Geoffrey followed his brother and sister down the stairs, and his resolve to leave Goodrich as soon as possible strengthened with each step. At the far end of the hall, seated comfortably in front of a blazing hearth was Robert de Bellême, the Earl of Shrewsbury, laughing loudly at some anecdote that Olivier was telling him—probably his bold encounter with the wild boar. Despite his reticence, Geoffrey was interested to see in the flesh the man whom much of England and Normandy held in such fear. He was not disappointed. Geoffrey was a tall man, but the Earl was immense. Even seated, he dominated the hall. Falling to his shoulders was a mane of sparse grey-black hair, and his eyes were like tiny pieces of jet in his big, red face.
As Geoffrey walked closer, the Earl stopped laughing and affixed him with eyes that, on closer inspection, were reptilian. Geoffrey was not a man easily unsettled
, and he had faced more enemies than he cared to remember, but there was something about the Earl’s beady gaze that transcended any malevolence he had encountered before. He had a sudden conviction that King Henry’s suspicion that Shrewsbury might have had a hand in the killing of William Rufus might not have been so outlandish after all.
He paused in front of the hearth and looked down at the Earl, before kneeling and rising so soon again that his obeisance was only just within the realms of courtesy. The Earl continued to regard him, and the hall was silent as everyone waited for the great man to speak.
“So,” he said eventually, tearing his eyes away from Geoffrey’s steady gaze, and looking him up and down. “You are Sir Geoffrey Mappestone, newly returned from the Crusade.” His voice was deep and powerful, and Geoffrey could well imagine it directing the many battles that he was said to have fought and won.
The Earl continued when Geoffrey did not reply. “You do not look like a knight. Where is your chain-mail?”
“I was about to retire for the night,” replied Geoffrey coolly. “I do not usually wear it to bed.”
Olivier’s imprudent laughter was silenced by a flick of the Earl’s expressionless eyes. “I see,” he said. He took a hearty swig from the goblet he held and changed the subject abruptly. “Your sister tells me your father is near his end. You have timed your return well.”
“It was not timed at all,” said Geoffrey. “And he is not as ill as everyone seems to believe.”
He was certainly not too ill to consider a romp with his whore Rohese, thought Geoffrey. He looked at the assembled people and wondered which one she was—a woman brave enough, or feeble-minded enough, to serve both Godric and Joan.
“Really?” asked the Earl in a voice so soft it was sinister. “Your brothers are not under that impression, and so I have taken the liberty of bringing my personal priest to give Sir Godric last rites.”
He snapped imperious fingers, and a fat priest slid out from the ranks of the courtly retinue to disappear up the stairs.
A Head for Poisoning Page 19
