‘What have you done? How could you? Are you some kind of monster to do such a vile thing under your father’s own roof?”
Geoffrey was vaguely aware of strident voices, and of someone prodding him hard with the toe of a boot. The shouting seemed very distant, and he was certain it could have nothing to do with him. He settled back to sleep again.
“Oh, no you don’t! Come on! Wake up!”
The voices became more insistent, and Geoffrey felt himself being pulled upright. Then he was jolted awake with a start as a bucket of icy water was dashed over him. He gasped in shock, trying to force his eyes to focus on the people who surrounded him.
“That did the trick!” announced Henry grimly, flinging the bucket into a corner. “He is all yours.”
He stepped back to reveal the Earl of Shrewsbury behind him. Geoffrey squinted up at them, wondering why the light was lancing so painfully into his eyes. He tried to stand, but his legs were like rubber, and would not hold him up.
“Stay where you are,” said the Earl sharply. “Now. Tell me why you saw fit to murder your own father. He was dying anyway. You only had to wait a short while longer.”
Geoffrey thought he was in the depth of some dreadful nightmare, and tried to force himself awake. But a vicious kick from Henry when he did not answer convinced him that he was indeed awake, but that he might be better dreaming.
“Do not just sit there!” yelled Henry. “The Earl asked you a question and is expecting a reply.”
Geoffrey tried to speak, but his tongue felt as though it belonged to someone else and the sounds he managed to produce made no sense to anyone, least of all to himself.
“What is the matter with him?” demanded the Earl, glaring at Henry. “He was not so inarticulate when he bandied words with me last night. Has he been at the wine?”
“I should say,” said Stephen from his father’s bedside, hefting up the enormous jug. “This flagon was filled to the brim with the strong red wine Godric likes only yesterday, and it is now completely empty.” He used both hands to tip it upside down, lest anyone did not believe him.
Their voices buzzed in Geoffrey’s head, and he began to feel sick. He took a deep breath, and tried to speak a second time.
“What has happened? Why are you all shouting?”
They stared at him. “Who would not shout after coming to find Godric most foully murdered?” demanded Walter, eyeing him angrily. “And I believed you the other day, when you told us that you did not approve of the slaughter of unarmed people!”
“What are you talking about?” asked Geoffrey, bewildered. “Who murdered Godric?”
“He is feigning innocence,” said Henry, striding over to Geoffrey, and hauling him to his feet. “Come and see your handiwork!”
Geoffrey reeled, and grabbed at the Earl to prevent himself from falling over.
“He does not smell of wine,” said the Earl, standing back as Stephen hurried forward to relieve him from Geoffrey’s embrace. “Are you certain he is drunk?”
“He downed the wine to rid his brain of the unpleasant memory of what he has done,” said Henry harshly. “Look there, Geoffrey. Now what have you got to say for yourself?”
Geoffrey gazed down at the sprawled corpse of Godric Mappestone with a confused jumble of feelings, the strongest of which was nausea. Godric had been stabbed in the chest, and whoever had killed him had done so with Geoffrey’s Arabian dagger—the one of the three that the Earl had declined to take the night before. Geoffrey closed his eyes in despair, but opened then again when the blackness threatened to overwhelm him.
“The chest was against the door,” he said weakly. “How could anyone enter?”
“What chest?” demanded the Earl. “You mean that one?”
He pointed to the chest that stood at the end of the bed, where it had been before Geoffrey had moved it. Had Geoffrey dreamed that he had dragged it across the floor to the door? But there were fresh scratches on the floor, where the heavy box had slightly damaged it. Was it Walter who had killed Godric in the night, and who had then moved the chest back to its original position so that he could leave? And had Rohese witnessed the murderer, and was she still hidden between the mattresses? Geoffrey felt he could hardly look with the Earl watching.
He tugged one arm free from Stephen and rubbed it across his face. He felt as though he were suffocating from the heat of the room, and yet he felt icy cold.
“Can we go outside?” he asked, thinking that if he did not, he might well be sick. “I cannot breathe in here.”
“He does not like to be in the same room as his victim,” said Walter. “What do you say, Stephen? Shall we leave Bertrada to lay Godric out and adjourn to the hall?”
“I am not laying him out!” declared Bertrada indignantly. “He has been murdered!”
“It is not contagious,” said the Earl dryly.
In Goodrich Castle, Geoffrey was not so sure. Taking advantage of their bickering, he shrugged off Stephen’s restraining hands, staggered towards the door, and lunged down the stairs. Once in the hall, he weaved his way unsteadily across it, making for the door.
“Do not let him escape!” yelled Henry, in hot pursuit, although the only person in the inner ward to hear was Julian, who saw Geoffrey and hurried forward to help him.
“I knew it!” she exclaimed, as Geoffrey slumped heavily on the bottom step, unable to walk any further. “I was certain you were not the kind of man to kill Sir Godric as he slept. You have been poisoned, just like he was!”
“I most certainly have,” said Geoffrey pulling his knees up in front of him and resting his swimming head on his arms. “But by whom? And was it the same person who killed my father?”
“Well, I should say so!” said Julian with conviction. “It is unlikely that there are two poisoners in the castle. Enide was also poisoned, of course, but she never did find out who did it.”
“Now you have had some fresh air, do you remember anything else?” asked the Earl, coming over to where Geoffrey sat.
He leaned against a wall, nonchalantly inspecting his fingernails, but lurking in the depths of his eyes was a black malice. Joan, Stephen, and Godric had been right when they had advised Geoffrey against making an enemy of the powerful Earl of Shrewsbury, and he wished he had given their advice a little more thought before dismissing it in such a cavalier manner.
“You are in quite a predicament, Geoffrey, so you had better hope you recall something useful,” put in Bertrada helpfully.
“I went to sleep after Walter did, and I remember nothing until you woke me this morning,” said Geoffrey. “Although Hedwise and Stephen brought me some broth and wine that Walter was most insistent that I finished.”
He looked from one to the other, trying to see whether any of them betrayed themselves by guilty glances, but they stood with the light behind them, and his vision was still too blurred to see any incriminating looks anyway.
“So, are you saying that you slept through the murder?” asked Bertrada with heavy sarcasm. “Is that what you are telling us?”
“Yes,” said Geoffrey. “But Walter was there, too. Did he see nothing?” Or did he commit murder was his unspoken thought, recalling the moved chest.
“When I woke, I tried to rouse you, but you were slumbering too deeply,” said Walter. “Quietly, so as not to wake Godric, I came downstairs for breakfast. It was Bertrada who raised the alarm, when she took Godric his morning ale.”
“Was our father dead when you left the room?” asked Geoffrey. “And did you move the chest?”
“Chest? What chest?” demanded Walter belligerently. “You keep talking about a chest, but the only box in Godric’s room is the one at the end of the bed, and there was no need for me to move that. And of course father was alive when I left this morning. It was not I who drank so much that I lay insensible through his murder!”
That was not strictly true, Geoffrey knew. Walter had drunk a good deal the night before, and was virtually unconscious by the
time Stephen had helped him stagger into the room.
“But did you actually look at father in the bed?” pressed Geoffrey. “Was he sleeping?”
“I have already told you,” said Walter, becoming impatient. “I did not want to waken him early, so I left quietly. I did not go and poke at him—but since I would have heard anyone kill him in the night, of course he was still alive when I left.”
“But you did not actually see that he was still living,” insisted Geoffrey.
“What is this?” demanded Henry furiously. “Godric was found dead after Walter had left him alone with Geoffrey. He was slain with Geoffrey’s own knife, and we let him ask such questions of his innocent kin? Why, his guilt shines through every pore in his body! We should hang him now, and rid ourselves of a murderer!” He stepped towards Geoffrey, and drew a dagger from his belt.
As Geoffrey tried to pull free of Henry, alarmed at the extent to which the poison seemed to have sapped his strength, the Earl strode forward and pushed Henry away, sending him reeling with little more than a flick of his hand.
“You are quite wrong, Henry,” he said. “Geoffrey’s guilt is far from clear—yet. It is obvious that he drank himself insensible on the wine that was missing from your father’s chamber, as any fool can see from the state of him now. But that in itself speaks of his innocence of the murder. He can barely walk, and I do not think he could have slain Godric while he was so incapacitated.”
Geoffrey looked at Julian, wondering if she might announce that he was not drunk at all, but suffering from the effects of some insidious poison. But Julian had already decided whose side she would take in the battle between the brothers, and she said nothing.
“But who else could have done it?” Henry asked, still fingering his dagger. “And do you not think it a coincidence that Godric has been brutally murdered so soon after Geoffrey returned, and after Geoffrey spent the night alone with him?”
“But Geoffrey has spent other nights alone with Godric,” Hedwise pointed out. “And anyway, last night they were not alone. Walter was with them.”
Henry whirled around with murder in his eyes. “So now you want to blame Walter? How is it that you are suddenly so protective of Geoffrey? Is he more to you than just a brother-in-law?”
Geoffrey wondered what kind of supernatural being Henry imagined him to be, if he believed that Geoffrey could seduce his brother’s wife and kill his father within the space of a few hours—and still manage to drink enough strong red wine to render a garrison insensible. A wave of sickness washed over him, and he held his breath, not wanting to throw up over the Earl’s feet.
“What is clear is that someone would very much like me to believe that Sir Geoffrey is the culprit,” said the Earl softly. “And I do not appreciate being misled. I do not appreciate it at all.”
He looked at each member of the assembled Mappestone clan in turn, silencing their bickering every bit as effectively as a volley of arrows would have done.
“It seems to me that what has happened is this,” the Earl continued. “Sir Geoffrey drank himself into oblivion, and then someone seized the opportunity to slip into Godric’s chamber and kill the old man while Geoffrey was incapacitated. This someone seems to have selected Geoffrey’s Arabian dagger so that he would be implicated.”
“Geoffrey’s dagger was selected, because it is Geoffrey who used it,” said Henry sullenly.
“Really?” said the Earl silkily. “But perhaps it is you who is the culprit, Henry. After all, it was you who pointed out the dagger first, and you are clearly keen for me to allow you to hang Geoffrey as the killer. Is that because you do not want to give him time to prove his innocence and your guilt?”
Henry paled and made to answer, but apparently could think of nothing to say that would adequately refute the Earl’s accusations.
“And you, Walter,” said the Earl, swinging around to face him. “It seems that you cannot prove that Godric was not killed while you, too, were in his chamber. Who says that you did not slay him while Geoffrey lay insensible? Or even that your loyal wife, Bertrada, did not do it for you?”
“But what would we have to gain from that?” protested Bertrada. “Godric was dying anyway!”
“You are right,” said the Earl, after a moment of consideration. “In which case, it must be that the plot simply aimed to hurt Geoffrey. I was right in my initial assumption—someone wants him accused of murder. Now, which of you might mean him harm?”
He looked around again. Walter and Stephen met his gaze; Henry did not. Bertrada fiddled with a loose thread on her gown, while Hedwise appeared bored by the entire business, and was staring into the distance. Joan glowered at Geoffrey, while behind her, Olivier fingered his moustache nervously. On the fringes, the Earl’s knights, Malger and Drogo, exchanged meaningful glances.
“Which of you has something to lose?” asked the Earl, studying the Mappestones as a cat might watch a mouse. “I imagine that you all think you do. Did Sir Godric inform you that he had made a new will, and that he passed a copy to me for safe-keeping? Not that he distrusted you, of course.”
“That new will can never stand up in a court of law,” objected Bertrada. “It was made while the old man was far from well in mind or body!”
“Well, that does reflect rather poorly on me as a witness, then, does it not?” said the Earl sardonically. “Do you think I am incapable of making such a judgment?”
Bertrada swallowed hard, and was silent.
“Godric’s new will is damaging for the greedy hopes of all his offspring,” said the Earl smoothly. “He claimed that Walter is illegitimate, and that Stephen is the son of his brother Sigurd. Henry maintains that only a Mappestone born in England should have Goodrich—which Godric tells me Henry was not—so that rules him out. And that leaves only Geoffrey.”
“No. It leaves me, too,” said Joan briskly. “There are precedents in law for a woman to inherit, and I intend to exploit them.”
“You are quite right,” said the Earl. “And you made your case most prettily to me last night. But there is a factor that none of you have taken into account in all this.”
“What?” demanded Henry, more roughly than was prudent with a man like the Earl. “We have debated this issue for years. I believe we have left no stone unturned.”
“I am sure you do,” replied the Earl sweetly. “But I made some enquiries about the relationship between your father and mother before they were married, and I discovered that they shared the same grandfather. Such a marriage cannot be considered sacred under the laws of God and the Church—consanguinity is a serious matter, you know, and kingdoms have fallen for less. Anyway, I applied to the Church to have Godric’s marriage annulled—for the good of his soul and that of his wife.”
He paused to look around at them, enjoying the stunned expressions on their faces. Geoffrey was certain that the souls of Godric and his wife were the last things on the Earl’s mind. The Earl saw the doubt in his eyes, and gave the faintest of smiles before continuing.
“Quite by chance, the news that the Pope had agreed to the annulment came the day Godric himself summoned me on account of his claim that he was being poisoned by one of his family.”
He paused again, aware that he had the undivided attention of his small audience.
“Godric was distressed by this information, of course, but he made another will immediately.”
“But who could be his heir?” cried Stephen. “It seems we are now all his illegitimate offspring!”
“He did what many of my loyal subjects have done,” said the Earl. “He left everything to me.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
If Geoffrey had not felt so dreadful, he would have laughed at the expressions on the faces of his brothers and sister. All went from shocked disbelief to cold fury within the space of a few moments.
“But we have seen this new will,” said Walter, the first to recover himself sufficiently to speak. “It says that Godric has bequeathed everything to Geo
ffrey.”
“To Godfrey,” corrected Stephen. “In the service of the Duke of Normandy.”
The Earl raised querying eyebrows. “And who might this Godfrey be?”
“There is no such man,” said Stephen. “It—”
“Then this other will is of no consequence,” said the Earl dismissively “And it is quite irrelevant, anyway.” He snapped his fingers and his fat priest hurried forward. “Here is the will Godric made in my presence, citing me as sole beneficiary. Would you like to read it?”
“Geoffrey will,” said Walter, stepping forward and snatching the parchment from the fat priest’s damp fingers. He thrust it at Geoffrey, and everyone waited. Geoffrey tried to make the black lines on the parchment stay still long enough for him to read them, but they wriggled and swirled and threatened to make him sick.
“I cannot,” he said, dropping his head back onto his arms, and letting the parchment flutter to the ground. Walter retrieved it, and turned it this way and that helplessly.
“I thought he was literate,” said the Earl, turning to Joan in surprise. “You told me that he could read and write in several languages.”
“Enide always said he could,” said Bertrada, “although I never saw any evidence of it myself. Perhaps he has been deceiving us all these years.”
“Just like he has deceived us by hiring Ine to poison Godric,” said Stephen bitterly.
“Are you accusing him of hiring a poisoner as well as stabbing Godric?” asked the Earl sternly. “I thought I had just told you that I do not appreciate people trying to mislead me. If you have evidence for your charges, then let me see it. If not, you will desist from your wild accusations.”
A Head for Poisoning Page 22
