A Head for Poisoning

by Simon Beaufort

  “Did you write these?” he asked Francis. “These instructions?”

  “I did,” said Francis feebly. “Why? Can you not read them? That is a shame, because the pain has dimmed my eyes, and I cannot see them myself. But never mind, just add the whole packet. It matters not whether I die from the wound or from the medicine. Hurry up, boy! I suffer.”

  “I can read it very well,” said Geoffrey, dumping the powder in the bowl and stirring it with his dagger. “Just as I have read other notes and messages written by you of late.”

  “What are you talking about?” demanded Helbye’s wife. “Give that to me. He will be dead by the time you finish messing around with it.”

  She snatched the bowl from Geoffrey, and helped the physician sip it until it had all been consumed. The lines of agony on Francis’s face eased, and his breathing became less laboured.

  “‘Midnight on the fifth day of June,’” said Geoffrey, when Francis opened his eyes again. “‘The first day of August at Brockenhurst.’”

  Helbye gave him an odd look, but knew better than to ask questions. His wife, however, did not, and pushed Geoffrey away from the physician roughly.

  “Leave him be,” she said. “Make yourself useful and go to fetch Father Adrian.”

  “No,” said Francis, as Geoffrey prepared to leave. “Stay with me for a while longer. I can see you have questions to ask, and I am of a mind to answer and make a clean breast of matters before I die.”

  “You should do that with Father Adrian,” said Helbye’s wife critically. “Confessing to these two will not save you from the fires of Hell.”

  “Neither will Father Adrian,” said Francis. “For my sins are great indeed, and I have something I need to ask of Sir Geoffrey.”

  “You do?” asked Geoffrey uneasily.

  “Only you are left now, young Geoffrey: Godric is murdered, Enide is murdered, Pernel is murdered. All have gone.”

  “Who is Pernel?” asked Geoffrey. “The other woman who lost her head—the one I found in the tunnel?”

  Francis looked blankly at him. “I do not understand what you are talking about. But Pernel was your brother Stephen’s wife. You never met her, but I know Norbert wrote to you in the Holy Land to tell you that she had died last year. She was with us.”

  “With you?” asked Geoffrey, bewildered. “What do you mean?” He glanced up as Helbye’s wife made a circular motion near her temple with her hand to suggest that the old man might be delirious.

  “Pernel was a part of our plan to save England from the vile clutches of that unnatural man,” said the priest. “As were Godric, Enide, and I.”

  “Oh, no!” said Geoffrey in horror, as he realised what the old man was saying. “Do not tell me that Father Adrian was right, and that you were all a part of the plot to shoot King William Rufus in the New Forest last year—that you committed regicide!”

  Francis gave a red-toothed smile. “We were certainly part of a plot. But that evil beast was slain by the hand of God long before we could put our plan into action.”

  “The courtier called Tirel shot Rufus,” said Helbye, looking from Francis to Geoffrey in confusion. “And it was an accident. What are you two talking about?”

  “I can only assume that there were others who felt like us,” said Francis, ignoring the sergeant. “And that they decided Rufus could not continue with his acts of debauchery and vice. Tirel killed him before we could take the action that we had planned.”

  “Which was what?” asked Geoffrey coldly. He was not sure that there was a great difference between actually committing the crime, and planning a murder that failed only because someone else got there first.

  “Rufus was due to spend time hunting in the New Forest later this year, and we intended to kill him there. But Tirel—damn him to Hell—killed him first and far too soon.”

  “Too soon for what?” asked Geoffrey. “Too soon for Rufus certainly.”

  “Before everything was in place,” said the physician. “People were not ready, and by the time we found out what had happened, it was too late for us to act.”

  “But Enide did go to the New Forest,” said Geoffrey slowly. “According to one of the notes you wrote—and assuming that Adrian’s memory regarding the dates is accurate—it seems that she was somewhere nearby when Tirel shot Rufus.”

  “She arrived after he died,” said the physician. “The roads were bad and her horse went lame. She did not reach Brockenhurst until three days after Rufus died, and by then Henry was King.”

  Geoffrey was uncertain. “It seems odd that she should just happen to decide to make a visit to the New Forest, and that around the same time Tirel should just happen accidentally to shoot Rufus.”

  “She went to assess Brockenhurst,” said the physician. “She went to learn the lay of the land, and to observe how that foul beast who called himself King managed his hunting days, so that we could adapt our plan accordingly. But as I said, she arrived too late. Rufus was already dead.”

  “But how could you even consider such a dangerous venture?” cried Geoffrey, aghast. “It might have plunged the country into civil war, not to mention what might have happened had you been caught. Who would stand to gain from the cold-blooded murder of Rufus?”

  “The whole country stood to gain,” mumbled Francis. “England needed to be rid of his oppressive laws and his evil suppression of the holy Church. And then, when Rufus was dead, we intended that the Duke of Normandy should come to take the throne. The Duke has been on God’s Crusade, so how could He fail to smile upon England’s fortunes with such a man wearing the crown?”

  “Crusaders are no angels,” said Geoffrey. “And the will of God was the last thing on their minds as they looted, pillaged, and murdered their way to Jerusalem. But this is all beside the point. What were you thinking of? England was stable under Rufus. His laws might not have suited some people, but they were adequate.”

  “He was a pervert!” snapped Francis. “He engaged in unnatural acts with his courtiers. Why do you think he never married? Why do you think he never presented England with an heir or acknowledged illegitimate children?”

  “I imagine because he thought he would have time for such things later,” said Geoffrey. “He was only around forty. There was time enough to marry and provide an heir.”

  “And we knew he would not have relinquished his hold on Normandy when the Duke returned from the Crusade,” said Francis, as if Geoffrey had not spoken. “Rufus would have kept from the Duke what was rightfully his—just as this present usurper is doing.”

  Geoffrey started back in alarm. “Do not tell me that you are planning to kill King Henry, too?”

  The physician said nothing. Geoffrey and Helbye exchanged a look of dismay.

  “King Henry is due to go to Monmouth soon,” said Helbye in a soft voice. “The constable told me so when we were at Chepstow. Perhaps these plotters mean to strike then, when King Henry goes hunting in the Forest of Dene. King Henry loves to hunt every bit as much as Rufus did.”

  Geoffrey took a deep breath and addressed Francis, who was becoming drowsy from the poppy powder. “But you will not kill a second king. You have just said all the plotters are dead. Godric, Enide, Pernel, and you.”

  The physician smiled again. “I am dying, and I know that to kill is a terrible sin. But I am willing to risk the fires of eternal damnation by asking you to carry on our work.”

  Geoffrey gazed at him in astonishment. “I do hope you are not asking me to kill King Henry for you!” he said, feeling that the request was so outrageous that it was almost laughable.

  “He is rambling,” said Helbye in a whisper. “See how his eyes are unfocused? He does not know what he is saying.”

  “I am not rambling,” said Francis irritably. “I love my country, and I would serve it any way I can, even as I die. I was glad when Rufus was killed, but I would die happier knowing that the rightful King—the Duke of Normandy—will wear the crown. He is a good and virtuous man, not like
this grasping Henry. Please, join us.”

  “I will not,” said Geoffrey firmly. “And I will do all in my power to prevent another death.”

  Francis sighed. “No matter, then. I am sure the others will manage without you.”

  “Others?” asked Geoffrey in horror. “What others? You said they were all dead.”

  “I did not,” said Francis in a breathless whisper. “I said that Enide, Godric, Pernel, and I were dead. But there are others who think that the usurper King Henry should be ousted to allow the Duke to accede.”

  “But this is a dreadful idea!” cried Geoffrey. “It must be stopped! The Earl of Shrewsbury waits in the wings like a vulture at a kill. If Henry is murdered and the Duke seizes the crown of England, the Earl will gain control of the country for certain. The last person you want ruling your precious England is the Earl of Shrewsbury.”

  “The Duke would not permit Shrewsbury so much power,” said Francis weakly. “And anyway, Shrewsbury has his own estates to run in Normandy. He will not bother with England.”

  “He is massing his strength in this area so that he will be ready to aid the Duke when he attacks England to seize the throne from Henry,” said Geoffrey. “Shrewsbury admitted as much himself. He claimed that the Duke would appoint him as regent.”

  Francis shook his head. “The Duke would not leave England once he had taken the throne, and the country will be ruled by a just and noble leader who will make good laws.”

  “But the Duke did not make good laws to rule Normandy before he pawned it so he could go Crusading,” objected Geoffrey. Loyal though he might be to the Duke, he was not blind to the fact that the weak and vacillating Robert of Normandy left a lot to be desired as far as leadership went.

  But Geoffrey could see that his arguments were lost on the physician, whose eyes gleamed with the light of fanaticism. He studied the old man. He looked benign, grandfatherly almost, and yet had embarked upon a plot that would not only leave the King dead but that might plunge the country he professed to love into a state of anarchy.

  “Is that why Ingram killed you?” he asked. “Because you are involved in a plot to kill King Henry?”

  Francis’s eyes closed. “You are a fool, despite what Enide said about you. How could a boy like that know of our plans? We kept our group deliberately small, so that there would be less chance that someone would betray us.”

  “So the group comprised my father, Enide, Stephen’s wife, and you,” said Geoffrey. “And who else? Father Adrian?”

  Francis’s mouth opened in astonishment, and he gave a wheeze that Geoffrey thought was meant to be a laugh. “Adrian? Just because he was Enide’s lover does not mean that he shared our plans! The man is a weakling.”

  Geoffrey’s still-aching side belied Adrian’s reputed aversion to violence. “Who, then? Olivier? He is a kinsman of the Earl of Shrewsbury and would have a good deal to gain.”

  “He is an even greater weakling than the priest!” said Francis, with the ghost of a smile. “If you will not join us, you will get nothing more from me.”

  “So that is why my father was being poisoned,” said Geoffrey, understanding slowly. “Because someone was trying to prevent him from killing every king foolish enough to take the English crown. And Enide was poisoned for the same reason.”

  “Enide was certainly slain because of her involvement,” said Francis. “You see, Pernel was delighted to be a part of the plan that would rid England of Rufus. She was too open with her feelings on the matter, and someone at the castle betrayed her.”

  “Stephen’s wife was murdered, too?” asked Geoffrey, confused.

  “But Lady Pernel died of a falling sickness,” said Helbye’s wife, shaking her head to Geoffrey to indicate that the physician was speaking nonsense. “I was there. She emerged from the church and fell down dead. Half the village saw it happen.”

  “It seems to me that Father Adrian’s masses are dangerous events,” said Geoffrey. “Enide, too, died after attending one of his services.”

  “There are poisons that can make a person’s death appear to be a falling sickness,” said Francis. “Perhaps Adrian fed it to her in the Host. He acted most oddly after Enide’s death too—the man was blindly in love with her, and yet his grief was short and shallow.”

  Geoffrey stared at him. He thought about what he had been told about Enide’s death. She had emerged from the church and Adrian had found her body shortly afterwards. Adrian had no one to corroborate his story, but no one had thought to disbelieve him. So, had Adrian killed her? But why? Was Adrian not a priest at all but an agent for one of the kings who Enide had plotted to kill? Since King Henry seemed to know that Goodrich was a hotbed of insurrection, it might make sense to place such an agent in it. But Henry had only been King for a few months, and Adrian had been at Goodrich for years. Geoffrey sighed. It made no sense.

  “Godric was poisoned for his role in our plot,” Francis continued. “What other reason would there be to kill him?”

  “His lands,” said Geoffrey. “Or because Goodrich Castle is stuffed full of his avaricious offspring who are desperate to lay their hands on his money.”

  “You might be right,” said Francis, swallowing with difficulty. “Although I would not have credited any of that brood with choosing such a subtle poison that I have never been able to trace it.”

  “It was in his room, I am sure,” said Geoffrey, thinking back to what he had reasoned as he sat with Godric’s body. “It was not in the food or the drink. It was not in the mattress.”

  But it was certainly in the chamber, because Geoffrey had been ill each time he had slept in it. Geoffrey was a man who generally enjoyed robust good health, and was seldom ill. But he had felt unwell several times since arriving at Goodrich—mostly in the castle, although he had almost thrown up in Francis’s outhouse when he had visited the physician to ask about Godric’s alleged poisoning. Something clicked in Geoffrey’s mind, but Francis had slipped into a semi-conscious doze, and was no longer in a condition to engage in analytical conversation.

  Geoffrey rubbed his eyes. “What a mess,” he said to Helbye. “Is there anyone in this godforsaken place who is not a murderer, or who would not like to be? Enide, this Pernel, and my father were aiming to kill Rufus; my father and the physician, cheated of killing Rufus, then set their sights on the death of King Henry. Meanwhile, someone was slowly poisoning my father; two others stabbed him during the night with different knives; there are at least two severed heads circulating; and someone has tried to poison me, and has shot at me twice in the woods. I tell you, Will, the Holy Land is nothing compared to this!”

  Helbye raised his shoulders in a shrug. “It looks as though we should plan a visit to Monmouth soon, Sir Geoffrey,” he said stoically.

  Early the following morning, long before the sun was up, Geoffrey waited impatiently by the river for Helbye. His horse snorted and pawed at the ground, its breath billowing out in great clouds of white, while his dog snuffled about in the grass. Mist rose from the silent river as it meandered glassily southwards, and the forest was silent and still.

  Geoffrey had passed what remained of the night in Helbye’s house, spending most of it talking, for the elderly soldier was as reliable a friend as Geoffrey had in Goodrich. Helbye had listened in silence, not in the least bit unsettled by the devious plots that had been hatched in the castle. The sergeant had heard him sympathetically, and had said little, but the simple act of talking had allowed Geoffrey to clarify in his mind at least some twists and turns of the plot.

  Geoffrey tensed as he heard a sound from the woods, and drew his sword in anticipation of a hostile encounter.

  “Father Adrian!” he exclaimed, as the priest walked towards him. “Have you buried Enide yet?”

  The priest shook his head. “I will do that when we return.”

  “Return from where?” asked Geoffrey. “Where are you going?”

  “With you,” said Adrian. “To Monmouth.”

  “No
t a chance,” said Geoffrey. “You would be too slow. And anyway, you might stab me again. Go back to your church and bury your dead.”

  The priest looked down the river. “The head you brought to my house last night belonged to a woman who lived in the village, and who died in childbirth some months ago. I cannot imagine how you came to be in possession of it.”

  “More to the point,” said Geoffrey, “how did she come to lose it?”

  The priest was silent.

  “Go and bury them, Father,” said Geoffrey, reluctant to talk to the priest, whose role in the plotting and subterfuge he had uncovered was still far from clear. “You should not leave heads sitting on your kitchen table—someone might find them, and then you would have some explaining to do.”

  “I put them in the charnel house,” said Adrian. “I will bury them later, but today, I am coming with you.”

  “No,” said Geoffrey. “You will not be able to keep up with us on foot, and anyway there might be some of that violence that you find so abhorrent.”

  “I do not understand all this evil,” said Adrian softly. “Francis the physician has just informed me that he and the woman I loved more than life itself have been plotting murders together.”

  “Go home,” said Geoffrey. “Francis will be needing you to give him last rites.”

  “He is dead,” said Adrian. “It was when I heard his final confession that I knew I had to come with you. Perhaps I can save her yet. I can speak in her defence to King Henry.”

  “Save who?” asked Geoffrey, removing his helmet and rubbing at his hair underneath. He wondered what could be keeping Helbye.

  “Save Enide,” said Adrian.

  “You would do better burying her decently,” said Geoffrey. “It is too late for anything else.”

  “She is alive,” said Adrian.

  “But you identified her head only last night,” pointed out Geoffrey, wondering if grief had robbed the priest of a few wits. “She cannot be alive without it.”

  “I lied about that,” said Adrian, refusing to meet Geoffrey’s eyes. “It was not hers.”