A Head for Poisoning

by Simon Beaufort

  “And then we had news that you had survived the Crusade, and might even pay us a visit—twenty years too late for me to care, but a visit nevertheless. We tried to prevent you from arriving at all. But I thought my Crusader brother would be the more richly dressed knight of the pair who wandered into the ambush at Lann Martin. I told Malger as much, and he concentrated his efforts on the wrong man. I should not have been so easily misled—you always were scruffy and uninterested in appearances. I should have known that the taller, more practically attired knight was you.”

  “So Aumary was killed because you thought he was me?” asked Geoffrey.

  “Yes and no,” said Malger, eager to join in and show off his own cleverness. “It would have been an excellent opportunity to get rid of you—and Caerdig’s pathetic little ambush provided a perfect cover. But whether we shot you, or Aumary, or both, it would have worked to our advantage.”

  “How?” asked Geoffrey, puzzled.

  “Because of these arrows,” said Malger, raising his bow again. “They were made by the same fletcher who made the arrow that killed King William Rufus. And King Henry would recognise them anywhere. You did what we could not: you took one of them right into Chepstow Castle and presented it to the King himself. And you can be assured he recognised it for what it was.”

  Geoffrey recalled the King’s reaction to the arrow. He had studied it long and hard, but had refused to touch it. Eventually, he had ordered Geoffrey to throw it in the fire.

  “So it was a warning to the King that an attempt would be made on his life?” asked Geoffrey. “But why bother with that if you planned to kill him anyway?”

  “It was part warning and part message,” said Enide. “It was a warning that the King’s life could be taken as easily as had his brother’s; and it was a message that Rufus’s death was by no means the accident that everyone seems to have accepted.”

  “You mean that Rufus really was murdered that day, even though your own plot failed?” asked Geoffrey. “That is no great revelation. Tirel is claiming that he did not fire the arrow.”

  “Hmm,” said Enide, eyeing him critically. “Perhaps you are not so quick-witted after all. Of course Rufus was killed deliberately, but it was not by Tirel. Kings do not die in silly accidents like that! Do you think Tirel would have loosed his arrow had he thought that the King was anywhere near where it might have landed?”

  Geoffrey was silent. So, Enide and Malger had used him to deliver their message to the King. It explained why the King had pretended that the recipe for horse liniment was so important, too. He did not want to tell Geoffrey that the real message lay in the corpse of Aumary, slain by a distinctive arrow; so he had snatched the scrap of parchment the constable had found and made a show that it was something vital. Since few men in Henry’s court could read, Henry had assumed—erroneously—that Geoffrey was also illiterate. Geoffrey was fortunate that the King had realised that he was innocent of all this treachery, or he might well now be languishing in the dungeons of Chepstow Castle. Or not languishing anywhere at all.

  “And you robbed me later,” he said. “You stole my scrolls.”

  “And that lovely chalice, yes,” she replied. “Although I was not there, personally. Fortunately, you left Ingram with your horses while you went dashing off to jump in the river after that other lout. Malger was all for slaying the whole lot of you, but Ingram virtually unbuckled your saddle for him, so keen was he to save himself from Malger’s sword. In the event, it was simpler to have Ingram hand us your ‘treasure’ and leave peacefully.”

  “Ingram told me he was attacked by thirty outlaws,” said Geoffrey. “And all along it was merely two of the Earl of Shrewsbury’s hirelings?”

  Drogo growled at the back of his throat, and Malger’s arrow came up. Enide pushed it down irritably. Remarkably, Malger made no move to disobey her, despite the sounds of the King’s party coming closer. Had Geoffrey been Malger, he would have ignored Enide, fired his arrow, and been away.

  “I had expected your saddlebags to be loaded with plunder,” she said to Geoffrey, moving so that she stood in Malger’s line of fire. “Malger was most disappointed when he found only books.”

  “I will bear that in mind next time,” said Geoffrey. “But why did he take the scrolls?”

  “We knew you had been to see the King, and Malger thought they might be important messages. He cannot read, so did not know what they were. But I could see that they were just some worthless decorated manuscripts, probably in Arabic or Hebrew. Am I correct?”

  Geoffrey nodded. “I was going to translate them.”

  “Too late for that,” said Malger, raising his bow and stepping round Enide for a clear shot.

  “Really, Malger,” said Enide reproachfully. “At least grant me a few moments with my favourite brother before you kill him.”

  “Why did you shoot Norbert?” asked Geoffrey quickly, hoping to prolong the discussion long enough to allow the King’s men to find them. “I thought he was on your side.”

  “He was,” said Enide. “But we will need to travel quickly now he has failed to kill the King, and Norbert, although an excellent shot, is not a good rider. He would be caught in no time at all—and then he would reveal our identities to the first person who asked, to save his own miserable neck. He has not been himself since his marriage to Helbye’s wife was dissolved.”

  Geoffrey knew from personal experience that Norbert was not a fast mover. He had almost caught the scribe once before—when Norbert had loosed an arrow at Geoffrey as he had looked for Rohese in the woods near the river. The glimpse of the scribe’s face as he had glanced back after Geoffrey had collided with Adrian’s cart had not been sufficient to identify him, but the archer had worn the same dark clothes and had run with the same distinctive gait as Norbert. Geoffrey was surprised that he had not associated Norbert’s penchant for bows—which Geoffrey had discovered when he had followed him into his outhouse in the castle bailey one night—with the mysterious archer before.

  “Who else was involved in this plot?” he asked. “I now know about Malger, Drogo, Norbert, Stephen’s wife, the physician, Father, and Adrian.”

  “Not Adrian,” said Enide. “I could never trust him with business like this. It was bad enough persuading him to help me feign my death. I had to cry all night to achieve that. But you are right about the others.”

  “And you killed Pernel?”

  “Malger did. He is good at that sort of thing. He should have gone on Crusade; he would have been a hero.”

  Malger blushed modestly.

  “Pernel was a silly, empty-headed woman,” said Enide. “She was so proud to be part of a plot to kill Rufus that she wanted to tell everyone about it. She was, quite simply, too dangerous for us. Malger had some concoction that he fed to her in a sweetmeat during mass—serve her right for eating in church—and it brought on the ‘falling sickness’ that the whole village witnessed.”

  “I do not understand why you are doing this,” said Geoffrey. “You can scarcely rule Goodrich if you are thought to be dead.”

  “I do not have to stay dead,” said Enide. “The Earl of Shrewsbury will sort it all out. We will have Goodrich yet.”

  “You trust the Earl to pay you for all this?” asked Geoffrey doubtfully.

  Drogo stiffened angrily at the insult to his liege lord, wielding his sword dangerously. Enide raised her hand imperiously, and the heavy knight stayed his hand.

  “Why not?” she asked. “He is no more and no less honest than the next man.”

  Geoffrey suspected that the Earl was a good deal less honest than the next man, assuming of course that the next man was not a Mappestone or King Henry.

  “And who else is involved in this plot, if not Adrian?”

  “There is one other person—”

  “Enough!” snapped Drogo, striding forwards. “Listen—they are searching for us. Kill him, and let us be gone.”

  “Who is the other?” asked Geoffrey, ignoring Drogo.r />
  “If you cannot guess, you will never know,” said Enide lightly, as though she were playing a game of fireside riddles with him.

  “Enide!” warned Malger. “Time is short. We must kill him and be away.”

  “I am sorry, Geoff,” said Enide, with what seemed to be genuine regret. “I would love to let you live—for old times sake—but you know all about us, and that will not do at all. All right, Malger. Do what you will.”

  Malger brought up his bow and pointed the arrow at Geoffrey, while Drogo stood next to him, his sword in his hand as he glanced around uneasily. Enide gave Geoffrey a sad, parting smile, and then turned away. Malger’s eyes followed her, admiring the way her hips moved under her close-cut gown. While his attention strayed, Geoffrey hurled himself forwards, crashing into the tall knight, and sending him sprawling. Arrows scattered everywhere, and Geoffrey heard the bow snap under their weight. Malger struggled to draw his dagger, while Drogo advanced on them both with his sword. Geoffrey pummelled Malger’s startled face with his mailed fists, and then rolled, hauling Malger’s body on top of his as Drogo began to stab indiscriminately with his sword.

  Enide screamed, and Geoffrey saw her throw herself at Drogo to make him desist, lest he harm Malger. Malger, finding himself unexpectedly uppermost, scrabbled to clasp his fingers around Geoffrey’s neck, and then gasped in shock as Drogo scored a hit with his sword.

  “Drogo!” screamed Enide. “Kill Geoffrey, not Malger! Be careful for Malger!”

  Geoffrey jammed the heel of his hand under Malger’s nose, and heaved him to one side, struggling free of his grasping hands. Drogo hurled Enide away from him, and took his sword in both hands, preparing to dispatch Geoffrey with a single swipe.

  “Kill him now!” screamed Enide, as Geoffrey began to back away.

  Geoffrey had dropped his own sword when he had leapt from his horse to chase Norbert, and his shield was lying in the clearing with Norbert’s arrow embedded in it. Drogo, like Geoffrey, was a trained knight, and Geoffrey knew his chances of winning a fight while he was unarmed were small, especially with Enide hurling stones to keep him off balance, and Malger struggling to his feet behind her. But Drogo was slow and brutal, and Malger was brash and over-confident; Geoffrey, unlike either, was used to fighting with his wits as well as his weapons.

  He dodged behind the oak tree, hearing its bark splinter as Drogo’s sword smashed into it, then whipped round to thump the knight as hard as he could in the small of his back as he strained to pull his blade from the tree. Drogo dropped to his knees with a cry of pain, and Geoffrey turned his attention to Malger, who was trying to haul his sword from his belt. It had become tangled in the fight, and Malger could not free it. Geoffrey drew his dagger and sprang forwards, raising one hand to protect himself from the hail of stones and sticks cast by Enide.

  “Help!” yelled Malger in a most unknightly way as Geoffrey advanced.

  “Stop!” shrieked Enide. “Leave him alone, Geoffrey! Damn you!”

  An especially large stone struck Geoffrey’s helmet, knocking it from his head. He staggered backwards as Malger’s sword came free. With a sigh of relief, he faced Geoffrey, holding the weapon in two hands. Unlike Drogo, he did not swing wildly, but waited, ready to see whether Geoffrey would move to the left or to the right.

  Geoffrey did neither. He flung his dagger at Malger, using the instant when the knight ducked out of the way to launch himself into him. Both fell to the ground, and they were back to fighting with their bare hands. Malger, too, lost his bassinet, then Enide came in close, flailing at them with a rotten branch. When the branch began to disintegrate without having added any perceptible advantage to Malger, she abandoned it, and went back to pelting Geoffrey with her stones. Meanwhile, Drogo had begun to recover. He reeled across to them, and hauled Geoffrey away from Malger, wrapping one arm around his neck. Malger scrambled to his feet, but then stumbled dizzily as his bare head came into the direct path of one of Enide’s stones. He fell backwards and lay still.

  Although slow, Drogo was strong, and Geoffrey found he could not struggle free of the brawny arm that gripped his neck. And he was beginning to tire, so that the more he fought and squirmed, the less chance there was of him escaping. Enide, meanwhile, was bending over the inert form of Malger. Then she stood and, throwing back her head, uttered a long, low keening sound that made Geoffrey’s blood run cold. Even Drogo was affected, for the arm that held Geoffrey slackened slightly. When the echoes from the eerie sound had faded, Enide turned to Geoffrey.

  “You have killed him,” she whispered. “He is dead. There is an arrow in his back.”

  Looking at Malger, Geoffrey saw it was true. The knight had fallen onto one of his own arrows, which had wedged itself point-up on a rotting piece of wood, and had slipped through a gap in his poorly maintained chain-mail. Malger, thus, had died in very much the same way as had his victim Aumary—with an arrow in his back.

  “Quickly!” urged Drogo, tearing his eyes away from Malger’s body. “Get that dagger and make an end to him while I hold him still. We might yet escape.”

  “You killed my Malger,” Enide whispered, turning eyes filled with hurt on her brother.

  “You did, actually,” Geoffrey gasped, struggling to breathe against the increased pressure of Drogo’s arm. “You threw the stone that stunned him and made him fall, not me.”

  His voice seemed to bring her out of her dazed shock. Her eyes snapped into alertness, and she pulled herself together. Quickly, she bent to retrieve the knife, and moved towards Geoffrey with an expression of purpose that left him in no doubt that this time there would be no escape. The knife blade glittered dully in her hand, and Geoffrey looked away from it into her face. She was concentrating on the task in hand; her eyes were searching for the best place to stab him and nothing else. She chose her spot and began to push. Geoffrey closed his eyes, waiting for the searing pain that would end his life.

  Suddenly, there was a high-pitched squeal of terror, and Geoffrey opened his eyes to see something large, brown, and hairy hurtling towards them. Drogo released Geoffrey with a muttered obscenity and shoved him forwards, directly into the path of the enraged wild boar.

  For a moment, Geoffrey was aware of nothing but the sound of the boar’s screaming and flashes of yellow-white as its tusks flailed at him. Then one of them struck home, slashing through the chain-mail on his forearm, and he came to his senses. He staggered to his feet, kicking out at the furious animal as it attacked. He groped for his dagger, but it was not there, and he could not recall where he had lost it. The animal crashed into his legs, knocking him from his feet.

  He covered his head with his arms, feeling its pointed feet gouging into him. Despite his predicament, Geoffrey could not help but see the ironic side. He had survived attacks by two fully armed knights and an insane sister, only to fall under the tusks of a pig! He felt the animal’s hot breath on his cheek, and then he realised he was not alone.

  Something black and white was at the corner of his vision, worrying at the boar and snapping at its legs. More enraged than ever, the animal shifted its attention from Geoffrey and turned on the dog, standing stock-still for an instant in readiness for a charge. The dog eyed it uncertainly, realising too late that it had attacked something larger and stronger than itself. It braced itself to bolt. And then an arrow thudded into the boar, and the dog ambled forwards to sniff at it nonchalantly. Geoffrey struggled away from the dying animal, and looked for Enide and Drogo. A short distance away, two branches swayed gently, as though someone had recently passed between them, but the forest was otherwise as still and silent as the grave.

  King Henry stood over Geoffrey, graciously accepting the accolades of his fellow huntsmen for his excellent shot. Geoffrey sat on the ground trying to make sense out of what had happened.

  “My brother the Duke of Normandy did not train you very well if he taught you to fight boar with your bare hands, Geoffrey Mappestone,” said the King when his courtiers had finally finis
hed with their praises.

  “I seem to have lost my dagger,” said Geoffrey, dazed and climbing slowly to his feet.

  “My point is proven,” said the King, turning to his retinue in amusement. “Most of us would hunt the boar with a bow or, if we were feeling exceptionally vigorous, a lance. None of us would consider taking one on with a dagger. Or even a sword!”

  His entourage laughed politely. Well, not all of them, Geoffrey noticed. The Earl of Shrewsbury was not smiling.

  “So we are even,” said the King. “I shot the boar that was mauling you, and you thwarted the archer who tried to kill me. His body is there, I see. I suppose you do not know his name, do you?”

  “Norbert,” said Geoffrey. “He was my father’s scribe, but became embroiled in a plot to kill first your brother Rufus and now you.”

  The King’s eyes narrowed. “Plot?”

  Geoffrey took a deep breath to try to control the tremble of exhaustion in his voice. “Last year, a small group of fanatics planned to kill Rufus because they considered him an inappropriate ruler. The murder was to take place in the New Forest, it was to be a hunting accident, and it was to occur this coming summer when the Duke of Normandy would be well placed to take advantage of the vacant throne. But Rufus died of a hunting accident quite by chance before these people had the opportunity to put their plan into action.”

  Geoffrey paused, aware that he had not only the King’s complete attention but that of his entire retinue.

  “Pray continue,” said the King, his expression unreadable.

  “Rufus’s death did not achieve what these plotters intended, however. He died too soon for the Duke of Normandy to take advantage of the situation, and they found themselves not with the Duke as King, but with you. Rather than abandon a plan that had promised to be so rewarding, they simply put it into action again, the only difference being that this time, you were to be the victim.”

  “I see,” said the King. His eyes were dark, and Geoffrey was not sure whether the King believed a word he had said. “And who are these plotters?”