“I am not sure of all of them, my lord,” said Geoffrey. “But Norbert was one, Malger who lies dead over there, another—”
“Malger of Caen?” asked the King, taking a few steps to examine the body Geoffrey had indicated. He looked from it to the Earl of Shrewsbury. “He was in your service, Shrewsbury. Am I correct?”
“I do not think so, my lord,” said the Earl, striding forward and poking at Malger with his foot. “He does not seem familiar.”
“Really?” asked Geoffrey, his astonishment at the Earl’s blatant falsehood making him incautious. “Malger was under the impression that he was one of your most valued henchmen.”
“Then that was probably just wishful thinking on his part,” said the Earl, bringing his cold, reptilian eyes to bear on Geoffrey. “I do not know this man. But you have only recently returned to the country after an absence of many years, so it is not surprising that you cannot recall whom you saw where.”
Geoffrey saw that, short of calling the Earl a liar, he was not going to win this argument. He wondered who the King’s retinue was more likely to believe—an impoverished Crusader knight, or the great Earl of Shrewsbury.
“The other plotters include …” He paused, uncertain how to proceed. Would it be prudent to claim that one of them was another knight in the service of the Earl of Shrewsbury, while the others included his sister and father?
“These alleged plotters,” said the King, as Geoffrey hesitated. “Are they alive or dead?”
“Mostly dead,” replied Geoffrey, disconcerted by the King’s abrupt loss of interest in the plotters” identities. “Only two remain alive that I know.”
“My chief huntsman will track them down and kill them,” said the King.
He snapped his fingers, and a burly man in forest greens slipped out of the ranks and disappeared into the trees, several similarly clad men on his heels.
“Of course,” the King continued, “if they cannot find this pair, I shall expect you to ferret them out and dispatch them yourself. And then we will say no more about this business. You have done well, Sir Geoffrey. Now, I understand you have recently lost your father?”
Geoffrey nodded uncertainly, at a loss at how to react to the King’s sudden changes of subject.
“My condolences. He was a loyal man, and you have followed in his footsteps. I always reward loyalty.”
Here he paused, and beamed around at his retinue, allowing his eyes to remain a little longer on the Earl of Shrewsbury than the others.
“I would like to assure you that I will apply to my Archbishop to ask him to honour the marriage made in faith by your father and mother. This means that Goodrich will stay in your family, because all Godric’s offspring will be legitimate once more. I am sure Shrewsbury will not object to my rewarding you for saving my life?”
The Earl gave the King an elegant bow. “Loyalty should always be repaid, my liege.”
He fixed his beady eyes on Geoffrey, leaving the knight in no doubt that the manor of Goodrich was certainly not what he had in mind.
The King smiled and moved away, pausing to inspect Norbert’s body once more, and to work out where his would-be murderers had stood. His courtiers followed, keen to miss nothing of the excitement.
“Really, Geoffrey,” said the Earl, reproachfully. “What have I done to make you hate me so? I was looking forward to adding Goodrich to my estates, and now you have deprived me of it.”
“Not intentionally,” said Geoffrey. “And I have good cause to hate you, as well you know. You took my sister, and allowed her to be drawn into this foolish plot to kill King Henry.”
“Actually, I did nothing of the kind,” said the Earl. “It was Enide who came to me with the plot. I told her to wait. The time is not yet ripe—the Duke needs to be properly warned, or he will miss his opportunity once again; and I am not yet as powerful as I would like, to assure our success. There is little point risking all in an invasion to place the Duke on the throne if we cannot be certain of victory. I urged her to do nothing, but she defied me.”
“But you denied that Malger was in your service—”
“A game, Geoffrey. The King knows as well as I do that Malger was one of my most trusted knights. I denied it and he did not contradict me. The King also knows perfectly well who is responsible for the attempt on his life. Why do you think he did not press you for the names of these plotters? It is because he already knows who they are. In fact, he has known for some time: I told him myself, you see.”
“You?” cried Geoffrey, bewildered. “But why?”
“Because I knew it would fail when Enide refused to wait. I did not want to be associated with a doomed plot, so I told the King about it. Thus, I gain credit for my loyalty to him, but yet I am still in a position to reap the benefits from any attempt on the King’s life should Enide have succeeded. Do not look so shocked, my fine knight! This is called politics. If you do not like the stakes, do not play the game.”
“Would that I had not,” said Geoffrey bitterly. “I hate this sort of thing.”
“Most knights do,” agreed the Earl. “They prefer straightforward slaughter. But I expected more of you, Geoffrey. I thought you were a cut above the rest of the rabble.”
“Who else is involved, other than Enide and Malger?” asked Geoffrey, rubbing his head with a shaking hand. “And Drogo. Whom I suppose you also do not know.”
“Good. You are learning,” said the Earl appreciatively. “Aside from those three and that pathetic little clerk, there was a physician and the wife of one of your brothers—Petrella?”
“Pernel?”
“Pernel, yes. Your father was involved with the plot to kill Rufus, but he declined to have anything to do with the murder of King Henry. And your sister will tell you that there is another plotter, but I do not know whether that is true or not.”
Neither did Geoffrey, and his mind reeled with the possibilities—Walter, Bertrada, Stephen, Joan, Olivier, Henry, or Hedwise? Or was it someone he had not yet encountered—someone from the village, perhaps?
“Of course,” continued the Earl smoothly, “you still have to discover which one of your family stabbed your father on his sick-bed—assuming that you are still interested in investigating plain old murder after you have just averted a regicide. But perhaps the culprit was Enide, slipping up that tunnel she told Malger about. She hid there when she was supposed to be dead, you see.”
But Geoffrey knew that was impossible—Rohese would have seen her. The Earl continued with his reasoning, a smug gloating in his voice that suggested he relished the fact that Geoffrey still had a long way to go before he solved the riddle of Godric’s death.
“But then again, Godric’s death might have nothing to do with this plan to kill the King, and your siblings or their spouses might be responsible. Perhaps one of them believed that he or she stood a better chance of gaining Goodrich with Godric dead than with Godric alive. After all, the old man did delight in producing forged documents to prove one or other of them was ineligible to succeed him.”
“Does the King really want me to hunt Enide down and dispatch her, as he asked?” said Geoffrey, watching the monarch stoop over Malger’s body.
“Yes, I think so,” said the Earl, after a moment of thought. “I would like you to spare Drogo, though. He is my cousin and I am fond of him. I am sure I will be able to dissuade him from other regicidal attempts, if you send him back to me.”
“I will see what I can do,” said Geoffrey flatly. “But I do not understand why the King does not send his own agents after Enide, to ensure the job is done properly—assuming that his chief huntsman has no luck.”
“Oh, that is simple,” said the Earl, “although I have already told you the answer once. The King was not overly surprised when I told him about the plot Enide and her followers had hatched to kill him. The reason, of course, was that he already knew of the one they hatched to kill Rufus. The King would not want Enide yelling details of that to all and sundry as she i
s dragged to the execution block—his hold on his crown is not so secure that he can risk the scandal of being accused of Rufus’s murder.”
“So, you are saying that King Henry was prepared to stand by and see his brother assassinated?” asked Geoffrey, although he had already surmised as much. “So that he could take the crown for himself?”
“Why not?” asked the Earl. “Your brothers would do the same for you. You see, the execution of Rufus would have done King Henry no good at all if it had been left until later this year. By then, the Duke of Normandy would have rallied enough support to take the crown himself. So, Rufus was killed last year instead.”
Geoffrey suddenly understood exactly why King Henry had changed the subject so abruptly when Geoffrey had been telling him about the plot: he had not wanted Geoffrey to become more explicit in front of his retinue, any more than he had wanted Enide making public statements.
Geoffrey thought about the pale-shafted arrow that had killed Aumary—a message from Enide to the King to tell him that she knew of his role in the death of Rufus. A similar pale-shafted arrow was embedded in Malger, and the King had seen it. His abrupt change of subject had prevented Geoffrey from revealing all he had learned or surmised about the plot. Did that now mean that Geoffrey should expect a dagger in his back one dark night, so he would never complete his story?
“So King Henry was complicit in his brother’s murder last summer, so that he might be King of England,” he summarised.
“Not so loud, Geoffrey. Just because something is common knowledge does not mean that you should bellow it from the roof-tops. But here comes one of your brothers. Draw your dagger to protect yourself: he looks unhinged to me.”
“I have just seen Enide risen from the grave!” blubbered Henry, his face white. “And Stephen has been shot and mortally wounded!”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
So, it is over,” said Helbye in satisfaction, watching as the last of the King’s men rode away from the forest clearing. “The attempt on the King’s life has failed; Goodrich belongs to the Mappestones again; Malger and Enide are dead; Drogo will flee back to hide under the Earl’s skirts; and Stephen will not live to see the sun set tonight.”
“Do not be so sure all is finished,” muttered Geoffrey, kneeling in the grass with the dying Stephen. Henry crouched opposite, rubbing Stephen’s bloodless hand in a rough—and belated—attempt at affection. “The King’s huntsman said he thought he injured Enide, not that he killed her.”
“He killed her sure enough,” said Henry, looking across at him. “The fellow is the chief huntsman, for God’s sake. He would not hold that position unless he were an excellent shot. He might not have killed her outright, but it will not be long before she is dead.”
“We will see,” said Geoffrey, unconvinced. “The hounds found no trace of her.”
“The place is boggy,” said Henry, exasperated. “The scents are confused, and the dogs did not really know what they were supposed to be sniffing for. But I can assure you, Enide’s corpse will appear sooner or later. And then we can put it back underground, where it belongs.”
“I saved that fine dog of yours,” said Stephen breathlessly, squinting up at Geoffrey. “He ran almost directly into the line of that arrow, but I managed to save him.”
Geoffrey looked to where the dog lay, unconcerned, a short distance away, happily chewing at something it had nuzzled out of Stephen’s pocket.
“I hope you are not telling me that someone tried to shoot the dog and that you put yourself into the arrow’s path,” he said nervously. The greedy, selfish black-and-white dog certainly had done nothing in its miserable life to deserve that kind of sacrifice.
“Not quite,” said Henry, when Stephen could not summon the strength to reply. “I saw what happened. You know how it is with hunting—there are only a few moments between the time when you see a movement that heralds the appearance of your prey, and the time when it will disappear from your range. You shoot instinctively.”
“I know,” said Geoffrey, guessing that he had probably been on a good many more hunts than Henry. And Henry’s horse had bolted, too, suggesting that he had little or no experience of controlling it in such situations. “But what did Stephen do?”
Henry paused, and looked down at his dying brother with a mixture of pity and resignation. “Your dog darted out from the trees and someone fired. Intent on grabbing it to save it from entering anyone else’s line of fire, Stephen rushed after it and was felled by the King’s arrow. He did not deliberately put himself between the dog and the quarrel, but the outcome was the same.”
“The King shot Stephen?” said Geoffrey, appalled. “But he did not say so. He—”
“Well, he would not, would he?” snapped Henry. “The King would hardly admit to killing one of his own subjects. It was probably an accident anyway.”
“Was it an accident?” Geoffrey asked Stephen.
Stephen swallowed. “Who knows? I only wanted to save the dog.”
“Did Enide really try to kill the King?” asked Henry of Geoffrey in a horrified whisper. “After she was dead, too! I always knew there was something sinister about her. Even in her grave she cannot help spreading wickedness.”
“And you avenged her death by hanging two poachers in the forest,” said Geoffrey coolly. “What have you to say about that?”
“They had her veil,” said Henry defensively. “And I told them that I would cut them into little pieces if they did not tell me the truth. They confessed to killing her, so I hanged them.”
“They told you what you wanted to hear,” said Geoffrey wearily. “I might confess to murder if there was someone like you threatening to tear me from limb to limb.”
“But they had her veil!” insisted Henry.
“And how did they tell you they came by it?” asked Geoffrey. “Did they claim it had been given to them by a beautiful woman, who had told them she no longer had need of it because she was going to become a nun.”
“How did you know that?” asked Henry, astonished.
“Because Enide is nothing if not thorough,” said Geoffrey with a sigh. “With the death of two men found in possession of her veil, the business of her alleged murder was at an end. No one would think any more about it—which was what Father Adrian said she had intended. She wanted to disappear as completely as possible, and she did not want discussions of her unsolved murder to keep her memory fresh in people’s minds.”
“Are you accusing me of slaying innocent men?” demanded Henry.
“Since you saw Enide alive yourself a few moments ago, what do you think?” said Geoffrey, eyeing his brother askance. Henry had always been slow, but increasing age had made him much worse. “They made a false confession to you because you terrified them into it.”
“Oh!” said Henry. “What have I done?”
“What indeed?” asked Geoffrey. “Next time you kill someone, you might want to pay a little more attention to detail. Such as whether you have the right victim. And now, since you killed their menfolk, you are responsible to ensure that their families do not starve—assuming that they have not done so already. You should bring them to Goodrich, and find some employment for them.”
“I will do that,” said Henry fervently. “I will. Lord save us. What a mess! That Enide! What has she done to us?” He rose to his feet again. “I will kill her for this!”
“You told me the King’s chief hunter has already had that honour,” said Geoffrey.
“Would that he had not!” shouted Henry. “I would sooner slay her myself. The treacherous, murdering, lying, evil—”
“Initially, the conspirators were Enide, Godric, Norbert, the physician, Malger, Drogo, and your wife,” said Geoffrey to Stephen, ignoring Henry’s futile rage. “Pernel was killed because she was too gleeful about the plot, and Enide was afraid she might betray them all with her indiscretion.”
“I always suspected Enide had something to do with poor Pernel’s death,” said Stephen weakly. �
�And I threatened to kill her for it. But someone got there before me—or at least I thought they had.”
Geoffrey nodded. That made sense. Enide had decided to disappear after she had become ill from the paints in Godric’s room and had erroneously deduced that someone was trying to kill her. Since Stephen had threatened to do exactly that, to avenge his wife’s death, Enide had probably assumed he was already trying, and so she had inveigled Adrian into faking her death so that she would be free to act without Stephen dogging her every step.
“That business with Pernel is long since done and forgotten,” said Henry soothingly. “Do not dwell on the matter now.”
“She is not forgotten by me,” said Stephen, so softly he was difficult to hear. “She was my wife.”
“But she cuckolded you,” said Henry harshly. “She slept with any knight who visited the castle, and she was greedy, cruel, and selfish.”
“She must have fitted in well at Goodrich, then,” murmured Geoffrey, although not loud enough for Stephen to hear.
Stephen’s eyes welled tears. “Perhaps she was not all a wife should have been,” he said in a whisper. “But I still loved her. She was so beautiful!”
Geoffrey rubbed his chin and looked down at his brother. Stephen’s short hair was wet from sweat, and his eyes were black and sunken. Geoffrey took a deep breath, and pressed on. There was not much time left.
“Last spring, when father first believed he was being poisoned, he hired a food taster called Torva to find out who was the culprit. Torva began to investigate, and uncovered not the plan to kill Father but the one to kill Rufus. Pernel was apparently fanatical about it, and was so pleased to be part of the plot that she probably told Torva.”
“Rufus was a hateful man,” whispered Stephen. “He was unnatural and deserved to die. Pernel was a good woman and his behaviour offended her Christian virtues.”
Geoffrey had heard that argument before, and was not convinced that offending Christian virtues was an entirely acceptable motive for murder. After the Crusade, he was no longer certain what Christian virtues entailed—other than an excuse to loot, murder, burn, rape, and pillage in other people’s countries.
A Head for Poisoning Page 38
