A Head for Poisoning

by Simon Beaufort

  “So Torva learned about Pernel’s desire to kill Rufus, and what happened next, Stephen? Did he try to blackmail you after she had died?”

  “Worse,” breathed Stephen. “He tried to blackmail Enide. Foolish man! I saw Enide leave the castle shortly after Torva went to indulge in his nightly binge at the tavern. Torva never came back alive, and the following morning, Enide was back in her chamber as though nothing had happened.”

  “Stop this, Geoffrey,” protested Henry. “Now is no time for such revelations—Stephen needs a priest, not a meaningless conversation about things that happened a long time ago.”

  “Then fetch Father Adrian,” said Geoffrey. “You can be to Goodrich and back in an hour.”

  “It might be too late by then,” said Henry. “And anyway, this is Caerdig’s land. I am not riding alone through it with him skulking in the woods.”

  “Take Helbye,” said Geoffrey. “He will protect you.”

  Henry glowered at him and declined his offer, so Geoffrey sent Barlow for Father Adrian.

  “I will not live to see a priest,” said Stephen weakly. “I will make my confession to you, my brothers. Then you can avenge my death, and make an end of her.”

  “There has been enough avenging already,” said Geoffrey. And he had no wish to know Stephen’s sins. “This family makes the Earl of Shrewsbury seem like a saint.”

  “It is not us, it is her,” said Stephen. “She was always causing us to fight. When we were at peace with each other, she would needle us into arguments, pretending to find some document that proved someone’s illegitimacy, or saying that she had overheard one of us making secret pacts with Godric.”

  “That is true,” agreed Henry. “My wife, Hedwise, was always saying we would fight less if Enide were not here.”

  “She was not here when I returned a few days ago, but you were still fighting,” Geoffrey remarked.

  “That was different,” said Henry. “By then, she had sowed so many seeds of discontent, that we would have had enough to quarrel about had Godric lived to be a hundred.”

  “Listen, Stephen,” Geoffrey said. “Shrewsbury told King Henry about the plot to kill him, because he did not think it would succeed and he wanted to be on the winning side. By then, Godric was dying and Pernel had been killed by Malger. Now Norbert is dead, also killed by Malger; Malger is dead, killed by Enide; Drogo has not the sense to keep himself alive without Malger; Enide is said to have been shot by the chief huntsman; and the physician was killed by Ingram.”

  “The physician?” asked Henry. “Francis? Killed by Ingram?”

  “I expect one of the King’s agents paid Ingram to do it,” said Geoffrey. “The boy is stupid and greedy enough to accept such a commission for pay. And finally, you, Stephen, very conveniently happened to ride in front of the King’s bow.”

  “The King would never shoot a man deliberately,” proclaimed Henry hotly. “He is honest and just. I have already told you—when you are on a hunt and you see something move, you just fire at it while you have the chance. The beaters are always getting shot by mistake.”

  “No wonder the King pays them good money,” said Geoffrey. “But whether it was an accident or not, every one of the King’s would-be killers is now dead. Were you one of those, Stephen?”

  “What proof do you have for these accusations?” demanded Henry, rising abruptly and standing over Geoffrey with clenched fists. “You come prancing back from the Holy Land, without so much as a silver goblet to show for it and accuse your own family of committing terrible crimes!”

  Geoffrey was silent. He had very little to support his guess that Stephen was the last of the conspirators, although Stephen had denied nothing. Was Enide telling him the truth when she had said there was one other? Or was she simply trying to confuse him?

  “Well?” asked Geoffrey of his dying brother. “Am I right? Did you conspire to kill the King?”

  Stephen closed his eyes, and gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. “Because Pernel was so deeply involved in the plot to kill Rufus, others have assumed that I shared her passion. I did not. I never plotted to kill Rufus, and I most certainly did not conspire to kill King Henry. In fact, I tried hard to dissuade Pernel from getting involved at all. She would not listen. I did not even know that Enide was still alive until the night Godric died. I met her then.”

  “You were locked out of the castle,” said Geoffrey, thinking fast. “Malger had replaced our guards on the gates with his own, because he thought ours were inadequate. By the time you returned from seeing the dog that was about to pup, the guards would not let you in again. So, you used the secret tunnel to gain entry instead.”

  “What tunnel?” demanded Henry.

  Stephen nodded. “I met Enide in the chamber at the bottom of the stairs. I cannot tell you which of us suffered the greater shock! She told me of her plan to kill King Henry. I tried to dissuade her, as I had Pernel, but she was beyond reason.”

  Then that must have been while Rohese was still sleeping under Godric’s mattresses, Geoffrey thought, or they would all have bumped into each other. “And she let you leave unscathed?” he asked. “That does not sound like Enide.”

  “She let me go because I offered to inform Godric of what was afoot,” said Stephen. “She could not: she was supposed to be dead. Godric and I argued about it—or rather, he yelled at me about it. I wondered then how you could sleep through it, but assumed you simply wanted to listen without becoming involved. I had no idea you were drugged. I am guilty of concealing Enide’s resurrection from you all; I am guilty of concealing the fact that I suspected Enide of killing Torva; I am guilty of not forcing Pernel to give up her foolish notions of regicide. But I have not killed, and I have not plotted to murder any kings.”

  His eyes closed in exhaustion. Geoffrey rubbed his temples, sighed, and tipped his head back, looking at the low, grey-bellied clouds that scudded above him.

  “I told you it would be too late to fetch Father Adrian,” said Henry in a low voice.

  Stephen was dead.

  It was a sombre procession that wound its way along the path that led from Lann Martin to Goodrich bearing the body of Stephen across Geoffrey’s destrier. The path was grassy and overgrown from lack of use. Geoffrey remembered that it had been well trodden when he was a boy, and was angry that Enide’s plotting and intrigue had spread not only to devastate her own family but had even touched the innocent villagers of Lann Martin, too. The route to the market town of Walecford through the Goodrich estate had been a convenient and useful short-cut from Lann Martin in former, happier days.

  “Caerdig?” Geoffrey yelled to the silent trees.

  Henry regarded him askance. “Caerdig is not here. And less of this unseemly shouting. We are bearing the corpse of our brother here. Have you no respect for the dead?”

  To one side of them, the trees parted and Caerdig stepped out, followed by several of his villagers. All carried the sticks and staves that they had been using to beat the game through the forest for the King and his hunting party.

  “God’s blood, Geoffrey!” muttered Henry, snatching his sword from his saddle. “What did you call him for? Now we will all be slain!”

  “Put your sword away,” said Geoffrey, not taking his eyes from Caerdig. “You have nothing to fear. We have been trailed ever since we left the forest clearing, and if Caerdig had wanted us killed, we would be dead already.”

  “And we might kill you yet,” said Daffydd, the man who wore the strange cap, as he fingered a sword with a broken tip.

  “Hush, Daffydd,” said Caerdig. “This might be our chance for peace.”

  “Peace?” thundered Henry. “Peace? Why should I make peace with you?”

  “Less of this unseemly shouting,” said Geoffrey to Henry. “Have you no respect for the dead?”

  “We need peace because too much evil has been perpetrated here already,” said Caerdig. “And who among us would not like to walk these paths without expecting a knife be
tween the shoulder-blades at every step? It is time this nonsense ended.”

  “Why now?” demanded Henry. “Do you think the Mappestones are weak because Stephen is dead?” He spat in derision.

  “I tried for peace before, if you recall,” said Caerdig. “I offered to marry Joan or Enide, so that our estates would live in harmony.”

  “But you have stolen my inheritance!” snarled Henry. “Lann Martin is mine, left to me by my mother.”

  “It was not hers to leave,” said Caerdig firmly. “It belonged to Ynys, and Ynys wanted me to succeed him.”

  “You are not Ynys’s legitimate heir,” shouted Henry, furious. “And so the estate should have passed back to us.”

  “And that is why you killed Ynys!” yelled Caerdig back. “You struck a coward’s blow in the dark, so that you could inherit! Well, Lann Martin stands on Welsh soil, and by Welsh law, it belongs to me, as his named successor.”

  “I did not kill Ynys—”

  “Enide arranged for Drogo to kill Ynys,” said Geoffrey quietly. Despite his low voice, the other two turned and regarded him with disbelief.

  “Henry’s belligerence is all the proof I need of his guilt,” said Caerdig. “I was prepared to let Ynys’s slaying go unavenged—he would not have wanted it to have caused continued bloodshed—but I will not do so if Henry is not man enough even to admit to his crime.”

  “Enide arranged Ynys’s death,” persisted Geoffrey. “She wanted Henry accused of the murder, so that no one would raise questions when Henry was stabbed in the back one dark night. And then, doubtless, it would have been your turn, Caerdig—you would have been the prime suspect for Henry’s murder, and either hanged or slain by an act of revenge by some unidentified member of the Mappestone household. Then Enide would have had not only Goodrich but Lann Martin, too.”

  “My God!” breathed Caerdig. “And this was the woman I offered to take as my wife?”

  “Enide fooled many people,” said Geoffrey. “But the real issue is will you agree to a truce? If you two continue to fight, Enide will have won a small victory, and I am loath to see her win any at all. The people on both estates are suffering—you should stop wasting funds on this silly squabble and put them into the welfare of the people you need to make your lands profitable.”

  Henry pursed his lips and folded his arms across his barrel chest. Caerdig scratched his chin thoughtfully.

  “We can try, I suppose,” said Henry eventually. “I have never liked Lann Martin much anyway. It is full of Welshmen. And anyway I have Goodrich now. Take Lann Martin, Caerdig. It is yours.”

  Caerdig gave him a look of dislike. “Then we will start our peace by allowing you to pass unmolested through our lands. And as an act of faith, we will not follow you to ensure you leave. Go home, and bury your dead.”

  Geoffrey supposed it was as good a start as he was likely to accomplish. Henry took the reins of his horse and led the small procession on. Geoffrey lingered as the others left, and caught Caerdig’s arm as he made to stride away.

  “I saw who drove the boar forward when Enide was about to kill me,” he said.

  “It did not go quite according to plan,” said Caerdig ruefully. “I was almost too late for a start, and I did not intend for the wretched thing to attack you. A deer would have been a better animal to use, but time was short and the boar was the only beast available to me.” He grinned suddenly. “You should have seen Enide run when she saw it coming!”

  Geoffrey could well imagine. There was little as dangerous or aggressive in an English forest as a furious wild boar. His arm still ached from where the animal’s tusks had raked him, and he knew the repairs to his chain-mail would be expensive.

  Caerdig reached out and punched Geoffrey lightly on the shoulder. “We are even now, you and I. You spared my life when we tried to ambush you, and I prevented that witch from driving her dagger through your ribs. Do you think Henry will honour my right to Lann Martin now?”

  “I do not know,” said Geoffrey. “He is as likely to break a promise as to make one.”

  Caerdig grimaced. “Well, there will always be a hearth for you in Lann Martin if Goodrich becomes too hostile. Do not forget that, Geoffrey. You may need a haven from time to time. Enide and Stephen may be dead, but there are still Walter, Joan, and the dreadful Henry to contend with.”

  He called to his men to follow him and walked away, leaving Geoffrey to make his way home alone with Stephen’s body. By the time the sturdy bulk of Goodrich Castle came into view, Geoffrey felt drained. He was cold and wet from the rain; his body was stiff and bruised from his fight with Drogo and Malger; and his chain-mail was damaged in several places. He felt he barely had the energy to reach the castle.

  Geoffrey trudged through the mud, leading his destrier by the reins with Stephen’s body still flopping across the back of it. Henry had met Father Adrian by the ford, and the two of them were waiting for him, watching in silence while Geoffrey waded through the icy water. Adrian said nothing when he saw Stephen’s body, but his face was grey and his hands shook as he opened his Psalter to begin reciting prayers for the dead.

  When they reached the castle, the gates stood wide open and the guards were nowhere to be seen. Geoffrey felt a surge of anger at their negligence, until he looked inside the barbican gatehouse and saw the two bodies that lay inside. Abandoning his horse to Julian, he ran up the steps into the inner ward. It was deserted.

  Geoffrey bounded up the stairs to the keep and shot into the hall, Henry and Adrian not far behind him. Bertrada sat at the far end of the chamber, near the hearth, cradling Walter on her knees. Next to her was Joan, holding a bowl of water and gently wiping Walter’s face. Olivier stood by his wife’s side, resting his hand on her shoulder and muttering what sounded to be comforting words, while Hedwise knelt in front of the fire to stoke it up.

  “Oh no!” groaned Geoffrey, sagging against the door frame.

  Henry elbowed him out of the way. “God’s blood!” he exclaimed. “Who has done this? Was it Caerdig, do you think, while we were otherwise engaged?”

  “Of course it was not Caerdig,” snapped Geoffrey, rubbing a hand across his face and continuing to stare. “How could he? He was in the forest all morning helping the King to slaughter deer.”

  “Who then?” demanded Henry. “Old Sir Roger from Kernebrigges way? He has not liked Walter since we cheated him over those rams.”

  “Enide,” said Geoffrey in a whisper. “Who do you think?”

  “But Enide is dead!” cried Henry. “She was shot by the King’s chief huntsman!”

  “Apparently not,” said Geoffrey.

  He walked down the hall and came to stand over his eldest brother. Walter’s eyes were closed, and his balding pate was a curious purple colour and strangely flattened. Geoffrey knew he had been beyond any ministrations that Bertrada and Joan could offer him from the moment he had been struck. The blow, although it had caused virtually no bleeding, had smashed the skull and crushed the brain beneath.

  Joan looked up at Geoffrey. “Olivier says Enide came and attacked Walter,” she said, bending and wiping the dead man’s face again.

  “Olivier has been at the wine,” said Bertrada, her voice harsh with shock. “Enide has been in her grave these last four months.”

  “Enide has been everywhere but her grave,” said Geoffrey. “She has been living in a room at the end of the passage that ran from Godric’s chamber to the woods outside.”

  “In that filthy tunnel?” queried Joan. “She would have been better in her grave!”

  So, Joan knew about the passage, thought Geoffrey. And in that case, so probably did Olivier. Were they the killers of Godric? Or was that Stephen, who confessed to using the tunnel when he found himself locked out of the castle the night that Godric was killed?

  “Enide is dead,” said Bertrada flatly. “I saw her corpse. Father Adrian said there could be no mistake, despite the fact that they had stolen her head. The priest is a good man with no reason to
lie.”

  Adrian closed his eyes in despair and guilt. “It was not Enide’s body,” he said in an agonised whisper. “She was afraid that one of you would kill her, as she believed one of you had been poisoning Godric, and she asked me to help her feign her death. The body you saw was not hers.”

  “But why would she want to harm Walter in particular?” asked Joan, wiping again. “He has never done her ill.”

  “None except to be Godric’s oldest son,” said Olivier. “Perhaps she intends to kill you all one by one, and then reappear to claim Goodrich.”

  “Do not be ridiculous, Olivier!” snapped Bertrada. “How could she hope to wrest Goodrich from the Earl of Shrewsbury? It is he who owns Goodrich now.”

  “So, what happened?” asked Geoffrey quickly, before they could start one of their arguments.

  “I was coming from the stables a short while ago,” said Olivier, “when I saw someone entering the hall. It was Enide. At first, I thought someone must have been poisoning me, and that I was dreaming, but it was Enide sure enough. By the time I had reached the hall from the stables, she was standing over Walter’s body with that skillet in her hand.”

  He pointed to a large, heavy cooking pan that had been used for toasting chestnuts over the fire when Geoffrey had last seen it.

  “Did she say anything?” he asked.

  “I asked her what she had done.” He pursed his lips. “A foolish question, I suppose, given the circumstances. She told me she killed Walter because he had slain Godric.”

  “What?” cried Bertrada. “Walter did not kill Godric! Geoffrey is the most likely one of us to have done that. It is he who should be lying here, not my Walter!”

  Had Walter killed Godric, Geoffrey wondered. Why not? Godric had died the night after he presented his children with a will proclaiming Godfrey as sole inheritor—before the Earl of Shrewsbury had come up with his own ideas on the matter. Perhaps Walter had thought that by killing Godric he might invalidate the will somehow, and that his own claim by primogeniture—the first-born—would be upheld.