A Head for Poisoning

by Simon Beaufort

  If not committing murder was Henry’s notion of being gracious, Geoffrey decided yet again that the sooner he was away from Goodrich, the better. He backed away from the door to give Henry more room.

  “It will not budge,” said Henry. “You try.”

  Geoffrey leaned his weight on the door, and pushed as hard as he could. It remained fast.

  “This is useless,” said Henry, watching. “I need a lever.” Before Geoffrey could stop him, he had grabbed the torch and darted back up the stairs, leaving Joan and Geoffrey alone in the darkness.

  The pitch-blackness in the cavern pressed down on Geoffrey. Somewhere, he heard a light patter as some sand fell from the roof. The soft stone through which the tunnel had been excavated was completely inappropriate for such a structure, and Geoffrey felt part of the wall crumble even as his outstretched hand brushed against it. And then there was a hiss and a crackle as yet another trickle of earth and pebbles dropped from the ceiling. He found he could not breathe deeply enough to draw air into his lungs, and he started to cough.

  He began to walk blindly towards the stairs, hoping to catch up with Henry, but he had not gone far before his foot caught on the uneven floor and he went sprawling forwards onto his knees.

  “Geoff? Where are you?” came Joan’s voice. He felt her hand on his shoulder. “Do not try to chase after Henry. He will not be long.”

  “We are trapped in the dark,” said Geoffrey tightly. “And the dust is choking me.”

  “There is no dust,” said Joan reasonably. “And we are not trapped. We will be out soon, and we can always go back up the stairs to Godric’s chamber, anyway.”

  Geoffrey swallowed, and tried to bring his panic under control. “I know.”

  “I understand your dislike of enclosed spaces,” said Joan sympathetically. “You wrote about it in your letters.”

  “My letters to Enide,” said Geoffrey, still coughing. “Or rather my letters to some scribe, who was doubtless enjoying himself thoroughly at my expense. Still, at least I know it was not Norbert. That man could not pen a decent letter to save his life.”

  “Actually, they were letters to me,” said Joan in the darkness. “You addressed them to Enide, but she lost interest in writing to you within a year of you leaving—especially after her accident. Dictating a letter takes a long time, and she was too active and too impatient to sit so long at one task. She usually left them lying around in our room, and I took them to Olivier to read.”

  “So my letters were to Olivier?” asked Geoffrey, horrified. “Wonderful!”

  “It was wonderful for me,” said Joan quietly. “It gave me an excuse to see him, and we enjoyed the business of composing letters to you together. He wanted me to tell you that it was us and not Enide when we first started to write to you, but I was afraid that if I did, you might not write again, and then I would have lost two things I had come to care about—my reason for spending so much time with Olivier, and writing to you.”

  “No wonder Olivier knew that I had been transferred to Tancred’s service, but my brothers did not,” said Geoffrey, recalling his surprise when the small knight had mentioned it when they had first met.

  Joan nodded. “He has followed the career of a fellow knight with great interest.”

  “And it was not Enide who was considering becoming a nun,” Geoffrey went on, remembering another subject in the letters. “It was you. And it was not me you were telling—it was Olivier, so that he would make up his mind and marry you.”

  Joan sighed softly. “It did not work—I think that ploy was too subtle for him. But I felt that I came to know you much better after you had left than I had when you were here. And then, when Enide died—or we thought she did—it was too late to be honest. We had to stop writing, even though we longed to continue.”

  “But it was all based on deceit!” objected Geoffrey. “You are right—I might not have written back to you had I known what you had done.”

  He was startled to hear a soft intake of breath that sounded like a sob. He reached out in the dark, but she moved away from his hand. He scratched around for something to say to break the uncomfortable silence that followed.

  “I wrote to you for twenty years. Did you love Olivier all that time?”

  Her voice was unsteady when she spoke. “I fell in love the first time I saw him, but you see how he is. He would never have gathered the courage to ask me to be his wife. In the end, when I was almost resigned to remaining a maiden all my life, Walter took your manor at Rwirdin so that the Earl of Shrewsbury would become interested enough to force him into action.”

  “So, first you steal my letters intended for Enide, and then you steal my manor,” said Geoffrey, unimpressed. “All to secure Olivier for yourself.”

  “It was worth it,” said Joan, sounding defiant. “I might have lost you now, but I gained Olivier in the process. He might not look much, but he is the most gentle, charming man I have ever met, and quite unlike all the other pigs that call themselves knights—including you. You can keep your paltry manor! I do not need it now. I have what I really want.”

  Geoffrey recalled the tender words about the lover he had assumed was Enide’s. So, it was Joan’s, and the astonishing object of her affections was the cowardly Olivier, a man so feeble that he had taken years and years to secure his wife. Geoffrey recanted that thought almost immediately: Joan was a formidable woman, and perhaps Olivier had done well in eluding her amorous clutches for so long.

  Geoffrey recalled how he had so cleverly deduced that the lover in the letters was Adrian, the parish priest, written of with such loving care by Enide. But that had been no more than a lucky guess, inspired by Adrian’s clear infatuation with Enide when he spoke of her. Geoffrey’s assumption that Enide had declined to mention his name because Adrian was parish priest could not have been more wrong: all Joan’s words of affection and devotion had not been to Geoffrey at all but to Olivier.

  A few particles of sand dropped from the ceiling and landed near him, making him jump violently. He felt sweat breaking out on his forehead and the small of his back. He started to cough again when dust swirled into his face. Then Joan moved next to him, slapping him vigorously on the back.

  “Easy now,” she said, gruff in her attempt at comfort. “Move this way a little, away from the dust. You have no cause to fear this cave, Geoff. It has been here for nigh on thirty years, and has not collapsed yet. Henry will not be long.”

  The air was clearer where Joan had pulled him, and Geoffrey took a deep breath and leaned back against one of the walls. To his horror, he felt part of it crumble.

  “Think of something else,” said Joan, crouching near him and taking one of his hands in hers. “There are many things about this mystery that I do not understand. For example, this tunnel was very busy the night Godric died. I am confused about the order of events. Will you clarify that for me?”

  Geoffrey understood that she was attempting to distract him from his escalating terror of the cavern, and that she was trying to be kind. He did not feel in the least like listing a catalogue of his relatives’ deeds that fateful night, but the logical part of his mind told him it was probably better to occupy himself with something other than fevered imaginings about cave-ins.

  He took another deep breath and began. “You were all concerned over Father’s new will, and Hedwise determined that Henry was not to be cheated out of his inheritance. She decided that if he could not obtain it by legitimate means, she would try alternative methods. As the Earl slumbered happily to the dulcet tones of Olivier’s rebec, Hedwise prepared some of her infamous fish soup. …” He paused, the mere thought of it making his stomach churn.

  “I do not like it much either,” said Joan. “You know she uses the giblets, blood, and heads of fish to produce that very strong flavour?”

  Geoffrey thought he was going to be sick. “I hate fish.”

  “Olivier loves it,” said Joan fondly. “But we digress. Hedwise prepared her broth …”
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  “And flavoured it with enough ergot and poppy powder to kill. She gave me a bowl before we slept. Walter was blind drunk. Her intention was to return early the next morning, feed more of the poisoned soup to Father, and have Walter blamed for both murders.”

  “But you do not like fish,” predicted Joan. “And so you did not finish the soup.”

  The cave leapt into light as Henry returned, bearing a stout bar. Joan released Geoffrey’s hand and moved away quickly, almost guiltily, as though one Mappestone showing affection for another was something to be ashamed of.

  “This should do it,” said Henry. “Did I hear you talking about Hedwise’s fish soup? Delicious stuff! It is the one thing about her I will miss if she is imprisoned for attempted murder.”

  “I did not finish the soup,” said Geoffrey. “Although the little I drank was enough to render me insensible for the rest of the night. I saw and heard nothing until Henry did the honours with his bucket of water the following morning.”

  Henry chuckled, and paused in his labour to wink at Geoffrey. “That was a satisfying moment, I can tell you—one of the very few in the history of our relationship, I might add.”

  “Do be quiet, Henry,” snapped Joan. “We are not on a pleasant excursion here. We are dealing with a murderer who is escaping as you waste valuable time with trivialities.”

  Henry winked at Geoffrey again, and started to heave and push at the lever. Geoffrey resumed his tale.

  “While Walter snored in his drunken slumber and I was drugged, you emerged from the tunnel where you had been searching for Rohese. You moved the chest that I had placed to block the door, assuming that Walter had put it there for some obscure purpose rather than my precaution against hostile intruders. Meanwhile, Rohese was hidden between Father’s mattresses—”

  “So that is where she was,” said Joan, nodding appreciation. “How clever of her.” She gave Geoffrey a sideways glance. “Or, more likely, how clever of you.”

  “Be quiet, Joan,” said Henry. “We are not on a pleasant excursion here. A murderer escapes while you waste time with trivialities.”

  “While you waste time!” said Joan, angered by his irritating manner. “It is not I who cannot open the door so that we might give chase. Lord! What was that?”

  A heavy thump sounded against the door.

  “Enide,” said Geoffrey, grimly. “She is still blocking the door with stones. Hurry, Henry! The longer we take to open it, the more difficult it will become.”

  “You mean she is on the other side of the door now?” asked Henry, amazed. “She has not fled?”

  “No,” said Geoffrey, exasperated at his brother’s slowness. “She is continuing to block the door. Give me the lever if you cannot move it.”

  “I can do it,” said Henry, pushing Geoffrey away. “Carry on with this tale of yours. It will make me angry, and I am stronger when I am angry.”

  Geoffrey exchanged a long-suffering glance with Joan, and continued his story.

  “As Father, Rohese, Walter, and I slept, Stephen emerged from the tunnel. He had been to see a dog in the village, and Malger’s guards would not let him back in again. He used the tunnel instead. In this very room, he met Enide—each giving the other the fright of their lives if Stephen is to be believed—and Enide told him of the plot to kill King Henry. She wanted his help, which he declined to give her, and so she settled for him taking a message to Father.”

  “So Stephen opened the door that had been locked from the inside when I had been looking for Rohese,” said Joan thoughtfully. “And I was just an arm’s reach from Enide.”

  “Yes,” said Geoffrey. “If you rattled the door, you probably startled her, and Stephen also using the tunnel must have convinced her that she could stay here no longer. She doubtless went to seek sanctuary with Malger. Stephen did not want to disturb Father in the middle of the night, so he decided to wait until dawn. Shortly before he arrived, Walter woke and went to find some breakfast, and Rohese woke and began exploring the tunnel for something to do.”

  “She is a nosy girl,” said Joan, nodding. “I told her it would lead her into trouble. Julianna is the same.”

  “When Stephen came to speak to Father, Rohese was in the tunnel, Walter had left, and I was drugged. I imagine he tried to wake me to tell me to leave, but obviously was unsuccessful. When Stephen told him about the plot, Father was horrified. Rohese heard him yelling. She also heard him mention Tirel, the man who really shot Rufus—or so the Court claims—and Norbert the scribe, who was the marksman who was to kill King Henry. Stephen left, and Father, seeing that he would be unable to prevent the plan being put into action, stabbed himself. Rohese came when she heard him groaning. She said he blamed us for his death.”

  “But you said he killed himself,” said Henry. “Make up your mind!”

  “He means metaphorically, Henry,” said Joan impatiently. “He blamed Stephen for bringing him the news, and Enide and Walter for plotting, I suppose. We three had nothing to do with it.”

  “Father told Rohese to hide in the tunnel until it was safe to come out. This she did, and was here days later when I found her. After Rohese had fled, Hedwise arrived, armed with some of her poisoned fish soup for Father. She was appalled to find her plan had gone so badly wrong: Father was already dead, Walter had recovered from his drunkenness and had left, and I was still alive. She decided that she still might gain something from it, if she acted quickly. She pulled Father’s knife from his stomach and tossed it out of the window. Then she emptied the pitcher of wine after it, and stabbed him in the chest with my Arabian dagger.”

  “I see,” said Joan. “By making it look as though you had downed the wine and stabbed Godric, she could eliminate you as a potential rival for the estates.”

  “Yes—although she was disappointed not to have eliminated Walter instead. Later, she returned and added ergot to the bottle of wine Stephen gave me, so that I would not be able to tell whether she or Stephen had poisoned me. Later still, she decided that was too risky, and so she cleaned the broth bowl and put a new bottle of wine in place of the poisoned one, forgetting to break the seal.”

  “Lord spare us,” gasped Henry, grinning in satisfaction as the door moved slightly. “It is all highly complex!”

  “Not really,” said Geoffrey. “Just several people operating independently and with their own axes to grind.”

  There was a hiss, and a few pebbles dropped from the ceiling onto Geoffrey’s head. He shoved Henry out of the way and snatched the lever from him. Henry might claim that anger made him strong, but Geoffrey’s terror of being caught inside a collapsing cave made him stronger still. The door budged slightly, and he heaved even harder, feeling the blood pound in his head with the effort. He was dimly aware of Henry and Joan urging him on, but he needed no encouragement from them to effect an escape from the cave. The door moved again, and then he was able to insert the lever into a better position.

  With a groan of protesting wood, the door inched open sufficiently for Geoffrey to squeeze partway through. His inclination was to bolt out as quickly as possible when he saw the grey light of early morning seeping in, but he forced himself to emerge cautiously, sword in hand. Enide had been piling stones against the door and was likely to be nearby.

  He was not mistaken. As he emerged, he detected something moving out of the corner of his eye. Enide stood there with a jagged rock held above her head. With a shriek of triumph, she brought it down with all her might, aiming for Geoffrey’s unprotected skull.

  Geoffrey had been anticipating an attack from Enide, and so was ready to duck sideways as the rock came plunging downward. The stone grazed down the arm that was raised instinctively to protect his head, and then dropped harmlessly to the ground. With a howl of frustration, Enide was away.

  Geoffrey wriggled the rest of the way through the gap, his shirt snagging and catching, so that Henry was forced to push him hard from the inside. The others, being smaller, had no such difficulties and were able
to slip through with relative ease.

  “You should have let me go first,” said Henry accusingly. “I would have been able to grab her.”

  “You would have been dead,” said Joan. “You would not have emerged with the caution that Geoffrey exercised, and Enide would have brained you.”

  Enide had stacked a sizeable pile of rocks, some of them quite large, against the door. Geoffrey was impressed at her physical strength, especially given her useless right hand, and was not surprised that the exit had been difficult to open. He took several deep breaths of air, and felt the unsteadiness in his limbs begin to recede.

  “There!” Joan grabbed his arm and pointed. In the pale light of dawn, a tall, slender figure could be seen, weaving its way through the trees. Enide had made a mistake: she should have left Goodrich under cover of the night, for had it been dark they would never have spotted her. Perhaps she was not infallible after all.

  Geoffrey darted after her, hearing the others following him, Joan graceful but slow, and Henry like a great panting ox. There was no chain-mail to weigh Geoffrey down this time, and he made good progress. The pale figure ahead of him saw him gaining on her and increased her speed. She was almost at the river.

  The rain of the last few days had caused the river to swell, and it was now a great brown snake that tore at its banks in a mass of whirlpools and waves. Branches and bits of vegetation were dragged along it, turning and twisting in the crazy currents. Enide swerved to the right, and began running along one side of it, away from the village. Geoffrey followed, and saw she was aiming for a man on the path who was holding the reins of two horses. Geoffrey recognised him, even at a distance.

  “Ingram!” he yelled, thundering down the trackway.

  The young soldier balked at the sound of Geoffrey’s voice. Enide snatched the reins from his hands and prepared to mount. Then there was a singing sound, and the horse crumpled.

  “Damn it all!” shouted Henry, lowering his bow. “I missed her!”