A Head for Poisoning

CHAPTER NINE

Once Geoffrey’s squabbling relatives had left Mabel to her business and she and Geoffrey were once more alone in Godric’s chamber, Geoffrey went to examine his father’s body. The wound in the stomach was small, although deep, and had penetrated an area that Geoffrey, who had seen many battle injuries, knew would be fatal because of the great veins there. But the wound to his chest was larger, and Geoffrey could come to no conclusion other than that it had been made by the one Arabian dagger that the Earl of Shrewsbury had declined to appropriate. The smaller wound, however, had not. Geoffrey made a search of the room, but could find no other weapon. He sat back and considered, watching as Mabel carefully combed Godric’s hair and beard.

It seemed clear to Geoffrey that whoever had stabbed Godric in the stomach was probably not the same person who had knifed him in the chest after he had died-it was unlikely that someone would wait at the scene of the crime before attacking him a second time with a different knife-and the physician’s evidence implied that the second injury had been inflicted later, after Godric had taken some time to die from the wound to his stomach.

So, was the person who had poisoned Geoffrey the same as the person who inflicted the fatal wound on Godric? Or did that honour go to the person who had stabbed the already-dead Godric after his death with Geoffrey’s dagger?

Geoffrey rubbed his head, and then went to open a window, leaning out to inhale the fresh, cool air. As he leaned, he saw a deep, red stain on the outside wall that disappeared into a tapering tail on the grey stone. He inspected it closely. It was wine, and a good deal of it. Geoffrey could only suppose that it was the wine that had been in Godric’s massive jug, and that someone had tipped the stuff out of the window to make it appear as though Geoffrey had drunk it before, after, or during the murder of his father. It was also possible that the ergot-tainted brew had gone the same way.

So, that explained one mystery, he thought with satisfaction, before returning his attention to the murder of Godric.

Geoffrey knew he had dragged the chest across the floor to the door, so that anyone entering the room would have made sufficient noise to awaken him-and he would have woken had he not been drugged when the killer had appeared to kill his father. Meanwhile, his dog, which would have growled at a night intruder, had been whisked away by Stephen. During the night, someone had moved the chest back to its usual position at the end of the bed. Was Walter responsible for that, lying when he claimed to have slept the whole night undisturbed? Or was he telling the truth, and had heard nothing?

But Walter would need to be an unnaturally deep sleeper not to have been awoken by the sound of the chest being moved. Geoffrey chewed his lip. But perhaps Walter was a man who could sleep through anything-he had not woken when Geoffrey had put the box there in the first place, and there was the fact that he had been very drunk.

Or was the culprit Stephen, who had brought drugged wine for Geoffrey to drink, and who had made sure the dog would not cause a disturbance by taking it to his own room for the night?

Or was the killer Hedwise, who had provided Geoffrey with the rank fish soup? Geoffrey rubbed his chin. Not Hedwise-the chest was heavy, and he doubted that a woman of her slight build would have had the strength to move it, at least not without considerable effort.

And who else knew about Godric’s secret passage? Despite Mabel’s claim that she was the only one in the castle who knew of its existence, Geoffrey was not so sure. He suspected that once he knew the answer to that question, he would have the solution to his father’s murder. He looked around the gloomy room, wondering what he should do first. He supposed he should see to the safety of Rohese, and explore the passageway to see if she were hiding there. But even the thought of entering the slit of blackness brought him out in a cold sweat.

As soon as he had helped Mabel to wrap Godric in the grey sheet she had brought, he left her to complete the finishing touches to her handiwork, and poked his head around the room of the door opposite. This was the chamber that Enide had shared with Joan when Geoffrey had been a boy. He had assumed that Enide would have had it to herself once Joan had married Sir Olivier-although Godric had suggested that she had shared it with Rohese.

Geoffrey rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Bits of the mystery were beginning to fit together: Enide had occasionally slept in Godric’s room-in Godric’s bed-and she was said to have been poisoned, too. Therefore, it was the bed that had made both her and Godric sick. Geoffrey himself had only felt ill after he had spent some hours in Godric’s chamber-after the insidious poison had been given enough time to work on him.

No one was in Enide’s old room. Judging from the clothes that hung on pegs along the walls, Joan had reclaimed it, and was currently sharing it with Olivier. Geoffrey ducked back outside to the stairs, listened hard for a few moments, hearing the inevitable cacophony of raised voices in the hall, and felt reasonably confident that everyone else was otherwise engaged. Then he went back to Joan’s room and softly closed the door.

He looked around. Godric had apparently been to work on Joan’s room, too, because the walls were decorated with an aggressive swirl of greens and yellows. On closer inspection, Geoffrey saw that the design was a vine that sprouted vivid golden flowers and supported a veritable host of insects and birds. Joan-or someone-had made an attempt to hide some of the mural by adding new pegs for clothes, and one wall had been whitewashed. But Godric had intended his decorations to last, and the fanciful beasts could still be seen through the new paint, giving the impression that they were being observed through a heavy mist.

Realising that the longer he stayed, the more likely he was to be caught red-handed snooping in Joan’s chamber, Geoffrey went quickly to the bed. Making as little noise as possible, he heaved the straw mattresses away to reveal the bare stones behind. He crouched down, and began to poke about with his dagger. Many years ago, he and Enide had prised a stone out of the wall when they had been bored and restless one winter afternoon, and behind it they had hidden their treasures-small, childish things that they did not want Henry to steal.

Geoffrey smiled when he saw that no attempt had been made to seal up the hole again, and that the stone slipped out as easily as it had so many years before. The gathering of dust on the floor in front of it suggested that it had not been used for some time, and he began to think that he might have been wrong after all, and that Enide had discovered some new hiding place for her secret things.

He lay flat on the floor, and thrust his hand into the hole as far as it would go. He grimaced in disgust when a dead mouse was the first thing his fingers encountered, but then he felt something else-something that had the unmistakable crackle of parchment. Carefully, he drew it out, and then groped in the hole again, this time discovering a small leather pouch. When he was satisfied that there was nothing else, he slid the stone into its place, and shoved the mattresses back against the wall again. Slipping his findings-other than the mouse-down inside his shirt, he opened the door a crack, and listened carefully.

Voices were still raised in bitter dispute in the hall, some of them almost screaming. The debate was sufficiently loud that Geoffrey did not hear the soft step of a leather shoe on the stairs below. He was just closing Joan’s door behind him, when he came face to face with Hedwise.

“Sir Geoffrey!” she exclaimed, smiling impishly. “Were you looking for something particular among your sister’s belongings?”

“Nothing particular, no,” he replied, angry with himself at being caught after all his precautions. “But my father told me that I should admire the wall-paintings in Enide’s room, and I thought I should view them before Joan hides them with whitewash.”

“Yes, Joan does hate those murals,” said Hedwise, still smiling mischievously. “Sir Godric was all set to decorate the hall with his version of the Battle of Hastings, but Joan would not let him.”

That was probably a blessing, thought Geoffrey.

“Well,” he said, making to step around her, “I think she was wise.”

“I think so, too,” said Hedwise, moving slightly so that Geoffrey was obliged to rub against her as he tried to slip past. “But what is this? What do you have here?”

One slender arm darted out to grab what Geoffrey had hidden in his shirt. He was quicker, and had caught her hand before she could pluck out the documents he had discovered.

“Hedwise!” Olivier’s shocked voice echoed around the confines of the narrow stair well. “What are you doing?”

“I was just talking to the brother I have recently met,” said Hedwise, turning her seraphic smile on the diminutive knight.

Olivier melted before her onslaught of charm, and grinned stupidly at her. Geoffrey made to walk away, but Hedwise quickly stepped in front of him again.

“Perhaps you will consider a walk with me in the meadows below the bailey,” she said, smiling beguilingly at him. “It seems that the castle is always so full of arguing and fighting that we never have the chance for normal conversation.”

“Good idea,” said Olivier immediately. “I will just fetch my cloak.”

Geoffrey rubbed his hand over his mouth to prevent Hedwise from seeing his amusement. “I have a lot to do,” he said. “Enjoy your walk with Sir Olivier.”

“If you do not come with us, I will tell Henry that you have stolen documents from Joan’s room,” she said in a low, careful voice. She gazed at him, and Geoffrey found himself staring into a pair of hard blue eyes in which lurked no trace of the angelic quality they usually exuded.

“Tell him,” said Geoffrey with a shrug. “But he will not be able to take them from me.”

“He always said you were a brute,” she said, pouting at him. “I was prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt, but it appears as though I should have trusted his judgment after all.”

“Perhaps you should,” said Geoffrey, shoving past her and making his way towards Godric’s room.

Hedwise’s ambiguous attitude toward her husband’s determined efforts to have Geoffrey hanged for murder made Geoffrey very uneasy. Goodrich Castle seemed to ooze an atmosphere of menace, and Geoffrey, although not a man easily unsettled, felt vulnerable. He pulled his boiled-leather leggings over his hose, and struggled into a light chain-mail tunic-not the one that reached his knees, which he used for travelling and battles, but one that might nevertheless deflect a blade aimed at his back. Over this, he drew on his padded surcoat, and buckled his sword to a belt at his waist.

Mabel sat next to Godric’s body and watched him.

“That passageway is narrow,” she said eventually. “You will never get down it with all that on. You will get stuck.”

Geoffrey was unable to prevent a shudder. “Where did you say this tunnel comes out?” he asked, thinking that the entrance to the other end might not be so hideous, and that he might yet avoid entering the sinister black slit.

“Down by the trees near the river. But you will not find it unless you know where to look. Godric could not have kept it a secret for so long if its exit was obvious.”

In his heart of hearts, Geoffrey knew this was true, and it was becoming increasingly apparent that he was not going to be able to escape exploring the tunnel. He wondered whether Julian might go, but the girl had kicked up such a fuss when she had seen Godric’s corpse that Geoffrey was sure that she would be inconsolable if she stumbled upon the body of her sister down there.

But Geoffrey had other things that he needed to do, and was thus able to postpone the unpleasant task of investigating dank and poky tunnels until later. He knew he should read the documents he had found in Enide’s hiding place, and he wanted to ask the physician to test the bed for poison before the killer removed all traces of it-just as he had with the fish-soup bowl that had been wiped clean, and the bottle of wine that had replaced the one that Geoffrey had sipped from. And Geoffrey knew that he should send a message to the King, informing him that he had failed in his duty, and that the Earl of Shrewsbury now had Goodrich manor to add to his domains.

With Enide’s documents still tucked inside his shirt, he clattered down the stairs intending to visit the physician first, and then to look in the woods near the river to see if he could find Rohese-if she had escaped the Earl by running away down the tunnel, the woods at the other end seemed as good a place as any to start a search. He deliberately did not allow himself to admit that the tunnel itself was probably a better point to begin looking.

He reached the hall, and collided with a servant who was scurrying to carry a basket of bread to the trestle tables that were being set up for the mid-day meal. Geoffrey’s dog made an appearance as the bread scattered, and by the time the agitated scullion had retrieved the food from the filthy rushes, the basket was considerably emptier than it had been.

“Geoffrey!” called Bertrada from the far end of the hall. “We are about to dine. I am sure you would like to join us.”

Geoffrey was sure he would not, and gave an apologetic wave of his hand before striding towards the door. He was intercepted by Stephen, coming in from outside and bringing a brace of pheasants with him.

“My hunting hounds got these,” he said proudly, slinging them onto a bench. As quick as lightning, Geoffrey snatched them up again, and his dog’s expectant jaws snapped into thin air.

“I will take him with me next time I go,” said Stephen admiringly, leaning down to ruffle the dog’s thick fur. “He is quick and he learns fast. He would make an excellent hunter.”

“But you would never benefit from it,” said Geoffrey, handing the pheasants back to Stephen. “You would never see anything he caught, and it would be more than your life is worth to try to wrest it from him.”

“Give him to me for a week,” said Stephen, smiling a challenge. “I will prove you wrong.”

Geoffrey had serious misgivings. He did not want the animal to acquire any further skills that would render it more difficult to control, and he was certain that Stephen would be unable to quench the hard spark of self-preservation and greed that guided the dog in all things. Stephen draped his arm around Geoffrey’s shoulders in a friendly fashion, and gestured to the table at the far end of the hall.

“Please, eat with us,” she said. “If the Earl was serious in his command for us to pack up and leave Goodrich in a few days, then this might be one of the last meals we have here together.”

“No, thank you,” said Geoffrey. “I have a great deal I need to do.”

“Such as what?” asked Stephen. He eyed Geoffrey’s chain-mail and surcoat. “Does this mean that you are thinking of leaving us?”

“I plan to leave as soon as I can,” said Geoffrey.

“Then you should spare a few moments to dine with your family,” said Bertrada, walking down the hall to take his arm. “You have scarcely seen us at our best since you returned, and we do not want you harbouring an unfavourable impression until you visit us again after another twenty years.”

It was a little late for such concerns, but Geoffrey had questions he very much wanted to ask certain members of his family-such as whether Walter had heard anything during the night of Godric’s murder and, if he could manage to do it discreetly, who were the people who might have access to ergot and poppy powder. Geoffrey yielded to the insistent tugging of Bertrada’s hands on his arm, and followed her back down the hall.

The Mappestone family dined at the table near the hearth, at the end of the hall farthest from the door. As Godric’s youngest son, Geoffrey’s place had usually been far distant from the centre of power in the middle. This had suited Geoffrey well, for he had not wanted to be overly close to the irascible and unpredictable Godric, and being set apart from his siblings had meant that he and Enide had been left pretty much to their own devices and conversations.

But Bertrada had decided differently, and Geoffrey found himself placed between her and Walter in the seat of honour. He glanced at Henry, wondering how he would take such an affront to his dignity, but Henry merely met his eyes and then looked away. Geoffrey was immediately on his guard. They wanted something from him.

Walter passed him a tray containing lumps of undercooked meat, first spearing a piece for himself with his hunting knife. Geoffrey took a smaller portion, supposing that, unless the entire tray were poisoned, it would be safe to eat. The same was true of the bread, although Geoffrey was mildly concerned about the tumble it had taken in the lice-infested rushes that lay scattered on the floor.

While Walter fell upon his meat as though it were the last he would ever devour, Bertrada entertained Geoffrey. She told him about the successful harvest the previous year, and a little about the uneasy relations with the landlords whose estates bordered their own.

“It is all the doing of the Earl of Shrewsbury,” said Henry, from where he sat farther down the table. “Before he came to power, relations were strained, but not so vicious.”

“I do not think so,” said Walter, gesticulating with his meat and splattering grease across the table. “He is trying to ensure that all the landowners in these parts unite with a common purpose, and so he wants them to be friends with each other, not enemies.”

“And what might that purpose be?” asked Geoffrey. Defence against the Welsh, he wondered, or consolidating the border lands ready to fight for the Duke of Normandy against King Henry?

“It is not yet forty years since the Conqueror took England,” said Stephen. “But despite all the castles he built and the fact that virtually all positions of power in the country are held by Normans, the kingdom remains uneasy. And it will do for a generation yet.”

“But the problems of a kingdom are not concerns of ours,” said Bertrada, bored. “What is our problem, of course, is the fact that we have lost Goodrich.”

There was a silence, broken only by the sound of Walter’s teeth cracking the bones on his piece of meat, followed by some furious slurping as he sucked the grease from his fingers.

“We need to consider what we should do about it,” said Stephen. “I, for one, do not believe that the battle is completely lost yet.”

He reached inside a pouch at his belt, and drew out a crumpled piece of parchment. It was the will that the Earl of Shrewsbury had presented to the startled Mappestones, claiming that he, and none of them, was Godric’s heir. Stephen smoothed out the parchment, and then handed it to Geoffrey. Everyone-Walter, Bertrada, Stephen, Henry, Hedwise, Joan, and Olivier-watched intently.

Geoffrey took the parchment and read what was written there. It stated that Godric, as lord of various manors, was of sound mind and named the Earl of Shrewsbury as the sole successor to his estates, because his sons were the offspring of an annulled marriage. At the bottom of the writ was Godric’s unmistakable sign-a Latin cross, representing a sword, surrounded by a circle-and the seals of the witnesses, who were the Earl himself and his knight Sir Malger of Caen.

Geoffrey finished reading and looked up.

“Well?” asked Walter. “What does it say?”

“Exactly what Shrewsbury said it did,” said Geoffrey. “It names him as the sole beneficiary of all Goodrich’s estates and bears Godric Mappestone’s mark. Surely you must have asked Norbert to read it to you?”

“Norbert has left us,” said Stephen. “Since he clearly knew of this will, yet did not see fit to warn any of us about it, it seems he has decided to flee. He has not been seen since the Earl departed.”

Geoffrey did not blame Norbert. It would not be pleasant to be faced with the scheming Shrewsbury on the one hand, and the thwarted greed of the Mappestones on the other. He wished he had joined the clerk and was even now riding through the countryside on his destrier, miles away from Goodrich and its murderers and squabblers.

“But is the will a forgery?” demanded Henry.

Geoffrey shrugged. “I could not possibly say. What do you think? You must have seen Father make his mark many times. Does it look genuine to you?”

Stephen snatched the parchment back and all three brothers pored over it before giving their considered opinions: Henry thought it was forged; Walter believed it to be genuine; and Stephen was not prepared to say.

“You should think about the timing of all this, though,” said Geoffrey, musing as he speared another piece of meat with his dagger.

He lifted his goblet to his lips, but then set it down again, untouched. While he could be reasonably certain that the meat was probably untainted-everyone without exception had taken a piece and eaten it before Geoffrey had touched his-he was not so sure about the wine.

He leaned back, thinking. “Our father sent a message to the Earl of Shrewsbury a few weeks ago to say that he was being poisoned, and that he thought the culprit was one of you.”

“Vicious, evil lies!” spat Bertrada.

“The Earl duly arrived,” Geoffrey went on, ignoring her, “and Father seems to have regaled him with information about the question of Walter’s legitimacy and Stephen’s paternity.”

Walter rose to his feet. “I will hear none of this at my table-”

Henry sneered. “It is not your table and it never will be. I have the better claim-”

“If we do not put aside our differences and listen to Geoffrey, none of us will have a claim,” snapped Stephen, his voice uncharacteristically loud. “Sit down, Walter, and pay attention. Geoffrey, forgive us. Please continue.”

“Father seems to have informed the Earl that neither Walter nor Stephen had a legitimate claim to Goodrich for various reasons. We know this because the Earl mentioned it himself. Father stated that he wanted to make a new will citing his heir as Godfrey in the service of the Duke of Normandy.”

“You will never have Goodrich!” yelled Henry, leaping up with his dagger in his hand. “How can you listen to this, Stephen? He is thinking that he can secure our help to get Goodrich for himself!”

He made a threatening move towards Geoffrey, but stopped uncertainly when Geoffrey also rose to his feet, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Stephen imposed himself between them.

“If you cannot listen without interrupting, then leave us,” he said sharply to Henry. “Time is running out. We have six days before the Earl comes to claim Goodrich, and I do not want to spend that time listening to you ranting and raving. You have nothing new to say!”

Henry’s face flushed a deep red and he looked murderous. Joan intervened.

“Do sit down, Henry.” She sighed, exasperated. “How can I eat with you glowering and squawking like a fiend from Hell? Carry on, Geoffrey. I am interested in what you have to say, even if Henry is not.”

“Father said he made a will citing Godfrey as his heir,” reiterated Geoffrey, sitting again and casting Henry a contemptuous look. “He said there were two copies. One he kept in the chest at the end of his bed-that was the one that Henry found and that Norbert read aloud to you all the day that Father pretended to be dead-and the other was placed in the safe-keeping of the Earl himself.”

“But we know all this,” said Stephen, when Geoffrey paused. “What is it that you have concluded from it?”

Geoffrey held up the parchment that proclaimed the Earl as heir. “Father could not read. Therefore, he would not know what he was signing, and only had it on trust that the will contained what he had dictated.”

“Are you saying that the Earl simply substituted his own name for Godfrey’s and Godric just signed it anyway?” asked Walter in disbelief.

“It is certainly a possibility,” said Geoffrey. “How would Father know he was being misled? He could not read the thing himself.”

“But Norbert was there,” said Stephen promptly. “Norbert would have told him if the will had said that the Earl was to inherit, and not one of us.”

“Would he?” asked Geoffrey. “Why?”

There was a silence as they tried to think of an answer. Geoffrey continued.

“Father did not trust Norbert, and has certainly not given him cause to be loyal. And you did not treat him kindly, either. I saw you push and yell at him when you called him to read the will Henry found. Norbert is a clerk, an educated man, and yet you deal with him like you would a scullion.”

“So?” demanded Henry, uncomprehending. “He earned no better from us. All he ever did was hang around Will Helbye’s wife and make a nuisance of himself.”

“But my point is why should he risk the wrath of a man like Shrewsbury to tell people who have despised his talents for years that they are about to be disinherited? Why should he?”

“Norbert!” shouted Henry, rising yet again. “I will kill him! He has betrayed us!”

“And,” Geoffrey went on, “you have just told me yourselves that Norbert has not been seen since the Earl left. Something of a coincidence, would you not agree? I did not read the will that Henry found in Godric’s chest the day he pretended to die, because you did not let me see it. Who knows what it really said-or whether Norbert even read what was really there?”

“He took a risk, then!” said Stephen. “Supposing we had given it to you-he would have been uncovered as a liar. You would have seen the name of the Earl and not Godfrey.”

“But who would you have believed had I contradicted him?” asked Geoffrey, shrugging. “Your father’s clerk of many years” standing, or me, who none of you trust?”

“You have a point,” said Bertrada. “We would not have believed you over Norbert. I would have assumed that you were lying to get possession of the will-to run off to a court to state your claim before we could contest it.”

“And if you recall, Norbert was very quick to come to Father’s chamber after you called him,” Geoffrey continued. “I thought it was because he was interested in eavesdropping on your quarrel for amusement, but I suspect it was because he was anxious about the will, and he wanted to hear what was happening regarding it. I assume none of you have the will? The last time I saw it, it was in Norbert’s hands in Father’s bedchamber.”

There were several shaken heads.

“So, the will the Earl handed us is legal and not forged after all?” said Stephen, disappointment writ large on his face as he gazed at the parchment on the table.

Geoffrey shrugged. “The situation I have just outlined is only one of several possibilities. Another is that Norbert is innocent in all this, and that Father really did make a will naming Godfrey as his heir. And Father told me that Norbert did not write the will, but that the Earl’s priest was the scribe. Watch.”

He drew a quill and ink from the pouch at his side, and began to draw on the wooden table. The others crowded in on him, jostling to see what he was doing. Carefully, he copied Godric’s mark, making it identical to the one on the will.

“What is this?” cried Walter, aghast. “Are you a forger now?”

“I wish we had known this before,” said Joan, inspecting the two marks closely. “Such a talent in the family might have come in useful.”

“What is your point, Geoff?” asked Stephen. “What do these marks prove?”

“That the Earl’s scribe might have written two wills stating that Father’s heir was to be Godfrey. Then father would have added his mark to the bottom of each of them after Norbert had read them through to ensure all was correct-the Earl kept one and Father kept the other. At a later stage, the Earl’s scribe might have made yet another will, stating that the heir was the Earl himself, and simply copied Father’s mark onto it, just as I have done. While handwriting is distinctive and can be difficult to copy, a simple sign like this one is easy enough, as I have just shown.”

“This is dreadful,” cried Walter. “You are saying that either the Earl has made out an entirely new will and has had his clerk forge Godric’s mark at the end of it, or he deceived a man on his deathbed to sign something he did not intend.”

“Does that sound so out of keeping with Shrewsbury’s character?” asked Geoffrey. “From what I hear of the great Earl, this shows him acting with great chivalry. He could have ridden in, slaughtered the lot of you, and had Goodrich anyway.”

“Not the Earl!” cried Olivier, taking part in the conversation for the first time. “He is a man of honour and integrity!”

Everyone gazed at him in astonishment, and then turned their attention back to the will without bothering to comment. Geoffrey wondered whether they were being entirely prudent in discussing how the Earl could have committed forgery or deception in front of one of his kinsmen. Once again, Geoffrey vowed to complete his business at Goodrich as quickly as possible, and leave. He certainly intended to be on the road long before the Earl rode in to claim his ill-gotten gains-and that would leave him less than six days to uncover the identity of the killer of his father and sister.

“There is another possibility, too,” said Stephen, picking up the parchment and tapping it against the table. “And that is that the Earl had both wills with him when he came visiting two nights ago. He said one of the reasons that he allowed Joan to persuade him to come was that he wanted to see Geoffrey, and I wonder whether he was undecided which of the wills he was planning to reveal.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Henry. “None of what you have just said makes sense.”

“I mean that the Earl would be taking a grave risk by openly forging a will, and the King watches him like a hawk for any such moves. It would have been safer for the Earl if he could have used Godric’s real will-the one citing Godfrey as heir. The Earl wanted to know what kind of man Godric’s youngest son was, and how long he would be staying before leaving again for the Holy Land. We all know that the Holy Land is a dangerous place, and I am sure Geoffrey would not have been allowed to leave Goodrich without making a will himself. And guess who the beneficiary would have been in the event of his death?”

“But even that would not have been necessary,” said Joan thoughtfully. “The property of a man who dies without legal issue reverts to his liege lord-in our case, the Earl of Shrewsbury.”

“But Geoffrey, although expressing a wish to return to the Holy Land, was not the malleable man for whom the Earl had hoped,” said Stephen, nodding agreement.

“What?” snapped Henry. “Speak in words a man can understand, for God’s sake.”

“It was Geoffrey’s insolence to the Earl that decided him on which will he was going to reveal,” explained Stephen. “If Geoffrey had not been belligerent to the Earl, Goodrich would still be in the family-the Earl was forced to use the forged will, because he knew he would not be able to make Geoffrey do anything that he did not want to do-like make a will and leave Goodrich to him.”

“Oh, well done, Geoffrey,” said Walter wearily. “You have lost us our inheritance!”

“Just a minute,” said Geoffrey, startled. “Goodrich still would not have been mine. All of you denied that I could be this Godfrey of Father’s will.”

“That was before,” said Bertrada. “Circumstances have changed. It is better that Goodrich should fall to you than that greedy Earl. At least we can negotiate with you.”

“Negotiate be damned!” spat Henry. “I will not parley over Goodrich with him!”

“You stand a far better chance of getting something from Geoffrey than you do from the Earl,” said Hedwise. “So shut up and listen.”

“All this is beginning to make sense,” said Joan. “Except for one thing. You keep saying that I invited the Earl here. I can assure you that I did not. He paid me a visit while I was seeing to affairs at Rwirdin, and questioned me vigorously about our father’s health and the time Geoffrey was expected back. Then he told me we would travel here together. His visit was no chance drop-in, but part of a planned itinerary.”

Geoffrey escaped from the dinner table as soon as he could, and went to check on his horse in the stables. The castle buzzed with activity: the Mappestones, in a rare display of cooperation, had agreed upon a plan to try to see what might be done to prevent the Earl from seizing their inheritance. It had been decided that Henry and Stephen were to take a message to the King, informing him that the Earl had seized Goodrich, and Hedwise was to ask a relative in the service of the Abbot of Glowecestre, whether the Earl really had lodged a claim to annul Godric’s marriage on the grounds of consanguinity.

Meanwhile, Bertrada and Joan were to continue packing to be ready to leave should the King fail to come up with a solution, and the Earl arrived to take possession of Goodrich. Walter was to arrange Godric’s funeral and then hunt for Norbert-to determine from the clerk whether the will was forged. And although nothing was said, Olivier, being a relative of the Earl, was not to do anything. He was even prevented from visiting the stables with Geoffrey, lest he sneak out and inform the Earl that plans were afoot to thwart him.

Geoffrey was free to do as he pleased, although, as only Joan had been bold enough to say, it would not be taken kindly if he were to leave, because without Geoffrey how could the Mappestone claim to Goodrich stand? Geoffrey agreed to stay for another six days, although he determined that he would not be there to greet the Earl. He smiled to himself, grimly amused that whereas only a few hours before, each and every one of his family had been desperate for him to leave, now they could not afford to let him go.

In the stables, Julian assured him that she had taken good care of the destrier, and he asked her to walk the animal around the outer ward a few times-partly to exercise the horse, but mostly to prevent her from spending the afternoon weeping over the missing Rohese. Julian sniffed and snuffled, grateful to be entrusted with such a task, but clearly fretting over her sister.

“But if you are going out, you will need your horse,” called Julian, as he strode away to visit the physician.

“I am only going to the village,” Geoffrey replied. “There is no need for a horse.”

“You are a funny kind of knight,” said Julian, eyeing him doubtfully. “Sir Olivier would never leave the inner ward on foot. He says walking is undignified.”

“All knights do not think the same way as Sir Olivier,” said Geoffrey, although he suspected that a good number of them did.

He did not want a horse with him as he explored the woods. Firstly, and perhaps most importantly, the great destrier might do himself an injury on the uneven surfaces. And secondly, it would be impossible to take a horse into the kind of places Rohese might hide.

He left Julian and strode out of the barbican. It was early afternoon, and a pleasant day for January. The sun shone from a cloudless sky, and the ground underfoot was hard with a light sprinkling of frost. His leather-soled boots skidded on the icy wood of the drawbridge that spanned the moat, and his sword accidentally bumped against the dog, which was trotting at his heels. With a yelp, it shot off down a path that cut parallel to the moat. Geoffrey sighed with exasperation, knowing that unless he found it, there would be livestock slaughtered and hell to pay. Reluctantly, he followed it.

The moat was a great, wide crevasse, which was hewn from the living rock to present a formidable barrier before any would-be attacker ever reached the palisade. In parts, refuse thrown from the castle and periods of rain had turned it into a morass of thick, evil-smelling muck. Geoffrey grimaced in distaste and hurried on, glancing up at the sturdy stone walls of the keep as he did so.

He stopped. In a great dark red triangle below Godric’s window was the stain of the wine that someone had thrown out-so that it would appear that Geoffrey had drunk it. The mark was so large that it could only have come from the contents of Godric’s huge jug. Glancing around to ensure that he was not being watched, Geoffrey scrambled down the steep side of the moat near the path, and picked his way across the marshy bottom to the other side.

He began to poke about among the weeds with his sword, searching for he knew not what. He found several items of discarded clothing that were brown and hard with age, and one or two of the paint pots that Godric had been using to despoil his room. Hidden deep in a patch of nettles was something metallic. Geoffrey bent to pick it up. It was a knife with a long thin blade, and a hilt that was worn smooth with use-and it was one that Geoffrey recognised instantly. It had belonged to Godric, who had claimed that he had been given it by the Conqueror himself, and it had been one of his most prized possessions. Geoffrey’s brothers had squabbled over it when they mistakenly thought that Godric was dead. He wondered what had possessed the old man to toss it from his window, until he inspected it more closely and the answer became horribly clear.

Recent rains had washed the weapon, but under the hilt, traces remained of the blood that had stained it. Geoffrey recalled the small wound in Godric’s stomach, and gazed down at the knife. Here, then, was the weapon that had inflicted the fatal wound on Godric. Someone had hurled it from the keep after he was dead, along with the wine. Geoffrey looked at it for a few more moments, before dropping it back where he had found it. He supposed he could have taken it back to the others, but could not be sure that they would not accuse him of stealing the stones out of it, or worse, of using it to kill Godric. He did not want to be found with it on his person.

He plodded his way back through the muck, and climbed up the rocky bank near the path. He was greeted by two friendly brown eyes and a wagging tail, as the dog wound energetically around his legs, interested in the smell of offal on his boots. He retraced his steps back to the drawbridge, and then walked into the village to visit the physician to ask him to test Godric’s bed for traces of poison. Francis was not at home, and rather than waste the day waiting for him to return, Geoffrey left the main street and wandered towards the river, to the woods that stood behind the castle.

It was not long before he realised that Mabel had been right, and that his task was hopeless. Geoffrey explored every inch of the palisade that ran along the northern rim of the castle’s outer ward, and found nothing. Godric had not intended for his fortress to have an easily breached back door, and so Geoffrey supposed that he should not be surprised. But he was disappointed, nevertheless, because he knew that if he did not find Rohese soon, he would have no alternative but to brave the tunnel.

When the shadows began to grow long and the sun sank in a great ball of orange, Geoffrey abandoned his search, and turned towards home. He was almost back on the path, when he tripped and stumbled over the partly hidden root of a tree. Swearing, he righted himself, only to come face to face with a quivering arrow embedded in a thick trunk inches from his face; it had missed him only because of his clumsiness.

He ducked back down among the bushes and listened intently. Somewhere off to his right, he heard the sound of a twig snapping as someone trod on it. He began to creep towards the sound, careful to keep his head below the bushes. He heard another noise, the rustle of footsteps in frosty leaves. He edged closer, his own progress all but silent. And then he glimpsed him-a man with a bow weaving in and out of the trees, moving cautiously. Abandoning stealth, Geoffrey was up and tearing through the undergrowth after him. The man partly turned, saw Geoffrey bearing down on him, and fled in the direction of the path that ran along the river-bank.

Geoffrey was not attired for racing through bushes. His surcoat flapped around his legs and snagged on branches. Also, his leggings and mail tunic were heavy, and weighed him down. His breath came in ragged gasps, but he was gaining on the bowman nevertheless. The man stopped and turned, bringing his bow up as he did so. The arrow, loosed more in the hope that it would slow Geoffrey down than to hit its mark, sped harmlessly to the left, and cost the archer valuable moments. Geoffrey could sense the panic in the man, who forced himself into a desperate spurt of speed as he neared the path.

Without breaking speed, Geoffrey ducked to the right as the arrow hissed past, and hurtled after him, knowing the would-be killer was almost within his grasp. He was close enough to see the man’s breath billowing out of his mouth in the cold winter air.

And then disaster struck. A small donkey-drawn cart was already on the track, lumbering along it towards the village. The archer tore across its front to disappear into the bushes that lined the river, causing the donkey that drew it to buck in fright. Geoffrey, following fractionally later, went crashing into the side of the cart, toppling it and its driver over into the litter of dried leaves and dead twigs that lay along the river-bank. Geoffrey lost his footing, and his momentum took him flying head over heels to land sprawling in a frozen patch of mud on the other side.

His vision swirling from the tumble, Geoffrey hauled himself up onto his hands and knees just in time to see his quarry disappearing into the shrubs that grew profusely along that part of the river bank. Geoffrey tried to scramble to his feet, but his senses swam and he fell to his knees again. As he did so, the bowman glanced fearfully backwards, so that Geoffrey had a fleeting impression of his face, before he disappeared into the dense undergrowth that led to the water’s edge. Geoffrey rubbed his eyes, trying to clear his vision, realising with a lurching disappointment that he had not seen enough to recognise who it was who had almost succeeded in killing him.

Trying to catch his breath, Geoffrey stood unsteadily, knowing that further pursuit of the archer was hopeless. Instead, he went to see whether he had harmed the driver of the cart. It lay on its side, one wheel bent, and the other lying in pieces next to it. The mule was trotting up the path, already some distance away. Sitting among the wreckage was the parish priest, rubbing his wrist and surveying the remains of his cart in shock.

“Oh, Lord!” muttered Geoffrey, torn between mounting a hunt for the archer and helping Father Adrian. “Are you hurt?”

Adrian shook his head and allowed Geoffrey to assist him to his feet. “But unfortunately, the same cannot be said for my cart. I doubt even the best blacksmith could repair that.”

“I am sorry,” said Geoffrey, genuinely contrite. “I will buy you another one.”

“Will you, now?” asked Adrian, the hint of a smile playing about his eyes. “And what with? I hear you brought no booty home from the Holy Land, unlike your young men-at-arms.”

“I have some books that I could sell,” said Geoffrey defensively.

The priest shook his head, and laughed. “Never sell a book, Sir Geoffrey. They are not so easy to come by that they can be dispensed with so casually.”

“I have an Arabian dagger, then,” said Geoffrey. “Should your taste extend to murder weapons.”

Adrian shuddered. “It does not. But never mind the cart-I was lucky it survived the winter, and I will not be needing it now that I hear Goodrich is to pass to the Earl of Shrewsbury. I doubt he will be requiring my services as parish priest.”

“He has a priest of his own,” said Geoffrey. “He acts as his scribe. Let me see your hand. Is it broken, do you think?”

“No,” said Adrian, flexing it. “Although it might well have been, given the speed at which you hurled yourself from the woods. What were you doing? What if I had been an old woman or a small child, instead of a young and resilient priest?”

“I am sorry,” said Geoffrey, a second time. “The man I was chasing fired an arrow at me. As you can imagine, I was keen to catch him and ask him why.”

“An arrow?” echoed Adrian. He rubbed at the bristles on his chin. “Bows and arrows are not common around here, because we are in the King’s forest. It will not have been one of Goodrich’s villagers. Perhaps it was someone from Lann Martin, doing some illegal hunting.”

“Caerdig told me that none of his villagers hunt,” said Geoffrey, thinking about Aumary’s death. “Do you know different?”

Adrian shook his head. “Not for certain, but it has been a long winter and food is scarce. It would not surprise me to know that some people transgress the King’s laws and hunt for hares and fowl. I suppose it is even possible that Caerdig might not know about it.”

“He cannot be a good leader,” said Geoffrey, “if he does not know that his people break the law.”

“He does well enough,” said Adrian. He took a deep breath. “Help me move this wreckage off the path, or it will cause another mishap.”

“Shall I fetch back your mule?” asked Geoffrey, watching the animal amble round a corner and disappear from view.

“It knows its way home,” said Adrian. “But I am concerned about this archer. I hope this nasty incident will not herald the return of outlaws to the area. It is possible that rumours have already spread that Godric has died and that the Earl of Shrewsbury is to inherit, and the villains of the area are massing to take advantage of the chaos that is inevitable when one master takes over from another.”

Geoffrey suspected that the archer’s attempt to kill him had nothing to do with mere outlaws, and was more likely to be connected to one of the murderous occupants of the castle, but he did not want to discuss it with the priest.

He searched his memory yet again for some recognition of the face he had glimpsed so briefly, but the features remained shadowy and blurred. He was fairly certain it was not one of his brothers, since they all had good reason to want him alive. Was it one of the Earl’s retinue-Malger, perhaps, or Drogo? Could it have been someone employed by his brothers-their truce was only a recent agreement, and perhaps news had not yet reached their hired assassins? He looked down the path after the mule, and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“What were you doing in the woods anyway?” asked Adrian. “It is almost dark.”

Geoffrey saw no reason not to tell him. “I was looking for Rohese. She went into hiding the night the Earl favoured Goodrich with his presence, and has not been seen since.”

“Poor child!” said Adrian, horrified. “I heard the Earl intended to have her, but that she could not be found. Do you think she might be in these woods? How could she have escaped from the castle?”

Geoffrey shrugged. “Perhaps she did not, but no one has seen her in it.”

“Poor child,” said Adrian again. “Can I help you look? It is growing dark, but there is light enough to see by yet.”

“I do not think she is here,” said Geoffrey. Not alive, anyway, he added to himself. “I will look in the castle again.”

“You are kind to be so concerned,” said Adrian. “Enide told me you had a good heart. No one else at the castle seems concerned for their father’s whore.”

“Chambermaid,” corrected Geoffrey. He caught Adrian’s eye and they smiled at each other.

“I was coming to the castle anyway,” said Adrian. “I have had word that Godric is finally laid out in the chapel, and I wanted to say a mass for him.”

Geoffrey was sure that Godric’s black soul was in need of all the masses it could get, so he led Adrian along the path to the front of the castle, and hammered on the gates to be let in. The guards did not even break their conversation-something to do with pig breeding-to acknowledge them. Geoffrey was certain that their futures would be bleak indeed if they did not look more lively when the Earl came into power.

The castle chapel contained no Godric, and Geoffrey assumed that Walter had still not moved him out of his bedchamber. He wondered whether Godric’s poor corpse would even manage to arrive at its own funeral, given the stately progress of the body to its grave so far. Meanwhile, the hall was deserted, and so Geoffrey led Adrian up the stairs to Godric’s room.

Godric looked considerably more decent than he had that morning. The bedcovers had been straightened, and the body laid neatly on top of them. It was clean, too, and wrapped in Mabel’s grey sheet. Coins were placed across the eyes to keep them closed-although Geoffrey wondered if they would be there the following morning if no vigil were kept-and two candles had been lit, one at the head and the other at the feet.

Meanwhile, Geoffrey still had not examined the documents that he had retrieved from Enide’s old hiding place. He sat on a low bench in the garderobe passage, and pulled them from inside his shirt, listening with half an ear to the dull mutter of Adrian’s prayers coming from the bedchamber. Since the passage was dark, he lit a candle.

Geoffrey looked at what lay in his hands. There were two documents, folded together and held in place by a small metal pin, and the leather pouch. He unfastened the pin, and inspected the parchments first. One was an itinerary of a journey Godric had taken around Normandy from January to April 1063 with the Conqueror. Geoffrey was bemused until he realised that Stephen had been born in the November of 1063. Here then was the alleged proof that Stephen was no son of Godric’s, since Godric had been absent at the time that Stephen had been conceived. The second document stated that Godric had been married to Herleve of Bayeux in the spring of 1059, with a note scrawled across the bottom to say that one Walter Mappestone, a babe in arms, had been among the wedding guests.

Geoffrey had seen the spidery writing of these parchments before-when he had received letters from Godric to ask for money and to inform him about Enide’s death. It was a distinctive hand, with peculiarly formed vowels, and Geoffrey had no doubt whatsoever that it belonged to his father’s scribe. Geoffrey knew that Norbert had not been in Godric’s service before Geoffrey had left. And that meant that the documents Geoffrey held had been written a good many years after the events in question, and could not possibly be genuine. In a nutshell, Norbert had forged them.

Further, it showed him that Enide had not destroyed these so-called incriminating documents as Godric had claimed. Geoffrey wondered what could have possessed her to keep them. Surely she had not been planning to stake a claim on Godric’s inheritance and try to use them as evidence against her older brothers? Geoffrey could not imagine that any such plot had passed her mind. She had never written of it in her letters to him, and he felt sure she would have mentioned something of such significance.

He refolded the parchments and turned his attention to the pouch. Inside were more letters. Geoffrey looked closer. They were not so much letters as notes-short, concise missives that aimed to provide information rather than entertain. He held one close to the candle and read.

“Midnight on the fifth day of June 1100. Expect five.”

Nonplussed, he read another.

“Midnight on the twenty-fifth night of July 1100. Everything is almost in readiness. Only details regarding horses left to manage.”

And another.

“The first day of August at Brockenhurst. The evil is about to end.”

He gazed at it blankly. Had Enide gone to Brockenhurst on the first of August for this meeting? he wondered. It would have been shortly before her death.

He scratched his head and pondered. These documents were not written in Norbert’s spiky scrawl, but they were not in Enide’s writing either. This was a confident roundhand that made use of an archaic form of the letter T. Were these messages written for Godric, who was not adverse to dabbling in subterfuge and secrecy from time to time? Or were they for one of the others-Stephen perhaps, who of the three brothers was easily the most cunning and devious? Or was Enide involved in something else? Geoffrey thought about the claim that she was being poisoned, before someone had come along early one morning and whipped her head from her shoulders. Had she died for these fragments of parchment and their sketchy, indecipherable scraps of information?

He leapt to his feet in alarm as he became aware that Father Adrian was standing over him.

“I have finished my prayers, Sir Geoffrey,” said the priest, regarding Geoffrey curiously. “I called out to you, but you did not answer me.”

“Sorry,” said Geoffrey, stuffing the parchments back into the pouch. “I was reading some letters of Enide’s.”

“Enide?” asked Father Adrian, startled. “I do not think so!”

“What do you mean?” asked Geoffrey, wondering how the priest imagined he would know whether Enide had kept letters hidden away in a secret place, and resentful of his presumption.

“Enide never wrote letters,” said Adrian. “She could not.”

“What are you talking about?” demanded Geoffrey, bewildered. “She could read.”

“She could read,” agreed Adrian. “But she could not write. She had an accident-probably not long after you went to Normandy-and it left her right hand virtually paralysed. She could manage simple tasks with it, but never something like writing.”