A Head for Poisoning

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.

“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 between 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.

“Did Enide say anything else?” Geoffrey asked of Olivier.

“She told me that if I let her leave unmolested she would not harm me. So I did.”

“You let her go?” exploded Henry in disbelief. “Good God, man! You are a knight and she is a woman! Why did you not prevent her from leaving, and keep her here to answer for her crimes? Call yourself a warrior?”

“Leave him alone!” snarled Joan. “What action Olivier chose to take is none of your affair. He did not know when he let her out that Walter lay fatally injured.”

“Well, it is obvious that Walter did not faint with the delight of seeing her,” said Hedwise, taking part in the conversation for the first time.

“Where did Enide go?” asked Geoffrey. “Did she go to Godric’s room?”

“No,” said Olivier, puzzled by his suggestion. “She ran out of the hall and down through the inner ward to the barbican. Then I saw Sir Drogo emerging from the gatehouse. He had horses at the ready and they left.”

“We will never catch them now,” said Henry, disappointed. “They could be anywhere!”

“I do not think they will get far,” said Geoffrey. “Where could they go?”

“Well, they will not stay around here,” said Henry. “It is far too dangerous. But what of Walter, Joan? Shall I ride for a physician? There is a good one in Walecford.”

“It is too late,” said Geoffrey. “Walter is already dead.”

Bertrada bit back a sob.

“No,” said Joan. “He is just stunned. He will awaken given time.”

“He will not,” said Geoffrey gently. “The blow probably killed him instantly. He needs Father Adrian, not a physician.”

“But there is no blood!” protested Joan. “And the wound is only slight.”

“His head is flattened,” said Father Adrian, peering closer. “He is dead, Joan. Let him go.”

Geoffrey leaned down and helped Bertrada to her feet, while Olivier solicitously helped Joan, fussing about her and smoothing wrinkles from her gown.

“Is it true?” Joan asked of the small knight. “Is Walter really dead?”

Olivier nodded, and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. “You did all you could for him. Come away now. You, too, Bertrada. We should let the priest see to him.

Bertrada allowed herself to be assisted to a chair near the fire, while Adrian knelt and began intoning prayers for the dead.

“Now what?” asked Henry in an undertone to Geoffrey. “It seems that Enide is intent on wiping out everyone connected with Goodrich. Who will be next, I wonder. You or me?”

That night, Geoffrey sat in Godric’s chamber, staring into the flames that licked at the damp logs. The window shutters stood wide open so that the poisonous fumes from Godric’s paintings might be dissipated, and the wind that gusted in chilled the room and made the flames dance and roar.

Geoffrey rubbed at the bridge of his nose, and glanced at the hour candle that stood in a protected corner of the room. He sighed, and then stood to pace for a while to prevent himself from falling asleep. It was well past midnight, and still she had not come. Perhaps Henry was right after all. When Geoffrey had stated his intention to wait for Enide to come through the secret tunnel, Henry had sneered in derision, maintaining that Enide was no fool, and would be well on her way to the coast to avoid being hanged for treason by the King. Olivier had agreed, while Joan had seemed too confused to think anything.

Hedwise had wept bitterly when she had learned of Stephen’s death, and Geoffrey asked himself whether their relationship had been all it should. Joan and Olivier had retired to their chamber, and Geoffrey had heard them talking in low voices behind the door he was certain had been barred.

Bertrada had seen her husband laid out in the chapel next to his father and brother, and announced that she would be leaving Goodrich as soon as Walter was buried. Geoffrey had studied her sharp, hard features in the flickering light from the sconce. Her mouth was drawn in a bitter, bloodless line, and her eyes were cold and calculating. Was she fleeing the scene of her crime, he wondered, now that Enide had ensured that Walter would never inherit Goodrich? Was it Bertrada who had stabbed Godric, so that Walter could have the estates and the uncertainty would be over? Seeing him staring at her, she gave a mirthless smile, and offered him mulled wine that he refused.

He had taken nothing to eat and drink that evening, a precaution he felt justified in taking when even the dog declined to eat the various titbits offered by the others. Stephen was dead, and so would not be bringing Geoffrey wine doctored with ergot to drink, but there was still Henry, Olivier, Joan, Hedwise, and Bertrada who might harbour murderous intentions towards him.

Sitting alone in Godric’s chamber, Geoffrey began to think that Henry was right to have scoffed at his belief that Enide would come that night. It would be a rash thing to do-she would be a fool not to guess that the household would be on the alert for her, and Enide was certainly no fool. Adrian had offered to wait with him, but Geoffrey had no intention of being stabbed at a vital moment by a lovelorn priest, and had asked Olivier to see Adrian away from the castle altogether.

The hour candle burned lower still. Geoffrey opened the door to the spiral stairs and listened. The castle was still, but not silent. Joan and Olivier still muttered in their room, and somewhere, someone snored at a volume loud enough to wake the dead. Geoffrey closed the door again, and went to the window, leaning out to take deep breaths of cold, crisp air. Joan and Olivier seemed to be finding a good deal to discuss. Were they talking about how they had murdered Godric, and how they might still turn his death to their advantage? And Henry and Hedwise-now the likely heirs to Goodrich Castle-were they sitting somewhere plotting and mixing their ergot and poppy powders?

He rubbed his eyes and looked at the candle. It was probably around two or three in the morning. The inhabitants of Goodrich had not been much interested in knowing the time, and all the hour candles that Geoffrey had managed to find were old and cheap. Geoffrey was not at all certain whether the wicks would burn at the correct rate. He turned back to the window again, looking at the pale glint of the river in the moonlight, and the dark mass of the tree-shrouded hills beyond. He entertained the notion that he might be better going to find a safe bed with Helbye than pacing in the castle all night.

Yet Geoffrey was convinced that Enide would come. Henry was right in that she would certainly flee-to Normandy probably, where the Duke would welcome her at the recommendation of his friend and ally the Earl of Shrewsbury-but he could not see her leaving unfinished business. Henry was still alive and stood to inherit Goodrich and, according to her reasoning, Geoffrey had slain her lover of many years” standing. She would not leave without having her revenge.

But as the darkness faded to pale grey, Geoffrey realised he had been wrong. He slumped against the wall and stared at the white embers of the dead fire. Enide must have decided to leave revenge until later. He hauled off his surcoat, and then tugged at the buckles on his hauberk with cold fingers. Divested of his armour, he went to a bowl of water on the chest and splashed some of it over his face, wincing at the chill. As he dried his face on his shirt-sleeve, he heard a faint tap on the door.

“Yes?” he called, striding across the room to where his sword lay under his pile of chain-mail. He relaxed when he saw it was only Hedwise carrying a tray. She balanced it on her knee, and turned to close the door, so that their voices would not disturb others who still slept.

“She did not come?” she asked unnecessarily, glancing around the empty room.

Geoffrey shook his head. “I was wrong and Henry was right. She will be well on her way to the coast by now. Then she will board a ship for France, and will not return until the Earl of Shrewsbury has determined that England is ripe for an invasion by the Duke of Normandy.”

“You look tired,” said Hedwise, sympathetic to his frustration. “Come and sit down. I have brought you some of my broth. I will build up the fire, and then you should rest. Your father and brothers will not be buried until mid-morning, and you should try to snatch some sleep before then.”

She set her tray on the table, and pulled out a stool for Geoffrey to sit on. He flopped down and rested his head in his hands.

“I was certain she would come tonight,” he said. “But it seems I am seldom right when it comes to Enide. She is not the person I once knew.”

“I really could not say,” said Hedwise. “I have known her only as she is now. Your hands are frozen. Here, drink some of this broth.”

She pushed a steaming bowl into Geoffrey’s hands, and stood behind him. A strong smell of fish rose into his face, and his stomach rebelled.

“What is it, ergot flavour?” he asked, somewhat discourteously, given that she had just been kind to him.

“Well, yes, actually,” said Hedwise, as, simultaneously, Geoffrey felt the sharp prick of a dagger through his shirt. “And you have a choice: drink the soup, or have me run you through. Which will it be?”

“It was you?” asked Geoffrey, startled. He started to turn, but Hedwise dug the dagger into him in a way that made him certain she was in earnest. “You poisoned me last time?”

“I put ergot in the broth, but I miscalculated and you survived. I suppose you did not finish it. There were only so many times that I could urge you to drink without arousing your suspicion. Afterwards, I guessed it would only be a matter of time before you worked out that the ergot was in my broth, not Stephen’s wine-”

“So you came back later, and added ergot to the wine, too-which is why the physician found ergot and poppy powder in both.”

“Correct,” said Hedwise.

“But why?” asked Geoffrey. “I was not a danger to Henry and his inheritance. Even if the will naming Godfrey as his heir had been approved in court, I would not have taken Goodrich.”

“So you say,” said Hedwise. “But as it happened, it was Walter I was after-your death was just part of my plan to get him out of the way. Walter had had a good deal to drink, and is a heavy sleeper anyway. My notion was for you and Godric to be found dead, and Walter blamed. But you survived, and that ridiculous Henry started claiming that you were responsible for Godric’s death! It was so ludicrous that I almost laughed. I tried several times to dissuade him and shift the blame to Walter, but you heard how he would have none of it.”

Geoffrey was angry with himself. He had assumed that because the ergot had not killed him and because his dagger had been used to stab Godric, the would-be poisoner had wanted him accused of the murder. That the whole elaborate situation had been devised to place Walter in a dreadfully compromising position had not crossed his mind.

“But why Walter? What has he done to deserve all this?”

“He was simply the first on my list. Getting rid of you was a bonus, but not really an important one because you are younger than Henry and so do not present a threat. Stephen was to be next.”

“I take it that Henry is unaware of all the pains you are taking to secure his inheritance?”

She laughed. “Do not ask stupid questions! Of course he does not know what I am doing-he has neither the brains nor the capacity for the discretion that is necessary for a successful outcome. But I do not have all day. Drink the broth or I will stab you. I recommend the broth, because it will kill you without too much discomfort. I cannot say the same for the knife, since I have not done it before. It might take more than one attempt.”

Geoffrey took a tentative sip at the broth, pretending to take more than he had. He grimaced at the strong flavour and the way the poison burned his mouth-even from the tiny amount he had taken.

“What is wrong?” asked Hedwise. “Do you not like it?”

“Not especially,” said Geoffrey. “It is too hot.”

He set the bowl on the table and Hedwise gave him a poke with the dagger.

“Broth is meant to be drunk hot. Pick it up.”

Geoffrey lifted it. “But you did not kill Father, did you? You might have intended to, but you did not actually do it.”

He could hear her breathing behind him. “No. He was already dead when I came for him. He often calls out in the night, and so would have thought nothing odd about me bringing him fish soup around dawn. But, as you seem to know, he was already dead. Now I realise that Enide must have killed him.”

“She did not,” said Geoffrey. “In fact, she was one of the very few for whom Father’s murder would have been impossible. Rohese heard him alive and arguing with Stephen, and then stayed with him until he died. At father’s insistence, Rohese fled to the tunnel after he was dead. No one used it after that, so while Enide might well have come up it to kill him, she could not have left that way. And any other way would have been difficult, since everyone but Stephen thought she was dead. It would have caused a stir to say the least.”

“Well, who did kill him then?” asked Hedwise. “Do you know?”

“Actually, no one killed him,” said Geoffrey. “I think he killed himself.”

There was a pause, and then Hedwise laughed. “I know what you are trying to do. You think you can distract me by spinning wild tales. Drink the broth, Geoffrey, or it will be cold. Then it will not be nice at all.” The dagger pricked again, adding venom to her words.

Geoffrey pretended to take another sip from the dish, almost gagging as the smell of fish long past its best wafted into his face. He had no intention of drinking the stuff, and Hedwise was right: Geoffrey intended to talk to her and tell her what he had reasoned until an opportunity arose that would allow him to overpower her.

“Stephen met Enide, and he learned from her that she planned to kill King Henry in Monmouth. Stephen then told Father, who was appalled and started to shout his objections to the plot. Rohese heard him carrying on, but I did not because I was drugged. Walter had already left by then. Father knew that he would be implicated in the plot, guilty or not, and rather than risk the shame and inevitable punishment that such an accusation would bring in the last few days of his life, he decided to take his own life, so that his reputation could never be so besmirched.”

“He killed himself to avoid a scandal?” asked Hedwise in disbelief.

“More or less. The King had overlooked Father’s part in the plot to kill Rufus, but he would not overlook one to kill himself. Father had been given his chance, and so could not expect to evade justice a second time. He decided to kill himself, so that no one could accuse him of anything. I have seen men kill themselves with daggers before. The way he died was very typical of a self-inflicted stroke.”

“But you have no evidence! This is all supposition.”

“Not all,” said Geoffrey. “Father was killed with the dagger that William the Conqueror gave him-I found it bloodstained in the moat a couple of days ago. You had all been hunting around for it when you thought he was dead-just after I arrived-and he told me he had hidden it where no one would find it. It was clear that none of you knew where it was-and therefore none of you could have killed him with it. He retrieved it from wherever it was secreted, and stabbed himself.”

“But he would go to Hell for suicide,” said Hedwise, unconvinced.

“I do not think he saw it as suicide,” said Geoffrey. “Rohese said he blamed us for killing him-he believed that his children had murdered him because he saw us as responsible for putting him in the situation where he was forced to take his own life. Anyway, he always maintained that as long as he confessed his sins before he died, he would go more or less straight to the pearly gates. Shrewsbury’s fat priest had heard his confession that very night, and had given him last rites. What better a time?”

She was silent. Geoffrey swirled the contents of the bowl around absently.

“And then you came in,” he continued. “You found that I was still alive, but that Father was dead. You took my dagger and plunged it into his chest in the hope that one of us-Walter or me-would be accused of his murder. You tipped the wine out of the window to make it appear as though I had been drinking heavily, and then you threw his precious dagger after it.”

“Very good,” said Hedwise. “But enough of all this speculation. Drink the damn broth!”

Geoffrey half lowered the broth, and then with a sudden, abrupt movement, he hurled it over his head directly into her face. She gagged and choked and staggered backwards. At the same time, he heard a sound from the garderobe passage.

He leapt towards his armour and snatched up his sword, just as Enide emerged into the chamber. She smiled when she saw the sword and stepped aside. Drogo entered, carrying a bow with an arrow already nocked and his right hand ready to draw back the bowstring and fire.

“Good God, Geoffrey. What have you done to Hedwise?” said Enide, suddenly aware of the gagging figure crawling on hands and knees on the floor.

“She has just tried her nasty fish soup,” said Geoffrey. “Would you like some?”