A Head for Poisoning

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Geoffrey stood in Godric’s chamber and looked at his sister Enide, shifting from foot to foot and assessing his chances of diving at Drogo before the older knight had the opportunity to loose the arrow that was pointing unwaveringly at him.

“I hoped you would be here,” said Enide, moving to one side to give Drogo space to operate. “You killed Malger, a man who has been more dear to me than any other. I mean to make you pay.”

On the floor, Hedwise gurgled pitifully, scrabbling at her throat with her fingers as she struggled to breathe. For the poison to have had such a dramatic effect in such a short space of time implied that she had added a powerful dose to her vile fish broth-she had wanted no mistakes this time. Enide followed his gaze and gave an unexpected chuckle.

“Stephen told me that someone had poisoned you. It was Hedwise, was it? I congratulate her. I did not think she possessed the intelligence or the courage.”

“Stephen is dead,” said Geoffrey, realising too late that he should have maintained his silence.

“Did you kill him?” she asked, intrigued. “Poor Stephen! He connived and lied and plotted, and prided himself on the misconception that he was the most devious of us all.”

“I see you hold that honour,” said Geoffrey.

“He was spineless, too,” she continued as though he had not spoken. “Pernel was different. She had the courage to follow her convictions. Stephen had no strength at all.”

“I do not blame him,” said Geoffrey. “It was Pernel’s courage that led her to plotting to kill a king, and brought about her murder by her co-conspirators.”

“Stephen was not happy about that,” said Enide. “But she had to go.”

“Why not kill him too? Why did you risk letting him live, if you are so cautious?”

“He knew nothing of consequence,” said Enide with contempt. “Godric wanted to bring him into our plan to slay Rufus, but we all argued against that, even Pernel.”

“Then Stephen was not your ‘one other”?” asked Geoffrey, surprised to feel relieved that the one brother he had almost started to like had not been involved.

“Do not be ridiculous, Geoff!” said Enide. “I have just told you several good reasons why he was not to be trusted. Walter was the last of us. Could you not even work that out?”

“Walter?” echoed Geoffrey in astonishment. He forced himself to concentrate. “Walter did not support King Henry, and he was loyal to the Duke of Normandy. But he was so open about it.”

“So?” asked Enide. “Why should he not be? He felt very strongly that the Duke of Normandy would make a better king than his duplicitous younger brother. But, like Pernel, Walter was becoming unstable. I brained him with the skillet to ensure that he did not panic after our lack of success yesterday afternoon and tell everyone what we had attempted to do. And now I have come for you and the deplorable Henry.”

“I do not understand why you are doing this,” said Geoffrey, bewildered by the intensity of her hatred. “What caused you to plot to kill kings?”

“I grew tired of plotting to kill brothers,” said Enide. “Oh, Geoffrey, do you really not understand? It was so tedious here. The only fun to be had was setting our brothers at each others” throats, but even that became so easy it was not worthwhile.”

“But Father Adrian told me that you went to see King Henry in June-before he was king-in Monmouth. Adrian believes you told him about the plot to kill Rufus.”

“And so I did,” said Enide. “He thanked me most courteously, and informed me that he would tell his brother to be on his guard. Then he dismissed me from his presence. And as if that were not bad enough, he claimed the throne after Rufus’s death before the poor Duke of Normandy could do a thing to stop him.”

Geoffrey laughed, despite the gravity of the situation. “I see. So you told King Henry of the plot to kill Rufus, so that he could be ready to support the Duke of Normandy, but all you really did was to warn him to be alert to the opportunity of grabbing the crown for himself. You could not have done him a greater favour. He should have given Goodrich to you!”

“I will have Goodrich yet,” said Enide coldly. “When you are dead and Henry is dead, it will be mine. The Earl will never allow Joan and Olivier to hold it-Olivier is too feeble.”

“But you will have no Malger at your side,” said Geoffrey, playing with fire. “Which other lover will you take to help you run it? Drogo? Adrian?”

Geoffrey had expected her to hurl herself at him in fury-had hoped she would, so that he might turn the situation to his advantage somehow-but he had underestimated her capacity for self-control. She smiled icily and refused to be drawn.

“Charming though it has been chatting with you again, I am a busy woman, and have a good deal to do before I leave.” She turned to Drogo. “Do get it right this time.”

Drogo was in the process of drawing back the bowstring, when there was an almighty crash and the door burst open. Drogo jumped in alarm, and Geoffrey used his momentary confusion to grab his surcoat from where it lay on the floor, and fling it towards the startled knight. It entangled itself on the arrow, and Drogo swore as he tried to shake it away. Geoffrey leapt at Drogo, but a mailed fist shot out in a punch that set Geoffrey’s senses reeling. He fell backwards, scrabbling to keep his grip on Drogo as the older man fumbled for his dagger.

As Henry darted into the room with his own bow, Enide leapt towards the garderobe passage.

“Shoot!” yelled Geoffrey as Drogo’s knife came out of its sheath and missed his cheek by the breadth of a hair.

Geoffrey seized Drogo’s wrist and tried to push it away, while his other hand fought to prevent Drogo from striking his eyes with splayed fingers. At first, Geoffrey thought he could force Drogo to drop the dagger, but Drogo was far stronger than he looked, and Geoffrey felt the dagger being forced relentlessly towards him, coming closer and closer to his throat. He tried to struggle away, kicking at Drogo’s legs, but although the older knight grunted and swayed slightly, his chain-mail prevented Geoffrey’s blows from doing real harm.

Geoffrey squirmed away as the cold tip of the dagger grazed against his skin, but Drogo thrust Geoffrey up against the wall so hard that it drove the breath from his body. The dagger dipped towards him again, and Geoffrey knew that he did not have the strength to stop it. He tried to shout to Henry for help, but no sound came.

And then Drogo crumpled suddenly, the dagger clattering harmlessly from his nerveless fingers. Joan stood over him, holding the same skillet that had been used to brain Walter.

“That will teach him not to tangle with the Mappestones,” she muttered. She turned on Henry. “Foolish boy! What were you thinking of? Why did you not shoot? Could you not see that this oaf was about to slit Geoffrey’s throat?”

“I could not fire,” stammered Henry, his face white.

“And why did you bring a bow?” snapped Joan. “Surely, even you should have been able to see that a sword would have been the weapon of choice for fighting in a small room.”

“It was what came most readily to hand,” mumbled Henry. “And anyway, my sword is with the blacksmith for sharpening-we cannot be too careful now that Caerdig of Lann Martin thinks he has a truce with us.”

“But you did not even fire your bow,” pressed Joan.

“I could not,” said Henry in a low voice. “It was too close.”

“What was too close?” demanded Joan, the skillet still clutched in one meaty hand.

Henry hung his head. “I could not be certain I would get the right one,” he mumbled.

And which one would that be? wondered Geoffrey, looking down at the crumpled form of Drogo, and feeling his neck to see if the dagger had nicked him. Henry gave a gasp of horror as his eyes fell on the still-gagging figure of Hedwise lying on the floor.

“My God! What have you done to Hedwise?”

“She swallowed some of her ergot soup,” said Geoffrey. “But I do not think she has taken enough to kill her. But while we have been chattering here, Enide has escaped!”

He darted towards the garderobe passage, but Enide was long gone and the door was closed. He rushed towards it, hauling on the handle, but it had been locked from the inside. He thumped it in frustration with his balled fists.

“Kick it open,” instructed Joan, following him in. “The bolt on the other side is not very strong.”

Geoffrey had already surmised Joan knew about the secret tunnel, but he was impressed that she had observed the size of the bolt. He stood back and aimed a hefty kick at the door, which shuddered and groaned but showed no signs of opening.

“Again!” ordered Joan.

Geoffrey obliged, and saw it budge slightly. He kicked it a third time, and it went crashing back against the wall, the sound reverberating all over the castle.

“Henry?” said Joan imperiously. “Come with me. Not unarmed, man! Bring your bow! And arrows might help, too,” she added facetiously as Henry made to come without them. “Olivier, bind Hedwise and Drogo, and ensure they do not escape. Geoffrey, take your sword and follow me.”

“Down there?” asked Geoffrey in horror.

“Of course down there!” said Joan, looking at him askance. “That is where Enide went, after all. Look lively, Geoffrey! We have a murderer to catch.”

“I could go the other way,” temporised Geoffrey. “I could block the exit at the far end.”

He expected her to argue, but she gave him a soft and somewhat unexpected smile. “You will be too late by the time you run round the river path. She will have gone. Stay here if you would rather, and guard this pair of ruffians. Olivier! Come with me.”

Geoffrey could not, in all conscience, allow Enide to escape because he had entrusted her capture to the likes of Olivier and Henry. Joan, he imagined, would probably do better, but she possessed no real weapons. Filling his mind with images of Stephen, Godric, and Walter, all dead, directly or indirectly, because of Enide, he snatched the torch from Joan and marched into the black slit of the tunnel.

Geoffrey had not taken more than a few steps before the torch started to splutter, and he faltered. Was the air too old and stale in the passage to allow the thing to burn properly, or was it just a poorly made torch? The thought had barely formed in his mind, before whatever imperfection had been in the flare had righted itself, and it burned bright and steady again. Geoffrey forced himself to walk on.

It was not a long journey, he told himself, and the tunnel was dry for the most part. There was plenty of air, too. But he had not gone far before he felt his mouth go dry, and the familiar tightening around his chest began. He hesitated, despite his resolve to catch Enide.

“Geoffrey,” called Joan from behind him, giving him a firm but gentle push in the back to make him start moving again. “Did Hedwise kill our father with poisonous fish soup?”

“No,” called Geoffrey wearily, picking his way down the dark, slick steps. “He killed himself because Enide was preparing to murder another king. King Henry is cleverer than Rufus, and Father knew she was unlikely to succeed.”

“Rubbish!” came Henry’s voice from above him. “Enide would have succeeded very well if you had not intervened. Norbert had a good clear shot, and would most certainly have killed the King had you not distracted him.”

“Maybe,” said Geoffrey. “But Father did not want himself associated with it, and he knew he would be because the plotters were basically identical to the ones that hatched the first regicide-the one that never happened because someone else thought of it first.”

“And since I suspect that King Henry knows more than he is telling about his brother’s timely demise we had better not ask who,” said Joan. “So, all those accusations and counter-accusations about Godric’s murder were for nothing-no one killed him, no one poisoned him or Enide?”

“Right,” said Geoffrey.

“Well, at least the Earl of Shrewsbury did not get away with foisting his false will on us,” she said, after a moment. “Olivier managed to get his fat priest drunk and indiscreet, and he learned that the Earl really did forge the document that claims Godric left Goodrich to him. But it does not matter now-Goodrich is ours once more.”

“I cannot imagine that the Earl will accept defeat lightly,” said Geoffrey. “He will be back to try again.”

“I do not think so,” said Joan confidently. “He is no fool. He knows he has been beaten over Goodrich, and he will not risk the King’s anger to continue his war of attrition with the Mappestones. He might come for us if the Duke of Normandy ever claims the crown of England, but that will not be for many years yet-if ever.”

They had reached the large chamber at the bottom of the stairs. Geoffrey entered it cautiously, holding the torch above his head and his sword at the ready. The room was deserted, and appeared exactly as it had done the last time he had been there.

Joan shuddered. “What a foul place. And this is where Enide lived for four months?”

“Not all of the time,” said Geoffrey. “I imagine she stayed with Adrian on occasions, or Malger. She has not been here since Father’s murder or Rohese would have noticed.”

“I had no idea this room existed,” said Joan, running her fingers along the shelves curiously.

“But you knew of the tunnel,” said Geoffrey. It was not a question.

“Oh, yes. I was in my teens when the keep was being built, and since girls are not permitted the freedom of boys to go gallivanting around the countryside, I watched the castle’s progress with some interest. I guessed what the shaft was for, and I did my own exploring, and discovered the tunnel and where it went. Godric thought it was his secret, and I did not tell him that I knew about it.”

“He might have had you executed as a threat to his security,” said Geoffrey, smiling, but not entirely sure that it was too remote a possibility.

Joan grinned. “He might well have done. I explored the passage as far as the door to this room, looking for Rohese the night Godric died, but it was barred from the inside. I have never actually been in here.”

So that cleared up another loose end, thought Geoffrey. Joan had not been able to enter the room at the end of the tunnel because it had been barred at that point. Rohese, however, had found it open, and so Stephen must have unbarred it when he had gone from the woods up to Godric’s chamber. He had slipped through Godric’s room while Walter, Geoffrey, and Rohese had been sleeping, and returned later to argue with Godric after Walter had left.

Joan continued to explain. “When I got back to Godric’s room, you and Walter were preparing to go back to sleep. I hid in the garderobe passage until you dozed, so you would not know where I had come from. I had to move the chest from the door, back to the end of the bed. I wondered why you slept through the noise I made: Walter was drunk, but you were not. I did not know then that you had been drugged.”

“Why did you move the chest?” asked Geoffrey.

Joan regarded him with a sideways tilt of her head. “Because I wanted to leave, bird-brain! I could not get out with the chest blocking the door, could I? Anyway, I did not realise why you had put it there in the first place. I thought Walter had placed it there by mistake in his drunken stupor.”

“Hunting Rohese down to sleep with the Earl seems a little callous,” said Geoffrey. “She is only a child and surely too young to be thrust into the clutches of a man like him, even for only a night.”

“Nonsense,” said Joan. “She had been with the Earl every night since he forced his presence on us at Rwirdin-except for the last one, when he chose a girl from the village. Rohese was unreasonably jealous, and refused her favours to show him her displeasure.”

“She slept with him voluntarily?”

“Of course she did,” said Joan, surprised by the question. “Do you think I would let her go to him if she were not willing? It is something about which I happen to feel very strongly. I am in the process of preventing Julianna from falling victim to a similar fate, but Olivier mentioned that he had told you about that. I was a little concerned, actually, thinking that a Holy Land knight was hardly someone to be trusted to protect a young virgin. But you have proved that my fears were unfounded: not only have you not forced your attentions on her but you have been kind to her and Rohese.”

So Rohese had not been strictly truthful with Geoffrey when he had been so gallant in saving her from what had seemed to be a fate worse than death. He wondered what other lies or misleading statements she had made to him.

“Did you stand in for Rohese when she could not be found?” asked Geoffrey, and immediately regretted his impertinence. If she had, it was none of his business.

Joan glared at him in outrage. “I most certainly did not! What do you take me for? Have I changed that much since we last met?”

Geoffrey thought that she had changed very little. She was still aggressive, sharp-tongued, critical, and intolerant, but she was also somewhat prudish and not especially attractive. She certainly was not the kind of woman to leap into bed with any passing earl-or be the kind of woman any passing earl would want there. Geoffrey was embarrassed that he had asked such a question.

“Olivier stayed with the Earl that night,” said Joan stiffly.

Geoffrey was more embarrassed than ever. Joan saw his reaction and sighed in exasperation.

“Geoffrey, what is the matter with you? Has your stay in the Holy Land deranged your mind? Olivier played dice until the Earl was ready to sleep, and then played the rebec. Olivier is a very skilled musician and the Earl finds his playing soothing.”

“Ah,” said Geoffrey, not knowing what else to say.

Still offended, she looked around the room. “Someone has made this hole quite comfortable.”

“Do not stand around chattering,” called Henry, who had gone on ahead and was at the door that opened into the woods. “This door is locked and I cannot open it.”

Geoffrey’s blood ran cold. “We are trapped?”

Joan watched him. “We are not,” she said firmly. “Enide has just blocked the door, that is all. Give it a push with your shoulder, Henry.”

Henry did as he was told, but the door was stuck fast. Geoffrey inspected it, and then gave it a solid kick at waist level. It moved a little.

“A stone is blocking it,” said Henry, elbowing him out of the way. “Move. I can open it now.”

Geoffrey stood back and watched as Henry heaved and shoved at the door, accompanying his efforts with an impressive litany of curses and blasphemies. Geoffrey offered to help, but there was only enough room for one, and Henry was clearly intent on doing it himself.

“Making up for not firing your arrow at Drogo to save Geoff, are you?” asked Joan waspishly.

Henry glared, leaning his back against the door and shoving with all his might. “I could not be sure that I would not hit Geoffrey,” he grunted. “Then you would have been all over me for murder.”

“That would not usually stop you,” said Geoffrey.

“Well, things are different now,” muttered Henry. “I am lord of Goodrich; I can afford to be gracious.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Olivier loves it,” said Joan fondly. “But we digress. Hedwise prepared her broth …”

“And flavoured it with enough ergot and poppy powder to kill. She gave me a bowl before we slept. Walter was blind drunk. Her intention was to return early the next morning, feed more of the poisoned soup to Father, and have Walter blamed for both murders.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A heavy thump sounded against the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He tried again, but the missile went wide, falling harmlessly in a bed of nettles. Observing his appalling skills, Geoffrey was suddenly very grateful that Henry had declined to shoot Drogo when they had been struggling in Godric’s chamber.

Enide grabbed the reins of the second horse, impatiently gesturing for Ingram to help her mount.

“But what about me?” Geoffrey heard him protest. “What do I ride?”

“Help me up!” Enide screamed. “Stupid boy! Help me!”

Ingram hesitated and Geoffrey saw the flash of a blade.

“Ingram!” he yelled again. “Get away from her!”

His warning came too late. Ingram fell to the ground and the horse, alarmed by all the shouting, began to buck and prance.

“The Devil take you, Geoffrey!” Enide screeched, abandoning the animal, and turning to continue to race along the river path.

But someone else was on the path, too: Father Adrian had seen everything. Enide tried to dodge round him, but he dived full length and pulled her to the ground. She fought, kicked, and screamed, and Adrian only just managed to hold her until Henry was able to reach him to help.

Meanwhile, Geoffrey crouched next to Ingram, inspecting the wound that Enide had inflicted.

“I need a priest,” the soldier gasped. “Get me one, fast! I am dying!”

Geoffrey called for Adrian, who left the spitting Enide for Joan and Henry to hold. The priest knelt next to Ingram and began to recite the prayers for the dying. Geoffrey wondered how many more times he would hear Adrian’s requiem before he was able to escape from Goodrich. As he listened, he saw something protruding from Ingram’s hauberk.

“My chalice,” he said, reaching out to take the handsome silver cup that Tancred had given him.

Adrian caught his hand. “Would you rob a dying man?” he asked reproachfully.

Geoffrey was about to point out that he was a knight, and that most knights had gone on a Crusade to do exactly that, when Ingram pulled it from his hauberk himself. He thrust it at Adrian.

“This is for your church if you will say masses for me. I confess to killing Francis the physician. Absolve me, quick, before it is too late!”

“This is not yours to give, Mark,” said Adrian. “Anyway, I do not need to be paid for the masses I will say for your soul. But I cannot absolve you unless you repent. Are you sorry for murdering Francis?”

“Yes, but she told me to do it,” Ingram said breathlessly, glancing to where Enide still struggled in the arms of Henry and Joan. “I did it for her, and his blood is on her hands, not mine. She dragged me into all this, even though she is my mother!”

“Who is your mother?” demanded Geoffrey. Realisation dawned suddenly. “Enide? You claim that Enide is your mother?”

“She is; she told me,” said Ingram. “And it makes sense that I am the son of nobility-I have always known I was different from the rest. She said Goodrich was rightfully mine, and that she would help me get it as soon as you lot were out of the way.”

“You are different,” said Geoffrey coldly. “I have never met such a worthless, snivelling snake as you. And I can assure you that you are certainly not related to me!”

“Geoffrey!” snapped Adrian. “Either be quiet or leave. Continue with your confession, Mark.”

“She told me the truth about my ancestry when I got back from the Holy Land. I gave her all my treasure, so that she could help me take Goodrich. She needed the funds, you see, to hire lawyers and to petition the King.”

“I knew you were gullible,” said Geoffrey in disgust. “But I did not think you were insane! What were you thinking of? How could you part with all your treasure, just like that? What about your family?”

“She is my family,” said Ingram fiercely.

“You are distressing the boy,” said Adrian, standing and glaring at Geoffrey. “I must ask you to leave.”

“Willingly, Father,” said Geoffrey. “Get up, Ingram. You are not dying. Your wound is only superficial. If you had ever fought a battle in the Holy Land, instead of skulking in some dark cellar until it was time to come and join in the looting, you would know this very well. Fortunately for you, the chalice deflected the knife, and your mother’s blow was not a fatal one.”

Astonished, Ingram sat up, poking at himself doubtfully. “I will not die?”

“Not yet,” said Geoffrey. “Although you have the physician’s murder to answer for.”

“Give me the cup,” said Ingram, making a grab for it. “I will need it to hire lawyers.”

Geoffrey caught his wrist. “You gave it to Father Adrian for his church, and that is where it will stay. If you steal it, I will hunt you down and chop your hands off.”

Ingram paled.

“You are a fool,” said Geoffrey, wearily. “And that is your best defence. How could you believe that Enide is your mother? Plead insanity to the judges, Ingram-tell them that you believed that a Norman lady gave birth to you when she was only eight years old, and yet managed to keep the secret so that only she knew; tell them that you gave her all your wealth in order to become lord of the manor at Goodrich; and tell them that you had a tiny scratch on your arm and you made a confession to the priest because you believed you were dying.”

From where she was being held in Henry’s tight embrace, Enide laughed bitterly. “Greed, my dear brother. People will believe all manner of insanities for wealth and property.”

“Enide!” said Father Adrian, turning shocked eyes on her. “What evil have you done now? You used me, you used Ingram, and you have killed. Confess now, before the Devil comes to claim you.”

Enide sobered suddenly and went limp in Henry’s arms. “You are right,” she said softly. “I will make my confession. You can let me go, Henry. I will not try to escape.”

“No, Henry!” yelled Geoffrey, as Henry released her.

Freed from his grip, Enide spun round, and kicked Henry hard in the shins. As he staggered, she shoved him hard, so that he fell backwards into Joan, who was advancing purposefully. Both went tumbling to the ground. Henry bellowed in pain and fury, while Joan spat some ripe curses. And then Enide was off again, tearing along the river path with almost impossible speed.

“After her!” shouted Joan, although Geoffrey was already running. “Father Adrian, stay with Ingram. And do not let him escape, or you will have even more on your conscience.”

Clever Joan, thought Geoffrey as he ran. Adrian was already wracked with guilt over his unwitting role in Enide’s plotting-Joan’s statement would ensure that Ingram would not escape him.

Enide managed a remarkable pace, although Geoffrey knew she would be unable to sustain it for long. She disappeared around a corner and, afraid that he would lose her in the forest if he could not see her, Geoffrey ran faster. He tore blindly round the bend, expecting to see her running ahead of him on the path. His mind registered that she was not there at exactly the same time that the branch swung towards his ankles and he lost his balance, stumbling to his knees. He saw her dagger glint, and heard Joan scream behind him. As Enide brought the dagger down, aiming for his unprotected neck, Geoffrey took a hold of her legs, and pulled her off balance. Then they were both rolling down the bank and into the brown, churning water.

For a moment, all Geoffrey could do was to struggle wildly, trying to claw free of the choking water and of Enide who clung to him. Then he felt the soft bottom of the river-bed under his feet, and he fought to stand upright.

“Take my hand!” yelled Henry, sliding down the bank towards him.

Geoffrey reached out, but then Enide was on him, dagger flashing as, even in the dire peril of being swept down the river, she tried to stab him. He lost his footing, and they were both away, gasping and struggling as the current caught them and dragged them farther from the banks. Geoffrey wanted to shout to stop her, but his mouth was full of water, and he knew she would not listen anyway. Enide was doomed, and she intended to take Geoffrey with her.

She lashed out wildly with the dagger, stabbing at him when he tried to push her away. Her frenzy was more than he could combat, and he felt himself losing ground. He tried to hold the arm that brandished the knife, but his own hands were cold and clumsy, and he did not possess her demonic strength. He kicked away from her, and saw her disappear from his sight. Thinking that she must have been swept away, he turned, and tried to strike out for the bank.

He had made some headway when he felt his legs grabbed from underneath, and then his world was nothing other than the roar of water and filthy brown bubbles. He kicked loose, but felt Enide’s one good hand clawing at his stomach, gaining a hold on his belt. He wondered whether she had risen from the dead after all, for whereas Geoffrey was growing weaker and was struggling for breath, Enide did not seem to need any.

She ducked him under a second him, putting her arm around his neck like a vise. He bit her as hard as he could, and felt himself released momentarily. Then a floating branch caught him on the side of his head, and he felt his senses darkening. He began to feel as though he no longer cared: the intense, numbing cold of the water passed and the burning sensation in his lungs began to recede.

Then she had him again, fastening her good arm around his chest, and dragging him through the water. But at least he could breathe. He looked up at the sky above, and wondered distantly whether it was blue or just dark grey. Then his feet were touching the river-bed, and he was aware the current no longer dragged and tore at him-and he realised that the arms around his chest were supportive rather than bent on his destruction.

Strong hands reached out to haul him and Joan from the water, both coughing and gasping.

“I almost lost you both!” cried Henry, horror in his voice. “The current was so strong!”

Geoffrey saw what they had done. Joan had tied a rope around her waist and had gone into the water to catch him as he drifted past. Henry had hauled them both out again. Geoffrey could not have imagined such trusting co-operation occurring a week before, when the most important thing in their lives was the inheritance of Goodrich.

He sat up, still gasping for breath.

“Geoffrey! Are you all right? She was trying to drown you!” yelled Henry, pounding his younger brother vigorously on the back.

“I had noticed,” said Geoffrey, raising an arm to fend him off. “But you saved my life.”

“I do not know why,” Henry muttered. “I suppose I did not want that witch to deprive me of doing something I have been longing to do for years.”

“Thank you anyway, both of you,” said Geoffrey, scanning the water for Enide. It was brown and flat, and there was no sign of her.

“She is dead,” said Joan softly. “She was swept past me when I was reaching for you. Her eyes were open, but she was dead.”

“Are you sure?” asked Geoffrey doubtfully.

“Of course!” said Henry. “No one could survive that. You would not have lasted much longer yourself. Look at that current! I wager you it will only get stronger as you go downstream.”

“So, I leave Goodrich as I arrived,” said Geoffrey, wiping the water from his eyes. “Soaking wet after a dip in the river.”

“You are leaving, then?” asked Joan.

“Yes,” said Geoffrey. “Today or tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, then,” said Henry decisively. “Or even the next day. Give yourself time to dry out.”

“And will you visit us in another twenty years?” asked Joan, looking away down the river.

“Perhaps before,” said Geoffrey. “And I will write regularly.”

Joan smiled at him suddenly, and he smiled back. Henry looked from one to the other mystified, and then helped haul both of them to their feet.

“She has gone,” he said in satisfaction, making his way back up the bank. “Things will be different from now on. Goodrich is mine, as it should be, and there will be no brothers and no Enide and Hedwise to poison our lives. Bertrada will leave soon, but Joan and Olivier can stay on and help look after my estates. It is just that it has worked out this way, and the only good that will disappear with the evil is that wonderful fish soup.”

Joan and Geoffrey exchanged a knowing glance and stood side by side a moment longer, looking down the river where Enide had disappeared. Just as he was about to follow Henry, Geoffrey caught the faintest glimpse of white some way down the opposite bank. He peered at it, but there was nothing to see. He decided that he must have been mistaken, and that his imagination had run away with him. Then he glanced at Joan, and saw her staring at the same spot.

“Did you? …” he began.

“I cannot be sure,” she replied hesitantly. She shook her head. “No. There was nothing there. I must have imagined it.”

They exchanged a look in which the uncertainty of both was reflected, before following Henry up the slippery bank to head back to Goodrich Castle.