A Head for Poisoning

CHAPTER SIX

Geoffrey was not inclined to eat at the castle with a poisoner lurking, so he inveigled an invitation to dine with Helbye. Helbye’s wife was a considerably better cook than anyone at the castle, and Geoffrey was served the best meal he had been given since landing in England. There was a delicately spiced pigeon pie with leeks, followed by a rich custard tart with stewed apples. Geoffrey, not knowing when he might get another edible dinner, ate too much and almost made himself ill.

The meal on offer at the castle the previous day had been something that Bertrada had mysteriously called “numbles,” which had transpired to be hard, stale kidneys in a powerful fish sauce. Everyone had praised the fish sauce, which had been made from a recipe of Hedwise’s, while Geoffrey, who liked neither fish nor kidneys, wrestled to attain an acceptable balance between eating sufficient so as not to appear rude, but not enough to make him sick. As he finished his third helping of custard, he wondered whether he would be able to wrangle enough invitations from Helbye to avoid starving.

The large meal had made him drowsy, and he felt the need for some exercise. He strolled back to the castle, and called for Julian to saddle up his horse. Delighted to be entrusted with such a task, Julian came scurrying to obey, while Geoffrey leaned against the stable wall and wished he had not been so greedy.

As he waited, Olivier emerged from the hall, flanked by two knights whom Geoffrey had not seen before.

“Going riding?” called Olivier pleasantly, walking towards him. “We plan to trot up to Coppet Hill through the woods. It is a pleasant journey of no more than six miles there and back, and you get a fine view of the castle from the top.”

“We want to exercise our war-horses, not go on some womanly jaunt,” muttered one of the other knights, a squat, heavy-set man in dark chain-mail.

“Yes, of course, Sir Drogo,” said Olivier hastily. “The path is good, and will put the beasts through their paces.”

“I do not believe that we have met,” said the second of Olivier’s two companions, a man of about Geoffrey’s height, with reddish silver hair and a ruddy complexion. He wore light but strong chain-mail, and his well-honed sword was no plaything like Olivier’s. Despite his elegant cloak and soft deerskin leggings, he looked to Geoffrey like a man who knew how to fight.

Olivier became flustered. “Oh, dear! Forgive my poor manners. This is my brother-in-law, Sir Geoffrey Mappestone, lately returned from the Crusade. Geoffrey, this is Sir Malger of Caen and Sir Drogo of Bayeux. Like me, both are in the service of the Earl of Shrewsbury.”

Malger smiled, and affected a courtly bow. “I have heard much about the Crusade,” he said. “I am told the looting was beyond the wildest dreams of even the most ambitious of knights.”

Geoffrey bowed in return. “I do not know about that. Many knights have very wild dreams indeed.”

Malger laughed and turned to Olivier. “Where are your grooms, man? Sleeping off their dinner? Are we to wait here until nightfall for them?”

Olivier bustled away, calling for the grooms, but the hem of his expensive cloak caught in one of his spurs, and sent him staggering in the mud. Drogo and Malger exchanged a look of amusement, and Geoffrey wondered yet again how a man like Olivier had ever earned his knighthood. Meanwhile, Julian emerged with Geoffrey’s destrier.

“I can do it,” he said eagerly to Olivier, who was furtively brushing himself off. “I can saddle up your war-horses.”

“Out of the question!” said Olivier brusquely. “And keep your hands off my animals. Ah, Ned. There you are. Saddle us up, and be quick about it.”

“But not so quick that you forget to fasten the buckles properly,” muttered Julian under his breath before stalking away towards the kitchens.

“Julian seems efficient enough,” said Geoffrey, straightening from where he had been checking his saddle. The boy had done a good job-the straps were firm, but not too tight, and he had even polished the well-worn leather. “Why do you not trust him?”

“Never you mind,” said Olivier. He rubbed his hands together, oblivious of the mud on his gloves from his tumble, and then scratched his nose. The resulting blob of filth on his face brought a second grin of amusement from his friends.

Eventually, they were ready, and the four knights set off through the village. Geoffrey was disturbed to note that their progress through the village was followed with an even greater resentment than his own had been that morning. At one point, he was certain a small boy had hurled a handful of dirt at them before being whisked into his house by his terrified mother.

Once away from the village, Geoffrey relaxed, enjoying the ride despite the cold, dull weather. Olivier chattered about a wide range of political and legal matters, although on most of them he was ill-informed, if not downright wrong. The others generally ignored him. Malger was concerned about a slight limp his horse had developed the previous day, and Drogo did not seem to be capable of rational conversation at all. He was surly, bad-tempered, and Geoffrey’s suspicion that he was not quite in control of all his mental faculties was confirmed when he gave an enthusiastic grunt as Olivier praised Hedwise’s rank fish sauce.

“That concoction is truly delicious,” said Olivier happily. “I am indeed blessed to have been given such a sister-in-law.”

Malger leered unpleasantly. “But you took your time over marrying Joan. Were you waiting for a woman like the delectable Hedwise instead?”

“Oh, no!” protested Olivier, his eyes wide and guileless. “I am more than content with my Joan. She is due back within the next two or three days, and I long to see her.”

“Do you?” asked Malger uncertainly.

Unless Joan had changed a good deal from the caustic, critical woman who Geoffrey remembered from his youth, then Malger was right to be suspicious of Olivier’s protestations of devotion.

“Oh, drat,” said Olivier with a sigh, raising an upturned palm skywards. “It has started to rain. We must go back.”

“What for?” asked Geoffrey, bemused.

“Because if we go on, we will get wet,” Olivier replied with a pursing of his lips. He turned his horse around, and set it to walk back the way they had come.

Geoffrey watched him, open-mouthed.

“There goes the fearless hero of the Battle of Civitate,” remarked Malger, laughing at Geoffrey’s reaction. “He took a wily old Pope captive while he was only three months old, but he is afraid of a few drops of rain. What about you, Sir Geoffrey? Drogo? Will you return with him, or can you withstand a little shower?”

Drogo growled some response that Geoffrey did not understand, and spurred his horse forward. Still laughing, Malger followed, leaving Geoffrey watching the diminishing figure of Sir Olivier in amazement.

By the time Malger, Drogo, and Geoffrey had returned, the rain was persistent. Olivier hurried out to greet them, clucking and fussing over his friends” sodden surcoats and saturated cloaks. Malger and Drogo were whisked away to the hall to be offered hot spiced wine and some of the inevitable fish soup, while Geoffrey was left to fend for himself. Duty obliged him to spend the rest of the day with his father.

To pass the time, and at his father’s request, he cleaned away some of the wood-smoke that had stained the dreary wall-paintings that adorned the room. Godric directed his efforts from his bed.

“You have scrubbed at it too hard,” he snapped, trying to sit so that he could see better. “That part took me a week to do.”

“You painted this?” asked Geoffrey, surprised that his restless, irritable father had possessed the patience to pay such attention to fine detail. “I did not know you boasted such talent.”

“I suppose you think you inherited your love of the arts from your mother?” asked Godric acidly. “Well, you are quite wrong. She was like Henry, and it was her energetic spirit and fiery nature that attracted me to her. She was more warrior than many of the knights who rode with the Conqueror, and would have been at my side at Hastings had Henry not been about to favour the world with his presence. Then the battle would not have lasted so long! Your mother had a fabulous touch with the mace!”

Geoffrey, recalling the formidable woman who had easily held her own against the vile-tempered Godric, had no reason to doubt him.

“So when did you begin painting?” asked Geoffrey. “After she died?”

“Lord, no!” said Godric. “My greedy whelps would have thought that I had gone soft in the head with grief. Last spring, I decided to turn the running of my estates over to Walter and Stephen-between them I imagined they would do an acceptable job. I started this painting then, to while away the days, although I had already started to dabble with a mural here and there.”

“It is … beautiful,” said Geoffrey hesitantly, wanting to be kind, yet uncertain how best to describe the lurid, violent scenes that emblazoned the walls.

“Beautiful be damned!” said Godric, offended. “Splendid was the effect for which I was aiming, Godfrey! Or noble, perhaps. Beautiful is what I intended for my whore’s room. You can see that if you go into the chamber across the passage. Do not look so startled, boy! Do you think I have been a monk since your mother died?”

“Of course not, but-”

“But most men do not keep their whores in the bosom of their family? Is that what you were going to say? Your mother was right about you-you should have become a priest! But you will like young Rohese when you meet her. She is a good lass.”

“Where is she?”

“She is away with Joan. She performs a dual function here-or did, when I was more able-bodied. She attended me at night, while during the day she is your sister Joan’s tiring-woman. She used to be Enide’s maid, but Joan took her on after Enide’s death. Enide-now there was a fine lass, by God! A better daughter a man could not have wished for. I would have left her the manor, had she lived.”

“I wish I could have met her again,” said Geoffrey, wiping sweat from his eyes with his sleeve and looking at Godric. “I last saw her when she was eleven.”

“You would not have recognised her, Godfrey,” said Godric, his eyes shining. “She was a magnificent woman-taller than that vicious dog, Henry, and she had more brains that all the rest of you put together. She was kind, too. My whore, Rohese, does not like this room, so Enide willingly changed with me whenever I asked, so that I could have my whore happy and not babbling that my paintings frightened her while I wanted her attention on me. What other daughter would do such a thing for her old father, eh?”

“It does seem a somewhat curious arrangement,” said Geoffrey, scrubbing hard at the malevolent image of a black dog that held an equally sinister-looking black rabbit in its jaws.

“You would think that,” said Godric disdainfully. “Enide held no such monkish qualms. I wish that Joan was more like her. But Joan should be back soon-she and Rohese are visiting your manor at Rwirdin.”

“Joan’s manor at Rwirdin, you mean,” said Geoffrey, crouching down to wring out the cloth in a bucket of water and vinegar. “It seems to have been part of her dowry.”

“That transaction was not legal,” said Godric. “You can contest it any time you like, and no court in the land would find in favour of Joan. But, you see, Walter had to find something to entice Olivier to marry her-that wretched little man had been courting her for more years than I can remember. In fact,” he said, heaving himself up on his elbows, “I remember that they started paying each other attention shortly after I sent you away.”

“Olivier seems fond of her,” said Geoffrey, concentrating on wiping smoke stains from the most wicked-looking pheasant he had ever seen-he had not believed that such an inoffensive bird could be depicted to appear so malignant.

“I really have no idea whether he likes the woman or not,” said Godric carelessly. “But while I was away a couple of years ago, Walter decided that Olivier had dallied with her affections quite long enough, and offered him your manor as an incentive to do the decent thing.”

“So I gathered.”

“None of us expected you to survive the Crusade, you see, and so Walter did not think it would matter that he had illegally appropriated your inheritance. Anyway, Walter anticipated that it would rid Goodrich of the pair of them once and for all.”

“But it did not, did it?” said Geoffrey. “It seems that they still spend a good deal of time here.”

Godric laughed unpleasantly. “Walter’s plan backfired badly, because now he has Joan and Olivier watching his every move like hawks. That will teach him to meddle behind my back! Still, I applaud his efforts. We were all beginning to wonder whether Irresolute Olivier was ever going to make an honest woman of Joyless Joan, although none of us blamed him for not wanting to take the plunge.” He gave a dramatic shudder.

“What do you mean?” asked Geoffrey. “Olivier would not have courted her for so many years if there had not been some affection.”

“You wait until you meet her,” said Godric, grinning nastily. “Then you will not ask such stupid questions. Other than the fact that she is scarcely endowed with what even the most charitable of men would call a sweet disposition, she was not young and she had pursued Olivier with all the subtlety of a pack of hunting dogs after a hare for two decades. But you will see all this for yourself when she comes home.”

“Why did Walter choose Olivier as her husband?” asked Geoffrey. “I was told that Caerdig requested her, and I should have thought Walter would have gained more from her marriage to him than her marriage to Olivier.” And so might Joan, he thought uncharitably.

He rubbed hard at his temples where his head had started to ache, and went to pour a cup of wine from Godric’s enormous jug near the bed. It was strong and acidic, and did nothing to quench his thirst.

Godric gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Poor old Caerdig would have married Henry to bring peace to Lann Martin! He is desperate for a truce.”

“Is that so bad?” asked Geoffrey, pouring some water into the wine to dilute it. “But what happened to reduce Caerdig to such a state? I do not recall there being such problems with neighbours while you were more active.”

“Very true,” said Godric smugly. “And it is most satisfying to see Walter, Henry, and Stephen make such an appalling mess where I handled matters with ease.”

“So you do not care that the good relations you spent your lifetime developing have been destroyed within a few months by Walter’s niggardliness and Henry’s taste for killing?”

Godric shrugged. “That is what Caerdig keeps saying. But no, why should I care? It means that people will look back on my rule with pleasure, and my memory will be revered.”

“That is a selfish attitude to take,” said Geoffrey, unable to disguise the distaste in his voice. “Why should Caerdig’s villagers, or ours, suffer just so that people will look back with fondness on the Golden Days of Godric?”

The old man’s eyes narrowed. “You insolent dog! If I were thirty years younger, I would run you through.”

“You would probably try,” said Geoffrey, regarding his father with dislike. “It seems to be the Mappestone way of solving problems.”

“You sound just like that mewling Olivier,” said Godric, returning Geoffrey’s look with every bit as much hostility. “He is always trying to find a solution to problems that means he will not need to put his delicate skin in danger.”

“On occasion, that might be construed as prudence,” said Geoffrey, taking a sip of his wine and adding yet more water. “God’s teeth, this is a vile brew! How can you drink it unwatered?”

“You are no better than Olivier is,” spat Godric. “You cannot even take a man’s drink without adding water. I have a good mind to alter my will again and ensure that you get nothing at all.”

“I wish you would,” said Geoffrey fervently. “I do not want anything from Goodrich. It is tainted with greed, selfishness, and corruption.”

“Monk!” taunted Godric.

Geoffrey rubbed his head again, and admonished himself for engaging in futile arguments with a dying man. He wondered if his malady was due to the wine. He looked at the ruby red liquid in his cup, and set it down. Godric seemed very partial to it, and since the jug always stood uncovered next to the bed, it would be an easy matter for any of his family to slip something poisonous into it. He picked up the cup again and smelled it. He could detect nothing other than wine, but that did not mean to say there was nothing wrong with it. He decided to ask the physician. Godric kept exhorting Geoffrey to speak to the medical man about his alleged poisoning, so Geoffrey resolved that he would do so at the earliest opportunity.

Godric watched him examining the contents of his goblet. “Has the strong wine given you a headache?” he asked sneeringly. “Run to the kitchens, boy, and ask Mabel to give you some milk sops.”

Geoffrey stared at him, and wondered whether he would end his life like Godric-bitter, mean, and self-interested, taunting his children into wishing he was dead, and loved by no one. He decided the best option was to stay single, and to volunteer for all the battles he could once he sensed he was growing unpopular. Better a death of his own choosing than of someone else’s.

“So, why did Joan marry Olivier and not her other suitors?” he asked, to change the subject. “A marriage to the heir of Lann Martin would have brought those Welsh lands under Mappestone control, and better a man of integrity like Caerdig than a lying coward like Olivier.”

“Joan married Olivier because she wanted him, and what Joan wants, Joan always takes,” said Godric. “Caerdig asked for Enide, too, when he saw he was not going to have Joan. As if I would let my Enide go to the likes of him! Enide was a splendid woman! She did not take her wine watered!”

Geoffrey was not certain that his father’s frank admiration for his dead sister was necessarily a good sign, and for the first time he began to wonder whether Enide was all he remembered. Perhaps she had changed from the happily mischievous girl he had left behind.

“So, Joan married Olivier, Enide died, and Caerdig was left with a war on his hands,” said Godric gleefully. “But Caerdig will survive. He is a capable lad-not like those mewling brats who think they are mine-Walter the Illegitimate, Stephen my brother’s son, and Henry the Lout.”

Geoffrey turned away, repelled by the raw malice in Godric’s glittering eyes. No wonder his children hated him so. Geoffrey had been home a few days, and was already considering ways to leave. He picked up the rag and began cleaning again, while Godric watched critically.

“Not so hard, boy! And you have missed a bit over there-that bishop is supposed to be wearing a golden coronet, not a crown of thorns!”

Geoffrey stood back to try to see what he meant. He had never seen anything quite like Godric’s mural, and he hoped he never would again. Black was the predominant colour, with a good deal of red to depict outpourings of blood that far exceeded plausibility. Even after Geoffrey’s vigorous cleaning, the painting remained dark and sullen. He scrubbed for a while longer, then dropped the cloth into the bucket and sat down, leaning back against the wall and wiping his face with his sleeve.

“This vinegar water smells foul. May I open the shutters on the window?”

“You may not!” said Godric indignantly. “I am a sick man. Do you want to kill me? Bertrada tried that back at Yuletide, but I thwarted her. She opened the window shutters in the night, hoping that I would take a fatal chill.”

Before Geoffrey could stop him, Godric had embarked on yet another tale of how he had survived a murderous attack by his children. Geoffrey had already heard so many similar tales that he was inclined to believe Bertrada had been right, and that Godric’s accusations were simply the desperate, pathetic attempts of a fading warrior to claim that his impending death was a result of a battle, rather than due to some invisible, sinister enemy that was eating away at his innards.

“You are beginning to concede that my suspicions have some foundation, I see,” said Godric, aware that Geoffrey had not tried to dismiss his latest claim with the calm voice of reason. Geoffrey did not answer. He climbed stiffly to his feet and came to ease Godric under the bedclothes so that the old man would sleep-thus allowing Geoffrey to escape for some fresh air in the courtyard.

Godric attempted to stop him, wanting to talk, not sleep. He thrashed around, his arms flailing, causing dense clouds of particles to rise into the air that made Geoffrey cough.

“It is these vile mattresses that are killing you,” he said, backing away to rub at his eye, where something had lodged. “They are filthy and full of dust.”

“They make for the most comfortable bed in Christendom,” objected Godric. “Your sister Enide said she always had a good night’s sleep on them-when I was in her room with my whore.”

“You should let Bertrada shake them out,” said Geoffrey, eyes watering.

“She would steal them for herself,” replied Godric. “These mattresses came from no less a person than the Abbot of Hereford. The lower one is full of straw and provides firmness, while the upper one is a mixture of hay and feathers and gives softness.”

“And why did the Abbot part with such a fine bed?” asked Geoffrey, wiping his eye on his sleeve and advancing once more to make Godric lie down.

“The monks sold off his possessions after his death,” said Godric. “That fine chest at the end of the bed was his, too.”

His spurt of struggling had left him weak, and he was unresisting when Geoffrey straightened the covers and helped him to lie flat. The old man watched Geoffrey intently with his sharp, almost bird-like, eyes.

“You are wondering why I do not ask you to take me to safety if I am so convinced that someone is poisoning me,” he said. “Well, my physician tells me it is too late, and that my innards are irreparably damaged. So, I have decided to stay here, and watch the escalating battles over my worldly fortunes. At least my last few weeks will be entertaining.”

“A priest would tell you that your energies should be concentrated elsewhere,” said Geoffrey, pouring some wine from the monstrous jug and helping Godric to sip it.

“Priests!” muttered Godric, finishing the wine in a single swallow. “Do not bring one of those here until I am within a hair of my death. It does not matter when I repent my sins, only that I do so. And I only intend to repent them once-I do not want to be revealing all my sins while I am alive for someone to use against me. Now, give me more wine.”

After drinking, he began to cough violently, while Geoffrey knelt next to him, wiping foamy blood from his lips. Eventually, he slept, and Geoffrey slipped away to walk around the courtyard in the icy night air.

Two mornings later, Geoffrey was still asleep when Bertrada brought Godric his breakfast. She nudged him with her foot.

“Get up, will you? I will not have you here lying around doing nothing all day. We already have Olivier and his fine friends doing that-eating our food and drinking our wine.”

“You mean Drogo and Malger?” asked Geoffrey, sitting up, and holding his head as an uncustomary dizziness seized him.

“Them and others,” said Bertrada, slapping a breakfast tray down where Godric had to strain to reach it. “Olivier does nothing but flaunt his expensive clothes and his fine war-horse, while my poor Walter struggles here to make ends meet.”

“Rubbish, woman!” said Godric. “Goodrich is rolling in money-that is why you are all so keen to get your grasping hands on my estates. Walter is just too mean to spend any of it.”

Their voices drifted down the stairwell after him as Geoffrey made his escape. He donned his leather leggings and hauberk in the hall, and set off to see if Julian could find him something poison-free for breakfast. His stomach was cramped and his head swam, so that he wondered whether the poisoner had already started work on him.

Julian provided two crusts of bread and a pear that was so rotten it exploded across the floor when Geoffrey dropped it. His dog appeared from nowhere, a large ham in its jaws.

“Lord save us!” exclaimed Julian. “Bertrada has been looking everywhere for that ham!”

“Well, I doubt she will want it now,” said Geoffrey, seeing that the gnawed exterior dripped with the dog’s saliva.

“She will,” said Julian, with utter conviction.

Geoffrey wondered what his chances were of eating with Helbye again, and determined that if Bertrada produced ham for dinner, he would not take any, especially if it had tooth marks-and even more especially if it were smothered in the ghastly fish sauce, a pot of which already simmered and bubbled evilly over the kitchen fire.

With the dog, still carrying its ham, at his heels, Geoffrey left the castle intending to visit the physician, to learn once and for all whether Godric really was being poisoned, or whether his father’s mortal sickness was making him delusional. The guard at the gate also informed Geoffrey that Bertrada was looking for the ham, but declined Geoffrey’s invitation to retrieve it from the dog himself.

Taking in deep breaths of fresh air, Geoffrey strode along the main street of the village, and made for the physician’s house, a shabby stone building near the church. He knocked at the door, but, receiving no reply, walked to the rear where a sizeable garden was surrounded by a low wall. The garden contained neat rows of plants and several outbuildings. The sound of singing came from one of them.

Geoffrey called out, but the chanting went on uninterrupted. He vaulted over the low wall and poked his head around the door. Inside, it was dark and gloomy, and the walls were lined with an unbelievable array of bottles and phials. Bending over a flame was a small man with white hair that leapt from his head at a variety of angles. He wore the red gown of the physician, although it had seen better days, and the overfilled pockets and large number of sacks and pouches that dangled from unexpected places made him appear peculiarly shaped.

“Excuse me,” called Geoffrey loudly.

“I have already told you, I will not discuss this matter,” said the physician, not looking up from his work. “Go away.”

“I beg your pardon?”

The physician looked up. “Oh!” he exclaimed, startled. “I thought you were that grubby Mark Ingram coming to ask questions about the poisonings at the castle again. Cheeky young beggar! As if it is any of his concern!”

“Why should he be interested in that?” asked Geoffrey, puzzled by his soldier’s unseemly fascination with his family. “He has been asking questions in the tavern, too.”

“He probably intends to blackmail you somehow,” said the physician comfortingly. “You are Geoffrey Mappestone, I suppose, come to find out whether your father is being poisoned? Well, I can tell you, quite categorically, that the answer is yes: Godric is being murdered by degrees, just as surely as you are standing at my door.”

Geoffrey rubbed his head. “What kind of poison is this killer using?”

“Come in,” said the physician. “And close the door behind you.” He straightened, and looked at Geoffrey with a pleased smile. “How kind. You have brought me a ham!”

Geoffrey looked to where the physician pointed, and saw that the dog had abandoned its treasure on the floor, and was scrabbling back over the garden wall. He supposed that it had discovered something else to steal, although its backward glance suggested there was something about the physician’s garden that it did not like. The physician picked up the gnawed meat and placed it on a table.

“One of Bertrada’s own, I see,” he said gleefully. “Although I am sure she did not send it to me herself. She is always mean with her supplies, despite the fact that she knows I like her hams. What happened to this one? Have you had a go at it yourself?”

“My dog did,” explained Geoffrey. “To be honest, I do not think you should eat it. It-”

“Nonsense,” said the physician brusquely. “A quick rinse in clean water and all will be well. Now, what can I do for you? You are pale. Do you need a physic?”

“Thank you, no,” said Geoffrey, “But I would like to hear what you have to say about my father’s poisoning.”

“Very little, is the answer to that,” said the physician. “My name is Master Francis, by the way. Are you sure you would not like a physic? I can prepare you one quite quickly. In fact, I was thinking of making one for myself-the balance of my humours is not all it should be this morning, and I feel in need of a tonic before I go out to visit my patients today. Sit down, and I will have you feeling better in no time.”

“No,” said Geoffrey. “I just want to know about this poison.”

“There is not much I can tell you. Godric is being poisoned. He first became aware of the symptoms last spring, and they have gradually grown worse ever since. By the summer, Walter and Stephen were running his estates completely, and so Godric had ample time in which to rest and recover. But although he did everything I told him to, he did not get better. When I first realised that he was being poisoned, I recommended that he should hire Torva to prepare and serve all his food.”

“And Torva died in the moat.”

“Drowned, yes,” said Francis. “Torva was meticulous, and not a single morsel went past Godric’s lips that Torva had not first tasted. However, while Godric became more and more ill, Torva remained healthy. About November, I was forced to confine Godric to his room. He has been growing weaker ever since, and now he cannot even leave his bed.”

“Bertrada says he has a wasting sickness,” said Geoffrey.

“Bertrada would,” retorted Francis. “Since she and Walter would dearly love Godric to die, she has every reason to lie to you. And she is not a physician in any case. Wasting sicknesses do not have the same symptoms as poisoning-Bertrada could not tell the difference, but I can.”

“What about that great vat of wine that sits by Godric’s bed?” asked Geoffrey. “Could that be tainted somehow?”

“It might,” said Francis. “But I do not believe it is. I have tested it several times, and Torva has been drunk on it. All this suggests that the wine is not the culprit.”

“What about that horrible fish broth Hedwise keeps feeding him?” asked Geoffrey.

“That vile stuff would be enough to poison the most robust-stomached man,” agreed Francis. “But again, I have conducted several tests using rats and birds, and there is nothing to indicate that the broth has been poisoned.”

“Well, what else is there?” asked Geoffrey. “The stuff must be getting to him somehow.”

“Most astute of you,” said Francis condescendingly. “And I have been pondering the question for months, but I can come up with no answer. Your sister Enide suffered similar symptoms several times, and we thought she was being poisoned, too. But she died of other causes, and I am still no further forward in discovering the source of Godric’s illness.”

There was a loud bang from the bench, followed by an unpleasant smell.

“Oh, damn it all!” exclaimed Francis. “I should have been concentrating, not chatting. Now I will have to start again.”

“What were you doing?” asked Geoffrey curiously, looking at the bubbling liquids and mysterious brown powders that were neatly placed along the bench.

“Making a potion to seal wounds,” said the physician. “You do not have any, do you? Only it would be good to try it out on someone.”

“No,” said Geoffrey, thinking that he would have to be at Death’s door before he allowed something capable of exploding near any injury of his. “But do you make ink? I have run out, and it is not something that is easy to buy in Goodrich.”

“I make excellent ink,” said Francis with pride. “Just ask Father Adrian. It is smooth and dries slowly, so that you can leave the lid off as you write. What colour would you like?”

“Colour?” asked Geoffrey, puzzled. “Well, black, I suppose. Or brown. I want to do some writing, not illustrating.”

“Pity,” said Francis. “I have been experimenting with red, and I would like someone to try it and tell me what they think. And I have a beautiful azure blue.”

“I want black,” said Geoffrey firmly. “If my family see me writing with all colours of the rainbow, they will consider me to have lost my wits and will lock me away.”

Francis laughed. “They might! I make paints, too. It was I who supplied the pigments for your father’s wall paintings.”

If Geoffrey had supplied the paints for Godric’s violent foray into art, he would have kept quiet about it. He smiled politely.

“Here they are,” said Francis, gesturing to several buckets of pitch-black paint. “I suppose they will never be used now. It is a pity, because they were expensive to concoct. I use only the finest compounds.”

“Such as what?” asked Geoffrey dubiously.

“Such as pitch, certain oils and refined pig grease, lead powder, various herbs to bind it. For my yellows I use saffron. For my reds I use pig’s blood.”

“Pig’s blood is not expensive,” said Geoffrey, crouching down to inspect the pots.

“No, but saffron is,” said the physician. “And I add saffron to all my colours except the blacks and the browns. I use a little of Hedwise’s famous fish sauce in those.”

“No wonder they smell so unpleasant,” said Geoffrey, standing up. The thought of Hedwise’s fish sauce made his stomach churn, and he thought he might be sick. He walked quickly outside, and took some deep breaths of fresh air.

“I told you that you looked pale,” said the physician, following him. “You should have taken the physic I offered you. What ails you?”

“Hedwise’s fish sauce,” said Geoffrey, smiling ruefully. “I have never liked fish, and it seems to feature in every meal the castle has to offer.”

“Hedwise is proud of that fish sauce,” said Francis. “And her fish broth. I am not interested in the broth, but the sauce is an excellent thickener for my paints.”

“Please,” said Geoffrey with a shudder. Although he did not like fish, he ate it if he had to, and it did not usually make him ill. He wondered what secret ingredient Hedwise added that seemed to please everyone else, but left him gagging.

Godric was asleep again by the time Geoffrey returned, and so the knight decided to go riding while he could. Olivier joined him and they cantered towards Coppet Hill again, Olivier chattering like a magpie, and boasting in ever greater detail about his role in the Battle of Civitate. He had just reached the climax when a sudden rustling from the undergrowth silenced him. Geoffrey carried a lance, and he drew it out of its holder when he heard the unmistakable snuffling of a wild boar.

Boars were large animals and could be dangerous, especially when frightened or enraged. Fortunately, the one that ambled towards them was neither, although Olivier took one look at it and sent his horse crashing blindly through the undergrowth to escape. Geoffrey and the wild boar watched the fleeing knight in bemusement, and parted to go their own ways without a blow being exchanged. The boar was more interested in the juicy roots that were growing around the base of a tree, and Geoffrey did not feel inclined to drive his lance into the contentedly foraging animal as most knights would have done.

He reached the top of the hill, and sat for a long time gazing across the rolling countryside that spread out in front of him. In the distance, he could see the dense forest and tatty rooftops of Lann Martin, while Goodrich Castle dominated the land with its great tower of grey and brown stone, and its wicked wooden palisades.

His mind wandered back to twenty years before, when he and Enide had climbed the hill together to escape the bullying attentions of their older siblings. For the first time since learning about her horrible death, Geoffrey became aware of an acute sense of loss and his stomach contracted with a dizzying sense of grief. He felt the ground tip and sway in front of him, and quickly dismounted before he fell, clutching the reins for support and trying to bring his emotions under control.

Who could have killed Enide? And why? Was it the same person who Francis the physician seemed so sure was killing Godric? Would one of his brothers or their wives really poison their father? Or was it Joan and the cowardly Olivier, desperate for more lands to pay for Olivier’s extravagant lifestyle and scrounging friends?

Eventually, the pounding in his head lessened, and he began to feel better. He mounted his horse again and set it galloping across the smooth turf of the hilltop, enjoying the sense of power and speed as he gave the beast its head. When it was spent, he reluctantly turned it around and headed towards Goodrich.

As he rode, the light drizzle turned into a persistent downpour. Hot after his exertions, Geoffrey enjoyed the feel of cool rain on his face, although he was less keen on the sensation of cold water trickling down the back of his neck as the heavy drops seeped through his armour. Julian came racing out to meet him, and flung himself into his arms. Geoffrey was startled and somewhat embarrassed.

“Whatever is the matter?” he asked, bewildered. “Julian, please! People are looking at us!”

“Olivier told me a boar had got you,” the boy sobbed. “He said it was the biggest one he had ever seen, and that it felled your horse and was mauling you. He is waiting for the rain to stop so that he can take Walter and Henry to collect your body.”

Given Olivier’s penchant for fabrication, Geoffrey supposed he should not be surprised by the tale, but it was cruel to upset a child needlessly.

“Nothing happened,” he said, gently disengaging himself. “Like Olivier himself, the boar was more interested in food than in fighting.”

Julian rubbed a hand across his face, and took the reins from Geoffrey to lead the destrier into the stables, still snuffling. Geoffrey strode across the bailey to where Olivier was watching two servants slaughter a goat.

“It was harsh of you to upset Julian like that,” he said, trying to keep the anger from his voice.

Olivier looked at him in astonishment. “You are alive! Did you kill that great monster, then?”

“I did not,” said Geoffrey shortly. “But you should have checked your facts before telling the boy that I was dead.”

Olivier regarded him blankly. “What boy?”

“Julian,” said Geoffrey impatiently. “And, incidentally, you really should let him deal with your destrier. He is much better than your grooms.”

“He is also a woman,” said Olivier. He put his hands over his mouth in horror. “Dash it all! I promised Joan I would not tell.”

“A woman?” asked Geoffrey in confusion. “What are you talking about? Have you been drinking?”

“No. I should not have spoken. Ignore me.”

“What do you mean, a woman?” demanded Geoffrey, taking a hold on the small knight’s arm. Olivier stiffened with fright.

“I cannot tell you,” he said, his voice a pleading whisper. “Joan would skin me alive.”

“I will skin you alive if you do not,” threatened Geoffrey.

Olivier licked his lips nervously and eyed Geoffrey up and down, assessing whether the knight or his sister presented a more serious threat. He swallowed hard and seemed to come to the conclusion that while Joan might be more dangerous, Geoffrey was a more immediate problem. He began to speak quickly, keeping his voice low so that the servants would not overhear.

“Julian is really named Julianna. She is a pretty little thing under all that dirt, and Joan feared for her … her …”

“Virginity?” asked Geoffrey bluntly.

“Well, if you put it like that, yes,” said Olivier prudishly. “Godric was a bit of a devil for the women before his illness, and Joan did not want Julianna to go the same way as Rohese-whore today, gone tomorrow.”

He chuckled at his nasty joke, but sobered when he saw Geoffrey did not share it. He hastened to explain further.

“Joan did not want Julianna to fall into to the same situation, and so she is training her to be a pastry chef. Julianna dresses like a boy so that she will be safe from unwanted male advances.”

So that explained why he had always thought there was something a little odd about Julian, Geoffrey realised. Her gait was not quite right for a boy, and she was sharper and more cynical than was usual for stable-boys.

“But Godric is hardly in a position to seduce Julian,” he said. “The man is confined to his bed.”

“But Walter, Henry, and Stephen are not,” said Olivier. “And they are every bit as dangerous. Poor Julianna would be with child before she was halfway across the bailey with them around. As soon as Godric is dead, we will leave Goodrich-assuming of course that we do not inherit-and we will take Julianna and Rohese with us. Then they can live safely with us.”

“This does not sound like Joan,” said Geoffrey, unconvinced. “Has she softened, then, as the years have passed?”

“I doubt it,” said Olivier proudly. “She is as stalwart and bold as she ever was. But you do her an injustice, Geoffrey. Under her harshness, she is a deeply caring woman. Who else would strive to keep a pretty maid from seduction by her brothers?”

“Enide?” asked Geoffrey.

Olivier gazed at him in disbelief. “Hardly! But because Julianna is a woman, you can see why I am reluctant to allow her near my war-horse.”

“Not really,” said Geoffrey. “My horse cares neither one way nor another about the sex of its grooms. Julian is very good. I prefer him to the others.”

“Her,” corrected Olivier. “Well, each to his own. But I believe very strongly that women should not be allowed near horses. Horses are for men.”

“I dare you to say that to Joan,” said Geoffrey, amused.

Olivier paled and scurried away, leaving Geoffrey laughing. He went up the stairs to the main hall, and opened the door. Inside, his family were gathered around the hearth together. When they saw Geoffrey, their faces took on expressions of astonishment and acute disappointment.

“Olivier said you were dead,” said Walter accusingly, as though Geoffrey had no right to prove the small knight wrong. “We were going to fetch back your corpse.”

“He told us that you were killed by a boar,” agreed Stephen, raising his eyebrows questioningly at Olivier, who had nervously followed Geoffrey into the keep.

“We should have known better to have listened to that snivelling coward,” said Henry, slamming a pewter goblet down on the table in an undisguised display of bitter frustration as he glowered at Olivier. “I thought it was too good to be true!”

“Well, I am pleased to see you alive and well,” said Hedwise, casting a defiant glance at her husband. “Come and sit by the fire and dry your wet clothes.”

Avoiding her outstretched hand, Geoffrey sat on a stool near the hearth, where Bertrada sullenly handed him a beaker of scalding ale, her resentful looks a far cry from her attempts to ingratiate herself with him a few nights earlier, when she had believed that he had been loaded down with loot. Making no attempts to disguise their blighted hopes at his unexpected return from the grave, his relatives ignored him and he sat alone, sipping the bitter brew and listening to Olivier tell Stephen about the massive boar they had encountered, which had escaped Olivier’s sword by the merest fraction. The tale was so far removed from events as Geoffrey recalled them that he began to wonder if they had even shared the same experience.

Geoffrey’s brief moment of ease did not last long, because Godric began clamouring for him, claiming that someone had tried to suffocate him while he slept. It took a long time to calm him, and the sick man only agreed to rest when Geoffrey promised not to leave.

Later that evening, Geoffrey was awoken from where he dozed restlessly next to the fire by the sound of his father’s voice.

“They killed Enide, you know.”

Godric was wide awake and regarding him with bright eyes. Geoffrey must have been more deeply asleep than he had thought, for his mind was sluggish. He gazed uncomprehendingly at Godric, wondering whether he had misheard him.

“They killed Enide as well as poisoning me,” said Godric. “And they killed Torva. All for this-for Goodrich! I wish that I had never set eyes on the place! Old Sergeant Helbye’s sons do not cluster round him like vultures waiting for his corpse-because he has nothing to give them. It was after Enide was murdered that they began to poison me in earnest. She knew how to keep the family in order, and when she died, they turned on me more viciously than ever.”

“It is late,” said Geoffrey, refusing to be drawn into that kind of discussion. “You should not be saying such things, or you will give yourself bad dreams. Go to sleep.” He stood stiffly, and stretched.

“You will never make a good knight,” said Godric critically, changing the subject as he did when conversations were not proceeding as he intended. “Look at the state of you! Your chain-mail will rust if you do not look after it and keep it dry.”

“How can I keep it dry in England?” asked Geoffrey. “It rains all the time.”

“I wish I could see your destrier, Godfrey,” said Godric, suddenly wistful. “The cowardly Olivier informs me that it is a handsome beast.”

“He is handsome enough,” said Geoffrey, pulling off his surcoat and hanging it on the hooks in the garderobe passage to dry. “But perhaps a little too independent-minded.”

“He should suit you very well, then,” said Godric. “But you are trying to distract me. I was telling you about Enide. I thought you said you were fond of her.”

Geoffrey paused as he unbuckled his chain-mail, but did not reply.

“Why they should kill her is beyond me,” mused Godric. “You have some loose links there, Godfrey: you should mend them before you next go out. The castle was a much more pleasant place when Enide was in it.”

“There are vile rumours about her death,” said Geoffrey. “Ingram told me that Caerdig had killed her.” He stopped, and rubbed the bridge of his nose, disgusted that he had allowed himself to embark on speculations about Enide’s death with his father after he had determined that he would not do so. Such a conversation would scarcely lead to a peaceful night’s slumber for Godric, and would only serve to make the old man more paranoid than ever.

“Perhaps Caerdig did kill her,” said Godric. “Someone did-she did not cleave her own head from her shoulders.”

Geoffrey sighed. “But Henry assures me he hanged the culprits.”

“So he claims,” said Godric bitterly. He made a sound of exasperation. “Stop fiddling, Godfrey, and come and stand where I can see you. Now, I know you do not believe that I am being poisoned, and I accept that. I am beyond caring for myself, but Enide I loved dearly. Find who killed her for me, Godfrey, and I promise that I will never ask anything of you again.”

“If you will make another will and leave me out of it, I will do what I can,” said Geoffrey. “Meanwhile, I am wet. Can I borrow a shirt? I have lost all mine.”

“Then you can buy some new ones,” snapped Godric, his wheedling tone instantly superseded by his customary evil temper. “Just because you think I am about to die does not mean that you can have the clothes from my person. You are just like the others-all clamouring for the dagger that the Conqueror gave me. Well, they shall not have it. None of you shall. I have hidden it away, and no one-not a single living soul-knows where I have put it. And you shall not have the clothes from my poor body until I am gone.”

“I do not intend to walk around the castle in your nightshift,” retorted Geoffrey, eyeing the garment that Godric’s “poor body” wore. “I want to borrow a shirt. I only have one, and it is wet and probably needs to be washed.”

“Yes, it does,” said Godric, eyeing him distastefully. “What do you mean by coming into your poor father’s death chamber wearing a dirty shirt?”

“Can I borrow this one?” asked Geoffrey, holding one of the ones stored in the chest at the end of the bed.

“I suppose so,” said Godric reluctantly. “And take some clean hose, too. Yours are really quite disgusting. Hedwise will wash them for you. But in return, will you do what I ask? Enide did not deserve to die, and her death must not go unavenged. She was being poisoned too, but the villain responsible decided he could not wait, and struck off her head as she came out of the church. I envy her in a way, for I would rather die from a sword blow than by slow poisoning.”

“Even if you are right,” said Geoffrey, “what can I do now? I have asked questions, and discovered nothing.”

He dropped his sodden shirt onto the floor, and pulled the dry one over his head.

“I will provide you with a list of suspects that you can interrogate. First, there is Henry, who hated her as he hates you-because you are more clever than he is. Then there are Walter and Bertrada. It was Enide who discovered Walter was illegitimate. I would have kept it from him, just for a peaceful life, and-”

“How could Enide discover such a thing?” asked Geoffrey, startled. “And anyway, I do not believe that Walter was born out of wedlock. Someone would have mentioned it long before now, if it were true-especially you.”

“I have a chest where I store old documents,” explained Godric. “I cannot read, so I had no idea what was in it. Enide was sorting it out for me one day, and she found the evidence.”

“What evidence?” asked Geoffrey tightly, sensing that Godric was about to make him very angry.

“A writ giving Walter’s birthdate, and a certificate with details of my marriage to your mother. The dates do not tally. And there are also documents that prove I was away at the time of Stephen’s conception, so that I could not possibly have sired him without supernatural help. Enide came to tell me what she had learned. While I was explaining-perhaps more loudly than I should have done-my other villainous whelps overheard.”

“And so poor Enide had information thrust upon her that made her a danger to Walter and Stephen?” said Geoffrey coldly. “No wonder you think she has been done away with! How could you have kept such documents? Why did you not burn them?”

“Easy for you to say!” snapped Godric. “You can read-you would know which ones were which. There are important writs in that chest. How could I be certain that I was not destroying one of those?”

“You could have asked Norbert,” said Geoffrey, unappeased. “Your clerk. That is why you employ him, surely? To read and write for you?”

“I could not trust him with such delicate information!” said Godric, appalled. “He would have used it to his own advantage.”

“Unlike you,” pointed out Geoffrey bitterly. “What a mess all this is. Where are these documents now?”

“Enide destroyed them,” said Godric.

“But by then everyone knew of the existence of these writs and their contents anyway, so technically, Enide should not have been a greater risk than anyone else,” said Geoffrey, trying to reason it all out. “So that still does not explain why someone chose to kill her.”

“You will have to work that out for yourself,” said Godric. “I cannot tell you everything. And do not leave Joan and Sir Fearful out of your reckonings, either. Poor Enide’s head was severed with a sword, so perhaps that snivelling coward performed the foul deed.”

Geoffrey’s thoughts whirled with confusion. Was there even the most remote grain of truth in what Godric had just told him? Or was it simply a ploy to make Geoffrey remain at Goodrich and take on the manor? He rubbed his head where his helmet had chafed it, and went to the heavy pitcher that stood on the floor for some wine. He slopped some into a cup, and took a gulp. He resisted the urge to spit it out again: seldom in his life had he tasted anything so bitter and vile that was not medicine.

He looked dispassionately at Godric, who lay in his bed staring up at the ceiling. He raised the cup to his lips again, but even the smell of the powerful brew was too much. He slammed it down on the windowsill, and fought the desire to snatch up his sword, and race down to the hall to dispatch the whole lot of them.