A Head for Poisoning

CHAPTER SEVEN

Geoffrey awoke with a start to see Hedwise towering over him. His momentary consternation that she had come for him was relieved when he realised she was only bringing breakfast to Godric.

“That is fine. Now go,” Godric said forcefully as Hedwise set a tray on the chest at the foot of his bed. Hedwise glowered at him and then gave a soulful look to Geoffrey before pulling the door shut behind her.

“You will have to beware of that vixen today, lad,” Godric said with a leer. “Henry has gone off hunting with Olivier and his friends, so she will be on the prowl and you just might be the prey.”

Geoffrey felt groggy and sluggish and was concerned that Hedwise had been able to enter the room without waking him. In the Holy Land, any knight who slept so deeply would risk never waking at all, and Geoffrey prided himself on his ability to snap awake, to be alert and ready for a possible attack. The fact that it was Hedwise who had managed to slip past his defences made it just that much more potentially problematic.

He did not relish the prospect of spending an entire day indoors with his father, but given the alternatives-Hedwise unrestrained or his family still inflamed by Godric’s changed will-he decided to continue his cleaning of the paintings, while hoping to glean some information from Godric that might help solve the mystery of Enide’s murder.

As it turned out, it was Geoffrey who did most of the talking, entertaining-and at the same time disappointing-his father with tales from the Crusade.

“It seems to me that you have fallen in with the wrong crowd, Godfrey,” his father mused in some disgust that evening. “You say this Tancred of yours actually tried to protect those people on the Dome of the Rock? It was lucky that the Duke of Normandy and Bohemond and the others were not so womanly, or the whole Crusade might have turned back before it reached Constantinople.”

Geoffrey was not sure if that would have been such a bad thing. He was about to say so when the door burst open and Walter strolled in, Bertrada and Olivier at his heels. Behind them were Stephen and Hedwise, walking rather more closely together than was usual for a man and a woman not married to each other. Walter made himself comfortable by the fire, while the others clustered around the bed, eyeing Godric speculatively, assessing whether the old man was continuing his remorseless decline in health, or whether the worst had happened and he was rallying. Godric eased himself up onto his elbows, simultaneously gratified by and uncomfortable with the attention.

“What do you lot want, and what is all that racket?” he complained, as through the window came the sounds of shouting from the courtyard below, mingled with the snorting of horses and the jangle of weapons. Walter threw open the shutters and leaned out.

“It is the Earl of Shrewsbury!” he exclaimed in surprise. “What is he doing here?”

Everyone looked at Olivier. “His visit has nothing to do with me,” said the small knight defensively.

“Joan,” said Walter heavily, still peering out of the window. “Joan is with him. She must have told him that Godric was near his end. Is that true Olivier?”

“It is nothing to do with me,” the small knight repeated, playing with the hilt of a highly decorated dagger with which Geoffrey would not have deigned to peel fruit, let alone carry at his side. “But Godric was very ill when she left a week ago. I imagine she thought he had not long for this world.”

“But Godric seems to have rallied somewhat now,” said Bertrada, looking hard at Geoffrey, her tone suggesting that this was not good tidings.

“I suppose the Earl has brought the copy of this wretched new will of Godric’s,” said Walter. He pursed his lips, and looked at Geoffrey. “Are you sure you did not send for him?”

“I most certainly did not,” said Geoffrey.

The Earl of Shrewsbury was one of the last people Geoffrey would invite anywhere. If the King were sufficiently worried to recruit Geoffrey to ensure that the Earl was kept away from Godric’s inheritance, then Geoffrey would just as soon not meet the Earl at all.

Godric’s eyes gleamed in anticipation of recriminations and arguments to come. “You had better attend to Shrewsbury, then,” he said to Walter. “And send Rohese to me.”

Walter opened the door, and held it open for Geoffrey to precede him.

“Not a chance,” said Geoffrey, sitting near the fire. “The black-hearted Earl is your guest, not mine. I will stay here and ensure that father rests.”

Stephen walked towards the door, and there was an almost comical jostle as he and Walter tried to be the first one out to greet the Earl. The others followed, leaving Geoffrey alone with Godric.

It was not long before laughter and other sounds of gaiety drifted up from the hall, as the Earl and his retinue were treated to a welcome quite different to the one Geoffrey had received. A sound from the doorway caused Geoffrey to glance up from where he was helping Godric to sip some of his strong red wine. A woman stood just outside the door, beckoning to him. Reluctantly, Geoffrey went to see what she wanted.

“I see your taste in clothes has not improved since I last saw you,” she said, putting her hands on her hips and surveying his borrowed hose and shirt with some amusement. “You always were a ruffian.”

“Joan?” Geoffrey asked, subjecting his older sister to the same meticulous attention as she had given him. Her thick, curly brown hair was dusted with silver, and her slender figure had thickened since she had reached her forties. But she still possessed the restless energy that Geoffrey remembered, and the hard lines around her mouth suggested that time had honed, rather than softened, her domineering tendencies. He had entertained hopes that he might fare better with Joan than with his brothers in terms of civility, but such rashly held fantasies were rapidly dismissed.

“Of course I am Joan,” she retorted. “Who else is left, bird-brain? You have met our esteemed sisters-in-law Bertrada and Hedwise, and surely even you can see that I am not Enide risen from the grave!”

Geoffrey winced. For the first time since he had met him, Geoffrey felt sorry for Sir Olivier.

“Where is Rohese?” came a querulous voice from the bed.

“She will be with you as soon as she has warmed herself from the journey,” called Joan. “And before you say it, she will do better by the fire than tumbling about in this chilly hole with you.” She cast a disparaging glance around at Godric’s room and shuddered. “This place reminds me of a whore-house!”

“Well, you should know!” shouted Godric furiously. Joan threw him a contemptuous glower, and began to walk down the stairs.

“The Earl of Shrewsbury has ordered that you attend him in the hall,” she said over her shoulder to Geoffrey as she left.

“Then the Earl of Shrewsbury can go to the Devil,” retorted Geoffrey. “I am not his vassal, especially since Walter seems to have used my manor of Rwirdin to secure Olivier d’Alencon for you.”

Joan paused and glared at him. “You should have been here, then, if you wanted Rwirdin so much. You cannot cheerfully leave our father and poor Walter to run your estate for you, and then swan back and demand it on whim.”

“Their stewardship of my manor has made a good deal of money for our father and poor Walter,” said Geoffrey acidly. “I do not think you will hear them complain.”

“Well, Rwirdin is mine now and you cannot have it back,” said Joan in a tone that suggested that, as far as she was concerned, the topic was laid to rest for good. “Now, do not be foolish and make an enemy of the Earl. He is waiting for you.”

“Then he can wait,” said Geoffrey, walking back into his father’s chamber. “I do not care if I make an enemy of the Earl or not-I do not plan to be here long enough for that to matter.”

Joan stamped back up the stairs. “Do not be stupid, man! Do you know nothing of the Earl and his reputation?”

“Enough to know I do not want him as any acquaintance of mine,” said Geoffrey. “So, you can tell him to take his orders and-”

“Sweet Jesus, Geoffrey!” whispered Joan, casting an anxious glance back towards the stairs. “Do not play with fire in our house! If you will not come for yourself, then come for your family. We have no wish to draw his wrath down upon us!”

“I did not invite him here, you did,” said Geoffrey, as Stephen appeared behind Joan.

“What is keeping you?” Stephen demanded of Geoffrey. “The Earl is becoming impatient. Not only that, but your dog has just bitten him. You had better come and explain its foreign manners before he has it run through.”

Reluctantly, Geoffrey followed his brother and sister down the stairs, and his resolve to leave Goodrich as soon as possible strengthened with each step. At the far end of the hall, seated comfortably in front of a blazing hearth was Robert de Belleme, the Earl of Shrewsbury, laughing loudly at some anecdote that Olivier was telling him-probably his bold encounter with the wild boar. Despite his reticence, Geoffrey was interested to see in the flesh the man whom much of England and Normandy held in such fear. He was not disappointed. Geoffrey was a tall man, but the Earl was immense. Even seated, he dominated the hall. Falling to his shoulders was a mane of sparse grey-black hair, and his eyes were like tiny pieces of jet in his big, red face.

As Geoffrey walked closer, the Earl stopped laughing and affixed him with eyes that, on closer inspection, were reptilian. Geoffrey was not a man easily unsettled, and he had faced more enemies than he cared to remember, but there was something about the Earl’s beady gaze that transcended any malevolence he had encountered before. He had a sudden conviction that King Henry’s suspicion that Shrewsbury might have had a hand in the killing of William Rufus might not have been so outlandish after all.

He paused in front of the hearth and looked down at the Earl, before kneeling and rising so soon again that his obeisance was only just within the realms of courtesy. The Earl continued to regard him, and the hall was silent as everyone waited for the great man to speak.

“So,” he said eventually, tearing his eyes away from Geoffrey’s steady gaze, and looking him up and down. “You are Sir Geoffrey Mappestone, newly returned from the Crusade.” His voice was deep and powerful, and Geoffrey could well imagine it directing the many battles that he was said to have fought and won.

The Earl continued when Geoffrey did not reply. “You do not look like a knight. Where is your chain-mail?”

“I was about to retire for the night,” replied Geoffrey coolly. “I do not usually wear it to bed.”

Olivier’s imprudent laughter was silenced by a flick of the Earl’s expressionless eyes. “I see,” he said. He took a hearty swig from the goblet he held and changed the subject abruptly. “Your sister tells me your father is near his end. You have timed your return well.”

“It was not timed at all,” said Geoffrey. “And he is not as ill as everyone seems to believe.”

He was certainly not too ill to consider a romp with his whore Rohese, thought Geoffrey. He looked at the assembled people and wondered which one she was-a woman brave enough, or feeble-minded enough, to serve both Godric and Joan.

“Really?” asked the Earl in a voice so soft it was sinister. “Your brothers are not under that impression, and so I have taken the liberty of bringing my personal priest to give Sir Godric last rites.”

He snapped imperious fingers, and a fat priest slid out from the ranks of the courtly retinue to disappear up the stairs.

“Thank you,” said Geoffrey politely. “That was a kindly thought.”

The Earl looked startled. “No one has called me kindly for many years-if ever. But tell me, Sir Geoffrey, how was the looting in the Holy Land? Did you bring many items of value home with you? Might I see them?”

“He brought nothing but a sackful of books,” said Henry, spitefully gesturing to Geoffrey’s saddlebags near the Earl’s chair.

“And three Arabian daggers,” added Walter helpfully.

“Books?” asked the Earl, confused. “Whatever for? Do you intend to renounce your worldly ways and take the cowl now you are home? I understand many knights have done so.”

“Absolutely not,” said Geoffrey. “I intend to return to my lord Tancred de Hauteville in the Holy Land as soon as possible.”

“Are you asking us to believe that you have made a dangerous journey of several weeks” duration, simply so that you can turn around and go back?” asked the Earl with arched eyebrows.

“Believe what you will,” said Geoffrey, shrugging. “It is the truth.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Stephen gesturing desperately to him, urging him to be more polite, while the rest of his family appeared horrified by his disrespect to the Earl. But Geoffrey had no intention of being interrogated about his personal affairs by Shrewsbury or anyone else. If his family did not care for his attitude and threw him out of the castle, then so much the better-it would be an excellent excuse to escape the obligations imposed on him by the King, and the whole household could murder each other to their hearts” content.

“Well, you are here now,” said the Earl, sitting back in his chair, his eyes never leaving Geoffrey’s face. “So, I suppose we had better make the best of it. How would you like to join my service for a few months? I can always use a good knight.”

Geoffrey was taken aback, and he was reminded of the murders he had solved in Jerusalem, when he had been recruited to the task by more than one of the warring princes who held power there. He had vowed that he would never allow himself to be put into a similar situation again, and since he was already under orders from the King, the Earl of Shrewsbury was out of luck.

“Thank you, no,” he said, forcing himself to be civil. “I will not be in England long, and anyway, I am already in the service of Tancred de Hauteville.”

“But I was given leave to understand that you are a knight in the retinue of the Duke of Normandy,” said the Earl, looking at Stephen briefly before bringing his cold eyes back to bear on Geoffrey. “What has possessed you to abandon the Duke and flee to the service of another?”

“It was on the orders of the Duke that I went to Tancred,” said Geoffrey, nettled by the implication that his loyalties were cheap, “although I fail to see what concern that is of yours.”

The sharp intakes of breath from the Earl’s courtiers and the horrified faces of his family suggested that Geoffrey’s answer might have been less than prudent. For several moments, the Earl did nothing but stare at Geoffrey, his expression unreadable.

“I meant no offence,” the Earl said finally, although his tone was anything but conciliatory. “I asked merely because the Duke is a good friend of mine, and I always look to the interests of my friends. But we waste time here, Sir Geoffrey. I called you to me for two reasons. First, so that I could see you and make my own assessment of Godric’s youngest son. And second, so that you could make reparation to me for the nasty nip I have suffered from that evil beast you call a dog.”

Geoffrey’s heart sank, and he looked around for the animal.

“Have no fear,” said the Earl. “I have not ordered it to be dispatched. Yet. But what have you to offer me in recompense for my wound, other than books, of course?”

“Just advice,” said Geoffrey, as determined that the Earl should not intimidate him into offering compensation as the Earl was to have it. “Dogs bite. Stay away from them.”

This time, there were no sharp intakes of breath: Geoffrey had gone too far. Blood drained from the Earl’s face as he rose from his chair, his big body taut with anger. He advanced on Geoffrey, his thick fingers resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. Geoffrey cursed himself for dispensing with his chain-mail and weapons. He was never without them while out on patrols, and the situation at Goodrich ever since he had arrived was every bit as dangerous as was chasing Saracens in the desert. He did not back away as the Earl drew nearer, but he was tense, ready to leap to one side if the Earl were to haul his gigantic broadsword from his belt.

“What about one of these Arabian daggers, my lord?” asked Walter hastily, hauling them from Geoffrey’s saddlebags. Once out, he eyed them dubiously. “What peculiar-looking things!”

The Earl had been close enough to treat Geoffrey to wafts of his bad breath but, intrigued by the puzzlement in Walter’s voice, he turned abruptly to inspect the daggers. Geoffrey forced himself to breathe normally, and looked around quickly to assess which of the Earl’s assortment of knights and squires he might most easily overpower to grab a weapon. Olivier’s two friends, Malger and Drogo, were present. Malger appeared amused by Geoffrey’s behaviour, but Drogo was clearly outraged. Neither of them would present an easy target, but nearby was a scrawny clerk who carried a handsome sword at his side. Geoffrey edged closer to him, surreptitiously looking for any buckles that might interfere with his snatching of it.

Meanwhile, the Earl turned the Arabian daggers over in his hands, admiring the craftsmanship and balance. Stephen darted towards Geoffrey while the Earl’s attention was taken.

“For God’s sake, Geoffrey! Do you want to be slain here and now in front of us all?” he hissed. “Do you know nothing about the Earl of Shrewsbury? He will kill you as you stand-just as I have seen him kill others, and for less serious crimes than insulting him! And think of us. I, for one, do not wish to join you in a heap of mangled limbs on the floor of my own hall.”

Geoffrey had heard enough of the Earl to know that the scene Stephen envisaged was not as far-fetched as it sounded. He sighed. He had returned to England to escape some of the bloodshed that was a part of daily life in Jerusalem, and he had no wish to be the cause of his family’s massacre at the hands of the tyrannical Earl of Shrewsbury. If anyone were to dispatch them all, Geoffrey would rather it were himself-for the murder of Enide, or the poisoning of his father, or even for the death of Aumary, shot in the forest by the mysterious archer.

“Do the Saracens really use such barbaric weapons?” asked the Earl, still examining the weapons with intense interest.

Geoffrey fought back the urge to ask why the dagger should be considered barbaric, while the small mace that dangled from the Earl’s waist was not.

“The Saracens sometimes use long, curved swords, too,” he answered, aware of Stephen’s relief that Geoffrey had decided to be civil.

The Earl jerked his thumb back quickly and looked at the blood that oozed from a cut there.

“How sharp they are! This makes two wounds I have suffered at your hands, Geoffrey Mappestone.”

“Daggers are of little use if they are blunt,” said Geoffrey, heartily wishing the Earl had done himself a more serious injury. “I had intended them as gifts for my brothers, but I have come to the conclusion that they will be safer from each other without them.”

While the Earl roared with unexpected laughter, Walter, Henry, and Stephen craned forward to see the weapons that might have been theirs. Walter’s face was a mask of disappointment when he saw the jewelled hilts and finely engraved scabbards, although Henry gave the impression he would not have taken his anyway.

“And what of your sister?” demanded Joan. “Or do your fraternal instincts not stretch to the females in the family?”

“You have my manor at Rwirdin,” retorted Geoffrey. “Is that not enough?”

The Earl laughed again and clapped his hands in delight. “What an extraordinary family! Your quarrels never cease to amuse me, and now it seems that they will be livelier still with Sir Geoffrey’s ready wit. Tell me, how is it that this manor of Rwirdin seems to have become the matter for such dispute? It is a small place, I understand, and not rich.”

Walter looked uncomfortable, and Joan defiant. Stephen intervened

“It belonged to our mother, along with the village of Lann Martin,” he said. “When she died, she willed Lann Martin to Henry, and Rwirdin to Geoffrey.”

“Why?” asked the Earl. “Surely her property should have reverted to her husband after her death?”

“Our father, foolishly, agreed with our mother that Lann Martin and Rwirdin would keep his two youngest sons” greedy eyes from the rest of his property,” said Stephen. “He applauded the fact that she had thought to provide for those of his children never likely to inherit Goodrich.”

Henry stepped forward angrily, but the Earl was no longer interested. “I like these daggers,” he announced, waving one around experimentally. “They are unusual. And I like the unusual. Which one will you give me, Sir Geoffrey?”

“Take them all,” said Geoffrey carelessly. He had not planned to keep them anyway, and was not concerned whether they found a home with his brothers or the Earl. It was also clear that the Earl would glean far more pleasure from taking them without Geoffrey’s blessing than with it, and Geoffrey did not want to give him any such satisfaction.

“You should not be incautious with your wealth, my brave knight,” said the Earl in mock admonition. “I will take two of these fine weapons, and leave you the third. Who knows? You might need it to buy me off another time.”

He handed the smallest one back to Geoffrey, who wondered idly what the chances were of plunging it into the Earl’s black heart and still leaving the hall alive. He suspected that if he could achieve the former, the latter would be little problem, for the Earl did not seem to rule his retinue on the basis of his integrity and godliness, and Geoffrey decided that most of them would probably be thoroughly glad to see the back of him. Drogo would almost certainly object, but Geoffrey was confident he could overpower the slower, older knight easily enough, given a sharp broadsword. Malger, meanwhile, was more pragmatic, and would almost certainly opt for whichever direction appeared to be the most profitable-he was therefore unlikely to fight Geoffrey over the Earl’s death.

“I hear you have made the acquaintance of the King,” said the Earl conversationally, still admiring his new acquisitions. “Chepstow is a splendid castle, is it not?”

“What?” said Walter, narrowing his eyes. “Geoffrey has never met the King.”

Geoffrey’s heart sank.

“Visiting the King was his first stop, I am told,” said the Earl, feigning surprise. “Really, Sir Geoffrey! Did you not mention to your brothers and sisters as important an occasion as an audience with King Henry?”

“It did not seem relevant,” said Geoffrey tersely.

“You took him the body of that poor knight who was killed,” pressed the Earl. “Sir Aumary? Was that his name?”

“Yes,” said Geoffrey. He had little choice now but to be open, or his brothers would begin to suspect him of even more skullduggery. “Aumary was killed in an ambush in the Forest of Dene. Since he was bearing dispatches for the King, I thought I should take them to Chepstow as quickly as possible-Aumary told me they were important.”

“And were they?” asked the Earl.

“I have no idea,” said Geoffrey. “I did not read them. They were sealed.”

“Were you not in the least bit curious?” pressed the Earl, clearly not believing a word of it. “Did you really not have the remotest idea about what was in them?”

“It was none of my business,” said Geoffrey. “I try to stay away from the affairs of kings and rulers wherever possible. It is safer.”

“But I am told you can read,” the Earl insisted. “Did you not glance over the King’s shoulder to see what was the nature of these vital messages that had put you to so much inconvenience?”

So that was it, thought Geoffrey. Aumary’s messages to the King was why the Earl was so keen to meet him-the Earl had heard that the King had received dispatches from France, and he wanted to know what was in them. Since Geoffrey had no intention of telling the Earl or anyone else about the King’s recipe for horse liniment, continuing to feign ignorance was by far the most prudent course of action.

“I did not read the messages,” he said firmly, “and the King most certainly did not give them to me to peruse. Perhaps the constable might know-he was present when they were opened.”

“I have already asked him, and he told me to ask you,” said the Earl smoothly. “But never mind. They cannot have been that important, or the King would have provided Aumary with an escort-and he travelled alone, I understand. But here comes my priest. Is the end near for Sir Godric, Father?”

The priest gave his head a jowl-cascading shake. “Not for a while yet, my lord, although I have given him last rites lest his end should come upon him unexpectedly. He is sleeping, and I am certain he will wake again tomorrow.”

“Good,” said the Earl, rubbing his hands together briskly. “But I am tired. I had expected to stay at Monmouth tonight, but I thought I should come here instead given that Godric is soon to be dead. I will take your chamber, Walter. The rest of you,” he said, waving a contemptuous hand at his grovelling retinue, “can fend for yourselves.”

After the Earl had swept up the stairs, followed by his squires, his knights and clerks began to argue among themselves as to who was to sleep where in the hall. Geoffrey was about to return to Godric’s chamber when Walter caught his arm furiously.

“What is this about you meeting the King? Who was this murdered knight-Sir Aumary-and who ambushed you? You have said nothing about all this before.”

“It was none of your affair,” said Geoffrey, freeing his arm impatiently.

“You lied to me,” said Bertrada coldly. “You said your journey from Jerusalem was uneventful, and now I hear that you had an ambush to contend with-hardly a non-event, even for a fighting man like you.”

“And what else did you tell the King?” demanded Henry, standing in his way to prevent him from leaving. “I suppose you thought he might help you wrest Goodrich from us. Well, he would not, because he believes it should be mine. He told me so himself.”

“Rubbish!” spat Walter, almost beside himself with rage. “Goodrich will be mine because I am the oldest.”

“I heard about the brush that Geoffrey had with our neighbour,” said Stephen. “Mark Ingram gave me the details. He said that Caerdig ambushed you when you were almost in Lann Martin.”

“What?” exploded Henry. “You fought with Caerdig? Why does the Welsh weasel still live? Call yourself a knight? Why did you not run him through?”

“Because then his men would have killed me,” said Geoffrey. “And anyway, when I had him at the tip of my sword, he was unarmed.”

“So?” demanded Henry. “What has that got to do with it?”

“Well done, Geoffrey!” said Walter scathingly. “You have a God-given chance to rid us of one of our most bitter enemies, and you throw it away.”

“Why did you not tell us about it?” asked Stephen. “I am not questioning your decision to spare Caerdig’s life, only that you did not inform us of an ambush so close to our home.”

“Perhaps I was wrong,” said Geoffrey. “But I did not want to arrive here after twenty years claiming that I had been attacked by one of your neighbours.”

“What kind of excuse is that?” yelled Henry, incensed. “I could have had Lann Martin, to add to Goodrich when it is mine.”

“Goodrich will never be yours,” shouted Walter hotly. He lurched suddenly, and Geoffrey realised he was well on the way to being drunk. Doubtless being intoxicated was the best way to deal with an unexpected and wholly unwelcome guest like the Earl.

Stephen sighed as they began to argue again. “I have had enough of this. I have a bitch in the village that is about to pup, and I would like to check all goes well. Good night, brothers.”

He turned on his heel and walked away. Not wanting to be left with Walter and Henry, who had made no effort to stop squabbling, Geoffrey followed him outside. The gate between the inner and outer wards stood wide open, and Stephen strolled through it, whistling as he went. There were no guards at the barbican gate, and Geoffrey could hear him shouting to be let out. Geoffrey swung round suddenly at a noise behind him, and did not relax much when he saw Malger standing in the shadows.

Malger frowned when he saw Stephen calling for the sergeant on duty to wake so that he could leave. “I do not feel the Earl is particularly safe here. I think I will post my own guards for as long as he stays.”

“That is probably wise,” agreed Geoffrey. “I could take this so-called fortress single-handed.”

He decided not to add to Malger’s concerns by saying that he almost had-when he had blustered his way into the castle on his first night home, and the only resistance he had encountered was an aborted challenge from Sir Olivier and a few surly questions from the guards.

Malger strode away, shouting to men who lounged in the bailey, and set about establishing his watches. It would probably be the first time Goodrich had been in secure hands since Godric had taken to his bed, Geoffrey thought.

It was cold wearing only his father’s tatty shirt and patched hose, and he was glad to go back inside. He reached the door just as the first heavy spots of rain began to fall. Stephen would get wet. Walter and Henry were still arguing bitterly, unaware that they were providing entertainment for the Earl’s retinue who listened with undisguised amusement to the increasingly furious exchange.

Geoffrey left them to it, and went to his father’s room, taking a candle from a sconce on the stairs so that he could see where he was going. The dog slunk from under a table, and went with him, uncharacteristically subdued. Geoffrey wondered whether the Earl had kicked it.

He started back as someone emerged on the stairs above him, and cursed yet again for allowing himself to be caught weaponless within the treacherous walls of Goodrich Castle. A young woman stepped out of the shadows, her face tear-stained.

“I thought you were Sir Olivier,” she said unsteadily.

“Do I look like a peacock-all feathers and no courage?” he demanded, and was immediately sorry. He had no right to take out his residual anger at the Earl on someone he had never met.

The girl gazed at him with large, troubled eyes. “I am Rohese. You must be Sir Godfrey.”

“Geoffrey. And you are my father’s …” He had been about to say whore.

“Chambermaid, yes. But Godric will not be able to save me!” She began to cry.

“Save you from whom?” asked Geoffrey, confused. “Sir Olivier? I cannot see that he would present much of a threat to anyone.”

“Not Olivier. Him. The Earl!” Her voiced faded to a horrified whisper.

“Ah.”

“Will you help me?” she pleaded, clutching his arm, and gazing up at him with wide eyes that leaked tears. “Do not let him take me, Sir Godfrey. Joan says that if he wants me, I have no choice but to go to his bedchamber.”

Geoffrey studied her. She was tiny, and had a delicate heart-shaped face with large blue eyes. Tendrils of golden hair escaped from the veil she wore over her head, and his heart softened when he saw she was only about sixteen.

“But what can I do?” he asked. “The Earl, it seems, is a law unto himself-what the Earl wants, the Earl takes.”

“I will die rather than let him have me!” she said, with a frail attempt at courage. “Give me your dagger. I will kill myself here and now!”

“You would be better justified in using it on the Earl,” said Geoffrey. “Is he expecting you?”

“He is in his chamber, and Joan said she would send Sir Olivier for me if I did not go to him of my own accord.” She swallowed noisily as footsteps sounded on the stairs below.

“Rohese?” called Sir Olivier softly. “The Earl is waiting.”

Rohese gave a noise halfway between a groan and a sob, and almost swooned against the wall. Geoffrey took her by the wrist and hauled her into Godric’s room, closing the door behind them. Now what? he thought, looking around and wondering what he had let himself in for. Godric’s chamber was likely to be the first room that would be searched if the Earl’s amorous intentions were serious. There were few places Rohese could hide-unless she could fit down the garderobe shaft-a desperate option, but one that Geoffrey had employed himself on occasion before he had grown too large. But Godric’s chamber was on the top floor, and even if Rohese survived the fall, she was likely to drown in the foul, sucking mud that comprised much of the castle moat.

Olivier’s footsteps were coming closer, and Rohese gazed at the door in mute terror. Geoffrey hauled open the chest at the foot of the bed and bundled her inside. He was sitting on it and buckling to his waist the Arabian dagger that the Earl had rejected when Olivier entered.

“Have you seen Rohese the whore?” Olivier asked, lifting the covers of Godric’s bed to peer underneath it.

“Is she back then?” Geoffrey asked. “That is good news. My father has missed her.”

“Well, he can have her tomorrow,” said Olivier, going to the tiny room at the far end of Godric’s chamber to look down the garderobe shaft. “But tonight, the Earl would like her. Damn it all! Where can she have gone?”

“I take it the opportunity to revel in the pleasure of the Earl’s company is less than appealing to her?”

“What nonsense are you talking?” mumbled Olivier. “If you are asking whether she wants to go to him, that is wholly irrelevant. Do you mind standing? I want to look in that chest.”

“I have been sitting on it,” said Geoffrey. “How could she have climbed inside without my noticing?”

“I had not thought of that,” said Olivier, scratching his head. “Help me look for her, Geoffrey. The Earl will be wanting me to stand in, if I cannot find her!”

Geoffrey gazed at him, and wondered what kind of man the Earl was.

“I meant by supplying Joan,” said Olivier hastily. “And she will not approve of that!”

“I doubt the Earl would make much progress with Joan if she were not willing,” said Geoffrey, certain that his assertive sister would not stand for any nonsense-unless she viewed the arrangement positively, of course. He stood, and looked under Godric’s bed, and then went to check the garderobe shaft.

“She is not here,” said Olivier, slumping down on the chest. I wonder where she could have gone.”

“Perhaps she has hurled herself off the battlements,” suggested Geoffrey. “I might, if the alternative was a night with the Earl of Shrewsbury.”

“You would not last a night with him,” said Olivier with conviction. “You would be unable to keep a civil tongue in your head, and he would run you through long before dawn.”

“I had noticed that the Earl seems to prefer sycophants over people with independent minds,” said Geoffrey, smiling as Olivier looked blankly at him. “But you had better go and find Rohese, or you will have to answer to Joan.”

“Lord, yes!” said Olivier, hurrying from the room.

“You are playing a dangerous game, Godfrey,” said Godric, lifting his head from the pillow, where he had been pretending to sleep. “Do not make an enemy of the Earl. He is barely on this side of sanity, and I would not like to imagine you in his clutches.”

Geoffrey sighed. “So I have been told several times recently.”

He opened the lid of the chest, and helped Rohese out. She ran to Godric and buried her head in the folds of his nightgown, sobbing softly.

“You have been decent over this,” said Godric, stroking her hair, and looking up at Geoffrey. “None of the others would dare risk the Earl’s wrath over a serving wench.”

“We have not won yet,” said Geoffrey. “They will be back, and we need to find another hiding place.”

He glanced around the bare room, and began to reconsider the garderobe option.

“She can slip between my mattresses,” whispered Godric. “They will not look there, and better a little discomfort than entertaining the Earl.”

“Better a good deal of discomfort, I should say,” muttered Geoffrey. He heaved the light, upper mattress high enough for Rohese to climb underneath it, and let it down gently. “Do not lie that way, you will suffocate. Keep your head this end. Good. And if father will keep his legs to the left, you might yet survive the night un-Earled.”

He was just tucking in the bedcovers when the door was flung open and Olivier marched in, flanked by Drogo and Malger.

“Does no one ever think to knock before entering?” Geoffrey demanded angrily. “This is my father’s bedchamber. He is ill, and does not need you bursting in every few moments.”

“My apologies,” stammered Olivier, disconcerted by Geoffrey’s display of temper. “But the Earl has sent us to search again. I have looked down the garderobe, Drogo,” he added as the thick-set knight went towards it.

“Why? Does he not trust you to carry out as simple a task as searching a room for a whore?” asked Geoffrey acidly. “For God’s sake, man, you have looked once already. Where do you think she might be? Between the floorboards? Blending in with the wall-paintings?”

“Even a whore would have problems blending in with those,” muttered Malger, eyeing them disparagingly. “Drogo, look in the chest.”

Drogo flung open the lid of the chest, and began to stab around in it with his sword.

“Oh, well considered, Sir Drogo,” said Geoffrey facetiously, sitting on the edge of the bed and hoping he was not crushing Rohese. “If she were hidden there, you would be presenting the Earl with a whore with ventilation for his night of debauchery.”

Drogo whipped his sword out of the chest and he made towards Geoffrey menacingly. Malger intercepted him, and held him back only with difficulty.

“Not now, Drogo,” said Malger, glowering at Geoffrey. “But we will not have long to wait, given his insolent tongue. How he survived the Earl tonight is a mystery to me.”

“Are you leaving?” asked Geoffrey as the trio made for the door. He tore the bedcovers away from Godric, revealing the emaciated body that lay helpless underneath. “Are you sure you would not like to inspect my father, lest he has his whore secreted inside his nightgown? Perhaps she lies underneath him. Shall I lift him for you?”

Drogo was across the floor in an instant, hauling his hunting knife from its scabbard. But Geoffrey was quicker by far, and when Drogo felt the tip of Geoffrey’s Arabian dagger pricking his throat he stopped dead, breathing hard, his small eyes blazing with a mixture of fear and anger. Gradually, he lowered his weapon, and took a step backwards. Geoffrey made no move to follow, but kept his own dagger raised.

“The whore is not here, as you can see,” he said softly. “Now, my father is tired, and he needs his rest. He would appreciate some peace, entertaining though your company has been.”

Without a word, Drogo turned and stalked out. Malger snapped his fingers at Olivier.

“Come, Olivier. We should be organising the guards on the gatehouse, not chasing a whore. Surely your wife can find her? Meanwhile, I want archers on the palisade-if this miserable hole can supply us with any, that is.”

Olivier watched Malger leave, and then turned horrified eyes on Geoffrey, his naked fear very much at odds with his knightly attire. He said nothing, but shook his head despairingly at Geoffrey and scuttled after his friends, closing the door behind him. Geoffrey dropped the dagger to his side.

“God’s blood, Godfrey, you do play a dangerous game!” said Godric admiringly, reaching out a feeble hand to try to pluck the bedcovers back over him. “But have a care, boy. I did not leave you Goodrich so you could hold it for a week-you would do well to be more prudent around the Earl and his henchmen. And whatever you do, do not let Joan catch you hiding my whore. She would skin you alive.”

Geoffrey rubbed his eyes, knowing very well that Joan would be none too pleased if she was forced to spend a night in merry debauchery with the Earl because her brother had secreted Rohese away. He smiled at the notion, and went to help Godric with his blankets. Rohese’s head appeared at the bottom of the bed.

“I would stay there tonight, if I were you, Rohese,” said Geoffrey, suddenly weary. “Can you manage? Can you breathe under there with all that dust?”

She nodded tearfully, and ducked out of sight.

Godric sighed, and turned a face that was grey with fatigue to Geoffrey. “By the Devil, I am tired. Fetch me a cup of that wine, Godfrey.”

The massive jug had been refilled, and was so heavy that it was easier for Geoffrey simply to dip the goblet in it and draw some out, than it was to pour. He helped Godric take several small sips, and settled him down for the night, pushing him to the left side of the bed for Rohese’s comfort. When Godric slept, Geoffrey hunted around for a spare blanket, wrapped himself up in it, and lay on the floor near the fire, placing the Arabian dagger near his hand. Within the last hour, he had made himself new enemies, and it always paid to be cautious. The dog settled next to him, its head resting on its paws.

Geoffrey had scarcely begun to doze when the door opened yet again, and Hedwise slipped in with Stephen behind her. Wearily, Geoffrey pulled himself back from the brink of sleep and sat up. Would they never leave him alone? Hedwise held out a bowl to him, which Geoffrey accepted with some caution.

“In all the confusion of the Earl arriving, we never offered you anything to eat,” she said, softly so as not to waken Godric. “But here is some fish broth to last you until morning.”

“And here is some wine,” said Stephen, holding out a bottle. He began to hand the bottle to Geoffrey, but then took it back to break the seal for him. “There. This is excellent wine, but the seals are sometimes difficult to remove. I would not like to think of you here with a bottle of wine that you could not open.”

“I am sure I would have managed,” said Geoffrey, for whom awkward seals were never a problem. “But thank you.”

Stephen gave a sudden laugh. “Forgive me-I do not mean to be patronising. I am sure a man who forced the walls of the Holy City would have no problems undoing a bottle of wine. Perhaps tomorrow we can open one together. I would like to hear more about the Crusade.”

Geoffrey nodded, and examined the bottle. Marks in the glass suggested that it had come from France, and was a far cry from the bitter local brew that was usually consumed at Goodrich. He smiled at Stephen to show his appreciation.

“Did you see your dog?” Geoffrey asked, politely interested in what was clearly Stephen’s main love in life.

“I am just going there now,” said Stephen. “I had not reached the barbican before it started to rain, so I came back for a cloak. Then I remembered you, stuck here with Godric, and I thought you might need something to help you sleep.”

“Thank you,” said Geoffrey again.

Stephen prepared to leave. “Enjoy the wine, Geoffrey,” he said. “But do not touch that foul brew father likes. It will poison you.”

Geoffrey glanced at him sharply, but Stephen’s attention was caught by the way the lamplight shone through Hedwise’s nightshift, and he could not tell whether his brother’s words had a deeper meaning or not.

“You should not have let everyone know that you came home lootless,” said Hedwise, laughing down at Geoffrey. “Then you would not have been so neglected in favour of the Earl.”

That, Geoffrey thought, was probably true. He returned her smile, and sipped the broth. Not surprisingly, it smelled strongly of fish, and Geoffrey had to force himself not to show his distaste. It had been kind of her to think of him, and Geoffrey had no wish to alienate yet another member of his family by declining a gift brought out of consideration for him. He took a mouthful of the wine to mask the flavour, but either the wine also had the taint of fish about it, or the broth had done irreparable damage to his sense of taste.

Stephen gave him an odd salute and left, flinging his cloak around his shoulders as he went. Hedwise closed the door behind him and came to sit next to Geoffrey.

“Finish the broth, Geoffrey,” she said. “Or you will be wasting away.” She smiled at him, her eyes dark in the candle-light, and edged a little closer. Pretending to reach for the wine, Geoffrey moved away, but it was not long before her leg was rubbing against his.

“Hedwise …” he began.

“Hush,” she said, putting a finger on his lips to prevent him from speaking. “Let us enjoy these few moments together without words. Drink the broth.”

Geoffrey took a second tentative sip, fighting not to gag at the unpleasant, almost bitter taste, and washed it down with a swallow of wine. Hedwise moved closer yet, squashing Geoffrey against the wall. He wondered whether her attraction to him was a case of simple lust, or whether she was working to put him in some dreadfully compromising position in which Henry would certainly attempt to kill him for adultery.

He was in the process of extricating himself from her encircling legs, when the door opened yet again, and Walter lurched in, supported by Stephen. Hedwise sprang away guiltily, and Walter eyed them blearily for a moment, while Stephen gave a knowing smile and said nothing.

“I am dispossessed,” slurred Walter gloomily. “First, my manor is about to go to another man on the basis of some trumped-up claim of illegitimacy, and second, I have even been ousted from my own bedchamber.”

He dropped a blanket on the floor next to Geoffrey, and slumped on it, wafting wine fumes all over the chamber.

“Move over, little brother. There is enough room near this fire for two. Or should I say three?” He leered at Hedwise. “But I am not sleeping while that thing is in the room,” he added, indicating Geoffrey’s dog with a sideways toss of his head that almost toppled him over.

The dog, sensing it was the focus of attention, rose, and walked towards Walter, wagging its tail hopefully. Walter made a sudden movement with his hand to repel it, and it jerked backwards, knocking into Geoffrey. Fishy soup and wine alike spilled onto Geoffrey’s shirt sleeve.

“I will take him,” said Stephen, flicking his fingers at the dog as he had seen Geoffrey do. “And this time, I really am going to visit my pupping hound, Your dog can come with me.”

“He will not go out in the rain,” said Geoffrey, shaking his arm to remove the worst of the spillage from his sleeve. “He-”

Without so much as a backwards glance, the dog followed Stephen from the room, wagging its tail and snuffling around him in a friendly manner never bestowed upon Geoffrey. Geoffrey could only suppose that Stephen must have something edible secreted on his person.

“Good,” said Walter, as Hedwise went too, closing the door behind her and leaving them with the light from the flickering fire. “I am exhausted. Finish that broth or Hedwise will be mortally offended. She is quite justifiably proud of that fish soup.”

He watched Geoffrey take another sip, screwing up his face against the strong, fishy flavour. Hedwise’s mortal offence was just too bad, Geoffrey decided. He made a pretence at draining the bowl to satisfy Walter, and then tipped the remainder down the garderobe shaft as soon as Walter’s eyelids began to droop. As soon as Walter was asleep, he began some impressive snoring that had their father tossing and turning restlessly.

Geoffrey placed the empty bowl on the hearth and tucked the blanket around his oldest brother, although he could see that Walter was a far beyond caring about any such tender ministrations. Geoffrey took a sip of wine to rid his mouth of the taste of fish, but, if anything, Stephen’s brew was worse. Since the bottle suggested it was wine of some quality, Geoffrey could only assume that it must have gone sour on its long journey from France. He set it virtually untouched back on the hearth by the bowl, and sat next to Walter, watching the flames flickering in the fire. He felt sick and his stomach hurt, and the mere thought of fish broth almost brought it all back up again.

He pulled his surcoat tighter around him against the cold, and listened to the sounds of Olivier’s noisy search for Rohese in all manner of improbable places. A picture of the Earl’s face swam before him, the dark face twisted with loathing, so that Geoffrey felt disinclined to sleep, although he was bone weary. In the end, he rose and moved the chest from the end of the bed against the door, reeling from a sudden wave of dizziness as he did so. Satisfied that anyone trying to enter the room would now make sufficient noise to waken him, he slipped into a deep sleep.

‘What have you done? How could you? Are you some kind of monster to do such a vile thing under your father’s own roof?”

Geoffrey was vaguely aware of strident voices, and of someone prodding him hard with the toe of a boot. The shouting seemed very distant, and he was certain it could have nothing to do with him. He settled back to sleep again.

“Oh, no you don’t! Come on! Wake up!”

The voices became more insistent, and Geoffrey felt himself being pulled upright. Then he was jolted awake with a start as a bucket of icy water was dashed over him. He gasped in shock, trying to force his eyes to focus on the people who surrounded him.

“That did the trick!” announced Henry grimly, flinging the bucket into a corner. “He is all yours.”

He stepped back to reveal the Earl of Shrewsbury behind him. Geoffrey squinted up at them, wondering why the light was lancing so painfully into his eyes. He tried to stand, but his legs were like rubber, and would not hold him up.

“Stay where you are,” said the Earl sharply. “Now. Tell me why you saw fit to murder your own father. He was dying anyway. You only had to wait a short while longer.”

Geoffrey thought he was in the depth of some dreadful nightmare, and tried to force himself awake. But a vicious kick from Henry when he did not answer convinced him that he was indeed awake, but that he might be better dreaming.

“Do not just sit there!” yelled Henry. “The Earl asked you a question and is expecting a reply.”

Geoffrey tried to speak, but his tongue felt as though it belonged to someone else and the sounds he managed to produce made no sense to anyone, least of all to himself.

“What is the matter with him?” demanded the Earl, glaring at Henry. “He was not so inarticulate when he bandied words with me last night. Has he been at the wine?”

“I should say,” said Stephen from his father’s bedside, hefting up the enormous jug. “This flagon was filled to the brim with the strong red wine Godric likes only yesterday, and it is now completely empty.” He used both hands to tip it upside down, lest anyone did not believe him.

Their voices buzzed in Geoffrey’s head, and he began to feel sick. He took a deep breath, and tried to speak a second time.

“What has happened? Why are you all shouting?”

They stared at him. “Who would not shout after coming to find Godric most foully murdered?” demanded Walter, eyeing him angrily. “And I believed you the other day, when you told us that you did not approve of the slaughter of unarmed people!”

“What are you talking about?” asked Geoffrey, bewildered. “Who murdered Godric?”

“He is feigning innocence,” said Henry, striding over to Geoffrey, and hauling him to his feet. “Come and see your handiwork!”

Geoffrey reeled, and grabbed at the Earl to prevent himself from falling over.

“He does not smell of wine,” said the Earl, standing back as Stephen hurried forward to relieve him from Geoffrey’s embrace. “Are you certain he is drunk?”

“He downed the wine to rid his brain of the unpleasant memory of what he has done,” said Henry harshly. “Look there, Geoffrey. Now what have you got to say for yourself?”

Geoffrey gazed down at the sprawled corpse of Godric Mappestone with a confused jumble of feelings, the strongest of which was nausea. Godric had been stabbed in the chest, and whoever had killed him had done so with Geoffrey’s Arabian dagger-the one of the three that the Earl had declined to take the night before. Geoffrey closed his eyes in despair, but opened then again when the blackness threatened to overwhelm him.

“The chest was against the door,” he said weakly. “How could anyone enter?”

“What chest?” demanded the Earl. “You mean that one?”

He pointed to the chest that stood at the end of the bed, where it had been before Geoffrey had moved it. Had Geoffrey dreamed that he had dragged it across the floor to the door? But there were fresh scratches on the floor, where the heavy box had slightly damaged it. Was it Walter who had killed Godric in the night, and who had then moved the chest back to its original position so that he could leave? And had Rohese witnessed the murderer, and was she still hidden between the mattresses? Geoffrey felt he could hardly look with the Earl watching.

He tugged one arm free from Stephen and rubbed it across his face. He felt as though he were suffocating from the heat of the room, and yet he felt icy cold.

“Can we go outside?” he asked, thinking that if he did not, he might well be sick. “I cannot breathe in here.”

“He does not like to be in the same room as his victim,” said Walter. “What do you say, Stephen? Shall we leave Bertrada to lay Godric out and adjourn to the hall?”

“I am not laying him out!” declared Bertrada indignantly. “He has been murdered!”

“It is not contagious,” said the Earl dryly.

In Goodrich Castle, Geoffrey was not so sure. Taking advantage of their bickering, he shrugged off Stephen’s restraining hands, staggered towards the door, and lunged down the stairs. Once in the hall, he weaved his way unsteadily across it, making for the door.

“Do not let him escape!” yelled Henry, in hot pursuit, although the only person in the inner ward to hear was Julian, who saw Geoffrey and hurried forward to help him.

“I knew it!” she exclaimed, as Geoffrey slumped heavily on the bottom step, unable to walk any further. “I was certain you were not the kind of man to kill Sir Godric as he slept. You have been poisoned, just like he was!”

“I most certainly have,” said Geoffrey pulling his knees up in front of him and resting his swimming head on his arms. “But by whom? And was it the same person who killed my father?”

“Well, I should say so!” said Julian with conviction. “It is unlikely that there are two poisoners in the castle. Enide was also poisoned, of course, but she never did find out who did it.”

“Now you have had some fresh air, do you remember anything else?” asked the Earl, coming over to where Geoffrey sat.

He leaned against a wall, nonchalantly inspecting his fingernails, but lurking in the depths of his eyes was a black malice. Joan, Stephen, and Godric had been right when they had advised Geoffrey against making an enemy of the powerful Earl of Shrewsbury, and he wished he had given their advice a little more thought before dismissing it in such a cavalier manner.

“You are in quite a predicament, Geoffrey, so you had better hope you recall something useful,” put in Bertrada helpfully.

“I went to sleep after Walter did, and I remember nothing until you woke me this morning,” said Geoffrey. “Although Hedwise and Stephen brought me some broth and wine that Walter was most insistent that I finished.”

He looked from one to the other, trying to see whether any of them betrayed themselves by guilty glances, but they stood with the light behind them, and his vision was still too blurred to see any incriminating looks anyway.

“So, are you saying that you slept through the murder?” asked Bertrada with heavy sarcasm. “Is that what you are telling us?”

“Yes,” said Geoffrey. “But Walter was there, too. Did he see nothing?” Or did he commit murder was his unspoken thought, recalling the moved chest.

“When I woke, I tried to rouse you, but you were slumbering too deeply,” said Walter. “Quietly, so as not to wake Godric, I came downstairs for breakfast. It was Bertrada who raised the alarm, when she took Godric his morning ale.”

“Was our father dead when you left the room?” asked Geoffrey. “And did you move the chest?”

“Chest? What chest?” demanded Walter belligerently. “You keep talking about a chest, but the only box in Godric’s room is the one at the end of the bed, and there was no need for me to move that. And of course father was alive when I left this morning. It was not I who drank so much that I lay insensible through his murder!”

That was not strictly true, Geoffrey knew. Walter had drunk a good deal the night before, and was virtually unconscious by the time Stephen had helped him stagger into the room.

“But did you actually look at father in the bed?” pressed Geoffrey. “Was he sleeping?”

“I have already told you,” said Walter, becoming impatient. “I did not want to waken him early, so I left quietly. I did not go and poke at him-but since I would have heard anyone kill him in the night, of course he was still alive when I left.”

“But you did not actually see that he was still living,” insisted Geoffrey.

“What is this?” demanded Henry furiously. “Godric was found dead after Walter had left him alone with Geoffrey. He was slain with Geoffrey’s own knife, and we let him ask such questions of his innocent kin? Why, his guilt shines through every pore in his body! We should hang him now, and rid ourselves of a murderer!” He stepped towards Geoffrey, and drew a dagger from his belt.

As Geoffrey tried to pull free of Henry, alarmed at the extent to which the poison seemed to have sapped his strength, the Earl strode forward and pushed Henry away, sending him reeling with little more than a flick of his hand.

“You are quite wrong, Henry,” he said. “Geoffrey’s guilt is far from clear-yet. It is obvious that he drank himself insensible on the wine that was missing from your father’s chamber, as any fool can see from the state of him now. But that in itself speaks of his innocence of the murder. He can barely walk, and I do not think he could have slain Godric while he was so incapacitated.”

Geoffrey looked at Julian, wondering if she might announce that he was not drunk at all, but suffering from the effects of some insidious poison. But Julian had already decided whose side she would take in the battle between the brothers, and she said nothing.

“But who else could have done it?” Henry asked, still fingering his dagger. “And do you not think it a coincidence that Godric has been brutally murdered so soon after Geoffrey returned, and after Geoffrey spent the night alone with him?”

“But Geoffrey has spent other nights alone with Godric,” Hedwise pointed out. “And anyway, last night they were not alone. Walter was with them.”

Henry whirled around with murder in his eyes. “So now you want to blame Walter? How is it that you are suddenly so protective of Geoffrey? Is he more to you than just a brother-in-law?”

Geoffrey wondered what kind of supernatural being Henry imagined him to be, if he believed that Geoffrey could seduce his brother’s wife and kill his father within the space of a few hours-and still manage to drink enough strong red wine to render a garrison insensible. A wave of sickness washed over him, and he held his breath, not wanting to throw up over the Earl’s feet.

“What is clear is that someone would very much like me to believe that Sir Geoffrey is the culprit,” said the Earl softly. “And I do not appreciate being misled. I do not appreciate it at all.”

He looked at each member of the assembled Mappestone clan in turn, silencing their bickering every bit as effectively as a volley of arrows would have done.

“It seems to me that what has happened is this,” the Earl continued. “Sir Geoffrey drank himself into oblivion, and then someone seized the opportunity to slip into Godric’s chamber and kill the old man while Geoffrey was incapacitated. This someone seems to have selected Geoffrey’s Arabian dagger so that he would be implicated.”

“Geoffrey’s dagger was selected, because it is Geoffrey who used it,” said Henry sullenly.

“Really?” said the Earl silkily. “But perhaps it is you who is the culprit, Henry. After all, it was you who pointed out the dagger first, and you are clearly keen for me to allow you to hang Geoffrey as the killer. Is that because you do not want to give him time to prove his innocence and your guilt?”

Henry paled and made to answer, but apparently could think of nothing to say that would adequately refute the Earl’s accusations.

“And you, Walter,” said the Earl, swinging around to face him. “It seems that you cannot prove that Godric was not killed while you, too, were in his chamber. Who says that you did not slay him while Geoffrey lay insensible? Or even that your loyal wife, Bertrada, did not do it for you?”

“But what would we have to gain from that?” protested Bertrada. “Godric was dying anyway!”

“You are right,” said the Earl, after a moment of consideration. “In which case, it must be that the plot simply aimed to hurt Geoffrey. I was right in my initial assumption-someone wants him accused of murder. Now, which of you might mean him harm?”

He looked around again. Walter and Stephen met his gaze; Henry did not. Bertrada fiddled with a loose thread on her gown, while Hedwise appeared bored by the entire business, and was staring into the distance. Joan glowered at Geoffrey, while behind her, Olivier fingered his moustache nervously. On the fringes, the Earl’s knights, Malger and Drogo, exchanged meaningful glances.

“Which of you has something to lose?” asked the Earl, studying the Mappestones as a cat might watch a mouse. “I imagine that you all think you do. Did Sir Godric inform you that he had made a new will, and that he passed a copy to me for safe-keeping? Not that he distrusted you, of course.”

“That new will can never stand up in a court of law,” objected Bertrada. “It was made while the old man was far from well in mind or body!”

“Well, that does reflect rather poorly on me as a witness, then, does it not?” said the Earl sardonically. “Do you think I am incapable of making such a judgment?”

Bertrada swallowed hard, and was silent.

“Godric’s new will is damaging for the greedy hopes of all his offspring,” said the Earl smoothly. “He claimed that Walter is illegitimate, and that Stephen is the son of his brother Sigurd. Henry maintains that only a Mappestone born in England should have Goodrich-which Godric tells me Henry was not-so that rules him out. And that leaves only Geoffrey.”

“No. It leaves me, too,” said Joan briskly. “There are precedents in law for a woman to inherit, and I intend to exploit them.”

“You are quite right,” said the Earl. “And you made your case most prettily to me last night. But there is a factor that none of you have taken into account in all this.”

“What?” demanded Henry, more roughly than was prudent with a man like the Earl. “We have debated this issue for years. I believe we have left no stone unturned.”

“I am sure you do,” replied the Earl sweetly. “But I made some enquiries about the relationship between your father and mother before they were married, and I discovered that they shared the same grandfather. Such a marriage cannot be considered sacred under the laws of God and the Church-consanguinity is a serious matter, you know, and kingdoms have fallen for less. Anyway, I applied to the Church to have Godric’s marriage annulled-for the good of his soul and that of his wife.”

He paused to look around at them, enjoying the stunned expressions on their faces. Geoffrey was certain that the souls of Godric and his wife were the last things on the Earl’s mind. The Earl saw the doubt in his eyes, and gave the faintest of smiles before continuing.

“Quite by chance, the news that the Pope had agreed to the annulment came the day Godric himself summoned me on account of his claim that he was being poisoned by one of his family.”

He paused again, aware that he had the undivided attention of his small audience.

“Godric was distressed by this information, of course, but he made another will immediately.”

“But who could be his heir?” cried Stephen. “It seems we are now all his illegitimate offspring!”

“He did what many of my loyal subjects have done,” said the Earl. “He left everything to me.”