A Head for Poisoning

CHAPTER EIGHT

If Geoffrey had not felt so dreadful, he would have laughed at the expressions on the faces of his brothers and sister. All went from shocked disbelief to cold fury within the space of a few moments.

“But we have seen this new will,” said Walter, the first to recover himself sufficiently to speak. “It says that Godric has bequeathed everything to Geoffrey.”

“To Godfrey,” corrected Stephen. “In the service of the Duke of Normandy.”

The Earl raised querying eyebrows. “And who might this Godfrey be?”

“There is no such man,” said Stephen. “It-”

“Then this other will is of no consequence,” said the Earl dismissively “And it is quite irrelevant, anyway.” He snapped his fingers and his fat priest hurried forward. “Here is the will Godric made in my presence, citing me as sole beneficiary. Would you like to read it?”

“Geoffrey will,” said Walter, stepping forward and snatching the parchment from the fat priest’s damp fingers. He thrust it at Geoffrey, and everyone waited. Geoffrey tried to make the black lines on the parchment stay still long enough for him to read them, but they wriggled and swirled and threatened to make him sick.

“I cannot,” he said, dropping his head back onto his arms, and letting the parchment flutter to the ground. Walter retrieved it, and turned it this way and that helplessly.

“I thought he was literate,” said the Earl, turning to Joan in surprise. “You told me that he could read and write in several languages.”

“Enide always said he could,” said Bertrada, “although I never saw any evidence of it myself. Perhaps he has been deceiving us all these years.”

“Just like he has deceived us by hiring Ine to poison Godric,” said Stephen bitterly.

“Are you accusing him of hiring a poisoner as well as stabbing Godric?” asked the Earl sternly. “I thought I had just told you that I do not appreciate people trying to mislead me. If you have evidence for your charges, then let me see it. If not, you will desist from your wild accusations.”

Stephen was the first to look away from the Earl’s piercing gaze.

“I have no evidence,” he admitted. “But I have my suspicions. Geoffrey is a liar-you just saw that he cannot read when he has always pretended to us that he can. And he returned to Goodrich solely so that he could claim to be this Godfrey in the service of the Duke of Normandy.”

“Of course he can read,” snapped Joan. “Show them, Geoffrey!”

“Geoffrey thought he was this mythical Godfrey, did he?” asked the Earl, ignoring her. “Well, it does not matter that he cannot read for you. Your clerk will do that later. The will you hold is a copy, by the way: the original is safely in Shrewsbury. Now, I am sure you will not be so rash, nor so ungrateful for my protection all these years, as to hurt my feelings by contesting the will?”

“But what will we do?” asked Bertrada in a small voice. “Where will we go?”

“To Rwirdin, I suppose, if Sir Geoffrey will have you there,” said the Earl. “What you do is really none of my concern, and I honestly do not care. But I want you out of my castle, and off my land within a week. I shall be back then to take possession, and I will deal harshly with anyone who is still here.”

“But this cannot be happening!” cried Walter, still clutching the offending piece of paper. He leaned down and jerked Geoffrey’s head up by the hair. “For God’s sake, man! Read it before it is too late!”

The Earl made a hasty, crab-like movement to one side as Geoffrey’s stomach protested against the sudden movement.

“Have a care, Walter,” he said angrily. “He was almost sick over me, and these boots cost me a fortune. And whether he reads it or not will make no difference: it will say the same thing whoever reads it to you. The manor is mine. Now, let us not part on bad terms. I would like your congratulations on my new acquisition before I leave.”

He stood, hands on hips, displaying the fine cut of his clothes, and waited.

“Do not make an enemy of a man like the Earl of Shrewsbury,” said Geoffrey, squinting up at his brothers and sister. “Do you not know of his reputation?”

The Earl eyed him sharply, and then laughed. “Is that what they advised you last night? I wondered what Stephen was muttering about. So, it seems I have him, and not you, to thank for my Arabian daggers. In which case, you are still in my debt, Sir Geoffrey Mappestone. I would take the third dagger, but I think I will decline, given its recent use. I will claim something else in due course, when the fancy takes me.”

If the Devil does not take you first, thought Geoffrey, wishing he had aimed a little more accurately at the Earl’s expensive boots.

“I wish you well,” muttered Walter bitterly, seeing that the Earl was not going to leave until he had his satisfaction. He gave a clumsy bow, and was away, tugging his wife behind him. One by one, the others followed suit, leaving to make their way back to the hall, presumably to engage in another of their violent discussions.

“And you, Sir Geoffrey? Will you not offer me your felicitations?” asked the Earl smoothly, leaning down to look Geoffrey in the eye.

“I wish you as much joy of Goodrich as it has brought me,” said Geoffrey.

“That is ambiguous!” said the Earl, with arched eyebrows. “But I have come to expect as much from you.” He coughed gently. “You realise, of course, that you owe me your life?”

“Really?” asked Geoffrey without conviction. “And how is that?”

“Despite what I said to Henry, you are still my prime suspect for the murder of Godric.” When Geoffrey did not answer, the Earl continued. “Your pretence of drunkenness is nothing more than that-how can you be drunk, and yet not smell of the wine you consumed? But I saved you from Henry’s vengeful hands anyway. You would have been kicking empty air by now, had I not intervened.”

This was very possibly true, thought Geoffrey. “But unless you are prepared to settle for a book, or the dagger that murdered my father, I have nothing that would interest you,” he said.

“There is always Rwirdin,” said the Earl casually. “Of course, it is nothing like the prize of Goodrich and its castles and bridges, but it is well situated for hunting in the Forest of Dene, and it is a pretty place by all accounts.”

“It seems you do not need my permission to take it,” said Geoffrey, nodding to the copy of the will that Walter had hurled to the ground in a futile display of temper.

The Earl could always fake wills, as he had appeared to have done to secure possession of Godric’s lands. Had the Earl also ordered one of his henchmen to slip up the stairs in the dead of night and slay the dying Godric too? After all, it would save him the inconvenience of returning later to present his claim, after Godric had died a natural death.

The Earl gazed at him with his beady eyes. “You are more astute than I gave you credit for. Yes, I will take Rwirdin if the fancy takes me. But I am inclined to let you keep it for a little while longer, for two reasons. First, I do not want your treacherous brothers and sisters hanging around my court claiming that they are homeless, and demanding that I take their brats into my household. And second, you were once in the service of the Duke of Normandy, and he is a man for whom I feel some kinship.”

“I do not understand,” said Geoffrey, wishing the Earl would leave, so he could lie down and sleep. “Why should my association with the Duke stay your hand?”

“There will be a time when the Duke will come to England to claim what King Henry has stolen from him-the crown. I have not yet decided whom I will support, but at this point in time, the Duke has a greater hold over my loyalties. You might well be here-the Duke will need every fighting man he can muster, because King Henry has grown powerful.”

“You spared me from being hanged because you anticipate that I will fight for the Duke of Normandy against the King of England?” asked Geoffrey, stupefied by the convoluted logic.

“Put like that, it sounds a little crass,” said the Earl, smiling. “But you have grasped the essence of my argument. Of course, should I decide to fight for King Henry, you will need to make another choice. But that is an issue for future discussion. What will you do now? Will you visit your manor at Rwirdin?”

“Rwirdin was Joan’s dowry,” said Geoffrey. “It is no longer mine.”

“But Joan’s possession of it is illegal, and would never stand up in a court of law. So, Sir Geoffrey, I am still your liege lord, and you had better expect to encounter me again. And, despite the little agreement we have just made, if you have not learned the folly of your insolent ways by then, I will kill you.”

“If I do not kill you first,” whispered Geoffrey to himself, watching the Earl stride across the courtyard to where his retinue awaited him.

‘Sir Geoffrey!” cried Helbye, hurrying across the yard shortly after the Earl and his cavalcade had gone. “What is all this I hear about Sir Godric being dead and Walter being dispossessed? What will happen to the village if the Earl of Shrewsbury comes to Goodrich?” He stopped short when he saw Geoffrey, and knelt beside him in horror. “Lord save us, lad! What have they done to you?”

“They poisoned him,” said Julian, appearing from nowhere. “Just like they did with Enide.”

“Enide?” echoed Helbye. “My wife says she was beheaded, not poisoned. And who would want to poison Sir Geoffrey? You are out of your wits, boy!”

“They poisoned Enide too, just as they poisoned Sir Godric,” insisted Julian. “She tried to find out who and why, and it was then that she was murdered.”

“I feel dreadful, Will,” mumbled Geoffrey.

For the first time, he truly believed his father’s claims that someone at the castle had been poisoning him. He could think of no reason-other than poison-that could be responsible for the way he felt at that moment. He put his head in his hands.

“Did you take much ale or wine last night?” asked Helbye, sitting back on his heels and regarding Geoffrey sympathetically.

“None at all,” said Geoffrey. But that was not true, he recalled. He had drunk some of the wine Stephen had brought him before he had fallen asleep. He vividly recalled Stephen breaking the seal on the wine to offer it to him. But had he? What if the seal had already been broken and the poison already added? Was Stephen the poisoner, then? Or was the toxin contained within Hedwise’s revolting broth, which Walter had insisted that he finish? Or perhaps the poisoner was Malger or Drogo, or even the Earl himself-who was reputed to be familiar with such potions. Thinking was making Geoffrey’s head ache, and he rubbed it, longing for sleep.

“You must not sleep until you have seen the physician,” said Julian firmly, trying without the least success to pull the knight to his feet. “We will go to see him now. He will make you feel better.”

Helbye took Geoffrey’s hand. “You are very cold-perhaps the lad is right. I saw the physician entering the house of Father Adrian on my way here. It is not far. Come on.”

Helped by Helbye, Geoffrey staggered to his feet and made for the gatehouse. The ground tipped and swirled, and he felt inclined to sit again, but after a moment, the dizziness receded and he began to walk more steadily.

“Where are you going?” demanded Henry from the top of the stairs to the keep. “Fleeing the scene of your crime?”

Without a backwards glance, Geoffrey was past the gatehouse and down the steps leading to the barbican. The guards opened the wicket gate to let him pass, slamming it shut behind him. Once outside, Geoffrey slackened his pace, leaning against Helbye as his shaking legs threatened to deposit him in the mud of the village’s main street.

The church was not far, and Geoffrey followed Julian slowly through the overgrown graveyard to the priest’s house, a tiny structure set well away from the road and surrounded by neat vegetable plots. While Julian darted inside, Geoffrey let himself slide down the wall, all but exhausted after his efforts.

“Come inside,” came a kindly voice. “The grass is wet and is no place for a sick man to be sitting.”

“I am not sick,” said Geoffrey, squinting up to see the young priest standing over him, clad in his threadbare black habit. “I was well enough yesterday.”

“Well, come inside anyway,” said Adrian, helping him to his feet. “You should rest.”

“Those at the castle have poisoned him,” announced Julian, leading the way into the priest’s small but clean house.

“Really? Just as they are doing to his father, then,” came another voice. It was Francis the physician, sitting at Adrian’s table and enjoying a cup of ale. He stretched out a hand to feel Geoffrey’s forehead, and frowned. “This is odd. You should be hot, not cold. And your lifebeat is sluggish when it should be faster. This is not the same poison that afflicted your father and Enide.”

Geoffrey could think of nothing to say. Did that mean that there were two poisoners in his family, each with a supply of something deadly? Or perhaps it was only one person, experimenting with a different toxin when supplies of the first grew low?

“I suppose you did not think to bring a sample of what you ate and drank last night?” asked Francis, not overly hopeful. “What is that on your sleeve?”

Geoffrey looked at the pale brown stain, and recalled the dog knocking into him and spilling the soup and the wine. Impatient with his sluggishness, Francis grabbed his arm, and smelled the material cautiously.

“Ah!” he exclaimed with great satisfaction. “I thought so! Ergot!”

“Ergot,” mused Geoffrey blearily. “The fungus called St. Anthony’s fire?”

“Yes, indeed,” said the physician, impressed. “Enide said you were a man of learning. I thought Godric might be suffering from ergot poisoning, since it can take many months to kill a man, but his limbs were healthy, and, as you will know, ergot causes the skin to die over time. But the concoction used on you was intended to have a more immediate effect.” He pointed to Geoffrey’s sleeve. “This is strong. No wonder you feel unwell!”

“But it is not the same poison as that used on my father?”

“The one used on Sir Godric is of a more insidious nature. I still cannot identify it, although I have laboured many nights with tests and experiments.”

“Sir Godric is dead,” Helbye informed him bluntly. “He was murdered last night.”

Priest and physician gaped at him. “That cannot be true,” said Francis eventually. “Why should someone want to kill Godric? He has only a few days left to him anyway. What happened?”

“He was stabbed with my dagger during the night,” said Geoffrey, wondering if they, like his brothers, would immediately assume his guilt. “I was asleep in the same room, but heard nothing until awakened by my family this morning, and by then, my father was dead.”

“I must attend his body,” said Adrian, standing and beginning to collect together the items he would need to give last rites. “He died unshriven.”

“The Earl of Shrewsbury’s priest attended him before he died,” said Geoffrey.

“How did the Earl know to send a priest?” Francis pounced. “Did the Earl slay Sir Godric, then? Those two have never seen eye to eye.”

“Not so loud!” exclaimed Adrian in alarm, going to the window to look out. “The Earl does not like you, either. Now that Godric is dead, you will need to guard your tongue.”

“No more than do you,” retorted Francis. “But you have not answered my question, Sir Geoffrey. Do you know who killed poor Godric as he lay dying? Was it the Earl? Or did one of Godric’s sons, or even that harpy, Joan, finally lose patience with their subtle poison and do away with him?”

Geoffrey shook his head, and then leaned his elbows on the table to hold it with both hands as his world buzzed and blackened at the sudden movement. “I have no idea,” he said weakly.

“Do your business, physician,” said Adrian, nodding towards Geoffrey. “Or you will lose another patient today.”

“There is no danger of that,” said Francis practically. “He has already survived the worst the poison can do, or he would not have woken at all this morning. I will make him a brew of pennyroyal, mint, and honey, and he must drink as much of it as he can, to wash the poison’s residues from his body.”

“Well, go on, then,” said Adrian as the physician made no move to prepare the potion.

Francis stood, rummaging around in his ample collection of pouches for the herbs he wanted. There were so many of them that Geoffrey wondered whether he might be made ill a second time through a case of simple misidentification. Eventually, the physician set a large bowl in front of him.

“Drink this-all of it-and then sleep. By the time you wake, you will feel better. Probably.”

He gathered up his pouches and strode from the room. Geoffrey looked doubtfully at the bowl in front of him, wondering whether Francis’s brew might inadvertently complete the task where someone else had failed.

“Drink it,” said Adrian, smiling at his hesitancy. “Francis would never harm Enide’s favourite brother, and he is a good physician, despite his eccentric appearance.”

“No, thank you,” said Geoffrey, pushing the bowl away from him. He stood to leave, disgusted that he had allowed Julian to lead him into yet more potentially hostile territory.

“Then at least sleep here for a while,” said Adrian. He raised his hands as Geoffrey began to object. “I will not force you to stay, but I imagine you will be very much safer in my house than at the castle. And your sergeant can watch over you, if that will make you feel more comfortable.”

“If you will not listen to the physician, then take the advice of the priest,” said Helbye, pushing Geoffrey towards a bed in an alcove at the back of the room. “And I will be here, Sir Geoffrey. I will not leave you to the mercy of that murderous brood up at the castle.”

Geoffrey wanted to examine his father’s body, to see if he might uncover some clues regarding the identity of his killer. And there was Rohese, too. Was she still buried in the dank depths of Godric’s mattresses? If so, Geoffrey needed to talk to her, for surely she must have seen or heard something during the night. But he knew that he would never be able to walk up the hill again, and even if he did, he was in no state to do battle with Henry or one of the others if they refused to let him in. He sank down on the bed, thinking that a short doze might restore his strength, and was asleep before Helbye had finished fussing over the covers.

When he woke, it was dark, and he was aware of low voices coming from the people who were huddled around the table. Cautiously he raised his head, and saw Adrian, Francis, and Helbye deep in conversation. Julian, who had been sitting near Geoffrey, stood when she heard the rustle of straw from the bed.

Julian’s movement attracted the attention of the others, and Helbye came towards him, his face anxious. Warily, Geoffrey sat up, relieved that the paralysing dizziness seemed to have gone and that the strength was back in his arms and legs. He stood.

“You deserve to feel atrocious for not taking the medicine that I so painstakingly prepared,” admonished Francis severely, referring, Geoffrey assumed, to the casual way he had flung a few powders into the bowl of warm water. “But it seems you have recovered without it anyway. And I have more good news for you. I believe I can prove you were not your father’s killer.”

“I am grateful someone can,” said Geoffrey, going to sit on the bench at the table next to Father Adrian. “How have you acquired this proof?”

“As a physician, I have access to a certain knowledge of the dead,” began Francis, a touch pompously. “After I left you, I went immediately to inspect poor Sir Godric’s corpse. None of your kinsmen had seen fit to lay it out in a decent manner, so I was able to inspect the scene of crime undisturbed, as it were. He was slain by a single wound to the stomach.”

“But he was stabbed in the chest,” objected Geoffrey. “I saw the knife there myself.”

“Did you, now,” said Francis thoughtfully. “Well, that clears something up, at least. As I was saying, the fatal wound was to his stomach. I imagine he would have died reasonably quickly from blood loss, but certainly not instantly. The knife, however, was embedded in his chest-as you yourself have attested.”

“I do not understand,” said Geoffrey.

He shook his head as Adrian offered him some ale. The priest took a deep draught from the beaker, and offered it a second time. Somewhat sheepishly, Geoffrey accepted, for his throat was dry and he was even more thirsty than he had been at times in the desert.

“How did the knife move from his stomach to his chest?”

“Well, it did not do it on its own,” replied Francis facetiously. “The wound in the chest had been inflicted after Godric had died. I can tell such things by the amount of bleeding-wounds bleed little or not at all after death, and there was virtually no bleeding from the injury to Godric’s chest, unlike the gash in his stomach.”

“So someone killed my father with a fatal, but not immediately effective, wound in the stomach, and then stabbed him in the chest after he was dead?” asked Geoffrey doubtfully. “That does not sound very likely.”

“Likely or not,” said Francis haughtily, “that is how it happened. Now, the blood was still sticky although the body was cool. I estimate that Godric died sometime around dawn, or, more probably, a little earlier.”

But that did not help Geoffrey very much at all, because it did not tell him whether his father had died before or after Walter had risen and left. If he had died after, then Walter was probably as innocent of the murder as was Geoffrey. But if he had died before, then there were three possibilities. First, Walter, like Geoffrey, was drugged in some way to make him sleep through it-although he had not seemed ill that morning; second, Walter had killed Godric while Geoffrey slept, and had left Bertrada to discover the corpse; or, third, Walter had not killed Godric, but was complicit in his murder at the hands of another. And, despite Francis’s claim, Geoffrey could not see how the physician’s evidence proved that Geoffrey was not responsible.

Francis appeared to read his mind, for he smiled, and leaned across to dilute Geoffrey’s ale with water from a jug from which Julian had been drinking.

“Avoid wines and strong ales for a day or two-the body will need time to recover. But you are interested in proving your innocence in all this, I see. Very well, then. I am almost certain that the poison used on you was some kind of poppy powder mixed with a tiny amount of the juice of ergot. You were not given enough to kill you, although whether by design or chance, I cannot be certain.”

“Chance would be my wager,” said Helbye with conviction. “Someone does not want you at the castle, lad. Whoever poisoned you wanted you dead, not sick.”

Geoffrey was thoughtful. Someone had gone to some trouble to ensure that his dagger was used to kill Godric, and that he was still in the room when the body was found. Was it because-as the Earl had claimed-someone had wanted him accused of his father’s murder? Or was Helbye right, and the poisoner had actually wanted him dead? He sighed, not knowing what to think, or where to start looking for answers.

He turned to Francis. “Were the wound in Godric’s stomach and the wound in his chest caused by the same implement?”

Francis’s hitherto smug expression faded. “I did not think to look. How could I have forgotten to test for something so obvious?”

“No matter,” said Geoffrey. “I can look myself.” He drank more of the watered ale. “But you still have not explained your reasoning that the murderer was not me.”

“Next to the hearth was an opened bottle of wine and an empty bowl. Both contained the unmistakable aroma of poppy and ergot. You have already told me that you consumed something before you slept and, judging from your condition when you came to me, you could not possibly have been in a fit state to kill Sir Godric before dawn. The poppy would have had an effect almost immediately, and you were still under the ergot’s influence when you came here this morning.”

Geoffrey did not consider Francis’s logic to be without its flaws, especially since the bowl was empty because he had tipped Hedwise’s broth down the garderobe shaft, and he certainly would not wish to hang his defence in a court of law on such a fragile thread. But at least it served to gain him another ally-two, if he included the priest Adrian, and, in a place like Goodrich, allies might mean the difference between life and death.

He rubbed his eyes, and tried to make some sense out of the evidence Francis had provided him. “So both the wine and the broth were treated with ergot?”

“Not just ergot,” said Francis pedantically. “There was poppy powder, too.”

“Why bother with two poisons?” asked Geoffrey. “It seems that the poppy powder would have served its purpose alone.”

“There are a number of possibilities,” said Francis. “Ergot in large quantities is fatal, but the poisoner probably did not want you wandering about the castle waking everyone as you died publicly-hence he or she added the poppy so that you would slip away quietly. Or perhaps each was the preferred compound of a different poisoner.”

“You mean that two people at the castle tried independently to poison me last night?” queried Geoffrey incredulously. “I know I am not popular with my brothers and sisters, but I do not think anyone but Henry holds genuine murderous intentions.”

“I think you overestimate your claim on your family’s affections,” said Adrian sombrely. “I heard in the village this morning that Godric presented a copy of his latest will to you, naming you as his sole beneficiary. You have been away, so you cannot know the importance to which the inheritance of Goodrich has soared among your brethren. Walter, Bertrada, Stephen, Henry, Olivier, and even Joan and Hedwise would not hesitate to kill to get Goodrich.”

The priest’s words were far from comforting, and it was with some gratitude that Geoffrey accepted Helbye’s offer of a bed by his hearth that night. The knight huddled near the embers, twisted slightly to one side to avoid the drips that came through the roof from the rain outside, and thought about what he had learned. There was no question whatsoever in his mind now that Enide had been the victim of some foul plot, the prize of which was the inheritance of Goodrich. She had known about the documents that proved Walter’s illegitimacy and that claimed Sigurd, not Godric, was the father of Stephen. The poachers Henry hanged had been innocent.

Godric claimed that Enide had burned the documents. Had she? Or had she kept them for some reason of her own? If the latter were true Geoffrey knew exactly where she would have hidden them, and resolved to look the following day. Was that why Adrian noticed that she had been distracted the morning of her death, or was her lack of concentration because she had arranged to meet someone-Caerdig perhaps? And why did someone poison her, but not fatally, if the intention was to secure her silence?

He rubbed his head, and took another sip of the water Helbye had left him. He was horrified at the notion that two members of his family would try independently to poison him the same night. After all, he had been to some pains to convince them that he did not want Goodrich. Of course, they had not believed him, and had even concocted some distorted story about him bribing Ine to return from the Holy Land to poison Godric.

Geoffrey frowned in the darkness. The physician had said that he had detected ergot in both the wine and the broth. Geoffrey tried to remember what little he knew about ergot. It was a fungus that poisoned crops, and prolonged or large doses caused gangrene. Godric had no gangrene, so did that mean that the person who had poisoned Godric was different from the person or persons who had poisoned Geoffrey?

A dim memory also told him that ergot was supposed to have a fishy flavour. The fish broth had certainly tasted fishy, and the smell had made him feel sick. But then, he recalled, so had the sip of wine that he had taken afterwards. So, had someone wanted him to take the poison sufficiently desperately to tamper with both broth and wine? Was it Stephen, who brought the bottle? Was it Hedwise, who made the broth? Was it Walter, who had insisted Geoffrey finish the broth or risk offending Hedwise? Or was it someone else, knowing that wine and broth would be taken to Geoffrey, and using Stephen, Hedwise, and Walter as innocent participants?

Geoffrey remembered Rohese. Perhaps she might have seen or heard something, assuming that she had remained in her hiding place, and had not emerged to kill Godric in his sleep. But that would mean that she probably also poisoned Geoffrey, and he was only too aware that she had had other, far more immediate, matters on her mind than taking the time to indulge in poisoning and murder. And in any case, if Rohese were going to poison anyone, it was far more likely that it would have been the Earl.

And how did the Earl fit into all this? Geoffrey could not imagine that Godric had made a will citing the evil Shrewsbury as sole beneficiary, and he did not believe that Godric would accept an annulment of his marriage without mentioning it to his children-it would have been exactly the kind of revelation he would have relished making. And if that were true, then the will that the Earl had flaunted earlier that day was a forgery.

Geoffrey shivered, and moved nearer the fire. Was King Henry right, and the Earl had taken part in the killing of King William Rufus for some dark purpose of his own? The Earl openly professed to be a supporter of the Duke of Normandy-as long as it worked to his advantage. Perhaps King Henry was right, and Shrewsbury was indeed aiming to consolidate his holdings on the Welsh border so that he could aid the Duke to take England.

He yawned. It was very late, and he sensed he would make no further sense from his thoughts that night. He drew the rough blanket round his shoulders and lay down, still watching the flickering flames.

During the night, it had rained hard, and the ground outside Helbye’s house was thick with mud. Declining the sergeant’s offer of company, Geoffrey walked up the hill and hammered on the gate to the barbican. The guard let him in, and watched him walk towards the inner gatehouse. It was still early, and the guard in charge there was still asleep. Thinking that he would never tolerate such laxness in a castle surrounded by hostile neighbours, Geoffrey scrambled over the wooden gate and dropped lightly down the other side. Malger had been right to put his own soldiers around the castle walls the night the Earl slept in Goodrich.

Geoffrey’s dog appeared from nowhere, and came to snuffle round him, greedy for its breakfast. A little guiltily, for he had forgotten to feed it the day before, Geoffrey found a large soup bone in the kitchens. The dog wrapped slathering jaws around the stinking delicacy, narrowly missing Geoffrey’s fingers, and slunk away to gorge itself in peace. Geoffrey was in the act of taking a piece of cheese from the pantry when he remembered the ergot, and decided against it.

“It is all right,” said someone behind him, so close that it made him jump. “I had some of that last night, and I am still here.”

At first, Geoffrey could not see from where the voice came, and thought that someone was playing a game with him. Either that, or the ergot had hallucinatory qualities that the physician had failed to mention. He bent to peer under the table.

“Julian? What are you doing there?”

The girl emerged slowly, her eyes red and puffy from crying, and went to cut Geoffrey some cheese. She sniffed wetly, and rubbed her nose on her hand before using it to pass Geoffrey the cheese. Geoffrey hesitated a moment before taking it, but supposed he had eaten far worse during his years as a soldier, and anyway, he was hungry. Julian disappeared into a storeroom, and reappeared with some stale bread and a pitcher of milk.

“Milk?” asked Geoffrey dubiously. “That is what children drink. Is there no ale?”

“I expect so,” said Julian. “But it will be sour, and at least I know this cream cannot be poisoned, because I have just milked the cow myself.”

That was enough to satisfy Geoffrey. He swallowed his prejudices along with the milk, and even decided it was preferable to sour ale, and certainly not so hard on a stomach still sore from the abuses of the previous day. The bread was gritty and made from cheap, poorly ground flour, but the cheese was surprisingly good-smooth, and yet with a pleasant, tart flavour.

“So, what is wrong?” Geoffrey asked of Julian as he ate. “Has Sir Olivier declined your services with his splendid war-horse again?”

Julian shot him a nasty look. “I cannot find my sister,” she said. “I think they may have killed her and hidden away her body.”

Geoffrey looked up sharply, slopping the milk over his leg. Realisation came slowly to him. “Oh, Lord,” he said in horror, his breakfast forgotten. “Rohese?”

The girl nodded. “She was your father’s chambermaid.”

That was one way of putting it, thought Geoffrey. He abandoned the bread and cheese to the dog, which, having secreted the bone somewhere sufficiently foul for no other living thing to want it, was on the look out for something else. Geoffrey burst out of the kitchen and raced across the yard. Reaching the door to the keep, he slowed, opening it quietly. The servants still slept, or were beginning to wake, and were talking among themselves in sleepy voices. No one paid him any attention as he walked across the hall and ran up the stairs, Julian at his heels.

“Stay there,” he ordered as he reached Godric’s chamber, closing the door to keep her out. He did not want Julian to see what he was afraid he might find. He went to the bed and gazed in horror.

Godric still lay as he had done the previous day. Dry blood stained his nightshirt and the bedclothes, although Geoffrey’s Arabian dagger had been removed, and lay on the bed next to the body. Geoffrey raised a shaking hand to his head. Until now, the death of Godric had seemed unreal, for his brief glimpse of the corpse the day before was only a hazy memory in his drugged mind. He had credited Walter and Stephen, and even Joan, with some degree of decency, and had not imagined that they would leave their father unattended for an entire day.

He took a deep breath, and forced anger to the back of his mind. His fury at his siblings could come later, but Rohese could not wait-assuming she had not suffocated already. He hauled up the mattress tentatively, half expecting to find yet another corpse to add to Goodrich’s death toll. It was with considerable relief that he saw the bed was empty.

A loud sniff from outside reminded him that Julian was waiting. He covered Godric with a sheet and went to let her in.

“I thought she might be here,” he said vaguely.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. So, what did Rohese’s disappearance tell him? That the Earl had found her after all, and had stolen her away while Geoffrey was lying in his drugged stupor? That she had fled the castle after killing his father? Or that she had simply hidden somewhere else until she was certain it was safe to come out?

“Rohese would not be in this room!” said Julian accusingly, her eyes brimming with tears. “They searched it at least twice when they were looking for her. You should know-you were here too, caring for your father!”

She began to weep, first silently, and then her voice rose to heart-wrenching sobs.

“Hush,” said Geoffrey, embarrassed. “Someone will hear you.”

“I do not care!”

At a loss to know how to comfort her, Geoffrey closed the door, and made her sit on the chest, handing her a piece of cloth in which to blow her nose. She took the cloth and wiped her eyes with it, and then ran her sleeve across her nose.

“She is dead!” Julian wept. “No one has seen her since he came!”

“Who? The Earl?”

Julian nodded miserably. Geoffrey looked down at her and wished he could offer the child the assurances she needed, but who knew what had gone on in Godric’s chamber after Geoffrey had swallowed the poisoned broth? Or was it the wine that had done the damage?

“She probably found somewhere else to hide,” he said, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. “I know the Earl did not find her before I went to sleep, so perhaps he never found her at all.”

Julian sniffed again, and looked at the bed. Her expression of grief turned to one of horror. “Is he still there?” she asked in a whisper. “I thought he would have been taken to the chapel by now.”

“So did I,” said Geoffrey. “I will take him this morning, but first-”

He was arrested in the act of removing the cover, to begin the process of preparing his father’s body, by a sudden, terrified shriek from Julian.

“Whatever is the matter?” said Geoffrey, half-angry and half-alarmed by Julian’s medley of unexpected noises.

“Do not lift that blanket!” pleaded Julian. “There is a corpse underneath it.”

“I know,” said Geoffrey dryly. “It is my father’s.”

“But he is dead!”

“Corpses usually are,” said Geoffrey. He looked at the girl more closely. “What is the matter with you? Have you never seen a dead man before?” He had seen so many that the notion that a child might find one unnerving had failed to cross his mind.

Appalled, Julian shook her head. And then gave another scream, leaping from the chest and dashing to the opposite side of the room to stand cowering against the wall.

“Now what?” cried Geoffrey, bewildered. “Pull yourself together, Julian, for God’s sake. My brothers will be here in a minute, thinking I am committing another murder!”

“This room is haunted!” whispered Julian, beginning to shake uncontrollably. “Sir Godric’s ghost walks here!”

“Are you sure there was nothing wrong with that milk?” asked Geoffrey doubtfully. “Because something seems to have addled your wits. It is not-”

He broke off as a slight but unmistakable thump came from the chest. Taking his sword from a peg on the wall, where he had hung it two nights before, he stepped forward and flung open the lid.

Two hostile eyes greeted him, glowering out from among Godric’s motley selection of mended shirts and well-patched cloaks.

“Mabel!” exclaimed Julian, startled.

“Of course it is me!” snapped Mabel, glaring at the girl. “Who else did you expect?”

“I thought you might be Sir Godric,” said Julian in a small voice.

“Sir Godric is dead!” snapped Mabel, standing, and putting her hands on her ample hips. She was a large woman, well past the bloom of youth, and her thick golden hair was dull and coarse. Her skin, which might once have been soft, was tough looking and leathery from an outdoor life.

“Mabel, the dairymaid?” asked Geoffrey, searching distant memories for a youthful face that might have weathered into the one that glowered at him now.

“Mabel, the buttery-steward, actually,” she replied tartly. “I have not been a dairymaid for many a year. And I will have you know that my butter and cheese is sought after as far away as Rosse.”

“I trust you do not usually make them in the presence of corpses?” asked Geoffrey mildly, lowering his sword and regarding the angry woman steadily.

She flushed. “I came to lay him out,” she said, waving a strong red arm at the bed.

“Then why were you in the chest?” asked Geoffrey. “Looking for a shroud?”

The woman held up her hand, and Geoffrey saw she held a sheet-grey from use and frayed in parts, but clean, nevertheless. “I brought one with me. I hid in the chest because I thought you were one of them-one of those others.”

Geoffrey appreciated the sentiment, but her explanation still left many questions in his mind. He said nothing and waited.

“I see you do not believe me,” she said, but not in a way that suggested she was particularly concerned. She pushed past him, and made for the bed. Julian leapt back with a cry.

“Foolish child!” said Mabel, although not without kindness. “There is nothing to fear. Come here and look. See how peaceful his face appears? No one can poison him now. Dear Sir Godric is far from the reach of his evil kinsmen at last.”

Julian declined to look, and instead fixed her gaze on Geoffrey. “Mabel was your father’s whore before Rohese became his chamber maid.”

“I was not his whore!” objected Mabel loudly. “I was his companion. For years-ever since his wife died. I came to his chamber almost every night to …” She gestured expansively.

“Discuss cheese and butter?” asked Geoffrey, beginning to see the humorous side of the situation.

One of Enide’s letters had mentioned that his father had a penchant for one of the dairymaids years before, and it seemed as though his affection had been a long-term proposition-until Mabel had been displaced in favour of the younger, and distinctly more attractive, Rohese.

Mabel glowered at him. “Sometimes we talked about dairy products,” she said, arching her eyebrows haughtily. “Sir Godric was fond of my cheeses.”

And so here was another potential killer, thought Geoffrey, his amusement fading: Mabel, the rejected lover of many years, who fed her master the cheeses he so liked. Had Godric been mistaken, and it had been Mabel, not his offspring, who had been slowly poisoning him?

Julian fled to the far side of the room when Mabel hauled away the sheet that Geoffrey had placed over Godric. On the floor, Geoffrey saw a bucket of clean water and some cloths.

“Did you bring those?” he asked, pointing to them.

“Of course I did,” Mabel snapped. “How else am I supposed to wash his poor murdered corpse?”

“I still do not understand why you hid in the chest when we came,” said Geoffrey. “If your intentions here are honourable, why should you feel the need to flee?”

“I told you,” sighed Mabel. “I thought you were one of the others. They never did approve of the fondness your father entertained for me, and they would have thrown me out.”

“What makes you think that I will not?”

“You at least covered him with a sheet, which is more in a few moments than that brood managed over an entire day. Anyway, they might have accused me of stealing his ring. And I do not have it. You can search me if you like,” she added with a sway of her hips.

“Thank you, no,” said Geoffrey hastily. “And if you refer to the ring that he wore on his right hand, Henry has it.” He recalled vividly Henry wresting the ring from what he had believed to be Godric’s corpse some days before.

“Has he, now?” said Mabel harshly. “I might have known! Sir Godric always said he wanted me to have that. But no matter. I want nothing from the Mappestones anyway. Come nightfall, I will be away, and I will never return to these parts again. There is nothing to keep me here now. One sister died in childbirth at the end of last summer, and the other died of an ague just a month ago. Her poor corpse was not left in peace, though. Walter said it was dogs, although around here, who knows?”

“Your sister’s grave was desecrated?” said Geoffrey, bewildered by her wide-ranging monologue.

“I do not know about that, but it was disturbed, and it looked as though someone had been poking around in it a few days ago-since you returned, in fact.”

“Well, it was not me,” said Geoffrey firmly.

“Did I say it was?” demanded Mabel, hurling Godric’s stained nightshirt on the floor at his feet. “But I have heard strange things about you-that you read books and make secret signs on scraps of parchment with inks. Master Helbye told me about it.”

“It is called writing,” said Geoffrey. “And literacy does not automatically lead to grave-robbing.”

“I said nothing of grave-robbing,” said Mabel belligerently. “I said that my sister’s grave had been disturbed, but I did not dig it up to make sure she was still in it. Walter said he thought some dogs had scratched up the surface.”

It was not an uncommon occurrence, especially if a family was poor, and unable to pay a grave-digger for a sufficiently deep hole.

“Or maybe it was that Earl of Shrewsbury,” said Mabel darkly. “I have heard even worse things about the likes of him than of you. It is said that he dabbles in the black arts, and he may have needed to rob a grave for some wicked spell he was casting.”

“So, what will you do if you leave here?” asked Geoffrey, not wanting to pursue that topic of conversation when the castle was full of people who might inform the Earl that nasty things were being said about him. “Where will you go?”

“I have been offered the position as cheese-maker at Monmouth Castle, and I intend to leave as soon as Godric is laid out. My roof leaks and that miserly Walter will not pay to have it mended.”

Geoffrey sat on the chest and watched her, while Julian wrapped her arms over her head and crouched against the wall, out of hearing and out of sight.

“You are fond of him still?” he asked, noting the gentle way in which her rough, red hands stripped the corpse of its bloodstained hose.

She sighed softly, and would not look at Geoffrey. “I will always be fond of Sir Godric,” she said. “No one understood him like I did. And that Lady Enide was worst of all. She hated the arrangement I had with him.”

“Enide did? Are you certain? I was led to believe she was the most understanding of them all when it came to his whores … I mean his companions.”

He recalled Godric’s pleasure as he recounted Enide’s sympathy in his courting of Rohese, even giving up her own bedchamber so that Godric could seduce the girl in more conducive surroundings.

“She encouraged that Rohese all right,” said Mabel, vigorously scrubbing at the blood that stained Godric’s stomach. “But she made life so difficult for me that Sir Godric was obliged to tell me about the door. Oh!” Her hands flew to her mouth, and she gazed at Geoffrey in horror.

“What door?” asked Geoffrey, interested.

“No. Nothing. I mean window.” Mabel was clearly no liar. Her belligerent manner dropped, and she became flustered.

“What door?” asked Geoffrey again.

“No!” said Mabel firmly. “I will not tell you. Sir Godric made me promise that I would never tell anyone about it. Especially one of you!”

“But Sir Godric is dead, Mabel,” said Geoffrey. “And you might be able to help me catch the person who killed him if you tell me what you know.”

“Do you think so?” asked Mabel, uncertain. She looked down at the still features of Godric. “No. You are only trying to make me give up my secret. You are not interested in his killer-you only care about his wealth, just like the rest of them.”

“I am very interested in who killed him,” said Geoffrey softly. “He was my father. And I do not care about his wealth.”

Mabel regarded him long and hard. “That nice Sergeant Helbye says you only returned to pay your respects to Sir Godric. And young Barlow and Ingram have been telling everyone how you threw away so many chances to go looting because you have no taste for killing.” She paused, and continued her searching look at his face. “All right, I believe you.”

“Good,” said Geoffrey, leaning back against the wall and folding his arms. “Then will you help me catch my father’s murderer?”

“Oh, no,” said Mabel. “That would be far too dangerous. But I will tell you about me and Godric and Enide. That might help.”

She cleared her throat importantly, and perched on the edge of the bed. On the other side of the room, Julian pulled her hands from her ears and listened.

‘I took up with your father the summer after your mother died,” Mabel began. “That was fifteen years ago now. All was well at first. I think your brothers and sisters were just glad that I was able to soothe his ill-temper from time to time. But about a year or so ago, Enide began to object. She made life very difficult for us, and waited for me on the stairs to prevent me from going to him, urging him to take Rohese instead. In the end, Sir Godric told me about the door, but he said I should never tell another Mappestone about it, no matter what happened.”

She paused, and Geoffrey could see she was already having second thoughts about breaking her trust.

“Why did Enide take against you after so many years?” he asked, to distract her from her dilemma.

Mabel shrugged. “She said I was too indiscreet, and that Sir Godric should take up with a woman who lived in the castle and who could come to him when he needed her, rather than having to send a servant to the village to fetch me. And my husband did not always approve of that, anyway,” she added.

Geoffrey could see his point. Was that why Enide had been so accommodating over the business with the chambers, then? he wondered. To encourage Godric to make use of Rohese in the chamber opposite, rather than send for Mabel in the village?

“And the door?” he asked.

Mabel pursed her lips. “It was the only way I could get to him, but Sir Godric charged me never to come to him if there was anyone who might see me using it. He said word might get out to his neighbours that the keep of Goodrich Castle contained a secret entrance.”

“Where is it?” asked Geoffrey.

Mabel hesitated yet again, gazing at Geoffrey’s face as though she might be able to read there what were his true intentions. Finally, just when Geoffrey was beginning think he might have to think of better reasons to persuade her, she spoke.

“Come on, then. I will show you. Julian can wait outside while I do it, and make certain no one comes in and sees what we are doing.”

When Julian hesitated, reluctant to miss out on something that sounded so intriguing, Mabel put her hands on her hips, and Geoffrey bundled the girl out of the chamber and closed the door. Mabel led the way into the garderobe passage, and poked around at a wood-pannelled wall behind some shelves at the far end, where Godric had kept a few gowns and some rusty pieces of armour. She gave a hard tug and, with a groan, the entire wall slid back to reveal a dark passageway. Geoffrey shuddered, and closed it.

“Is that all you are going to do?” Mabel asked angrily, opening it again. “I betray a trust made to a man who lies foully murdered, and all you do is give it a quick glance and shut the door?”

Geoffrey appreciated how it looked, but nothing, not even the most ferocious of battles, could evoke in him the blind terror that could a tunnel or a cave. He had once been supervising an undermining operation while besieging a castle in France, and the whole structure had collapsed while he was still inside. He recalled every moment of the hours spent trapped in the tunnel, with water slowly rising and the air growing thinner and thinner, not knowing whether he would ever be rescued. The black slit in the thickness of the wall in Godric’s garderobe held less appeal for him than an army of Mappestones.

“Where does it lead?” he asked.

“Go down it and see,” said Mabel. “If you are afraid of the dark, here is a torch.”

Several torches and kindling on a shelf just inside the tunnel suggested that Godric’s secret door had been used relatively frequently.

“Who else knew of this?” Geoffrey asked, taking the kindling from her and replacing it before she could light it. “Besides you and my father?”

“Enide knew-long before I did. I suppose Sir Godric told her. But none of the others knew, as far as I am aware. Sir Godric tended to trust only her.”

“But was there anyone outside the family who knew?” pressed Geoffrey. “One of the servants, maybe? Or Norbert the clerk?”

Mabel let out an explosive bark of laughter. “Of course not poor old Norbert! Sir Godric trusted him even less than he trusted his sons. I believe no one at the castle knew, but he did have visitors sometimes. Once or twice, Sir Godric sent me off early, and I saw others entering after me. I do not know who they were. Sir Godric was always very careful that they were not seen.”

Geoffrey looked at the sinister passageway and swallowed hard. Godric might well have told Rohese about it, especially if he had seen that Geoffrey had been drugged, and would no longer be able to protect her. It was very possible his father’s young whore was down there now, too frightened to leave, and he knew he should go to see. But the passageway would be too low for him to stand upright, and probably too narrow for him to walk without turning sideways. As he stood looking, he could feel the cold, damp breath of the tunnel oozing out around them, filling the garderobe passage with a rank, musty smell. He closed the door firmly.

“I will explore it later,” he said vaguely. “It-”

He was interrupted by loud voices outside the bedroom door. Mabel scurried from the passage, and began laying out Godric again just as Henry burst in, followed by Walter and Stephen. Julian slipped in behind them, her eyes darting everywhere for evidence of Mabel’s door. Geoffrey hoped the astute Stephen would not notice what the girl was doing.

“What have you been up to, all alone in here with father’s corpse?” Henry demanded.

He strode forward, as though he would lay hold of Geoffrey to shake the truth out of him, but made a hasty diversion when he saw the effects of the poison had worn off, and that Geoffrey would certainly no longer accept any manhandling from his smaller brother.

“He is not alone,” said Stephen, eyeing Mabel with amusement.

“Geoffrey! You should be ashamed of yourself!” cried Walter, aghast. “Seducing our father’s whore while his corpse is barely cold.”

“Excuse me!” said Mabel angrily. “What do you take me for? I am not for any man to take!”

“Well, Mabel,” said Stephen pleasantly. “To what do we owe this pleasure? You vowed never to set foot in Goodrich after our father’s preferences changed to younger women.”

“I came to do for his poor corpse what you would not,” said Mabel, scrubbing furiously. “Sir Godric and I had our good times and our bad ones, but I wanted to see him properly prepared for his funeral, and I knew you lot would not bother.”

“You came to search for the ring you claim he promised you, more likely,” said Joan, appearing suddenly in the doorway. “I looked for it myself, but someone had beaten me to it.”

“Henry took it,” said Stephen. “Before Godric was even dead.”

“Liar,” spat Henry. “I gave it back to him.”

Geoffrey was sure he had not, and moved away from the bed and his bickering relatives. He sat by the ashes of the fire, and gave a sigh. His head began to ache, and he felt sick again, as always seemed to happen when he set foot in his father’s chamber. He started suddenly, astounded at his sluggishness in putting together the facts that had been staring him in the face almost from the moment he had arrived at Goodrich. Godric had hired two food-tasters to assure him that no one was poisoning his meals, and the physician had found no poisons in what Godric had eaten. But the toxins were not in the food at all: they were in the room!

Geoffrey had heard of poisons being put in clothes and materials, and Godric’s bed had always made Geoffrey cough and his eyes water. Had someone been placing some kind of poisonous powder in the bed, so that it would kill Godric as he lay in it, the poisons wafting into the air around him each time he moved-and the weaker Godric grew, the more he would be forced to stay in bed, and the longer the poison could work on him. That was it! Geoffrey grew more certain as he considered it. Geoffrey had been told that Godric had been confined to his bed around November, and had simultaneously taken a turn for the worse.

So, Geoffrey now knew something that the physician had been unable to deduce. He knew how his father had been poisoned when all the food had been carefully checked. He decided that he would ask the physician to see whether he could find traces of the poison in Godric’s mattress. His elation subsided as quickly as it had arisen. He knew how Godric had been poisoned, but he still did not know who had done it. Julian came to sit next to him, sniffing and rubbing her nose against an already slimy sleeve.

“You look sick again,” she said in a low voice. “Do not let on to Henry, or he will take advantage of it and kill you.” She reached for the bottle of wine Stephen had given Geoffrey two nights before, and offered it to him. “Drink some of this. It might make you feel better.”

“God’s teeth, Julian!” muttered Geoffrey. “Do not give me that. It contains the poison that almost dispatched me the last time.”

“It cannot,” protested Julian. “The seal is not broken. How can it be poisoned if the seal is intact?”

Geoffrey stared down at the bottle. Julian was right. He looked around, but it was the only bottle in the room. It was, without doubt, one of the same kind that Stephen had brought him, and before Julian had picked it up, it had stood next to the bowl in which Hedwise had brought the broth. Geoffrey leaned over and picked up the bowl. It was clean: someone had washed it. Geoffrey frowned, and looked at the bowl and bottle thoughtfully. It seemed that the murderer was taking great care to cover his, or her, tracks.