A Head for Poisoning (31 page)

“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.”

I
f 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?”