A Head for Poisoning (34 page)

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.