A Dead Man's secret m-8

by Simon Beaufort

  The crossbow bolt smacked into the place where his head would have been, had he kept moving. Reacting instinctively, he dived behind a water butt, listening intently. The bailey was silent, but then he heard footsteps running away. He abandoned his cover and gave chase.

  But it was hopeless – whoever it was had too great a lead and Goodrich contained too many outbuildings. Geoffrey looked around wildly. Alberic and Sear loitered by the chapel, and he saw Pulchria framed in the doorway there. All three seemed breathless, but Geoffrey could not tell whether it was anticipation or because they had been running. Meanwhile, Gwgan appeared from a direction that meant he had not been in the stables, and Edward was sitting on the hall steps. Cornald was chatting to Delwyn, and even shy Leah was hurrying from the latrines. Virtually everyone was out and might have taken a shot at their host.

  Geoffrey retraced his steps and inspected the missile. It was one of Goodrich’s own – distinctive, with a slight Saracen curve. Did it mean a servant was responsible? He did not think so, especially as he had not yet provided them with an heir. But which of the guests wanted him dead? Or had the culprit been aiming at someone else? The bailey was dark, and all knights tended to look similar in the clothes they wore when at leisure. Except Edward, of course.

  Geoffrey stalked towards the Constable of Kadweli, who was taking deep breaths in an apparent effort to clear his head of wine fumes.

  ‘Have you seen this before?’ he asked, shoving the quarrel into Edward’s hands.

  Edward examined it in the faint light emanating from the hall. ‘No, but it is a very peculiar shape. Why? Surely, you do not think we should have a shooting contest now? Wait until the morning, when we shall be able to see the targets.’

  Geoffrey was about to press the matter further, when he saw Sear and Alberic coming towards them, aiming for the hall. They were speaking softly in low voices. As they passed, Edward addressed them.

  ‘Look at this strange thing. Have you ever seen its like before?’

  ‘No,’ said Sear shortly. ‘But then I have never bothered to make myself familiar with crossbows. I prefer a lance.

  ‘And I prefer a proper bow,’ added Alberic. ‘I shall challenge you tomorrow, Geoffrey, because I warrant I am more accurate than you can be with this thing.’

  ‘Do not be so sure about that,’ said Cornald, making them all jump by approaching from behind. He held Pulchria by the hand. Her face was as black as thunder, and Geoffrey supposed he had decided against letting her keep her vigil. ‘Sir Geoffrey will have had far more experience of weapons than any of us.’

  ‘Not more than me,’ said Sear. ‘The King would not have appointed me Constable of Pembroc had I been a novice.’

  ‘Well, I am hopeless with weapons,’ said Cornald affably.

  ‘Oh, fie!’ said Pulchria. ‘You are an excellent shot. When we were first married and were poor, you kept us alive with the rabbits you caught.’

  ‘That was a long time ago,’ said Cornald rather furtively.

  ‘It is not something you forget,’ persisted Pulchria sulkily. ‘But then what do I know? I am a mere woman, after all-’

  ‘You showed an aptitude for the bow, too,’ said Cornald. The affable expression was gone from his round face, and something hard and angry had replaced it. ‘When we first wed and were in love. I taught you how to shoot, and you took to it like a duck to water.’

  Pulchria pulled a face at him, then smiled at Geoffrey. ‘What has prompted these questions about weaponry? Is it to give us all nightmares, so we will seek solace in each other’s company?’

  ‘Someone just shot at me,’ replied Geoffrey curtly, aware that Richard had just joined the little gathering. Gwgan was still some distance away. ‘By the stable.’

  ‘Unlikely,’ said Sear with disdain. ‘You are drunk and must have imagined it.’

  ‘It was quite real,’ said Geoffrey quietly. ‘I am not that drunk.’

  ‘You do not seem drunk at all now,’ said Edward. ‘It must have sobered you fast. I am sure it would have sobered me.’

  Sear spat as he traipsed into the hall, making it clear he did not believe the tale. Richard shoved past Geoffrey without a word, a rough collision that almost took both men from their feet, although Geoffrey suspected it owed more to wine than hostility.

  Richard turned when he reached the top of the steps. ‘Look to your servants for a culprit,’ he suggested. ‘Mine are always trying to dispatch me.’

  ‘How are you with a bow?’ asked Geoffrey coolly.

  Richard scowled. ‘That is a question I decline to answer, and if you want to see another dawn, you will not put it again. I do not deal kindly with men who make unwarranted accusations.’

  He staggered after the others. Sourly, Geoffrey thought that if William had been anything like Richard, then it would have needed a miracle to transform him into a saint.

  Gwgan arrived at last, but forestalled his questions by taking his hand and gripping it warmly. ‘There has been no opportunity to become better acquainted today. Hilde tells me we shall ride to Kermerdyn together, so I hope to converse more then.’

  ‘If I survive the night,’ muttered Geoffrey.

  Gwgan took the quarrel from him and inspected it without much interest. ‘I have never had much use for crossbows. They take too long to wind. Welshmen prefer simpler bows.’

  ‘But you know how to use a crossbow?’

  ‘Of course, but I have not had occasion to practise in a long time. I am always willing to hone my skills, though. What do you say to a competition tomorrow?’

  ‘Only as long as I am not the target.’

  Gwgan laughed uncertainly, then frowned. ‘Are you saying someone has just shot at you?’

  Geoffrey nodded at the bolt. ‘It missed me by a hand’s breadth.’

  Gwgan blew out his lips in a sigh. ‘Well, it was not me! I make a point of maintaining good relations with my kin, because I might need their help one day. Wales is unstable, and only a fool makes unnecessary enemies.’

  Geoffrey was not sure what to think about anyone. He changed the subject. ‘It will be good to meet Isabella in Kermerdyn; Hilde talks of her often.’

  ‘She is a fine woman, although our union is yet to be blessed with brats. I understand you are still waiting with Hilde, too. A third sister has been wed seven years to a man with a dozen bastards and no sign of a legal heir. I hope Baderon has not foisted barren lasses on us.’

  ‘I have not been home long enough for Hilde to-’

  ‘Well, keep at it,’ advised Gwgan. ‘Fortunately, Welsh law sets scant store by legitimacy, and I have sons from previous liaisons. You will be under some pressure, though, being Norman.’

  ‘I have been charged to hand you this,’ said Geoffrey, feeling the discussion was disloyal to Hilde. He pulled the letter from his shirt, first checking it bore Gwgan’s name and Pepin’s elaborate cross. ‘It is from the King.’

  ‘Is it?’ asked Gwgan, surprised. Then he shrugged. ‘Then it is probably for Prince Hywel, but has been sent to me because I am his chief advisor. Hywel does not read, you see.’

  ‘You can read?’ asked Geoffrey. But of course he could. Gwgan’s position demanded it, and Richard had already told him as much. He took a deep breath, wishing he had not drunk so much.

  ‘Yes, and so can you. Hilde told me. She is very proud of you.’

  ‘She is?’ Geoffrey was pleased.

  ‘And she will love you even more if you give her a son. So do not linger out here. Go to her!’

  Grateful that two of the King’s letters were now safely in the hands of the intended recipients, Geoffrey did as he was told.

  Dawn the following day was pink and gold, and although Geoffrey’s inclination was to leap out of bed and make preparations for leaving as soon as possible, Hilde persuaded him to linger, pointing out that no one else would be ready. All the guests had imbibed liberally the previous night, and even the vigorous Roger was drained by the journey from La Batailge. It would be
a kindness – and good manners – to allow them a day to recover.

  As they lay in bed, he told Hilde about the attack the previous night.

  ‘Do you think it had to do with the letters?’ she asked.

  ‘Not the one from Maurice, certainly. It was a recipe for cheese.’

  Hilde frowned. ‘But Henry would not tell you what his missives contain. Perhaps someone does not want them delivered.’

  ‘That means the culprit is someone who was already at Goodrich, because no attempts were made to harm me as we rode from La Batailge.’

  ‘Not necessarily. You told me that none of your travelling companions – except Roger – knew about the King’s letters. They believed you carried one from the Archbishop and several from Maurice. But then yesterday you started passing out missives from Henry. Ergo, it was only yesterday that they learned what you really carried.’

  Geoffrey stared at her. Hilde was right. Then he shook his head. ‘Sear, Alberic, Edward and Delwyn were trying companions, but none is the kind to loose crossbow bolts in the dark.’

  ‘Then perhaps we are going about this the wrong way – looking for suspects before assessing the evidence,’ said Hilde. ‘Tell me exactly what happened. Who else was nearby?’

  ‘Sear and Alberic were breathless shortly afterwards; they may have been running. So was Edward, who was sitting on the steps taking the air. Cornald claimed he could not shoot, but Pulchria contradicted him. Richard was aggressively defensive, and Gwgan invited me to challenge him in the butts.’

  ‘And the women cannot be dismissed, either,’ mused Hilde. ‘I can use a crossbow.’

  ‘I do not suspect you.’

  ‘I should hope not! But where were Pulchria and Leah when all this was happening?’

  ‘Leah was by the latrines, and Pulchria was near the chapel.’

  ‘If my opinion counts for anything, I would say you can dismiss Leah and Cornald. Leah is too timid, and Cornald likes making friends, not killing them.’

  Geoffrey was about to quiz her further when there was a sudden yowl from the bailey. He went to the window to see what was happening.

  ‘Murder!’ Delwyn was screeching, racing from the direction of the latrine. ‘My abbot has been murdered!’

  Geoffrey raced down the stairs in shirt and leggings, leaving Hilde to get dressed. The latrine was a thatched shed some distance from the other buildings. It comprised a seat that could accommodate three or four users simultaneously, separated by reed screens. It had been an evil place in Geoffrey’s youth, but Joan saw it cleaned daily, and fresh soil was shovelled into the pit each night to reduce odours.

  Mabon was sitting in the last stall, clutching a fistful of leaves. He was slumped to one side, eyes closed, as if he had fallen asleep. Geoffrey poked him, but there was no response.

  ‘I have already done that,’ said Joan. ‘And there is no life-beat in his neck.’

  ‘It is murder!’ cried Delwyn.

  ‘What has happened?’ demanded Edward, thrusting his way forward. He stopped when he saw Mabon, and the blood drained from his face. ‘Christ God! Is he dead? But he was hale and very hearty last night.’

  The other guests arrived to express their horror, too – Richard, Sear and Alberic pushing past servants with unnecessary roughness; Gwgan entering more gently; Leah, hands to her mouth in mute horror; Pulchria, one eye on the abbot, and the other on the men in the crowd; Cornald white-faced next to her.

  ‘Help me carry him outside,’ ordered Geoffrey. ‘It is not seemly to inspect him here.’

  But Mabon was a large man, and his armour made him heavy. Sear and Richard helped, but Delwyn was useless, and Geoffrey was grateful when Roger elbowed the monk aside and lent his considerable strength to the procedure. Once they had manoeuvred Mabon out, they laid him on a bier and carried him to the chapel. Geoffrey ordered the servants back to work, but the guests lingered with Joan, Olivier and Hilde. Acutely aware of being watched by a sizeable audience, Geoffrey knelt to inspect the abbot.

  Mabon was still slightly warm, so his death had not occurred long before, but there was nothing to say how he died. He was wearing mail and his black surcoat, but there were no breaches to indicate he had suffered a mortal blow, nor had he been struck on the head.

  ‘He may have had a natural seizure,’ Geoffrey said to Delwyn. ‘There is nothing to suggest he was unlawfully slain.’

  ‘Then it must be poison!’ declared Delwyn. ‘What other reason could there be for a healthy man to die so suddenly?’

  Ignoring the murmurs of disgust from the onlookers, Geoffrey prised open the dead man’s mouth and peered into it. He was horrified to see a bloody rawness within. Clearly, the bombastic abbot had ingested something caustic.

  ‘You should not be doing that,’ came a voice at his shoulder. It was Father Adrian, a priest with good Latin, but bound by ideas that betrayed an unworldly naivete. ‘It is not nice.’

  ‘Neither is being poisoned,’ retorted Geoffrey. ‘And Delwyn is right: Mabon has swallowed something that seems to have seared his innards.’

  There was a horrified gasp from the guests, and Adrian immediately began to pray. Edward, Hilde and Leah bowed their heads, but everyone else was looking at each other with expressions that ranged from shock to curiosity to disinterest.

  ‘Did you have to announce that?’ muttered Joan angrily. ‘It will do our reputation as hosts no good at all.’

  ‘Why would anyone harm Mabon?’ asked Geoffrey, cutting through Adrian’s petitions for the dead man’s soul. The priest glared but Geoffrey ignored him.

  There were a lot of shaken heads and shrugged shoulders. Edward made a sudden dive for the door. There followed the sound of him being violently sick.

  ‘I am glad Kadweli is in such manly hands,’ muttered Richard.

  ‘It is a more honourable reaction than yours,’ snapped Cornald, his cheerful face pale with shock. ‘Cold indifference is never attractive.’

  ‘Then it is a good thing you are not a soldier,’ sneered Richard. ‘And-’

  ‘Why would anyone harm Mabon?’ repeated Geoffrey, more forcefully. He did not want to listen to his guests sniping.

  ‘Perhaps because he is not everyone’s idea of an abbot,’ suggested Delwyn, seeming more angry than distressed by the loss of his leader. ‘But that is our business, and it is not for outsiders to interfere. Now we shall have Ywain foisted on us, and I am not sure we are ready for that.’

  ‘That is a fine, compassionate attitude for a monk,’ said Sear in distaste. ‘And what do you mean exactly? Ready for what?’

  ‘For the future,’ snapped Delwyn. ‘And the changes it will bring. But it is not me who should be interrogated here. I did not kill Mabon – I loved him like a father.’

  ‘We can probably discount Delwyn as a culprit,’ murmured Hilde in Geoffrey’s ear. ‘He would not want Mabon dead if Mabon will be succeeded by someone he dislikes.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Geoffrey whispered back. ‘However, Mabon despised Delwyn and refused to let him read the letter Henry sent. Delwyn lies when he says he loved Mabon.’

  ‘What will you do with that particular missive now?’ asked Hilde.

  ‘Give it to Mabon’s successor, I suppose. It contains orders to submit to the Bishop, so I imagine that applies as much to Ywain as Mabon.’

  ‘You are no doubt thinking that Mabon’s death means you are relieved of one of Henry’s quests, but you are not. He will expect a report on Ywain instead and his relationship with Bishop Wilfred. I will help you write-’

  Hilde stopped speaking when Delwyn sidled up to them.

  ‘You had better give me the Archbishop’s letter,’ he said in a low voice. ‘And any others intended for Kermerdyn. After all, someone did try to kill you last night.’

  Geoffrey stared at him. ‘Are you saying that Mabon’s poisoner and the person who shot at me are one and the same? Why would you think that?’

  Delwyn shrugged. ‘No reason. I am merely concerned for your well-bein
g. I am a monk, always alert for ways to protect my fellow creatures.’

  ‘Sir Geoffrey had a valid question,’ said Adrian when he had finished his prayers. Delwyn took the opportunity to slither away. ‘Who did this terrible thing?’

  Silence greeted his words, which came as no surprise to Geoffrey. The killer was not going to hold up his hand and admit responsibility.

  ‘Then what manner of poison took him?’ Adrian went on. He turned to Geoffrey. ‘Return to the latrines and see if you can find a bottle or a packet.’

  ‘I will help,’ offered Sear, although Geoffrey would have preferred to work alone. He and Sear entered the building and began to poke unenthusiastically at the muddy floor. Joan followed.

  ‘If there is a bottle or a packet, it is more likely to be down the pit,’ she said practically. ‘Here is a long pole with a hook, Geoff. Fish about and see what you can find.’

  ‘You do it,’ said Geoffrey in distaste. ‘And why do you keep such a thing in here anyway?’

  ‘Because people are always dropping things, and we often need to fetch them up,’ explained Joan impatiently. ‘Stand aside, then.’

  ‘No, allow me,’ said Sear, stepping forward and taking the stick. ‘ I will not see a lady perform such a distasteful task.’

  Geoffrey left abruptly, unwilling to witness such an operation – and hating the smile of startled gratitude Joan shot at the man he loathed. Sear was right – he should not have let his sister do something so ghastly – and it was shame that made Geoffrey angry. The pair appeared within moments, Joan holding a cloth in which lay a small phial.

  ‘Here,’ she said, holding it aloft. ‘The poison must have come from this.’

  ‘It is Mabon’s tonic!’ cried Delwyn, surging forward. ‘He kept a pot of it with him at all times. He said it kept him vigorous.’

  Adrian took it and smelled it tentatively. ‘The contents of this would not have kept him vigorous. I am no alchemist, but it appears to have held wolf-tooth. I recognize the fishy stench.’

  ‘Wolf-tooth?’ asked Geoffrey, bemused.

  Adrian shrugged. ‘I know nothing about it, other than that it is poisonous.’