“I am glad to have made your acquaintance, as it happens, Sir Geoffrey,” he said. “There is something I would like you to do for me.”
Reluctantly, Geoffrey followed the King into an antechamber just off the hall. An energetic fire blazed in the hearth, enjoyed by a selection of sleek and smelly dogs. The King nudged a few out of the way with the toe of his boot, and turned to face Geoffrey, drawing him nearer to the fire so that they would not be overheard.
At the calculating gleam in the King’s grey eyes, Geoffrey’s stomach lurched, and he almost hauled his arm away. Not again! he thought, with sudden despair. He had left the Holy Land and its squabbling rulers at least in part because he did not want to be dragged into their intrigues and plots, and here he was, not even home, and he was being recruited by no less than the King of England for some task that he was certain he would not wish to undertake.
“I see you do not appreciate the honour that is being bestowed upon you,” said the King dryly, sensing Geoffrey’s unease. “Do you not want to be of use to your King?”
Geoffrey did not, but there was no way he could say so and still be free to leave—at least, not with all of him still present and functional. He thought fast.
“I am in the service of Tancred de Hauteville, my lord,” he said. “But I trained under your brother, the Duke of Normandy.”
The King regarded Geoffrey keenly, and then smiled humourlessly. “I know what you are thinking. You know that relations between my brother and myself are not entirely amiable, and you think that by confessing your loyalty to him, I will release you from working for me. Am I correct?”
He was, but again, Geoffrey could hardly say so. “I only seek to warn you, my lord, lest you reveal something that you would rather a vassal of the Duke of Normandy did not know.”
The King laughed. “You are wasted as a knight, Geoffrey Mappestone! You should have been a courtier. But what I am going to ask you to do for me will not compromise your allegiance to my brother. I am more concerned with a matter of security here, in England, than affairs of state in Normandy.”
“Yes?” asked Geoffrey cautiously, when the King fell silent.
“Before I tell you what I want, let us talk awhile,” said the King, poking at a pile of logs with his foot. “My constable tells me that you have been away from your home for some years, and so you will not be aware of some of the things that have been happening here.”
Geoffrey felt that he was very well informed of occurrences in Goodrich and in England, because his sister Enide had taken care to keep him up to date with such events. Enide and Geoffrey had been close before he had left to begin his knightly training, and their relationship had remained affectionate because Enide, like Geoffrey, was literate, and they had written to each other often and at length throughout the years. Their correspondence had ended abruptly when Geoffrey had received the terse note from his father’s scribe informing him that she had died. He said nothing, and the King continued.
“Your father owns a goodly tract of land when all his estates are added together. He was a loyal subject of my father, the Conqueror—indeed, it was through my father’s generosity that Godric Mappestone came into possession of his lands in the first place. After my father’s death, Godric transferred his allegiance to my eldest brother, the Duke of Normandy. He never fully accepted my second brother, William Rufus, as King of England.”
Geoffrey swallowed hard. Godric had been playing a dangerous game if he had been supporting the Duke of Normandy over Rufus, who had been King of England before his sudden death the previous summer.
The King saw his concern and patted his arm. “Do not look so alarmed, Geoffrey. Rufus was not a popular king, and your father was right to object to his evil, unjust rule. But after Rufus had his unfortunate accident in the New Forest, many men who had favoured the Duke of Normandy above Rufus decided that I was the best ruler England could have. So, they abandoned their allegiance to the Duke of Normandy, and swore oaths of loyalty to me instead.”
Geoffrey’s unease increased. He hoped that the King was not going to order him to coax his father to abandon his allegiance to the Duke of Normandy and accept King Henry instead. Godric Mappestone was notoriously stubborn and opinionated, and it would be no more possible to persuade him to change his mind than it would be to alter the course of the sun.
“Do not fiddle with that thing!” snapped the King suddenly, as Geoffrey’s hands moved nervously on the arrow. “Throw it into the fire.”
Geoffrey complied, and they both watched flames lick up it, until the light wood was stained brown and then black. The King took a deep breath, and spoke again.
“I am fairly sure that your father is loyal to me.” Geoffrey tried not to appear relieved. “I have also had occasion to meet your third brother—another Henry, like me—and he has assured me of his allegiance also. Your eldest brother Walter, and your sister Joan, on the other hand, have been quite outspoken against me. They claim I am a usurper, and that the throne of England really belongs to the Duke of Normandy.”
Geoffrey’s short-lived relief evaporated like a drop of rain in the desert, and he began to anticipate what the King was about to charge him to do with a feeling of dread. He opened his mouth to protest, but the King silenced him with a wave of his hand.
“Your second brother Stephen has kept quiet on the matter, and so I do not know where he stands. Each one of your siblings is determined to have Goodrich for him—or her—self. Now, I would not usually be concerned about the outcome of such a contest—even if the hostile Walter were to inherit, I would be able to subdue him by threatening to confiscate his land. But there is one other factor in the picture that gives me cause for concern.”
Geoffrey waited, watching the yellow flames consume the arrow, and wishing that he had abandoned Sir Aumary’s corpse in the forest, or better still, that he had never followed his ridiculous whim to return home in the first place.
“One of your siblings—and whether it is Walter, Joan, Stephen, or Henry, I cannot say—is poisoning your father.”
“So I have been told,” said Geoffrey, cleanly taking the wind out of the King’s sails. “But relations between Goodrich and its neighbours have never been very congenial. The tale of my father’s poisoning is probably a rumour intended to aggravate ill-feelings among my brothers and sister, which can then be used against them.”
“I do not base my statements on rumour,” said the King. “I base them on a letter your father sent me himself around Christmas. In it, he claimed not only that was he being poisoned but that a similar attempt had been made on your sister, too.”
“Joan?” asked Geoffrey. “Then I suppose that discounts her as a patricidal maniac.”
“Not Joan,” said the King. “Godric’s youngest child. I forget her name.”
“Enide?” asked Geoffrey, a cold, sick feeling gripping at the pit of his stomach.
“That is the one! Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on the way you look at it—this Enide died of other causes before the slow-acting poison could take her,” said the King, watching Geoffrey’s reaction carefully. “But the point is that someone tried.”
Geoffrey rubbed the bridge of his nose, and wondered whether the King were lying to secure his cooperation. He had heard that the King was not averse to emotional blackmail when other methods were impracticable or unlikely to work.
“I am not asking you to spy on your kinsmen,” the King continued in a paternal voice, despite the fact that Geoffrey knew they were the same age. “But you will surely want to know if one of your siblings is trying to dispatch your father, and if he, or she, also attempted to kill your sister.”
Geoffrey stared at him uncertainly. Then Caerdig’s claim—that the arrows in the forest might have been fired by one of his siblings in order to prevent Geoffrey from returning home—sprang to his mind. The King seemed convinced that there was some truth in the letter Godric had supposedly written to him, stating that he and Enide had been p
oisoned. Could a jealous brother also have tried to shoot Geoffrey in the forest and had killed Aumary by mistake?
The King smiled, although there was no humour in his eyes. “You are wondering what I stand to gain by your unmasking of this would-be killer?”
That question was uppermost in Geoffrey’s mind, but he said nothing. The King, seeing that Geoffrey was not going to reply, continued again.
“The most powerful baron in this region is Robert de Bellême, the Earl of Shrewsbury.”
He paused and studied Geoffrey to assess his reaction. Geoffrey had certainly heard of Robert de Bellême, generally considered to be one of the cruellest and most violent men in Christendom. The Earl was also vastly wealthy, and owned massive estates in Normandy, as well as sizeable tracts of land in England. Geoffrey supposed that, as lord of the little manor of Rwirdin he had inherited from his mother, the Earl was technically his overlord. He decided he would not visit Rwirdin after all, for he certainly had no wish to encounter a man like the Earl of Shrewsbury.
The King noted with satisfaction the instinctive grimace that his mention of the brutal Earl had provoked.
“Your father’s manor would make a handsome addition to the Earl’s estates along the Welsh border, but I am loath to see his fortunes rise too high. The Earl rebelled against my father, and he rebelled against my brother Rufus. He might do the same to me if he becomes too strong. I do not want him getting Goodrich.”
“Surely that is unlikely, with so many contenders for heir,” Geoffrey pointed out. “If my father were childless, it might be a different matter. But you yourself have noted that my three brothers and Joan intend to have Goodrich for themselves.”
“But one, or perhaps more, of your siblings is attempting to kill your father, and you have already admitted to me that you would not stay if Goodrich were yours. I do not want a vacant landlord any more than I want a murderer as lord of Goodrich. And I certainly do not want one of the Earl of Shrewsbury’s creatures in charge. And there is another thing.”
He paused again, and regarded Geoffrey intently. Geoffrey sensed yet again that something was going to be said that he would rather not hear. If Henry were anyone other than the King of England, Geoffrey would have made his excuses and left. As it was, he was trapped, and obliged to listen to whatever sordid secrets the King chose to reveal.
“Do you know what happened to my brother, Rufus, in the New Forest last summer?”
Geoffrey was startled by the change of subject. “I was in the Holy Land at the time, but the story was that he was shot in a hunting accident.”
Henry nodded. “He was shot, certainly. But whether by accident or design is less certain.” He turned, very deliberately, and gazed at the remains of the arrow burning in the fire.
Geoffrey prudently maintained his silence. There had been a good many rumours when the news had reached Jerusalem that Rufus of England had been slain, one of which was that Henry, who stood to gain a good deal from his brother’s death, was not wholly innocent in the affair. He wondered why the King was choosing to discuss this particular matter with him now.
“You seem vague regarding the details of the events of last August,” said Henry. “Let me enlighten you. On the second day of that month, we were due to go hunting together, just after dawn. My brother Rufus, however, was ill. He had slept badly, plagued with nightmares, and felt unwell.” He looked hard at Geoffrey. “Rather as your father has been of late.”
“You believe Rufus was poisoned?” asked Geoffrey, startled. “Before he went hunting?”
Henry shrugged. “Why not? I am sure that had my brother been in his usual good health, he would not have fallen to the arrow that killed him. He would have sensed something was amiss, and moved away or called out. But I am getting ahead of myself. Because Rufus was indisposed, we did not leave to go hunting until much later—well into the afternoon. The party split, as is the custom, and my brother was left in the company of Walter Tirel, the Count of Poix.”
He paused yet again. Geoffrey glanced out through the door to where Caerdig stood, wondering, no doubt, what the King and Geoffrey were finding to discuss alone together for such a long time.
“Then, events are unclear. It seems a stag was driven to the clearing where my brother and Tirel waited. My brother fired, but only wounded the animal. Tirel fired, but he killed Rufus rather than the stag. Tirel immediately fled the country, but has been roaming France ever since claiming that it was not his arrow that killed Rufus. It is assumed by many that his instant flight is a clear statement of his guilt, but I am uncertain.”
If Geoffrey had been in a position whereby the King of England had been shot, and he was the only known person in the vicinity with a bow and arrows, he might well have fled himself, regardless of innocence or guilt. Regicide was a serious matter, and revenge tended to be taken before questions were asked. Geoffrey supposed that it was entirely possible Tirel had not killed Rufus, and that his flight had been nothing more than a case of instinctive self-preservation.
“I have my suspicions that the Earl of Shrewsbury might have had a hand in Rufus’s death,” the King finished.
Geoffrey was quite unprepared for this conclusion. Common sense told him to say nothing, but the King’s claim seemed so wild that he could not help but question it.
“But what would the Earl have to gain?” he asked. “It is said that he had a greater influence over Rufus than he could ever hope to have over you.”
He wondered if he had spoken out of turn, but the King only smiled. “That is reassuring to hear. I would not like my people to imagine that I consort with men such as Shrewsbury. But he has grown powerful under my brother—he owns too much land along the Welsh borders, and holds altogether too much power in my kingdom. And there is more. There are those who say that my other brother, the Duke of Normandy, is the rightful King of England, and not me at all.”
Geoffrey decided that silence was definitely required over this one. The supporters of the Duke of Normandy—who included Geoffrey—had a point. There had been a treaty signed by Rufus and the Duke of Normandy, stating that the Duke should have England if Rufus died childless. Rufus had indeed died childless, and, if the treaty had been honoured, Henry should not have taken the crown.
“I am certain the Duke of Normandy plans to invade England, and snatch my throne away from me—which is why Shrewsbury is consolidating his lands along the borders here. But the Duke is barely able to rule his own duchy, let alone a kingdom as well. He will need a regent for England. And who better than his loyal servant, Shrewsbury?”
It was well known that King Henry was twice the statesman his brother the Duke would ever be, and the Duke might well reward loyalty from a man like the Earl of Shrewsbury with the Regency of England—and that would be a tragedy for every man, woman, and child in the country, given the Earl’s reputation for violence. England would fare better under the harsh, but just, rule of King Henry than that of the tyrannical and unpredictable Earl of Shrewsbury.
“So what do you want me to do?” asked Geoffrey, aware that the King was gazing at him expectantly.
“I want you to keep your father’s estates from Shrewsbury at any cost. It might seem to you that Goodrich is unimportant in the battle for a kingdom. But battles have been won and lost on details. I want Goodrich in your father’s name for as long as possible, and then I want his heir to be a man loyal to me. That is the essence of what I want you to do for me, and that is the reason why I brought you to this chamber—away from prying ears.”
Geoffrey turned as the constable hurried towards them, triumphantly bearing aloft a scrap of parchment. “Here, my liege,” he said, presenting it with a bow. “I found this stuffed down one of Aumary of Breteuil’s boots.”
“Ah!” said the King, scanning it quickly. “You were most astute, my lord constable, for this indeed must have been the important message Sir Aumary wished to conceal with his worthless household accounts.” He waved it in the air, and then secreted it i
n a pouch on his belt.
Geoffrey, who had been unable to prevent himself from glancing over the King’s shoulder to read what was written, wondered why the King should consider a common recipe for horse liniment so vital to his country’s well-being.
It was with some relief that Geoffrey was dismissed by the King. Caerdig followed him out of the hall and into the bailey, where he grabbed the knight’s arm and stopped him.
“Well?” he demanded. “What did he say? Are we free to leave?”
Geoffrey nodded, his thoughts still tumbling around in confusion.
“And?” persisted Caerdig. “What else did he say? What was he telling you away in that chamber? Did it concern Lann Martin?”
Geoffrey did not feel it was appropriate to tell Caerdig that the King had ordered him to prevent the powerful and rebellious Earl of Shrewsbury from laying hands on his father’s lands—nor that the King whole-heartedly believed the truth of the story that one of Geoffrey’s siblings was trying to murder their father.
“Lann Martin was not mentioned,” he said to placate the Welshman. “The King is merely concerned about some of the tales that have been circulating concerning Goodrich.”
“Like the fact that your father is being poisoned by one of your brothers?” asked Caerdig.
“There is Helbye,” Geoffrey said, ignoring Caerdig’s question, and walking across the bailey to where his sergeant and the two soldiers stood.
“Shall I saddle up?” asked Ingram without enthusiasm, as Geoffrey approached. “Of course, the horses are tired and I have only just finished rubbing them down.”
“The light is already failing and there is no more than an hour’s travelling time left today,” said Geoffrey, glancing at the sky. “We will spend the night here, and leave at first light in the morning.”
A Head for Poisoning Page 5