Geoffrey looked to where the physician pointed, and saw that the dog had abandoned its treasure on the floor, and was scrabbling back over the garden wall. He supposed that it had discovered something else to steal, although its backward glance suggested there was something about the physician’s garden that it did not like. The physician picked up the gnawed meat and placed it on a table.
“One of Bertrada’s own, I see,” he said gleefully. “Although I am sure she did not send it to me herself. She is always mean with her supplies, despite the fact that she knows I like her hams. What happened to this one? Have you had a go at it yourself?”
“My dog did,” explained Geoffrey. “To be honest, I do not think you should eat it. It—”
“Nonsense,” said the physician brusquely. “A quick rinse in clean water and all will be well. Now, what can I do for you? You are pale. Do you need a physic?”
“Thank you, no,” said Geoffrey, “But I would like to hear what you have to say about my father’s poisoning.”
“Very little, is the answer to that,” said the physician. “My name is Master Francis, by the way. Are you sure you would not like a physic? I can prepare you one quite quickly. In fact, I was thinking of making one for myself—the balance of my humours is not all it should be this morning, and I feel in need of a tonic before I go out to visit my patients today. Sit down, and I will have you feeling better in no time.”
“No,” said Geoffrey. “I just want to know about this poison.”
“There is not much I can tell you. Godric is being poisoned. He first became aware of the symptoms last spring, and they have gradually grown worse ever since. By the summer, Walter and Stephen were running his estates completely, and so Godric had ample time in which to rest and recover. But although he did everything I told him to, he did not get better. When I first realised that he was being poisoned, I recommended that he should hire Torva to prepare and serve all his food.”
“And Torva died in the moat.”
“Drowned, yes,” said Francis. “Torva was meticulous, and not a single morsel went past Godric’s lips that Torva had not first tasted. However, while Godric became more and more ill, Torva remained healthy. About November, I was forced to confine Godric to his room. He has been growing weaker ever since, and now he cannot even leave his bed.”
“Bertrada says he has a wasting sickness,” said Geoffrey.
“Bertrada would,” retorted Francis. “Since she and Walter would dearly love Godric to die, she has every reason to lie to you. And she is not a physician in any case. Wasting sicknesses do not have the same symptoms as poisoning—Bertrada could not tell the difference, but I can.”
“What about that great vat of wine that sits by Godric’s bed?” asked Geoffrey. “Could that be tainted somehow?”
“It might,” said Francis. “But I do not believe it is. I have tested it several times, and Torva has been drunk on it. All this suggests that the wine is not the culprit.”
“What about that horrible fish broth Hedwise keeps feeding him?” asked Geoffrey.
“That vile stuff would be enough to poison the most robust-stomached man,” agreed Francis. “But again, I have conducted several tests using rats and birds, and there is nothing to indicate that the broth has been poisoned.”
“Well, what else is there?” asked Geoffrey. “The stuff must be getting to him somehow.”
“Most astute of you,” said Francis condescendingly. “And I have been pondering the question for months, but I can come up with no answer. Your sister Enide suffered similar symptoms several times, and we thought she was being poisoned, too. But she died of other causes, and I am still no further forward in discovering the source of Godric’s illness.”
There was a loud bang from the bench, followed by an unpleasant smell.
“Oh, damn it all!” exclaimed Francis. “I should have been concentrating, not chatting. Now I will have to start again.”
“What were you doing?” asked Geoffrey curiously, looking at the bubbling liquids and mysterious brown powders that were neatly placed along the bench.
“Making a potion to seal wounds,” said the physician. “You do not have any, do you? Only it would be good to try it out on someone.”
“No,” said Geoffrey, thinking that he would have to be at Death’s door before he allowed something capable of exploding near any injury of his. “But do you make ink? I have run out, and it is not something that is easy to buy in Goodrich.”
“I make excellent ink,” said Francis with pride. “Just ask Father Adrian. It is smooth and dries slowly, so that you can leave the lid off as you write. What colour would you like?”
“Colour?” asked Geoffrey, puzzled. “Well, black, I suppose. Or brown. I want to do some writing, not illustrating.”
“Pity,” said Francis. “I have been experimenting with red, and I would like someone to try it and tell me what they think. And I have a beautiful azure blue.”
“I want black,” said Geoffrey firmly. “If my family see me writing with all colours of the rainbow, they will consider me to have lost my wits and will lock me away.”
Francis laughed. “They might! I make paints, too. It was I who supplied the pigments for your father’s wall paintings.”
If Geoffrey had supplied the paints for Godric’s violent foray into art, he would have kept quiet about it. He smiled politely.
“Here they are,” said Francis, gesturing to several buckets of pitch-black paint. “I suppose they will never be used now. It is a pity, because they were expensive to concoct. I use only the finest compounds.”
“Such as what?” asked Geoffrey dubiously.
“Such as pitch, certain oils and refined pig grease, lead powder, various herbs to bind it. For my yellows I use saffron. For my reds I use pig’s blood.”
“Pig’s blood is not expensive,” said Geoffrey, crouching down to inspect the pots.
“No, but saffron is,” said the physician. “And I add saffron to all my colours except the blacks and the browns. I use a little of Hedwise’s famous fish sauce in those.”
“No wonder they smell so unpleasant,” said Geoffrey, standing up. The thought of Hedwise’s fish sauce made his stomach churn, and he thought he might be sick. He walked quickly outside, and took some deep breaths of fresh air.
“I told you that you looked pale,” said the physician, following him. “You should have taken the physic I offered you. What ails you?”
“Hedwise’s fish sauce,” said Geoffrey, smiling ruefully. “I have never liked fish, and it seems to feature in every meal the castle has to offer.”
“Hedwise is proud of that fish sauce,” said Francis. “And her fish broth. I am not interested in the broth, but the sauce is an excellent thickener for my paints.”
“Please,” said Geoffrey with a shudder. Although he did not like fish, he ate it if he had to, and it did not usually make him ill. He wondered what secret ingredient Hedwise added that seemed to please everyone else, but left him gagging.
Godric was asleep again by the time Geoffrey returned, and so the knight decided to go riding while he could. Olivier joined him and they cantered towards Coppet Hill again, Olivier chattering like a magpie, and boasting in ever greater detail about his role in the Battle of Civitate. He had just reached the climax when a sudden rustling from the undergrowth silenced him. Geoffrey carried a lance, and he drew it out of its holder when he heard the unmistakable snuffling of a wild boar.
Boars were large animals and could be dangerous, especially when frightened or enraged. Fortunately, the one that ambled towards them was neither, although Olivier took one look at it and sent his horse crashing blindly through the undergrowth to escape. Geoffrey and the wild boar watched the fleeing knight in bemusement, and parted to go their own ways without a blow being exchanged. The boar was more interested in the juicy roots that were growing around the base of a tree, and Geoffrey did not feel inclined to drive his lance into the contentedly foraging animal as mo
st knights would have done.
He reached the top of the hill, and sat for a long time gazing across the rolling countryside that spread out in front of him. In the distance, he could see the dense forest and tatty rooftops of Lann Martin, while Goodrich Castle dominated the land with its great tower of grey and brown stone, and its wicked wooden palisades.
His mind wandered back to twenty years before, when he and Enide had climbed the hill together to escape the bullying attentions of their older siblings. For the first time since learning about her horrible death, Geoffrey became aware of an acute sense of loss and his stomach contracted with a dizzying sense of grief. He felt the ground tip and sway in front of him, and quickly dismounted before he fell, clutching the reins for support and trying to bring his emotions under control.
Who could have killed Enide? And why? Was it the same person who Francis the physician seemed so sure was killing Godric? Would one of his brothers or their wives really poison their father? Or was it Joan and the cowardly Olivier, desperate for more lands to pay for Olivier’s extravagant lifestyle and scrounging friends?
Eventually, the pounding in his head lessened, and he began to feel better. He mounted his horse again and set it galloping across the smooth turf of the hilltop, enjoying the sense of power and speed as he gave the beast its head. When it was spent, he reluctantly turned it around and headed towards Goodrich.
As he rode, the light drizzle turned into a persistent downpour. Hot after his exertions, Geoffrey enjoyed the feel of cool rain on his face, although he was less keen on the sensation of cold water trickling down the back of his neck as the heavy drops seeped through his armour. Julian came racing out to meet him, and flung himself into his arms. Geoffrey was startled and somewhat embarrassed.
“Whatever is the matter?” he asked, bewildered. “Julian, please! People are looking at us!”
“Olivier told me a boar had got you,” the boy sobbed. “He said it was the biggest one he had ever seen, and that it felled your horse and was mauling you. He is waiting for the rain to stop so that he can take Walter and Henry to collect your body.”
Given Olivier’s penchant for fabrication, Geoffrey supposed he should not be surprised by the tale, but it was cruel to upset a child needlessly.
“Nothing happened,” he said, gently disengaging himself. “Like Olivier himself, the boar was more interested in food than in fighting.”
Julian rubbed a hand across his face, and took the reins from Geoffrey to lead the destrier into the stables, still snuffling. Geoffrey strode across the bailey to where Olivier was watching two servants slaughter a goat.
“It was harsh of you to upset Julian like that,” he said, trying to keep the anger from his voice.
Olivier looked at him in astonishment. “You are alive! Did you kill that great monster, then?”
“I did not,” said Geoffrey shortly. “But you should have checked your facts before telling the boy that I was dead.”
Olivier regarded him blankly. “What boy?”
“Julian,” said Geoffrey impatiently. “And, incidentally, you really should let him deal with your destrier. He is much better than your grooms.”
“He is also a woman,” said Olivier. He put his hands over his mouth in horror. “Dash it all! I promised Joan I would not tell.”
“A woman?” asked Geoffrey in confusion. “What are you talking about? Have you been drinking?”
“No. I should not have spoken. Ignore me.”
“What do you mean, a woman?” demanded Geoffrey, taking a hold on the small knight’s arm. Olivier stiffened with fright.
“I cannot tell you,” he said, his voice a pleading whisper. “Joan would skin me alive.”
“I will skin you alive if you do not,” threatened Geoffrey.
Olivier licked his lips nervously and eyed Geoffrey up and down, assessing whether the knight or his sister presented a more serious threat. He swallowed hard and seemed to come to the conclusion that while Joan might be more dangerous, Geoffrey was a more immediate problem. He began to speak quickly, keeping his voice low so that the servants would not overhear.
“Julian is really named Julianna. She is a pretty little thing under all that dirt, and Joan feared for her … her …”
“Virginity?” asked Geoffrey bluntly.
“Well, if you put it like that, yes,” said Olivier prudishly. “Godric was a bit of a devil for the women before his illness, and Joan did not want Julianna to go the same way as Rohese—whore today, gone tomorrow.”
He chuckled at his nasty joke, but sobered when he saw Geoffrey did not share it. He hastened to explain further.
“Joan did not want Julianna to fall into to the same situation, and so she is training her to be a pastry chef. Julianna dresses like a boy so that she will be safe from unwanted male advances.”
So that explained why he had always thought there was something a little odd about Julian, Geoffrey realised. Her gait was not quite right for a boy, and she was sharper and more cynical than was usual for stable-boys.
“But Godric is hardly in a position to seduce Julian,” he said. “The man is confined to his bed.”
“But Walter, Henry, and Stephen are not,” said Olivier. “And they are every bit as dangerous. Poor Julianna would be with child before she was halfway across the bailey with them around. As soon as Godric is dead, we will leave Goodrich—assuming of course that we do not inherit—and we will take Julianna and Rohese with us. Then they can live safely with us.”
“This does not sound like Joan,” said Geoffrey, unconvinced. “Has she softened, then, as the years have passed?”
“I doubt it,” said Olivier proudly. “She is as stalwart and bold as she ever was. But you do her an injustice, Geoffrey. Under her harshness, she is a deeply caring woman. Who else would strive to keep a pretty maid from seduction by her brothers?”
“Enide?” asked Geoffrey.
Olivier gazed at him in disbelief. “Hardly! But because Julianna is a woman, you can see why I am reluctant to allow her near my war-horse.”
“Not really,” said Geoffrey. “My horse cares neither one way nor another about the sex of its grooms. Julian is very good. I prefer him to the others.”
“Her,” corrected Olivier. “Well, each to his own. But I believe very strongly that women should not be allowed near horses. Horses are for men.”
“I dare you to say that to Joan,” said Geoffrey, amused.
Olivier paled and scurried away, leaving Geoffrey laughing. He went up the stairs to the main hall, and opened the door. Inside, his family were gathered around the hearth together. When they saw Geoffrey, their faces took on expressions of astonishment and acute disappointment.
“Olivier said you were dead,” said Walter accusingly, as though Geoffrey had no right to prove the small knight wrong. “We were going to fetch back your corpse.”
“He told us that you were killed by a boar,” agreed Stephen, raising his eyebrows questioningly at Olivier, who had nervously followed Geoffrey into the keep.
“We should have known better to have listened to that snivelling coward,” said Henry, slamming a pewter goblet down on the table in an undisguised display of bitter frustration as he glowered at Olivier. “I thought it was too good to be true!”
“Well, I am pleased to see you alive and well,” said Hedwise, casting a defiant glance at her husband. “Come and sit by the fire and dry your wet clothes.”
Avoiding her outstretched hand, Geoffrey sat on a stool near the hearth, where Bertrada sullenly handed him a beaker of scalding ale, her resentful looks a far cry from her attempts to ingratiate herself with him a few nights earlier, when she had believed that he had been loaded down with loot. Making no attempts to disguise their blighted hopes at his unexpected return from the grave, his relatives ignored him and he sat alone, sipping the bitter brew and listening to Olivier tell Stephen about the massive boar they had encountered, which had escaped Olivier’s sword by the merest fraction. The tale
was so far removed from events as Geoffrey recalled them that he began to wonder if they had even shared the same experience.
Geoffrey’s brief moment of ease did not last long, because Godric began clamouring for him, claiming that someone had tried to suffocate him while he slept. It took a long time to calm him, and the sick man only agreed to rest when Geoffrey promised not to leave.
Later that evening, Geoffrey was awoken from where he dozed restlessly next to the fire by the sound of his father’s voice.
“They killed Enide, you know.”
Godric was wide awake and regarding him with bright eyes. Geoffrey must have been more deeply asleep than he had thought, for his mind was sluggish. He gazed uncomprehendingly at Godric, wondering whether he had misheard him.
“They killed Enide as well as poisoning me,” said Godric. “And they killed Torva. All for this—for Goodrich! I wish that I had never set eyes on the place! Old Sergeant Helbye’s sons do not cluster round him like vultures waiting for his corpse—because he has nothing to give them. It was after Enide was murdered that they began to poison me in earnest. She knew how to keep the family in order, and when she died, they turned on me more viciously than ever.”
“It is late,” said Geoffrey, refusing to be drawn into that kind of discussion. “You should not be saying such things, or you will give yourself bad dreams. Go to sleep.” He stood stiffly, and stretched.
“You will never make a good knight,” said Godric critically, changing the subject as he did when conversations were not proceeding as he intended. “Look at the state of you! Your chain-mail will rust if you do not look after it and keep it dry.”
“How can I keep it dry in England?” asked Geoffrey. “It rains all the time.”
“I wish I could see your destrier, Godfrey,” said Godric, suddenly wistful. “The cowardly Olivier informs me that it is a handsome beast.”
“He is handsome enough,” said Geoffrey, pulling off his surcoat and hanging it on the hooks in the garderobe passage to dry. “But perhaps a little too independent-minded.”
A Head for Poisoning Page 18