A Head for Poisoning (23 page)

Geoffrey bowed in return. “I do not know about that. Many knights have very wild dreams indeed.”

Malger laughed and turned to Olivier. “Where are your grooms, man? Sleeping off their dinner? Are we to wait here until nightfall for them?”

Olivier bustled away, calling for the grooms, but the hem of his expensive cloak caught in one of his spurs, and sent him staggering in the mud. Drogo and Malger exchanged a look of amusement, and Geoffrey wondered yet again how a man like Olivier had ever earned his knighthood. Meanwhile, Julian emerged with Geoffrey's destrier.

“I can do it,” he said eagerly to Olivier, who was furtively brushing himself off. “I can saddle up your war-horses.”

“Out of the question!” said Olivier brusquely. “And keep your hands off my animals. Ah, Ned. There you are. Saddle us up, and be quick about it.”

“But not so quick that you forget to fasten the buckles properly,” muttered Julian under his breath before stalking away towards the kitchens.

“Julian seems efficient enough,” said Geoffrey, straightening from where he had been checking his saddle. The boy had done a good job—the straps were firm, but not too tight, and he had even polished the well-worn leather. “Why do you not trust him?”

“Never you mind,” said Olivier. He rubbed his hands together, oblivious of the mud on his gloves from his tumble, and then scratched his nose. The resulting blob of filth on his face brought a second grin of amusement from his friends.

Eventually, they were ready, and the four knights set off through the village. Geoffrey was disturbed to note that their progress through the village was followed with an even greater resentment than his own had been that morning. At one point, he was certain a small boy had hurled a handful of dirt at them before being whisked into his house by his terrified mother.

Once away from the village, Geoffrey relaxed, enjoying the ride despite the cold, dull weather. Olivier chattered about a wide range of political and legal matters, although on most of them he was ill-informed, if not downright wrong. The others generally ignored him. Malger was concerned about a slight limp his horse had developed the previous day, and Drogo did not seem to be capable of rational conversation at all. He was surly, bad-tempered, and Geoffrey's suspicion that he was not quite in control of all his mental faculties was confirmed when he gave an enthusiastic grunt as Olivier praised Hedwise's rank fish sauce.

“That concoction is truly delicious,” said Olivier happily. “I am indeed blessed to have been given such a sister-in-law.”

Malger leered unpleasantly. “But you took your time over marrying Joan. Were you waiting for a woman like the delectable Hedwise instead?”

“Oh, no!” protested Olivier, his eyes wide and guileless. “I am more than content with my Joan. She is due back within the next two or three days, and I long to see her.”

“Do you?” asked Malger uncertainly.

Unless Joan had changed a good deal from the caustic, critical woman who Geoffrey remembered from his youth, then Malger was right to be suspicious of Olivier's protestations of devotion.

“Oh, drat,” said Olivier with a sigh, raising an upturned palm skywards. “It has started to rain. We must go back.”

“What for?” asked Geoffrey, bemused.

“Because if we go on, we will get wet,” Olivier replied with a pursing of his lips. He turned his horse around, and set it to walk back the way they had come.

Geoffrey watched him, open-mouthed.

“There goes the fearless hero of the Battle of Civitate,” remarked Malger, laughing at Geoffrey's reaction. “He took a wily old Pope captive while he was only three months old, but he is afraid of a few drops of rain. What about you, Sir Geoffrey? Drogo? Will you return with him, or can you withstand a little shower?”

Drogo growled some response that Geoffrey did not understand, and spurred his horse forward. Still laughing, Malger followed, leaving Geoffrey watching the diminishing figure of Sir Olivier in amazement.

By the time Malger, Drogo, and Geoffrey had returned, the rain was persistent. Olivier hurried out to greet them, clucking and fussing over his friends” sodden surcoats and saturated cloaks. Malger and Drogo were whisked away to the hall to be offered hot spiced wine and some of the inevitable fish soup, while Geoffrey was left to fend for himself. Duty obliged him to spend the rest of the day with his father.

To pass the time, and at his father's request, he cleaned away some of the wood-smoke that had stained the dreary wall-paintings that adorned the room. Godric directed his efforts from his bed.

“You have scrubbed at it too hard,” he snapped, trying to sit so that he could see better. “That part took me a week to do.”

“You painted this?” asked Geoffrey, surprised that his restless, irritable father had possessed the patience to pay such attention to fine detail. “I did not know you boasted such talent.”

“I suppose you think you inherited your love of the arts from your mother?” asked Godric acidly. “Well, you are quite wrong. She was like Henry, and it was her energetic spirit and fiery nature that attracted me to her. She was more warrior than many of the knights who rode with the Conqueror, and would have been at my side at Hastings had Henry not been about to favour the world with his presence. Then the battle would not have lasted so long! Your mother had a fabulous touch with the mace!”

Geoffrey, recalling the formidable woman who had easily held her own against the vile-tempered Godric, had no reason to doubt him.

“So when did you begin painting?” asked Geoffrey. “After she died?”

“Lord, no!” said Godric. “My greedy whelps would have thought that I had gone soft in the head with grief. Last spring, I decided to turn the running of my estates over to Walter and Stephen—between them I imagined they would do an acceptable job. I started this painting then, to while away the days, although I had already started to dabble with a mural here and there.”

“It is … beautiful,” said Geoffrey hesitantly, wanting to be kind, yet uncertain how best to describe the lurid, violent scenes that emblazoned the walls.

“Beautiful be damned!” said Godric, offended. “
Splendid
was the effect for which I was aiming, Godfrey! Or noble, perhaps. Beautiful is what I intended for my whore's room. You can see that if you go into the chamber across the passage. Do not look so startled, boy! Do you think I have been a monk since your mother died?”

“Of course not, but—”

“But most men do not keep their whores in the bosom of their family? Is that what you were going to say? Your mother was right about you—you should have become a priest! But you will like young Rohese when you meet her. She is a good lass.”

“Where is she?”

“She is away with Joan. She performs a dual function here—or did, when I was more able-bodied. She attended me at night, while during the day she is your sister Joan's tiring-woman. She used to be Enide's maid, but Joan took her on after Enide's death. Enide—now there was a fine lass, by God! A better daughter a man could not have wished for. I would have left her the manor, had she lived.”

“I wish I could have met her again,” said Geoffrey, wiping sweat from his eyes with his sleeve and looking at Godric. “I last saw her when she was eleven.”

“You would not have recognised her, Godfrey,” said Godric, his eyes shining. “She was a magnificent woman—taller than that vicious dog, Henry, and she had more brains that all the rest of you put together. She was kind, too. My whore, Rohese, does not like this room, so Enide willingly changed with me whenever I asked, so that I could have my whore happy and not babbling that my paintings frightened her while I wanted her attention on me. What other daughter would do such a thing for her old father, eh?”

“It does seem a somewhat curious arrangement,” said Geoffrey, scrubbing hard at the malevolent image of a black dog that held an equally sinister-looking black rabbit in its jaws.

“You would think that,” said Godric disdainfully. “Enide held no such monkish qualms. I wish that Joan was more like her. But Joan should be back soon—she and Rohese are visiting your manor at Rwirdin.”

“Joan's manor at Rwirdin, you mean,” said Geoffrey, crouching down to wring out the cloth in a bucket of water and vinegar. “It seems to have been part of her dowry.”

“That transaction was not legal,” said Godric. “You can contest it any time you like, and no court in the land would find in favour of Joan. But, you see, Walter had to find something to entice Olivier to marry her—that wretched little man had been courting her for more years than I can remember. In fact,” he said, heaving himself up on his elbows, “I remember that they started paying each other attention shortly after I sent you away.”

“Olivier seems fond of her,” said Geoffrey, concentrating on wiping smoke stains from the most wicked-looking pheasant he had ever seen—he had not believed that such an inoffensive bird could be depicted to appear so malignant.

“I really have no idea whether he likes the woman or not,” said Godric carelessly. “But while I was away a couple of years ago, Walter decided that Olivier had dallied with her affections quite long enough, and offered him your manor as an incentive to do the decent thing.”

“So I gathered.”

“None of us expected you to survive the Crusade, you see, and so Walter did not think it would matter that he had illegally appropriated your inheritance. Anyway, Walter anticipated that it would rid Goodrich of the pair of them once and for all.”

“But it did not, did it?” said Geoffrey. “It seems that they still spend a good deal of time here.”

Godric laughed unpleasantly. “Walter's plan backfired badly, because now he has Joan
and
Olivier watching his every move like hawks. That will teach him to meddle behind my back! Still, I applaud his efforts. We were all beginning to wonder whether Irresolute Olivier was ever going to make an honest woman of Joyless Joan, although none of us blamed him for not wanting to take the plunge.” He gave a dramatic shudder.

“What do you mean?” asked Geoffrey. “Olivier would not have courted her for so many years if there had not been some affection.”

“You wait until you meet her,” said Godric, grinning nastily. “Then you will not ask such stupid questions. Other than the fact that she is scarcely endowed with what even the most charitable of men would call a sweet disposition, she was not young and she had pursued Olivier with all the subtlety of a pack of hunting dogs after a hare for two decades. But you will see all this for yourself when she comes home.”

“Why did Walter choose Olivier as her husband?” asked Geoffrey. “I was told that Caerdig requested her, and I should have thought Walter would have gained more from her marriage to him than her marriage to Olivier.” And so might Joan, he thought uncharitably.

He rubbed hard at his temples where his head had started to ache, and went to pour a cup of wine from Godric's enormous jug near the bed. It was strong and acidic, and did nothing to quench his thirst.

Godric gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Poor old Caerdig would have married Henry to bring peace to Lann Martin! He is desperate for a truce.”

“Is that so bad?” asked Geoffrey, pouring some water into the wine to dilute it. “But what happened to reduce Caerdig to such a state? I do not recall there being such problems with neighbours while you were more active.”

“Very true,” said Godric smugly. “And it is most satisfying to see Walter, Henry, and Stephen make such an appalling mess where I handled matters with ease.”

“So you do not care that the good relations you spent your lifetime developing have been destroyed within a few months by Walter's niggardliness and Henry's taste for killing?”

Godric shrugged. “That is what Caerdig keeps saying. But no, why should I care? It means that people will look back on my rule with pleasure, and my memory will be revered.”

“That is a selfish attitude to take,” said Geoffrey, unable to disguise the distaste in his voice. “Why should Caerdig's villagers, or ours, suffer just so that people will look back with fondness on the Golden Days of Godric?”

The old man's eyes narrowed. “You insolent dog! If I were thirty years younger, I would run you through.”

“You would probably try,” said Geoffrey, regarding his father with dislike. “It seems to be the Mappestone way of solving problems.”

“You sound just like that mewling Olivier,” said Godric, returning Geoffrey's look with every bit as much hostility. “He is always trying to find a solution to problems that means he will not need to put his delicate skin in danger.”

“On occasion, that might be construed as prudence,” said Geoffrey, taking a sip of his wine and adding yet more water. “God's teeth, this is a vile brew! How can you drink it unwatered?”

“You are no better than Olivier is,” spat Godric. “You cannot even take a man's drink without adding water. I have a good mind to alter my will again and ensure that you get nothing at all.”