“You must not sleep until you have seen the physician,” said Julian firmly, trying without the least success to pull the knight to his feet. “We will go to see him now. He will make you feel better.”
Helbye took Geoffrey’s hand. “You are very cold-perhaps the lad is right. I saw the physician entering the house of Father Adrian on my way here. It is not far. Come on.”
Helped by Helbye, Geoffrey staggered to his feet and made for the gatehouse. The ground tipped and swirled, and he felt inclined to sit again, but after a moment, the dizziness receded and he began to walk more steadily.
“Where are you going?” demanded Henry from the top of the stairs to the keep. “Fleeing the scene of your crime?”
Without a backwards glance, Geoffrey was past the gatehouse and down the steps leading to the barbican. The guards opened the wicket gate to let him pass, slamming it shut behind him. Once outside, Geoffrey slackened his pace, leaning against Helbye as his shaking legs threatened to deposit him in the mud of the village’s main street.
The church was not far, and Geoffrey followed Julian slowly through the overgrown graveyard to the priest’s house, a tiny structure set well away from the road and surrounded by neat vegetable plots. While Julian darted inside, Geoffrey let himself slide down the wall, all but exhausted after his efforts.
“Come inside,” came a kindly voice. “The grass is wet and is no place for a sick man to be sitting.”
“I am not sick,” said Geoffrey, squinting up to see the young priest standing over him, clad in his threadbare black habit. “I was well enough yesterday.”
“Well, come inside anyway,” said Adrian, helping him to his feet. “You should rest.”
“Those at the castle have poisoned him,” announced Julian, leading the way into the priest’s small but clean house.
“Really? Just as they are doing to his father, then,” came another voice. It was Francis the physician, sitting at Adrian’s table and enjoying a cup of ale. He stretched out a hand to feel Geoffrey’s forehead, and frowned. “This is odd. You should be hot, not cold. And your lifebeat is sluggish when it should be faster. This is not the same poison that afflicted your father and Enide.”
Geoffrey could think of nothing to say. Did that mean that there were two poisoners in his family, each with a supply of something deadly? Or perhaps it was only one person, experimenting with a different toxin when supplies of the first grew low?
“I suppose you did not think to bring a sample of what you ate and drank last night?” asked Francis, not overly hopeful. “What is that on your sleeve?”
Geoffrey looked at the pale brown stain, and recalled the dog knocking into him and spilling the soup and the wine. Impatient with his sluggishness, Francis grabbed his arm, and smelled the material cautiously.
“Ah!” he exclaimed with great satisfaction. “I thought so! Ergot!”
“Ergot,” mused Geoffrey blearily. “The fungus called St. Anthony’s fire?”
“Yes, indeed,” said the physician, impressed. “Enide said you were a man of learning. I thought Godric might be suffering from ergot poisoning, since it can take many months to kill a man, but his limbs were healthy, and, as you will know, ergot causes the skin to die over time. But the concoction used on you was intended to have a more immediate effect.” He pointed to Geoffrey’s sleeve. “This is strong. No wonder you feel unwell!”
“But it is not the same poison as that used on my father?”
“The one used on Sir Godric is of a more insidious nature. I still cannot identify it, although I have laboured many nights with tests and experiments.”
“Sir Godric is dead,” Helbye informed him bluntly. “He was murdered last night.”
Priest and physician gaped at him. “That cannot be true,” said Francis eventually. “Why should someone want to kill Godric? He has only a few days left to him anyway. What happened?”
“He was stabbed with my dagger during the night,” said Geoffrey, wondering if they, like his brothers, would immediately assume his guilt. “I was asleep in the same room, but heard nothing until awakened by my family this morning, and by then, my father was dead.”
“I must attend his body,” said Adrian, standing and beginning to collect together the items he would need to give last rites. “He died unshriven.”
“The Earl of Shrewsbury’s priest attended him before he died,” said Geoffrey.
“How did the Earl know to send a priest?” Francis pounced. “Did the Earl slay Sir Godric, then? Those two have never seen eye to eye.”
“Not so loud!” exclaimed Adrian in alarm, going to the window to look out. “The Earl does not like you, either. Now that Godric is dead, you will need to guard your tongue.”
“No more than do you,” retorted Francis. “But you have not answered my question, Sir Geoffrey. Do you know who killed poor Godric as he lay dying? Was it the Earl? Or did one of Godric’s sons, or even that harpy, Joan, finally lose patience with their subtle poison and do away with him?”
Geoffrey shook his head, and then leaned his elbows on the table to hold it with both hands as his world buzzed and blackened at the sudden movement. “I have no idea,” he said weakly.
“Do your business, physician,” said Adrian, nodding towards Geoffrey. “Or you will lose another patient today.”
“There is no danger of that,” said Francis practically. “He has already survived the worst the poison can do, or he would not have woken at all this morning. I will make him a brew of pennyroyal, mint, and honey, and he must drink as much of it as he can, to wash the poison’s residues from his body.”
“Well, go on, then,” said Adrian as the physician made no move to prepare the potion.
Francis stood, rummaging around in his ample collection of pouches for the herbs he wanted. There were so many of them that Geoffrey wondered whether he might be made ill a second time through a case of simple misidentification. Eventually, the physician set a large bowl in front of him.
“Drink this-all of it-and then sleep. By the time you wake, you will feel better. Probably.”
He gathered up his pouches and strode from the room. Geoffrey looked doubtfully at the bowl in front of him, wondering whether Francis’s brew might inadvertently complete the task where someone else had failed.
“Drink it,” said Adrian, smiling at his hesitancy. “Francis would never harm Enide’s favourite brother, and he is a good physician, despite his eccentric appearance.”
“No, thank you,” said Geoffrey, pushing the bowl away from him. He stood to leave, disgusted that he had allowed Julian to lead him into yet more potentially hostile territory.
“Then at least sleep here for a while,” said Adrian. He raised his hands as Geoffrey began to object. “I will not force you to stay, but I imagine you will be very much safer in my house than at the castle. And your sergeant can watch over you, if that will make you feel more comfortable.”
“If you will not listen to the physician, then take the advice of the priest,” said Helbye, pushing Geoffrey towards a bed in an alcove at the back of the room. “And I will be here, Sir Geoffrey. I will not leave you to the mercy of that murderous brood up at the castle.”
Geoffrey wanted to examine his father’s body, to see if he might uncover some clues regarding the identity of his killer. And there was Rohese, too. Was she still buried in the dank depths of Godric’s mattresses? If so, Geoffrey needed to talk to her, for surely she must have seen or heard something during the night. But he knew that he would never be able to walk up the hill again, and even if he did, he was in no state to do battle with Henry or one of the others if they refused to let him in. He sank down on the bed, thinking that a short doze might restore his strength, and was asleep before Helbye had finished fussing over the covers.