“Pernel?”
“Pernel, yes. Your father was involved with the plot to kill Rufus, but he declined to have anything to do with the murder of King Henry. And your sister will tell you that there is another plotter, but I do not know whether that is true or not.”
Neither did Geoffrey, and his mind reeled with the possibilities-Walter, Bertrada, Stephen, Joan, Olivier, Henry, or Hedwise? Or was it someone he had not yet encountered-someone from the village, perhaps?
“Of course,” continued the Earl smoothly, “you still have to discover which one of your family stabbed your father on his sick-bed-assuming that you are still interested in investigating plain old murder after you have just averted a regicide. But perhaps the culprit was Enide, slipping up that tunnel she told Malger about. She hid there when she was supposed to be dead, you see.”
But Geoffrey knew that was impossible-Rohese would have seen her. The Earl continued with his reasoning, a smug gloating in his voice that suggested he relished the fact that Geoffrey still had a long way to go before he solved the riddle of Godric’s death.
“But then again, Godric’s death might have nothing to do with this plan to kill the King, and your siblings or their spouses might be responsible. Perhaps one of them believed that he or she stood a better chance of gaining Goodrich with Godric dead than with Godric alive. After all, the old man did delight in producing forged documents to prove one or other of them was ineligible to succeed him.”
“Does the King really want me to hunt Enide down and dispatch her, as he asked?” said Geoffrey, watching the monarch stoop over Malger’s body.
“Yes, I think so,” said the Earl, after a moment of thought. “I would like you to spare Drogo, though. He is my cousin and I am fond of him. I am sure I will be able to dissuade him from other regicidal attempts, if you send him back to me.”
“I will see what I can do,” said Geoffrey flatly. “But I do not understand why the King does not send his own agents after Enide, to ensure the job is done properly-assuming that his chief huntsman has no luck.”
“Oh, that is simple,” said the Earl, “although I have already told you the answer once. The King was not overly surprised when I told him about the plot Enide and her followers had hatched to kill him. The reason, of course, was that he already knew of the one they hatched to kill Rufus. The King would not want Enide yelling details of that to all and sundry as she is dragged to the execution block-his hold on his crown is not so secure that he can risk the scandal of being accused of Rufus’s murder.”
“So, you are saying that King Henry was prepared to stand by and see his brother assassinated?” asked Geoffrey, although he had already surmised as much. “So that he could take the crown for himself?”
“Why not?” asked the Earl. “Your brothers would do the same for you. You see, the execution of Rufus would have done King Henry no good at all if it had been left until later this year. By then, the Duke of Normandy would have rallied enough support to take the crown himself. So, Rufus was killed last year instead.”
Geoffrey suddenly understood exactly why King Henry had changed the subject so abruptly when Geoffrey had been telling him about the plot: he had not wanted Geoffrey to become more explicit in front of his retinue, any more than he had wanted Enide making public statements.
Geoffrey thought about the pale-shafted arrow that had killed Aumary-a message from Enide to the King to tell him that she knew of his role in the death of Rufus. A similar pale-shafted arrow was embedded in Malger, and the King had seen it. His abrupt change of subject had prevented Geoffrey from revealing all he had learned or surmised about the plot. Did that now mean that Geoffrey should expect a dagger in his back one dark night, so he would never complete his story?
“So King Henry was complicit in his brother’s murder last summer, so that he might be King of England,” he summarised.
“Not so loud, Geoffrey. Just because something is common knowledge does not mean that you should bellow it from the roof-tops. But here comes one of your brothers. Draw your dagger to protect yourself: he looks unhinged to me.”
“I have just seen Enide risen from the grave!” blubbered Henry, his face white. “And Stephen has been shot and mortally wounded!”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
So, it is over,” said Helbye in satisfaction, watching as the last of the King’s men rode away from the forest clearing. “The attempt on the King’s life has failed; Goodrich belongs to the Mappestones again; Malger and Enide are dead; Drogo will flee back to hide under the Earl’s skirts; and Stephen will not live to see the sun set tonight.”
“Do not be so sure all is finished,” muttered Geoffrey, kneeling in the grass with the dying Stephen. Henry crouched opposite, rubbing Stephen’s bloodless hand in a rough-and belated-attempt at affection. “The King’s huntsman said he thought he injured Enide, not that he killed her.”
“He killed her sure enough,” said Henry, looking across at him. “The fellow is the chief huntsman, for God’s sake. He would not hold that position unless he were an excellent shot. He might not have killed her outright, but it will not be long before she is dead.”
“We will see,” said Geoffrey, unconvinced. “The hounds found no trace of her.”
“The place is boggy,” said Henry, exasperated. “The scents are confused, and the dogs did not really know what they were supposed to be sniffing for. But I can assure you, Enide’s corpse will appear sooner or later. And then we can put it back underground, where it belongs.”
“I saved that fine dog of yours,” said Stephen breathlessly, squinting up at Geoffrey. “He ran almost directly into the line of that arrow, but I managed to save him.”
Geoffrey looked to where the dog lay, unconcerned, a short distance away, happily chewing at something it had nuzzled out of Stephen’s pocket.
“I hope you are not telling me that someone tried to shoot the dog and that you put yourself into the arrow’s path,” he said nervously. The greedy, selfish black-and-white dog certainly had done nothing in its miserable life to deserve that kind of sacrifice.
“Not quite,” said Henry, when Stephen could not summon the strength to reply. “I saw what happened. You know how it is with hunting-there are only a few moments between the time when you see a movement that heralds the appearance of your prey, and the time when it will disappear from your range. You shoot instinctively.”
“I know,” said Geoffrey, guessing that he had probably been on a good many more hunts than Henry. And Henry’s horse had bolted, too, suggesting that he had little or no experience of controlling it in such situations. “But what did Stephen do?”
Henry paused, and looked down at his dying brother with a mixture of pity and resignation. “Your dog darted out from the trees and someone fired. Intent on grabbing it to save it from entering anyone else’s line of fire, Stephen rushed after it and was felled by the King’s arrow. He did not deliberately put himself between the dog and the quarrel, but the outcome was the same.”
“The King shot Stephen?” said Geoffrey, appalled. “But he did not say so. He-”
“Well, he would not, would he?” snapped Henry. “The King would hardly admit to killing one of his own subjects. It was probably an accident anyway.”
“Was it an accident?” Geoffrey asked Stephen.
Stephen swallowed. “Who knows? I only wanted to save the dog.”
“Did Enide really try to kill the King?” asked Henry of Geoffrey in a horrified whisper. “After she was dead, too! I always knew there was something sinister about her. Even in her grave she cannot help spreading wickedness.”
“And you avenged her death by hanging two poachers in the forest,” said Geoffrey coolly. “What have you to say about that?”
“They had her veil,” said Henry defensively. “And I told them that I would cut them into little pieces if they did not tell me the truth. They confessed to killing her, so I hanged them.”