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.”
“I wish you would,” said Geoffrey fervently. “I do not want anything from Goodrich. It is tainted with greed, selfishness, and corruption.”
“Monk!” taunted Godric.
Geoffrey rubbed his head again, and admonished himself for engaging in futile arguments with a dying man. He wondered if his malady was due to the wine. He looked at the ruby red liquid in his cup, and set it down. Godric seemed very partial to it, and since the jug always stood uncovered next to the bed, it would be an easy matter for any of his family to slip something poisonous into it. He picked up the cup again and smelled it. He could detect nothing other than wine, but that did not mean to say there was nothing wrong with it. He decided to ask the physician. Godric kept exhorting Geoffrey to speak to the medical man about his alleged poisoning, so Geoffrey resolved that he would do so at the earliest opportunity.
Godric watched him examining the contents of his goblet. “Has the strong wine given you a headache?” he asked sneeringly. “Run to the kitchens, boy, and ask Mabel to give you some milk sops.”
Geoffrey stared at him, and wondered whether he would end his life like Godric-bitter, mean, and self-interested, taunting his children into wishing he was dead, and loved by no one. He decided the best option was to stay single, and to volunteer for all the battles he could once he sensed he was growing unpopular. Better a death of his own choosing than of someone else’s.
“So, why did Joan marry Olivier and not her other suitors?” he asked, to change the subject. “A marriage to the heir of Lann Martin would have brought those Welsh lands under Mappestone control, and better a man of integrity like Caerdig than a lying coward like Olivier.”
“Joan married Olivier because she wanted him, and what Joan wants, Joan always takes,” said Godric. “Caerdig asked for Enide, too, when he saw he was not going to have Joan. As if I would let my Enide go to the likes of him! Enide was a splendid woman! She did not take her wine watered!”
Geoffrey was not certain that his father’s frank admiration for his dead sister was necessarily a good sign, and for the first time he began to wonder whether Enide was all he remembered. Perhaps she had changed from the happily mischievous girl he had left behind.
“So, Joan married Olivier, Enide died, and Caerdig was left with a war on his hands,” said Godric gleefully. “But Caerdig will survive. He is a capable lad-not like those mewling brats who think they are mine-Walter the Illegitimate, Stephen my brother’s son, and Henry the Lout.”
Geoffrey turned away, repelled by the raw malice in Godric’s glittering eyes. No wonder his children hated him so. Geoffrey had been home a few days, and was already considering ways to leave. He picked up the rag and began cleaning again, while Godric watched critically.
“Not so hard, boy! And you have missed a bit over there-that bishop is supposed to be wearing a golden coronet, not a crown of thorns!”
Geoffrey stood back to try to see what he meant. He had never seen anything quite like Godric’s mural, and he hoped he never would again. Black was the predominant colour, with a good deal of red to depict outpourings of blood that far exceeded plausibility. Even after Geoffrey’s vigorous cleaning, the painting remained dark and sullen. He scrubbed for a while longer, then dropped the cloth into the bucket and sat down, leaning back against the wall and wiping his face with his sleeve.
“This vinegar water smells foul. May I open the shutters on the window?”
“You may not!” said Godric indignantly. “I am a sick man. Do you want to kill me? Bertrada tried that back at Yuletide, but I thwarted her. She opened the window shutters in the night, hoping that I would take a fatal chill.”
Before Geoffrey could stop him, Godric had embarked on yet another tale of how he had survived a murderous attack by his children. Geoffrey had already heard so many similar tales that he was inclined to believe Bertrada had been right, and that Godric’s accusations were simply the desperate, pathetic attempts of a fading warrior to claim that his impending death was a result of a battle, rather than due to some invisible, sinister enemy that was eating away at his innards.
“You are beginning to concede that my suspicions have some foundation, I see,” said Godric, aware that Geoffrey had not tried to dismiss his latest claim with the calm voice of reason. Geoffrey did not answer. He climbed stiffly to his feet and came to ease Godric under the bedclothes so that the old man would sleep-thus allowing Geoffrey to escape for some fresh air in the courtyard.
Godric attempted to stop him, wanting to talk, not sleep. He thrashed around, his arms flailing, causing dense clouds of particles to rise into the air that made Geoffrey cough.
“It is these vile mattresses that are killing you,” he said, backing away to rub at his eye, where something had lodged. “They are filthy and full of dust.”
“They make for the most comfortable bed in Christendom,” objected Godric. “Your sister Enide said she always had a good night’s sleep on them-when I was in her room with my whore.”
“You should let Bertrada shake them out,” said Geoffrey, eyes watering.
“She would steal them for herself,” replied Godric. “These mattresses came from no less a person than the Abbot of Hereford. The lower one is full of straw and provides firmness, while the upper one is a mixture of hay and feathers and gives softness.”
“And why did the Abbot part with such a fine bed?” asked Geoffrey, wiping his eye on his sleeve and advancing once more to make Godric lie down.
“The monks sold off his possessions after his death,” said Godric. “That fine chest at the end of the bed was his, too.”
His spurt of struggling had left him weak, and he was unresisting when Geoffrey straightened the covers and helped him to lie flat. The old man watched Geoffrey intently with his sharp, almost bird-like, eyes.
“You are wondering why I do not ask you to take me to safety if I am so convinced that someone is poisoning me,” he said. “Well, my physician tells me it is too late, and that my innards are irreparably damaged. So, I have decided to stay here, and watch the escalating battles over my worldly fortunes. At least my last few weeks will be entertaining.”
“A priest would tell you that your energies should be concentrated elsewhere,” said Geoffrey, pouring some wine from the monstrous jug and helping Godric to sip it.
“Priests!” muttered Godric, finishing the wine in a single swallow. “Do not bring one of those here until I am within a hair of my death. It does not matter when I repent my sins, only that I do so. And I only intend to repent them once-I do not want to be revealing all my sins while I am alive for someone to use against me. Now, give me more wine.”
After drinking, he began to cough violently, while Geoffrey knelt next to him, wiping foamy blood from his lips. Eventually, he slept, and Geoffrey slipped away to walk around the courtyard in the icy night air.