Geoffrey was silent, thinking about Maurice’s advice – and about his own promise not to jump to conclusions. The Bishop was right: Geoffrey could not leave for the Holy Land now, any more than he could have done when Roger encouraged him to break his vow.
‘Will you come with me to challenge Eudo?’ he asked after a while. ‘I am afraid that if he does admit to doing this, I will end his miserable existence. And then my soul really will be in peril.’
‘Then how can I refuse?’ asked Maurice with a smile. ‘Besides, I dislike Eudo and would like to see him squirm. Then I shall report to the King, who will not be pleased to learn that his clerks dabble with his subjects’ personal correspondence. No monarch likes to be tainted with scandal.’
They began a search of the abbey grounds, but Eudo remained annoyingly elusive. Maurice was on the verge of giving up in order to take more of his medicine when there was a shout.
‘Murder!’ screeched Delwyn, racing towards the church from the direction of the fishponds, his filthy habit flying. ‘Someone has murdered Eudo.’
‘Well, at least you know it was not me,’ said Geoffrey to the horrified Maurice.
Whoever had killed Eudo had chosen a lonely spot for his crime. To the south of the abbey, down a slope, was a boggy area that contained several fishponds. A line of trees effectively curtained it from the rest of the precinct. Geoffrey thought that if someone could not resist committing a murder in La Batailge, then these marshes were the best place for it. The abbey buildings and church were too crowded with members of Henry’s court, and the grounds to the north were populated by Benedictines who had been ousted from their usual haunts.
Eudo lay face down in one of the ponds, a short distance from the bank, and there was a knife in the middle of his back. It was a cheap metal weapon – Geoffrey had seen dozens of them lying around in the kitchens. The killer was not going to be identified from it.
‘Lord!’ muttered Maurice, crossing himself fervently. ‘Eudo is dead, and I have spent the last hour saying terrible things about him. God will not appreciate such behaviour!’
‘Eudo was arrogant and devious,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Being dead does not change that.’
‘You are a hard man, Geoffrey,’ said Maurice, sketching a blessing at him. ‘God forgive you.’
A number of people had responded to Delwyn’s shrieks of alarm. They included Sear and Alberic, who stood together with impassive faces. Edward was near them, fanning his face with his hand to indicate the run down from the abbey had been strenuous for him; Geoffrey wondered how he managed to control a garrison when he was so patently unfit. Meanwhile, Delwyn was leading a large party towards the scene of the crime, skinny arms flapping wildly.
As no one seemed inclined to do more than stare, Geoffrey waded into the water and hauled the body out. By the time he had the clerk on the bank, a sizeable audience had gathered. It included a large number of scribes and courtiers, plus several monks, although most Benedictines were at their mid-morning prayers. There were also servants, both Henry’s and lay-brothers from the abbey. They clustered around the King when he arrived, and several began to gabble at him.
‘Eudo asked me if I knew of a quiet place, so I told him it is always peaceful here,’ said Brother Ralph, the abbey’s sacristan. His face was ashen. ‘But I would never have suggested it, had I known . . .’
‘Who would want to kill poor Eudo?’ cried Pepin, appalled. ‘He never harmed anyone.’
Geoffrey glanced up to see a number of courtiers shooting each other meaningful looks and shuffling uncomfortably.
‘Who found him?’ Henry demanded. His face was a shade paler than usual, and Geoffrey saw that the death of a trusted scribe had upset him.
‘I did,’ said Delwyn shakily. ‘Do you remember me, sire? I am from the abbey in Kermerdyn; I delivered you some letters from Mabon.’
‘How could I forget?’ asked Henry dryly, looking him up and down. ‘Well? What happened?’
‘I came here for a quiet walk, because people keep picking on me when I loiter around the abbey.’ Delwyn shot Sear and Alberic a reproachful glance.
‘And what did you see?’ prompted Henry.
‘Eudo floating face-down in the water.’ Delwyn shuddered. ‘I am unused to violent death, and it was something of a shock. I am sorry if my agitated cries distressed you.’
‘Oh, they did,’ said Henry. ‘Especially when I learned poor Eudo was the reason for them. So why was he down here? I thought he had plenty of work to keep him busy in the Chapter House. God knows, enough of my court have complained about delays and hitches.’
‘He has been missing for several hours,’ said Pepin, rather tearfully. ‘We have been worried, because he never leaves us alone when there is important business to be done.’
‘Well, obviously he does,’ snapped Henry. ‘Because here he is.’
‘He spoke to me just after dawn,’ said Ralph. He crouched next to Geoffrey, peering into the dead man’s face. Then he reached out to touch it, although he withdrew his hand quickly and immediately crossed himself. ‘It is now mid-morning. It looks to me as though he has been dead for two or three hours at least.’
Geoffrey wondered how he could tell, although his own experience with corpses made him suspect the sacristan was right. Eudo was cold, but not yet stiff, and he could not have been dead for long – especially if he had been seen not long after dawn.
‘Do any of you come down here?’ asked Henry, gazing around at the assembled mass. ‘To escape the hurly-burly of court life?’
There was a chorus of denials and a lot of shaken heads.
‘Then did you see anyone else setting off in this direction?’ pressed Henry. ‘Think carefully, because Eudo was useful to me, and I am not pleased by his untimely demise.’
‘I may have seen him, sire,’ said Sear in a low voice. ‘At least, I saw someone hurrying in the direction of the ponds, but it was misty just after dawn, so I may have been mistaken.’
‘And he was on his own?’ demanded Henry.
Sear coloured. ‘I am sorry, sire. As I said, it was misty. He may have been alone, but he might equally well have been following someone who was already invisible in the fog.’
Henry turned to Ralph. ‘You seem to know about corpses. Tell me how he died. Was the knife in his back fatal?’
‘Well, it would not have done him any good,’ hedged the sacristan uncomfortably.
‘He drowned,’ said Geoffrey. He saw the King’s raised eyebrows and pointed to the foam that frothed from the clerk’s mouth and nose. ‘Only drowned men ooze so, and the knife wound is not in a place that would be instantly fatal.’
‘You are right,’ said Henry, leaning forward to look. ‘It is too high to have been mortal so quickly. So it seems he was stabbed first and then pushed in the pond.’
‘And churned mud and broken reeds suggest it happened there,’ said Ralph in an effort to redeem himself, as he pointed to a spot some distance away. Geoffrey was inclined to believe him, and went to look. Sear and Delwyn followed.
‘This is not your affair, monk,’ said Sear haughtily to Delwyn. ‘Mind your own business.’
‘It is not yours, either,’ flashed Delwyn.
‘It is – I am one of the King’s favourites,’ snapped Sear. ‘He gave me Pembroc Castle, so he will be interested to hear my opinion on this matter.’
While they sniped at each other, Geoffrey knelt and inspected the ground. There were footprints, but they were too smudged to be of any use, and some were likely to be Eudo’s anyway. There was also a smattering of blood on several reeds, which suggested that Eudo had indeed been stabbed first and then pushed in the pond to drown. Water had splashed into the footprints, and Geoffrey wondered whether the killer had followed Eudo into the pond and held him under until he was dead.
The only other thing was several silver pennies that had apparently been dropped during the struggle. Trailed by Sear and Delwyn, Geoffrey returned to the body, where a brief inspecti
on indicated Eudo’s purse was still firmly closed. The money had not been lost by him, but by his killer.
‘What have you found?’ demanded Henry.
It was Sear who replied, speaking loudly and importantly. ‘The footprints are large ones. They were not made by an insignificant man, such as Delwyn here, but a bigger fellow, such as myself.’
‘Are you telling us you are the culprit?’ asked Delwyn archly. Several courtiers sniggered, and Sear flushed.
‘Do not be stupid,’ he snarled. He turned to the King. ‘It is just an observation, sire, which may help to solve the crime.’
‘Thank you, Sear,’ said Henry, with what sounded to be genuine sincerity. ‘Your observations are welcome.’
‘Thank you,’ said Sear smugly.
Henry smiled at him, and Geoffrey saw the knight was right when he claimed to be a royal favourite. Henry turned to Geoffrey.
‘And you?’ he asked. ‘What can you tell me?’
‘There were these,’ said Geoffrey, showing Henry the coins he had found.
‘Pennies from my mint in Pevenesel,’ mused the King, taking them. He did not hand them back, and Geoffrey saw them disappear into the royal purse. ‘Does it mean the killer is local?’
‘I have Pevenesel pennies, too, sire,’ said Geoffrey. ‘And so will most of your courtiers by now. Nothing can be concluded from it, except one thing: the killer is unlikely to have been a servant, because he would not have abandoned such a princely sum.’
‘A monk?’ asked Sear. ‘They are wealthy.’ He included Delwyn in his scathing glance.
‘I doubt a monk killed Eudo,’ said Henry, looking around at the throng in a way that made several glance away uneasily. ‘It must be a courtier. Or a knight.’
Because he did not like the notion of men standing around idly when they should be labouring on his behalf, Henry ordered everyone back to work, although he indicated that certain people were to stay. These included some of his favourites, the contingent from Wales, Pepin and several clerks, and Geoffrey. Maurice lingered, too, watching with narrowed eyes when the King caught Sear’s arm and whispered something that made him smile.
‘I do not understand what His Majesty sees in him,’ the prelate muttered to Geoffrey. ‘Oh, he is mannerly enough, and a bold warrior. But he is nothing unusual, and I do not see why the King makes a fuss of him.’
Geoffrey shrugged. ‘Perhaps he just likes him. It does happen that men make friends.’
‘That is not the King’s way,’ insisted Maurice. ‘There is a reason for everything he does, and he does not dispense his goodwill lightly. But Eudo’s death is a nuisance for you. Now you will never know what he was doing with Tancred’s letter.’
Geoffrey nodded unhappily. ‘Did he have a close friend? One he might have confided in?’
‘No. Eudo was not a man for companions. Still, I am glad I gave you that letter after he was murdered – I dread to think what would have been said had you confronted him and hot words been exchanged.’
Geoffrey would not have cared, as long as he had been given answers. He was still shocked by Maurice’s discovery, and now he was also frustrated that an explanation for Tancred’s uncharacteristic threats should have been so tantalizingly close, only to be ripped away. He left Maurice and went to speak to Pepin, who was standing in a disconsolate huddle with his fellow clerks. He showed them the burned letter.
‘Have any of you see this before?’ he asked.
Pepin took it from him, then shook his head. ‘I do not see how it can relate to Eudo’s murder, because it is addressed to you. I thought you told me you could read.’
‘Did you drop it in the fire by mistake?’ asked another clerk. ‘Eudo did that a lot – either he got flustered and consigned documents to the flames that should have been kept, or he fell asleep while reading by the fire and set them alight by accident.’
Pepin glared at him. ‘It is unfair to reveal such matters to strangers, Justin. Do you want people to think badly of Eudo?’
‘I want them to know the truth,’ countered Justin. ‘He was not the paragon you claim. He was not even very efficient. We were always helping him cover his mistakes.’
‘The King trusted him,’ cried Pepin, distressed. ‘He dictated all his most secret letters to him.’
‘Yes,’ agreed a third clerk spitefully. ‘Eudo certainly knew his share of secrets, and was as closed-mouthed as any man, I will grant him that. Of course, it made him dangerous, and I imagine there are dozens of men at court who will be delighted he is dead.’
‘This letter,’ said Geoffrey, not interested in Eudo’s death. ‘Are you sure none of you has seen it before. It is important.’
‘Is it now?’ asked Justin snidely.
Pepin examined it again. ‘I am good at recognizing handwriting, but this style is unfamiliar. Besides, none of us knows Italian – we only use Latin and French.’
‘Eudo knew Italian,’ interposed Justin. ‘He was the only one who did.’
Geoffrey watched them walk away, inclined to believe they were telling the truth: whatever Eudo had done had not involved them. But what had he done? And how was Geoffrey to find out now that he was dead and his colleagues were ignorant of the matter?
‘Now I wish I had never given it to you,’ said Maurice unhappily, coming to stand beside him. ‘I would not have done, had Eudo’s corpse been found earlier. All I have done is given you cause for distress, and it will make you restless to leave, too.’
‘Leave where?’ asked Henry, appearing suddenly behind them. ‘La Batailge, to go and do my bidding in Kermerdyn?’
‘Leave England, sire,’ said Maurice, before Geoffrey could stop him. He took the letter from Geoffrey and showed it to the King. ‘I found this several months ago. Eudo had burned it.’
‘What does it say?’ asked Henry. ‘The language is unfamiliar to me.’
‘It contains fond greetings from Prince Tancred, and was written at Easter,’ explained Maurice, although Geoffrey wished he had kept his mouth shut. He did not want the King to know his business. ‘It is either a forgery, to encourage Geoffrey to ride to his execution, or it is a real letter from Tancred, showing friendship and concern – meaning the hostile ones were false.’
Henry raised his eyebrows. ‘And you believe Eudo was complicit in this affair? But why would he do such a thing? What did you do to earn his dislike, Geoffrey?’
‘I met him for the first time a few days ago,’ said Geoffrey. ‘He had no reason to wrong me. The only explanation that makes sense is that someone paid him to do it.’
‘An enemy,’ mused Henry. ‘I imagine your insolence has earned you plenty. In the meantime, this does not look good for you.’ He looked pointedly at Eudo’s body.
‘Geoffrey knew nothing of this letter until I gave it to him a few moments ago,’ said Maurice firmly. ‘And then I helped him look for Eudo and did not leave his side for a moment. He did not slip away to murder your scribe. I will stake my life on it.’
‘Then I shall believe you,’ said Henry. ‘Geoffrey does have a hot temper, though, and I have warned Sear to be on his guard as they ride west together. I am fond of Sear and do not want to lose him to a spat. But time is passing, and I have much to do.’
He flicked imperious fingers, and his people surged towards him, all eager to please. Sear and Alberic were the first to arrive. Edward followed more slowly, sighing theatrically when he saw that mud had stained the bottom of his fine cloak.
‘We were discussing your journey west,’ said Henry, smiling pleasantly at Sear. ‘I know you and Alberic would rather go alone, but travelling together will be safer for everyone. My roads are freer of outlaws now than they were in my brother’s reign, but you cannot be too careful.’
‘Well, I am more than happy to be in a large party,’ declared Edward. ‘And when we reach Brechene, we shall have my garrison to accompany us, too. I did not bring them all the way here when I was summoned to see you, sire, because it was more economical to leav
e them in Wales.’
‘Very practical,’ said Henry, smothering a smile. ‘How large a force is it?’
‘Two dozen men, all well trained,’ replied Edward. ‘At least, that is what my captain tells me, and I am sure he is right. They certainly look the part – all oiled leather and gleaming weapons.’
‘Good,’ said Henry. ‘You are all very dear to me, and I shall sleep happier knowing you will be in each other’s company.’
Geoffrey was instantly on his guard, knowing he was not dear to Henry at all. Was Henry’s insistence that the party ride together to protect Sear? Geoffrey did not think so – Sear looked perfectly capable of looking after himself, and so did Alberic. Was it Edward, then, who was unlikely to be much good in a fight? Or Delwyn? Geoffrey doubted the grubby monk would rate highly among Henry’s friends and could only conclude that it was Edward he wanted to safeguard.
‘It might be a good idea, sire,’ began Maurice that evening, ‘to rewrite the letters Geoffrey will carry tomorrow. Then we can be sure of their contents.’
They were in the Abbot’s House. Henry was sprawled in front of the fire in a cushion-filled throne. There were several dogs at his feet, and he was devouring raisins at a rapid rate.
Geoffrey had been summoned to attend Henry at dusk, but had been kept waiting while the King looked over a horse, and then again while he ate his supper. By the time he had been admitted to the royal presence, he was tired, restless and irritable. Maurice had elected to accompany him, lest he say something to land himself in trouble.
Geoffrey’s mind was not on the King’s business, but on Tancred’s letter. He had never broken a vow in his life, and it did not seem a good idea to start by reneging on one made to the Almighty. Yet he longed to resolve the misunderstanding with the man he loved as a brother. It occurred to him to write to Tancred, but how could he be sure that his message would not be intercepted and replaced by one that would make matters worse?
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