A Dead Man's secret m-8

by Simon Beaufort

  A Dead Man's secret

  ( Mappestone - 8 )

  Simon Beaufort

  A Dead Man's Secret

  Simon Beaufort

  Prologue

  Kermerdyn, Summer 1096

  William fitz Baldwin was pleased with the little castle he had built. It guarded a ford in the River Tywi, and he felt it was as secure a fortress as any he had seen. It comprised a sturdy motte topped by a wooden tower, and there was a palisade of sharpened stakes that protected a sizeable bailey. He intended to begin work on a proper bailey later in the year, reinforcing the fence with earthen ditches and a moat. And perhaps, in time, he would add a stone curtain wall. That should please the King, who, some three years earlier, had ordered him to establish a military base in this restless part of his domain.

  He climbed to the top of the tower and stood on the battlements, resting his elbows on the rough wood and inhaling deeply of the fresh, salt-tinged air. Behind him were the densely forested hills of the Tywi Valley, and in front were the marshes, a lonely, peaceful swath of mud and grass, dappled with sheep. He had called his castle Rhydygors, after the Welsh words for ‘marsh’ and ‘ford’. To his right, just visible on a slight promontory, was the little town of Kermerdyn.

  William liked Kermerdyn. Less than a mile distant, it was a prosperous place with several busy wharves. The River Tywi was navigable to the sea, and, as Kermerdyn served a vast hinterland, the town contained wealthy merchants and traders – Welsh, Saxon and Norman. And they were not the only reason the area was rich: its fields had been silted by meandering rivers and were fertile and easy to till. The air was full of the scent of ripening crops, and the bleat of sheep and the contented lowing of cattle could be heard from all directions.

  Of course, the region had its problems. The Welsh were no keener on the Normans than the Saxons had been, and resistance to William the Conqueror’s invasion had been fierce. King William Rufus had continued the advance, but although the Normans had managed to secure a strip along the southern coast that extended as far as Pembroc, there were huge tracts to the north that were still held by Welsh princes. Many made life difficult for the Normans.

  One of the most powerful was Hywel ap Gronw, an astute politician as well as a mighty warrior. He had reached an agreement with the Normans that worked to the benefit of both sides. It brought a degree of stability to Kermerdyn, and William was happy to work with a man whose word he trusted. He had entertained Hywel just the previous evening, in fact, a pleasant, amiable occasion full of music, stories and good wine. William was less fond of Hywel’s chief counsellor, Gwgan, who was sardonic and clever, and never revealed what he was really thinking.

  In his defence, Gwgan had made an excellent marriage to Isabella, a daughter of Lord Baderon of Monmouth – Baderon fervently believed that the best way to ensure a lasting peace was by marrying his Norman daughters to powerful Welshmen, and it was a policy that seemed to work. Moreover, Isabella was a fine woman, and Gwgan seemed a gentler man in her presence.

  William knew he should marry, too. He desperately needed an heir. Not only had he amassed a decent fortune, but there was his secret to consider, as well. It would be a pity for that to be lost, just for the want of children in whom he could confide. He supposed he could tell his brother Richard, but Richard was ruthless, hot-headed and volatile, and William was not sure how safe the secret would be in his hands.

  So what manner of wife should he take? Not someone like Pulchria, the local butter-maker’s wife – that was for certain! Pulchria was beautiful, it was true, but she was wanton. He had accepted her favours with alacrity when he had first arrived in Kermerdyn, but such behaviour had seemed inappropriate after he had discovered his secret. He winced when he recalled her fury at being rejected.

  Then what about someone like Leah, who was married to Richard? She hailed from good Norman stock – kin to the Earl of Shrewsbury, no less – and was a wife worthy of any man. She was kind-hearted, dignified and soft-spoken, and, despite her apparent meekness, the one person in the world who could calm her husband’s violent tendencies.

  William sighed. Even with the perfect wife, it would be many years before any children were old enough to trust with his secret. Should he tell a friend instead? He had plenty – Sir Alberic and Sir Sear were his two favourite knights, and Abbot Mabon and Edward, Constable of nearby Kadweli Castle, were certainly men on whom he could rely. Then there was Cornald the butterer – Pulchria’s husband – a man William had liked from the moment they had met.

  William sighed again. He could not have explained why, but he was loath to divulge his secret to anyone who was not kin. It was so precious and delicate, and he had to be sure it was passed to the right person – his immortal soul might be imperilled if not. No, he decided, it could only be shared with a son – a boy he could mould for his own purposes.

  He stared into the bailey, where his men were practising swordplay with some of Hywel’s troops. The competition was good-natured, although there was an edge that was never present when the Normans trained alone. It was not a bad thing, he thought; he did not want his soldiers growing complacent just because the region was peaceful at the moment.

  His musings came to an abrupt end when he felt an uncomfortable gnawing ache in his innards. He stood up straight, trying to stretch out the pain, but it grew worse. Clutching his middle, he sat down and gestured to one of the guards to fetch him some wine. Concerned, the captain of the watch – Sear that day – knelt next to him.

  ‘Take deep breaths,’ he suggested. ‘You must have eaten something that disagreed with you last night. That butter probably. You have consumed rather a lot of it over the last few days, and it was rancid.’

  ‘It was not!’ snapped William. Sear disapproved of his friendship with Cornald and was always making disparaging remarks about his wares.

  ‘It was,’ countered Sear. ‘And you were the only one who ate it. The rest of us declined, and the remainder was dumped in the midden immediately after dinner.’

  ‘Pulchria sent it to me,’ gasped William, face contorted with pain. ‘And Richard brought it to Rhydygors, because he happened to be passing Cornald’s shop when she was wrapping it.’

  The ache was growing steadily worse. He was finding it difficult to breathe and began to fear that there might be something seriously wrong with him. Could it have been the butter? Surely, bad butter would just send a man racing to the latrines, not double him up in agony?

  Alarmed, Sear yelled to one of the guards to fetch a surgeon. William was growing weaker, and there was darkness at the edges of his vision. He was vaguely aware of Sear’s strong arms carrying him down the stairs to the chamber that served as bedroom, hall and office. He felt a little better when he was lying down and supposed he must have drowsed, because when he opened his eyes, it was to find the room full of people.

  Sear and Alberic were on one side; Abbot Mabon was praying on the other, the monk Delwyn peering hawk-like over his shoulder. Cornald and Constable Edward were at the end of the bed, standing next to Richard and Leah. In the shadows, he thought he could see Hywel and Gwgan, and Isabella too, muttering to Bishop Wilfred. In fact, virtually everyone he knew seemed to be there!

  But Edward was away on business, while poor Leah was ill and confined to her bed. New faces swam into focus, and William knew he was hallucinating. He tried to grab Sear’s sleeve, but the knight had dissolved into Cornald. Then William saw his own fingers. They were black and swollen, like those he had seen on corpses kept too long from their grave.

  He knew then that he was dying, and his mind returned to his secret. Someone had to be told – and quickly. He looked around at the assembled faces and made his decision. He would tell them all. It
was too great a burden for one to bear, but jointly…

  He wondered why he had not thought of this before. In fact, he wished he had been open from the start and told everyone about the discovery when he had made it in Kermerdyn three years before. People had certainly asked what had happened to change him from a rather average man to one who was blessed with an abundance of good fortune. He had always refused to tell, and it had given rise to all manner of speculation. But there was no time left for games now.

  ‘I do not have long left for this world,’ he announced. ‘It is time to tell you my secret.’

  There was an immediate rush towards the bed, but William could not see faces. They shifted constantly around him, so he was unsure whether all his friends and family were there, or just one or two. Sensing time was of the essence, he began to speak anyway, but his eyes were now so dim that he could not even tell if they were listening.

  When he had finished, he lay back, exhausted, feeling darkness begin to envelop him. Had he revealed his secret to a roomful of people, who would monitor each other and see it used wisely? Or had he confided to just one person? Or had he dreamt it all?

  And had the butter killed him?

  William took one last, shuddering breath. He would never know.

  One

  La Batailge, near Hastinges, early October 1103

  Sir Geoffrey Mappestone did not like King Henry. He considered him devious and dangerous, and hated those occasions when he was summoned into the royal presence. Less worrisome, but equally annoying, was waiting around, kicking his heels, while the King determined that he might – or might not – see the knight.

  Right now, Geoffrey was in just such a situation. He and his friend Sir Roger of Durham had recently helped thwart a minor rebellion and had finally been dismissed so that Geoffrey could return to his home in Goodrich on the Welsh borders. But within a day of leaving the abbey at La Batailge, they had been summoned back by a hard-riding messenger from the King. The two knights and their squires had then been forced to linger at the abbey until it was convenient for His Majesty to receive Geoffrey. The waiting was made even less tolerable because the one friend Geoffrey had made during his previous adventure – Wardard, an old Norman warrior turned monk – had evidently been sent ‘on retreat’ by the head of the abbey on the very day the knights had left. So Geoffrey could not even enjoy his company while waiting upon the King’s whim.

  The area around La Batailge was windswept and lonely, and Geoffrey often wondered what his father had thought of it when he had fought the Saxons there almost forty years before. If Geoffrey closed his eyes, it was easy to imagine the clamour of battle – the clash of weapons, the piercing whinnies of horses, the screams of the wounded and dying. The slaughter had been terrible, and, to ease his conscience, the Conqueror had founded an abbey on the site. The sound of Benedictine chants now filled the air, but Geoffrey thought the place a desolate one even so.

  Three Norman monarchs had reigned since then. The first William had died twenty-one years after the Conquest, leaving three ambitious sons. The oldest was Robert, Duke of Normandy, under whom Geoffrey had trained to become a warrior. The next was William Rufus, who had inherited the English throne and had agreed with Robert that if one of them died, the other should have his estates and titles. King William Rufus had been dispatched by an arrow in the New Forest, and the youngest of the Conqueror’s sons, Henry, had raced to have himself crowned before Robert could stop him.

  Geoffrey thought Henry was wrong to have thus illicitly grabbed the throne. But as his own estates were in England, and Henry could easily take them away, he kept his thoughts private. He had never sworn fealty to Henry – his oath of allegiance had been to Tancred, Prince of Galilee, for whom he had fought most of his adult life – but Henry held a certain sway over him.

  Henry was holding court in the church, a typically Norman building with a nave supported by thick pillars, and a clerestory of round-headed windows. Geoffrey leaned against a pillar and watched him conduct business. Henry had brought with him an enormous retinue of clerks, scribes, servants and courtiers. The clerks were the most numerous; Henry was wise enough to know that the key to a successful reign was as much administration as winning battles.

  One clerk saw Geoffrey and walked towards him. He was a pleasant-faced man with a cheerful smile, although there was something about his eyes that suggested he was as devious as his master. His name was Eudo, and he was Henry’s most trusted scribe.

  ‘His Majesty has just told me that he will see you in a few moments.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Geoffrey hesitated before continuing. ‘Do you know why? I do not think there is more to be discussed about the recent events.’

  Eudo inclined his head. ‘I am sure His Majesty would agree. It was a sordid business, and the less said the better.’

  ‘Then why did he recall me?’

  The court had taken every available berth in the abbey, and Geoffrey and his companions had been reduced to sleeping behind the stables, rolled in their cloaks. It was warm for the time of year, and as a soldier he was used to uncomfortable conditions, but it was still not pleasant. Moreover, the monks were struggling to find enough food for such large numbers, and Geoffrey could not leave to forage for his own lest the King demanded his presence.

  ‘He has his reasons.’ Eudo saw the look on Geoffrey’s face and elaborated hastily: the knight was tall, strong and clearly not someone to be fobbed off with flippant responses. ‘He wants to discuss it in person. But it involves some letters.’

  ‘Letters?’ echoed Geoffrey.

  ‘You will find out soon enough,’ replied Eudo. Then it was his turn to hesitate. ‘I am sorry about Prince Tancred, by the way.’

  ‘What about Tancred?’ demanded Geoffrey.

  Eudo looked at him warily. ‘I am sorry you are no longer in his service. The King tells me that the two of you were as close as brothers, but he has recently dismissed you most rudely.’

  That was one way of putting it, Geoffrey thought bitterly. Tancred had actually threatened to execute his former favourite if he ever saw him again. And it was Henry’s fault – he had forced Geoffrey to remain in England, and Tancred had finally lost patience. Dismayed by Tancred’s final missive, Geoffrey had known he would never rest easy until he had explained in person what had happened. Tancred might still be angry, but at least he would understand that the decision to dally had not been Geoffrey’s.

  ‘The King discusses my personal correspondence with clerks?’ he asked coolly. ‘I thought he would have better things to do.’

  ‘He does,’ replied Eudo, matching his tone. ‘But, for some inexplicable reason, he likes you.’

  Geoffrey seriously doubted it. Or perhaps Henry ‘liked’ him because he had a weakness – a sister of whom he was fond – and so was a suitable candidate for coercion. Henry had certainly exploited his knight’s unwillingness to see Joan harmed in the past, and would doubtless do so again.

  ‘Here is Sir Edward,’ said Eudo, nodding to where a man in impractically fashionable clothes was approaching with fussy, mincing steps. Like many courtiers, his hair was long, flowing around his shoulders, and his beard had been carefully sculpted into an eye-catching fork. Geoffrey regarded the figure warily. The title suggested Edward was a knight, but Geoffrey could not imagine such a fellow on a battlefield.

  ‘He is Constable of Kadweli Castle, in Wales,’ continued Eudo. ‘It is a prestigious post because Kadweli is strategically sited, and money has been set aside to build it in stone.’

  ‘The King is ready for you now,’ said Edward to Geoffrey. He looked the knight up and down, smothering a smirk. ‘He will be pleased to see you have dressed appropriately.’

  A tart rejoinder died in Geoffrey’s throat when he glanced down at himself. His surcoat with its Crusader’s cross was decidedly grimy, and although his mail tunic and leggings were in good repair – no sensible knight would allow them to be otherwise – they were plain and functional. He h
ad not shaved in days, and his light brown hair, cut short in military fashion, had not seen a comb in weeks. Edward had a point.

  ‘It is too late to change clothes now,’ said Eudo, frowning. ‘Go. He does not like to be kept waiting.’

  Geoffrey was not pleased to find the King was not ready for him at all, but was leaning over his clerks as they scribbled feverishly at his directions. He dallied for so long that Geoffrey was tempted to walk away. But common sense reigned, and he forced himself to be patient. His dog, a savage back and white beast, also grew restless, and, foreseeing trouble if it bit someone, the knight told his squire to take it outside.

  To pass the time, Geoffrey wandered to a table where building plans for the abbey had been laid out. He was impressed – it was going to be a massive foundation, housing upwards of a hundred Benedictines. The monks would have a huge cloister, dormitories, refectories, guesthouse, common rooms, fraters, kitchens, brewery, bakery, buttery and granaries.

  ‘Is it convenient to speak to you now, or shall I arrange for an appointment?’ came a caustic voice from behind him.

  Geoffrey turned quickly, aware that he had been so engrossed that he had not realized the King was there.

  ‘I am sorry, sire,’ said Geoffrey. He gestured at the drawings. ‘The abbey will be remarkable.’

  ‘Expensive, too,’ said Henry resentfully. ‘But it cannot be helped. My father wanted to atone for the bloodshed that allowed him to conquer England, and I had better follow in his footsteps. There was that nasty rebellion on the Marches earlier this year, and now there is the one you have just quelled. It would be prudent to let God know that I am grateful that neither succeeded.’

  ‘Yes, sire,’ said Geoffrey, thinking the Almighty was unlikely to be impressed by acts of beneficence that were conducted with such obvious reluctance. He said no more and waited for Henry to speak.