‘I have a knighthood,’ hedged Edward. ‘But I am not sure I would call myself a knight.’
Geoffrey was puzzled. ‘I do not understand.’
‘At the risk of sounding immodest, I am an extremely able administrator. The King appointed me Constable of Kadweli several years ago, but knowing the garrison was unlikely to follow orders from a parchment-hound, he knighted me.’
Geoffrey regarded him askance. ‘What happens when you need to deploy your troops? Surely, your lack of military experience will show?’
‘I was trained in the basics, like all men of noble family, so I am not wholly without knowledge. But, more often than not, it is wiser to negotiate peaceful solutions – and, on the few occasions where it is not, my captains are competent.’
‘I see,’ said Geoffrey. He was inclined to think it was a foolish state of affairs, but then reconsidered. If Edward really was able to parley his way out of confrontations, then surely it was better for all concerned? Geoffrey had seen too often the havoc needless skirmishes could wreak.
Edward smiled again. ‘So what do you say to my suggestion? I will be no trouble, I assure you. And I may even be of some use – I know the roads extremely well.’
Trapped, Geoffrey nodded reluctant agreement.
‘Look at them!’ exclaimed Edward suddenly, pointing to two knights who had pinned a monk against the wall. The monastic was cowering, hands over his head. ‘I know Brother Delwyn is a dreadful little worm, but it is not kind to bully him.’
The two knights were strong and tall. Both wore plain white surcoats, and the swords at their sides were well-honed and functional. One was Geoffrey’s age – mid-thirties – with dark hair and blue eyes. The other was older, larger and distinctly better-looking, with long auburn hair and a neat beard.
The monk was an unappealing specimen, with lank, greasy hair, eyes that went in slightly different directions, and a grubby habit. Geoffrey recalled that Bishop Maurice had mentioned a Brother Delwyn, sent by Kermerdyn’s abbey with messages to the King. Maurice had deemed him sly, and, judging from his appearance, Geoffrey suspected he might be right.
‘I will send you word the moment Eudo gives me the letters,’ said Geoffrey, beginning to walk away. He did not want to become embroiled in squabbles that were none of his concern.
‘Wait.’ Edward gripped his arm. ‘Sear and Alberic are violent men, and though my instincts clamour at me to leave well alone, my conscience will not let me walk away while a man of God is molested. Neither will yours, I am sure.’
With a resigned sigh, Geoffrey allowed himself to be led towards the trio, heartily cursing Eudo and his tardiness.
‘What seems to be the matter?’ asked Edward pleasantly. ‘Brother Delwyn?’
‘They say I smell,’ squeaked the monk, raising a tear-stained face to his rescuer. ‘And they are threatening to throw me in the fishponds.’
Geoffrey thought they had a point. He was not particularly devoted to hygiene himself, but he was a good deal more respectable than Delwyn.
‘The same might be true of others around here, too,’ said the larger of the knights. He did not look at Geoffrey, although the inference was clear. ‘The court is letting its standards drop.’
‘I could not agree more,’ said Edward amiably, pulling a pomander from his purse and pressing it against his nose. ‘It is quite disgraceful, and I am glad I shall soon be returning to Kadweli.’
‘When will you go?’ asked the younger knight, although he did not sound very interested in the answer, and Geoffrey was under the impression he spoke to prevent his companion from making another remark that might see them in a brawl. Henry disapproved of fighting among his retinue.
‘As soon as Eudo gives me the necessary documentation to begin building Kadweli in stone,’ replied Edward. He smiled at the older knight. ‘And you, Sir Sear? How much longer will you remain in this godforsaken bog? Personally, if I had been the Conqueror, I would have taken one look at this place and sailed straight back for Normandy.’
So this was Sear, thought Geoffrey. He regarded the knight with interest, wondering what had possessed Henry to appoint Sear, who looked every inch a fighting man, to Pembroc, but Edward, who was more woman than knight, to Kadweli. The two could not have been more different, and made it seem as though Henry could not decide whether he wanted his domain ruled by warriors or clerks.
Sear regarded Edward with haughty indifference. ‘My clerks made a mistake with Pembroc’s taxes, so I was obliged to travel here, to tell Henry that they will be somewhat reduced in future. Now I am waiting for Eudo to confirm the arithmetic. When he does, Alberic and I ride west.’
‘Was Henry not vexed?’ asked Edward. Geoffrey was wondering the same: Henry was inordinately fond of money.
Sear smirked. ‘Not when I told him he could keep the excess.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Edward warmly. ‘Pembroc and Kadweli have worked well together, and I am reassured to learn we shall continue to be neighbours.’
‘Make them apologize, Sir Edward,’ bleated Delwyn, cutting into the discussion. ‘I am a monk, and they have no right to abuse me.’
‘He asked for it,’ growled Alberic sourly. ‘He called us louts, expecting his habit to protect him from retribution. Well, he was wrong.’
‘I did no such thing!’ cried Delwyn, although Geoffrey could see from his furtive eyes that he probably had. ‘I said some knights who haunt the King’s court are louts. I did not mean you. Although, now I think about it-’
‘Go,’ interrupted Edward. ‘Or I will toss you in the fishpond.’
‘You would not,’ sneered Sear. ‘You would not want to soil your pretty white hands.’
At that moment, Eudo appeared with a sheaf of documents, and there was a concerted rush towards him, Edward, Sear and Delwyn included. Sear aimed a kick at Delwyn as he passed, but it was half-hearted, and the grubby monk did not see it. Certain his letters would not be among the pile, Geoffrey took the opportunity to escape.
The previous month, when the ship he was aboard sank, Geoffrey had lost everything except his armour and weapons, and a saddlebag containing writing equipment. He had no spare clothes and no money, but this was nothing compared to losing his horse. The animal had carried him into dozens of battles and skirmishes, and he missed it sorely. He still had his dog, but it was a sullen, vicious brute, which could not compare to his beloved destrier.
Fortunately, Roger – a true Norman in his love of wealth – had managed not only to save his purse from a watery end, but also to acquire a small fortune during their subsequent adventures. He had used some of it to purchase new mounts for Geoffrey and himself. Warhorses were not easily replaced. They had to be strong enough to carry a fully armoured knight into battle, fast enough to perform the intricate manoeuvres that made them so formidable, and brave enough not to flinch at slashing swords, raining arrows and jabbing lances. Needing to begin training his new horse to its duties, Geoffrey took him out that afternoon, welcoming the solitude after the busy abbey.
He rode towards the coast, giving the animal its head when they reached a long, sandy path, relishing the raw power thundering beneath him. It was larger than his previous one, a massive bay with a white sock. When it slowed, he took it through several exercises and was pleased with its responses. Would it conduct itself as well in combat? For the first time, it occurred to him that he was unlikely to find out if he returned to Goodrich. There would be skirmishes, certainly, but not the kind of pitched battle for which he had been trained. He was not disappointed. He had been fighting almost continuously since he was twelve, and twenty years of warfare was more than enough.
He turned back towards the abbey when the light began to fade, surprised to see his squire, Bale, riding to meet him. With his broad shoulders, muscular chest and baldly gleaming head, Bale looked every inch the killer. He had an unnatural fascination for sharp blades, and had been foisted on Geoffrey because the people in his village were afraid of him �
� they had decided that only a Crusader knight could keep his murderous instincts in check.
‘I was worried about you, sir,’ said Bale, grinning a greeting. ‘The abbey is full of unpleasant types – men who can read – and you cannot trust them as far as you can see them.’
‘I can read,’ said Geoffrey unkindly, because he knew exactly how Bale would react.
He was not wrong. Bale’s mouth fell open in horror when he realized what he had said. He had not been with Geoffrey long and was still trying to make a good impression, terrified that he would be ordered away from a life of glittering slaughter and back to the fields from whence he came. He was old to be a squire – older than Geoffrey himself – but had taken to the task with unrestrained enthusiasm and was thoroughly enjoying himself.
‘But you are different,’ he stammered uncomfortably.
‘Am I?’ asked Geoffrey wickedly. ‘How?’
Bale flailed around for a reason. ‘Well, you prefer fighting to writing,’ he said eventually.
‘That is untrue,’ said Geoffrey, indicating that Bale was to ride at his side. ‘Given the choice, I would far rather spend the day with a good book than on a battlefield.’
Bale regarded him uncertainly, then grinned. ‘You are teasing me, sir!’
Geoffrey changed the subject, suspecting he would be unlikely to persuade his squire that he would be more than happy to hang up his spurs.
‘What happened to Ulfrith?’ he asked. ‘I have not seen him today.’
Ulfrith was Roger’s squire, a big, stupid Saxon prone to falling in love with unsuitable women.
‘That is partly why I came to meet you. He has run away, and Sir Roger is vexed.’
Geoffrey was relieved, though. Ulfrith was a liability in a fight, because, unlike Bale, he did not possess the necessary aggression to become a soldier, and Geoffrey was constantly aware of the need to protect him. Moreover, he was by nature an honest, innocent lad, and Geoffrey did not like the fact that Roger was teaching him bad habits. Ulfrith would do better with another master – or, better still, by returning to his former life as a farmer.
Bale cleared his throat uncomfortably. ‘I think he stole your dog, sir,’ he began worriedly. ‘Because he is nowhere to be found, either.’
Geoffrey did not think that likely: the dog was not pleasant company.
‘Do you know why Ulfrith left?’ he asked. The dog would appear in its own good time; he knew its habits too well to share Bale’s concern.
Bale shrugged. ‘Well, there was a girl in that group of pilgrims from Southampton who caught his eye. Perhaps he went after her.’
‘Good,’ said Geoffrey, kicking his horse into a gallop. ‘He was far too gentle to be a soldier.’
‘Not like me, then,’ said Bale, trotting after him. ‘I am not gentle.’
‘No,’ agreed Geoffrey under his breath. ‘You are not.’
It was nearly three days before the King’s letters were ready, during which time Geoffrey became increasingly irate with Eudo. Meanwhile, Roger fretted and fumed over Ulfrith’s desertion.
‘How dare he leave without so much as a word!’ he snarled.
‘Especially with my dog,’ agreed Geoffrey. He found he missed the dog and wished Ulfrith had stolen something else.
‘I doubt Ulfrith chose to take that thing,’ said Roger disparagingly. ‘I imagine it decided it would have a better life with Ulfrith, and that was the end of the matter. It was never loyal to you. Just like Ulfrith was not to me, it seems. Damn the boy! He swore to serve me.’
‘Take Bale instead,’ suggested Geoffrey hopefully. His tenants at Goodrich would not thank him for bringing the man home.
‘I might,’ snapped Roger. ‘Because it is your fault we are still here. If we had slipped away on a ship as I suggested, we would be halfway to the Holy Land by now, Ulfrith with us.’
‘I cannot go to the Holy Land,’ said Geoffrey, becoming impatient in his turn. ‘How many more times must I say it? I swore a vow.’
Roger opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by the arrival of one of Eudo’s scribes, who came to say that Geoffrey was to report immediately to the Chapter House. Not sorry to be free of his friend’s testy company, Geoffrey walked there quickly, then sighed when he was ordered to wait because Eudo was out.
‘The letters are ready,’ said a portly Benedictine clerk named Pepin, pointing to a leather pouch on the table. ‘But he told me not to let you have them until he returned. He promised to be back before sext, so I cannot imagine where he might be. He is not normally late.’
‘Of course not,’ said Geoffrey, suspecting he would soon be told to return the following morning. It had not escaped his attention that most of the other petitioners had left, and his commission was one of the last to be completed.
‘No, really,’ said Pepin earnestly. ‘He is always extremely punctual, and it is not his fault you have been delayed. Indeed, he is anxious to get rid of this particular parcel.’
‘Oh?’ asked Geoffrey, instantly suspicious. ‘Why? Does it contain anything dangerous for the carrier?’
Pepin reached out to finger the material of Geoffrey’s surcoat. ‘You are a Jerosolimitanus, so nothing will trouble you. I heard that only the most dedicated warriors returned alive.’
That was true, although more soldiers had died from disease, thirst and starvation than in skirmishes with enemies. Geoffrey was not proud of what the Crusaders had done in other lands, and had considered abandoning the surcoat. Unfortunately, he, like all Tancred’s officers, had taken a vow to wear it whenever he donned armour.
‘Look inside the pouch,’ he suggested, when more time had passed and there was still no sign of Eudo. ‘To ensure everything is there. It would be unfortunate if I were to arrive in Kermerdyn and find someone forgot to put one of the missives in.’
Pepin bristled. ‘We may be slow, but we are not incompetent. I assure you, the package contains exactly what the King ordered us to include. No more and no less.’
‘Show me,’ ordered Geoffrey.
‘I suppose I can oblige, although you cannot take them until Eudo arrives.’
‘The letters,’ prompted Geoffrey.
Pepin opened the pouch and removed the contents. ‘There are five of them-’
‘ Five?’ interrupted Geoffrey. ‘The King told me there would be three.’
‘He changed his mind,’ said Pepin. ‘There is no point sending a second messenger when you can take the other two as well. Here is the first. It is the thickest and is for Bishop Wilfred. It tells him that some of his parish churches now belong to La Batailge – that the tithes accruing from them will come to this abbey, rather than to his own coffers.’
‘God’s teeth!’ muttered Geoffrey. ‘No prelate will be happy to receive that sort of news.’
‘No,’ said Pepin smugly. ‘I imagine he will be furious. But this endowment will make La Batailge the fifteenth richest house in England.’
‘I am sure Wilfred will be delighted to hear it,’ said Geoffrey acidly. ‘Especially as his See is in Wales. He will not mind his resources leeched away to fund already-wealthy houses.’
‘Has anyone ever told you that you have a caustic tongue?’ asked Pepin. ‘And it is not becoming in a man who has set eyes on the holiness of Jerusalem.’
‘Forgive me,’ said Geoffrey sourly.
Pepin sketched a blessing at him. ‘Very well, you are absolved, although you should bear in mind that God only forgives those whose penitence is genuine.’
‘Where is the letter to Abbot Mabon?’ asked Geoffrey.
Pepin held out a folded piece of parchment. ‘I have drawn a small green circle on the bottom, so you can tell it apart from the others, because it would not do to confuse them. You will not mistake Wilfred’s, because it is the thickest.’
‘I can read,’ said Geoffrey coolly. ‘Your coloured circles are quite unnecessary.’
‘Really?’ asked Pepin in surprise. ‘How curious! However, I would not attem
pt to digest these missives, if I were you. Even I do not know what is in some of them, because Eudo wrote them himself. The seals are special, too – tamper-proof. If you try to open them, they crack, and the recipient will know. Even I cannot bypass them, and God knows I have tried.’
‘I see,’ said Geoffrey. It had not occurred to him to interfere with the King’s messages, and he was astonished that the scribe should have done so.
‘So I am afraid you will have to carry them without knowing exactly what they say,’ Pepin went on. ‘But most messengers are in that position.’
‘I suppose they are,’ acknowledged Geoffrey.
‘I know what is in Abbot Mabon’s, though. It is not from the King, but from the Archbishop of Canterbury, and tells Mabon he must subjugate himself to Bishop Wilfred’s rule and defer to him in all things.’
Geoffrey groaned. It would not be easy gaining the measure of the two churchmen when he was the bringer of such unwelcome news. Had Henry done it deliberately, to make the commission more difficult? Or was it to annoy them both to indiscretion, to make Geoffrey’s task easier? Somehow, he suspected an agent’s ease would not be uppermost in Henry’s mind.
‘One of Mabon’s monks is here in La Batailge,’ said Pepin. ‘I imagine Brother Delwyn will ask to travel with you to Kermerdyn. The highways are not as dangerous as they were under King William Rufus, but it is a rash man who risks them alone.’
‘Then why does he not deliver the letter to Mabon?’ asked Geoffrey irritably.
‘He is keen to do just that, but the King gave specific orders that you were to do it.’ Pepin shrugged. ‘I have no idea why, and neither does Eudo.’
Geoffrey rubbed his head. The quest was becoming less appealing by the moment. ‘The next letter is to Gwgan,’ he said, reading the name.
Pepin nodded. ‘I understand he is the husband of your wife’s sister.’
‘News travels fast,’ remarked Geoffrey.
‘The King told me,’ said Pepin. ‘He also said that you can be trusted absolutely.’
‘Good,’ muttered Geoffrey, wondering whether he should bungle the mission, so Henry would be less inclined to ask for his help in future.
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