A Dead Man's secret m-8

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘Because I do not want him to have it yet,’ snapped Henry. He turned to Geoffrey. ‘He doubtless will be vexed, but you must tell him not to question his King’s wishes.’

  Geoffrey said nothing but raised his eyebrows, feeling it was hardly his place to make such a remark to a fellow knight.

  ‘Here are the letters,’ said Pepin, passing them over. ‘The green circle is for Abbot Mabon… but you can read so you do not need my devices. However, for your information, the red dagger is for Sear, because he is warlike, the diamond is for Richard fitz Baldwin, because he is hard, and the fancy cross is for Gwgan, because he is literate, like us.’

  ‘And Wilfred’s letter is the fat one,’ finished Geoffrey, to show he had been listening earlier.

  Pepin nodded. ‘For God’s sake, do not deliver them to the wrong people.’

  ‘I think we can trust Sir Geoffrey to get it right,’ said Henry dryly. He nodded to indicate Pepin was dismissed. The scribe shot out as quickly as he had entered.

  ‘Is there no letter for Prince Hywel, sire?’ asked Maurice. ‘I imagine he will expect one, given that you are communicating with the two most powerful churchmen in his domain.’

  Henry stretched. ‘I do not pander to the sensitivities of vassals, Maurice. Besides, Hywel is too busy being popular to care what I think of him.’

  ‘I imagine he will care,’ said Maurice unhappily. ‘And it is not pandering to sensitivities as much as acknowledging his continued loyalty. It is simple diplomacy.’

  ‘Unnecessary diplomacy,’ countered Henry. ‘I have nothing to say at this time.’

  While Henry and Maurice continued to debate, Geoffrey studied the letters carefully to assess whether they were the ones he had been shown earlier – he mistrusted everyone. Then Maurice took them, too, and held them to the light, as if he hoped to read what was written inside. The Bishop shook them, rubbed them against his cheek, and finally blessed them with great solemnity. Henry watched in astonishment.

  ‘Are you finished?’ he asked.

  ‘I sense an evil in them,’ explained Maurice. ‘You know I have a knack for telling these things. I wish you would let me rewrite them, sire. I have a fair hand, and it will not take me long.’

  ‘I cannot be bothered,’ said Henry. ‘It has been a long day; I am tired. And there is nothing important in them. They pertain to Kermerdyn, for God’s sake – a place we could barely plot on a map.’

  ‘Then why send Geoffrey to deliver them?’ asked Maurice. ‘Why not let Edward or Sear do it?’

  Geoffrey winced. Maurice rarely questioned his King.

  ‘Because it suits me to send him,’ snapped Henry. ‘Remember yourself, My Lord Bishop. Not even you have the right to question me.’

  Maurice looked stricken. ‘I meant no disrespect, sire! I was merely-’

  ‘Merely poking your nose into matters that are none of your concern,’ finished Henry. But he relented when he saw the prelate’s distress. ‘I am sending Geoffrey because one of these letters is for his kinsman – Gwgan. My Normans are not overly enamoured with the Welsh, and I would not like them to “forget” to deliver it, in order to see Gwgan in trouble.’

  ‘I see,’ said Maurice. He swallowed hard. ‘Will you tell us what these messages contain? The recipients may have questions, and Geoffrey will look foolish if he cannot answer.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Henry with a bored sigh. ‘The letter to Bishop Wilfred is about property, the one to Abbot Mabon is about clerical obedience, and the ones to Richard, Sear and Gwgan pertain to the routine deployments of troops. There is no reason to assume I am sending Geoffrey into danger. On the contrary, these messages could not be more innocuous.’

  ‘I see,’ said Maurice. ‘Then why-’

  ‘Besides, it will give him an opportunity to visit Goodrich en route, and warn his hapless wife and sister that they are about to have his company for the rest of his natural days. His ensuing excursion to Kermerdyn will give them the chance to get used to the idea.’

  Geoffrey struggled not to gape, feeling it was hardly the King’s place to meddle in his domestic arrangements. ‘But Goodrich is not on the way to Kermerdyn. I will not go there first.’

  ‘I insist you do,’ said Henry. ‘My letters are not urgent, and you must avail yourself of another opportunity to produce an heir. You do not have one in the making yet, I believe. We are similar in that respect, although neither of us has any trouble siring bastards.’

  Geoffrey was not sure whether he was more taken aback by the bald order to impregnate his wife or the implication that he was the kind of man to leave women with unwanted offspring. With the exception of one lady – a duchess who still laid claim to his heart – he had never been in one place long enough to develop an enduring relationship, and the other women he had bedded tended to know how to avoid unwelcome pregnancies.

  ‘I want Goodrich to have an heir,’ Henry went on. ‘Of course, my own wife is slow in that regard, despite strenuous efforts on my behalf, and I can hardly compel you to do what I cannot achieve myself. However, I would like you to try.’

  Again, Geoffrey said nothing, thinking that what he did with Hilde behind closed doors was none of the King’s damned business.

  ‘Perhaps you should take your wife to Kermerdyn,’ said Henry thoughtfully. ‘She will be pleased to see her sister Isabella again, and I understand she knows how to wield a sword. She might even be useful to you, and you can make the heir along the way.’

  ‘Sire!’ exclaimed Maurice, glancing uneasily at Geoffrey and obviously worried about a tart response to the order. ‘I hardly think this is a suitable-’

  Henry laughed. ‘Geoffrey does not object to me talking to him man to man. He is a soldier, for God’s sake, and I know for a fact that they discuss little else when they are out on campaign.’

  ‘I will put the matter to Hilde,’ said Geoffrey cautiously.

  ‘Oh, she will go,’ predicted Henry. ‘Besides, she may be in a position to help me, too. You see, William fitz Baldwin had a secret, and Isabella was one of those who was at his deathbed when he raved about it. She may have an inkling as to what it is. If so, you can find out for me.’

  Geoffrey frowned. Now what was he being ordered to do?

  Maurice was more forthright. ‘Is that the real reason for you giving Geoffrey these letters, sire?’ he asked uneasily. ‘You want him to investigate another matter entirely?’

  Henry raised his hands in a shrug. ‘Well, why not? He will be in the area anyway.’

  A messenger arrived with an urgent question from one of the King’s barons at that point, and Henry ordered Geoffrey and Maurice to stand on the far side of the room while the man whispered to him and received his answer. Maurice’s flabby face was unhappy.

  ‘I do not like this,’ he said. ‘I wondered why you were selected to deliver these messages, and now we know: Henry wants William’s secret.’

  ‘You mentioned this secret before,’ said Geoffrey. ‘You said William had discovered a way to shower himself with blessings and make himself a better man.’

  ‘And a richer one. At first, I assumed he was speaking metaphorically, but then it became clear that he had discovered some literal way of earning his good fortune.’

  Geoffrey frowned. ‘It sounds like superstition to me.’

  ‘Perhaps. However, if you do discover some actual, physical thing that turned William into a saint, I strongly recommend you leave it in Kermerdyn.’

  Geoffrey regarded him askance. ‘But the King obviously wants it delivered to him.’

  ‘Do not even think of meddling in such matters, Geoffrey,’ said Maurice sternly, crossing himself. ‘Whether this secret derives from God or from sorcery, you would be well advised to leave it alone. I would not tamper, and I am a bishop.’

  ‘Not even for Henry?’

  Maurice considered. ‘No,’ he said eventually, ‘not even for him. Although he could make life unpleasant for me on Earth, that is nothing compared to the eternity t
hat comes after. So investigate this matter and be ready to give the King an honest report. But if the secret does transpire to be something tangible, leave it where it is.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘I am serious, Geoffrey. I promised Giffard to keep you safe, and that vow extends to your soul. Do not interfere in matters beyond human understanding.’

  ‘Come,’ called Henry, beckoning them forward as the messenger bowed his way out. He yawned. ‘Lord, I am weary! Have you two finished pestering me with silly questions?’

  ‘William fitz Baldwin’s secret,’ said Maurice worriedly. ‘You told Geoffrey to find out what it was, although I fear it may not be one you want to know.’

  Henry’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, whatever it was did not protect William, because he died in suspicious circumstances. If my memory serves me correctly, there were rumours that he was poisoned. By rancid butter.’

  Geoffrey could tell the information was not news to Henry, although the monarch did his best to feign astonishment.

  ‘Are you saying one of my constables was murdered?’ he asked. ‘That is a grave crime and one that must be investigated. Take Hilde with you, Geoffrey, and see what can be learned from Isabella about this secret. And if William was murdered, I want you to find the culprit.’

  ‘But William died seven years ago, sire,’ said Maurice, alarmed on Geoffrey’s behalf. ‘I doubt it will be possible to solve the case after so long.’

  Henry smiled coldly. ‘On the contrary, if William was dispatched to gain his secret, it is just a case of seeing who at his deathbed has been showered with blessings ever since. Besides, William really did become a different man after he built Rhydygors, and I want to know why. I cannot have inexplicable events occurring in my kingdom – it may lead to trouble.’

  ‘Why look into the matter now?’ pressed Maurice. ‘Why not when it happened?’

  ‘Because I was not king when it happened,’ replied Henry shortly. ‘I have only had my throne three years, and there have been other matters to occupy me – such as quelling rebellions. But now my enemies are crushed, I find myself with more time to explore different matters.’

  Except he would not be doing the exploring, thought Geoffrey. He would be lounging in abbots’ halls, eating raisins, while his hapless subjects trudged miles to distant castles to investigate incidents that had occurred far too long ago for any clues to remain.

  ‘I shall do my best,’ Geoffrey said unhappily, deciding that when he had completed this mission, nothing would keep him in England. Maurice would release him from his vow, and he would travel straight to Tancred.

  ‘Meanwhile, Maurice can explore Eudo’s death,’ Henry went on. ‘I want the culprit hanged.’

  ‘ I am not qualified to investigate such matters,’ said Maurice, horrified.

  ‘Then you will have to learn,’ said Henry shortly. ‘It is good for my bishops to develop a variety of skills. It is a pity Giffard was rebellious, because he would have done it.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Maurice. ‘Like Geoffrey, I shall do my best.’

  ‘Have you expunged the evil from my letters?’ asked Henry, nodding that Maurice was still clutching them. ‘Or shall I order a witch summoned to do it?’

  ‘Please, sire,’ said Maurice with quiet dignity. ‘Do not jest about such matters.’

  Henry ignored him and looked back at Geoffrey. ‘And if you deliver my letters and send me William’s secret, I shall forgive you for helping Giffard escape last year. Do not look surprised, man! You know perfectly well that I am still unhappy with you for it.’

  ‘I accompanied him to the coast,’ admitted Geoffrey. ‘But I had nothing to do with his decision not to be consecrated. That was a matter between him and his conscience.’

  ‘He should have mentioned his qualms before the ceremony started,’ said Henry angrily. ‘It was not polite to leave in the middle of it. Nor to enjoy the adulation of commoners afterwards – they cheered him for defying me. He is my enemy now, and his friends are my enemies.’

  ‘In that case, perhaps you should entrust your mission to someone else,’ said Geoffrey.

  ‘How dare you!’ snarled Henry, coming quickly to his feet. There was a dangerous light in his eyes, and Maurice signalled frantically behind his back for Geoffrey to recant. ‘You are lucky Eudo is dead, or I would install you in my dungeons and send him instead.’

  ‘Sear is-’ began Geoffrey, ignoring Maurice’s increasingly agitated gestures.

  ‘How can I ask Sear to deliver a message to himself when he arrives in Kermerdyn?’ raged Henry. ‘He would do it, of course, honourable man that he is. But it is not for you to argue with me. Do it again and you will be sorrier than your darkest fears can imagine.’

  ‘My apologies, sire,’ said Geoffrey. His darkest fear was that Hilde and Joan would pay the price for his incautious tongue, and he was sure Henry knew it. ‘I spoke out of turn.’

  ‘Yes, you did,’ snapped Henry. His voice became a sneer. ‘You think someone tampered with Prince Tancred’s letters and that he still feels affection for you, but you are wrong. He will not miss such an insolent rogue, and was certainly sincere in his offer to put a noose around your neck. Now get out of my sight before I do it for him.’

  Before Geoffrey could make a rejoinder, Maurice bundled him out of the room.

  ‘Are you insane?’ the Bishop hissed as soon as they were out of Henry’s hearing. ‘Do you want him to execute you? Then what would I tell Giffard?’

  Geoffrey sighed and rubbed his head, anger subsiding as quickly as it had risen. ‘So the letters are a ruse, an excuse to take me to Kermerdyn and discover what turned an ordinary man into one who enjoyed wealth and success? And this same man died – possibly murdered with rancid butter – some seven years ago, and I am to discover how?’

  ‘So it would seem,’ said Maurice. His face was uncharacteristically bleak. ‘However, do not dismiss those letters as inconsequential, because I have a very bad feeling about them. Be on your guard at all times, and tell no one – no one – what you have been charged to do. Go with God, Geoffrey – I suspect you will need Him.’

  Four

  Near Goodrich, Herefordshire, October 1103

  The journey from La Batailge to Geoffrey’s manor was one of the least pleasant he could remember. The weather turned sour on the first day out from the abbey and did not improve thereafter. Bitter winds and driving rain made riding miserable and turned the roads into boggy morasses, so progress was infuriatingly slow. The horses slipped and skidded constantly, and the knights, unwilling to risk injury to their expensive animals, walked more than they rode. Geoffrey had lost his cloak in the shipwreck, and the replacement that Roger had bought him did not keep him either warm or dry.

  Furthermore, it was frequently impossible to find places to stay at night. Even Geoffrey, who had spent large portions of his life on campaign and was used to bedding down under hedges or in sheds, became tired of the discomfort, thinking it was one thing to sleep rough in the summer or in a desert, but another altogether in an English October.

  Geoffrey and Roger also had to put up with Delwyn and Edward, who were poor travellers. Edward was an abysmal rider, incapable of making even half the distance the knights had expected. They might have abandoned him – and Delwyn, too – had Pepin not appeared as they were leaving and read a declaration from the King that commanded them to remain together until Kermerdyn. The order was unequivocal and made Sear responsible for ensuring it was so. Sear took his duties seriously, and although Geoffrey could have given him the slip, it did not seem a prudent move. The rest of the company left a lot to be desired, as well. It had not taken long for Geoffrey to come to dislike the arrogant, smug and condescending Sear, and Alberic was almost as bad.

  Geoffrey also missed his dog. There had never been much true affection on either side, but he found himself constantly aware that it was not there. For the first few days, he thought it would reappear, as it
had done in the past, but as days passed into weeks, he knew it was gone for good. Roger and Bale assured him that he was well rid of it, but he was astonished to learn he missed it as much as his previous horse.

  Despite his lack of equestrian ability, Edward proved to be intelligent and amiable, and won almost everyone around with his unfailing cheerfulness. He encouraged Geoffrey to debate the philosophical texts they both had read in the past, although Sear and Alberic scoffed their disdain at such unmanly activities. However, they were all mystified by Edward’s penchant for womanly gowns of an evening, and Geoffrey steadfastly refused to borrow one, preferring his own sodden clothes to Edward’s flowing kirtles.

  ‘They are warm, dry and comfortable,’ Edward declared one evening, pulling a pair of pale purple gloves over his hands before stretching them towards the fire. ‘I shall wake tomorrow refreshed and happy. You, on the other hand, will wake shivering and stiff – if you sleep at all.’

  ‘It is not a good idea to remove your armour in a strange place,’ Geoffrey cautioned.

  ‘It is not a good idea to be uncomfortable all the time,’ Edward shot back. ‘Thank God I was not rash enough to have rallied to the Pope’s call for a Crusade. I would have been miserable the entire time if it involved sitting around in damp clothes for weeks on end!’

  ‘It involved a lot more than that,’ Bale murmured, eyes gleaming. ‘It involved killing, too.’

  ‘Lord!’ Edward shuddered. ‘Worse and worse!’

  Meanwhile, Delwyn endeared himself to no one with his constant litany of complaints. Geoffrey was not the only one who itched to knock him off his horse. And there were Geoffrey’s saddlebags: someone rifled through them regularly. Geoffrey did not think the culprit was a fellow knight – although Roger did so on occasion – and Delwyn was the only likely culprit. The monk denied it vigorously, but Geoffrey suspected that Delwyn was looking for the letter intended for Abbot Mabon, which Pepin had inadvertently mentioned.