Instead, he went for a walk, his dog loping at his side. It galled him that Henry should manipulate him quite so readily, and it occurred to him to leave without waiting for the letters. But that would be a mistake: Henry was vengeful, and Geoffrey did not want Hilde and Joan to suffer the consequences.
It was difficult to find a place to be alone when the abbey was full of Henry’s retainers, but a bell chimed to announce that a meal was ready, and the church emptied quickly. Geoffrey walked to the chancel, which was blessedly free of kings and clerks.
‘Geoffrey! I had no idea you were still here,’ came a cheerful voice from behind him.
Geoffrey spun around quickly, vexed that he was not to be permitted even a few moments of peace, but his pique faded when he found himself facing Maurice, the portly Bishop of London. Maurice was famous for his absolute loyalty to the King, his building of a magnificent cathedral, and his insistence that he suffered from a medical condition that necessitated regular frolics with pretty women. Geoffrey had worked with him in the past and liked him.
He smiled, feeling his bleak mood lighten. Maurice extended his be-ringed hand for the traditional episcopal kiss, but the moment the formal greeting was over, he gave the knight an affectionate hug.
‘It is good to see you, my friend!’ he cried. ‘Bishop Giffard often asks for news of you in his letters and will be delighted when I can report that you are safe and well.’
‘You look well, too,’ said Geoffrey, meaning it. The prelate was rosy-cheeked and shone with health and vitality.
Maurice leaned close. ‘I have just had a couple of very pretty damsels, and my humours are in perfect alignment. Of course, it will not last, and I shall have to find another one before long. I do not suppose your lady is with you, is she?’
‘You mean my wife?’ asked Geoffrey, sincerely hoping the lecherous prelate did not intend to put Hilde on his list of conquests.
‘No,’ whispered Maurice, looking around hopefully. ‘Your other lady. The one who was with you last summer, whom I dubbed Angel Locks. She gave me such pleasure one night!’
‘Oh, my squire,’ said Geoffrey flatly. ‘Durand.’
It was a sore point. With his flowing golden hair and mincing gait, Durand had often been mistaken for a woman from behind and had not minded at all. Geoffrey did not like to imagine what he had done with Maurice one dark evening to convince the prelate that he was a member of the fairer sex. He knew only that Maurice was keen to repeat the experience and that Durand had been paid extremely well.
‘Is she here?’ demanded Maurice eagerly.
‘He is no longer with me,’ replied Geoffrey shortly. ‘I have another squire now. Bale.’
Maurice grimaced. ‘I do not know why you persist with this charade of pretending she is a man, Geoffrey. There is no other woman like her.’
‘We can agree on that,’ said Geoffrey. He changed the subject. ‘How is the construction of your cathedral in London?’
‘St Paul’s,’ said Maurice with a fond smile. ‘It proceeds apace, thank you. But I am surprised to see you here. I thought you would be in the Holy Land by now.’
‘I took a vow not to go,’ said Geoffrey unhappily. ‘And the King has found a mission for me. Again. Will he never leave me alone?’
‘Hush!’ Maurice glanced around uneasily. ‘Walls have ears, and so does His Majesty. Long ones. I do not want to be seen as a traitor, even if you do not seem to care what he thinks. But let us talk of happier matters. Tell me about your new wife. Is she pretty?’
‘She has nice eyes,’ said Geoffrey loyally. No one in his right mind would call Hilde pretty.
‘Well, a man cannot be too fussy about his wife,’ said Maurice. He saw Geoffrey’s troubled expression, and his voice became kind. ‘Henry really has upset you. What does he want? Is there more trouble on the Marches?’
‘In Kermerdyn,’ said Geoffrey. ‘On the opposite side of the country. It seems he expects me to keep the peace through all of Wales, which is a lot more than he demands of his earls.’
‘Geoffrey, please!’ exclaimed Maurice, glancing around uneasily again. He took the knight’s arm and led him to an alcove. ‘If you have no care to keep your own head attached to your body, then try to think of mine.’
‘Sorry,’ said Geoffrey, genuinely contrite this time.
‘You mentioned Kermerdyn,’ said the Bishop. ‘There have been rumours at court about Kermerdyn.’
‘What rumours?’ asked Geoffrey, hoping he was not about to be sent into a situation that was more dangerous or complex than Henry had led him to believe. ‘Anything I should know?’
‘It can do no harm,’ said Maurice. ‘And I have not forgotten what you did for Giffard last year. Nor has he, and he made me promise to watch out for you in return.’
‘You mean escorting him out of the country after he defied the King?’ asked Geoffrey, wondering whether this had factored into Henry’s commission.
Maurice nodded. ‘Henry was furious, and there are many who would not hesitate to kill anyone who vexes their King – not that Henry would condone an act of violence against the Church, of course. But he surrounds himself with some very vicious men, and poor Giffard will not be safe until Henry has forgiven him.’
‘Does Henry know it was me who helped Giffard to the coast?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘Yes, of course. Nothing happens in his kingdom without his knowledge. Perhaps you will wipe the slate clean with this favour you are about to perform.’
Geoffrey sincerely hoped so.
Geoffrey joined Maurice for a stroll in the abbey grounds, moving away from the populated areas and walking down a hill to a series of boggy fishponds. Because most of the court was still eating, it was peaceful there, the only sounds the eerie calls of curlews and the wind whispering in the reeds.
They discussed mutual acquaintances and the adventures they had shared the previous year when they had worked hard to oust the tyrant Robert de Bellême from Henry’s domain. Maurice talked about his cathedral, too, and Geoffrey wished he could see how it had progressed. Unusually for a knight, he was literate and had once entertained hopes of attending the university in Paris. Philosophy was his first love, but he might have enjoyed a career in architecture, too.
‘So what are these rumours about Kermerdyn?’ he asked eventually, eager to learn about the place from a man whose opinions he trusted.
‘Its castle – Rhydygors – was built some ten years ago by the Sheriff of Devonshire, one William fitz Baldwin,’ Maurice began.
‘Why would the Sheriff of Devonshire build a castle so far from his home?’
‘He was ordered to by the last king. It was odd, though. William was not a very nice fellow when he lived in Devon – I found him extremely unpleasant. But in Kermerdyn, he changed – he became God-fearing, honest and good.’
‘I believe Rhydygors has been given to Prince Hywel,’ said Geoffrey, thinking of what Eudo had told him.
‘It has. William died seven years ago, and Rhydygors reverted to the Crown; Hywel was awarded it last year. But there was said to be something odd about William’s death. He died of a fever, although he was in his prime, not some old dotard to be felled by a passing sickness. And he had a secret.’
‘A secret?’
Maurice nodded. ‘One he believed brought him success and happiness, and made him a better man. It would certainly explain the transformation I observed.’
‘Did he drink?’ asked Geoffrey.
Maurice scowled. ‘No, he did not! Some men are changed when they are touched by God, so do not look so sceptical.’
‘You think he was touched by God?’
‘Well, he was certainly touched by something. A number of his friends and kinsmen tried to learn the secret while he lay dying, but no one understood his delirious ravings. The secret was lost.’
It sounded like a lot of nonsense to Geoffrey. ‘What happened to Rhydygors between William’s death and it passing to Hywel?’
‘A garr
ison was stationed there under William’s brother Richard. But Henry appreciated Hywel’s efforts against Bellême and wanted to show it. He appreciated your help, too.’
‘He did not reward me with a castle.’
‘You already have one – you would not have appreciated anything he gave you, anyway. And he is not a man to squander wealth.’
Geoffrey laughed, his good humour beginning to return. ‘So he gave me nothing because he thought it was a waste of a prize?’
Maurice nodded earnestly. ‘But he does not forget those who are good to him, which is why you have been allowed to wander freely after helping Giffard escape. He has a soft spot for you, because you are never afraid to speak your mind, and he is used to sycophants. Although a little more tact when dealing with him would not go amiss . . .’
‘I shall bear it in mind. What else do you know about Kermerdyn?’
‘Hywel was not the only man rewarded with a castle. At the same time, Henry gave a knight named Sear a fortress in a place called Pembroc.’
‘I have never heard of Sear, although Pembroc is famous.’
‘No one has heard of Sear, and it came as something of a surprise when Eudo was ordered to issue the relevant writ. Indeed, I recall there was speculation of a misunderstanding, and Eudo actually went to Henry and asked him to confirm Sear’s name.’
‘So who is Sear?’
Maurice shrugged. ‘He is just a bold knight. There is nothing unusual or commendable about him, although you would not know it if you met him. He is arrogant and swaggers horribly. I do not like him at all.’
Geoffrey felt as though they were getting away from the point. ‘Is there anything else about Kermerdyn that I should know before I go there?’
‘I was one of those who advised the King to give Rhydygors to Hywel. But it was a mistake.’
‘Because Hywel is popular?’ asked Geoffrey.
Maurice’s eyebrows shot up. ‘We do not want popular leaders in Wales because the locals may prefer them to Henry.’
‘Or they may see Henry as wise for appointing such men.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Maurice. ‘And William’s brother, Richard, cannot be happy about the situation – word is that he rather liked living in Rhydygors. Of course, he is wholly devoted to Henry, so would never voice his disappointment openly. He is in Gloucester at the moment, swearing fealty to the Crown in a formal ceremony.’
‘Does Henry not trust him to stay loyal without such an oath?’
‘Henry does not trust anyone. Richard will return to Kermerdyn to resume control of the Norman garrison. Obviously, Henry will want good men on hand if there is trouble brewing.’
‘Prince Hywel does not object to Norman soldiers in his lands?’
‘He understands that he holds them from Henry, and is said to be quite content with the arrangement. People are happy with his rule, and the garrison is never needed to quell trouble. Richard is thought to be bored with the inactivity, but everyone else is satisfied.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘Partly from listening to the King, and partly from letters I have received from Wilfred, Bishop of St David’s. Kermerdyn is in his See.’
‘I am supposed to take a letter to Bishop Wilfred.’
Maurice smiled. ‘Then you must give him my blessings. He is involved in a dispute with Kermerdyn abbey at the moment. Apparently, its head constantly questions his authority.’
‘I have never been that far inside Wales,’ said Geoffrey, trying to look on the bright side of the commission. ‘Perhaps it will be interesting.’
‘I imagine it will,’ said Maurice. ‘But be careful. Any soldier can deliver letters, but Henry has chosen you. There will be a reason for that.’
Two
The letters were still not ready by that evening, and Geoffrey saw he would have to spend another night in La Batailge. When dusk brought with it a drenching drizzle, he decided he would no longer bed down behind the stables. He found a corner in the kitchens and was a good deal warmer than those of Henry’s retainers who had been allocated quarters in the dorter and guest hall, the roofs of which leaked. It allowed him to secure a decent breakfast, too, by raiding the platters before they were carried to the refectory.
However, he did not fare as well as Roger and the squires, who had passed the night in a nearby tavern. He found them there mid-morning, enjoying the company of three whores and a veritable mountain of food. There was plenty of ale, too, although it was cloudy and tasted vaguely rotten. Geoffrey drank it anyway. As a soldier, he had never had the luxury of being fussy about food, except fish soup or raisins; he would rather starve than ingest those.
‘Well?’ asked Roger. ‘What did Henry want? You were certainly with him long enough. We grew tired of waiting for you and came here.’
Roger was Geoffrey’s closest friend, albeit an unlikely one. He was a giant of a man, with thick black hair and matching beard, both worn fashionably long. His father was the notoriously treacherous Bishop of Durham, and it had always amazed Geoffrey that Roger was proud of his infamous forebear. Roger was happiest when fighting, looting or frolicking with any woman willing to tolerate his clumsy advances, and he had a deep-rooted distrust of anyone who was literate. This sometimes included Geoffrey, whose scholarly tendencies he deplored.
‘He wants me to deliver a letter to Kermerdyn,’ explained Geoffrey. ‘Although there is something odd about the affair, and you should not mention it to anyone else.’
‘Where is Kermerdyn?’ asked Roger, scratching his head. ‘And why would he order you to deliver a letter? Henry is a fool if he thinks you are a lackey. You have always been your own man, even when you were serving Tancred. It is what makes powerful men eager to claim your allegiance.’
‘Henry does not care about my allegiance. He makes no attempt to earn it, and forces me to do his bidding by blackmail and coercion.’
‘Because that is the only way you will do what he wants,’ said Roger, uncharacteristically astute. ‘I am sure he would rather you obeyed him willingly, but that will never happen, so he is reduced to other tactics. It is a pity you swore that vow never to visit the Holy Land, because we could have jumped on a ship and been gone before Henry realized.’
‘You were the one who insisted I took it,’ Geoffrey reminded him, resentfully. ‘Besides, it would leave Joan and Hilde to bear the brunt of his ire. I will not do that.’
Roger sniffed. ‘They can look after themselves. The Crusade would not have lasted half as long if the army had been populated with the likes of Joan and Hilde. I have never encountered such fierce women. They are true Normans!’
Geoffrey began to respond, but Roger continued. ‘You can pay a monk to release you from your promise, you know. You did not want to take it, so God will not object when you renege. Besides, you are a Jerosolimitanus, and all your sins have been forgiven. You can do no wrong in God’s eyes.’
Geoffrey laughed, amused by Roger’s fluid approach to religion. ‘Only past sins were forgiven for joining the Crusade, not ones committed since. And I cannot break my vow, anyway.’
‘Perhaps I should not have coerced you,’ said Roger sheepishly. ‘But I honestly thought we were going to die when that storm struck – and everyone said it was God’s disapproval of your travels. But God will understand. And if He does not, you can pay for a few masses in Jerusalem. That should take care of any misunderstanding.’
‘A misunderstanding with God,’ mused Geoffrey, smiling at the notion. ‘No. There is nothing I would like more, but it cannot be done.’
Roger grimaced. ‘I cannot see Tancred staying angry with you forever. You were like brothers in the Holy Land, and he valued your counsel more than that of any other. He will forgive you, and then we shall be given the best opportunities for looting and fighting. It will be marvellous!’
His eyes shone. Looting and fighting were two activities very close to his heart.
‘And my vow?’
‘Well, then, I suppose
we must stay here to deliver your letter instead,’ said Roger stoically. ‘Besides, life with you is never dull. You will find us a battle somewhere. You always do.’
Geoffrey sincerely hoped he was wrong.
Geoffrey went to the Chapter House at noon, wondering why there was such a delay. Even if the letters to Gwgan, Abbot Mabon and Bishop Wilfred had not been written when Henry had ordered Geoffrey to deliver them, it should not have taken long for one of Eudo’s many scribes to dash them off.
He was not the only one waiting for the clerks, and the yard outside the Chapter House was full of courtiers and messengers, all kicking their heels while the ponderous wheels of administration turned at a slow, deliberate pace.
‘Perhaps later today,’ Eudo snapped when Geoffrey insisted on speaking to him. ‘Or tomorrow. His Majesty’s affairs cannot be rushed just because you are in a hurry.’
Geoffrey resisted the urge to grab him by the throat. ‘I am eager to do what the King has asked of me before he thinks I do not intend to bother.’
‘He will not notice whether you are here or not,’ retorted Eudo, truthfully enough. ‘He has far more important business to attend.’
The door was slammed with an abruptness that was rude and gave rise to an angry murmur from the people in the yard. Geoffrey studied them, noting that they included Bishop Maurice and several other high-ranking churchmen, along with two earls and a smattering of knights. If Eudo felt sufficiently secure to treat them with such insolent insouciance, then it showed the extent to which clerks now ruled Henry’s kingdom.
‘You are in good company,’ came a voice at his ear. ‘We are all at Eudo’s mercy.’
Geoffrey turned to see it was Sir Edward, the foppish Constable of Kadweli. He was even more splendidly attired than before, and his flowing locks and beard had been crimped into crisp curls. His cloak was fastened with a jewelled clasp that was decidedly feminine, and his fashionable tunic was a delicate purple.
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