Dead Man's Secret

by Simon Beaufort

  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.

  ‘Its contents are secret, so I cannot divulge what is in it,’ said Pepin. Then he grimaced. ‘Well, I could not even if I wanted to, because Eudo would not let me see it. The fourth letter is for Richard fitz Baldwin. Its contents are highly sensitive, too.’

  ‘Richard fitz Baldwin,’ said Geoffrey, frowning. ‘He is the brother of the man who built Kermerdyn’s castle – and then died of an inexplicable fever.’

  Pepin nodded appreciatively. ‘Taking the trouble to learn about the people there shows initiative. There were rumours that William fitz Baldwin was poisoned because he was believed to have acquired some kind of secret.’

  ‘A secret that made him happy and successful.’ Geoffrey was thoughtful. ‘Perhaps he learned something that allowed him to blackmail someone in authority. That would bring him riches and promotion – and happiness would follow.’

  Pepin was shocked. ‘That is a terrible thing to say! There was not a malicious or greedy bone in his body. As I understand it, his secret had to do with something more . . . ethereal. He found a way to cover himself with holy blessings.’

  ‘Right,’ said Geoffrey, feeling he was wasting his time. He brought the discussion back on track. ‘So I am to deliver a message to this man’s brother. I do not suppose its sensitive contents pertain to what happened to William, do they?’

  ‘I sincerely doubt it,’ said Pepin scornfully. ‘He died seven years ago, and I cannot imagine anyone still being interested. Richard runs the Kermerdyn garrison, so I imagine the message will be about troops or supplies.’

  ‘And the last letter?’

  Pepin pursed his lips. ‘That is to be delivered to Sear.’

  ‘Sear? Of Pembroc?’

  Pepin nodded with a disagreeable face. ‘I cannot abide the man. He is arrogant, condescending and ignorant. Moreover, he is in La Batailge, so I do not know why the missive cannot be passed to him here. The King’s orders are explicit, however – you can read them for yourself.’

  Geoffrey was startled to recognize the King’s own handwriting. ‘It says that Sear’s letter is not to be delivered to him until we reach Kermerdyn. Why?’

  Pepin scowled. ‘As I said, I have no idea. But it must be important, or Henry would not have gone to such trouble.’

  It smacked of politics to Geoffrey, and he hated being part of it. ‘Why does Sear not carry these messages? He is here and is due to travel to Wales anyway. Or Edward, for that matter? Or Brother Delwyn. Why does Henry need me?’

  ‘He can hardly ask Sear to deliver a letter to himself, can he?’ said Pepin with a shrug. ‘However, it might be a good idea not to let anyone know what you are charged to do. Tell anyone who asks that you are delivering messages from Bishop Maurice instead. He will not mind.’

  Geoffrey had grown increasingly appalled as Pepin described what Henry expected him to do, and he was annoyed that two more letters had been added. Moreover, if Henry trusted Sear enough to award him Pembroc Castle, then what was wrong with him carrying the messages? He did not understand at all, but thought the entire affair reeked of dark politics – the kind he tried to steer well away from. He was racking his brains for an excuse that would allow him to dodge the mission when the door opened and Sear himself strode in.

  ‘Sir Sear!’ exclaimed Pepin, shoving the letters out of sight in a way that was distinctly furtive. The auburn-headed knight’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘I was not expecting you today.’

  ‘Well, you should have been,’ growled Sear. ‘I cannot leave for Kermerdyn until Eudo has checked my tax-collector’s arithmetic, and I am tired of kicking my heels here. Where is he?’

  ‘Out,’ gulped Pepin, looking frightened.

  ‘Out where?’ demanded Sear, shoving past Geoffrey to grab Pepin by the front of his habit.

  ‘Easy,’ said Geoffrey, stepping forward to push him away. ‘He does not know where Eudo is.’

  Sear’s expression was murderous, and his hand went to the hilt of his sword. Then he let it drop, although his posture said he had not relaxed his guard completely.

  ‘I saw you three days ago,’ he said. ‘You are Sir Edward’s friend.’

  ‘Hardly!’ exclaimed Geoffrey. ‘I have only met him twice.’

  ‘He is Sir Geoffrey Mappestone,’ gabbled Pepin. ‘Who will travel to Kermerdyn at first light tomorrow – or sooner, if Eudo signs the release for the messages he is to deliver.’

  ‘Messages for Kermerdyn?’ asked Sear incredulously. ‘Then why not ask me to take them?’

  ‘And there is Edward,’ added Geoffrey. ‘I imagine he would make a good courier, too.’

  ‘Bishop Maurice is a law unto himself,’ blustered Pepin. ‘And if he says he wants Sir Geoffrey to take these messages, then it is not for me to question him. Is that not right, Sir Geoffrey?’

  Geoffrey nodded reluctantly, loath to be drawn into lies. He hoped Sear would not storm up to Maurice and demand an explanation, because Maurice was certain to look confused, and Sear did not look like the kind of man Geoffrey wanted as an enemy.

  ‘The King has intimated that he would like you all to travel together,’ blurted Pepin. ‘Brother Delwyn, Sir Edward, Sir Alberic and you two. He is fond of you all, and you will be safer in one big group.’

  ‘I am quite capable of looking after myself,’ said Geoffrey, becoming even less enamoured of the mission. Sear did not look pleased, either. ‘And large parties travel more slowly than smaller ones. I will make better time alone.’

  ‘You must do what the King suggests,’ said Pepin unhappily. ‘He does not like it when people ignore his requests.’

  Geoffrey was ready to argue, but Sear spoke first. ‘Well, I am not a man to question His Majesty. I shall be honoured to travel with a fellow knight, especially one who, like me, has the King’s favour. I understand you fought on the borders last summer and helped to defeat Robert de Bellême.’

  ‘I played a small part,’ acknowledged Geoffrey cautiously.

  Sear smirked. ‘I heard you fought him in single combat – and would have won, but the King stopped you from killing him. It is a pity. The world will never be safe as long as he is in it.’

  Once away from the Chapter House, Geoffrey set out to hunt down Eudo, so that the releases for the letters could be signed. He did not understand why Henry should insist he travel with others, and intended to dissuade him of the notion. Surely, he would want his messages delivered as quickly as possible and would see there was no sense in wasting time while others dallied? Unfortunately, Eudo was nowhere to be found, and his scribes were concerned, because they had important documents that needed his attention.

  ‘I saw him with Broth
er Delwyn earlier,’ said Maurice helpfully, after ushering two scullery maids from his quarters.

  ‘I cannot see Delwyn being conducive company,’ Geoffrey said, watching the women scurry away, all giggles and shining eyes. ‘Especially for a man with elevated opinions of himself, like Eudo.’

  ‘Eudo is a nasty fellow,’ agreed Maurice. ‘Still, he is better than Delwyn. The man brought complaints from his abbot about Bishop Wilfred, and I doubt Henry enjoyed hearing them – he is not interested in the Church’s squabbles, or in emissaries who smell.’

  ‘In Welsh, del means pretty and ŵyn means lamb. His parents were deluded!’

  Laughing, Maurice indicated that Geoffrey was to step into his rooms and partake of a glass of wine. ‘What is Welsh for “sly”? That is the word that suits him best. Far be it from me to malign a man I barely know, but he seems devious.’

  ‘The King wants me to travel west with him,’ said Geoffrey. ‘But I will make better time alone.’

  ‘You will go with Delwyn, if that is what Henry desires,’ said Maurice severely. Then his expression softened. ‘Please do not defy him, Geoffrey. I do not want to see you in trouble – I count you among my friends. And I do not have many.’

  ‘But it is—’

  ‘And think about it logically,’ interrupted Maurice. ‘These letters cannot be urgent, or you would have been on your way days ago. Ergo, it cannot matter whether you take two weeks or two months to travel to Kermerdyn. Do as Henry asks – there is nothing to be gained by flouting his wishes.’

  Geoffrey knew he was right. He took the cup Maurice proffered and took a gulp.

  ‘I am to travel with Sear, too,’ he said gloomily.

  ‘I have yet to gain his measure, although my instincts are to distrust him,’ said Maurice. He frowned. ‘However, Sear and Delwyn are paragons of virtue compared to Eudo. It is a pity he invented those tamper-proof seals, because I would like to open the letters you are to deliver.’

  ‘You would read Henry’s private correspondence?’ Geoffrey was shocked.

  The prelate winced. ‘It is not something I indulge in regularly, but I distrust Eudo. It would not be the first time he has meddled in matters without the King’s consent, and he has accrued altogether too much power. I am afraid of what he might have included in these messages.’

  ‘Pepin said he was not permitted to see them, and that only Eudo knows their full contents.’

  Maurice sighed. ‘Well, there is nothing we can do about it, I suppose. I dare not meddle with the seals, because I do not want to be exiled like Giffard – or to see you hanged. You will have to deliver them as they are, but I advise caution.’

  ‘I am always careful.’

  ‘It might be wise not to mention them to anyone else. Delwyn will know about the one to his abbot, but that is from the Archbishop, not Henry.’

  ‘Pepin told Sear I was delivering letters from you.’

  Maurice beamed suddenly. ‘What a splendid idea! I shall write some immediately. I promised Giffard I would look after you, and this will go some way to salving my conscience.’

  Geoffrey regarded him doubtfully. ‘Do you know anyone in Kermerdyn? If not, the lie may be unconvincing.’

  ‘I know lots of people there,’ declared Maurice, sitting at a table and reaching for pen and ink. ‘First, there is Robert, the steward of Rhydygors. He is distant kin, so I can regale him with details about my cathedral in London. You will like him. He is very odd.’

  Geoffrey regarded him askance. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He has a gift for seeing into the future. I have it, too, although to a lesser extent. It must run in the family.’

  ‘And what do you see in mine?’ asked Geoffrey gloomily. ‘Death and danger?’

  ‘Of course, but you are a warrior, so that is hardly surprising.’

  ‘I will be a farmer when I have finished this errand. At Goodrich.’

  Maurice reached up to pat his shoulder. ‘Good. I shall visit you there, and you can arrange for me to spend another enchanted evening with Angel Locks. But back to the business in hand. I shall write to Bishop Wilfred, too – I will send him a copy of a rather beautiful prayer that Giffard wrote.’

  It sounded contrived to Geoffrey. ‘Can you not think of something else?’

  ‘Nothing comes to mind,’ said Maurice after a few moments of serious thought. ‘I do not like Wilfred very much. But I met a Kermerdyn butter-maker called Cornald in Westminster last year; he seemed a nice fellow. I shall write to him, too, and send him a recipe for a lovely cheese I sampled in Winchester.’

  Geoffrey groaned. No one was going to believe such matters required the services of a knight. It would be worse than folk thinking he carried missives from the King.

  ‘These will be sealed, Geoffrey,’ said Maurice, seeing what he was thinking. ‘No one will know their contents are trivial until they are opened. And by that time, you will be in Kermerdyn. This ruse will serve to keep you safe.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Although it still does not explain why the King ordered me to join Sear, Edward and Delwyn. If I am your messenger, my plans are none of his concern.’

  Maurice chewed the end of his pen. ‘Then we shall turn it about and say His Majesty is eager to ensure his constables arrive in one piece – that you are elected to protect Edward and Sear.’

  Geoffrey regarded him in horror. ‘I doubt Sear will appreciate that!’

  Maurice waved a dismissive hand. ‘Leave him to me. I think I shall pen a line to Isabella, your sister-in-law, too.’

  Geoffrey’s jaw dropped. ‘You have not seduced . . .’

  ‘No!’ said Maurice hastily. Then he looked wistful. ‘Although I would not have minded her help with my health. However, I tend to stay away from ladies with jealous husbands, and my message will give her the name of a London merchant who sells excellent raisins. I may even include a sample. You will not eat them, will you?’

  ‘I will not,’ said Geoffrey firmly.

  Maurice set the pen on the table and regarded him thoughtfully. ‘There is something else I should probably tell you, although I am not sure what it means. Before I do, will you promise not to leap to unfounded conclusions?’

  ‘What?’ Geoffrey had the distinct impression he was about to hear something he would not like. He saw the Bishop’s pursed lips. ‘Yes, I promise.’

  Wordlessly, Maurice stood and unlocked a stout chest that stood near the window. He rummaged for a moment, then passed Geoffrey a piece of parchment. It was partially burned, but Geoffrey would have recognized the distinctive scrawl of Tancred’s scribe anywhere. It was in Italian, his liege lord’s mother tongue.

  To my dear brother, Geoffrey, greetings, on Easter Sunday, the third since you left us. I trust your health is returned, and the brain-fever that led you to write such

  Geoffrey stared at it. It had been penned just five months earlier, and was dated after the one he had received threatening him with death if he ever returned. What did it mean?

  Three

  ‘I found it during the summer,’ explained Maurice, as Geoffrey stared at the parchment in his hand. ‘I was looking for Eudo one day in Westminster and saw documents burning in his hearth. The room was empty, so, out of simple curiosity, I poked one, to see what it said.’

  ‘There were others?’ asked Geoffrey, his mind whirling.

  ‘A bundle, although they were too singed to allow me to say whether they were all in the same hand. Eudo is in the habit of destroying incriminating documents, and piles of ashes are commonplace in his lair, so they may have had nothing to do with you.’

  ‘But you cannot say for certain,’ pressed Geoffrey.

  ‘No,’ agreed Maurice. He looked down at his plump hands. ‘The thing has plagued my mind ever since. Clearly, it is a letter to you from Tancred. Yet I suspect, from the expression on your face, that it was not one you received. You have never seen that letter before, have you?’

  ‘No,’ said Geoffrey. ‘And the ones
I did receive certainly did not call me “dear brother”. They did when I first left the Holy Land, but the later ones addressed me as “treacherous serpent” or “disloyal vermin”.’

  ‘I have given it a good deal of thought,’ said Maurice. ‘And it seems to me that someone intercepted them, replacing ones of affectionate concern – Prince Tancred seems to think you are ill – with unpleasant ones that he never wrote. It would not be the first time an allegiance was destroyed by a clerk with a talent for forgery, and Eudo is rather good at it.’

  ‘But why in God’s name would he do that?’ asked Geoffrey, bewildered. ‘I had never met him before a few days ago. And do not say he did it for Henry, because I doubt even he would stoop that low.’

  ‘No, he would not,’ agreed Maurice. ‘But someone has, and your friendship has been shattered. If Tancred thinks you were afflicted by a brain fever, then clearly someone sent him messages purporting to be from you that were uncharacteristically abusive or insolent.’

  Geoffrey aimed for the door. ‘Then I am going to the Holy Land. It is not—’

  ‘You cannot,’ said Maurice, jumping up and grabbing his shoulder with a hand that was surprisingly strong. ‘First, you swore a vow to God. Second, you cannot neglect the King’s business – not without serious consequences for your loved ones. And, third, this is all supposition. I may be wrong. Perhaps this is the forgery – someone hoped to make you think you were forgiven, so you would run directly into Tancred’s noose. And yet . . .’

  ‘Yet what?’ asked Geoffrey heavily, knowing Maurice was right – not about Henry, whom he would defy in an instant, but about his promise to God.

  ‘And yet oaths can be retracted under certain conditions. I, for example, can absolve you of it.’

  ‘You can?’ Geoffrey felt the stirrings of hope. He wanted to believe Maurice was right, that someone had tampered with the correspondence. ‘And will you?’

  ‘No.’ Maurice raised his hand to quell the immediate objections. ‘Because it is not in your best interests at the moment. Talk to Eudo – ask for an explanation – and then do Henry’s bidding. After that, we shall discuss what might be done about your oath without imperilling your immortal soul.’