The Coiner's Quarrel

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘Sir Geoffrey!’ exclaimed Maurice in pleasure. Geoffrey recalled his adventures that summer, when he had not known which of the various men who surrounded Henry had been loyal. Maurice had been among his suspects, and so had Giffard. ‘I thought you would be in Jerusalem by now.’

  ‘I wish I were,’ muttered Geoffrey.

  Maurice did not seem to notice his lack of enthusiasm. He turned to Giffard and laughed, reminding Geoffrey that he had an attractive face when he smiled – which was just as well, given that, while he was famous for his cathedral, he was infamous for seducing large numbers of women on a daily basis. He claimed they were necessary to maintain a healthy balance of humours, and believed that if he did not satisfy himself regularly and often, he would become mortally ill. The austere Giffard suffered from no such vices, however, and remained uncompromisingly celibate.

  ‘Do you remember Geoffrey?’ asked Maurice. ‘He helped the King with that spot of bother involving Bellême earlier this year.’

  Geoffrey regarded him warily, recalling that the ‘spot of bother’ had involved several sieges, a campaign of guerrilla warfare, and the exile of several vengeful barons and their families.

  ‘I do,’ said Giffard. ‘He proved himself useful, which is why Henry is loath to let him leave. He should not have performed his duties so efficiently.’

  ‘I had no choice,’ replied Geoffrey curtly. ‘The King threatened to leave my sister exposed to a Welsh invasion if I did not succeed.’

  ‘Hush, man!’ said Maurice, glancing around in alarm. ‘This is no place to bray about the King’s penchant for blackmail! Let us talk of more pleasant matters before you have us arrested. Have you seen my cathedral? You will find the work advanced significantly since you saw it in March.’

  ‘I did not think you would come,’ said Giffard before Geoffrey could reply. ‘You were so keen to return to the Holy Land that I assumed you would decline the King’s invitation.’

  ‘It was not an invitation. It was an arrest – carried out by twenty men with drawn swords.’

  ‘Is your woman with you?’ asked Maurice hopefully. ‘The glorious angel who came to my tent that night when we were besieging Bridgnorth Castle?’

  ‘My squire,’ said Geoffrey, who had forgotten that Durand had convinced the lecherous bishop he was a woman and charged him a considerable sum for the privilege. Normally, Geoffrey would not have cared – Maurice was a grown man and should have been able to tell the difference – but the penalties for ‘unnatural acts’ were severe, and he did not want to be accused of ordering his squire to corrupt a prelate. Durand had not been forgiven for the deception, as evidenced by the fact that he had made himself scarce: when Geoffrey looked behind him, the squire was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Angel Locks,’ breathed Maurice wistfully. ‘If you plan to be here for any length of time, perhaps you might persuade her to oblige me a second time? I pay well.’

  ‘I leave today,’ replied Geoffrey firmly. ‘I intend to tell the King to go to the Devil and ride south as fast as my horse will take me.’

  Giffard’s voice was sharp. ‘Guard your tongue! Maurice is right: a court is no place to speak your mind. If anyone else asks, tell them you came willingly, because you are eager to serve your King.’

  ‘But I am not—’

  ‘So I see, but there is no need to tell the world. You are a good man, Geoffrey, and I do not want to see you hanged for making imprudent remarks to men who are not worth half of you. Westminster is full of them. I saw you shove a couple into the mud just moments ago.’

  ‘Rodbert and Tasso,’ said Maurice. ‘I shall be glad when their case is heard and they leave Westminster. They are nothing but trouble. I imagine boredom led them to quarrel with you. They are restless and want to go home.’

  ‘Sendi and his louts are no better,’ said Giffard. ‘They are all bad-tempered and argumentative.’

  ‘So, why does the King not hear their case and get rid of them?’ asked Geoffrey.

  ‘We do not know,’ replied Maurice. ‘But squabbling Saxons are not our concern, and we should not waste time discussing them. Why did the King ask you here, Geoffrey? Has he told you?’

  ‘I thought you might know,’ said Geoffrey. But he could see from Maurice’s open, cheerful face that he did not, although Giffard’s was inscrutable. Geoffrey studied him hard, but the Bishop of Winchester was far too clever for a mere knight to read. Seeing he would have no answers from staring, he pulled ‘Tancred’s letter from his scrip and showed it to them.

  Giffard scanned it, then handed it to Maurice. ‘It arrived two days ago, and we have been waiting to give it to you.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Maurice, laying a chubby paw on Geoffrey’s shoulder. ‘I did not know it contained a dismissal. You must be upset, and I understand now why you are surly. It is unlike you to be rude to old friends.’

  ‘Arrived from where?’ asked Geoffrey. He liked Maurice and Giffard, but they were the King’s servants, and he did not consider them ‘friends’. He glanced towards the scribes. ‘From them?’

  Giffard regarded him in astonishment, while Maurice gasped. Geoffrey did not care. He had had enough of Henry and his scheming, and was not concerned whom his words might offend.

  ‘It came from Tancred,’ said Giffard firmly. ‘You can see it carries his seal. And I warn you again: keep your thoughts to yourself if you want to remain a free man. The King does not tolerate traitors.’

  ‘I am not—’ began Geoffrey.

  Giffard overrode him. ‘Do not say you cannot be a traitor because Henry is not your king. He is your king. You have estates in England, which means you owe him your fealty.’

  ‘Estates?’ echoed Geoffrey. ‘A tiny manor with a few houses and a derelict hall? Henry can have it. All I ask is that he leaves me alone.’

  ‘Henry does not want Rwirdin.’ Giffard nodded at the letter, which Maurice had stuffed back into Geoffrey’s hand. ‘But you are not in a position to be choosy over your masters. You tarried here too long, and your own lord is tired of waiting for you. He does not want you, so Henry is all you have.’

  The thin lid Geoffrey had put on his temper was beginning to come apart. First, there was the letter, which he was still sure Henry had forged. Then there was the incident with Fardin and the accusation of murder levied by Sendi. Next came the altercation with Tasso and Rodbert. And finally, he was being told by two bishops that he had no choice but to enter the King’s service.

  ‘Henry promised to let me leave after I helped him this summer,’ he snapped. ‘He broke his word.’

  Giffard’s stern expression softened. ‘When the King explains, you will appreciate – and be grateful for – him ordering you back.’

  The wind blew in a hard, violent gust, so one of the great wooden doors slammed shut with a resounding crash. There was a shocked silence, then people started to laugh at the fright it had given them. Giffard had jumped slightly, but Maurice had almost leapt out of his skin.

  ‘Lord!’ he muttered, fanning himself vigorously. ‘My humours have been unbalanced by listening to your treasonous ranting, Sir Geoffrey. If I do not have a woman within the hour, I shall have a fatal seizure.’ He moved away, looking for a suitable candidate.

  ‘Not Adelise,’ Giffard called after him. ‘She did not appreciate your advances yesterday, and I doubt I can mollify her a second time. These Saxon ladies are fiercely virtuous.’

  ‘Adelise?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Sendi’s wife?’

  Giffard sighed as the Bishop of London weaved through the crowd. ‘I hope he heeds my counsel. Sendi said he would kill Maurice if he spoke to Adelise again. But the world is full of men who ignore my wisdom, including you. However, I shall offer it again, since I dislike bloodshed: Henry has a good reason for asking you here, so feign loyalty, even if you do not feel it. You will be glad you did.’

  Geoffrey did not like the sound of that at all, and felt his anger turn into something far less comfortable: an uneasy sense of foreboding.<
br />
  Two

  Amused, Geoffrey watched the Bishop of London frantically search Westminster’s grand hall for a lady to oblige him, while Giffard pursed his lips. Maurice grabbed one woman’s arm and whispered something in her ear. She recoiled in shock at whatever he had muttered, then started to laugh.

  Geoffrey could see why Maurice had picked her. She wore a yellow kirtle under a dark-blue super-tunic and a wimple covered her hair; an escaping strand showed her tresses were auburn, the same colour as her arresting eyes. She was not beautiful, because her mouth was too big and her chin too long, but there was something captivating about her. She was the woman who had been with Rodbert in the yard, who had turned to stare at Geoffrey when she had sensed him watching her earlier.

  Giffard made a sound of disgust at the back of his throat. ‘Maurice is a fool! When I told him to avoid Adelise, I did not mean he should prey on Maude.’

  ‘She is just the first one who happened to cross his path,’ said Geoffrey. He saw her break away from Maurice. ‘What is wrong with her, anyway? She looks all right to me.’

  ‘I am sure she does,’ replied Giffard frostily. ‘She seems to have caught the eye of most men since she arrived, and it will not be long before there is trouble. But she is the wife of Barcwit the moneyer.’

  Geoffrey saw him about to launch into further detail, and raised his hand. ‘I have already met people from both sides of the coiners’ dispute; they are rash, argumentative and stupid. I do not want to hear about them or their quarrels.’

  ‘Never decline freely offered information,’ advised Giffard. ‘You never know when it might come in useful. Barcwit is the richest coin-maker in Bristol, and is said to be one of the most feared men in the county. His fellow moneyers are here to complain about him to the King.’

  ‘Because he steals their trade?’ asked Geoffrey, forcing himself to be polite and listen.

  ‘They accuse him of making underweight coins – too much tin in the silver. No king wants his currency debased.’

  ‘Why is that?’ asked Geoffrey absently. His attention was on Durand, who was talking animatedly to a red-haired man with a prominent nose, blithely unaware that Maurice was moving in his direction. Even a bishop blinded by lust could not fail to see Durand was no woman in the cold light of day, and Geoffrey braced himself for trouble.

  ‘Use your wits!’ said Giffard impatiently. ‘If word gets out that some pennies are worth more than others, confidence in the currency will falter. People will decline to accept it, and the country’s economy will flounder.’

  Geoffrey was relieved when Durand glanced up, saw Maurice closing on him and beat a hasty retreat. Thwarted, Maurice rubbed an agitated hand over his chins and cast around for another victim. Maude was still nearby, and the prelate regarded her appraisingly. He evidently liked what he saw enough to give her a second chance, because he moved towards her again. Meanwhile, Giffard was still lecturing on the tedious subject of money.

  ‘Any country that wants to trade must have a sound and stable coinage, based on a metallic standard. England has a centralized system that controls the size and number of all coins produced in our seventy or so mints, but it is not difficult for moneyers to be dishonest. If Sendi is right, then Barcwit is committing a serious crime.’

  ‘Not so serious,’ said Geoffrey, watching Maurice sidle up to Maude. ‘Or Henry would have heard the case immediately.’

  Giffard also became aware that Maurice was making a second play for Maude, and sighed gustily. ‘Barcwit is powerful and dangerous, and Maurice is a fool to seduce his wife. You see that fellow over there? That is Alwold, Barcwit’s steward. He follows her everywhere, and reports her movements to Barcwit’s henchmen – Tasso and Rodbert. They are the two you just threw down the steps.’

  ‘Maurice must be used to dealing with such situations,’ said Geoffrey, recalling that it was Alwold who had been accused of murdering the man by the river. He studied the steward carefully, but could not tell whether he had been the one running away. All the moneyers wore dark clothing, and Fardin’s killer could have been any of Barcwit’s people, even Maude. ‘He will charm Barcwit’s louts.’

  ‘But he plays a dangerous game nonetheless. Tasso is an experienced mercenary, while Rodbert is a skilled swordsman. I shall be glad when the lot of them are gone. It is only a matter of time before someone takes offence at something they do or say, and we have a fight on our hands. They are bored, and resentful for being kept waiting.’

  Before Geoffrey could reply, there was a rumble that grew louder until it was almost deafening. The drizzle had become a downpour, hammering on the roof. Through the door he could see hail forming a white carpet on the ground. The wind gusted, hurling a curtain of rain inside the hall, and several folk shrieked and darted out of the way. Two barons, who had effected an undignified sprint across the yard, arrived to clapping and laughter, and one made a show of removing a shoe and pouring out a considerable volume of water.

  Maude was near the door, with Alwold at one side and Maurice on the other, joining others to watch the unusually strong shower. Maurice eased forward, looking up at the sky to gauge when the rain might stop, so he could escape and be about taking his medicine. He frowned, then stepped into the downpour to squint heavenward, oblivious to the fact that he was instantly drenched. Others strained to see what had attracted his attention, then began shouting and pointing. Maurice dropped to his knees. Intrigued, Geoffrey and Giffard went to see what was causing such consternation.

  Hanging in the sky, and blazing through a gap in the black clouds, was the sun. And just below the sun was a second orb, burning in a pale imitation of the first. But, even as people stared, the clouds merged together, and the phenomenon was lost to sight. Immediately, whispers began that it was an omen.

  ‘What was it?’ asked Sendi in an awed voice. His wife and men gathered around him, as if they thought there might be safety in numbers. Tasso and Rodbert stood nearby, all signs of their rivalry temporarily suspended in the face of the celestial spectacle.

  ‘It was a sign from God,’ announced Durand confidently, drawing a gasp of wonder from the crowd. He considered himself an expert on such matters, because of his former vocation, and spoke with such authority that no one doubted him.

  ‘It was natural,’ contradicted Geoffrey. He had read an account by Arab astronomers about heavenly manifestations, and was inclined to believe it had something to do with the way sunlight filtered through heavy clouds and rain. ‘It was caused by the storm.’

  ‘No, your squire was right,’ said Giffard softly. When Geoffrey looked for him, he saw that he, too, was on his knees. ‘It was most definitely a sign from God. It is a warning that we must mend our sinful ways, particularly regarding fornication.’ He glared meaningfully at Maurice.

  Maurice was gazing dreamily upwards. ‘It is a sign of God’s love. Perhaps He likes my cathedral. After all, I was the first to spot the Two Suns. The message must have been meant for me.’

  ‘Actually, it was meant for me,’ came a familiar voice from behind Geoffrey. It was the King, resplendent in an ermine-fringed cloak. ‘It is a sign that God looks with favour on His anointed earthly representative. Why would He bother with bishops, when He can commune with a monarch?’

  ‘Or perhaps He is displeased because a murder has just taken place,’ said Geoffrey to Giffard. He spoke softly, but his voice carried in the silence of the hall.

  ‘What murder?’ demanded Henry immediately. He inspected the knight’s travel-stained clothes with disapproval. ‘I see you took some trouble with your appearance before meeting your King.’

  Geoffrey pointed to where Alwold was huddled in the shadows nearby. A knife protruded from the steward’s stomach, and there was an expression of abject shock on his face. From the angle of the dagger, it was clear he had not stabbed himself. Someone bold, rash or desperate had just committed murder in the King’s splendid palace.

  ‘God’s blood!’ exclaimed Henry, regarding the fall
en man in shock. ‘How did that happen? He was alive a moment ago, because I watched him stalking Maude.’

  ‘Alwold follows me everywhere, sire,’ said Maude. Geoffrey wondered whether she had tired of such attention, and had decided to free herself from it. She did not seem shocked or angry by the steward’s death, but nor did she seem relieved or pleased. She was impassive.

  ‘Why?’ asked Henry. ‘Is he enamoured of you?’

  ‘He was following her husband’s orders, sire,’ replied the fat Rodbert, stepping forward with a bow. ‘Barcwit does not trust the amorous men who prowl places such as these.’

  ‘He is doubtless right,’ muttered Henry, glancing at Maurice.

  ‘But he will be distressed when he learns about this,’ added Tasso. He glared at Sendi. ‘Alwold has been in our service for many years, and it is shameful that he should be so brutally murdered.’

  ‘And doubly shameful that it should happen in my hall,’ said Henry coolly. He turned to Geoffrey. ‘You have not answered my question: how did Alwold come to be killed?’

  ‘I do not know, sire,’ replied Geoffrey, alarmed the King should think he did, and wishing he had not drawn attention to the murdered man in the first place. ‘But someone must have seen something.’

  He looked around questioningly, but was not surprised when no one replied. From what Giffard had said about Barcwit, only a fool would become involved with his household, while Henry would not be happy about a murder committed within spitting distance of the Royal Person, either. Besides, the attention of most people – including Geoffrey’s own – had been on the Two Suns.

  Geoffrey glanced at Sendi and his men. It was not too great a leap in logic to assume that ‘justice’ had been done, and Fardin’s death had been avenged. They gazed at him with expressions ranging from alarm to satisfaction, and any one of them could have been the killer. Lifwine stood nearby, while, next to him, Adelise’s pretty features were carefully blank. It took little strength to thrust a knife into a man’s belly, and even the smallest two members of Sendi’s household could have done it.