The Coiner's Quarrel

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘Nuts?’ asked Henry pleasantly. Geoffrey was about to accept – no soldier declined food when he did not know where his next meal might come from – when he noticed they were waterlogged from the rain. He shook his head.

  Henry clapped his hands, and the servants left the room at a run. ‘Do you still have that dog?’ he asked amiably, so Geoffrey began to be worried. The King was not the kind of man who wasted time on idle chatter. ‘It was not with you in the hall.’

  ‘I left him in the stables, sire.’

  Henry was none too pleased. ‘With my horses?’

  ‘My men will not let him bite anything too valuable.’

  ‘You had better be right,’ warned Henry. ‘I will be angry if I discover teeth marks in my warhorses. They are expensive, and your mongrel is far too free with its fangs.’

  ‘Yes, sire,’ agreed Geoffrey, wishing the King would come to the point.

  ‘I expect you wonder why I asked you here,’ said Henry, peering into the bowl and deciding he did not want sodden nuts either. He took an apple instead, and ate it as he waited for a reply.

  ‘I already know, sire,’ replied Geoffrey, trying not to sound sullen. ‘I was handed Tancred’s letter – the one urging me to enter your service – as soon as I arrived.’

  Henry stared at him. ‘You think I brought you here to give you that?’

  ‘Is there another reason?’

  Henry had an expressive face. It could be sunny and affable, and it could be dark and cold. It could also be unreadable, and Geoffrey had learnt that, when the monarch’s expression went blank it was when he was in his most dangerous moods. When Geoffrey asked his question, the King’s friendly manner dropped, and his face became a mask of impassivity.

  ‘There is, as a matter of fact,’ he said coolly. ‘I summoned you here as a favour – to reward you for helping me this summer.’

  Geoffrey was not convinced. ‘The letter from Tancred—’

  ‘The letter from Tancred arrived two days ago,’ snapped Henry. ‘I sent for you five days ago. How could I have known about Tancred’s message when I asked you to come here?’

  ‘I see,’ said Geoffrey, not sure what else to say.

  ‘You do not believe me!’ exclaimed Henry. He shook his head, as if he could not find the words to express himself. ‘You think that I, Henry of England, have fabricated an excuse to bring you here, to urge you to carry my banner? I can scarcely credit this! I do a man a favour, and he assumes I have an ulterior motive! Me, a king with an army of good men under my command.’

  Geoffrey had never seen him so angry. His face was white, and he almost spat his words. ‘You do have good men, sire,’ he agreed hurriedly. ‘There are Giffard and Maurice, and …’ But he could not think of any more people he considered trust-worthy, so faltered into silence.

  ‘I should not have wasted my time,’ Henry went on. ‘I have not yet reached the point where I am obliged to force men to serve me. I was more than happy to see you on your way to the Holy Land – I even gave you gold for your journey, if you recall.’

  ‘Yes, sire,’ said Geoffrey, not pointing out that it had been very little gold.

  ‘And now you accuse me of fabricating this letter from Tancred.’ Henry hurled the apple at the hearth, so it smashed and pieces flew in all directions. ‘I should have you executed. No man should accuse his monarch of dishonesty and live.’

  ‘No, sire,’ said Geoffrey, becoming irritated by the King’s wounded innocence when he felt his conclusions had been justified – particularly given the fact that he had been forced to Westminster under close guard and not given the opportunity to decline the King’s ‘invitation’. ‘But Tancred—’

  ‘Tancred does not care what happens to you,’ snapped Henry spitefully. ‘I, too, had a letter from him, delivered by the same messenger. He is doing well as Prince of Galilee, surrounded by strong men eager to see him succeed. He does not need you, so has released you from your vow. He recommended you to me, because he knows you were active on my behalf this summer. I did not tell him what you were doing here, so I assume you did?’

  Geoffrey nodded. ‘I wrote to explain why I had not returned immediately, as he had ordered.’

  ‘Then you have only yourself to blame. I would not want a knight who accepted gold from other masters, either.’

  ‘But that was not my choice,’ objected Geoffrey. He took a deep breath, and reminded himself he was speaking to a powerful monarch; if he did not want to throw his life away, he would be wise to control his temper.

  ‘You are in an unenviable position,’ said Henry unpleasantly. ‘I do not want rebellious, resentful knights in my service, just as Tancred does not want them in his. Sooner or later you will realize it is a good thing to serve a king, and will no doubt offer me your sword. But I doubt I shall accept it.’

  Geoffrey said nothing, thinking that Henry was dreaming if he thought he would ever own his loyalty. He would sooner sell himself to the highest bidder among the warring Holy Land princes, or go to live on his manor in the Forest at Dene.

  ‘So,’ said Henry eventually, after what felt like a long silence. ‘We have established that Tancred’s letter was genuine, that I do not want you in my household, and that you would not accept an offer from me, even if it were made. I am tempted to send you on your way without telling you the reason I summoned you. But I am not a vengeful man, and I shall reward you for what you did for me.’

  ‘I am sorry, sire,’ said Geoffrey, trying to sound sincere. He now had no idea whether the King was playing some complex game with him, or whether the summons really had been altruistic.

  ‘It is too late for that. You have insulted me, and if you ever do it again, I will have you hanged.’

  ‘Then I shall try not to, sire,’ replied Geoffrey evenly.

  Henry sighed. ‘But, when all is said and done, you are an honest man, and there are not many of those around these days. Most people would have kept their treasonous thoughts to themselves and sworn any oaths I required – and broken them just as easily. But I am weary of anger between us. Sit by this miserable fire, and I shall show you why I ordered your return.’

  Reluctantly, Geoffrey complied, his thoughts in turmoil. He was bemused by the speed at which the King’s temper had subsided, because his own certainly had not: he was still seething. He sat on the stool Henry indicated and waited for him to begin.

  ‘You saw those Saxon moneyers?’ asked Henry. ‘I have kept them here for the last week because I want you to hear the case they bring. Usually, I listen to such complaints immediately, assess the evidence provided by both sides, and make a decision. But I have not done so this time.’

  Geoffrey recalled that people were bemused by Henry’s tardiness, because the petitioners were making a nuisance of themselves and it was time they were gone. ‘I do not know them …’

  ‘No,’ interrupted Henry. ‘You do not. They hail from Bristol. You heard Sendi claim that Barcwit runs a dishonest business? That is a serious allegation, because I accrue considerable revenues from my mints, and there are fierce laws to prevent moneyers from cheating me – anyone caught clipping my coins, or making inferior ones, loses a hand and faces heavy fines.’

  Geoffrey knew the laws governing mints were vigorously applied. ‘Being appointed Master Coiner is a great honour – and very lucrative. Only a fool would risk mutilation and the loss of all his property for dishonest profit.’

  ‘My kingdom is full of fools, Geoffrey, and Barcwit may be one of them. Besides, you put too much faith in the law. There is a tendency among criminals to think they will not be caught, and therefore will not be punished. There are harsh penalties for stealing sheep, too, but that does not stop people from doing it.’

  ‘If you think Barcwit is guilty, then why not sentence him?’ asked Geoffrey, puzzled. ‘Why stay your hand?’

  ‘Because of you,’ replied Henry. He stopped the knight from responding to this peculiar claim by passing him a scroll. ‘Here is a summary of
the evidence Sendi intends to present. It says Barcwit’s coins weigh less than twenty grains – tin is lighter than silver, and he is using too much of it in his alloys – which means my currency is debased. There is also a list of people who have encouraged him in his deception. You will see Simon Bloet’s name there.’

  ‘Bloet,’ mused Geoffrey. A man called Bloet – Durand’s red-haired friend – had accused him of killing Alwold, merely on the grounds that he was a stranger to the Court. And Bloet had been one of the names Alwold had muttered before he died, too.

  ‘Bloet is the Bishop of Lincoln’s son,’ Henry explained. ‘He is here in Westminster because he wants to convince me that his name on Sendi’s list means nothing.’

  ‘Does it mean nothing?’ asked Geoffrey, bewildered by the mess of connections that were beginning to emerge. ‘Or has Sendi simply written the names of important men to gain your attention?’

  ‘Bloet denies any illegal involvement, but he is a schemer, and certainly the kind of man to make a quick profit at my expense.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Sendi claims Bloet and others have invested heavily in Barcwit’s business. It is very simple: a moneyer needs cash to buy silver. If he has lots of cash, he can buy lots of silver. If he has lots of silver, he can make lots of coins. And if he makes lots of coins, he can sell them all and make lots more money. Ergo, the more cash he has, the more profits he will make. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey, not liking the King’s patronizing tone: he did not need basic economics explained to him in words of one syllable. ‘But lending money for mints to buy silver is not illegal.’

  ‘No, it is not,’ agreed Henry. ‘And, as long as all the coins are made with official stamps – we call them “dies” – it is actually very patriotic to invest in mints. But Sendi tells me Barcwit makes some coins with unofficial dies: forgeries.’

  ‘And forgeries are where large profits will be made,’ surmised Geoffrey, to show he was not entirely clueless. ‘Because Barcwit will not have to buy the official dies, which are probably expensive.’

  ‘Precisely. The profit from forgeries is huge, so men like Bloet can expect a substantial return on their investments.’ Henry gestured to the scroll again. ‘Bloet’s is not the only name that concerns me. Both my physicians are mentioned – Bishop John and Clarembald. That is why they are here, too. I never normally summon them at the same time, because they squabble, but I wanted to hear what they had to say for themselves when Sendi puts his case.’

  Geoffrey was confused. ‘Why would wealthy courtiers and royal physicians invest with a moneyer in a remote place like Bristol?’

  Henry gave a grim smile. ‘That is what I want to know. You are right: there is no reason why they should invest with a Bristol moneyer, as opposed to one in the towns where they live. Perhaps Barcwit promised them huge rewards. Or perhaps there is another reason.’

  ‘Such as …?’

  ‘Such as to make my currency unstable and bring economic hardship to my country. Despite the fact that I have – with your help – rid myself of several rebellious barons, there are still others who believe my crown belongs to the Duke of Normandy.’

  Geoffrey was startled. ‘I do not see how you can conclude this from coins—’

  Henry sighed impatiently. ‘It is quite straightforward. Outright revolt against me failed – the episode with Bellême proved there is no point in engaging me in open warfare, because I will win. But there are other ways to attack a monarch. One is to debase his currency to the point where a penny is worthless. The peasants will revolt because they cannot buy bread, and my soldiers – peasants themselves – will not fight for me, because I will pay them with useless coins.’

  Geoffrey stared at the parchment. ‘Do you believe these accusations? Or is Sendi merely jealous that Barcwit’s business is more lucrative than his own?’

  ‘Those are good questions. And I need a man of intelligence and cunning to answer them.’

  ‘Is that why you ordered me here?’ asked Geoffrey warily, feeling as though they were finally reaching the crux of the matter. ‘To conduct an investigation for you?’

  ‘Actually, I want Bishop Giffard to do it,’ said Henry, rather coolly. ‘It had not occurred to me that you might volunteer. I brought you here to show you that list of investors, so we might talk about the matter before I let Giffard loose on them.’

  Geoffrey glanced at the list, struggling to read the untidy writing. Besides Bloet and the two physicians, there was a man named William de Warelwast, and several knights whom Geoffrey had met during his summer of campaigning along the Welsh Marches. However, towards the end of the document was a name that made his blood run cold: Olivier d’Alençon and his wife Joan.

  ‘Olivier d’Alençon,’ said Henry, watching the expression on Geoffrey’s face. ‘And his wife Joan. Your sister and her husband.’

  Three

  Geoffrey stared at the parchment in disbelief, his thoughts in turmoil. Was it true? Had Joan and Olivier invested money with Barcwit? And if so, why? Was it simply because he offered them a good return, and they were naïve enough to believe it was legitimate? Or had they given the moneyer funds for a more sinister purpose – to attack Henry by corrupting his currency? Joan, like Geoffrey himself, thought the Duke of Normandy should be King of England. Had she decided to support the Duke with more than her voice? She was a strong-minded woman, and she might well involve herself in such a plot if she thought it was the right thing to do.

  There was something else, too, which made Geoffrey’s thoughts whirl in horrified confusion. Over the last few months, Joan had written about how the family manor of Goodrich on the Welsh Marches had gone from a struggling, impoverished estate to one that was wealthy. She claimed it was due to new breeding stock and a succession of good harvests. But, as Roger had pointed out, the weather had been unseasonably hot in August, and harvests had been poor because of the war with Bellême. It was impossible for Joan’s crops to have fared so much better than everyone else’s.

  So, where had the money come from? An uneasy truce existed between Goodrich and its Welsh neighbours, and it was possible she had broken it with raids. But she often wrote about how important she considered peace, and he thought it unlikely that she would destroy it by wanton looting. So, were her new-found riches the result of investing with Barcwit? Geoffrey knew the only likely explanation for her odd upturn in fortunes was a windfall of some kind – and, to set Goodrich on its feet, it would have to be a very large one. Since he knew no one became rich overnight honestly, the only explanation was that she had done so dishonestly.

  But why? Had she become involved with Barcwit purely to set Goodrich on the road to recovery, or did she have a more sinister motive? Regardless, it was not good that she was on Sendi’s list. At best, it would mean the loss of her investments – and the figure written by her name was an enormous sum, and one she could not afford to lose – and at worst, it would mean a traitor’s death. Geoffrey became aware that the King was watching him.

  ‘There must be some mistake. Joan lives miles away from Bristol.’

  Henry shrugged. ‘Then explain how Sendi knows her name.’

  Geoffrey felt he was clutching at straws. ‘Perhaps he passed through her estates at some point, and added her name to make his case more strongly.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘She upset him,’ suggested Geoffrey. He sounded desperate, but was unable to help himself. ‘She argued with him, or gave him a piece of her mind, and he added her name as revenge.’

  Henry smiled ruefully. ‘I have met your sister, and she does have a sharp tongue. But she must have said some very rude things to induce a man to put her on a list of people suspected of treason.’

  Geoffrey studied the parchment again. ‘Do you suspect Clarembald, John and Bloet of treason, too? If so, then why are they wandering freely around your Court? Why are they not arrested?’

  ‘Because, as you pointed out, Sendi
may have made mistakes or added names for vengeance’s sake. I asked my physicians and Bloet whether the allegations were true, and they denied them.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Geoffrey, thinking no one was going to confess to such heinous crimes on the basis of what sounded like a very casual enquiry. ‘But what do you believe, sire?’

  Henry smiled at his directness. ‘All three are keen to secure my favour, and I find it difficult to imagine them risking it for a few bags of coins. But would they risk it to see the Duke of Normandy on my throne, when the rewards might be very much greater? I cannot say. Loyalty does not grow on trees, and almost everyone in my Court is here for himself, not for love of me. But there are exceptions, and Bloet, Clarembald and John may be among them. As may Joan.’

  ‘Perhaps Joan knows nothing about it,’ said Geoffrey, looking at her husband’s name. ‘Sir Olivier buys horses from a village near Bristol. Perhaps he invested with Barcwit without telling her.’

  But was that likely? For reasons wholly beyond Geoffrey’s ken, Joan adored her weak, cowardly husband, while Olivier doted on his strong-willed wife. They discussed everything, and Geoffrey could not imagine Olivier investing a penny without her approval – or vice versa.

  ‘Even if he did, she would notice the profits,’ Henry pointed out. ‘You can see from Sendi’s estimates that they are huge. She would demand to know where such large sums had come from.’

  ‘How does Sendi know so much about his rival’s business?’ asked Geoffrey, unwilling to admit he was right. ‘Surely Barcwit did not volunteer this information?’