The Coiner's Quarrel

by Simon Beaufort

  Geoffrey had been watching Adelise and her rabble shoulder their way across the hall towards him, and had been anticipating some hostile remark. Durand had not, and jumped in alarm at the sudden voice so close behind. Adelise and her men had barged across the room, not caring if they trod on toes or trailing clothes, or if they shoved bishops or nobles as they passed. Furious glowers followed them, and it crossed Geoffrey’s mind that Alwold and Fardin might have been killed by irate courtiers who were fed up with their shabby manners.

  ‘Lord!’ muttered Durand, placing one hand on his chest to indicate he had been given a fright. ‘You should not creep up on people like that, madam. My heart is all a-flutter.’

  Adelise regarded him uncertainly, disconcerted by his brazen effeminacy, then turned her attention to Geoffrey. ‘Well?’ she demanded. ‘Did you tell the King about our quarrel?’

  ‘Everyone is very interested in my discussion with the King,’ replied Geoffrey, amused. ‘If he asks to see me again, I shall recommend we meet in the hall, so everyone can hear. It will save a good deal of speculation, and I shall not be obliged to repeat everything.’

  She scowled at him. ‘You are avoiding my question.’

  ‘Why should I answer?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘If you do not want the King to know that you hurl false accusations at people, then you should not do it in the first place.’

  ‘It was a mistake,’ said Sendi sullenly. ‘The soldiers misled us.’

  ‘No,’ said Geoffrey, unwilling to let the untruth pass. ‘You drew conclusions from their chatter without thinking them through. You cannot blame others for what you did of your own volition.’

  ‘We should have killed you,’ said Lifwine, standing as tall as he could on his heeled shoes. ‘I am sick of Normans and their condescending attitudes.’

  ‘What do you want?’ asked Durand, easing behind Geoffrey for protection. ‘We do not know you, and you have no right to charge up to us and make inflammatory remarks. It is not polite.’

  ‘I am sorry we are not polite,’ said Sendi, almost spitting the word. ‘But we came to Westminster because we have evidence of treachery and fraud. We thought Henry would be grateful, but instead he keeps us here, among people we despise. We have lost Fardin, and it is only a matter of time before another of us is taken.’

  His men glanced around nervously, as though they anticipated the attack might come there and then – in the hall, in broad daylight and surrounded by people. Of course, that was what had happened to Alwold, and Geoffrey studied Sendi’s mob again, wondering which of them had had the courage to commit murder in such a public place. Sendi’s temper was hot enough to drive him to rashness, while Lifwine seemed sufficiently bitter. Meanwhile, Adelise was grimly determined, and it required little strength to stab a man.

  ‘We have not made friends here,’ said Adelise resentfully, as though the fault lay with everyone else. ‘There are many who would love to see us fall from grace. That is why we need to know whether you mentioned the misunderstanding over Fardin. If you did, and Henry thinks we habitually make unfounded accusations, it will weaken our case, and we shall have to reconsider how to present it.’

  ‘This case of yours,’ said Geoffrey, thinking that it was a good opportunity to start his investigation. ‘What sort of evidence do you have?’

  ‘We have been monitoring Barcwit’s antics for three years now,’ said Sendi, pleased to find someone willing to listen. ‘We watch his mint and record the comings and goings of his customers. Since Christmas, he has encouraged more folk to invest, and his profits have risen accordingly.’

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Durand curiously. ‘Are his finances public knowledge?’

  ‘We have our ways,’ replied Lifwine smugly. ‘His scribes can be bribed to make copies of transactions, and we listen at windows.’

  ‘They do the same to us,’ said Sendi defensively, when he saw Durand’s disapproval. ‘But what else can we do? We are loyal subjects, and it would be wrong to let Barcwit cheat the King of vital revenues. We are duty bound to tell Henry what Barcwit is doing.’

  ‘Very honourable,’ said Geoffrey dryly. ‘And, I suppose, if Barcwit’s mint loses its licence to operate, it would mean better trade for you?’

  ‘Yes,’ admitted Sendi. ‘But that is not why we are here.’

  ‘So, your evidence comprises copies of documents?’ asked Geoffrey, wondering whether they would be sufficient to implicate Joan. Documents could be forged.

  ‘And our own observations,’ added Adelise. ‘Take Bloet, for example. We saw him visit Barcwit on six separate occasions – all the times and dates are in our sworn statement. We also have copies of agreements in which Barcwit paid him more interest than is legal.’

  ‘There are others on your list, too,’ said Geoffrey, intending to lead the discussion to Joan. ‘The two royal physicians, several knights …’

  ‘How do you know?’ demanded Adelise immediately. Her eyes narrowed. ‘So, we were the subject of your discussion with Henry!’

  One of her men disagreed. ‘He may have heard from bishops Giffard or Maurice. We have kept nothing secret, and lots of people know about our list.’

  ‘You are too trusting, Edric,’ said Lifwine disdainfully.

  Edric ignored him and turned to Geoffrey. ‘Is there someone particular you are interested in?’

  ‘Olivier d’Alençon,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘And his wife Joan.’

  ‘They came four times, the first of which was Easter,’ replied Edric, promptly. ‘She handled the money and deposited several gold coins from Venice. She was paid interest that almost doubled her original investment.’

  ‘And you are sure it was her?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Not someone who used her name?’

  ‘A sturdy lass, with the kind of glint in her eye that suggests you would not want her as an enemy,’ elaborated Edric. ‘But she loves her runt of a husband. Another man was with them on their first visit – called Henry – but he never came again. She hails from a manor called Goodrich in Herefordshire.’

  ‘She and Olivier often visit Bristol,’ added Sendi. ‘They buy horses from the nearby village of Beiminstre, and stay with Sir Peter de la Mare, constable of Bristol Castle. Why? Do you know her?’

  Geoffrey nodded; there was no point in pretending otherwise, when they would soon learn the truth anyway. He felt his hopes for mistaken identity fade. Edric’s description of Joan was uncannily accurate, and he and Joan had a brother called Henry.

  ‘She is definitely one of Barcwit’s collaborators,’ said Adelise. ‘She has a liking for silver.’

  ‘Silver,’ said Geoffrey thoughtfully. ‘Barcwit lost some silver recently.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lifwine gleefully, while his friends nudged each other and sniggered. It was evidently a popular story. ‘Alwold was supposed to be looking after it, but robbers stole the lot.’

  ‘It was not you, was it?’ asked Geoffrey, thinking the question not unreasonable, given the rivalry between the two mints.

  ‘I wish it had been,’ said Sendi fervently. ‘It would be a welcome addition to our coffers. But we had nothing to do with it, although it is a delight to see Barcwit trying to track it down.’

  ‘It has disappeared completely?’ asked Geoffrey, wondering how the thieves managed to dispose of what sounded like a considerable quantity of metal. The obvious way would be to sell it to a mint, but that would be risky under the circumstances.

  ‘Without a trace,’ said Lifwine, snickering. ‘I think the robbers were horrified when they realized it was Barcwit’s, so just hurled the whole lot into the river. Only a fool would cross Barcwit.’

  ‘But you have,’ Geoffrey pointed out. ‘You crossed him to no less a person than the King.’

  ‘That is why we came in force,’ said Sendi soberly, indicating his men.

  ‘So, you can see why we need to know what you said to Henry,’ said Adelise. ‘If your tale of wrongful accusations means we are sent home without our case being heard, then Barcwit wil
l wreak revenge and we will lose everything.’

  ‘Perhaps even our lives,’ added Edric plaintively.

  ‘I did not mention what happened by the river,’ said Geoffrey, to put their minds at rest. ‘There was no need, and I doubt Henry would have been interested anyway.’

  ‘I hope he is interested in us tomorrow,’ said Edric uneasily. ‘Because that is when we have been told he will hear our case.’

  ‘Well?’ asked Roger, when Geoffrey and Durand walked into the stables to look for their companions. Several barons were there, inspecting their warhorses and exchanging desultory comments about hounds and hunting, while grooms laboured with shovels and pitchforks as they changed the straw in the animals’ stalls. ‘What did the King want?’

  ‘He said he would hang me if I offended him again,’ replied Geoffrey, thinking about the last thing Henry had said.

  Roger groaned. ‘You insulted him? Did you listen to nothing I said? I warned you to keep a civil tongue in your head, but you never heed my advice. You think that being able to read makes you better at these courtly games than me, but my father is the Bishop of Durham, and there is nothing you can teach me about the ways of places like these!’

  ‘I would not speak so loudly, if I were you,’ said Geoffrey, knowing the Court would make mincemeat of a simple and straightforward man like Roger. ‘The Bishop of Durham is not popular, and this is no place to declare your kinship.’

  ‘I will kill any man who defames my father’s good name,’ said Roger, reaching for his sword and immediately on the offensive. ‘Ranulf Flambard is noble and honest, not like the folk around here.’

  Geoffrey said nothing, but indicated Roger should sheath his weapon before someone saw it and they had a fight on their hands. He caught Durand’s eye and smothered a smile. Roger was virtually the only person in England who had even a modicum of respect for the profligate bishop. Even when Flambard had used Roger shamelessly for his own ends, his son had remained doggedly loyal and blind to his many faults.

  ‘What else did Henry want?’ asked Helbye. ‘I am sure he did not drag us all the way to Westminster to tell you not to be rude to him.’

  Geoffrey explained what Henry had asked him to do, knowing exactly how they would react. Roger was pleased; he liked the Holy Land for its looting and ready women, but his heart lay in the country of his birth. Helbye was worried about what might happen to his pigs if Joan were found guilty. Ulfrith was excited about the prospect of a new adventure, while Durand was relieved.

  ‘Good,’ said the squire. ‘I would not have minded going to Normandy or Anjou, which are civilized places, but the Holy Land is not for me. You plan to dismiss me as soon as we get there, and I may find myself in company with someone worse.’

  ‘We will go there when we have finished helping Joan,’ vowed Geoffrey. ‘I want to hear from Tancred’s own lips that I am no longer needed.’

  ‘You should face up to the truth, Geoff,’ said Roger soberly. ‘You have been gone so long that Tancred has filled your place with new men and, if you return, he will have nothing for you to do. You will be relegated to scribing letters or guarding some distant outpost.’

  Geoffrey did not want to think he was right, although he had an uncomfortable suspicion that he might be. ‘I will not know unless I ask,’ he said shortly.

  ‘Did you see the Two Suns?’ asked Helbye conversationally in the silence that followed. ‘We missed them, which was a pity. I have never seen a divine omen before.’

  ‘We were talking to a fellow named William de Warelwast at the time,’ elaborated Roger. ‘He knows my father, and is soon to be Bishop of Exeter.’

  ‘William de Warelwast?’ asked Geoffrey, thinking about Alwold’s last words. One of the men alleged to know ‘the secret’ was ‘William de Warel’; perhaps Alwold had died before he could finish saying the name. Was it significant that the man should be chatting to Roger when his name was breathed by a dying man? Geoffrey recalled that Warelwast was also one of the investors on Sendi’s list, and did not like the odd connections that were beginning to form. They reeked of plots and conspiracies, and made him feel there was more to the situation than Henry had led him to believe. ‘Did he hunt you out, or did you meet him by chance?’

  ‘His horse was lame, so he returned late from the hunt,’ explained Ulfrith. ‘I helped him remove a stone from its hoof.’

  Chance, then, thought Geoffrey. Probably. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He asked after my father’s health,’ said Roger. ‘And he told us about two royal physicians who argue all the time. John de Villula was made Bishop of Wells by William Rufus, but John did not like Wells, so Rufus sold him Bath, and he moved his see there instead. He likes big wax candles.’

  ‘Very big ones,’ elaborated Ulfrith. ‘He measures a man’s height and the size of his waist, and adds the two figures together. His candles are the combined length high.’

  ‘What does he do with them?’ asked Geoffrey, bemused.

  ‘He lights them for his patients,’ explained Roger. ‘Warelwast says it saves him the bother of a consultation, where he might catch something nasty.’

  ‘And what did he say about Clarembald?’ asked Geoffrey, in the hope that the indiscreet bishop-elect might have let slip some useful information about another of the men on Sendi’s list.

  ‘He lives in Exeter,’ said Roger dismissively, suggesting Warelwast had told him nothing overly scandalous about the ginger-browed medicus. ‘He has a big house and is Warelwast’s physician as well as Henry’s. However, while John de Villula prays for his patients, Clarembald uses medicines that contain horse piss and powdered worms. Needless to say, neither is successful with the desperate cases. Where is Villula, by the way?’

  ‘Overseas,’ replied Durand helpfully. ‘These physicians did not cure Alwold, though, did they? They just stood over him and accused each other of being charlatans.’

  ‘Did you see who killed Alwold?’ Geoffrey asked him, knowing the squire had been close by when the stabbing had occurred.

  Durand shook his head. ‘I was otherwise occupied at the time – and do not look so accusing. I was watching the Two Suns, not groping Bloet behind a pillar. I doubt anyone saw the crime, given that the omen was so much more interesting. Did Henry ask you to solve Alwold’s murder, too?’

  ‘No,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘But knowing the culprit may help my investigation.’

  ‘You listened to his dying words,’ said Durand. ‘Did he not tell you then who stabbed him? If one of the Saxons was his killer – a man he would have known – surely he would have mentioned it?’

  Geoffrey was annoyed he had not thought of this himself. It was odd that Alwold had not named his killer – especially if he had known him. ‘He only muttered messages for Barcwit about silver.’

  ‘It is a pity so many dying words involve earthly affairs, not the soul,’ remarked Durand piously. Geoffrey winced at the hypocrisy: Durand was just as interested in worldly goods as the next man.

  ‘If Alwold was so worried that he spent his last breath on the silver, it must be important,’ declared Helbye. ‘It is certainly relevant to your investigation – Barcwit makes coins with too little silver in them; now you have a dying steward sending messages about silver that has gone missing. Perhaps the theft left Barcwit short, so he was forced to use more tin – that would explain the underweight pennies.’

  ‘Barcwit’s bad coins are alleged to have been circulating for months,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘But the silver only went missing three weeks ago.’

  ‘Did Alwold steal it himself?’ asked Durand. ‘And decide he had better put matters right before he died? Is that why he gave Maude that odd message about Piers?’

  ‘She only heard half of what he wanted to say,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Clarembald pushed her away before he had finished. Barcwit will never know that the King, Bloet, Warelwast and the priest of a church dedicated to St John know “the secret”, whatever that might mean.’

  ‘Will you tel
l Barcwit this?’ asked Ulfrith. ‘To fulfil a dying man’s last wishes?’

  ‘Not when his companions have been to such trouble to convince me they are the ramblings of a deranged mind,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘Besides, I do not think it would be wise to tell Barcwit – who sounds violent and ruthless – that the King is involved in a secret that may involve his lost silver.’

  ‘So, we travel to Bristol tomorrow?’ asked Helbye.

  Geoffrey nodded. ‘As soon as we have heard the case Sendi presents to the King. You are coming, then? You do not want to go to the Holy Land without me?’

  ‘We do not,’ said Durand, before the others could reply. ‘This matter in Bristol sounds intriguing, and I am more than happy to pit my wits against dishonest moneyers. We will come.’

  Geoffrey smiled, thinking Durand was the one man in the party who had no choice: he would travel west regardless of what the others decided. In some ways, Durand was a good companion, because he was literate and intelligent, and Geoffrey often found it helpful to discuss complex matters with him – far more so than Roger, who tended to dismiss anything he did not understand as the work of the Devil. But mostly, Durand was a menace for his lack of loyalty, flagrant cowardice and selfishness.

  ‘Mints are odd places,’ mused Helbye. ‘Warelwast said there are about seventy in England. Do you know why there are so many? Because if there are plenty of mints producing plenty of coins, no one can say he cannot lay his hands on the money to pay the King’s taxes.’

  Roger’s face split in an acquisitive grin. ‘If there is silver involved in this particular mission, the King might reward us with some when we are successful.’

  ‘He will reward us,’ agreed Geoffrey. ‘He has agreed to leave Joan alone.’

  ‘Is that all?’ asked Roger, disgusted. ‘You did not tell him to pay you, too?’

  ‘I did not,’ said Geoffrey. Doubtless Henry thought he was generous enough by sparing Joan.

  ‘You should have done,’ said Roger admonishingly. ‘It costs money to travel, and I do not see why we should have to pay to do the King’s bidding. Go back, and ask him for expenses.’