The Coiner's Quarrel

by Simon Beaufort

  Geoffrey sighed. ‘Are you threatening me, too?’

  ‘I am warning you.’

  ‘Everyone is warning me these days. All I want is to learn the truth about Sendi and Barcwit, and leave. The rest is for Giffard to decide.’

  ‘You are a fool if you think it is that simple. Everything that involves the King is complex and dangerous. So, I shall tell you once more: trust no one. Not even your family.’

  Geoffrey stared at the bishop as he hurried away after his rival. Was he saying Joan might have a bigger role in the business than he had been led to believe, and that she would betray him? She had not mentioned their brother’s death in her letters, even though it meant Geoffrey was now the heir to a considerable fortune. Was she telling the truth when she claimed she had not known how to break the news gently? Or had she remained quiet so she and Olivier could keep the estates for themselves while Geoffrey rode East, never to return? He closed his eyes and wondered what he had let himself in for when he had rallied so willingly to her rescue.

  Geoffrey was in another world as he rode up the high street, worrying about Helbye and about the fact that the two physicians were now adding their voices to the clamour of warnings about his enquiry. He did not see Durand wave at him, and came out of his reverie only when he heard the squire’s indignant squeal; he had almost ridden him down. Although the road was wide, nearly trampling Durand made him see that taking a large, untrained horse along it was unwise, especially when there were so many people waiting for him to make a mistake. He did not want someone pushed under its hoofs, so he could be accused of reckless riding. He dismounted and handed Durand the reins.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ Durand asked warily. ‘It looks fierce – too fierce for me to look after.’

  ‘You will manage,’ said Geoffrey, hoping the squire did not treat it as poorly as he had the other one. He did not want to return it to Beiminstre in a shabby condition.

  ‘Did you steal it?’ asked Durand nervously. ‘Should we anticipate furious owners after us? I am growing tired of people coming out of nowhere to warn me about this and about that.’

  ‘You as well?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Who?’

  ‘The two physicians. Sendi and Rodbert. Even Bloet, although that was kindly meant.’

  ‘You have not mentioned any of this before.’

  ‘You would not have listened. You never pay attention to such things, and I did not think passing them on was worth the risk of you venting your temper on me.’

  Geoffrey stared at him in surprise. He was sometimes angry with Durand, but it was invariably over something the squire had done himself, and he had never blamed him for things other people had said. Then it occurred to him that Durand had a very good reason for not passing on the messages: he had not wanted his master to be on his guard against attack.

  ‘You want me dead,’ he said, regarding him in distaste. ‘You see that as the best way to escape from me. Bishop John was right: I do need to be careful of treachery from someone close.’

  ‘Not true,’ said Durand. ‘I do not want you dead here, in this town. Who would protect me?’

  ‘Go,’ said Geoffrey, suddenly tired of the whole business.

  Durand regarded him uneasily. ‘Go where?’

  ‘Take the horse to the castle and ask Ulfrith to look after it. Take my dog, too; it is of a mind to steal today, and I do not want any more enemies. Then collect your belongings and leave.’

  ‘But I do not want my freedom in Bristol,’ objected Durand. ‘I want it near the abbey of my choice, so I will not be forced to make dangerous journeys on my own.’

  ‘Bloet will look after you,’ said Geoffrey, continuing up the high street on foot. ‘You will be safer with him than with me, especially here.’ And, he thought, he might be safer without Durand. Their argument the previous day underlined how much Durand detested him, but he had not known the squire might try to bring about his death by remaining silent about the dangers he faced.

  He passed the town centre, and headed for Barcwit’s mint. Lessons had been learnt from his invasion the previous day, and a guard was outside, causing even more consternation among the townspeople than ever, with his surly, unsmiling presence. He demanded Geoffrey’s business, then tapped on the door with his dagger. Colblac the clerk answered it, and showed Geoffrey into the office. It was oddly empty for a work day, with only Rodbert and Maude present.

  Rodbert sighed when Geoffrey entered. ‘I said we would send word when Barcwit agreed to see you.’

  ‘He is back from Dundreg, then?’ asked Geoffrey.

  Maude glared at the deputy for admitting as much. ‘He is busy with our annual accounts. They are complex, and he cannot be interrupted once he has started. They will take him at least three days.’

  ‘I presume he is interrupted when he eats or sleeps?’ asked Geoffrey, thinking that if Barcwit was indeed poring over figures, then it was strange he was not in the room that contained all his records. ‘No one can keep at his sums for three days without stopping.’

  ‘Barcwit is a remarkable man,’ said Rodbert smugly.

  ‘Why are the accounts so complex?’ asked Geoffrey, finally riled into rudeness by their obstructive behaviour. ‘Is it because there is so much tampering to do?’

  Maude stared at him frostily. ‘That is not a polite thing to say.’

  Geoffrey shrugged. ‘The charges against Barcwit are serious, and he would be wise to tell his side of the story while the King is still prepared to listen. Four charges were levelled against him – having a drunken cambium, making underweight coins, encouraging illegal investors and bullying the locals. So far, I have uncovered plenty of evidence to prove the last charge, and nothing to indicate the others are not true, too. Barcwit is in trouble, and he is not making matters any easier for himself.’

  ‘Who says we bully the locals?’ sneered Rodbert.

  ‘He had Nauntel killed.’ There was Geoffrey’s own brother, too, according to Joan.

  ‘You need proof to make these allegations,’ said Maude scathingly. ‘And you have none.’

  Geoffrey’s temper was beginning to wear thin. ‘Tell Barcwit I will return tomorrow, when I will see him. If he knows what is good for him he will make no more excuses.’

  ‘They are not excuses,’ said Rodbert sulkily. ‘They are reasons.’

  Geoffrey left abruptly and walked to St Ewen’s Church, which stood next door. He waited in its porch for a long time, still and watchful. Eventually, the guard trotted across the road and disappeared into the cemetery, fumbling with his underclothes. Geoffrey waited until he was out of sight, then strode to the door, opened it and slipped inside. He heard Maude and Rodbert talking in the office, and they were sufficiently engrossed with each other that they did not notice him slip past, heading for the vestibule at the end of the corridor. He cracked open the door and saw that Barcwit had taken his previous intrusion very much to heart, because there was a guard there, too.

  The room to the left was still secured with heavy locks, while the stairs to the right had not been swept properly, and were thick with dusty footprints. But it was the door straight ahead that Geoffrey was interested in that day, the one that led to the mint. It was evidently not an afternoon for coin-making, because the hammering he had heard on previous occasions was stilled. There was a murmur of voices, and it sounded as if some sort of lecture was in progress. Hopeful that Barcwit might be the speaker, and that he would have the man at last, Geoffrey considered the problem of the guard.

  He could have had a knife between the man’s ribs before he had so much as turned around, but he did not want to kill a man for doing his job. Instead, he took his dagger from his belt and used it to scratch on the door. When the guard came to investigate, Geoffrey struck him on the head and caught him as he fell. Then he unlocked the room to the left with the guard’s own keys, and hauled him inside. He glanced around curiously before re-locking the door, seeing piles of silver ingots and pots of blanks. There was a fortune i
n precious metal, and he was not surprised that Barcwit was careful with it.

  As softly as he could, he pushed open the mint door and peered around it, expecting to see the moneyer giving instructions to his men. However, it was not Barcwit who was addressing his thirty or so labourers, but Tasso. Standing next to Tasso were two others Geoffrey recognized, neither of them folk he would have expected to see there. One was the silversmith in Sendi’s retinue who was called Edric, and the other was Clarembald.

  Standing to one side, simultaneously dominating the proceedings and remaining aloof, was a tall figure wearing a peculiar hooded cloak. The garment was unusually black, and the way it shielded its wearer’s face was unsettling. All that could be seen under the cowl was the merest hint of a visage that was unnaturally pale. Geoffrey saw all the workmen, including Clarembald and Edric, glance uneasily at it from time to time, and knew there was only one man who could exude such a sinister aura just by standing with his hands in his sleeves. Barcwit. Geoffrey’s attention was taken so completely by his first sight of the elusive coiner that he almost failed to notice what else was happening. Tasso finished speaking, and Clarembald took over.

  ‘This curse will see us all in our graves,’ the physician said, as if in conclusion to points made earlier. His orange brows beetled over his eyes to underline the fact that he was in earnest. ‘I cannot stress too much the care you should take. But I will not belabour the point, since I see you appreciate the seriousness of the situation, so I shall bid you a good afternoon.’

  Geoffrey only just managed to dart up the stairs before Clarembald bustled through the hallway. Only when the front door eventually closed behind him, did the knight emerge from his hiding place. Tasso was reiterating what Clarembald had said, but in far more colourful terms and peppered with a good many threats. The men nodded keenly, muttering that they understood, although their eyes were on Barcwit when they spoke. Edric seemed particularly willing to please, and smiled and bowed in eager supplication. Then everything happened very quickly.

  Without any warning, Tasso drew his sword and, in one single motion, lifted it into the air and brought it down with all his might on to Edric’s skull, splitting it in half to the neck.

  For a moment, Geoffrey was too stunned to do anything more than watch as Edric fell to the ground in a fountain of blood. The workmen jumped in alarm, although none protested Tasso’s action. Barcwit did not react at all. He simply stood and watched.

  It was not the violence of the execution that unsettled Geoffrey – he had witnessed more than his share of bloody death – but Barcwit’s composure. Tasso wiped his sword and put it away, while the workmen were utterly silent, as if they were afraid they might be next. Geoffrey had seen enough, and did not feel like interviewing the moneyer when he was of a mind to order gruesome murders. He turned to walk back the way he had come.

  He had almost reached the front door when he saw the latch begin to rise. Someone was coming in. Since he did not want to be caught trying to leave, suspecting that Barcwit would try to kill any outside witnesses to Edric’s murder, he strode into the office instead. He did so confidently, in the hope that Rodbert and Maude would not realize he had come from the back of the house, rather than the front.

  Rodbert looked up when he burst in. ‘I did not hear you knock.’

  ‘The noise from your mint must have drowned it,’ said Geoffrey, wondering whether Rodbert would admit that work had ground to a halt while one of his rivals was killed. He could not imagine what Edric was doing there in the first place, since Alwold and Fardin had already been murdered as part of the ongoing feud, and even the most stupid of men should have known to be careful.

  Maude cocked her head and listened. ‘They have stopped for their afternoon bread and ale.’

  Geoffrey studied them both, trying to assess whether they knew what had happened to Edric, but could read nothing pertinent in the expression of either. Either they did not know about Edric’s fate, or they were exceptionally cool and cunning. He had a bad feeling that the latter was true, and that he was facing some particularly ruthless criminals.

  ‘I saw Barcwit at the upstairs window,’ he lied, as Colblac bustled in carrying new supplies of ink. It had been him opening the front door. ‘If he has time to stare into the street, then he has time to spend a few moments with me.’

  ‘He has just slipped out for a while – to pray for success with his accounting,’ said Maude, moving towards him and standing needlessly close. ‘He is a devout man, and I do not know when he might be back. Would you like to come upstairs with me, and see for yourself that he is not here?’

  ‘Which church?’ asked Geoffrey. The sinister man in black did not look like a Christian to him, and he was surprised Maude should fabricate such an excuse.

  ‘A man’s prayers are between him and God,’ said Rodbert firmly. ‘We will not be the ones responsible for interrupting them.’

  ‘I was thinking of claiming that honour myself,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Giffard will be here soon, and if I have not spoken to Barcwit by then, the case will be decided in Sendi’s favour.’

  Maude gave one of her secret smiles. ‘I doubt that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because of the way matters will be resolved,’ she said enigmatically. ‘But Barcwit is not here, and it is no use scouring churches for him. He prays like he does everything else – privately.’

  Geoffrey had had enough of Barcwit’s mint and the liars and killers who inhabited it. He bowed to Maude, nodded to Rodbert, and stalked out. Once outside, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath and congratulated himself on his escape, although he was under no illusion that his invasion would remain undetected for long. They would find the stunned guard, recall Geoffrey’s sudden appearance, and draw the obvious conclusion. Would they also guess he had witnessed Edric’s murder?

  He thought about what he had seen. Was Clarembald more than an investor, and why was he lecturing about the ‘dangers of the situation’ to Barcwit’s workforce? What was Edric doing there? He had not seemed alarmed by the fact that he was in the heart of his enemy’s empire, nor had he flinched when Tasso had drawn his sword: he had not expected the attack.

  Questions clamoured at Geoffrey as he headed for St Ewen’s Church, the closest refuge for some quiet thinking. The building was simple: aisleless with a thatched roof. An altar provided the only furniture and two men knelt at it. Bishop John started guiltily when he saw Geoffrey, although Bloet seemed sanguine about the intrusion.

  ‘We are praying for Alwold,’ said John. Geoffrey noticed the startled look Bloet shot him.

  ‘Alwold,’ mused Geoffrey. ‘He died mumbling about the silver Bloet is charged to find.’

  Bloet’s voice was bitter. ‘I wish the man had held his tongue. His deathbed confession was what started Henry thinking there was a chance of retrieving the stuff, and it is obvious there is none.’

  ‘Is that what you are doing here?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Discussing silver?’

  John opened his mouth to deny it, but Bloet spoke first. ‘What else? John tells me Clarembald knows more than he is telling. I hope to God he is right, because I have damned all else to go on.’

  ‘How have you reached that conclusion?’ Geoffrey asked of John.

  The bishop looked shifty. ‘Clarembald was near Alwold when he died, and I believe he overheard something no one else did. That is why he is everywhere – a supporter of Barcwit, a friend of Sendi, a comrade of Warelwast …’

  Geoffrey agreed there was something suspicious about Clarembald, particularly given what he had just witnessed, but knew for a fact that it was nothing to do with hearing Alwold. Only Geoffrey knew that ‘the secret’ lay with the priest of St John’s, and that the King, Bloet and Warelwast were party to it. Except, of course, that they were not. Assuming that ‘the secret’ and the missing silver were one and the same, the King did not know where it was, or he would not have commissioned Bloet to find it, and Bloet did not know, or he would not still be
looking. That left Warelwast. Could he have unravelled the mystery? Geoffrey would not have been surprised.

  ‘So, we have been discussing ways to make Clarembald confide in us,’ said Bloet. ‘All I want is the silver, and all John wants is Clarembald disgraced. But we cannot agree on a strategy.’

  ‘What about Piers?’ asked Geoffrey, while John winced at Bloet’s bald revelations. ‘Have you found him yet? He may be able to help you.’

  ‘Piers is dead,’ said Bloet miserably. ‘He was an anchorite who lived near Dundreg, but he recently drowned in the marshes. Feoc told me today.’

  Geoffrey stared at him. Dundreg was one of Barcwit’s haunts. Was it coincidence or had Piers been murdered by him? And why had Feoc not mentioned the hermit when Geoffrey had asked?

  ‘All roads lead to Barcwit,’ he mused. ‘You are even in his church.’

  John barked a bitter laugh. ‘Barcwit prays to no God of ours! Surely you have seen him at night, stalking the streets in that billowing black cloak as he goes to meet his friend the Devil?’

  ‘I wish I had. He is a difficult man to pin down and I need to talk to him.’

  ‘If only I could say the same,’ said Bloet unhappily. ‘He is everywhere I look. He is probably hoping I will find the silver, so he can get it back before I can give it to the King.’

  ‘You dined with him recently,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Durand told me.’

  ‘I most certainly did not! I drank a cup of wine at his house, but that was at Rodbert’s invitation and Barcwit did not appear, thank God!’

  ‘But Durand said—’

  ‘I lied to impress him,’ said Bloet impatiently. ‘It does not do to tell your new lover that you are afraid of men in black cloaks. Have you heard about Sendi’s stolen die? Clarembald has charged Bishop John with taking it; everyone else thinks Barcwit is responsible.’

  ‘Clarembald accuses me of everything,’ said John angrily. ‘And I am growing sick of it. It is time we stopped the man’s mouth once and for all, by proving to everyone that he is not to be trusted.’