Titles by Simon Beaufort from Severn House
The Sir Geoffrey Mappestone Series
MURDER IN THE HOLY CITY
A HEAD FOR POISONING
THE BISHOP’S BROOD
THE KING’S SPIES
THE COINER’S QUARREL
DEADLY INHERITANCE
THE BLOODSTAINED THRONE
A DEAD MAN’S SECRET
THE MURDER HOUSE
THE KILLING SHIP
THE KING’S SPIES
Simon Beaufort
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First published in Great Britain and the USA 2003 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.
This eBook edition first published in 2017 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD
Copyright © 2003 by Simon Beaufort
The right of Simon Beaufort to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6039-2 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-888-9 (e-book)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
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To Richard Reynolds
Prologue
Antioch, February 1098
It was winter, so the searing heat of the desert was not as terrible as in the summer months. What was terrible, however, was that the Christian army laying siege to the heavily fortified town of Antioch had not had a proper meal in weeks. The Crusaders had soon exhausted the supplies plundered from nearby villages, and had been obliged to send foragers in ever-widening circles to hunt, steal or beg. But recently, even the best scavengers had come back empty-handed. Morale was low: the soldiers were weakened by disease and lack of food, and longed to be home, away from the flies that plagued them by day and the dismal rains that drenched them by night.
Philip the Grammarian was angry. Although he had his own supply of victuals, carefully hidden so he would not be obliged to share, he was furious that he – a son of the great Earl of Shrewsbury and a member of the powerful House of Montgomery-Bellême – should be reduced to grovelling in the mud like a peasant. He had not wanted to take part in the Crusade in the first place, but he had been banished from England and his estates confiscated, so obeying the Pope’s call for brave men to travel East had seemed the only way to recoup his losses.
As the Earl’s fourth child, Philip had been destined for the Church, and the nickname ‘Grammarian’ denoted the learning he was supposed to have acquired. However, there was more irony than truth in it: he disliked scholarly activities, and did not want to make a paltry living as a cleric. Philip had a different plan for his future: he was going to save the Holy City from the infidel with a weapon so powerful and terrifying that he knew Jerusalem’s defenders would surrender the moment it appeared. His glorious success would bring the riches and fame he felt he deserved.
His stomach rumbled, because the dried meat he had eaten that evening had not been enough to satisfy him, even though it was more than most men had had. Food was now so scarce that a loaf of bread cost a gold coin, and a scrawny chicken cost three. Ordinary soldiers could not afford such prices, and it seemed the Crusade would flounder long before it reached Jerusalem, brought to its knees by empty stomachs. Meanwhile, safe in their fortress, Antioch’s Turks looked down on the hungry, sick and disheartened Crusaders, and jeered.
Philip disapproved of the siege, and did not see why they had to capture Antioch before marching on Jerusalem. He had told his fellow commanders again and again that they were wasting time and could be attacking the Holy City itself, but most leaders argued that leaving Antioch in the hands of hostile forces would be to place themselves between two enemy armies. Philip thought they were wrong: he just wanted to rescue Jerusalem and go home in glory.
He glanced at the box under his bed that held his secret. It contained a small amount of a deadly substance called Greek Fire, along with instructions explaining how to make it. Greek Fire had been used against the Crusaders often enough, but they had been unable to reproduce it themselves, because there was a mystery ingredient their alchemists could not identify. Philip had learned the secret from a dying soldier in Constantinople, whose wits had been rambling and who had not been in a position to understand the ramifications of his fevered revelations. Philip had written down the formula for the potion that burned like magic, and that water could not quench, and knew it was the key to his future.
It had occurred to him to use his weapon against Antioch, but he knew it would not work there: the only way that city would fall would be for someone to betray it from within. Since he did not want to squander his secret needlessly, he had determined to save it for Jerusalem alone – then no man would mention the liberation of the Holy City without also praising the name of Philip the Grammarian.
Philip yearned to join the powerful Lord Bohemond, one of a few sensible men who had abandoned Antioch to march on Jerusalem instead. However, Lord Tancred, among the army’s most able of leaders, mounted nightly patrols, not only to protect his encampment from Turkish raids, but to stem the steady trickle of deserters. To escape, Philip would need to slip past these guards, and that would not be easy with horses, squire and food – and he certainly did not intend to leave empty-handed.
Another growl from his stomach helped Philip to reach a decision. Not for him a grim death from starvation when his food ran out, or from the bowel sickness that killed more men than any battle. He was going to leave Antioch, and then he and Bohemond would attack Jerusalem and achieve immortality.
He felt better once he had made up his mind, but he knew he would have to make enquiries about the nightly patrols before embarking on his bid for freedom. Some guards were better than others, and he did not want to be dragged back in disgrace. He left his tent with his squire in tow, and started to walk through the camp, hearing the low moans of men whose dreams were plagued by visions of bread and meat, and the feeble, wrenching cries of those who would be dead by the morning.
He was not pleased to learn the commander on duty that night was a knight called Sir Geoffrey Mappestone, one of Tancred’s most trusted officers. Geoffrey’s patrols were thorough and well planned, and Philip knew he would never slip past him undetected. He was heartened, though, when he learned that the Lorrainers would be in charge the following day. These were an unruly, disobedient rabble, who preferred dozing behind rocks to prowling a desert where they might meet bands of marauding infidel. Philip knew he would have no trouble evading their watch.
Feeling hopeful for the first time in weeks, he informed his squire that they would be leaving the following evening. The man nodded in relief,
because it was only a matter of time before Philip learned he was not the only one living off the hidden supplies: the squire did not see why he should starve, and had not been looking forward to the day when Philip discovered the truth. If they escaped, Philip would never know what had been happening.
Philip watched Geoffrey brief his men and then climb on to his warhorse to study Antioch’s four hundred towers and twenty-five miles of walls. Philip snorted in disdain. Did the knight really believe his painstaking inspections would make any difference? Antioch had deep wells that were awash with fresh water, and its storehouses were full of grain. Philip knew the besiegers could wait until Judgement Day and the city would not fall.
He was about to return to his tent and rest, when he heard a yell. Near the camp was a narrow bridge that had linked Antioch to the plains around it in happier times. Now it was only used when raiders slipped along it under cover of darkness to cause chaos among the besiegers, or when brave and determined men like Geoffrey attempted to storm the fortress. In horror, Philip saw torches flicker and leap, and tents in flames. His stomach clenched in fear. The camp was under attack! Men rolled from their sleeping blankets in a daze, many too weak even to hold a sword, let alone repel an invasion by well-armed and healthy enemies.
Sick with terror, Philip dashed to his tent and wriggled under the bed, to hide with his precious box. His squire watched his cowardice in appalled disbelief, then made an unpleasant, strangled sound as something hissed through the roof and landed in his chest. It was a fire arrow.
While the squire died in writhing agony, Philip scrambled away, knowing he would be burned to a cinder if he remained where he was. Still clutching his box, he rushed outside, careful to leave his shield behind, so it would not identify him as someone high-ranking and worthy of an infidel’s blade. He looked around wildly, trying to determine where the fighting was thickest, so he could run in the other direction. By now, the whole camp was bathed in an unsteady, orange glow as fires blazed out of control. He felt like crying. His food would be destroyed, and he would be obliged to sleep without a tent, like a common soldier.
‘There!’ he heard Geoffrey shout. ‘Stop them!’
He turned to where the knight pointed, and saw a line of Turkish soldiers running towards the huts where valuable items like maps and spies’ reports were kept. They held torches, and it was obvious what they intended to do. With a shock, Philip saw Geoffrey expected him to act. The knight held a heavy broadsword in one hand and a dagger in the other, and was yelling for Philip to follow him. With a battle cry that made Philip’s blood run cold, Geoffrey plunged into the line of Turks, and began laying about him. He was soon surrounded and outnumbered. Philip shrank back into the shadows, declining to become embroiled in a skirmish that would surely see him hacked to pieces.
He turned to run again, but there was a sudden burning pain between his shoulders and he found himself unable to breathe. He dropped the box and scrabbled behind him, to free himself from the searing ache in his spine. When he looked at his hands, they glistened darkly with blood. He had been stabbed in the back! A shadow eased its way past him, and he saw his assailant was no Turk. With mute dismay, Philip saw he was not going to die in glorious battle, where his soul would be flown directly to Heaven, but had been viciously murdered like a beggar in an alleyway. He sank to his knees and watched helplessly as his killer snatched up the box and melted away into the night.
One
London, March 1102
Sir Geoffrey Mappestone and Sir Roger of Durham were experienced and heavily armed Norman knights, yet both felt uneasy as they made their way through the streets of Southwark towards the London Bridge. It was nearing dusk, and the narrow alleys were alive with characters who were never seen in daylight hours – robbers who stalked their prey in the darkness, sharp-faced prostitutes who enticed men into dimly lit taverns for the contents of their purses, and fallen priests who had prospered in the lax reign of William Rufus with their black arts. Rufus’s successor, King Henry, was not so tolerant, and peccant priests were obliged to hide, to emerge only when the sun had set and they would not be recognized and pointed out to the King’s spies.
Geoffrey knew the London Bridge closed at dusk, sealing Southwark and its shadowy activities from the more prosperous city of London, which sprawled along the opposite side of the River Thames. He pressed his knees into the sides of his great warhorse to urge it to walk faster, reluctant to linger in a place where he, Roger and their three men would not be welcome. It was not long since the Conqueror had invaded England and made Saxons inferior subjects in their own country, and the defeat still rankled. Geoffrey sensed there were many Southwark night-folk who would relish an opportunity to kill a Norman knight, steal his horses and plunder his saddlebags. His black and white dog whimpered uneasily, and Geoffrey knew how it felt.
The daylight was fading fast, showing how short a March day could be. It was not yet five o’clock, but shadows lay thick and black across the streets, and lights burned in the houses of those wealthy enough to afford a lamp and fuel. It began to rain, too, and the mottled clouds that slouched overhead played their own part in bringing an early dusk. Gradually, the occasional drop became a pattering downpour, blown in spiteful, sleety flurries by a chill north wind.
‘We should find an inn,’ said Roger, running a thick finger around the neckline of his cloak, sodden from where water had run in rivulets from his conical helmet. He glanced around him. ‘It is not pretty here, but I have slept in worse places. We can cross the bridge tomorrow at dawn and still be in time to obey your summons from the King.’
‘No,’ said Geoffrey, thinking that if Roger had stayed in worse than Southwark, then he must have graced some very insalubrious towns with his presence. ‘We cannot stay here. It is not safe.’
‘Not safe?’ scoffed Roger. ‘We are knights, armed with the finest steel gold can buy, and with Crusaders’ crosses on our surcoats that tell people we are Jerosolimitani – those who freed Jerusalem from the infidel two years ago. Who do you think will harm us?’
‘This is different,’ argued Geoffrey, who knew that while the residents of Southwark were unlikely to engage them in open battle, they might well fire arrows from dark alleys or abandoned houses.
‘Rubbish!’ declared Roger uncompromisingly. ‘No one would dare.’
A slithering sound made Geoffrey tense, hand on the hilt of his sword as he scanned the street for danger. But there was nothing to see. He looked up to where thatched roofs formed a jagged margin to the thin strip of grey sky above, and thought Roger a fool to be complacent. Neither they nor their servants carried much of value, but their cloaks and armour were of good quality, and their warhorses expensive and well trained. They were certainly not beyond the ambitions of an opportunistic thief who was handy with a bow.
Ahead lay an inn, which illuminated the dirty street with slivers of light escaping through cracks in its window shutters. A sign above the door swung back and forth, creaking loudly enough to be audible over the hiss of sleet and the sounds of drunken conversation coming from inside the tavern.
‘The Holy Hero,’ said Roger squinting at the sign. It depicted an unhappy-looking Crusader, whose head appeared to be coming away from his body. Words were scrawled underneath, which meant nothing to the illiterate Roger. ‘I have had enough of traipsing in the wet for tonight, and we are too late to cross the bridge anyway. We will stay here.’
‘We will not,’ said Geoffrey, whose ability to read made most of his fellow knights regard him with rank suspicion, Roger included. ‘It is called the Crusader’s Head and the sign shows your “hero” being decapitated by a Southwark whore. It is not the kind of place that would welcome us.’
‘I agree,’ said Geoffrey’s sergeant, Will Helbye, edging his horse forward so he could speak. ‘I do not like the look of it, either.’
Helbye, a grizzled veteran in his late fifties, had been in Geoffrey’s service for many years, and it was well past the time whe
n he should have retired to his home on the Welsh borders. But Helbye did not want to be a farmer, and Geoffrey supposed he intended to remain a soldier until he either was killed in battle or dropped dead in his saddle.
Geoffrey’s squire, Durand, nodded agreement, but Durand was fussy and cowardly, and Geoffrey seldom took any notice of his opinions. Durand was old for a squire, older than Geoffrey himself, and was a neat, slender man with a head of long, golden hair. Geoffrey had been amused at first when Durand had been mistaken for a maiden from behind, but one or two misunderstandings over his sex had turned violent, and he quickly learned that his squire’s appearance was more of a liability than a source of humour.
‘It not only smells, but I just saw a whore go inside,’ said Durand with a shudder that had his companions regarding him warily. Durand’s disapproval of prostitutes extended to women in general, which the others found difficult to understand.
‘It is perfectly respectable,’ argued Roger. ‘My horse is lame and it is time we stopped. Geoffrey does not have to meet the King until noon tomorrow, so we do not have to cross the river tonight.’
Geoffrey understood his friend’s reluctance to continue travelling when the prospect of a warm bed beckoned. They had been in the saddle since dawn, and Roger was ready for a rest, particularly in a tavern well supplied with prostitutes and ale. A man with a full purse and a strong thirst could ask for little more.
Roger was a large, frank man, whose father – the sly Bishop Flambard of Durham – was one of the most hated men in England, although Roger and his devious parent were nothing alike. Like Geoffrey, Roger wore his hair short and was clean-shaven, and his face was ruddy from a life spent out of doors. Geoffrey was smaller and cleaner, with light brown hair and green eyes, and was intelligent enough to enjoy the challenge of occasional subterfuge, although he disliked it on too regular a basis.
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