Geoffrey surveyed the Crusader’s Head warily, considering his options. It was one of the largest taverns on the south bank, and comprised wattle-and-daub walls and a thickly thatched roof. It had been extended and rebuilt more than once, because the different parts of it did not sit well together and formed a complex jumble of windows and walls. Stains seeped from the oils that protected its timbers, and its roof was covered in moss and rot.
As he hesitated, Geoffrey became aware of a strange smell lurking below the stench of sewage and filth that coated the street. It was acrid and somehow dangerous, and vague memories clawed at the back of his mind. It was an aroma he had encountered before, but could not place where or when. He identified the warm, rotten stink of sulphur and the sharper scent of something alkaline, and wondered what sort of ale the landlord served to his patrons.
It did not take many moments for him to conclude that Roger was wrong, and that the Crusader’s Head was not the sort of place he and his companions should patronize. He was about to ride on when there was a yell from one of the building’s upper windows. He glanced up just in time to see something large drop out, almost directly above him. He raised one arm instinctively to ward off the plummeting mass, but it never reached him. Instead, it stopped just above his head, accompanied by an unpleasant snapping sound.
Durand gave a shrill screech of fright and promptly lost control of his pony, while Geoffrey’s dog barked furiously and began to dart in tight circles around the horses’ legs.
‘God’s teeth!’ exclaimed Geoffrey irritably, because Durand’s scream had startled him more than the sudden and unexpected descent of the object from above.
‘It is a man!’ Durand babbled, pointing at the bundle that swung back and forth with rhythmic creaking sounds. ‘And he is dead!’
‘Someone has hanged him,’ said Geoffrey, who had realized as much as soon as he heard the sickening crack of a neck breaking as it came to the end of the rope. He stood in his saddle to grab the dead man’s feet, slowing their macabre dance. ‘You have seen this before, surely?’
‘I have not!’ said Durand in an unsteady voice. ‘I was destined for the Church before that incident with the butcher’s son. You know that. The only other corpse that has sullied my eyes before today was that of my grandmother, who choked on a slipper last Easter.’
Geoffrey knew better than to ask for details, intriguing though the story might sound. Durand had been expelled from the Church for ‘perverse practices’, and then foisted on Geoffrey by his liege lord, Tancred, because Tancred had owed Durand’s father a favour. Tancred had quickly realized there was nothing he could do to convert Durand from monk to soldier, but when a summons had arrived from King Henry of England, demanding Geoffrey’s presence at Westminster Palace by noon the day before Palm Sunday, Tancred had agreed to let his knight go on condition that he took Durand with him – and made him a warrior into the bargain. Geoffrey soon learned the task was beyond him, too. Durand wanted to spend his time in churches, railing against the circumstances that had snatched away his chosen career. It was not a happy state of affairs, and Geoffrey felt Tancred had secured the better half of the bargain.
‘What shall we do?’ asked Roger, seizing one of the dead man’s ankles and turning the body to look at his face. It was too dark to make out more than a grossly angled head.
‘There is nothing we can do,’ said Geoffrey practically. ‘He is dead and we should go before someone thinks we had something to do with it.’
‘We cannot just abandon him,’ said Durand, appalled by the notion. ‘We are not Saracens, to leave our dead for the birds to peck at. We should tell someone to cut him down.’
‘Someone will discover him soon enough,’ said Geoffrey. ‘And it is none of our affair. We can tell a priest to come and give him last rites, if leaving him troubles your conscience.’
‘A priest will not give him last rites,’ said Roger. ‘He is a suicide.’
Geoffrey turned the body, so Roger could see its hands tied crudely but firmly behind its back. ‘He was murdered. Did you not hear the scuffle and the yell he gave?’
He heard Durand give a whimper of fright, and wished the man would get a grip on himself. It did Geoffrey’s own reputation no good to have a retainer snivelling in terror behind him. His dog was no better, and stood with its tail between its legs, looking up at the body with haunted eyes. He envied Roger, whose squire was a sturdy Saxon called Ulfrith. Ulfrith was not Durand’s intellectual equal, but he rarely expressed fear, and always did exactly what Roger ordered, no matter how inane the task.
‘You mean someone threw him from the window with a rope around his neck?’ asked Ulfrith. ‘And bound his hands so he could not free himself?’
Geoffrey nodded. ‘These are poor knots, but they only needed to work for a few moments – until his neck broke or the rope strangled him.’
‘Murder!’ wailed Durand in a voice loud enough to make the others start in alarm.
‘Control yourself!’ snapped Helbye sharply. ‘Do you want to summon half the robbers and vagabonds of Southwark to see why you are screeching?’
‘I do not,’ said Durand fearfully, turning his horse in the direction of the bridge.
But it was too late. The inn door opened, and several people tumbled out to see who was making the noise. Two leaned on each other, laughing helplessly at a joke humorous only to ale-soaked minds, while a brown-robed cleric with bad teeth clutched a half-naked whore, ignoring her protestations that she did not want to be outside sans clothes. Another woman stared blearily at the travellers for a moment, then her eyes were drawn upwards. When she saw the still-twisting body, she opened her mouth and released the shrillest scream Geoffrey had ever heard. It went on and on, and other patrons began to swarm from the tavern like wasps from a nest. Within moments, the two knights and their three men were surrounded by a hostile crowd that clearly thought the murder was their doing.
Geoffrey did not feel particularly intimidated by the throng. Although many possessed knives and cudgels, they would succeed in inflicting little damage through his mail tunic, conical helmet and padded surcoat. Also, he knew he needed only to draw his sword to see most of them scuttle for their lives. His horse, trained for battle, was inured to such situations, and waited patiently for a command to plunge forward or kick out with its hoofs.
He looked for someone in the crowd who might act as spokesman, but saw only pinched and impoverished faces that looked about as likely to possess leadership qualities as sheep. Several people at the back wore hoods to conceal their faces, and Geoffrey assumed they were merchants or nobles who did not want to become involved in trouble at a Southwark tavern. He caught the glitter of silver thread in the garments of one, while another sported a fur-lined cloak, expensive and well made. The man was careful to keep his face in shadow, but Geoffrey could see the distinct shape of a head with hair cut very short on top, so it stood up in spikes.
At the very back of the gathered onlookers, Geoffrey saw two figures hurrying away with a long box. One person was large and moved easily and purposefully, while the other was slight and not so strong, so the chest jiggled and bounced as they went. Geoffrey supposed they were a merchant and his apprentice, trading illegally acquired goods that they wanted to conceal now a murder might attract the King’s guards.
Eventually, a burly man with a bushy yellow beard pushed through the crowd to take charge. His clothes were stained and he wore a filthy apron that identified him as the landlord. He glanced up at the body, then back to Geoffrey and Roger, taking in the Crusader’s crosses on their surcoats.
‘Why have you done this?’ he demanded. ‘Did you not have enough slaughter in the Holy Land?’
‘No, actually,’ replied Roger, taking the question literally. He enjoyed nothing more than a tough skirmish in which he could practise his fighting skills, and he and Geoffrey had argued about this more than once, when Geoffrey had opted for a peaceful solution and he had yearned to use force. ‘I have
not slain anyone since—’
He stopped when Geoffrey shot him a warning glance. He did not always know why his friend prevented him from saying what he wanted, but he had learned to ask why later, when they were alone. In this case, Geoffrey had decided that Roger declaring a fondness for killing would not win them any friends.
‘This was not our doing,’ Geoffrey said. ‘We were passing when he toppled out of the window.’
The taverner was astonished. ‘You expect us to believe that? A pair of Normans “pass”, and one of my patrons just happens to be hanged at the same time?’
‘It does not matter whether you believe it or not,’ said Geoffrey shortly. ‘It is what happened.’
The landlord regarded him through narrowed eyes, reassessing knights who did not ride away after they had had their murderous fun, but remained to explain themselves. Geoffrey began to feel hopeful that an unpleasant situation might be averted after all.
‘I am Oswin.’ The man indicated the Crusader’s Head with considerable pride. ‘I am the landlord of Southwark’s finest tavern, so you had better tell me the truth.’
Geoffrey shrugged. ‘We have no reason to lie to you, Master Oswin. We are witnesses to this death, not its instigators.’
Oswin took a flickering torch from one of his patrons and elbowed people out of the way to inspect the body that still dangled above them, clearly relishing his position of authority and the way folk accepted his right to act as their spokesman. He moved the unsteady flame upwards until he could see the face of the dead man, then released a horrified gasp that was echoed in several of his patrons. Geoffrey saw one or two immediately slink away.
‘But this is poor Hugh!’ cried Oswin, turning accusingly to Geoffrey. ‘What could he have done to warrant this? He is witless and not nearly the man his father was. How could you do such a thing?’
‘We do not know “poor Hugh”,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘And how could we be responsible, when he was hanged from inside the tavern and we are on the outside?’
Oswin looked sceptical. ‘So you say, but the tavern is busy tonight, and we only have your word you have not been in.’
‘We do not lie!’ objected Roger indignantly. ‘Nor do we hang folk for no reason.’
Geoffrey ignored them as they began to argue, more interested in the fact that the wavering torchlight allowed him to see the body properly for the first time. He saw it was not a pauper as he had first assumed – perhaps someone caught stealing and rewarded with instant justice – but a man who had been able to afford good clothes. Gold glittered at his throat, where an expensive brooch was pinned, and the boots were clean. Hugh had been a man of consequence, who had ridden to the inn, not waded through the muck of the roads. Geoffrey also noticed that Hugh had been in his early twenties and was the owner of a mane of long black hair.
‘This is dreadful,’ muttered Oswin. More spectators left the crowd, shaking their heads and muttering that they wanted nothing to do with it, while several of the hooded figures who lingered at the rear exchanged uneasy glances. One pushed forward for a better view, and then hurried back to his companions, where Geoffrey saw them conferring.
‘Who would want to kill Hugh?’ mused a thin-faced man with massive ears. He wore a dirty apron that was similar to Oswin’s, and Geoffrey supposed he was a pot boy. ‘He was harmless.’
‘He was a child, Wulfric,’ replied Oswin coldly, although his comment was directed at Roger, whom he eyed with unconcealed dislike. ‘No one needs to harm a child.’
‘Well, we do not know him, child or not,’ said Roger impatiently. Geoffrey saw his friend had had enough of Oswin and was itching to be away, so he could relax with a jug of ale and company that was more conducive than that of the accusing landlord.
‘You will,’ said Oswin with a nasty smile. ‘You see, Hugh is the illegitimate son of Hugh.’ He folded his arms and regarded Roger in a way that indicated he should be impressed. The big knight stared at him warily, as if told a joke he did not understand.
‘Then you must send our condolences,’ said Geoffrey, before they could be regaled with lengthy explanations they did not need to hear. ‘But we have business in London, and cannot linger—’
‘It is past dusk,’ said Wulfric, maliciously satisfied. ‘You cannot cross the bridge now. It is closed at night, to prevent London merchants from invading us and making off with our worldly goods.’
Geoffrey tried not to show his amusement at this interpretation of the curfew, suspecting that while rich merchants might well slip across the river to the insalubrious lanes of the south-bank settlement, it would not be for plunder. It would be for business that could not be negotiated by day, or to sample the prostitutes known as Winchester Geese, who worked in buildings rented from the Bishop of Winchester.
‘The guards will allow us to pass,’ said Roger with grim determination. ‘If they will not accept a silver coin, they will obey steel.’ His hand dropped and, with a ringing sound, he hauled his broadsword from his belt. More people melted away like snow under a hot sun, and others began to mutter resentfully. Geoffrey sighed, wishing his friend would let him do the talking. It would not be the first time Roger had instigated a brawl with his unwise habit of whipping out his weapons.
‘You are too late,’ said Oswin, unperturbed by the knight’s display of force. He saw Roger look speculatively at the Crusader’s Head. ‘And do not think you can persuade me with your silver and swords, either. I have no rooms for foreigners.’ He spat on the ground.
‘I am not foreign,’ said Roger indignantly. Geoffrey coughed loudly, because he had an awful feeling Roger was about to say he was an illegitimate son of the Bishop of Durham, an unpopular man because of the ruthless taxes he had imposed. England was full of folk who would be more than happy to kill a kinsman of the detested prelate.
‘And you will be needing the safety of a tavern tonight,’ added Wulfric spitefully. ‘No one kills Hugh and gets away with it. You should find yourselves somewhere secure.’
‘I suppose this Hugh will come for revenge,’ said Durand, wide-eyed with fear. ‘The father, not the son, obviously. The son is beyond avenging himself on anyone.’
‘Why?’ sneered Oswin disdainfully. ‘Are you afraid?’
‘Of course I am,’ said Durand, surprised that such a question should be asked. Geoffrey closed his eyes in exasperation. Between Roger’s aggression and Durand’s transparent terror they were likely to end up with some serious problems. ‘I abhor arguments, especially ones that end in violence.’
‘You are a funny Norman,’ said Oswin, eyeing Durand doubtfully and taking in the pretty golden hair, neat clothes and soft leather boots. ‘Normans usually love violence.’
‘We do,’ said Roger, glaring at Durand. But it was too dark to see and Durand was blithely unaware of Roger’s ire.
‘I do not want to be a knight,’ Durand confessed to the crowd. Many exchanged bemused glances at this unexpected confidence. ‘I was to be a monk, you see, but I met the son of a butcher, and the next thing I knew was that I was forced to take up arms. My father wants me to go to the Holy Land and honour the family by obtaining the title of Jerosolimitanus. But, frankly, I do not like flies—’
‘I am sorry about Hugh,’ interrupted Geoffrey. ‘But we should be on our way.’ He started to move forward, but the remaining onlookers pressed around him and he did not want to use force, aware that it would take very little to ignite the situation into something ugly.
‘You have no idea who Hugh was,’ remarked Oswin, peering into Geoffrey’s face in the torchlight and trying to gauge his expression. ‘Do you?’
‘None at all,’ said Geoffrey, who did not much care.
‘But you have heard of Robert de Bellême, the Earl of Shrewsbury?’
Geoffrey had indeed, and was aware of the fear that rippled through the crowd at the mere mention of that dreaded name. Bellême was widely regarded as the most barbaric and dangerous man in the world. He had attempted to overthrow King He
nry the previous year, hurling his forces behind the claim of Henry’s older brother, the Duke of Normandy. Bellême and the Duke had been routed, but Bellême was not a man who took defeat well, and he had vented his fury on his own people, initiating a reign of terror that shocked even the most hardened of warriors. Geoffrey had met the Earl once, and had experienced for himself the man’s raw menace and power.
‘Everyone knows Bellême,’ said Durand, when Geoffrey did not reply. ‘What of him?’
‘Bellême is fond of Hugh,’ said Oswin. ‘He will want to know who killed him.’
‘Oh, no!’ whispered Durand in horror. ‘The Black Earl of Shrewsbury will think we did it! He will kill us first, and ask his questions later.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Oswin with a sly grin. ‘That summarizes your situation very well.’
Geoffrey was indifferent to the news that Bellême had a liking for the hanged Hugh. Bellême had spies everywhere – it was how he kept his considerable empire intact – and the loss of one would not affect him unduly. Moreover, Geoffrey was under the impression that Bellême had not dared to set foot in England since his defeat by King Henry the previous year. He was aware that people glanced uneasily at each other every time the Earl’s name was mentioned, and became impatient with them.
‘For God’s sake! He is miles away in Normandy and not in a position to harm any of you.’
‘He is here,’ countered Wulfric, surprised that Geoffrey should not know. ‘He is in London, for an audience with the King. Hugh is his nephew – the illegitimate son of his brother.’
‘Hugh the Elder died four years ago, and Bellême stole the Earldom from his rightful heirs and kept it for himself,’ supplied Roger helpfully, even though Geoffrey knew this perfectly well. Everyone was familiar with the complex machinations of the House of Montgomery-Bellême, and the family’s manoeuvrings were a scandal that both shocked and entertained, and were a common topic of gossip.
‘Bellême and his family have been ordered to appear before the King’s Easter Court and explain why they sided against him last year,’ added Oswin.
The King's Spies Page 2