‘They are not pleased,’ said Wulfric gleefully. ‘Have you not heard? It has been the talk of London for weeks. It is said that Henry intends to confiscate all their estates.’
A good many people looked around uncomfortably, and Geoffrey saw that the loyalties of most were with neither the King nor his rebellious vassal. He could understand why: Henry was hard on criminals, such as the ones who thrived in Southwark, while Bellême was generally regarded as the epitome of evil. It would not be an easy choice for those who lived at the edges of the law.
‘Bellême loved his nephew,’ said Oswin nastily. ‘So you can be sure he will come looking for his murderers.’
Geoffrey supposed he should be on his guard if Bellême were to pay him a visit – they had not parted on the best of terms when they had last met, and Geoffrey had antagonized the man to the point where he was regarded as an enemy.
‘How do you know Hugh was murdered?’ he asked, aware that Oswin had not seen the dead man’s tied hands, so could not know whether he was pushed or had jumped.
‘A man does not order a jug of wine and three goblets only to hurl himself out of a window moments later,’ said Oswin scornfully. ‘He was murdered, all right.’
‘But not by us,’ said Geoffrey, now tired of the conversation and wanting to find somewhere quiet, where he could consider what Bellême’s presence in England might mean for his own family, who were legally the Earl’s vassals. ‘You can see the noose is attached to something inside your tavern. Therefore someone inside tied the rope around his neck and threw him out of the window, not men who happened to be riding along the street outside.’
‘But, as Master Oswin said, folk have been coming and going all night—’ began Wulfric.
‘But not us,’ interrupted Geoffrey firmly. He gestured to the dark streets behind him. ‘Dozens of people saw us riding towards the London Bridge as dusk fell. We cannot be your culprits, so you must look among your customers for the killer.’
‘Oh, no!’ exclaimed Oswin, jumping into Geoffrey’s path to prevent him from riding away. ‘I want to know your names. The Earl will ask questions about his nephew’s death, and I intend to tell him about you. I do not want him setting my inn alight when others are to blame.’
‘I know the Earl,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I will tell him myself.’
‘You do?’ asked Oswin, backing away in alarm. His demeanour changed immediately, and he became obsequious. ‘You should have said so, sir. I suppose he ordered you to kill the lad himself?’
‘To keep his followers on their toes,’ added Wulfric, nodding in understanding. ‘He likes even his most loyal henchmen terrified of him. His siblings are afraid, too – his brothers Roger and Arnulf, and their three sisters.’
Geoffrey was about to try to leave again, when he saw that two of the inn’s patrons had gone to Hugh’s chamber, and were sawing through the rope that held him. He decided to wait, to see whether the body might yield clues about the killer that would permanently exonerate him and his companions. The body jigged as they hacked, and then fell with a thump into the ordure of the street.
People pressed closer when the body dropped. Even the hooded figures who lurked at the back surged forward, and one reached Hugh and huddled over him for a few moments before moving away. Geoffrey wondered if he was a friend or a servant.
‘Look!’ exclaimed Wulfric, who was unashamedly rummaging through Hugh’s clothes in the hope of finding a purse. He had discovered the tied hands instead, and stood back so people could see. Geoffrey studied the knots that held noose and bonds in place. They were unlike any others he had seen – clumsy and untidy – although they had done their work well enough.
‘There is something in his mouth,’ said Oswin. He held the torch near Hugh’s face and pointed at something pale that was thrust between the dead man’s teeth. ‘What is it?’
‘That is odd,’ said Geoffrey to Roger. ‘I thought I heard him yell before he dropped from the window. How could he shout with a full mouth?’
‘Perhaps it was the killer we heard,’ suggested Roger. ‘That is a large mouthful, and I am not sure he could have shouted around it. Mind you, it was just a scream: there were no words.’
Geoffrey supposed that was true. A gagged man might still be able to express his final terror, even if he could not howl the name of his killer or holler a prayer to save his soul. Meanwhile, Wulfric had retrieved the item, and was regarding it suspiciously. It was a piece of parchment. Oswin took it from him and unravelled it with great care, turning it this way and that in evident disappointment.
‘It is nothing but writing,’ he said, holding the torch so close that he threatened to incinerate it. Geoffrey eased behind him. ‘I thought there might be a picture, but there are just words.’
‘Were you expecting a picture?’ asked Geoffrey, suddenly suspecting that Oswin knew more about why Hugh had died than he had led them to believe.
Oswin shrugged, and Geoffrey could tell he was lying. ‘Not really.’
‘Why was Hugh here in the first place?’ asked Geoffrey, wondering why a wealthy relative of Bellême’s would frequent a sordid tavern in Southwark at all.
‘He was meeting friends,’ replied Oswin vaguely. ‘He came often. The Crusader’s Head is more honest than the taverns in London, and he liked the company of men he could trust.’
Geoffrey refrained from pointing out that someone in the inn had just murdered him, so it seemed he could not trust the patrons of the Crusader’s Head any more than he could the taverns across the river. He wondered whether the men Hugh had been meeting – two of them, since Oswin said he had ordered wine for three – were among the shadows at the back of the crowd. He looked around for them, but they had gone, apparently realizing they were too visible in the rapidly dwindling onlookers.
‘I do not think Hugh could read,’ said Oswin, continuing to jerk the parchment this way and that, as if he imagined movement might induce it to reveal its secrets. ‘So I suppose this was forced into his mouth to stop him making a noise.’ He registered his disgust by screwing the document into a ball and tossing it in the gutter, where it bobbed for a moment, then sank from sight.
Once Hugh had been carried to a nearby church, and there was nothing left to see, the last of the crowd dissipated. Geoffrey and Roger found themselves alone with Oswin.
‘I meant what I said,’ repeated the landlord. ‘I have no spare rooms, even if you are in the service of the Earl. These are dangerous times, and my tavern is already involved in things I wish it were not.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘Meetings,’ said Oswin in a low voice, glancing around to ensure they were not overheard. ‘People coming in the middle of the night, demanding rooms for their business. I do not like it, but what can I do? Only a fool says no to the Earl.’
‘Bellême’s people use your inn?’ asked Geoffrey, intrigued, despite the alarm bells that warned him to ride away and have nothing more to do with the matter.
‘Yes,’ said Oswin unhappily. ‘They keep their livery hidden under their cloaks, but I know who they are. I hope the Earl is not planning another rebellion before the Easter Court – or rather, that he does not intend to use my inn as his headquarters. The King would hang me for certain.’
‘Probably,’ agreed Geoffrey. ‘He does not tolerate traitors. But what about that parchment? What did you expect to see there?’
‘A weapon,’ replied Oswin miserably. ‘I expected to see a picture of a great weapon that will win wars and throw an enemy into confusion.’
‘Whose enemies?’ asked Geoffrey uneasily. ‘The King’s?’
‘Bellême’s.’
Geoffrey fought to understand what the man was telling him. ‘Are you saying Bellême has devised some new weapon to use against King Henry?’
‘Yes,’ said Oswin in a strangled whisper. ‘And Henry will hang me for a traitor because its design came from my poor tavern.’
Geoffrey and Roger left the Crus
ader’s Head and its agitated landlord, with Durand, Helbye and Ulfrith riding in a tight knot behind them, all on their guard. Although the attitude of the crowd had changed after Geoffrey had professed to be personally acquainted with the dreaded Earl, he still did not trust them. Southwark was a place full of hidden dangers, and he disliked being in a position where he could not see the enemy he was to fight. He glanced behind him for the third or fourth time since leaving the tavern.
‘I wonder what this weapon is,’ mused Roger, intrigued. ‘Oswin said it can win wars and throw an enemy into confusion. As a knight, I should like to know more about it.’
‘You may not be the only one,’ said Geoffrey, assuming this was why Hugh had been murdered. If the device was as devastating as Oswin believed, then men might well be killed for it.
‘I wonder who has this secret,’ Roger went on. ‘Is it the King’s weapon, and the Bellême clan are trying to get it? Or have the Bellêmes invented it?’
‘The latter,’ said Geoffrey. ‘The King is fairly secure on his throne now, and developing new weapons would be useful, but not essential. However, it is entirely possible that Bellême has devised one because he knows he will be expelled from England soon – unless he can defeat Henry in open battle. A new weapon may well tip the balance in his favour.’
‘So, Oswin was right,’ said Roger admiringly. ‘Bellême and his followers have invented some deadly device under his roof.’
‘I am not so sure,’ said Geoffrey, considering the matter carefully. ‘It would be very difficult to create such a thing without the King’s spies knowing or seeing, and I think it more likely that Bellême has managed to get hold of something used by our enemies on the Crusade, rather than inventing something original. We know from personal experience that we have a lot to learn about the war machines of other civilizations.’
‘Turks or Arabs,’ mused Roger, recalling the various battles he had fought in the East. ‘Do you think they mean to equip their troops with curved scimitars, then? Like the Saracens?’
‘No. If this weapon were just a different kind of sword, it would be very difficult to keep secret.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it would involve cartloads of iron being ferried to forges, blacksmiths labouring day and night, and men practising with whatever they produce. The King’s spies would ferret them out in a moment, and it would be a secret no longer.’
‘What then?’
‘Think, Roger. What weapon did the Arabs use during our siege of Jerusalem? What did they throw that burned so fiercely we could not put it out, and that smouldered through flesh and bone?’
‘Greek Fire?’ asked Roger in an awed whisper. ‘That was a terrible weapon, right enough! Some landed on my helmet, and it burned for hours before I was able to scrape it off. And it killed Ancellus of Méry, if you recall.’
Geoffrey remembered very vividly what had happened to the French knight when a mass of Greek Fire had caught him full in the chest. Geoffrey had tried to smother the flames with his cloak, but they re-ignited as soon as he thought they were out. He had poured the last of his drinking water over them, but the fire had hissed and spluttered and burned more fiercely than ever. He had scraped handfuls of sand over his comrade, but the fire continued to rage. Even urine – rumoured to douse most blazes – had not worked. By the time it had extinguished itself, Ancellus was long dead.
‘We tried to learn what Greek Fire was made of,’ he said. ‘Some alchemists believed it was quicklime and sulphur, but their own experiments could not reproduce the same effects. We concluded the Arabs added a secret ingredient, but we never discovered what.’
‘It would be a fabulous weapon for either Bellême or Henry,’ said Roger soberly. ‘Oswin is right: it might well win one of them a war. But what makes you think someone has brought it to England?’
‘Did you not notice the smell? When we first arrived, the stink of sulphur and quicklime lingered in the street. Someone had ignited Greek Fire near the Crusader’s Head.’
‘But Hugh was hanged, not incinerated,’ said Roger, bewildered.
‘Yes,’ agreed Geoffrey. ‘And I looked at his hands and clothes for signs of burning, but saw none. Perhaps he had simply witnessed a demonstration to which he had not been invited, and was hanged to ensure his silence.’
‘Was the secret written on the parchment in his mouth, then? I know you read it, because I saw you peering over Oswin’s shoulder like an old monk.’ He shot his friend a disapproving glare.
‘No, that was a message from the King. It stated he had no wish to negotiate with anyone from the House of Montgomery-Bellême behind the Earl of Shrewsbury’s back.’
‘You see?’ asked Roger, his voice thick with disgust. ‘Words brought Hugh to his end. He tried to cheat his uncle by dealing with the King – probably wanting to save himself when his family’s estates are forfeit. And Bellême found out what he was doing and had him killed.’
‘Possibly. Or perhaps Bellême knows nothing about Hugh’s attempted treachery, and the murder was the King’s doing.’
Roger gazed at him. ‘But then why would Henry leave the message in Hugh’s mouth? That basically tells anyone who sees it that Henry is responsible for his death.’
‘Right,’ said Geoffrey, glancing at his friend askance. He tended to forget at times that Roger was a straightforward man, and subversive doings were largely beyond his comprehension. Roger was not honest – he was too much a Norman for that, with a Norman’s love of gold – but he would never indulge himself in the kind of treachery and intrigue that marked the courts of powerful men. ‘That traitors can expect to be hanged may well be the message the King wanted the Bellême clan to receive. Or, alternatively, the message may be to warn Bellême that one of his kin is negotiating with the King.’
Roger sighed gustily. ‘I should have known not to expect a simple answer from you. You always see far too many sides in every situation. So, just tell me in one word whether you think Hugh’s death is related to this Greek Fire business.’
‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey. ‘But I do not know how. He may have been murdered trying to steal the secret from Bellême to give to the King. If that is true, then it is possible the King did not appreciate what Hugh was offering him.’
‘You mean Hugh stole the secret from Bellême and offered it to Henry, but Henry, not being a Crusader, had never heard of Greek Fire? He did not know to grab the secret while he could, and instead sent that message? When Bellême found out what his nephew had done he had him killed?’
‘Basically,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Although I am sure Henry knows all about Greek Fire. Perhaps Hugh gave the King the wrong formula. If he really was dim-witted, as we have been told, then he might have believed he could cheat Henry by providing him with false information and still be paid.’
‘It is all very confusing,’ said Roger disapprovingly. His voice became loud as he triumphed that a plot relying on the written word had failed. ‘But whoever wrote that message intended it to be found by someone, and you are the only one who read it before it was thrown away.’
There was a soft rattle behind them, and Geoffrey saw someone dart out from the shadows and race away into the darkness. Whoever it was had gone in an instant, and his footsteps quickly faded into nothing.
‘I am not sure it was a good idea to bellow that,’ said Geoffrey reproachfully. ‘Now someone else knows we are party to a secret.’
Two
By the time Geoffrey and Roger arrived at the London Bridge, its gates were closed and the guards were locked in their gatehouse. Roger hammered on the door and demanded an audience with their captain, but the guards merely called back that it was more than their lives were worth to allow anyone – no matter how heavy their purses – to cross outside the curfew. One added that if they looked above the gate they would see a severed hand. Geoffrey stepped back in disgust when a maggot dropped from the hideous thing on to his shoulder.
‘That was Norbert’s,’ called the gua
rd soberly. ‘He took a silver penny from a monk who wanted to cross. The monk was one of the King’s spies, and Norbert lost his hand. You can keep your gold. Better men than you have tried to persuade us to break the law tonight, but we will not do it.’
‘Damn that Oswin,’ growled Roger. ‘It is his fault we arrived too late to cross.’ He looked up and down the road as he tried to decide which direction to take. Neither appeared promising, with hovels lining each side and huge rats foraging among heaps of stinking rubbish. ‘He was probably delaying us on purpose, so we would be forced to stay in his miserable inn.’
‘I do not think so.’ Geoffrey shivered. Night had brought a chill northerly wind, and the rain had turned to sleet; water seeped through his cloak to form a clammy cocoon around his body. ‘He clearly disapproves of Crusaders. And who can blame him if it has resulted in dangerous weapons being discharged under his roof?’
‘You think he is actually manufacturing Greek Fire there?’ asked Roger, startled. ‘Within a stone’s throw of London?’
‘No. The stink from large amounts of the stuff would alert the King’s spies and it would be investigated. I imagine tonight was just a small demonstration of what it can do, while the bulk of it will be hidden elsewhere. Of course, just because someone has the formula does not mean all the ingredients are readily available. We know from our own experiments that it is not easy to make.’
‘Will you tell the King tomorrow that Bellême has Greek Fire and will use it against him?’
‘We do not know for certain it is true,’ hedged Geoffrey, reluctant to become embroiled in a political struggle. ‘It is just what we have concluded ourselves, and we have no real evidence – other than an odd smell and the confession of a frightened landlord who may recant his story tomorrow. I think we would be wiser to say nothing to anyone. It is none of our affair.’
‘I would not mind laying my hands on a bit for myself, though,’ said Roger fondly. ‘I can think of a number of times when it would have come in useful.’
The King's Spies Page 3