‘Which way do you want to go?’ asked Geoffrey, to change the subject. Greek Fire was not a substance he wanted in his saddlebags, and he was not sure he would travel with Roger if his friend stored some in his. It was far too dangerous to be carried so close.
The dog grew tired of standing in the bitter weather and slunk away to stand in the cover of a wall, trying to escape the driving wind. Meanwhile, Durand looked thoroughly miserable, and Helbye’s stiff old joints were in desperate need of a fire. Ulfrith cared nothing for weather of any kind, and merely looked around with the eager fascination he always displayed when visiting new places.
Roger was about to reply when two women lurched by, already the worse for drink. One wore an orange wig, which kept slipping from her shaven head, while the other had lank, greasy hair and ears that stuck through it as though they were trying to escape. Geoffrey assumed they were Winchester Geese. Roger, never fussy where prostitutes were concerned, gave them one of his leering grins.
‘Good evening, ladies. Where can we sleep tonight? Do you have a mattress on which a man can lay a weary head, perhaps in company with a warm woman?’
‘We know a quiet wall,’ suggested the bewigged lady, coming closer so that Geoffrey could see she was missing teeth, as well as hair. He wondered what she had done to allow them to become so sadly depleted, and supposed it was due to disease. It did not encourage him to want to lie with her.
‘A wall?’ asked Roger distastefully. Even he had standards.
‘It faces away from the wind,’ added the bewigged woman enticingly. Roger appeared to reconsider.
‘I do not want a wall,’ said Geoffrey firmly. ‘I want a clean tavern.’
‘Oh, a clean tavern,’ mocked the greasy-haired slattern with an unpleasant sneer. ‘Well, you are in the wrong part of town for that, good sir. Give me a penny. I have not eaten all day.’
‘Liar,’ said the other. ‘You had a bit of cat just this morning.’
‘Only the skin,’ replied Greasy Hair indignantly. ‘That does not count.’
‘Find us a dirty tavern, then,’ suggested Roger, still leering. ‘And then I shall treat you to something a little tastier than cat.’
‘Actually,’ said Red Wig seriously, ‘there is nothing tastier than cat. It is a flavoursome meat, and not like hare or ferret, which are full of bones and lack good texture.’
‘But cat is so chewy,’ argued Greasy Hair. ‘Now badger is a meat for—’
‘The inn,’ prompted Geoffrey, unwilling to sit around while they discussed the culinary virtues of every hapless beast that inhabited Southwark.
‘If we show you, will you share your chamber with us?’ asked Red Wig slyly. ‘Then we will not have to pay the Bishop. He already earns more than he should from our honest labours.’
‘No,’ said Geoffrey, thinking that they would probably snore and keep him awake half the night. Red Wig scowled, while Helbye looked appalled that Geoffrey’s fastidious principles were about to lose him a comfortable night. ‘But I will buy you a place in the stable loft and a dish of cat.’
‘And I will pay you for something else,’ said Roger, making an obscene gesture with his hand, lest they should not understand what he meant.
The women shrieked with laughter, and Roger beamed at them, clearly seeing himself a regular wit. Geoffrey sighed, not wanting to linger in the sleet while Roger honed his brutal courtship skills. He headed his horse along the riverside, hoping the tavern was not too far. He wanted nothing more than a fire and a jug of warmed ale, and would not even be too particular over the state of the bed, as long as it had nothing too large crawling in it.
‘Not there, dearie,’ called Red Wig, waggling her hips at him. ‘Come this way.’
Geoffrey wheeled his horse around, aware as he did so that someone darted quickly into the shadows of a ramshackle warehouse nearby. He cantered over and peered into the darkness, but could see nothing. He hoped it was just an optimistic thief, and not a spy following them after the incident at the Crusader’s Head. He did not like to think that either Bellême’s agents or the King’s were on his trail.
The two women led the way along a narrow alley until they reached a tavern that was smaller than the Crusader’s Head, but that looked just as disreputable. Ulfrith, who was fond of the horses, muttered that he was not leaving them unattended, and elected to remain with them for the night. After a quick glance at the inn’s main chamber, Helbye decided to do the same, and Geoffrey had grave misgivings when even the dog hesitated, one paw raised as it sniffed with wary disdain. It had an unerring eye for what was good for it, and seldom made mistakes where its well-being was concerned. It entered the tavern so slowly, and with such reluctance, that Geoffrey seriously considered going elsewhere. But Roger pushed past him, bellowing for the landlord, and that was that.
Geoffrey expected objections from Durand, who was fussy over where he slept, but the squire was cold, wet and prepared to risk a good deal for a seat near a fire. He alighted daintily from his nag, and made for the door, taking a scented pomander from his scrip to place over his nose in anticipation of the welter of smells all travellers knew to expect from seedy taverns. He did not walk as much as mince, and Geoffrey thought he would have done very well in a monastery, had he managed to control himself with butchers’ sons.
The Heron Inn’s drinking chamber was shadowy and cramped, and Geoffrey saw several clients leave through a rear door when two Norman knights entered their domain. Resentful glances followed them as they walked towards the fire, although Roger either did not care or did not notice. He bawled to the innkeeper to bring ale and a platter of meat, and stood over two men who sat near the hearth until they left, intimidated by the clanking armoury that adorned his large person. Geoffrey sat, thinking it was small wonder Saxons considered Normans bullies, if they all behaved like Roger.
‘Ale,’ snapped the landlord, slapping jug and goblets on to a table next to them. It was freezing cold, and Geoffrey surmised that either the Heron did not bother to take the chill from its ale on cold winter nights, like most taverns, or the landlord had decided the best way to rid himself of his unwelcome guests was to provide them with poor service.
A dirty pot boy brought a tray of gristly meat, wiping his running nose on his hand as he did so. Another servant carried a basket containing bread long past its best. Roger fell on the food as though it was the most delicious thing he had ever eaten, breaking the congealed mass of cold flesh into more or less even quarters and handing one to Geoffrey. The women grabbed a piece each, although Red Wig had problems in biting off portions small enough to gum.
‘It is Lent,’ said Durand disapprovingly, using his monastic vocation to hide the fact that he had been too slow to claim a piece and was left with bread. ‘You are not supposed to eat meat during Lent.’
‘Religious horse shit,’ said Roger contemptuously. ‘A man needs flesh to keep up his strength. Do not be prissy, man, and eat what the good Lord has seen fit to give you. That is what my father always says, and he must be right, because he is a bishop.’
Geoffrey shared his portion with Durand, who picked distastefully at the offering before the dog hurried forward to slather at his knees. Durand was frightened of the dog, and nearly always gave it what it wanted, just to make it go away. He took one look at its dripping fangs and unfriendly expression, and flung most of the meat into a corner. The dog reached up and snatched the remainder from his fingers before joining the rest to consume at its leisure.
‘You should not have done that,’ said Greasy Hair. ‘It is not right for dog to eat dog.’
Geoffrey threw his portion to the animal, too. ‘He is not fussy.’
‘Unlike you,’ said Red Wig in disgust, as the dog finished its repast and slunk away, presumably to join Helbye and Ulfrith in the more conducive surroundings of the stables. ‘Throwing away good meat as though it grows on trees. We cannot afford such luxuries.’ She looked pointedly at the purse that hung from Geoffrey’s belt.
>
‘We would like a room,’ said Geoffrey, when the landlord returned with more ale and several wizened apples. He wondered why the man assumed they wanted more of his nasty cold beer, but Roger made no objection, and downed the jug in one, smacking his lips in appreciation and showing he was not a man of discerning taste. Geoffrey drank more slowly, aware that murky ales past their best could bring a man low the following day with gripes in the bowels.
‘And cakes,’ added Roger, as the landlord started to leave. He winked at Red Wig, who grinned back at him in delight.
‘Cakes?’ asked the landlord dubiously, making them sound like something obscene. ‘We do not sell that kind of thing here. There is not much call for them.’
‘I am calling for them,’ said Roger, as though that should be sufficient for the landlord to change his culinary practices on the spot. ‘Ones with figs,’ he added unreasonably.
‘What are figs?’ asked the landlord warily. ‘Witches’ food?’
‘We will just take the room,’ said Geoffrey, not wanting to become involved in a detailed discussion about exotic fruits and their availability in wintertime London. He also did not want the landlord to complain to the authorities that there were men in his tavern demanding foods more usually consumed by the Devil’s familiars. He had enough to worry about with meeting the King the next day, and did not want to be obliged to defend himself against accusations of sorcery.
‘This is not a whorehouse,’ said the landlord stiffly, eyeing the women meaningfully. ‘The Bishop of Winchester has one of those next door, so go—’
‘I only want to sleep,’ said Geoffrey, disassociating himself from Roger’s antics. It was not that he disapproved of dalliances with women – he was actually quite fond of them, and had enjoyed many pleasantly memorable occasions in the past – but he had standards, and bald, toothless women tended not to meet them unless he was really desperate. He pushed a silver coin across the table.
The landlord snatched it up and secreted it in his clothing so quickly that Geoffrey wondered whether it had actually happened. ‘In that case, you can have my own chamber. I will tell my wife to stoke up the fire and tether the cow. She will not bother you during the night; she just lies near the window and chews the cud.’
‘I assume you mean the cow,’ said Geoffrey, hoping he was not going to be obliged to share the room with some ancient crone who would mutter and snore all night.
‘My wife never sleeps near the window,’ declared the landlord huffily. ‘She does not like draughts.’
The chamber was surprisingly clean, given that it was home to a large brindled bovine, and Geoffrey supposed the landlord and his wife wanted better conditions for themselves than for their patrons, because the rest of the inn was filthy. He ordered Roger to do his courting in the corridor, settled on to a soft straw mattress, and was asleep within moments, with Durand lying at right angles to him at the bottom of the bed. He snapped awake when Roger flopped next to him, and stirred when the cow lowed softly, but nothing else disturbed him until just before dawn. And then he awoke to feel cold steel against his throat.
The blade dug into Geoffrey when he tried to sit up, so he raised his hands to show his captor he was at his mercy. He assumed the man did not want to kill him immediately, or he would have done so already. Meanwhile, Roger snored on, oblivious to the drama that was unfolding at his side, and Durand lay on his back with his mouth open.
Geoffrey was appalled that someone could have crept up on him unawares – something that had not happened since he was twelve years old, and had left the austere comfort of his father’s castle to begin his knightly training. Any such laxness on the Crusade would have seen his throat slit in an instant, and he usually prided himself on his vigilance. The cow shuffled restlessly, and he supposed the sound of its chewing must have masked any odd sounds. Also, his dog was not in there, to bark warnings at uninvited guests.
‘Where is it?’ hissed a voice in his ear, and the knife nicked him again. Geoffrey felt sluggish and thick-headed as though he had consumed too much ale, although he had actually drunk very little. He wondered what was wrong with him.
‘Where is what?’ he asked loudly, hoping to wake Roger or Durand. His assailant was not amused, and the dagger waggled about menacingly.
‘Do not think you can rouse your friends.’ The voice was hoarse, as though its owner was trying to disguise himself. ‘Your ale contained poppy juice. The big one resisted its effects long enough to cavort with his women, although you and your squire succumbed easily enough. But do not play games with me. Tell me where it is or I will kill you.’
Geoffrey supposed he should be more careful about what he ate and drank in strange places in the future. He recalled a second jug of ale following hard on the heels of the first, and realized he should have been suspicious at the time. The landlord was unlikely to have provided another drink quite so quickly without first seeing their money, and Geoffrey should have guessed something was amiss instead of swallowing it without question.
‘It is over there,’ he said, making a vague gesture in the darkness with his hand.
His captor eased his grip a fraction as he leaned forward to see where Geoffrey was pointing. It was enough. With one rapid movement, Geoffrey reached up and twisted. He grabbed his assailant’s arm, jerked it away from his throat, and used the momentum to haul the man off his feet and on to the bed. Then he dropped on top of him with considerable force. Geoffrey was tall and strong, and had not bothered to divest himself of his armour before he went to sleep. He was heavy, and the man gasped for breath as the knife slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor. Roger and Durand stirred restlessly as the bed heaved and bucked around them, but did not wake.
‘How much of that soporific did you give them?’ demanded Geoffrey angrily, once he was sure he had the man subdued. Roger had also acquired the knack of resting with one ear alert to potential danger, and the fact that he was slumbering through a wrestling match did not bode well.
‘More than I wanted to waste,’ snapped his would-be assailant, sounding more irritable than afraid. ‘I was beginning to think it would never work. I should have been away from here long before now, and instead it is almost dawn.’
‘You followed us,’ said Geoffrey, recalling the skulking figure he had spotted the previous evening.
‘I am not very good at that sort of thing. I imagine you saw me at least twice.’
‘What do you want?’ asked Geoffrey, bemused by the man’s attitude. Most people would have been a little more conciliatory under the circumstances.
The man fell silent, so Geoffrey jerked him upright and dragged him to where a tinder lay next to a candle stub, indicating that he was to light it. Reluctantly, the fellow obeyed, and the chamber soon filled with a low, flickering light. The cow watched with disinterest, chewing purposefully with its legs tucked underneath it. Geoffrey glanced at Roger and was relieved to see his chest rise and fall rhythmically, while Durand smiled in his sleep. Satisfied his companions were as well as could be expected, he turned his attention to the intruder, whom he still kept at knifepoint.
He was almost as tall as Geoffrey, but slimmer. His face was hidden by the hood of his cloak, so Geoffrey yanked it away. He was proud of himself when he betrayed no surprise at the discovery that it was not a man but a woman, who had taken the unusual precaution of wearing a man’s leather leggings and short tunic under her cloak. She glowered at him with a face as black as thunder. Her dark hair was wrapped into a coil at the back of her head, and he saw from her worldly-wise eyes and the laughter lines around her mouth that she was well past youth – perhaps middle forties. Her accent was cultured, so he assumed she was not one of the Winchester Geese he had heard coarsely advertising their wares in the street the night before.
‘What do you want?’ he repeated, stepping closer with his knife at the ready.
‘You already know,’ she retorted angrily. ‘And incidentally, there are armed men outside who will c
ome for me when I do not return, so you had better rethink your position.’
Geoffrey doubted there were any such guards, or they would not have allowed her to sneak into the chambers of sleeping knights alone, but he admired her audacity and resourcefulness.
‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ he said, wishing he felt more alert. He recalled Roger bellowing out the fact that Geoffrey had read Hugh’s parchment before the landlord tossed it into the gutter, and suspected his nocturnal visitor had something to do with that, although he was not going to make matters easy for her by guessing.
‘You do know,’ she flashed furiously. ‘I want the parchment you stole from Hugh.’
‘What makes you think I took it?’
‘You were seen.’ Geoffrey supposed one of the shadowy, wealthy-looking figures at the back of the crowd had told her. ‘Do not play games with me. Where is it?’
‘The landlord found it, not me, but he threw it away when he could not read what was written. You can try hunting for it outside his inn, but I doubt you will find it. It is probably in the river by now.’
She cursed colourfully in a way that indicated no matter how cultured her Norman-French, she had nonetheless spent time in less exulted circles. ‘Are you sure? It contained valuable information.’
‘What sort of information?’
‘Nothing to interest you. Now put up your weapon. I do not like knives waved at me.’
‘What sort of information?’ He forced her up against the wall with the blade near her throat.
She sighed irritably and tried to push him away. ‘You are better off not knowing. You should have kept riding and not become involved.’
‘I am not involved,’ said Geoffrey firmly. ‘But now you have piqued my interest. Tell me what you expected to find in that parchment and I will let you go.’
She gave a half-laugh of disbelief. ‘And how do I know that I can trust you?’
‘You do not. Trust is something earned over long periods of time, not exchanged carelessly in the depths of the night between people who do not know each other.’
The King's Spies Page 4