The King's Spies

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘But the problem is that you will not know it is the wrong thing to do until you have already done it,’ grumbled Roger. ‘Then it will be too late. I am telling you, Geoff, no good will come of this. What is she called, anyway?’

  ‘Matilda,’ said Geoffrey, who had always liked the name. ‘Shrewsbury has three sisters, and she is the middle one. Emma, who is the eldest of the trio, is said to be the witch.’

  ‘Well, that is all right, then,’ said Roger, heavily sarcastic. ‘We have not been enlisted by the one everyone knows is the witch, just one of the ones who is more discreet with her craft. So, tell me again what she wants from us.’

  ‘Nothing from us,’ said Geoffrey, who had already decided to keep his friend away from the whole business, just in case it misfired. ‘She would like me to tell the King that she and her sisters are prepared to swear an oath of allegiance, vowing not to add their forces to their brothers’. I do not see why the King should object to hearing that someone wants to be loyal to him.’

  ‘But someone has already died trying to deliver such a message or its reply. For all you know, Matilda may have offered the King her loyalty on a previous occasion and he found her lacking.’

  ‘I know,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I am not stupid, Roger. I will be careful.’

  Roger shot him a resentful glance to indicate he was deeply unhappy with the situation, but Geoffrey had had enough of Roger and his gloom. The rain of the previous night had dissipated, the sun had risen and the shabby buildings of Southwark were transformed from browns and blacks to orange-gold. The air was cool, and only just beginning to stink of the night soil tossed from upstairs windows into the streets below. Geoffrey inhaled deeply, detecting the scent of the river, foul and salty, among other familiar odours – the smell of fresh fish and horse manure, and a mixture of tar and wood from a shipwright’s yard.

  They reached the London Bridge and lined up to pay the toll with others who wanted to cross. From his reading, Geoffrey knew there had been a bridge across the River Thames since the Romans had built one many centuries before. He glanced uneasily at the rickety structure, and thought a little more money should have been invested in something so important to the city’s commercial success. It was wood, when it would have been more sensible to use stone – not just because stone would be less affected by the fires that regularly plagued London, but because it would have been safer for the hundreds of folk who wanted to use it: he could feel the thing swaying under his feet as he walked.

  He glanced over the side to the water below, where boatmen were doing a brisk trade, ferrying customers and their goods from one side to the other. The river was muddy brown and smelled foul, like bad eggs. All manner of filth swept past: discarded rags, pieces of wood, offal from the butchers’ stalls and even a dead cow, bloated by water and death and floating with its legs stretched grotesquely skyward. Geoffrey was glad when he reached the other side.

  And then he was in the city of London itself. The air rang with noise as barges and boats laden with cloth, wool, coal, timber, peat and grain crowded and nudged each other to reach the seething wharves. Traders weaved in and out of the crowd, trying to sell their wares, shouting at the tops of their voices that theirs was the finest ribbon, the cleanest candles, the freshest bread. Dogs barked, geese honked and cattle lowed miserably as they were herded towards the slaughterhouses. Geoffrey had visited many places in his years of travel, but none had been as noisy, smelly, rough or confusing as London. It was amid all this chaos that he knew for certain they were being followed again.

  ‘I know about this bit of the city,’ said Roger with mounting excitement, as he looked around him. ‘It is called Ethelredshythe, and there is a public lavatory here that I would dearly like to see. You do not find those just anywhere, and it is the only one of its kind in the country.’

  ‘Another time,’ said Geoffrey, thinking that Roger must be wrong. There were many public latrines in Normandy and the Holy Land, and he did not imagine the country of his birth was so backward as to discover their virtues only now. Then he glanced at the foul gutters that ran along each side of the road and the murky waters of the Thames and supposed Roger might be right.

  ‘Do you know there is someone following us?’ asked Roger, glancing casually behind him. ‘I have seen you looking around often enough, so I suppose you do. I am of a mind to run him through. I do not take kindly to folk watching my every move.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ said Geoffrey. ‘But we should not kill him until we know who he is. I do not want the King asking why we killed one of his best spies.’

  ‘You think Henry is having us followed?’ Roger was not impressed.

  ‘He is the only one who expects us to be here.’

  ‘There is your woman,’ said Roger disapprovingly. ‘Matilda. She knows what you intend to do.’

  ‘She does not,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I do not make a habit of telling strangers our plans, as you know perfectly well. But it is possible that she has set one of her retainers after us. She need not have bothered. He will not come close enough to hear what I say to Henry, so will not know whether I have carried out her request or not.’

  ‘He may be a robber,’ said Roger, fingering his sword. ‘Or perhaps he has something to do with Greek Fire. Or Bellême may have hired him, because we discovered his nephew and you defiled his sister. There are many reasons why he represents a danger. We should kill him.’

  ‘Here? With all these people to say it was an unprovoked attack? And what if he is an agent of the King’s? How will you explain why you murdered him? Say you dislike being followed?’

  ‘We could separate, and I could shove a dagger in his ribs. That would be the simplest solution.’

  ‘But not the wisest,’ replied Geoffrey, wishing Roger was not always so ready to use violence.

  They stood aside to allow a funeral procession to pass. At the front was a priest, who rang a small handbell to warn people to pay their respects. Behind were four men carrying a bier, bearing it like a stretcher, as though the corpse were still alive. Geoffrey thought they looked familiar, but knew that was impossible. Their clothes indicated they were local, earning a living by fishing on the river, and Geoffrey had certainly not mingled with fishermen on his previous fleeting visits to the city. He glanced at the bier as it passed and saw the dead man’s face. Geoffrey felt his stomach lurch. It was Oswin, landlord of the Crusader’s Head.

  Three

  A crowd of mourners followed Oswin’s bier. His family were first – a heavily built wife and a gaggle of children – while behind were some of the patrons Geoffrey had seen the previous night, although none were the wealthy folk who had kept themselves hidden at the back. Among them was Wulfric, whose eyes were red from crying. He looked more frightened than grief stricken, and Geoffrey supposed his tears were for himself, and what would happen to him now his employer was dead.

  ‘What happened?’ Geoffrey asked him.

  Wulfric dropped out of the procession, and his eyes lit hopefully on Geoffrey’s purse. ‘Oswin died. His widow says she will sell the inn, and I do not see the new owners wanting to keep me on.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Roger. ‘Are you a thief? Do you spit in the ale?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Wulfric unhappily. ‘Oswin did not mind, as long as I kept to Crusaders and religious types, and left his other patrons alone.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Roger indignantly. Helbye and Ulfrith exchanged startled glances, while Durand sniggered nastily. ‘What did he have against men who risked their lives to liberate the Holy City?’

  ‘His son took Holy Orders to go on the Crusade,’ replied Wulfric with a sloppy sniff. ‘Oswin was proud of him. But the lad got so drunk celebrating his courage that he fell overboard while his ship was still in port. He drowned, and Oswin blamed the Crusade for the tragedy.’

  ‘I see,’ said Geoffrey, understanding why the man had been so hostile the previous evening and why he had chosen such an odd name for his tavern. He changed the
subject. ‘How did Oswin die?’

  ‘Stabbed,’ said Wulfric, wiping his nose on his filthy apron. ‘We all went to bed as usual – at about eight o’clock – but when we awoke this morning he was lying in his bed with a knife in his heart.’

  ‘Someone killed him while he slept?’ asked Geoffrey, astonished. ‘But surely a large, busy tavern like that must have been full of people who would notice murderous intruders.’

  ‘I sleep in the next chamber, and I heard nothing. Nor did his wife, and she was in the same bed!’ Wulfric watched the procession round a corner and lowered his voice, so Geoffrey and Roger had to lean close to hear what he was saying. ‘Personally, I believe demons came for his soul and snatched it, while all us good folk slept.’

  ‘Demons do not kill with daggers,’ said Geoffrey, amused by the notion.

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Wulfric fearfully. ‘Are you familiar with their ways?’

  Geoffrey sensed he was on dangerous ground, and saw he would be condemned whichever way he answered. Roger did not care whether or not folk thought he consorted with witches and warlocks, however, and was ready to offer an opinion.

  ‘Demons kill with claws,’ he announced authoritatively. ‘Or by wrapping long tails around their victims’ throats. They never use human weapons. My father told me that, and he is a bishop.’

  Wulfric looked suitably impressed, and Geoffrey did not bother to ask why bishops should be so much better acquainted with the Devil’s creatures than lay folk. ‘So, you heard and saw nothing during the night?’ he asked instead.

  Wulfric shook his head. ‘We slept heavily, because of the shock regarding Hugh. We had been busy, because we had to make sure the body was covered nicely, and that a priest was hired to say masses. We do not want the Earl to think his nephew’s corpse was treated disrespectfully.’

  ‘Indeed not,’ said Geoffrey, although what he knew of Bellême suggested that he would not care one way or the other. Still, Oswin and Wulfric were wise not to risk offending the man.

  ‘You said you know the Earl,’ Wulfric went on. ‘So, you do not need me to tell you that he might have tired of his stupid nephew and had him dispatched. But we thought we had better be careful nonetheless. You never know with the Earl.’

  ‘He is that kind of man,’ agreed Roger. ‘You would not want him at your side in a battle. You would never know who he might decide to fight for.’

  ‘He consorts with the Devil,’ said Wulfric matter-of-factly. ‘Everyone knows that, so he probably ordered his familiars to make an end of Oswin as well as Hugh.’

  ‘Why would he harm Oswin?’ asked Geoffrey, who could see the Earl killing a weak-witted nephew by hurling him out of a window with a rope around his neck, but not stabbing a landlord in the dead of night. Bellême’s murders tended to be more flamboyant and grisly than a knife in the heart. ‘Oswin allowed him to use his inn as a meeting place. There are not many who would take that risk, when everyone knows his family are not friends of the King.’

  ‘I do not think the King had Oswin killed,’ said Wulfric, although Geoffrey had not meant to imply the murder was royally inspired. ‘But it is possible, I suppose. Who knows in these troubled times?’

  ‘When you woke this morning, did you feel thick-headed?’ asked Geoffrey, as a thought struck him. ‘Did you sleep longer than usual?’

  ‘How do you know that?’ asked Wulfric suspiciously. ‘We all slept like the dead, which is odd for me, because I usually need to rise in the night to visit the latrine.’

  Geoffrey did not reply. He knew from personal experience that it was difficult to relax after witnessing unsettling incidents like violent deaths, and thought that Oswin, Wulfric and the others would have been restless and fitful, as their minds played back the event and prevented them from sleeping. It seemed obvious to him that poppy juice had been added to more ale than his and Roger’s.

  ‘Did you ever witness the meetings Bellême held in Oswin’s tavern?’ he asked. ‘What was discussed and who attended?’

  Wulfric paled and backed away. ‘I cannot tell you that! The Earl’s demons would come for certain, and it would not matter whether they use daggers, claws or tails to kill, because I will be dead regardless.’

  Geoffrey reached into his pouch and removed a silver coin. Wulfric regarded it thoughtfully, assessing whether such a large sum was worth risking his life over. He decided it was.

  ‘I did not see much. Men came in dark cloaks, but they wore hoods and I never saw their faces.’

  ‘Were there women, too?’ asked Geoffrey, aware of the sharp look Roger threw in his direction. His friend had just made the connection that there were two cases of heavy sleeping the previous night.

  ‘I do not think so,’ said Wulfric, glancing around in a way that indicated he was frightened. ‘I told you: they took pains to hide their faces. And I do not know what they discussed, either.’

  ‘I do not believe you,’ said Geoffrey, replacing the coin in his scrip. ‘Oswin knew what the meetings were about, and I think he told you – his best and most loyal employee.’

  ‘He did mention a few things,’ admitted Wulfric, flattered to hear himself so described and determined to have Geoffrey’s coin. ‘There was something about a weapon. And they talked a lot about the head of the family: Mabel de Bellême, who is the Earl’s mother.’

  Geoffrey was confused. ‘She was killed twenty-five years ago. She is not head of their clan.’

  ‘She had been bathing in the river,’ added Roger, who was fond of this particular story, because it contained a little of everything he held dear: violent death, unclad women and a healthy dose of superstition. ‘She went back to the castle and lay naked on her bed to dry off. It was then that some knights burst in and murdered her with their swords. They cut off her head and took it with them when they left. She died cursing them, and they all died hideous deaths soon after.’

  ‘Her killers were never apprehended,’ corrected Geoffrey, knowing the last part was pure fabrication on Roger’s part, although the rest was true enough. ‘Despite a massive hunt by the Earl.’

  ‘Well, one of the two stories is true,’ said Roger carelessly, not concerned by the fact that they represented very different outcomes. ‘Suffice to say she was a demon, and the world is a better place without her in it.’

  ‘But she might be,’ said Wulfric, looking around him nervously again. ‘In it, I mean. They talked about her as though she was still alive. Perhaps she did not die, but lives on, horribly disfigured. Or perhaps the Earl’s sister, Emma the Witch, has summoned her from the dead.’

  ‘Mabel was decapitated,’ said Geoffrey shortly. ‘And the men who killed her stole her head when they escaped. I doubt even the most powerful sorceress could bring life to someone with no head.’

  Roger and Wulfric exchanged unhappy glances to indicate that the lack of a head merely made the spectre all the more terrifying, and its absence would make little difference to someone like Mabel. Geoffrey heard Helbye inform Ulfrith and Durand that he had heard of many cases where the dead walked with missing body parts, and that such details would not represent a serious obstacle to a powerful sorceress like Emma. Ulfrith nodded sagely, agreeing with every word, while Durand added that it was possible to use parts from other corpses, if the originals could not be found.

  Geoffrey ignored them. ‘What did the family say about Mabel, exactly?’

  ‘That she is the head of their family,’ Wulfric repeated. ‘Everyone thinks it is the Earl, but it is her. She must be a powerful demon, to exist without a head.’ He gazed defiantly at Geoffrey, daring him to contradict.

  ‘Is that all?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘They talked about a weapon and Mabel de Bellême?’

  ‘And about the King,’ said Wulfric, his voice wheedling as he fixed his gaze on Geoffrey’s purse. ‘About how unfair it is that Henry should order them to his Easter Court in Winchester next week.’

  ‘Did Oswin lend his tavern to anyone outside the Bellême household?’ ask
ed Geoffrey.

  ‘Maurice, the Bishop of London, comes occasionally,’ said Wulfric. ‘He tries to disguise himself, too, but he is fat and has a distinctive waddle, so he is impossible to mistake for anyone else. Besides, he always has a Winchester Goose afterwards, and she sees him naked, so we know who he is.’

  ‘He attends the same gatherings as the Bellêmes?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Or business of his own?’

  Wulfric told him that Maurice joined the Bellêmes, then listed men Geoffrey did not know: a soldier named William Pantulf and someone called Beaumais, both men desperate for power and wealth. They professed loyalty to Bellême, but had also sworn an oath of allegiance to the King.

  Geoffrey wondered how many other nobles were plotting against the King, throwing in their lot with the rebellious Earl. Not everyone agreed that Henry had a right to the English throne, and there were many – secretly, Geoffrey was among them – who believed the crown should have passed to the Duke of Normandy, Henry’s older brother. A perfectly legal document signed by their dead brother King William Rufus designated the Duke as his heir, and Geoffrey did not approve of legal documents being casually ignored.

  He gave Wulfric the coin and advised him to leave Southwark as soon as Oswin’s requiem mass was over. The Crusader’s Head was no longer safe, and Geoffrey imagined it was only a matter of time before whoever killed Oswin realized he needed to silence others, too. He wondered how long it would be before that same person reached the conclusion that he and Roger might be in possession of information that could prove dangerous, and tried to kill them, too. He dropped his hand to the hilt of his sword and determined to be ready for them when they came.

  Once Wulfric had scuttled away with his treasure – running not after the funeral procession, but in the opposite direction, obviously intending to follow Geoffrey’s advice immediately – the two knights and their servants made their way through the narrow streets that ranged along the northern bank of the River Thames. Their destination was Westminster, which stood outside London and apart from its chaotic, noisome bustle. Westminster was where King Henry resided when he was in his realm’s largest city, and where Geoffrey had been ordered to appear no later than noon that day.