The King's Spies

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘I do not like any of this,’ grumbled Durand, as he rode at Geoffrey’s side. ‘A man is hanged and we are blamed for the death. Then it transpires that the dead man is a kinsman of the Earl of Shrewsbury, but might also be a spy for the King. Meanwhile, his aunt has been using him as a messenger to organize a secret treaty behind her brother’s back, and is the kind of woman to drug men and clamber into their beds in the dead of night. And now a second man is murdered.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Roger, shooting Geoffrey a baleful look. ‘Wearing men’s clothes and climbing through windows is hardly the behaviour of a gentlewoman, is it? And now we learn that she drugged Oswin and stabbed him before coming to you.’

  Geoffrey supposed this was possible. Matilda had invaded his chamber not long before dawn, and Wulfric had said that the folk at the Crusader’s Head had retired at the comparatively early hour of eight o’clock. Geoffrey saw she might well have slipped the doctored ale to him and Roger, then gone on to dispatch Oswin. When she returned, expecting Geoffrey and Roger to be deep in their slumbers, she found Roger cavorting with his prostitutes, and was obliged to dose more of his ale and wait until she was certain he was insensible. He rubbed his head wearily, wondering how he had become embroiled in such a mess. He decided to quit the country as soon as he had had his audience with Henry.

  Durand was still complaining about their dire misfortune. ‘And if the murders of Hugh and Oswin are not enough, we discover that the Bellêmes are making Greek Fire to hurl at Henry and learn that Mabel de Bellême has been brought back to life using witchcraft. She is probably the one who told Matilda to double-cross the others by attempting to arrange a treaty with King Henry.’

  ‘Why would she do that?’ asked Geoffrey, bemused by his squire’s logic. ‘If she really has been brought back to lead the family, she is hardly likely to weaken her clan by sending one of them to treat with the enemy. She will want them united and strong.’

  ‘But she is no longer human,’ said Durand earnestly. ‘She became something else when her grave was disturbed. She will not see the world in the same way as you or me, not any more.’

  Helbye and Roger looked alarmed, and Geoffrey wondered how two such bold and courageous soldiers – both practical men who were afraid of very little – could be unnerved by such tales.

  ‘Do not be ridiculous,’ he said firmly. ‘Mabel is no demon. She is nothing but a pile of dusty bones that are doubtless lying peacefully in some corner of Normandy.’

  ‘She is here,’ said Durand with a dramatic shudder, drawing the hood of his cloak over his luxurious mane of yellow curls, as if he imagined it might protect him. ‘I can feel it.’

  ‘No wonder the House of Montgomery-Bellême is so powerful and evil,’ said Roger, more willing to believe Durand’s flights of fancy than Geoffrey’s common sense. ‘They are taking orders from a woman who has been in her grave these last twenty-five years, but who has emerged to help them in their hour of need.’

  ‘Lord!’ sighed Geoffrey, not sure how to convince them that corpses did not stand up and take charge of tactical operations after a quarter of a century in the ground. ‘Oswin misheard or misunderstood what they were saying. And anyway, raising folk from the dead is impossible.’

  ‘Jesus did it,’ argued Helbye. ‘I know the story of Lazarus. It is in the Bible, so it must be true.’

  ‘But the Bellêmes are not Jesus,’ Geoffrey pointed out. ‘And Mabel died years ago, whereas Lazarus had only been dead a few hours and was not missing his head. The two cases are not comparable.’

  ‘I have already informed you that demons do not need a whole corpse,’ said Durand crisply. ‘I read about these things in my abbey. There are many ways of calling a soul back from the dead, and a complete corpse is not a prerequisite of any of them. I hear the infidel are good at that sort of thing, which is why the Crusaders took so long to liberate Jerusalem.’

  Geoffrey did not bother to reply, seeing his companions had already made up their minds about Mabel de Bellême’s headless return. There was no point trying to convince them otherwise, and he would only become angry with them if they discussed the matter further. He was not surprised Roger and Helbye had chosen to accept such superstitious nonsense, but he had hoped Durand would be more discriminating. The squire had enjoyed an abbey education, and should have known better.

  As they rode through the city, Roger started to grumble again about what Geoffrey had agreed to do for Matilda. He had a point: courts were dangerous places, and alliances were made and broken with mind-boggling rapidity. Geoffrey knew little of current courtly affairs and might well end up in danger by meddling in matters he did not understand. But there was something about Matilda that Geoffrey had liked. She was far more interesting than the simpering whores Roger favoured, or the prim nunnery ladies his sister sometimes recommended as suitable wives. He had been intrigued by Matilda, despite the fact that she had come close to cutting his throat.

  They rode along a bustling thoroughfare called Athelyngestrate and eventually met the towering walls that marked the edge of London, built many years ago to defend the city against Norse invaders. They were still formidable, and it seemed London’s burgesses spared no expense in keeping them in good repair. Geoffrey could see why. London was a rich jewel of commerce in a country that relied heavily on agriculture. If an enemy attacked England, then London would be a magnet for looters.

  There were a number of gates set into the walls, but they were small, and only one cart could pass through at a time. Since those wanting access to the city were being granted priority over those who wanted to leave – the burgesses were more interested in pleasing folk who brought money into their city than those who took it out – Geoffrey and his companions were obliged to wait. Westminster was only a mile or so outside the city, and it was still relatively early in the morning, but Geoffrey chafed at the delay, hoping it would not make him late for his audience with Henry.

  He scanned the heaving throng that pressed about him for signs that they were still being pursued, but saw no one acting suspiciously. A number of people eyed them, but it was unusual to see Jerosolimitani in England, and Geoffrey was used to being regarded as something exotic.

  While they waited, a fat Benedictine sidled up to them and asked if they intended to travel to Westminster. Durand had invited him to ride with them before Geoffrey could object. Geoffrey assessed the monk carefully, but decided he was too fat and soft to present a danger, and did not blame the fellow for seeking safety in numbers outside the city gates. England’s roads had a bad reputation, and even a monastic habit was no protection from some robbers.

  ‘I have messages to deliver there,’ said the man, happy to pass the time in idle chatter while they waited to be allowed out. ‘Westminster is not far from London, but I dislike travelling alone.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Durand. ‘Few roads are safe these days.’

  ‘King Henry has eliminated many of the outlaws that plague our highways,’ the fat monk chattered on. ‘But there are still too many for comfort.’

  ‘Who are your messages for?’ asked Durand nosily.

  ‘Maurice,’ replied the cleric. He saw Durand’s blank look and elaborated. ‘The Bishop of London. I have letters for him from Ralph d’Escures, Abbot of Sées. Sées is the mother house of the Benedictine monastery at Shrewsbury, and Ralph is there at the moment, assessing the value of our holy relics, while Maurice can usually be found at Westminster.’

  ‘Maurice is a good friend of my father’s,’ said Roger to Geoffrey. ‘I meant to tell you when that pot boy said Maurice sometimes attends the Bellêmes’ illicit gatherings in the Crusader’s Head. Nice man, Maurice. I would not have imagined him throwing in his lot with the Earl.’

  As far as Geoffrey was concerned, the fact that Maurice was an associate of the disgraced Bishop of Durham automatically implied that his morals and character were in question. He shook his head in disgust, thinking that the Court must seethe with corruption and intri
gue if it welcomed men who enjoyed that particular bishop’s company, and was even more determined to leave as soon as possible.

  ‘Have you come from Shrewsbury Abbey, then?’ Durand asked the fat monk. ‘I would like to live there, enjoying a cloistered life away from the filth and degradation of the world.’

  ‘There is nothing wrong with filth and degradation,’ said the monk cheerfully, sounding as though he preferred that to a sterile and probably dull life inside a convent’s stalwart walls. ‘And, yes, Shrewsbury is my home abbey. My name is Brother Petronus.’

  ‘What do your messages contain?’ probed Durand. Geoffrey smiled at his audacity. Letters sent by abbots to bishops tended to be private, and not for casual discussion with strangers en route.

  Petronus’s smile slipped a little, startled to be asked such a blunt question. ‘Abbey business,’ he replied vaguely. ‘Shrewsbury is under the lordship of Robert de Bellême, and the monks are afraid it might suffer when he answers for his treachery at the King’s Easter Court.’

  ‘So, Abbot Ralph is asking Bishop Maurice to intervene on his monastery’s behalf,’ surmised Durand. ‘That is wise. I have heard that the King plans to strip Bellême of all his estates, and Shrewsbury Abbey may well suffer. It will serve Bellême right, though. He is a godless man, and it will do him good to reflect on his sins when he is banished and has his English lands confiscated.’

  ‘I know nothing of that,’ said Petronus uncomfortably, obviously unwilling to speak openly against the man who ultimately controlled his abbey. ‘But I need to be at Westminster soon – Bishop Maurice is expecting me – and we should not waste time here when we could be on the road.’

  Before Geoffrey could stop him, he had marched to the head of the patiently waiting queue, and demanded that he and his companions be allowed through the gate immediately, on the grounds that they had important business with the King. There were mutterings and groans from the onlookers, but no one was overly vocal in his disapproval.

  Geoffrey paid yet another toll, and he and his companions emerged in a vile little shanty town of lean-to shacks inhabited by folk who watched them with dull, flat expressions. He mounted his horse and rode through their camp, appalled by its desperate poverty. He had encountered destitution before, but he had never seen it when there was luxury and plenty so near by. He spurred his horse into a trot, wanting to be away from the shabby, mean little hovels as quickly as possible.

  When the stench of open latrines was left behind, he slowed and allowed his horse to choose its own pace along a pleasant track that followed the glistening mudflats lining the northern bank of the Thames. The others caught up with him, with Petronus careful to place himself between the two knights for security. They passed strip fields, where peasants laboured with hoes and spades. Small children gathered stones in piles around the fields’ edges, so they could be hurled at marauding birds later in the year, when the crops were vulnerable.

  The cultivated land gave way to a kind of seascape, where the scent of the river dominated, and small streams meandered across flat, boggy wasteland. Herons fished in the shallows, and Geoffrey saw fat brown trout in the rills they crossed. He glanced behind him from time to time, but the road was empty, and whoever had been following them earlier seemed to have given up. He assumed Roger had been right: the fellow had been a hopeful thief. However, he understood why Petronus had wanted company for the last leg of his journey from Shrewsbury. It would have been a lonely ride alone.

  To the right was a belt of trees, which swept down to meet the water’s edge. Sunlight filtered through the budding branches and made dappled patterns on the ground. Geoffrey listened intently, thinking it odd that the copse should be so silent when March was a time for courting birds, but the trees that pressed in on them from both sides were still and quiet.

  Durand, riding last in the little procession, suddenly released a piercing cry and toppled from his horse. Geoffrey swung around, tugging his shield from its fastenings on the saddle. He raised it not a moment too soon, because an arrow immediately thudded into it. There was a sharp howl, and Petronus fell to the ground with a bolt protruding from his shoulder. Geoffrey wheeled around, and saw a cluster of oaks to his left. He drew his sword and galloped towards it, seeing there was no other place from which an ambush could be mounted.

  Another arrow slapped into his shield, and the metal barb sliced through the wood and came through the other side, narrowly missing his arm. As he crashed into the trees, he saw someone scramble from beneath a bush. He slashed with the flat of his blade, knocking the man from his feet. The archer staggered, then fell and lay still. A second man darted from the scrub, and when he saw Geoffrey in pursuit he abandoned his bow and began to zigzag through the trees, desperation in his every move.

  Geoffrey yelled to Roger to stay with the man he had felled, and bent low to avoid being knocked from his saddle as branches tore past his head. He was gaining, and could see terrified eyes as the archer glanced back at him. Geoffrey drove his horse harder, and the bowman made a critical mistake: instead of staying in the copse, where bushes and branches afforded him protection, he set off across an open glade. Geoffrey was on him in a trice, and had just snatched up a handful of his hood, when he made a hiccuping sound and crumpled. An arrow was embedded in his throat, and there was nothing Geoffrey could do to help him as he gurgled his last. Geoffrey raised his shield and gazed around wildly, trying to determine the direction from which the shot had been fired.

  He heard other hoofs pounding the ground, and it was not many moments before a tightly packed group of horsemen emerged from the opposite side of the wood. Geoffrey braced himself, taking a tighter grip on his sword and adjusting his shield. He wheeled his horse around, and went on the offensive, seeing he was outnumbered by at least six to one and determined to strike as hard as he could before he was overwhelmed. He headed for the leading horseman, who fumbled for his sword to parry the hacking swipe Geoffrey aimed at his head. At the very last moment Geoffrey recognized the face and the colours of the rider, and managed to avoid what might well have been a killing blow. His horse thundered on, unable to stop, and Geoffrey was tempted to keep going. But he reined it in and trotted back to face the man he had almost decapitated.

  ‘Sir Geoffrey Mappestone,’ said the horseman, trying to appear nonchalant, although his white face and unsteady hands indicated he had been seriously shaken.

  Sheepishly, Geoffrey bowed in his saddle. ‘Your Majesty.’

  The knights who had ridden out hunting that day were furious that their monarch had come so close to death while he was under their protection, and Geoffrey saw they would dearly have loved to express their outrage by striking him down. He did not try to explain that men who fired arrows at Crusader knights should expect a sword first and questions later, because he hoped the King had not taken his instinctive reaction personally. However, because Henry’s brother, King William Rufus, had been shot in a forest two years earlier, woodland ‘accidents’ were a delicate subject in the royal household. No one knew what had really happened to Rufus, and, although he would not have bloodied his hands personally, Henry had certainly acted promptly when he had heard the news, and had had himself crowned before most of the country knew Rufus was dead.

  However, almost killing Henry was not the way Geoffrey had intended to obey his summons to Westminster. He apologized profusely, and did what was expected of him by dismounting and kneeling, offering his sword as a sign that he acknowledged Henry’s sovereignty and that he knew he had transgressed. He also knew Henry was not a man to forget such an incident, and suspected it would cost him dear at some point, when Henry would claim he had witnesses that Geoffrey had tried to decapitate him.

  Henry declared the hunting was not good that day and ordered the party to abandon their sport and return home. Although several knights, spoiling for a kill, exchanged glances to indicate they disagreed, no one dared argue, and the riders began to move towards Westminster. All carried bows for the s
tags and boar they had hoped to slaughter, and Geoffrey had no way of telling whether it was the monarch’s own arrow that had killed the renegade archer or one of his courtiers’.

  Geoffrey had no choice but to go with the King. He glanced surreptitiously behind him, but Roger was nowhere to be seen, so he assumed he had recognized the King’s standard and prudently declined to identify himself with a man who had attacked him. Geoffrey also assumed Roger would question the first archer and find out why he had opened fire on innocent men, before turning him over to the local sheriff and making his own way to Westminster.

  ‘I am sorry, sire,’ he said yet again, spurring his horse so he rode next to Henry, and ignoring the resentful mutters of those courtiers who had been looking forward to a morning of bloody sport. ‘You took me by surprise.’

  Henry grimaced. He was in his early thirties, and was of middle height with black hair and dark grey eyes that were full of expression and could flash with anger as easily as they could dance with delight. They could also be unreadable, and it was certainly impossible to know what he was thinking that day.

  ‘It has taught me a valuable lesson. In future, I shall allow one of my knights to ride first into that sort of situation, and not attempt to do so myself. I was overly eager to greet you; I have been waiting weeks for you to obey my summons. I said no later than noon the day before Palm Sunday, and you have left it until the very last moment.’

  ‘I came as soon as I could.’ It was true, and Geoffrey had been hard pressed to meet the monarch’s deadline, since he had not been in Antioch when the summons had been delivered.

  ‘Prince Tancred was happy to let you come? He trusts you to return to him, and does not think you might prefer to settle amid the cool green hills of home?’