‘I cannot kill Bellême on your behalf,’ said Geoffrey, not even trying to hide his distaste at the suggestion. ‘If he was murdered, everyone would know it was your doing.’
He wondered whether Henry planned to have him killed, too, after he had carried out his sinister duties, and glanced around him. No one else had heard what the King had said, so he assumed Henry had already decided there were to be no witnesses to the discussion.
‘Why, Geoffrey!’ exclaimed Henry, his eyes widening in shock. ‘I did not tell you to kill him! I said I wanted you to make an end of him, which is not the same thing at all. I meant I want an end of him here, in England. I want you to help me have him exiled.’
Geoffrey did not believe him for an instant, and assumed the wily monarch had been testing the waters. If Geoffrey had agreed to resolve the problem that the powerful Earl had become, then he was sure Henry would not have demurred. But Geoffrey was no cold-blooded killer, and his services for that kind of business were not for hire.
‘You have been too long in foreign places,’ said Henry, gesturing that Geoffrey was to sit with him near the fire. ‘You think like an infidel, rather than a civilized man.’
Geoffrey refrained from pointing out that most infidel were a good deal more civilized than the brutal louts – such as Bellême and his clan – who haunted the western courts. Henry settled himself on a pile of cushions near the hearth, while Geoffrey selected a bench. Then Philip’s son reappeared. Someone had obviously taken pity on him and told him what to do, because this time he carried the proper tray with jug and goblets. He stumbled as he walked, and some of the wine splattered across the floor.
Henry glared in disapproval. ‘Have a care, Philip. That is expensive and not for dogs to lick up.’
‘Shall I scrape it up for you, then, sire?’ asked the squire with open-eyed innocence. ‘I can fetch another cup to put it in, and you can enjoy it later.’
Geoffrey regarded him in astonishment, wondering whether the lad was using his guileless expression to insult the monarch, or whether he genuinely believed that Henry wanted him to retrieve the lost wine for future consumption. He started to laugh, because he thought either option was amusing. Henry scowled, while Philip’s expression changed from eager innocence to dismay.
‘I cannot drink it after it has been on the floor, boy!’ snapped Henry irritably. ‘That is not what I meant when I told you to be careful.’
‘Yes, sire,’ muttered Philip, blushing furiously. ‘No, sire.’
‘Just pour the wine and be gone,’ said Henry crossly, while Geoffrey fought to control his mirth. ‘And I shall have mine in a goblet, please – not on the floor and not in my lap. God’s blood! What have I done to deserve you?’
His furious glare made Philip more nervous than ever, and another generous splash of claret made its acquaintance with the floor. Henry sighed gustily, then jerked his feet out of the way when the squire accidentally kicked the table, spraying more wine towards the hearth. When Philip eventually finished, one cup was overflowing and the other was only half full. He beat a hasty and prudent retreat before he could be criticized, leaving Henry shaking his head and Geoffrey struggling not to smile.
‘Are there no others who can act as your squire?’ Geoffrey imagined there were many nobles who would dearly love their children to be given such a chance, and he was surprised that the awkward Philip should be tolerated.
‘Plenty,’ said Henry, politely passing his guest the fuller of the two goblets. ‘But it pleases me to know I have a Bellême under my control. You should not have laughed at him, Geoffrey. He was not making a joke, you know. He is wholly devoid of humour, and meant what he said quite literally.’
‘I am sorry, sire,’ said Geoffrey. ‘He took me unawares.’
‘He does that,’ agreed Henry dryly. ‘You are not the first to be shocked into laughter at his gross ineptitude.’ He drained what little claret there was in his cup, then gestured for Geoffrey to pour him more. ‘Did you know that all four of Bellême’s brothers named their bastard children after themselves? Hugh has an illegitimate brat called Hugh; Philip the Grammarian called his boy Philip; Roger the Count of Marche has at least four baptized Rogers; and Arnulf the Earl of Pembroke has three Arnulfs. Still, at least that practice makes their offspring easy to keep track of.’
‘And their legitimate children?’ asked Geoffrey, glad to be discussing something other than how to murder the Earl of Shrewsbury. ‘Do they name those after themselves, too?’
‘Hugh and Philip had none before they died,’ replied Henry. ‘And Bellême, Roger and Arnulf all named their rightful heirs William. They are a simple family.’ He roared with laughter, despite the fact that he had populated his Court with a number of Henrys himself.
Geoffrey heard breathing behind him, and turned to see Philip had not moved away as far as he had first thought, and was listening to the discussion between King and knight with undisguised interest. Henry waved him away, but he did not go much farther. Geoffrey suspected he could hear only disjointed fragments of the conversation, but he considered it unwise to be plotting the downfall of the lad’s uncle when he was in earshot regardless. The Earl may have abandoned him to an uncertain fate as a hostage, but family ties were important, and Geoffrey did not like to imagine the kind of messages Philip might secretly send the Bellêmes.
‘My brother, the Duke of Normandy, invaded my kingdom in July last year,’ said Henry, casually changing the subject. Geoffrey nodded warily, wondering what was coming next. ‘Among his troops were Bellême, his two surviving brothers and the disgraced Bishop of Durham – Roger’s father.’
Geoffrey tried to conceal his anxiety. He did not want Henry to exploit Roger for his connection to the outlawed bishop. Henry smiled.
‘Do not worry about Roger: my quarrel is with his father, not him. But when my army and my brother’s met in Hampshire, I was able to negotiate a truce before any blood was spilled.’
‘The Duke renounced his claim to the English throne and it was agreed no barons who had taken part in the campaign on either side would be punished,’ said Geoffrey, to let the King know he was not totally out of touch with what was happening in England. He did not add that Henry had already started to break the terms of the treaty. The rebel Earl of Surrey had lost his English lands on trumped-up charges, and Bellême was about to suffer a similar fate.
‘I am tired of the House of Montgomery-Bellême,’ said Henry bitterly. ‘They have rebelled three times now: twice against my brother Rufus, and once against me. I am weary of them all – Bellême, his brothers, and his three meddlesome sisters, Emma, Matilda and Sybilla.’
‘I see,’ said Geoffrey, supposing this was not a good time to act as Matilda’s ambassador. ‘How have the sisters offended you? They played no part in the rebellions.’
Or had they? He reconsidered, recalling the fact that Matilda had broken into his bedchamber and held him at knifepoint. She was probably perfectly capable of revolt.
‘They did their part,’ said Henry curtly. ‘They are formidable women, like your sister Joan. And Matilda is the most cunning of them all.’
‘Oh,’ said Geoffrey, supposing that Roger had been right to be sceptical of her. ‘In what way?’
Henry narrowed his eyes. ‘You seem unnaturally interested in my affairs all of a sudden. Normally, you detest hearing about the strife in my kingdom, and cannot wait to escape. Have you met any of the Bellême sisters? I know Sybilla is in London, trying to rally support for her brother.’
‘I have not met Sybilla,’ replied Geoffrey evenly.
‘She may contact you, to ask you to speak in her defence,’ Henry went on, and Geoffrey was glad the King was watching Philip’s clumsy attempts at polishing a pair of spurs and not studying Geoffrey’s own reactions. ‘She is determined that her family should keep their lands. But I cannot afford them in my realm. If I want a stable, peaceful kingdom, they have to go – the whole clan.’
‘Including the sister
s?’
‘Most certainly the sisters. They will all answer to me next week at my Easter Court. My agents tell me that Emma is due to arrive in London today, but I do not know what has happened to Matilda. I am told she is not yet here, but she is a slippery woman, and may well have insinuated herself inside the city without my spies knowing.’
‘You have summoned the whole family?’ asked Geoffrey, wondering why Matilda had not made her presence known to the King. If she wanted to ensure she kept her lands while her brothers lost theirs, she had no reason to hide, but plenty for presenting herself to Henry in person.
‘All six siblings,’ said Henry with satisfaction. ‘And then I shall exile them. Of course, they are squirming like maggots in a dead pig, claiming they are innocent, but I am not interested in excuses.’
‘They have contacted you?’ asked Geoffrey, wondering whether Henry would admit to sending the letter of rejection to Matilda, rebuffing her attempts to reach a settlement.
‘No,’ said Henry. ‘Although I anticipate it will not be long before they do.’
Geoffrey could not tell whether he was telling the truth. The letter Geoffrey had seen had borne no seal, so it was possible the King had had nothing to do with it. Or had he deliberately kept his official mark away from documents that might later prove to be problematic? Geoffrey had no idea, and the contorted affairs of state began to be too much for him. He longed to be away from the sordid dealings of the monarch and his rebellious subjects.
‘Hugh is dead,’ he said, afraid that Henry might hear about him being in Southwark when the young man was hanged, and accuse him of deceit if he was not open about it. ‘The son of Hugh,’ he added when Henry looked startled at what he evidently considered a non sequitur.
‘Well, that clears things up,’ drawled the King facetiously. ‘What are you burbling about, man?’
‘Bellême’s nephew,’ elaborated Geoffrey, wondering if the King was pretending not to know, so he could not be accused of playing a role in the murder. ‘You mentioned him just a moment ago.’
‘The halfwit?’ asked Henry. ‘The one who is even less capable of wielding a sword than that pitiful specimen?’ He waved a hand in Philip’s direction. ‘The Bellêmes should be more careful with whom they couple, because their bastards are not children to be proud of. Not like mine.’ He smirked smugly, evidently pleased with his success in that particular direction.
‘Hugh was murdered in Southwark last night,’ explained Geoffrey. ‘I happened to be passing.’
Henry sighed. ‘What was he doing there? After the Winchester Geese, no doubt. Well, it is a shame, because Bellême was fond of the lad. I hope he does not accuse me of this murder. It would be most tiresome.’
‘Did Hugh come to you with messages from Bellême’s sisters?’ asked Geoffrey, trying to make his question sound like a casual enquiry and not an accusation.
Henry gave a short bark of laughter. ‘Of course not! The boy would not have known what to do with an important message if it came to life and issued him orders.’ He tapped his temple significantly, then glanced at Geoffrey. ‘You did not kill him, did you?’
‘No.’ Geoffrey shifted uncomfortably and decided Matilda could petition the King herself. He had liked her, but acting as her ambassador was simply not worth the risk.
‘Very well,’ said Henry. ‘Now, hear what I want you to do. Bellême and his siblings will appear before my Easter Court in Winchester next week – on the sixth day of April. They will hear the charges against them – that they built an unlicensed castle at Bridgnorth, collected illegally imposed taxes, and other serious offences – then I expect them to withdraw, so they can prepare their defence.’
‘You think they will leave the country?’
‘I wish they would. Then I would pronounce them outlaws, seize their lands and that would be an end to the whole unsavoury matter. But Bellême believes he can defeat me. I predict that he and his siblings will dash to his castle at Arundel, where they will lock themselves inside and dare me to attack. Arundel is a powerful fortress, and I do not want to waste my troops on a siege that might last months. I want you to inveigle yourself into Bellême’s confidence and end the siege by stealth.’
Geoffrey was deeply unhappy with what Henry had charged him to do. He pointed out that he was the wrong man to undertake such a venture, because the last time he and Bellême had met they had parted on bad terms, and there was no earthly way the Earl would invite him to join his household. Henry overrode his objections, informing him that these were unimportant details, and that a man of Geoffrey’s intelligence should be able to find a way around them. When Geoffrey indicated the busy hall, which was crammed to the gills with men desperate to win the King’s favour, and asked why another person could not be entrusted with the mission, Henry’s smile became enigmatic, and he wagged a finger at Geoffrey as though he had said something cheeky. Then the King walked away to speak to his clerks and the interview was at an end.
Geoffrey gazed after him in agitation, seeing he had been issued with a royal command, and that he would have no choice but to try to see it through to the best of his ability. However, he had a feeling the task might prove to be beyond him, and that it could well bring about his death at Bellême’s hands. Bellême was not a man to tolerate treachery, and Geoffrey felt as though he had been offered a choice of drowning or remaining on a burning ship. If it had not been for Joan, he would have fled to Normandy before the King realized he was missing.
While he stood thinking out his options, he became aware that one of the clerks had disengaged himself from his scribing and had come to stand next to him. He was a tall, elderly man wearing a simple monastic habit, and Geoffrey could see a hair shirt underneath, indicating he was someone who took his religious vocation seriously. He smiled without humour or friendliness.
‘I know what the King has ordered, and I am here to answer any questions you have. However, since this is a dangerous task, I recommend you keep your plans to yourself. It is safer that way.’
‘Thank you,’ said Geoffrey shortly, wondering whether this was the fellow’s way of informing him that he could not be trusted, either. ‘Who are you?’
‘My apologies,’ said the monk, bowing. ‘I am William Giffard, Bishop of Winchester.’
‘The man with the Geese,’ said Geoffrey before he could stop himself. He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose, thinking he should be more tactful with his greetings if he did not want a blade slipped between his ribs before he even left Westminster. It was probably unwise to comment about how the bishop filled his coffers with revenues from prostitutes.
Giffard shrugged. ‘It is a sordid business, and I abstain from the sin of fornication myself, but someone must organize these women and make buildings available for them to use.’ Geoffrey was taken aback, and wondered whether Giffard’s fellow prelates were equally pragmatic about brothels. ‘But we should discuss you, not me. You are Sir Geoffrey Mappestone, who has family estates on the Welsh border. The King has threatened to isolate them if you do not do as he asks.’
‘That summarizes my position very neatly,’ said Geoffrey bitterly. ‘My sister will suffer if I do not agree to this ridiculous plan.’
‘She will,’ agreed Giffard gravely. ‘Bellême has allies among the Welsh, and they are preparing to rise up in his name. Your family cannot hold off an attack alone, and they will be destroyed if they are not relieved by royal troops. King Henry is a man of his word – well, most of the time – and I think he will carry out his threat if you do not do as he orders.’
‘A man worthy of loyalty,’ muttered Geoffrey, angry enough to speak imprudently. ‘No wonder he cannot trust his own retinue to do his will, if he uses blackmail as a means to secure them. He wants me to leave Tancred and enter his service, but Henry is not a man I am inclined to follow.’
‘You should consider lowering your voice,’ suggested Giffard mildly. ‘If you must abuse the King, then at least do it quietly – especia
lly in his own court.’
‘Why can he not ask someone else?’ demanded Geoffrey, not caring who heard. ‘How can I make Arundel fall by stealth? Even if I do manage to inveigle a place in Bellême’s retinue – which is unlikely – I will not be trusted to a point where I can achieve anything useful. It amounts to suicide.’
‘The King devised this plan because of Antioch,’ explained Giffard in his serious manner. ‘We all heard how it was an impregnable fortress, and how the Crusader army sat outside it for nine months without making a scratch in its defences. And then it fell, not through military tactics, but by treachery from within. Without that treachery you would still be there.’
‘True,’ said Geoffrey. ‘But I did not arrange the treachery myself. All I did was help storm the city when the traitors arranged for the gates to be opened.’
‘But you know how it was done,’ insisted Giffard. ‘You have details most of us do not understand, and will be able to apply the same plan a second time.’
‘Is that what Henry imagines will happen?’ asked Geoffrey, appalled. ‘Is that why he dragged me all the way from the Holy Land? Because he thinks I can re-enact the fall of Antioch for him?’
‘All he did was dictate a letter and hire a messenger. You may have endured all manner of adventures to travel here, but Henry cares nothing for that. You are the only England-born Jerosolimitanus he knows, and it made sense for him to order you to arrange the fall of Arundel. He does not want a siege to last months. He wants the Bellêmes out of England before Yuletide.’
The King's Spies Page 9