‘But there are differences between Arundel and Antioch,’ objected Geoffrey, horrified that the King expected him to repeat military history at the snap of his fingers. ‘Arundel may not be the kind of castle that can be lost to treachery. Do not forget that Antioch contained Greek and Armenian Christians, who took up arms against the Turks: we would not have won without their help. But there will be no army willing to fight against Bellême inside Arundel, even if I do manage to open a gate.’
‘You will not be alone,’ said Giffard softly. ‘You may not have an army of Greeks and Armenians, but there will be one or two others who have the King’s interests at heart. Of course, none of you will know each other, lest one is caught. It would not do for one to reveal the names of the others, and for none of the King’s contingency plans to work.’
‘But that means we will be effectively alone. If we do not know who is on our side, then we cannot enlist help in case we approach the wrong person.’
‘You must pray for divine help, then,’ said Giffard, and Geoffrey saw he was perfectly serious. ‘God brought about the fall of Jerusalem, so you must petition Him about Arundel.’
‘But He might not hear,’ objected Geoffrey, thinking it was an uncertain way to ensure assistance, because the Heavenly Host did not always answer even the most fervent prayers – and might even decide to support Bellême. ‘I really do not think I can help the King in this matter.’
‘You have no choice,’ said Giffard. ‘Only a fool would refuse Henry, and you are not a fool.’ He regarded Geoffrey intently, then asked a question that made Geoffrey even more reluctant to become involved. ‘When you were in the Holy Land did you ever encounter something called Greek Fire?’
‘Why?’ asked Geoffrey warily.
‘Do you know how to make it? If you do, then I might be able to persuade the King to release you from your other obligations and produce him a vat of that instead. I think he would rather have Greek Fire than another spy in Arundel Castle.’
‘I do not know the formula,’ said Geoffrey. He returned Giffard’s scrutiny, and decided to be honest. It would not do for Henry to learn that Geoffrey had listened to Oswin’s claims about a new and deadly weapon, but had not bothered to mention it. ‘Bellême might, though.’
‘We suspect as much,’ said Giffard. ‘There is a rumour that Philip the Grammarian secured the recipe on the Crusade, and sent it home to his kinsmen. Do you think it is true?’
Geoffrey nodded slowly. Matilda had said her brothers wanted Greek Fire, not that they had already secured some, but the distinctive stench Geoffrey had noticed outside the Crusader’s Head indicated they had access to at least a little. If Bellême did not have the genuine article, then he had developed something very similar. And Oswin certainly thought the weapon was already in Bellême hands.
‘We know it contained sulphur and quicklime, but we never discovered the identity of the other ingredients,’ he said. ‘I believe at least one was something found only in the East, so it would need to be imported if Bellême planned to make Greek Fire in any quantity. But it is possible Philip met someone who told him the secret.’
‘Then why did he not produce it while you sat outside Antioch? He was there for several months before he was killed. Why did he not use it to end the siege?’
‘I do not think Greek Fire would have helped there,’ said Geoffrey. ‘It was not the sort of fortress that could be easily breached by weapons of any kind.’
‘Well, it is a pity you do not know the formula,’ said Giffard, disappointed. ‘The King is deeply concerned that his enemy has a military advantage, especially now we are so close to what might end up as a pitched battle.’
Geoffrey thought Henry was right to be worried. Not only was Greek Fire a devastating weapon, but its use by the enemy had made a serious dent on the morale of the Crusaders. Henry’s troops would be unwilling to attack any castle if they thought they were going to be pelted with a material that caused such horrific injuries.
‘Bellême’s mother,’ said Geoffrey thoughtfully, trying to tie several mysteries together in the hope that they might make sense. ‘She would not have had the recipe, would she?’
‘If she did, then I am certain she would have used it in her lifetime. Mabel was an evil woman, who preferred the company of the Devil to praying in a church. Why do you ask?’
‘There is a rumour that she is still alive,’ said Geoffrey. He considered Matilda’s confidences, too: that she wanted some property of her mother’s. Perhaps it was the secret of Greek Fire, and that had been what she had hoped was written on the parchment discovered in Hugh’s mouth.
‘She is not,’ said Giffard brusquely. ‘Unless she rose from the dead and wanders the earth headless and slashed to pieces.’
Geoffrey recalled that Roger and his men believed she might have done exactly that.
Once Geoffrey’s interview was over, Henry had ordered him to eat in the hall and, although Geoffrey was not hungry, he felt he had no choice but to linger a while. The King would not tolerate him disregarding a command too brazenly, and he had learned to accept food when offered anyway, on the grounds that soldiers rarely knew when the next opportunity to eat might come. It was a habit he knew he would have to break when he came to live a more sedentary life, or he would grow fat.
After his discussion with Bishop Giffard, Geoffrey wandered among the dignitaries and nobles, recognizing some from the liveries worn by their retainers, but not most. At a table bearing fruit, two men argued furiously, standing so close that Geoffrey imagined they must both be drenched in spit. They spoke in low, hissing voices, and their row was sufficiently absorbing that they were oblivious to all else. One was fat and wore the robes of a cleric, while the other appeared to be a soldier, although Geoffrey thought his sword was more for show than for serious fighting. It had a shiny, unused look about it, and Geoffrey imagined its jewelled hilt would probably interfere with the balance of its blade. He edged away, not wanting to hear what they were snapping at each other.
‘I want that,’ came an aggrieved voice as Geoffrey reached for a piece of bread a short time later. He saw that the man who addressed him was the quarrelling soldier; the cleric was nowhere to be seen.
The man was tall, with smooth, shoulder-length hair held in place by more oil than Geoffrey had ever seen on a single head. The whole mane shone greasily, and a peculiar smell emanated from it. His face was what caught Geoffrey’s attention, however. It was sardonic, and the expression could only be described as a sneer. Geoffrey immediately surmised that he was vindictive, and since he had no wish to be detained at Westminster while the King decided the outcome of a squabble over a lump of bread, he overlooked the remark and moved to a different platter.
‘I want that, too,’ said the man, as Geoffrey took an egg instead.
‘You must be hungry,’ said Geoffrey with a tight smile, heading to where wine and ale stood on a separate table. He was about to pour a goblet of claret when he became aware that the man had followed him, and since he did not want to be informed a third time that he was about to select something he could not have, he abandoned the wine and decided on ale instead.
‘That is my cup,’ hissed the voice in his ear.
Geoffrey suppressed a sigh. He backed away with his hands in the air to indicate that he wanted no trouble and started to walk outside.
‘Will you strut away from me while I am talking?’
Geoffrey was losing patience. He felt he had acted with admirable restraint, but there was only so long he was prepared to tolerate the fellow.
‘What do you want?’ he asked coldly.
‘To talk.’ The man took his arm and ushered him to one side, where a number of arches afforded privacy. Geoffrey tried to pull away, but saw he could only free himself by using force and he did not want to draw attention to himself. ‘I am Richard Beaumais, a vassal of the Earl of Shrewsbury.’
‘Then you are in the wrong place,’ said Geoffrey, thinking him a fool to ment
ion such a fact to a stranger. ‘The King will not welcome Shrewsbury’s minions here.’
‘I am no minion,’ said Beaumais haughtily. ‘I am a trusted advisor. But do not look alarmed. The King knows of my allegiance, and does not mind my presence here, so why should you?’
‘I see,’ said Geoffrey, wondering whether Beaumais might help him worm his way into Bellême’s presence. Was he one of the other unfortunates Giffard had mentioned, who had also been forced to act as spy? Geoffrey decided not to leave without hearing what Beaumais had to say.
‘The Earl’s fortunes are on the wane in England,’ said Beaumais. ‘You and I are in the same boat, my friend. We have both followed a man we should not have done.’
‘Meaning what?’ Geoffrey asked warily, wanting more clarification before he committed himself.
‘The King intends to kill you,’ said Beaumais, glancing around furtively. ‘Do not ask how I know, but I assure you it is true. I started that row over the bread and eggs so you would walk away and I could speak to you without wagging ears overhearing. I am telling you what I know, because we are in the same position and you may be able to help me one day.’
Geoffrey doubted it, but he smiled his thanks. It crossed his mind that the King might well stage an attack, just to make Geoffrey appear more attractive to Bellême. He wondered again whether the archer who had shot at him in the woods – and who was then conveniently dispatched – had been hired by Henry. He supposed he would have his answer when he met Roger, who would have questioned the man’s accomplice.
‘How do you know who I am?’ he asked.
‘Young Philip told me.’
Geoffrey nodded, then wondered whether Philip had also informed Beaumais that the King had ordered Geoffrey to bring about Bellême’s downfall. Philip might be in a dangerous position, but Geoffrey did not much like his own, either. He felt he was being crushed and manipulated between powerful forces, who did not care whether their plotting killed him. He was tempted to ride hard for the nearest port and seek sanctuary with the Duke of Normandy, who had no love for Henry and who would help Geoffrey if he asked. But then what would happen to Joan?
‘Be careful,’ said Beaumais, with another glance around him. Geoffrey had no way of knowing whether the agitation was genuine. ‘The King’s spies are everywhere. Do not trust anyone unless you are absolutely certain of his loyalties.’
Geoffrey watched Beaumais walk to the far end of the hall, where he was waylaid by Bishop Giffard. Geoffrey frowned as he watched them together. Why had Giffard intercepted Beaumais? Was it because he thought the man who openly professed loyalty to Bellême might be plotting treason in the King’s own Court? Was it because Giffard and Beaumais were in league, and were both involved in some plan that would see someone fall – be it the King or Bellême? Or was Giffard waylaying anyone he thought might be a spy at Arundel? No matter how much Geoffrey stared at them, he could not decide from their gesticulations whether their discussion was friendly or otherwise.
He was still watching them when he found his arm encased in a vice-like grip from another quarter. It was the cleric with whom Beaumais had been arguing. He was enormously fat, and when he moved, the limp jowls under his chin quivered and bounced. There was food on the front of his habit, and the man wheezed and gasped as though he had just engaged in a mile-long run, rather than a short walk across a hall. A large gap between his two front teeth completed the unappealing picture.
‘What did he tell you?’ he demanded of Geoffrey. ‘And who are you, anyway?’
‘I could ask you the same question,’ said Geoffrey tartly.
‘I,’ said the cleric, drawing himself up to his full portly glory, ‘am Maurice.’
‘Good day, Maurice,’ said Geoffrey, trying to recall whether one of Bellême’s many siblings had been called Maurice. He did not think so, and the man was too old to be a brother of the Earl, anyway. He was nearing sixty, although as a serving wench passed, he gave her a slavering leer that indicated he did not allow age to interfere with his carnal pleasures.
Maurice sighed when he saw Geoffrey was none the wiser after his grand proclamation. ‘I am the Bishop of London, man. Where have you been living, if you do not recognize me? The moon?’
‘The Holy Land,’ said Geoffrey, immediately on his guard. Wulfric had told him that the bishop was one of those who met with the Bellêmes in the Crusader’s Head.
‘I am the one who has been building London’s Cathedral of St Paul,’ Maurice went on, clearly thinking his fame revolved around his architectural achievements rather than his sinister assignations with the Bellême clan. ‘You have doubtless admired its glories?’
‘Not yet,’ said Geoffrey, interested, despite his antipathy towards the obese prelate. He loved grand buildings, and was hopelessly fascinated by the clever engineering that allowed them to be raised. A discussion about architecture invariably led him to forgive the most appalling wrongs, and he was certainly prepared to overlook Maurice’s dalliance with the Earl of Shrewsbury in exchange for learning more about the cathedral that was the talk of London. ‘I hear it is to be the largest in England – even greater than Durham.’
‘You have seen Durham?’ asked Maurice, raising his eyebrows curiously.
Geoffrey nodded, unable to hide his enthusiasm. ‘It is one of the most glorious buildings I have ever seen. Unusually, its Lady chapel is at the west end, because—’
‘We will discuss it another time,’ interrupted Maurice, smiling faintly. ‘And you must allow me to guide you around St Paul’s before you leave: it is rare to find a knight who admires a building he is not at liberty to loot. But first, you will tell me what horrible untruths Beaumais uttered. What did you say your name was?’
‘I did not, but I am only Godric de Mappestone’s youngest son, and no one confides in me. Beaumais merely said that the King fires an arrow first and asks his questions later.’
‘That is true,’ said Maurice. He gave a sudden grin. His eyes twinkled, and Geoffrey saw he had a pleasant face when he smiled. ‘I knew your father. I was the Conqueror’s chaplain, and Godric was a good and loyal subject. Your mother was the same. Now there was a fine, hot-blooded lass.’ He rubbed his hands together and issued a salacious snigger.
Geoffrey regarded him uneasily, hoping the man was not about to confess to seducing his mother – although from what he recalled of that redoubtable lady, Maurice would not necessarily have been the one who had made all the moves.
‘Your messenger was shot today,’ he said, changing the subject before he heard something that would unsettle him, and thinking instead about the cheery-faced Petronus of Shrewsbury. ‘The wound was not fatal, so you should still see your missives from the Abbot of Sées.’
‘I have them here,’ said Maurice, patting a pouch at his side. Another passing serving wench squealed in shock as the bishop’s hand snaked out and made a grab for her ample rump. She darted away without looking around, and Geoffrey suspected that only the careless or the uninitiated wandered too close to the deft-handed Bishop of London. ‘But Petronus is dead.’
‘Dead?’ echoed Geoffrey in astonishment. ‘But it was a flesh wound. He cannot be dead!’
‘I saw his body myself. Perhaps the shock of an arrow in his shoulder made his heart stop and he died of natural causes. But he is dead, regardless.’
Geoffrey gazed at him, not sure what to believe. ‘But you received the messages he carried?’
Maurice nodded. ‘When the King’s chief huntsman brought the body to the chapel.’
‘Was Petronus killed for them?’ asked Geoffrey, more to himself than to Maurice.
The prelate shook his head. ‘They contain nothing that warrants the taking of a man’s life. However, it is a sad world where men kill just to steal a plain wooden cross from a monk.’
‘His body was stripped?’
‘Not stripped,’ said Maurice. ‘But the cross he always wore was gone.’
‘Was anyone else brought in?’ asked Geof
frey nervously, hoping that his confidence in Roger’s abilities to look after himself was not misplaced. There was also Durand to think about, and Geoffrey recalled how he had cried out as he fell from his saddle.
‘Just Petronus. I warned him that robbers haunt the road between London and Westminster, but he must have ignored me and decided to travel alone.’
Geoffrey rubbed his chin. Had Petronus died of heart failure, as Maurice claimed, and Roger had abandoned the body because he could do nothing else? And had Maurice received all the missives Petronus carried, or had some been delivered into other hands? Geoffrey sighed, wondering why everything that revolved around Henry always transpired to be so complicated.
‘Beaumais did not mention that business with Matilda, did he?’ asked Maurice, obviously more concerned with his reputation than the dead messenger. He made an apologetic moue. ‘I have an excuse. My physician informs me that if I do not relieve myself regularly and often with women, my humours will become fatally unbalanced.’
‘I know a lot of men like that,’ said Geoffrey, thinking he could do with a physician who fabricated that sort of nonsense. ‘Which Matilda are we talking about?’ A sudden horrible thought struck him. ‘Not King Henry’s wife?’
‘Lord, no!’ said the Bishop in genuine horror. ‘My condition regarding women may mean I am ill, but I am not insane! No, I mean Bellême’s sister. She offered herself to me, and I am not usually a man to repel the desperate.’
Geoffrey imagined she must be desperate indeed, and found he was disappointed in her. She was an attractive woman, and need not stoop to entertaining an unattractive man like Maurice. He supposed she had had her reasons, and that they were doubtless something to do with the political turmoil surrounding her family’s looming expulsion, but that did not absolve her in his mind.
‘Did you talk much?’ he asked, not very subtly, in an attempt to find out what she thought she had been doing.
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