The King's Spies

by Simon Beaufort

  Geoffrey saw Eastceape was clear, with the exception of a cluster of figures in the distance, too far away to see what he was doing. They comprised a cloaked figure leading two others, who were carrying a long box. Geoffrey watched them until he was satisfied their attention was on their goods and not on him, then he opened the door and slipped inside the building. He found himself in a tiny vestry, which contained a couple of dirty robes hanging on pegs and a wooden chest. A second door led to the chancel. He opened it cautiously.

  The woman in blue knelt in front of the altar with her hands pressed together and her eyes closed. Geoffrey was surprised, having imagined her brisk walk would have a more urgent purpose than saying prayers in some ancient and unremarkable church. They had passed several other chapels along the way, and he wondered why she had ignored them in favour of this one. He took the opportunity to study her. Although her hair was bundled behind a veil, he could see from the odd escaping strand that it was dark. Her face was olive-coloured, and attractively shaped, like a heart. She was a beautiful woman, and he was not surprised one of her knights carried her token.

  He considered his options. He wanted to know why her men had been to such trouble to lure him and Roger into the lavatories in an attempt to kill them. He had never seen her before, and had no idea why she would order her officers to carry out such an attack. Or had she? Perhaps she was innocent, and her men had nocturnal operations of their own that she knew nothing about.

  He rubbed his chin, trying to decide whether to approach her or to see where she went next. He was loath to spend his day stalking a woman while she shopped for baubles in London’s many markets or spent hours in prayer, because he had hoped to begin the journey to Winchester that morning.

  He was still debating, when the front door opened and someone else entered. It was the person he had seen leading the small procession along Eastceape. He was cloaked and hooded, so Geoffrey could make out nothing of his face or other features. He immediately went to one of the windows, and there was a splintering sound as something was broken. Geoffrey frowned in puzzlement. The woman in blue did nothing, and eventually the man came to kneel next to her. Geoffrey strained his ears to hear the conversation that followed.

  ‘Well?’ asked the man. ‘What happened?’

  ‘First,’ snapped the woman, ‘you can tell me where you have been. You said ten o’clock and it is far later than that.’

  ‘You have only just arrived yourself,’ sneered the man. ‘Do not try to make me feel guilty. I had mother to take care of anyway, and she is more important than being prompt for you.’

  ‘Where is she?’ asked the woman, looking around as if she imagined someone else might be lurking in the shadows.

  ‘Outside. But she is not pleased about last night, Sybilla.’

  Sybilla! thought Geoffrey, suddenly aware of the similarity between the attractive, elegant woman who knelt at the altar and the alluring Matilda de Mortain: Matilda’s younger sister was called Sybilla. He recalled Matilda’s determination to have their mother’s property, and wondered whether the man was one of their brothers, or whether the ‘mother’ to whom he referred was some other matriarch. Intrigued, Geoffrey opened the door a little further, so he could hear better.

  ‘What happened?’ asked the man. ‘Why did the attack on the Crusaders fail?’

  ‘It went wrong,’ replied Sybilla. ‘They were ready for us, and my children were lucky to escape with their lives.’

  At least one of Geoffrey’s questions was answered. It was indeed Sybilla who had ordered the attack, although he could not imagine why, unless it was because of his arrangement with Matilda. He wondered who she meant by ‘children’. Did she mean they were literally her offspring, which meant youth and inexperience would account for their dismal performance of the previous night? Or was it a term she used for devoted followers? For some reason, he shuddered.

  ‘How could they be ready for you? No one knew what you planned to do except you, me and your children. Did one of them betray us?’

  ‘Of course not! They would die before betraying me – or you – and two of them were injured fighting for our cause. I will see those meddlers die for that.’ Her voice was sharp with malice.

  ‘You cannot blame them for protecting themselves. Your children should not have engaged them in open combat, but slit their throats as they slept, as I suggested. Now they will be on their guard and we shall never remove them before they do us harm. I told you we should not avenge Hugh this way.’

  ‘What shall we do?’ asked Sybilla, ignoring his censure. ‘Our options are beginning to run out, and I do not want to lose everything now, not when we are so close to a solution that will see us rich and more powerful than ever.’

  ‘None of us do. Hugh should have been more careful. But I will be missed if I stay here any longer. Goodbye, sister. I will contact you again soon.’

  He removed his hood to give her a parting kiss, and Geoffrey saw he was no man, but another woman, whose deep voice had misled him. He immediately noticed the resemblance between them, with their olive complexions and coal-black eyes, although the cloaked woman’s hair was more grey than black. Geoffrey supposed this was the last of Bellême’s sisters: Emma the Witch.

  ‘Take care, Emma,’ said Sybilla. ‘Do not tackle Geoffrey Mappestone yourself. Leave him to me, and if I need help, mother will oblige.’

  Emma gave what sounded like a snort of disgust, but said nothing more, and made off down the short nave to the main door. There was a clank as it opened then shut, and the church was silent once again. Geoffrey watched Sybilla thoughtfully, trying to recall if he had ever met her before and injured her in some way, without realizing that it was a member of the House of Montgomery-Bellême he had hurt.

  Sybilla went back to her religious pose, hands together and eyes closed, evidently to give Emma time to leave and reduce the risk of them being seen together. Geoffrey had just made the decision to follow Sybilla after all, thinking he would have better answers in pursuit than in direct confrontation, when footsteps sounded outside the vestry door and the latch began to rise. It was either the priest returning from his breakfast or one of Sybilla’s ‘children’ coming to make sure all was well. Geoffrey saw he was going to be caught in either case, so he opened the door to the nave and walked quickly to the altar. Sybilla jumped in alarm when she saw him and opened her mouth to scream, but he stopped her by kneeling close and pressing his dagger into her side.

  ‘One sound and your children will be motherless,’ he whispered, pulling his cloak over his arm to conceal the fact that he held her at knifepoint. He felt her tense next to him as the vestry door opened and a portly Benedictine bustled in, humming to himself. He was clearly Saxon, with fair hair and faded, kindly eyes. He hesitated when he saw Geoffrey and Sybilla and Geoffrey smiled at him, knowing that they appeared innocent enough – two people kneeling side by side in front of an altar.

  ‘Do not mind me,’ said the monk, unwilling to drive them from their meditations in case they forgot to leave a donation. Saxon churches were poor, and needed all the funds they could lay their hands on. ‘I will be at the back polishing the pewter. Stay as long as you like.’

  Geoffrey sensed Sybilla drawing breath to shout for help, and dug the dagger more securely into her side. She gasped and turned to look at him.

  ‘You would not slay me in a church!’ she whispered, making it sound like a dare.

  ‘Better than in a public lavatory,’ retorted Geoffrey.

  ‘Your soul would be damned for all eternity,’ she hissed.

  ‘How do you know it is not damned already?’

  ‘What do you want?’ Her voice was confident and sharp, and he sensed she was not afraid of him or his dagger. ‘What kind of man bursts in on a woman at her prayers and thrusts steel in her side?’

  ‘One who wants answers. And one who did not enjoy the attentions of your “children” last night. Why did you send them to kill us?’

  ‘I have my r
easons,’ she spat.

  ‘Then explain them.’

  She sensed his growing anger and gave a heavy sigh. ‘All right. Put away your dagger and we will speak like civilized people. My children will come for me in a moment, and they will certainly kill you if they see us like this.’

  ‘I will take my chances,’ said Geoffrey, keeping the blade pressed against her ribs. He suspected that as soon as she was free she would screech for help and he would find himself facing the four knights. ‘Will you tell me what is going on or do I have to cut you first?’

  She was silent for a moment, as though gathering her thoughts, and then began to speak. ‘You have made an arrangement with King Henry to bring down the House of Montgomery-Bellême. Philip overheard it all. You intend to supply the King with Greek Fire. And you killed Hugh.’

  ‘You are wrong,’ said Geoffrey shortly. ‘Philip was too far away to hear what the King said to me, and I could not supply Henry with Greek Fire, because I have no idea how to make it – although it sounds as though your family does. Nor did I kill Hugh. You could have asked Oswin to verify my story, but someone made sure he would never talk again.’

  ‘I heard about his murder. It was a pity, because he was useful and relatively discreet.’

  ‘Until yesterday,’ said Geoffrey, suspecting that Oswin may have been killed because he had broken his tradition of silence. ‘He was terrified that your family was using his tavern to devise an evil, devastating weapon that will destroy the King.’

  ‘You make us sound sinister,’ she said accusingly. ‘We are not. We will soon be at war with Henry, and we must do all we can to ensure victory. It is not wicked or corrupt, but simple survival, and any soldier would do the same.’

  ‘Not with a weapon like Greek Fire.’

  She sighed again. ‘You do not understand. My brother Robert is desperate: he knows he has rebelled once too often, and that he is about to pay with his English estates. We need Greek Fire to defeat Henry and his tyrannical ways.’

  ‘But this is nothing to do with me,’ he pointed out. ‘How can my death make your situation easier?’

  ‘Philip said you were going to ease yourself into Matilda’s affections, and destroy us from within. Matilda is not as sensible as Emma and me, and would be flattered by attentions from a handsome man. You had to be stopped.’

  ‘Philip has a wild imagination,’ said Geoffrey coolly. ‘I am not in the habit of wooing women to bring about their downfall.’ He did not add that he had been charged by Henry to woo Bellême and bring about his downfall, however.

  ‘You deny entertaining her in your bedchamber in Southwark?’ Sybilla clearly did not believe him.

  ‘I did not invite her. She asked me to tell the King she wanted to parley on your behalf – a message I did not deliver, I am afraid – then she left. There were no expressions of affection on either side.’

  ‘But you admire her,’ said Sybilla, nodding when she saw the expression on his face. ‘Men do. And she mistakes their lust for loyalty and trusts those she should not. Like the killer of poor Hugh.’

  ‘I did not kill Hugh,’ said Geoffrey again, thinking what incredibly bad luck it had been that he had been passing when the young man had died. Had it happened a few moments earlier or later, he would not have been involved. A thought occurred to him. ‘Your mother was Mabel de Bellême, was she not? She died in Normandy.’

  ‘She was murdered,’ corrected Sybilla. ‘As she lay naked and unprotected on her bed.’

  He voiced what was on his mind. ‘But Emma the Witch just talked about her as though she is still alive. She said she was outside.’

  ‘Our mother will always be with us,’ replied Sybilla simply. ‘You must have lost loved ones, and later felt their presence, giving you strength?’

  ‘Not that I recall,’ said Geoffrey. He reconsidered. ‘Although I had a friend called John de Sourvedal, who was murdered in Jerusalem two years ago. I felt sometimes his tortured soul was driving me to solve the crime.’

  ‘Well, there you are, then,’ said Sybilla. ‘You know what it is like.’

  ‘But Emma implied she was here literally,’ he pressed. ‘She said she was outside.’

  Sybilla smiled enigmatically. ‘Our mother was a witch in life, and she remains a witch after death. Therefore, she would not be comfortable in a place like this.’ She gestured at the chapel.

  Geoffrey stood. He had had enough of the Bellême family, and wanted to know no more about Sybilla’s mother and the sinister notion she was everywhere except holy places.

  ‘I did not kill Hugh and I do not know the secret of Greek Fire,’ he said with finality. ‘So, from now on, you will leave me alone and keep your “children” away—’

  Suddenly, the door opened, and the four knights saw that their lady was not alone. Drawing their swords, they piled into the church, readying themselves for an attack. Geoffrey pushed Sybilla away from him and drew his sword reluctantly, not wanting to brawl in a church. The monk gave a shriek, and darted towards the main door, intending to escape while he could. One knight flicked a wrist, and he fell to the ground with a cry, blood spurting from his arm. Geoffrey was appalled.

  ‘That was unnecessary,’ he shouted angrily, taking a firmer grip on his sword and wishing he had brought his shield, too. ‘You could have let him go.’

  ‘To tell the burgesses that a knight is being murdered in the Church of All Hallows Barking?’ demanded the swordsman coldly.

  He pushed back his hood, and a mane of dark hair tumbled out. The swordsman was female. The others followed suit, and Geoffrey was nonplussed and very disconcerted to find himself facing four young women, all tall and strong – one was even taller than him – and approaching with determination and bloodlust etched clear on their faces. Other than a clear desire to kill, they were attractive, with dark eyes and olive skin. It seemed Emma and Sybilla had been speaking literally when they referred to the ‘children’, because the four warriors were clearly Sybilla’s daughters.

  ‘People say we are witches,’ said the spokeswoman as they advanced. ‘They claim we dabble in the dark arts, and that is why we are so formidable in battle. My name is Haweis, and I am the second born. Mabel is the eldest, and was named after my grandmother, God rest her murdered soul.’

  Mabel, who was the tallest of the quartet, nodded. She was evidently the large, silent type, more than happy to let her more eloquent younger sister do the talking. Geoffrey looked her up and down and decided she was probably the most dangerous, because she seemed the most comfortable with her weapons. Meanwhile, Haweis continued to speak.

  ‘These are my younger sisters: Cecily and Amise. Our mother wanted sons, and had us trained in the knightly arts when she produced only daughters.’

  ‘But you carry her tokens?’ asked Geoffrey, bewildered. He had never heard of such a thing.

  ‘It makes us look more convincing,’ said Haweis, smiling at his confusion. ‘Who has heard of knights who do not carry emblems of the lady they serve? Their absence would arouse suspicion. I suppose you found the one Amise lost last night, and that is what drew you to our mother?’

  Geoffrey thought of himself as a liberal-minded sort of man, and his years of travelling and reading meant that he was surprised by very little. But he had never encountered girls trained in swordplay, and he found the prospect of fighting them disturbing. He had always taken pains to spare women when he had been engaged in battle, and was reluctant to come to blows with them now.

  ‘I have never fought women before,’ he said, wondering what would happen if he put up his sword and walked away. He realized they would kill him, so the sword stayed where it was.

  ‘I am more proud of my girls than I would be of any boy,’ said Sybilla, beaming fondly at the warlike quartet that ranged in front of her in a protective wall. ‘They are stronger, more intelligent and far more ruthless than men.’

  ‘They should have joined the Crusade, then,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘That venture attracted folk with
those particular talents.’

  ‘We did,’ said Haweis. ‘But it was too tame for us, so we left during the siege of Antioch. There were better things to do than sit in the mud and starve like peasants.’

  Geoffrey gaped. ‘You went on Crusade? But how did you—’

  ‘How did we fool people over our sex? That was easy. When you are tall and strong like us, few ask impertinent questions. We kept ourselves to ourselves. There were other women on the Crusade, so I do not know why you find our presence so remarkable.’

  ‘Probably because the others did not go pretending to be knights,’ said Geoffrey, aware that all four were coming closer as they talked.

  ‘You are wasting time,’ said Sybilla impatiently. ‘Kill him. And do it properly this time.’

  Six

  Geoffrey was surprised by the speed and ferocity of the attack that followed. Without warning, the four women launched themselves at him simultaneously, drowning out his protests that he would sooner fight away from the holy confines of a church. He parried Haweis’s first blow, which was so hard it made his fingers numb. While she prepared herself for a second, big Mabel moved in, swinging a mace with incredible skill. Geoffrey ducked behind a pillar, and she struck it with such force that splinters of stone flew off in all directions. Sybilla screamed at her daughters to hurry, while Geoffrey weaved around the piers, aiming to stay out of their way for as long as possible.

  The two younger daughters edged behind him. One darted forward with her sword and, while Geoffrey’s attention was taken, Mabel struck a monumental blow that would have killed him outright had it not been for the protection afforded by his armour. As it was he staggered, and Haweis used the opportunity to dive at him with her dagger. He felt the blade glance off his mail and decided he had had enough of chivalrously declining to attack. They would kill him if he continued to fight defensively, and he was certainly not ready to sacrifice his life for good manners.