The King's Spies

by Simon Beaufort

  Emma remained still and quiet, staring at the pewter cross with an unreadable expression, her thick hair tumbling around her shoulders in a silvery sheet. Then there was a scraping sound, followed by a thud, and someone else joined her. Emma and her new companion did not seem to think they needed to keep their voices low in the deserted building, so it was easy to eavesdrop on their discussion.

  ‘You are late,’ Emma said accusingly. ‘I have been waiting for more than an hour, and you know how these places make my skin crawl.’

  The other person did not reply, and Geoffrey eased forward in an attempt to see his or her face. It was covered by a hood, and he could not even tell whether it was male or female. The figure was taller than Emma, but Sybilla was taller than her older sister, and he thought Matilda was, too, while all four of Sybilla’s daughters would be larger than their aunt. It might even be Bellême or one of his brothers. Or a retainer. Geoffrey cursed under his breath when he realized that unless the figure removed the hood they might never know.

  The hooded figure made a gesture to indicate that Emma was to begin. The abbess stepped up to the altar and laid several bowls on top of it. Geoffrey heard Edred begin a prayer in a frightened whisper, and knew it would be hard for a good priest to watch his church defiled and not be able to prevent it. He wondered whether he should step forward and announce his presence after all. Geoffrey was not a deeply religious man, but he was uncomfortable watching sacred places sullied, and it was obvious Emma was about to do something deeply unpleasant.

  ‘Move the candle,’ Emma snapped at her companion. ‘I cannot see.’

  There were four small bowls on the altar now, and she set about pouring some of their contents into another, larger, one. The church was soon filled with a foul smell, like rotten eggs. Sulphur, Geoffrey thought. And he knew perfectly well what sulphur was used for: Greek Fire. He wondered whether Emma intended to manufacture some on the altar in front of his very eyes. If she did, then his duty was clear. He would allow her to finish, then step forward and lay claim to her bowls and potions, and the secret ingredient of Greek Fire would be revealed at last.

  After a few moments of pouring and mixing, Emma turned to her companion. ‘Do you have it?’

  The figure passed her something, and Geoffrey wished she was using a brighter candle.

  ‘In the name of my mother,’ cried Emma, in a loud voice that had her companion glancing around uneasily, ‘whose murdered soul wanders the earth. I do this for you.’

  Geoffrey heard a whimper behind him, and thought it was his dog, but it was Durand; the dog had long since gone. Edred crossed himself furiously, and sprinkled holy water over the three of them.

  ‘Do not call her too loud,’ advised Emma’s companion in an unsteady whisper. ‘She may come, and I do not want to see her yet. Not until … well, you know.’

  Geoffrey wished the figure would elaborate. Until what? What were they waiting for? Had Emma really devised a way of bringing the murdered Mabel from her grave? Emma tossed whatever her companion had brought into her bowl with a flamboyant gesture. There was a bright flash and a puff of reddish smoke, like something summoned from Hell.

  The sudden noise and noxious smell was apparently as unexpected to Emma and her companion as it was to Geoffrey, Durand and Edred. Her companion shrank backwards, throwing up his hands to protect his face, while Edred raised the volume of his prayers, forcing Geoffrey to nudge him, lest he gave them away. Durand was so frightened he was close to tears.

  ‘That was not supposed to happen,’ said Emma, apologetically in the silence that followed. ‘I must have added too much olive oil.’ She seemed puzzled by her mistake.

  Olive oil, mused Geoffrey. Could that be the secret ingredient of Greek Fire? It did not sound very likely, but the Crusaders’ best alchemists had worked on the problem for three years, and had not been able to produce any. It would be ironic if the thing that made the devastating substance stick to its victims and burn so fiercely was something as ordinary as olive oil. It was a staple food in the Holy Land, although it was rare and expensive in England. He wondered how much of it would be needed, and whether Emma had sufficient stockpiles to make the kind of quantities necessary to defeat Henry.

  ‘And now this,’ said Emma, waving something theatrically. It was long and wizened, and Geoffrey thought it was a slug at first, but Edred crossed himself and muttered that it looked like the finger of a hanged man he knew had been stolen from the churchyard a few days before. Geoffrey grimaced, sure the Greek Fire concocted by the Arabs had not contained body parts, and even more certain that this particular addition was Emma’s personal fancy, rather than something essential. The potion cracked and sizzled, and it sounded as though the finger was being devoured.

  ‘What is that?’ asked the companion, pointing to a phial that was set aside at the far end of the altar, and had not yet been used. Geoffrey strained to hear his voice, but he spoke in the kind of hoarse whisper many people reserved for churches, so it was impossible to identify.

  ‘A complex mixture of human blood, toad juice, charcoal and raisins,’ replied Emma superiorly. ‘It is imperative the balance is right, or the potion will not work. It goes in last – now, in fact.’

  Everyone watched while she added a dash, and Geoffrey thought that anything containing raisins was a foul substance indeed. He detested the sweet, dried fruits, and decided that they could well be the secret ingredient that made Greek Fire so vile. They were brown and sticky, and the right colour. Another foul smell pervaded the church, and the bowl looked full to overflowing.

  ‘You have made too much,’ whispered Emma’s companion accusingly. ‘We only want a little, and you have made enough for an army.’

  ‘I have my own needs,’ replied Emma enigmatically. ‘Go and check no one is outside, while I put this in a jar. I have been here too long already, waiting for you to bring me the oil, and I want to be gone. Matilda will wonder what I have been doing, and I do not want her to know.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked the companion, watching as she poured the solution into a pottery flask. Transferring a viscous solution from a wide-rimmed bowl to a narrow-necked jug was not easy, and some of it dripped on the altar.

  ‘Because this is best kept between you and me,’ replied Emma impatiently, spilling more in her haste to be done. ‘It is never wise to tell too many people of your plans, because it is a natural condition of humans that they betray one another.’

  ‘I will not betray you, Emmy.’

  The abbess smiled. ‘That is because you have not yet discovered your price. Everyone has his price, be it gold and silver, the life of a loved one, or the outcome of a war.’

  ‘You are overly cynical,’ said her companion, although Geoffrey thought she was probably right, especially where the Bellêmes were concerned. ‘But why did this need to be done in a church? We could have hired a room in a tavern instead. It is cold in here, and I feel I am being watched.’

  ‘You do?’ asked Emma, looking around in alarm. ‘Are you sure you closed the window properly after you climbed in?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the companion impatiently. ‘I do not mean watched by people. I mean watched by beings who do not approve of holy places used for this kind of thing. They may do us some harm.’

  ‘Do not be ridiculous,’ said Emma dismissively. ‘I have been doing “this kind of thing”, as you so prosaically put it, for years, and nothing untoward has ever happened to me.’

  ‘It probably explains why you do not like to be in churches, though. You sense you are not welcome. But tell me why we could not make this mixture in a tavern?’

  ‘It is necessary to recite incantations, and they are more powerful when spoken in holy places,’ replied Emma, upending the bowl and pouring the last of the potion into the flask. ‘You cannot just hurl the ingredients together, or anyone could do it. Besides, the dark forces like to be summoned in churches. Now, go and ensure the coast is clear. I do not want anyone to see us leave.’

&nb
sp; The figure departed obediently, and Geoffrey quickly closed the vestry door and slipped the bar across it. After a few moments, they saw the latch rise and the door shake, as Emma’s companion gave it a good rattle to ensure it was secured. By the time Geoffrey decided enough time had elapsed to open it again, the companion had gone and Emma was walking briskly down the aisle with the pottery flask hidden in a basket.

  ‘Will you follow her?’ asked Edred, his face pinched and white with anxiety. ‘To see where she goes, and to whom she gives this vile concoction?’

  ‘There is no point,’ said Geoffrey. ‘She is going to her lodgings, and we will learn nothing other than where they are. It would have been more useful to follow her companion.’

  ‘It was probably a woman,’ said Durand, sounding very certain. He had recovered from his terror now that the church was empty, and was back to his usual opinionated self. ‘The Bellême women are large and tall. It was a sister or a niece.’

  ‘Or one of their retainers,’ said Edred. ‘There is a courtier called Beaumais who is deeply involved in their affairs, and there is William Pantulf. They also have a steward called Josbert who is loyal to the point of lunacy. Then Bishop Maurice of London has been hankering after Emma, so it could have been him. A cloak like that would have hidden his corpulence, and the height was about right.’

  ‘It could have been King Henry himself,’ speculated Durand. ‘He wants the secret of Greek Fire, and this may be the only way he can get it. The rumours that Bellême has it are rife, and it will not be good for his troops to think that the Earl has a weapon that will cook them inside their armour.’

  Geoffrey walked to the altar, where Emma had left her candle burning next to the spilled potion. He was disturbed to see that the black sludge smoked slightly, where it had seared through the hard, ancient wood. He poked it with his dagger. It looked like Greek Fire, and the smell was similar, but the consistency was wrong. Emma needed to do more experiments before she perfected her mixture.

  ‘It is too runny,’ he said to Durand and Edred. ‘It will probably burn like Greek Fire, but how will she use it? This watery substance cannot be propelled in balls using war machines.’

  ‘It can be poured, though,’ Durand pointed out. ‘They could tip bowls of it over the walls of Arundel Castle on to the King’s troops below.’

  ‘Not easily,’ said Geoffrey. ‘How would you set it alight? It would not be easy to handle once it started burning, and would be just as likely to harm the defenders as the attackers.’

  ‘Bellême would not care about that,’ declared Durand knowledgeably.

  He tried to take the candle from Geoffrey, to inspect the dark stain, but succeeded in knocking it from the knight’s hand. When the flame touched the potion it immediately flared into a merry blaze. The stink of burning sulphur filled the air and produced a thick, choking smoke. Edred muttered a prayer, then emptied a bottle of holy water on to it, evidently anticipating that the sacred fluid would do battle with the demonic flames and douse them. The fire hissed, then burned more brightly. Geoffrey ran outside and gathered cold, wet earth in his helmet, which he dumped on the altar. After a few moments, smoke started to issue through the soil as the flames continued to smoulder.

  ‘We shall have to carry it outside,’ said Geoffrey, removing the cross and shoving it into Edred’s hands. He took one side of what was basically a simple wooden table, and indicated that Durand was to take the other. Between them, they heaved it outside, and placed it in the churchyard, where it could do no harm. It continued to hiss and burn, even in the rain.

  ‘It is demonic,’ said Edred, appalled. ‘It ignores holy water, and burns even when smothered in earth. Emma was right: her evil incantations have summoned up spirits that defy all natural laws.’

  Geoffrey rubbed the soil away, and saw the substance had scalded a deep groove in the altar, but was beginning to flicker out. The wood surrounding it was wet, and difficult to ignite. It had done its worst and would burn itself out with little further damage if left to its own devices.

  ‘It was careless of Emma to leave a candle so close,’ declared Durand indignantly. ‘What if we had not been here? It would have burned down to the stub and ignited that substance. Then this poor church would have gone up in flames.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Geoffrey soberly. ‘And a fire would destroy all traces of her experiments. It was no accident she left the candle burning, Edred. She expects All Hallows Barking to be a mass of cinders and ashes tomorrow.’

  Seven

  Winchester, 5 April 1102

  It took three days to travel the short distance between London and England’s capital city at Winchester. The spring was a particularly wet one, following what was said to have been a mild winter, and almost continual rain had turned the roads to mud. Riding along them was like wading through a river of slippery sludge, and Roger complained of the damage it might do to the horses.

  Geoffrey was silent most of the way, thinking about what he had learned and witnessed and wishing his companions had gone to Normandy, where they could take refuge with the Duke. Durand would have gone in an instant, since he was far more interested in his own safety than in helping his master, but there were times when Geoffrey could not find it in his heart to condemn the man’s cowardice, and the journey to Winchester was one of them. Geoffrey was touched by the others’ loyalty, though, despite his concerns for their lives.

  He considered the task ahead of him as he rode and came up with a plan he thought might work, but it relied on Roger being outside the castle where he could take messages to the King. He had decided that the King’s prediction about what would happen when Bellême was confronted with the charges was accurate: Bellême would not stand by meekly while the King confiscated his estates – Arundel in the south, and Tickhill, Bridgnorth and Shrewsbury in the north. He would fight to keep them.

  Because Arundel was closest to Winchester, and Bellême would not want to risk a two-hundred-mile trek north unless absolutely necessary, Geoffrey thought Henry was right in assuming that the Earl would fight from there first. It occurred to Geoffrey to gamble on that fact, and secure himself inside before Bellême arrived. But Bellême was unlikely to greet a past enemy in his stronghold with open arms, and Geoffrey decided it would be better to follow the King’s recommendation and attend the Easter Court at Winchester, where he would meet Bellême ‘by accident’.

  He considered how he might persuade the Earl to hire him. Several ideas came to mind, but were discarded as impractical. He thought about seducing Matilda and having himself invited as her lover, but Emma and Sybilla were already aware that might happen, and it seemed a good way to get himself killed. Then he considered making some rebellious remark to the King, so he would be obliged to flee for his safety – and where better than with another of Henry’s persecuted? But Henry had too many loyal men around him, and Geoffrey had a feeling he might be hacked to pieces before he could leave the building, let alone approach Bellême with his dilemma.

  He tried to concentrate, and not to become distracted by the many questions that plagued him. Did the Bellêmes have the secret of Greek Fire, or did Emma still have some way to go before she perfected it? Had she actually been making the substance in All Hallows, or did her addition of dead fingers and raisins indicate she planned to do something else with her potion? Geoffrey was sure the Arabs did not include such ingredients or recite satanic spells, so it was possible the strange business at All Hallows had nothing to do with making a weapon. But what, then? It was obviously something sinister, or she would not have felt obliged to do it in a deserted church.

  Or was she simply trying to keep her discoveries from the Earl? It was clear there was strife within the House of Montgomery-Bellême: the brothers were ranged against the sisters, and the sisters were every bit as greedy and acquisitive as their male kinsfolk. It would not surprise Geoffrey to learn that Emma was working for herself, and not for the clan as a whole.

  However, the sisters were
also divided, because Emma, Sybilla and the four daughters disapproved of Matilda and distrusted her judgement. He wondered whether they knew Hugh had been carrying her messages to the King, to negotiate a secret pact. Matilda had told Geoffrey she was acting for all three sisters, but was that true, or was she simply seeing to her own interests?

  And what was young Philip’s role? Was he what he appeared – the bumbling, illegitimate son of Philip the Grammarian, who Bellême casually dispatched to Henry’s Court as security for his good behaviour? Since Bellême had no intention of behaving, Henry would be within his rights to execute Philip. If that happened, would Bellême care, or would he be incensed over the loss of a good spy?

  And then there was Hugh. What had he been doing the night he was murdered and who had killed him? Henry, because he did not want to receive messages from the Bellême sisters? Matilda, so she could later claim she had sent the King offers of support as a way to gaining his sympathy? And what about the ‘reply’ in Hugh’s mouth? Was it really from Henry, or was it written by someone else – perhaps one of Matilda’s siblings – to prevent negotiations taking place? Henry claimed he had not heard from the sisters, but Geoffrey knew better than to believe anything he said.

  Geoffrey sighed and flexed his shoulders, thinking next about Beaumais’s warning that the King would try to kill him. Was that true? Or did the slippery courtier have his own reasons for spreading the seeds of distrust? There had been two incidents on the road to Winchester, but both attacks had been beaten off with ease, which led Geoffrey to assume they had not been instigated by Henry or Bellême, because both would have hired more competent agents.

  ‘We have ridden far enough today,’ said Roger. ‘We should find a tavern.’

  Geoffrey nodded through the drizzle to where a settlement nestled among the trees some distance ahead. ‘That is Winchester. We will be there within the hour.’