The King's Spies

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘Then ask Geoffrey. He went on the Crusade and will have seen Greek Fire used in battle.’ He addressed Geoffrey directly. ‘Would you willingly fight an enemy who possessed Greek Fire?’

  It was a question loaded with pitfalls, although Geoffrey did not think Arnulf had intended it to be so. Bellême understood its implications, though, and waited for Geoffrey’s reply, like a snake watching a mouse. Geoffrey hesitated. He could say he would not engage in a frontal assault where Greek Fire was likely to be thrown at him, but that would tell Bellême he was a coward. However, to deny that Greek Fire was a terrifying weapon would make him a fool.

  ‘I have fought enemies who have used it,’ he replied carefully.

  ‘You have seen it in action?’ asked Bellême curiously. ‘Our brother, Philip the Grammarian, said he had, but I think his accounts of what it can do are either exaggerated or in error.’

  Geoffrey was not surprised Bellême was sceptical of Philip’s claims. Philip had never been close enough to any fighting to know what Greek Fire could do, let alone to understand how it was deployed. If he had secured the secret, then he had not done so based on personal experience. Geoffrey began to feel hopeful that the House of Montgomery-Bellême did not comprehend the true nature of the substance, and would therefore not be able to use it to its full devastating advantage.

  ‘Special machines are needed to launch it,’ he said. ‘Ones that have been adapted to deal with the fact that it can ignite spontaneously. It is very dangerous without the right equipment, and just as likely to kill the user as the victim.’

  He hoped his warnings might put them off. He did not want to see Greek Fire used against the King’s troops – or any troops – if it could be avoided. It was one thing for Bellême to have a vat of Greek Fire at his disposal, but another altogether to put it into action against his enemies without destroying half his own men in the process.

  ‘You should not have brought Giffard to our meetings,’ said Bellême, turning on Arnulf and abruptly changing the subject. Several courtiers jumped uneasily. ‘We have lost the element of surprise. I cannot imagine why you thought he might rally to our side, when he is a dour man who has never swerved in his allegiance to the King.’

  ‘Allegiances come and go,’ said Arnulf carelessly. ‘As well you know.’ He gestured with his hand in a way that indicated he thought the tavern was less full of supporters than it should have been.

  Bellême ignored the criticism, and turned his reptilian eyes on Geoffrey again. He stared for a long time before speaking, while Geoffrey pretended to be unconcerned by the penetrating scrutiny. ‘I thought you were in Antioch,’ he said eventually.

  ‘I came back,’ said Geoffrey, meeting his gaze. He sensed that to look away would indicate weakness, and he did not want Bellême to think him easily intimidated. It had been a long time since he had felt himself to be in such dire danger.

  ‘For me? I am touched,’ said Bellême. He put his hand on his heart and adopted a simpering expression that made some of his retainers laugh sycophantically. He looked around suddenly and his face assumed a wary expression. ‘Where is that dog of yours? You did not bring it, did you? I will kill it if you have!’ He drew his sword and began to look under the tables.

  ‘I came for my sister’s sake,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Henry will not help her fight off the raids from her Welsh neighbours.’

  He was pleased with himself, thinking that if anyone told Bellême that Geoffrey had visited the King at Westminster Palace, he would now have a plausible reason for being there: to try to persuade Henry to support Joan. Geoffrey could claim that he had decided to change his allegiance when Henry had refused. It was the way things worked in the modern world, where loyalty was bought and sold like any other commodity, and Bellême should not find Geoffrey’s story remarkable.

  ‘Prince Iorwerth has been active around the Marches on my behalf,’ agreed Bellême with satisfaction. ‘At least he is a loyal ally.’

  ‘I am tired of Henry and his bullying ways,’ Geoffrey pressed on. ‘The Duke of Normandy would make a better king.’

  ‘Will he indeed?’ asked Bellême. Geoffrey saw he was still looking for the dog. When he did not find it, he kicked a man who was sitting near him and indicated he was to vacate his stool. When the courtier backed away with obsequious bows, Bellême put his feet on it, unwilling to leave his ankles exposed to stealthy canine fangs.

  ‘You once offered me a post in your command,’ said Geoffrey, grateful that he had had the foresight to leave the dog with Roger. It was not a greatly loved pet, but he did not want it skewered by Bellême, nevertheless. Meanwhile, the landlord had begun to weep, silently and desperately, as if he knew the absence of an animal to slaughter meant he might take its place.

  ‘You think I should employ you now?’ asked Bellême, leaning back in his chair.

  Geoffrey shrugged with a nonchalance he did not feel. ‘I cannot return to Tancred while Joan is in danger.’

  ‘And it is Henry’s lack of support for her that has turned you against him?’ Bellême glanced back at the landlord, and Geoffrey saw he was losing interest in the discussion and wanted to get back to his torture. He wondered whether he would be next in line for fried feet, when the landlord was dead.

  ‘That and the fact that he also killed my dog,’ said Geoffrey with sudden inspiration.

  For some reason, Bellême accepted the brazen lie, although he was reluctant to believe what was close to the truth. He nodded for Geoffrey to sit at his table.

  ‘He killed your dog,’ mused Bellême, thrusting the poker into the fire. The landlord’s weeping grew a little louder. ‘And you have decided to make him pay. Tell me, how did he slay it?’

  Geoffrey was tempted to invent something truly wild to satiate the Earl’s ghoulish curiosity, such as claiming Henry had done it with his teeth or suffocated it by sitting on its head, but the terrified whimpering of the landlord reminded him that he was dealing with a brutal man who was not noted for his sense of humour.

  ‘He had it shot,’ he replied instead.

  ‘Pity,’ said Bellême with genuine regret. ‘It was fierce and ungovernable, and would have made good breeding stock for my bitches. I have never seen such an animal before.’

  Neither had Geoffrey, although he was not proud of it. The dog was not a paragon of loyalty, like other men’s animals, and graced Geoffrey with its presence only as long as it was fed regularly and not prevented too often from terrorizing sheep and geese. People were either afraid of it or they admired its aggression and viciousness.

  ‘Wine,’ said Geoffrey to the landlord. The man stood there blinking stupidly. ‘Move!’ shouted Geoffrey. He watched the man scurry away and hoped he was not foolish enough to bring the jug back himself. He doubted he could deliver him from Bellême a second time.

  Bellême smiled coldly, knowing exactly what Geoffrey had done. ‘He was entertaining me before you interrupted us, and now you have sent him on an errand of your own. I doubt he will want to come back now.’

  ‘I apologize,’ said Geoffrey, watching Arnulf and the rest of Bellême’s audience drift away now the landlord had been reprieved and the sport was over. They were soon alone. ‘I thought he was on hand to see to his guests.’

  ‘I hear you have met my kinswomen,’ said Bellême conversationally. He leaned forward suddenly and gave Geoffrey a thump on the shoulder that almost dislodged him from his seat. Fortunately, it was not the one Mabel had tried to mangle, and Bellême looked disappointed when all that happened was that Geoffrey spilled the wine a pot boy had just brought. Geoffrey supposed the daughters had exaggerated the ‘defeat’ they had inflicted on him. He grimaced as the wine slopped on the floor, then drained what was left. He needed fortification if he was going to spend the evening with Bellême.

  ‘Your sisters are not as hospitable as you are,’ he said. ‘They tried to kill me: twice. And once was in London’s much admired public lavatory, if you can believe it.’

  Bellême
laughed mirthlessly. ‘They think you did away with Hugh.’

  ‘Then they are wrong. Whoever murdered him was inside the Crusader’s Head, and I have never crossed its threshold.’

  Bellême was thoughtful. ‘I saw Hugh’s body myself and the place where he died. You are right: his assailant would have had to be inside the tavern to kill him. Perhaps you can be of use to me after all.’

  ‘How?’ asked Geoffrey warily.

  Bellême gave another of his glittering smiles. ‘By discovering the traitor who killed him. I know you uncovered your father’s murderer two years ago, so now you can put your skills to work for me.’

  ‘That will entail a journey to Southwark,’ said Geoffrey, wondering how he would explain to the King that he had been accepted into Bellême’s service – but unfortunately not at Arundel.

  ‘No,’ said Bellême. ‘I do not intend to let you out of my sight now you are here. You are a dangerous enemy and I want you where I can see you. You do not need to travel to Southwark. My family have already interrogated the taverner and his patrons, so you can speak to them and piece together the information they have obtained collectively.’

  ‘But they may not have asked the right questions,’ objected Geoffrey, thinking that Bellême’s task was likely to prove impossible.

  ‘There is no point in returning to Southwark,’ insisted Bellême. ‘Oswin the taverner is dead, stabbed in his sleep. His loyal pot boy fled during the funeral and has not been seen since. And the other servants and patrons know nothing – or are too frightened to say if they do. You will have to make do with what we have.’ He lowered his voice conspiratorially, so only Geoffrey could hear. ‘You see, I believe the person who murdered Hugh is a member of my own household – perhaps one of my own family. I want to know which.’

  ‘I will do my best,’ said Geoffrey, wondering why it was his misfortune to be set unreasonable quests by rich and powerful men.

  ‘You will,’ agreed Bellême. ‘Because I intend to hang whoever killed Hugh with my own hands. If you do not discover who murdered him within a week, I shall hang you instead.’

  The King’s Easter Court was held the day before Easter Sunday at the great hall at Winchester and was an important occasion. The King processed in his finery, flaunting his wealth, while the soldiers, who marched on his either side to protect him from the watching crowds, provided a solid reminder that he was strong as well as rich. The Royal Treasury, which Geoffrey was disappointed to learn was no more than a sturdy and heavily guarded hut, had been raided for sceptres, orbs, crowns and other symbols of authority, presumably to show any watching Saxons that their Norman overlords had the country well and truly under their control.

  There was a lot of cheering and blasting of horns as the King rode triumphantly around the city, and there was an additional air of excitement because it was the last day of the gloomy season of Lent: the following morning would see the lifting of dietary restrictions for monks and laymen alike. There was also a good deal of optimism regarding the fate of Bellême. People he had terrorized now stepped forward to witness his downfall, confident in the knowledge that the King was about to expel him once and for all.

  Geoffrey did not feel comfortable riding in Bellême’s retinue. Folk turned out of their houses to watch them pass, and none seemed friendly. Some gathered handfuls of dung to toss in their direction, although none were actually aimed at Bellême himself. People were not stupid, and did not want to be run through for spoiling the Earl’s fine robes with a dash of manure. Geoffrey was fairly well protected from the onslaught, because he was in the middle of the soldiers who followed in Bellême’s wake. He suspected he was actually under guard, although no one had attempted to relieve him of his weapons.

  The hall at Winchester was similar to Westminster’s, although not so large. It had been cleared of tables and benches, so people could cram inside to watch the proceedings, and Geoffrey was not surprised that a large crowd had gathered to watch the Earl of Shrewsbury and his family get their just deserts. He looked for Durand among them, but the squire had evidently decided the whole adventure was far too dangerous, and had escaped while he could. Geoffrey cursed Tancred for lumbering him with such a cowardly retainer.

  Bellême shouldered his way through the assembled masses to stand near the front, and his arrival completed his family’s number. Standing on either side were his two brothers, making for a physically impressive trio in their ermine-fringed cloaks and the black and red of their House. They were unmistakably kin: Bellême and Arnulf had black, flowing locks that they had allowed to grow fashionably long, while Roger, Count of Marche, had short hair that stood to attention on the top of his head.

  Roger was the thinnest and Arnulf was the shortest, although he was still head and shoulders above most courtiers. Arnulf possessed neither the austere surliness of Roger nor the sheer unadulterated menace that exuded from Bellême. He smiled more often, and affected a careless attitude, as though he could do little about the events that carried him along to his destiny and was prepared to make the best of what happened. On the surface, he was the most pleasant of the three, although Geoffrey had learned – unlike Arnulf himself – that it took more than one meeting to determine a man’s character.

  Behind them were their sisters. It was customary for women of their age – even the youngest was well into her forties – to conceal their hair with veils, wimples or mantles, but all three sisters allowed theirs to tumble in sheets down their backs, displaying glossy locks for all to see. Emma’s was more grey than black, but it was still an impressive shock nonetheless. She sported a brown habit to indicate she was an abbess, although it was the only concession she made to her vocation. Her fingers were encrusted with jewels, and the gold cross she wore around her neck was one of the largest Geoffrey had ever seen. Next to her was Sybilla, who immediately spotted Geoffrey. She nudged Emma, and both glowered at him. He was the first to look away. Behind them were four tall knights, all hooded with their faces in shadow, although a bandage could be seen gleaming palely on one.

  Standing slightly apart was Matilda. Her dark eyes did not possess the malevolence of the others, and her face was more ready to break into a smile that bespoke humour rather than spite. She was not smiling now, though. She looked nervous. Geoffrey glanced at Emma, and wondered whether she had some potion concealed in her clothes that she intended to use on the King, as the monk Edred had believed. He shuddered at the thought. If that happened, then the next most powerful man in the court would seize control. And that was Bellême.

  Horns sounded brassily and a stir of anticipation rippled through the crowd. The King had arrived. He walked through the centre of the hall with his courtiers and nobles streaming behind him, while a pair of burly squires – neither of which was young Philip – pushed people out of his way. Philip was near the end of the procession, and Geoffrey did not miss the long stare that passed between him and his aunts. Matilda, though, was the only one who smiled. He grinned back, and the knight sensed genuine affection between them.

  There were others in the King’s retinue whom Geoffrey knew, too. Near the front was Bishop Maurice of London in his ecclesiastical splendour, while Edred was one of an army of scribes who carried parchment and pens, evidently brought from London to assist with the drafting of the many writs, charters and documents that would result from this important occasion. Bishop Giffard was there, lean and thin and with his hair shirt visible under his religious habit. Geoffrey felt a presence at his side and turned to see Beaumais, the man who had openly professed loyalty to Bellême when Geoffrey had met him at Westminster. The courtier smiled, and inclined his greasy head in greeting.

  ‘I see you took my advice. The King intends to kill you, so you have come to Bellême, where you will be safe.’

  Geoffrey was sure his safety had not improved, but said nothing. The King marched to the far end of the hall and climbed the steps to a raised dais, where a massive throne had been placed. He sat and allowed his squir
es to scurry around him, making him comfortable by plumping up cushions and pouring him wine. Meanwhile, Beaumais scanned the people who stood in a silent semicircle around Henry’s throne. He sucked in his breath, and shook his head vigorously. Geoffrey saw several others in the Bellême retinue do the same.

  ‘William Pantulf has defected,’ Beaumais hissed, pointing at a nobleman who stood behind the King. ‘He vowed to serve Bellême, but he has broken his oath. This is a bitter blow. The Welsh listen to him, and he may encourage princes like Iorwerth to abandon us and follow Henry instead.’

  ‘Why do we need the Welsh?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘If Bellême is exiled, nothing they can do will help.’

  Beaumais glanced at him. ‘If there is another war, we will lose without the Welsh. Pantulf has struck a foul blow against us with his disloyalty.’

  ‘War?’ asked Geoffrey uneasily. He had not anticipated a war; just a siege in Arundel Castle.

  Beaumais nodded. ‘You did not expect us to go quietly, did you? But the King speaks. Listen.’

  In order to heighten anticipation, and possibly to show Bellême that he did not respect him, Henry dealt with several minor cases before he indicated that the Earl of Shrewsbury was to step forward. By this time, Bellême was livid. He shoved his brothers aside and stood in front of the King, where he made the most perfunctory obeisance. It did not pass unnoticed, and Henry gave a thin-lipped smile.

  ‘Robert de Bellême, Earl of Shrewsbury,’ he announced in a ringing voice. Everyone in the hall was absolutely silent, determined not to miss a single word or nuance that was uttered. ‘You are here to answer to us, Henry of England, on a number of charges – forty-five in total. You have collected taxes you had no right to take. You have continued to fortify your castle at Bridgnorth, even though you did not seek our permission to do so. Your brothers, Arnulf, Earl of Pembroke and Roger, Count of Marche, are similarly charged.’

  Arnulf and Roger went to stand next to their brother, and Geoffrey could see Bellême struggling to control his rage at the humiliation. Henry sensed his vassal’s discomfort, and did all he could to heighten it. It was obvious that he did not have the slightest intention of allowing Bellême to keep his English estates, and equally apparent that Bellême still entertained some remote, albeit futile, hope that some arrangement might yet be reached – if he managed to hold his temper.