The King's Spies

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘The issue had nothing to do with Greek Fire, did it?’ asked Geoffrey, careless that his conversation was becoming an interrogation. Beaumais did not seem to mind. He appeared to be the kind of man who enjoyed talking about his own affairs, even when he should have kept some of them to himself.

  ‘It most certainly was not,’ said Beaumais with some feeling. ‘I do not want to become embroiled in that, thank you very much. It was about another matter entirely.’

  ‘One less important,’ stated Geoffrey, deliberately dismissive. It was an obvious ploy – making it sound as though Beaumais was involved in something irrelevant in the hope that his ego would balk. Beaumais would have to be a fool to fall for such a tactic, so Geoffrey was startled when he did.

  ‘My business is very important,’ Beaumais argued indignantly. ‘More than any foreign weapon.’

  ‘What can be more important than a way to defeat the King?’

  ‘The King will not be brought low by weapons alone. Emma has other plans.’ He beamed fondly at the abbess who, despite looking travel-weary and dishevelled, smiled back, before busying herself with her boxes.

  ‘What plans?’ pressed Geoffrey. ‘A potion?’

  He thought about Emma and her activities in All Hallows Barking. Was it Beaumais who had brought her the olive oil? The figure had been the right height and build. Or did Emma’s plans involve the contents of the reliquary and the long box, so the potion containing olive oil, sulphur, fingers and raisins was designed to restore flesh and muscles to long-dead bones and had nothing to do with warfare?

  ‘It will involve potions,’ acknowledged Beaumais, gratified to show off his superior knowledge. ‘And other items.’

  ‘Items carried in that narrow chest?’ asked Geoffrey, nodding to where Emma was supervising its unloading. The attention she lavished on it indicated that she considered it either valuable or fragile. The other Bellêmes watched wordlessly as it was carried inside with a care that verged on reverence.

  Beaumais beamed at him. ‘You have it! But do not talk too loudly, my friend. The Bellêmes are sensitive about it, and you would be wise not to cross them. Their mother would disapprove, too.’

  ‘Mabel’s bones are in it,’ said Geoffrey, to test whether his assumptions were right. ‘And her head is in the other chest – the “reliquary”.’

  ‘No,’ said Beaumais, already forgetting he was not supposed to talk about the matter on pain of upsetting Old Mabel. ‘We do not have her own head yet, but it is only a matter of time before we do. And then the fortunes of the House will turn. Do you know the man who is with Abbot Ralph?’

  ‘No,’ replied Geoffrey, although he had seen him before. He had been one of the two men who had carried the long box near St Paul’s. His companion had been cloaked and hooded to prevent himself from being recognized, but the knight had not bothered to hide his face.

  ‘That is Josbert of Brèval. He is Bellême’s most trusted servant, and he has been working hard to prepare Arundel for the siege that is about to follow. Will the King come, do you think?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Geoffrey. ‘He will come.’

  Bellême and his siblings headed for the hall, along with Abbot Ralph, Josbert, Beaumais and a number of others, so Geoffrey followed for want of anything else to do. The building was surprisingly pleasant, with sumptuous wall hangings and fresh reeds scattered on the floor. While Bellême paced furiously, none of his fury exhausted by the ride, his company waited nervously to see what he would do next. Geoffrey found a spot near the back of the hall and sat on the floor, feeling exhaustion wash over him.

  Food was brought, and Bellême was persuaded by Sybilla to sit and eat. As bread and meat restored the family’s strength, conversation broke out. It comprised mostly bitter sniping between Emma and Bellême, with the others taking sides. Sybilla agreed with everything Bellême said, no matter how ill-informed or outrageous, and Geoffrey thought it a pity he should inspire such blind loyalty.

  Abbot Ralph did his best to keep the peace, but his efforts were mostly ignored, while Josbert sat next to Bellême and scowled at anyone who spoke. Geoffrey hoped the King would break the siege quickly, because being locked in a confined space with such people promised to be no fun at all. He also hoped the King would strike sooner than in a week, since he was sure boredom would lead Bellême to carry out his threat to hang Geoffrey, regardless of whether or not he had managed to identify Hugh’s killer.

  It was not long before he lost interest in the angry, strife-filled chatter of the Bellêmes, and closed his eyes. He did not feel particularly safe in the hall, but it was dark and not a good time to wander outside in the wet looking for a better place to sleep. He removed his cloak and used it as a pillow. It was not the first time he had slept sitting up, and he was sure it would not be the last.

  He was asleep almost instantly, and when he awoke the hall was dim and shadowy. People lay everywhere, huddled in blankets and cloaks, and the fire had been banked. At the far end of the hall men still spoke in soft voices, and Geoffrey saw Bellême sitting with Josbert, poring over documents and planning their strategy. He was about to sleep again when he became aware of someone inching towards him. He eased himself up, and when the attack came, he was ready for it. He knocked the dagger from his assailant’s hand before it did more than snake towards him. It clattered to the floor with a ringing sound that had many sleepers grumbling and turning restlessly. Carrying a torch, Bellême strode down the hall to see what was happening.

  ‘Oh, it is you,’ he said when he saw Geoffrey twisting the arm of the would-be knifeman and forcing him to his knees. ‘I might have known.’

  ‘Who is he?’ asked Josbert, who had followed Bellême and was regarding Geoffrey with suspicion.

  ‘He is the man who will uncover the traitor who murdered Hugh. Then we shall hang him.’

  This was not quite the agreement Geoffrey thought they had made.

  ‘No,’ said Josbert shortly, before Geoffrey could voice his objection. ‘I do not care what you have hired him to do. Get rid of him. More castles have fallen through treachery than through battle, and I want no strangers here. Kill him now, or send him away tomorrow with the other expendables.’

  Bellême turned to him in astonishment. ‘Do you dare to give me orders?’

  ‘If you want your siege to be successful, then I do,’ replied Josbert tartly, unruffled by Bellême’s ire. Geoffrey warmed to him a little. ‘I can leave now, if you would rather appoint someone else.’

  ‘You will stay,’ snarled Bellême. ‘And so will Geoffrey. I want to know who murdered Hugh and I do not trust anyone else to uncover the truth. You are right: there is treachery in my retinue, and I want an outsider to expose it for me.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Josbert, with what Geoffrey considered to be rash abandon. ‘An insider – like me – understands the factions in your following. This man does not.’

  ‘You will be far too busy to bother with the murder of my nephew, while my brothers and sisters have their own plans afoot, some of which would see me sacrificed in order to see them reprieved.’

  ‘I do not think they—’ began Josbert.

  ‘Then you are a fool,’ snapped Bellême. ‘Everyone is out for himself. Am I right, Geoffrey?’

  ‘I should think so,’ agreed Geoffrey cautiously. Of all the Bellêmes, Sybilla and her daughters were the only ones who had shown loyalty to any other family members, and they were seriously deranged.

  ‘Emma strives to make our mother whole again,’ Bellême went on. ‘That is a good thing, but she imagines Mother will side with her against me, her favourite child. Foolish woman! Sybilla is so loyal she is a menace, and I dislike her perverted daughters pretending to be men. Matilda flaunts her prettiness in the hope that gullible men will help her. Roger wants to inherit my lands in England, while Arnulf … well, who knows what Arnulf plans? I distrust a smiling face.’

  ‘Matilda does not flaunt herself,’ said Josbert gallantly.

  �
��She allowed that pawing Bishop Maurice to avail himself of her charms,’ Bellême pointed out acidly. Geoffrey knew that was true, because he had been disappointed in her.

  ‘Only to help you,’ said Josbert tartly. ‘Maurice has visited Arundel and I was afraid he would remember it well enough to give the King details about its defences, so she bedded him and quizzed him about what he recalled. She says he knows little that can harm us and is satisfied that the King will not learn from Maurice how long we can survive a siege. She did well.’

  Clever Matilda, thought Geoffrey, recalling that Maurice was puzzled to have been asked questions about a castle when he had wanted to chat about the sexual experience they had shared. She had questioned a potential enemy with care and at depth, and the man had not realized what she was doing.

  ‘We shall see,’ said Bellême ungraciously. He wagged a finger at Josbert. ‘But I want Geoffrey to hunt out this traitor, so do not kill him until his time is up.’ He glanced meaningfully at the knifeman Geoffrey still held, obviously thinking he was under Josbert’s orders.

  Josbert regarded Geoffrey venomously. ‘I shall be watching you,’ he said, before striding back to his parchments at the far end of the hall.

  ‘You and everyone else,’ muttered Geoffrey, thinking that so many people were going to watch his every move he was probably the safest person in the castle. He released the knifeman, deciding to let Bellême deal with him.

  ‘Amise,’ said Bellême disdainfully, dragging the hood away from the would-be killer’s face to reveal Sybilla’s youngest daughter. She had removed the bandage she had worn earlier to reveal a long swelling cut that ran the length of one cheek.

  ‘He was sleeping like a baby,’ she spat furiously. ‘While I am scarred for life.’

  ‘Then you should choose your enemies more carefully,’ said Bellême in a menacing whisper. ‘And you will make one of me if you kill him. But you do not have long to wait. If he cannot find my traitor, you shall have the honour of hanging him yourself. But you will leave him alone until then.’

  ‘Look!’ cried Amise, pointing to her face. Her voice was loud, and people sat up, disturbed from sleep. Confused voices began to echo through the hall. ‘How will I ever marry? Who will take me?’

  ‘Anyone I decide to give you,’ replied Bellême harshly. ‘Lands and estates are what matter, not looks. You will marry well, because it is in my interests that you do so. And it is your own fault you are so horribly disfigured, anyway.’ Geoffrey winced, thinking that he might have expressed himself a little more gently. ‘You elected to fight like a man, so you must accept being injured like one.’

  ‘I shall never forgive him,’ spat Amise. ‘Never.’

  ‘Good,’ said Bellême, pleased. ‘Revenge is a good thing to cultivate.’

  Amise glowered at him before stalking away. Bellême watched her go with a chuckle, evidently amused by the thought of a maimed girl seeking vengeance in the middle of the night. Geoffrey saw he was going to be in for a very long week.

  The following morning was fine, and Geoffrey woke when the servants came to light the fire and set up tables for breakfast. He watched them struggle with temperamental trestles and load them with bread, fruit, salted fish and oatmeal. Wisely, everyone waited for Bellême to take what he wanted first, and then there was a concerted rush. Geoffrey saw a number of people stuff bread into their clothing, and knew they were planning ahead, anticipating a time when it would be scarce, and they would be reduced to catching rats and eating victuals they would not pass to a beggar in normal life.

  As soon as breakfast was cleared away, Josbert issued orders. Some people were instructed to collect their belongings and leave, while others were told to stay. Soon, a stream of folk headed for the gates, carrying all they could. Some were minor nobles who had thrown in their lot with Bellême and who were now forced to fend for themselves, but most were villagers who had fled to the castle for safety. Josbert checked each person who left, and any scrap of food or livestock was confiscated. Geoffrey felt sorry for the peasants who wept because a cow or a sheep was all they owned, but Josbert cared nothing for that.

  By the end of the morning, he had animals penned in both baileys, and every storeroom was filled. Pantries and butteries were full to overflowing with grain, salted meat and fish, and sacks of dried peas and beans, while a second well was being dug in the inner bailey, lest the one in the outer court should become contaminated or run dry. Arrows had been commandeered by the cartload, and Geoffrey saw Josbert expected the siege to last for months.

  Other people arrived, trying to gain access, but most were turned away. One was not, and Geoffrey saw Matilda hurry forward to embrace Philip, the hostage who had been at Henry’s Court. No one else seemed very interested, and although Emma also came to greet him, she did not display the warm affection of her younger sister. Geoffrey lounged behind a water barrel, so he could overhear what was being said between aunts and nephew.

  ‘Did you receive my message?’ asked Matilda, holding Philip at arm’s length and looking him up and down to ensure he was unscathed.

  Philip nodded eagerly. ‘And it is as well that you warned me you all planned to flee, or Henry would have hanged me for certain. He has never liked me, and would relish an opportunity to make sure there was one less Bellême in the world.’

  ‘He would not,’ said Emma scornfully. ‘You mean nothing to him, and he would not bloody his hands over you. Now, had I been the hostage, things would have been different …’

  ‘I managed to escape,’ Philip said proudly, ignoring her. ‘On my own. I thought Bishop Maurice might help me, but he was more interested in sleeping with a new serving wench.’ He glanced defiantly at Emma. ‘I really did think Henry might kill me, after what you did yesterday.’

  ‘He would have been within his rights,’ said Matilda, casting an admonishing glare at her sister. Emma raised her eyes heavenward, to indicate she thought they were both overreacting. ‘News came this morning that we are declared outlaws for vanishing without answering the charges laid against us. But I am glad you escaped. How did you do it?’

  ‘I climbed out of a window and dropped on to a compost heap. The guards heard me fall and fired arrows, but I managed to jump into the river and float away.’

  ‘Did you bring what I asked?’ demanded Emma. ‘A lock of Henry’s hair and one of his fingers?’

  ‘No,’ said Philip apologetically, although Geoffrey considered Emma’s request an unreasonable one. Philip might have managed to snag hair while the monarch slept, but a finger was an entirely different proposition. ‘I tried, but he never sleeps alone and would have noticed me removing a finger. I have some toenail clippings, though.’

  ‘They will have to do, I suppose,’ said Emma, sighing to indicate her disappointment. ‘And what have you discovered about the map?’

  ‘I do not think Henry has it. There is a chest where he keeps things he does not want his clerks to see, and it is not there. You say it should have come into his hands a week ago, but it has not.’

  Geoffrey frowned. The archer who had ambushed them near Westminster had allegedly muttered ‘map’ as he died. Durand had assumed he had been trying to say Mappestone, and had interpreted it as evidence that the attack was directed against Geoffrey. But what if he had indeed been saying ‘map’, and referred to the one Emma had hoped Philip would take from the King? That would imply Petronus had indeed been carrying missives other than those from Ralph to Maurice. He had known he was in danger, and had hoped two knights would be enough to protect him. He had been wrong. When the attack failed, both archers had been shot for incompetence, and someone else had hunted down the injured Petronus and strangled him. So, who had taken the map Petronus had carried?

  The probability that the archer Geoffrey had caught had been shot by someone in the King’s hunting party, combined with the fact that Emma expected the map to be in the King’s possession, indicated that the ambush had originated with Henry. Furthermore, the fact that
the ambush had occurred a week earlier fitted well with what Emma and Philip were talking about. The mess was beginning to make sense to Geoffrey. It explained why Henry or his men had killed the archer, and even why the King had insisted on riding immediately to Westminster, abandoning his morning hunt: he had wanted his agents to complete their business without interference from Geoffrey.

  But what map could be so important that it called for a monk to be murdered? A map telling Emma where she might find the secret ingredient to Greek Fire? Beaumais had all but admitted to Geoffrey that he was the recipient of some of Petronus’s messages, so it was possible the map was his. He had gone with Bishop Maurice to see whether he could find it on Petronus’s body, but was too late: the map had gone. Bemused, Geoffrey turned his attention back to the discussion.

  ‘Will my grandmother be angry?’ Philip asked Emma in a voice that was fearful.

  ‘No,’ said Matilda, before Emma could answer. ‘Old Mabel knows you did your best. Go to the kitchens and eat. We will talk more later. I am proud of you.’

  When he had gone, the sisters regarded each other soberly.

  ‘What does this mean?’ asked Emma. ‘That the King has committed the thing to memory and destroyed the only copy in existence? If that is the case, we shall never have it, and our mother will be doomed to wander the earth headless forever.’

  So, that was it, thought Geoffrey. It was nothing to do with Greek Fire, but with the location of Old Mabel’s head. He could only assume that the knights who had killed her and stolen her skull had made a chart saying where they had buried it. If the Bellême clan really did believe that uniting head with body would give them supernatural powers, then it was not surprising they were prepared to go to such lengths to have it. But Geoffrey was surprised Henry was willing to enter the quest for it, too.

  ‘She will not,’ said Matilda sharply. ‘You may frighten the others with tales of corpse-raising, but you do not convince me. Corpses do not rise from their graves because they want their heads back.’