The King's Spies

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘But he was too late,’ mused Matilda. ‘Oswin had already talked to you. Josbert bolted the stable door, but the horse was no longer in it.’

  The horse had bolted twice, thought Geoffrey, because Oswin had dictated his letter to Abbot Ralph, too, telling a kindly mentor all that had happened, because the landlord had sensed Hugh’s death was a catalyst that would turn the Bellêmes against him.

  ‘And poor Philip,’ said Matilda softly. ‘You said Arnulf also murdered Philip.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey, thinking of the discussion he had overheard near the stables. It was obvious what had happened. Arnulf and his nephew had made some pact to benefit each other, and Arnulf had decided Philip was too much of a liability inside a castle under siege, where tempers were frayed and unsettled. He had executed him to ensure he said nothing incriminating, probably hoping that Geoffrey, who was soon to die, would provide a convenient scapegoat.

  There was a commotion in the bailey below as Bellême emerged from the hall rubbing sleep from his eyes and servants ran to tend to his early morning needs. Arnulf and Roger were with him, and Geoffrey felt a pang of regret when he saw his surcoat adorning a murderer. He wished someone else had asked for it, because he felt he would rather even Bellême took possession of it than the smiling killer.

  Matilda turned to Geoffrey. ‘It is light. You do not have long left.’

  ‘Bellême was right all along,’ said Geoffrey, making no move to end the conversation. ‘There is a traitor in his house. The traitor represents a danger to you, too, and you should trust no one.’

  ‘I never have,’ said Matilda. She sighed. ‘I wish there was something I could do to prevent this, Geoffrey. I dislike hangings. They always seem so unsporting.’

  ‘I dislike them, too,’ came a quiet voice from behind. It was Mabel, who had ignored her uncle’s orders and wore full knightly regalia. She had polished and cleaned it, so she looked resplendent. She gave Geoffrey a shy half-salute, and he realized she wore it to honour him. ‘You say Arnulf killed Hugh? That is no surprise. He smiles too much.’

  ‘Josbert does not, though,’ said Matilda. ‘He never smiles at all.’

  ‘Better that than false friendliness,’ said Mabel. ‘Did Arnulf kill my sisters, too?’

  ‘I am not sure,’ replied Geoffrey, although the burn marks on Arnulf’s hands suggested he had had access to the incendiary device at some point. ‘I do not know why Arnulf killed Hugh, so it is hard to say why he might also have murdered your sisters. Their killer might have been Josbert.’ He thought hard, trying to remember whether the castellan also had damaged hands, but his mind was blank.

  ‘Beaumais has burned hands,’ suggested Mabel.

  ‘And he is the kind of man to change sides to suit his own needs,’ added Matilda. ‘He frolicked with me in the barn, even though he has promised himself to Emma. I knew it would not take much for him to break his allegiance.’

  ‘Is that why you did it?’ asked Mabel. ‘I did not understand why you chose a weak, vacillating fellow like him, when there are stronger men available. You wanted to test his loyalty to Emma?’

  ‘Loyalty in the bed and in battle are not comparable,’ said Geoffrey, thinking it was unfair to accuse Beaumais of being a traitor simply because he was unable to resist Matilda’s charms.

  ‘You are a man,’ said Matilda scornfully. ‘You would say that. But the reality is – and every woman knows it – that a man who cannot be trusted in the bedchamber cannot be trusted anywhere.’

  A cockerel crowed, long and loud, saving Geoffrey the need to respond, and Mabel glanced over the parapet to the ground below. ‘You intend to jump. That is why you dispensed with your armour.’

  ‘I see,’ said Matilda, nodding slowly. ‘You did not do it to enjoy an hour unencumbered with metal, but to make yourself lighter, so you do not land with such a crash.’

  ‘It is a long way down,’ said Mabel doubtfully.

  ‘The ground offers a better fate than the one Amise has in mind for me.’ Geoffrey inhaled deeply, relishing the sweet scent of clean air tinged with wood smoke, and wondered whether he would be able to make his leap before Matilda and Mabel could stop him. That they had so easily guessed his plan did not bode well for its success. Mabel was a large, strong woman, and it would be difficult to break away from her once she had grabbed him.

  ‘You must aim for the soft ground near the garderobe shaft,’ said Matilda, uncharacteristically delicate when she referred to the ordure that had accumulated in a squelching heap. ‘That is how Philip escaped from Winchester – he jumped into a compost heap. Is that what gave you the idea?’

  ‘Yes,’ admitted Geoffrey, who had determined upon this after abandoning a more risky plan that involved taking Bellême hostage and demanding safe passage on pain of slitting the man’s throat.

  ‘Do not forget that Arundel’s walls are higher than the ones at Winchester,’ added Mabel helpfully. ‘We are three storeys. And a pile of shit is not as pleasant as landing in a heap of rotting vegetation.’

  ‘I will bear it in mind,’ said Geoffrey. He looked from one to the other and smiled when he understood they were not going to prevent his escape.

  ‘What is the plan?’ asked Matilda. ‘Jump into the mud, then claim sanctuary in the church?’

  ‘That would involve running uphill,’ said Mabel, assessing the landscape with a professional eye. ‘Head towards the river, where the land slopes down. Then do what Philip did: leap into the water and allow the current to tow you to safety.’

  ‘Aim left of the garderobe shaft,’ instructed Matilda, leaning over the parapet to inspect the ground. ‘The right side slopes too acutely and you may fall on to harder ground.’

  ‘Unfortunately, that is where Foucon is standing,’ said Geoffrey, who had reviewed all his options very carefully when he had been with Amise the night before. He knew exactly which gap he needed to drop through for the best chance of survival. ‘I shall have to make do with the other.’

  ‘No,’ said Mabel, reaching for her sword. ‘I will clear it for you.’

  ‘I would not become involved, if I were you,’ warned Geoffrey, touched that she was prepared to risk her life to help him, but not wanting her to hang in his place – which would surely happen when Bellême found out what she had done. ‘Your mother will not want to lose another daughter so soon.’

  ‘He is right, Mabel,’ said Matilda. ‘This is not an occasion for steel, but for cunning.’

  ‘We need a diversion,’ said Mabel, nodding. ‘It will not take much to distract Foucon, Matilda: he is besotted with you. Meanwhile, his soldiers are looking very shabby today. They need smartening up.’

  ‘Look!’ said Matilda urgently, pointing towards the bailey. ‘Robert is on his way already. Wait for my signal, and make a good jump, Geoffrey.’

  ‘God’s speed,’ added Mabel, touching him lightly and briefly on the shoulder. She drifted away, scanning the countryside as though her sole purpose was a survey of the castle’s defences. Matilda went in the opposite direction, aiming for Foucon.

  ‘That ridiculous man thinks Arnulf is the killer,’ Geoffrey heard her announce, accompanying her words with a tinkling giggle to indicate she thought his conclusion ludicrous. Foucon laughed, too, although his tone was more wary than amused. Matilda flounced past, rubbing her arms. ‘It is very cold in the wind, Foucon. Come this way and let me tell you more of what he said.’

  Foucon was torn. He was under orders to guard Geoffrey, but would far rather talk to Matilda and put himself back in her good graces. He glanced down to where Bellême had started to climb the spiral stairs, and evidently decided that Geoffrey was unlikely to escape with Bellême blocking his only way out. He scowled at the knight to warn him to behave, then followed Matilda. Meanwhile, Mabel had completed her circuit of the tower and was approaching from the other direction.

  ‘Look at this,’ she shouted furiously to the remaining guards. ‘You are filthy, slovenly vermin who are not fit to stan
d in my presence.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded one of the guards, offended. ‘What have we done?’

  ‘Someone has used the turret as a urinal. Come here, all of you. I want you to see this for yourselves before I report the matter to Josbert.’

  The soldiers followed, half amused by her outrage at something they did all the time, and half afraid that Josbert might agree with her and punish them. Geoffrey moved nonchalantly in the direction of the gap above the garderobe shaft, while Matilda leaned over the parapet and treated the delighted Foucon to an expanse of bare bosom. But Foucon was no fool, and did not like the fact that Geoffrey was moving out of his line of vision. Suddenly, Matilda started to shout.

  ‘One of the siege engines is on the move! Sound the alarm! Do not just stand there! Move!’

  Within moments, the top of the tower was in chaos, as guards darted here and there, jostling each other for space to see whether she was right. They were worried, because the completion of a war machine meant the castle would soon be in for some sustained battering, as missiles assailed it night and day. Their lives would become more miserable than ever. Geoffrey heard Bellême’s voice on the stairs, demanding to know what the racket was about. He did not have much time.

  He walked to the gap, now free of soldiers, and looked at the ground below. It was so far down that he saw the folly of his plan. Even if he managed to hit the muck and not the ground, he was likely to pummel into it so hard he would die anyway. But Bellême was already on the roof, joining the soldiers who clamoured that they could see a siege engine moving. Geoffrey had two choices: he could allow Bellême to hang him, or he could take his chances with the midden. He sat, aware that Mabel was watching him covertly. Then he swung his legs over the gap and forced himself to drop.

  He felt himself airborne, dropping straight down with a stomach-clenching suddenness, while the foetid brown sludge of the midden rushed up to meet him.

  Geoffrey hit the ground with a tremendous crash that drove the breath from his body and made filth fly in all directions. He immediately felt himself sinking, and foulness seeped into his mouth and eyes. For a moment, he could only lie still, and there was a distant sense that he had broken his spine. Then he found his legs still worked, and his arms, and he was fighting to escape the clinging muck. It was more difficult than he had anticipated, because the trench was deeper than he had thought. Choking and gagging on the vileness, he began to flail wildly, aiming to reach solid ground or something that would allow him to claw his way free.

  He managed to seize a handful of grass, but his fingers were oily, and he could not grip it hard enough to help himself. With horror, he felt himself sink deeper. With a desperation borne of panic, he made a monumental effort to hurl himself to one side. With a sucking plop, the midden released its prize, and he was able to crawl away, where he lay on his side gasping for air.

  But his respite was not to last. A soldier on the battlements above had edged past Matilda and happened to look down at the ground below. He saw exactly what had happened, and started to raise the alarm. Geoffrey heaved himself on to his hands and knees, then grabbed at the walls to pull himself upright. His legs felt as though they were made of rubber, and the sprint across the open land to the river suddenly seemed a very dubious proposition. He was not sure he could make it.

  More shouts echoed from above, and he saw that if he did not run soon, his great leap would have been in vain. In moments, archers would grab their bows and release volleys of arrows, and few could miss at such a short distance. He thrust himself away from the wall and started to run. His wet clothes weighed him down, and he felt as though he was running through honey. Each unsteady, staggering step seemed to take an eternity, and the river did not seem to be coming any closer at all.

  A heavy stone thumped into the ground at his side, showing that the guards were not waiting until the archers arrived, but were trying to hit him themselves. A second stone followed the first, so close that he felt the wind of it passing close to his head. The ground was uneven, and to his horror, he lost his balance, tumbling into the grass and losing vital moments. He dragged himself upright and plodded on, aware of heavy missiles thudding all around him. He tried to move faster, but the ground was pitted with molehills and burrows, and he was afraid that if he fell again it would be the last thing he did. Then an arrow hissed into the ground near his heels.

  Just when he thought he could run no farther, the land dipped and the river was in front of him. He skidded down the bank, then rolled head over heels until he hit the water with a splash. He plunged downwards, surrounded by foam and bubbles that turned quickly from white to brown to black as he sank. Then he hit the bottom, and felt his feet slide into soft mud. He struggled furiously, knowing that if he became entangled in the river’s bottom, then his wild bid for freedom would be at an end.

  Just when he thought the river might win, he felt himself come free, and kicked towards the light above. The current tugged at him, and he allowed himself to drift, knowing that the farther away from the castle he was when he surfaced, the less likely he was to be hit by Bellême’s marksmen.

  He broke through the surface, and drew a great gasping breath into his burning lungs. A hissing sound to his left made him look back at the castle, where archers all along the wall nocked arrows to their bows. Another came a hand’s breadth from his shoulder, so he turned and swam as hard as he could, aiming for the middle of the river where the current was strongest, and would take him away faster. But he was a sitting duck, and saw the only way to escape was to duck again.

  He took a deep breath, and dived, aiming to one side in the hope that the archers would be less able to predict where he might be. Out of the corner of his eye he saw trails of bubbles where more arrows zapped into the water where he had been, and saw he would have been hit for certain if he had not jigged away from his original course.

  When he felt as though his lungs would burst, he surfaced again. Within moments, arrows pattered around him, and he realized how deeply determined Bellême was that he should not escape. He drew another breath into his protesting lungs, and dived again. This time, he could not go so deeply or swim so far before he was obliged to come up. The hail of missiles was unrelenting, and he knew it was only a matter of time before one hit him.

  He was bracing himself for another dive, when the shooting stopped as abruptly as it had begun. Bewildered, Geoffrey glanced back, and saw the archers looking in the opposite direction. Then there was a low whistling roar, like a thunder-bolt, followed by a crack, and Geoffrey saw a cloud of dust rising from one of the walls. Arundel Castle was under attack! A great shriek split the air, and a second missile was launched. This one hit the wooden watchtower, but did little damage. There was a smashing sound, and a great black stain began to dribble down it. It was Greek Fire, but it had not ignited. Geoffrey thought Bellême would be relieved, because it could have had the entire structure in flames. Part of his mind noted that it had come from outside the castle, which meant that Bellême had not been the only one working to produce the substance.

  But it was no time to speculate or to watch the confused milling of guards on the battlements as the realization dawned that the King might also possess a deadly weapon. Geoffrey swam as hard as his exhausted muscles would allow to the opposite bank, and clambered out. An arrow thudded nearby as one determined bowman continued to follow Bellême’s orders. As soon as he was free of the clinging mud and slippery roots that formed the riverbank, Geoffrey ran until he was certain he was out of range. Only then, chest heaving and legs shaking from exhaustion, did he turn to look at the castle.

  He heard another low roar, and saw a stone smash into the palisade near the gatehouse, but although shattered wood flew in all directions, it made little impact on the stone. The siege machine was too far away to do real harm, and its aim was flawed: it was being used before it was properly assembled or calibrated. Meanwhile, Bellême’s guards fled in all directions, because although the missiles were
unlikely to breach walls, the flying splinters they created could kill or maim onlookers. One person remained unmoving and unflinching, however, and Geoffrey could see by its size that it was Bellême. He held a bow, and Geoffrey realized it had not been an archer who had continued to fire after the others had stopped, but the Earl himself.

  ‘Hey!’

  The voice so close made Geoffrey spin around, anticipating more trouble when Henry’s soldiers assumed he was one of Bellême’s men making an escape before he starved. His flagging spirits received a boost when he saw Roger trotting across the uneven ground to meet him. The dog was at his heels, and released a delighted bark when it saw Geoffrey. It scampered towards him in a rare display of affection, then threatened to trip him over by winding itself around his legs, attracted to the powerful smells that clung about him from his brush with the midden.

  Geoffrey staggered towards Roger, wanting to put as much distance between him and Bellême as he could, lest the Earl employ some of the witchcraft for which his family was famous, and make his arrows fly farther than they should. He refused to answer any questions until they were safely concealed behind a large tree.

  ‘We had your message,’ said Roger, removing his cloak and throwing it around Geoffrey’s shoulders. Geoffrey gathered it around him gratefully. ‘You said the gatehouse represents our best hope of attack, but the postern gate is the least well defended.’