‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey, wondering why Roger was scowling at him. ‘Our system worked.’
‘So, why are you here, then?’ demanded Roger huffily. ‘Did you not trust me to get it right?’
‘No,’ said Geoffrey tiredly. ‘I mean, yes.’
‘Then why did you dive off the battlements to deliver the message to Henry in person?’ asked Roger icily. ‘It was a foolish thing to do and quite unnecessary. You would have been better to stay where you were. This siege will not last for long now we have your information.’
‘And neither would I,’ said Geoffrey, explaining what would have happened if he had not made his bid for freedom. ‘But I have done what I was ordered to. I am leaving for Dover tonight.’
‘Henry wants to see you first,’ said Roger. ‘It was him who ordered the war machines fired to improve your chances of escape, so remember to thank him.’
Geoffrey was glad Henry had deployed his mangonel, because no one could now accuse Matilda of causing a diversion to allow him to escape. He suspected that she had not seen it move as she had claimed, but no one in Arundel would be able to prove that. Indeed, she was probably enjoying adulation as an observant lookout.
‘And what about the Greek Fire?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘I saw it hit the watchtower. Did Henry give the order for that to be used, too?’
‘Greek Fire!’ snorted Roger in disgust. ‘What Henry has is nothing like Greek Fire! It is too wet, and he cannot get it to stay alight. You saw what happened when they gave it a trial run: it trickled down the wall and did nothing more inconvenient than leave a nasty stain.’
‘You mean Henry does not have the secret?’ asked Geoffrey, knowing that Roger regarded his questions as stupid, but suddenly overwhelmed with weariness.
‘He does not have real Greek Fire,’ reiterated Roger. ‘His stuff is entirely too sloppy. He cannot make it go where he aims. And he cannot make it burn.’ Roger made a list on his fingers, somehow reaching five points, when Geoffrey had counted only three.
‘Like Emma’s. Hers is too wet, too.’
‘If hers is the same as his, then neither of them has the secret.’
Geoffrey followed Roger through a well-organized camp to where a bigger and gaudier tent than the others was located upwind from the stench always associated with any kind of military station. A royal standard fluttered in the breeze, and Geoffrey noticed there was even a tent for the King’s horses, should the weather turn bad and they needed shelter.
‘Geoffrey,’ said Henry, coming to greet him with a smile. He started to touch the knight’s shoulder, but became aware of the unpleasant smell that clung to his clothes and let his hand drop to his side. ‘I did not expect to see you so soon. I imagined you would remain with Bellême and surrender when we broke the siege. Escape was a dangerous thing to attempt.’
‘Not as dangerous as staying would have been,’ said Geoffrey.
Henry gestured that he was to sit on a bench inside the tent, while he reclined in a large chair opposite. After a moment, he rose and moved it away, wrinkling his nose fastidiously. He expressed polite interest when Geoffrey gave a brief account of his experiences, but the knight had the impression that he only wanted information pertinent to the siege. Geoffrey did not mention his partial solution to the murder of Hugh, nor that the answer had only come to him moments before he was due to hang. Roger and Helbye would be a much more appreciative audience than the King.
‘Well, I am glad you are still with us, even if a tactical error was made in trying to save your life,’ said Henry, interrupting before he had finished.
‘Revealing to Bellême that you have Greek Fire?’
Henry grimaced. ‘Revealing to him that I do not have Greek Fire. I gave the order for the mangonel to fire a couple of rocks, but your sergeant interfered. Saying he was a Crusader who understood Greek Fire, he wound the engine we have been using to practise, and launched a pot before I could stop him. You probably saw what happened: the vessel smashed and it dribbled down the wall but did not ignite as it was supposed to have done.’
‘It needs refinement,’ agreed Geoffrey. ‘The Crusaders never did learn the secret – the element that makes it difficult to douse. Nor did we work out how to propel it where it is meant to go.’
‘Has Bellême?’ asked Henry eagerly.
‘I do not know. My squire saw a pot of a substance I assume was real Greek Fire among Emma’s belongings, but her supply is limited – and becoming more so. Her own attempts at reproducing it are no more successful than yours.’ Geoffrey knew he would have noticed if she had possessed vats of the stuff. It was difficult to conceal much in a castle under siege, but especially barrels of a smelly and dangerous substance. ‘And she does not have enough to defeat a large army.’
‘Elaborate,’ ordered Henry.
Geoffrey struggled against his overwhelming tiredness to give an answer that made sense. ‘Emma’s Greek Fire, like yours, is too thin. Hers burns better – she added olive oil and raisins, and that may be why.’ He did not mention that she had also included a dead felon’s finger or that she chanted incantations to the Devil while she did so. ‘But it is still not perfect.’
‘But how did she lay her hands on a sample of the genuine substance?’ demanded Henry. ‘As soon as Bishop Giffard told me what Bellême was doing I sent my best agents to the Holy Land to procure some, but they have not been successful.’
‘How long have you known about Emma’s experiments?’
‘Bellême tried to recruit Giffard to his ranks last autumn, and we discovered then what Emma was trying to do. But you have not answered me: how did Bellême acquire real Greek Fire?’
‘Philip the Grammarian found some on the Crusade. He must have sent the formula and a sample to Emma, so she could use her talents to create more. However, I believe one ingredient is found only in the East, which is why she has not met with total success.’ He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, recalling the day when Philip the Grammarian had been killed.
‘What?’ asked Henry, watching him. ‘You have just thought of something new. I can tell.’
‘Philip died during a raid at Antioch. But he did not die fighting the Turks, no matter what his kinsmen claim. I saw him running away myself. Later, when I oversaw his burial, I noticed he had been stabbed in the back.’
‘Really?’ Henry was torn between annoyance and being intrigued. ‘You did not mention this when I asked you about him at Westminster Palace.’
‘I have only just remembered,’ Geoffrey lied, wishing he was not so tired and his wits were sharper, especially around a man like Henry. ‘But the wound was from a straight blade, not a curved one, indicating he was not killed by Turks, but by another Crusader. He was not popular, and I assumed someone had taken advantage of the confusion in the raid to dispatch him. I was right, but I did not understand the killer’s motive at the time. I assumed it was because he had been hoarding food when the rest of us were starving. I was wrong: he was murdered for Greek Fire.’
‘But the secret ended up with Emma. Why would another Crusader give her the Greek Fire when he could have kept it for himself?’
‘Her nieces took it to her,’ said Geoffrey, watching Henry’s eyebrows rise. ‘They told me they stayed with the Crusade until Antioch – where Philip was killed. They claimed they went home because they were bored, but I suspect they returned because they wanted to take the Greek Fire to Emma. Philip probably planned to sell it to one of the Crusader leaders at Jerusalem. Just imagine the prestige that would have come from being the man responsible for providing the means to bring the Holy City into Christian hands.’
‘I wonder whether Young Philip knows about this. Still, I doubt he is man enough to do anything about avenging the death of his father.’
‘He plotted,’ said Geoffrey, recalling the discussion near the stables with Arnulf that had resulted in his murder. ‘But not successfully. He is dead.’ He rubbed his head, wanting the interview with the King to be over, so he could change hi
s clothes and sluice the foulness from his hair with clean water. He edged closer to Henry, in the hope that the King would find the stench so distasteful he would bring the audience to an early conclusion.
‘Is he?’ asked Henry a little sadly, standing and rummaging in a chest to produce a large pomander that he pressed over his nose and mouth. His next words were muffled. ‘That is a pity. He was not a bad boy, although he had an inflated sense of his own intelligence. Who killed him?’
‘Arnulf, probably.’
‘It is best we keep the information about the Grammarian and his discovery to ourselves,’ said Henry, moving towards the door, where there was a breeze. ‘I do not want rumours spread that Emma the Witch has real Greek Fire, as well as the ability to raise long-dead ancestors from their graves.’
‘She will not succeed in that. They are still missing her head.’
‘It was stolen after her murder twenty-five years ago,’ said Henry. ‘And do not look at me in that accusing manner, Geoffrey. I was a child when Mabel de Bellême met her well-deserved end. The loss of her skull had nothing to do with me.’
‘Do you know what happened to it?’ asked Geoffrey, sure Henry was right, but unable to shake off the feeling that the King knew more than he was prepared to admit.
‘I do not think anyone knows,’ said Henry, his face all but invisible under his pomander. ‘But that has not prevented tales of its reappearance, and maps that identify its alleged whereabouts.’
‘Maps,’ said Geoffrey, knowing he should probably keep quiet, but too weary to think clearly. ‘That was why that monk – Petronus – was murdered. Archers were hired to ensure he did not deliver his messages. They bungled their attack, and were killed in their turn. But one of them whispered “map” as he died.’
‘So your squire said,’ said Henry, his voice still muffled as he looked out at his camp. ‘The attack had nothing to do with me, although I cannot vouch for my courtiers. They all know the damage that might be done if Mabel’s head is reunited with her body.’
‘The priest of All Hallows Barking caught Emma robbing graves,’ said Geoffrey, wondering whether Henry was genuinely interested in something outside the tent or whether the King just could not look him in the eye. ‘He was afraid that she was using stolen body parts to make some kind of attempt on your life. She had two heads in her reliquary, one of which was Hugh’s.’
‘Did she, by God!’ exclaimed Henry in distaste. ‘The Bellêmes are an odd family, Geoffrey. Young Philip even claimed some toenail clippings from me, although I cannot imagine why.’
‘For Emma’s potions,’ said Geoffrey. ‘You were lucky: she had actually instructed him to acquire hair and a finger.’
‘Potions? She has been trying to sicken me with charms?’ Geoffrey nodded, and the King was thoughtful. ‘Then I am grateful I exchanged my clippings for some of Philip’s own. Perhaps her spell worked, and that is why he met his untimely end. She has been a busy lady: manufacturing Greek Fire, concocting charms to kill her monarch, raising her mother from the grave.’
‘She has had plenty of help: Sybilla and her daughters, Beaumais.’ He did not mention Matilda.
‘So, Edred was wrong,’ mused Henry, now standing outside the tent and speaking to Geoffrey over his shoulder. He raised his hand when the knight started to follow, to indicate he was to remain where he was. ‘Emma did not rob graves to harm me, but to excavate some unfortunate’s head for her mother. She is a clever woman, who knows truth always takes second place to what people believe. I have no faith in magic, Geoffrey, but my subjects do, and they might well turn to Bellême out of fear that Old Mabel will haunt them if they do not.’
Geoffrey knew he was right. Wars had been won and lost on account of what people believed. Faith had certainly been important in ensuring the fall of Jerusalem, and he had seen with his own eyes that superstition and religious fanaticism were powerful weapons. When the King disappeared from his line of sight, he seized the opportunity to escape. Roger was waiting for him, and he headed towards his friend, grateful that the interview was over and he was free to leave. He was not pleased when Henry followed, the pomander still pressed hard against his face.
‘My armourer will equip you with what you have lost,’ he said. ‘Although I am afraid he will have no Crusaders’ surcoat. I expect you want to return to Tancred now you have discharged your duties?’
‘Today,’ said Geoffrey, trying not to shiver in the biting wind lest the King mistook it for fear. He wondered whether Durand was at the siege camp, and whether his horse had been well cared for.
‘How about later?’ the King suggested pleasantly. ‘I have another task for you. I know you will not refuse, because this time it will benefit your sister directly. Bellême’s mercenaries are causing chaos along the Welsh border, and I want you to ride north to see what can be done.’
‘But I—’
‘Do not argue,’ snapped Henry. ‘I need all the men and resources available to me, because crushing Bellême is the greatest challenge I have yet faced. You will go to the Marches with William Pantulf, and together you will ensure the Welsh do not rise and add their strength to Bellême’s. The security of a nation is at stake here, Geoffrey. You cannot refuse me.’
‘You cannot, lad,’ muttered Roger. ‘All this is true. The Welsh under Prince Iorwerth are massing, and Bellême’s troops are all over the borders causing mayhem. We were born here: we cannot let our birthplace be ravaged by the likes of Bellême’s mercenaries. Henry needs us both.’
‘Thank you, Roger,’ said the King dryly. ‘I am pleased I have your support.’
‘You do,’ said Roger, unabashed by what was obviously a reprimand. ‘And I am more than happy to enter your service and see this tyrant driven from your shores. But then I am leaving. I have other business to attend to, besides saving England.’
‘Do you indeed?’ said Henry, amused, despite his irritation at the big knight’s presumption. ‘Then why, pray, are you prepared to fight for me?’
‘Several reasons,’ said Roger baldly, ignoring Geoffrey’s warning glance to say no more. ‘First, I do not like Bellême. Second, one of his sisters gave me wine that made me sleep through an invasion of my bedchamber, and no woman does that to a son of the Bishop of Durham.’ He drew himself up to his full, considerable height, while Geoffrey closed his eyes, thinking it was unwise to remind the King that he was the offspring of another of Henry’s enemies.
‘And third?’ asked Henry warily.
‘And third, I have not had an opportunity to loot anything since the fall of Jerusalem, and my treasure is running low. I would like to strip a few of Bellême’s strongholds.’
‘Very well,’ said Henry, hiding a smile. ‘You have my permission to loot anything of Bellême’s, but you will not touch a penny of mine. I shall also require a percentage of anything you take. Let us call it a Loot Tax.’
‘But that is not fair,’ objected Roger, horrified. ‘We were allowed to keep everything in the Holy Land.’
‘But this is England,’ said Henry softly. ‘And we have laws in England. They do not call me the Lion of Justice for nothing.’
‘They do not call him Henry the Clerk for nothing, either,’ grumbled Roger imprudently as they left. ‘He wants to tax everything, even looting. It is not right, Geoff, lad.’
Twelve
North Wales, July 1102
Geoffrey missed his armour and sword and, although the mail given to him by Henry was adequate, it was not of the same quality as that which he had been forced to abandon. The surcoat Henry had provided he vowed never to wear, because it was one emblazoned with Henry’s own colours, and implied that Geoffrey was one of his knights.
The only familiar thing Geoffrey still owned was his horse. It and his squire were in Henry’s camp, where Durand was entirely unrepentant for running away, claiming he would be hanging in Geoffrey’s place if he had not taken his fate into his own hands. Geoffrey thought he was probably right, and could not find it in
his heart to condemn the man, although he disapproved of the fact that he had lied about it to Roger, telling him that Geoffrey had ordered him to save the horse.
Practising with his new armour and weapons was easier than Geoffrey would have liked, because skirmishes along the Marches were frequent and bitter. The Welsh knew better than to take on Henry’s forces in open battle, but that did not stop them from swooping down from their mountain strongholds to raid English settlements and farms, steal cattle, kill villagers and burn houses and barns. He heard the fighting was not so bad where Joan lived, and hoped she was managing to fend off the raids. He considered deserting Henry to help her, but knew he could do more good in the north, where royal troops were more likely to break the back of the simmering Welsh revolt.
The summer was long and hot, and reminded Geoffrey of the Holy Land, with the sun beating down relentlessly and the ground baked dry and hard under his feet. As the weeks passed, he wondered whether it would ever end, or whether he was doomed to spend the rest of his life hunting phantom raiders in the rugged mountains of North Wales.
‘You cannot rest until this is over,’ Roger said one sultry night, after they had spent a fruitless day trying to dislodge a pack of bandits from a village near the Welsh border. ‘You will never be safe in England until Bellême is expelled.’
‘But I do not live in England, so whether he is here is irrelevant to me. I shall be glad to see him gone for Joan’s sake, but all we are doing now is sending him as angry as a swarm of bees to Normandy – where he will vent his fury on other innocent people.’
‘We could kill him,’ suggested Roger helpfully. ‘That would solve the problem.’
‘He would be succeeded by one of his brothers,’ Geoffrey pointed out, absently ruffling his dog’s fur. ‘And they are no better. Roger is surly, aggressive and held in check only because he is afraid of Bellême. And Arnulf murders his nephews for reasons I do not understand.’
It was late, and the sounds of the summer night wafted around them as they spoke – the occasional pop from the dying fire over which they had cooked their supper, the distant bleat of sheep and the whine of an insect. The air was sweet with the scent of ripening crops, and the harvest would soon be ready for gathering. Geoffrey hoped Bellême’s rebellion would be stamped out before then, because folk would starve if they could not gather the grain that would see them through winter.
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