The King's Spies

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘Pantulf will join us tomorrow,’ said Roger drowsily. ‘He has been trying to negotiate with the Welsh again, and vows he will bring Prince Iorwerth with him when he comes.’

  ‘I know,’ said Geoffrey, who was concerned about Pantulf’s role in the campaign. Pantulf had changed his allegiance from Bellême to Henry at the Easter Court, and Geoffrey was never happy with men who were inconstant. He did not like the fact that the King had put Pantulf in charge of breaking down Bellême’s Welsh alliances, and feared he might change sides again.

  ‘Once we have Iorwerth’s support, Bellême’s revolt will crumble,’ said Roger, trying to find a comfortable position on the hard ground.

  ‘I know that, too,’ said Geoffrey, wondering whether Roger thought him an idiot, unacquainted with the politics of the war he fought.

  ‘Without Iorwerth causing mayhem along the Marches, Bellême will be left with only Arundel and his three northern castles,’ Roger rambled on. ‘Henry will be able to concentrate his forces on those, instead of wasting men hunting phantom Welsh raiders around here. You will be with Tancred before Christmas. Sooner, even.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Geoffrey, not sure Bellême would be so easy to defeat, even with the loss of Iorwerth. He was a desperate, cornered man and, in Geoffrey’s experience, such men tended to be more dangerous adversaries. ‘I just hope he does not stoop to using Greek Fire or his risen mother.’

  But Roger was already dozing, leaving Geoffrey to take the first watch. He stood and went to check that the guards were alert and in their places, then wandered through the camp to ensure all was as it should be. Helbye was asleep, rolled into his cloak and his face lined with fatigue. Durand was next to him, twitching and jumping like a dog that dreamed of chasing rabbits. Ulfrith was near Roger, flat on his back and snoring like an overweight merchant.

  Satisfied, Geoffrey went to sit near the fire again. He estimated it was probably nearing midnight when his dog pricked up its ears and gave a low whine. Geoffrey was immediately alert and, within moments, he heard the distant drum of horses’ hoofs. Anticipating an attack, he ordered the guards to wake the others and drew his sword, listening to the advance of the riders with his head cocked to one side. They came closer, and he signalled for his soldiers to take cover, archers along the roof of an abandoned hut and soldiers concealed among the trees of a small copse. The hoofs slowed when they approached the camp. Geoffrey stepped out and raised his hand.

  ‘Geoffrey,’ said the leading rider as he dismounted. Geoffrey dismissed his men from their alert. The horseman was Pantulf, who looked as though he had just stepped from an audience with the King, rather than a long and hard ride over rough country. ‘Bishop Maurice said you would be here. He also said you have declined reinforcements.’ There was disapproval in his voice.

  ‘More men will not make a difference here,’ replied Geoffrey, sheathing his sword. He leaned down to grab the dog by the scruff of its neck. It did not like Pantulf, and had already bitten him twice. ‘We will only fall over each other when we try to track the enemy into the hills.’

  ‘He is right,’ said a slight, black-haired man who rode behind Pantulf. He leapt from his pony with the agility of a monkey. ‘More men here would be worse than a waste.’

  Geoffrey studied him in the firelight. His eyes were dark, and his colouring reminded the knight uncomfortably of Bellême, although he knew it was common enough in the Celtic countries. The newcomer clicked his fingers at the dog, which trotted towards him, wagging its tail. Geoffrey was impressed. It was not a friendly beast, and he admired anyone it did not immediately try to savage.

  ‘This is Prince Iorwerth,’ said Pantulf, gesturing towards him with a careless flick of his hand. His voice was smug. ‘I told you he would come.’

  ‘Welcome, Iorwerth ap Bleddyn,’ said Geoffrey politely, using the Welsh language he had learned as a boy. ‘Our fire is low, but we can stoke it up and offer you bread and meat, if you are hungry.’

  Iorwerth gave a delighted grin and answered in kind. ‘I have never heard a Norman speak our tongue before, but Pantulf tells me you are an unusual man. He also says you have made an enemy of the Earl of Shrewsbury. That was not wise: Bellême is a powerful man.’

  ‘Not for long,’ said Geoffrey. ‘In England, at least. King Henry is determined to see him exiled, and he usually gets what he wants.’

  Iorwerth jerked his head at Pantulf, confident that the aloof nobleman could not understand a word he said. ‘Master Traitor there says Henry will grant me dominion over most of Wales if I abandon Bellême. Is that true?’

  ‘I can show you Henry’s letter authorizing Pantulf to make the offer,’ said Geoffrey. ‘As long as you do not make too many raids on to English soil when this is over, Henry will probably leave you to rule as you see fit.’

  ‘Then that is what I shall do,’ said Iorwerth, pleased. ‘It was expedient for me to remain loyal to Bellême while he was strong on the Marches, but it is time I developed new alliances. I do not trust Pantulf, but I believe a man who addresses me in the language of kings.’

  ‘What are you two gibbering about?’ demanded Pantulf. He glared at them, not liking the way the Welsh prince had immediately imparted what were clearly confidences to a comparative stranger.

  ‘No one “gibbers” in Welsh,’ said Iorwerth in thickly accented Norman-French. ‘For your information I have just informed Sir Geoffrey that I shall rally to the King’s cause. I shall order my troops to stop fighting Henry and turn their attention to Bellême instead.’

  He patted the dog, vaulted into his saddle and cantered away with his men, leaving Geoffrey and Pantulf rather startled at his abrupt leave-taking. Geoffrey coughed from the dust the cavalcade had stirred up, while Pantulf tried to brush it from his fine clothes. When the clatter of hoofs had died away, Geoffrey offered Pantulf a seat on a conveniently placed stone, while he knelt to coax the campfire’s embers into life, and Roger went to oversee the standing down of the troops.

  ‘Do you believe him?’ asked Pantulf, staring into the flickering flames.

  ‘Yes.’ Geoffrey smiled. ‘You have just ended this vicious campaign, Pantulf. Bellême cannot fight Iorwerth as well as Henry, and I predict he will be gone from England by autumn.’

  Pantulf was pleased with himself. ‘Our days of bloody skirmishing are almost at an end, and we shall ride for Bridgnorth at dawn. The King is already on his way there with his army.’

  ‘Henry has left Arundel?’ asked Geoffrey, surprised he should give up after three months of siege. The supplies list Geoffrey had snatched from Josbert before his escape suggested they would not last much beyond the end of summer, and the royal war machines would be ready to do serious damage to the castle defences long before then. One hard push would see Arundel fall.

  ‘Arundel has surrendered,’ said Pantulf. ‘I heard the news a few days ago. The King became bored of sitting outside, doing nothing, so he took a few soldiers to the Bellême stronghold of Tickhill, instead. The moment Tickhill saw that the King himself had come, it gave up.’

  ‘And I suppose word was immediately sent to Arundel?’ asked Geoffrey, who knew how such tactics worked. ‘Tickhill’s loss would be a bitter blow to Arundel’s defenders, and they would lose heart.’

  ‘They lost heart instantly,’ said Pantulf in satisfaction. ‘Arundel yielded to Henry the same day.’

  ‘And Bellême?’ asked Geoffrey hopefully. ‘Is he captured?’

  ‘Most of the family escaped during the confusion, but Bellême was not among them: he had left earlier and has been fortifying his northern castles. So, some of the clan are at Shrewsbury and some are at Bridgnorth, but all are ready to fight.’

  Geoffrey started to wonder how it was possible for Bellême to slip away when the King had had Arundel surrounded, but then recalled that Henry was a clever man, and supposed Bellême’s escape was part of some plan. There would be pockets of resistance from the Earl’s supporters for as long as he possessed powerful fortresses
like Shrewsbury and Bridgnorth, and Geoffrey suspected that Henry would want those smashed as decisively as Arundel and Tickhill, to ensure the rebellion was well and truly extinguished.

  ‘We have orders to travel to Bridgnorth as soon as possible,’ said Pantulf. ‘We leave at first light.’

  ‘No,’ said Geoffrey firmly. ‘Henry asked me to help you secure Iorwerth, and I have done that. It is time for me to leave this troubled land.’

  Pantulf gave a tight smile. ‘You have no choice. You and I are in a similar position: we were loyal to Bellême and were persuaded to accept a new master. Henry trusts neither of us completely, and we would be wise to do as he asks until he does. Your estates lie on the Marches, and you would not like him to give them to someone else.’

  ‘I do not care,’ said Geoffrey, not bothering to point out that he had never been loyal to Bellême. ‘But my sister would be furious, and I am more afraid of her than I am of Henry. Very well, we shall go to Bridgnorth. Do you know where it is?’

  ‘In Shropshire. I know this part of the country well, which is why Henry will give me Stafford Castle when the Earl is finally defeated.’

  ‘Is that why you abandoned Bellême?’ asked Geoffrey, startled. ‘For Stafford Castle?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Pantulf with a predatory grin. ‘The King approached me with his offer the day before Bellême came before his Easter Court, and it seemed too good an opportunity to pass up. Besides, Henry will oust Bellême from England if it is the last thing he does. Bellême’s day is almost over, and only a fool follows a falling star.’

  Geoffrey poked the fire with a stick, and was grateful his own ambitions were more modest. The shifting, unsteady alliances and friendships at court were unfathomable and unpredictable, and he could think of little he would like less than being one of Henry’s castellans. He saw the first tendrils of light begin to brighten the eastern sky and stirred himself. There was plenty to do if they were to break camp at dawn and ride to meet the King in Shropshire.

  Bridgnorth, August 1102

  Bridgnorth had once been no more than a tiny hamlet atop a rocky cliff that plummeted down to the River Severn. Then Bellême had raised a fortress there. When he saw the splendid location, Geoffrey understood exactly why Bellême had chosen it: the castle would be difficult to invade from any direction; war engines would be unable to reach it; and any forces attempting to scale its cliffs would face a volley of arrows and anything else the defenders cared to hurl at them. Geoffrey saw they were in for another siege, because only an insane commander would pit his troops in open warfare against the defenders of Bridgnorth.

  He and Pantulf spent three days scouting the land around the castle, and eventually agreed on a site that was suitable for use as headquarters. They erected a tent large enough to hold a sizeable table and drew plans of the castle’s oval bailey, earthworks, motte and wooden keep. Then they devised strategies for an attack, should the occasion arise. Pantulf’s illustrations were better drawn and more attractive to look at, but Geoffrey’s were more accurate.

  The King arrived within the week, accompanied by blasting trumpets and braying horses, which Geoffrey knew were to ensure that the castle’s inhabitants knew they were now surrounded by an experienced and determined force: the troops that had brought the mighty Arundel to its knees. He hoped Bridgnorth would see the futility of resistance and surrender soon, because he did not want to kick his heels at another prolonged siege when he could be riding to Antioch.

  The King was not the only familiar face to arrive. Bishop Maurice was there, too. The fat prelate arrived in a covered cart, which Geoffrey assumed contained scribes and writing tables so his affairs could be attended to while he was away on campaign. He was startled and rather amused to learn it contained several women and his personal physician. Maurice clambered inelegantly from his wagon as young women dropped into the grass all around him, causing a great stir among the watching soldiers. Geoffrey hoped Maurice was willing to share, or there would be fighting for certain: pretty girls could not wander freely around a camp full of bored men and expect to emerge untouched.

  ‘Oh, no!’ groaned Durand, who stood at Geoffrey’s side to watch the new arrivals. ‘Not Maurice! Every time we meet he tries to seduce me, and I am not interested in fat old men.’

  He slunk away, while Geoffrey folded his arms and laughed. The squire’s flight had not gone unnoticed, however, and the bishop approached Geoffrey, his eyes glittering with lust.

  ‘It is her!’ he breathed. ‘The lady with the locks of an angel.’

  ‘I will order him to cut them,’ said Geoffrey irritably.

  ‘I must have her!’ pressed Maurice eagerly. ‘She eluded me once in London and again when I visited the siege camp at Arundel, but I shall not allow her to slip through my fingers a third time.’

  ‘You met him at Arundel?’

  ‘When you were still inside the castle, and she was free to take another lover.’ Maurice heaved a regretful sigh. ‘But she would not have me, and your friend Roger said she was not for sale. But I will have her, no matter what it takes. Pass her a message: I pay well. I will even add something for you, if you allow me to entertain her for an hour tonight. Tell her to come after compline.’

  ‘We shall see,’ said Geoffrey, thinking that extra money might come in useful for the return journey to Tancred, but aware that Durand preferred his men younger and slimmer than the portly Maurice.

  ‘You should go to the King’s quarters,’ said Maurice, rubbing his hands in delight when he saw Geoffrey might be prepared to be generous. ‘There is someone there you know.’

  Maurice would say no more and, with some trepidation, Geoffrey approached the handsome tent with the royal standard that he had last seen at Arundel. Servants scurried here and there, fastening the ropes that held it up and carrying the King’s possessions inside. Henry was in deep conversation with Bishop Giffard, and their earnest, sober faces suggested they were discussing something important: finance. He backed away, not wanting to know whom Henry next planned to tax to pay for his war against Bellême. He came up hard against someone and turned to apologize, but his words stuck in his throat.

  ‘I did not believe Abbot Ralph when he said you had escaped,’ said Beaumais, as startled to see Geoffrey as Geoffrey was to see him. ‘I thought you had been hit by the archers.’

  ‘As you see,’ said Geoffrey, indicating he was whole and healthy. ‘How is Abbot Ralph? Bellême did not …?’

  ‘Even he knows better than to harm a man of God. He made Ralph give up your letters, though, then read all manner of sinister meanings in the fact that you are fond of your sister and that you apologized for not returning sooner to Tancred. Emma and Amise even entertained the notion that you killed their kinsmen on Tancred’s orders! But your letters were sent to their intended recipients after Arundel surrendered.’ He smiled spitefully.

  ‘God’s teeth!’ muttered Geoffrey, supposing he had better send others as soon as possible. His sister would not be pleased if she grieved for him, only to find he was alive, and neither would Tancred. ‘Where is Ralph now?’

  ‘Shrewsbury,’ said Beaumais. ‘But Bellême will want him at his beck and call again soon. Men of integrity are few and far between now that I am no longer in his service.’

  ‘You have changed your allegiance.’ Geoffrey was not particularly surprised that a man like Beaumais would abandon Bellême when he saw him as a lost cause. ‘Why?’

  ‘I served him for as long as I could. But then the King pointed out that he will soon be defeated and his followers exiled. I do not want to be exiled, so I reconsidered my position.’

  ‘No,’ said Geoffrey, regarding him intently and knowing he was not telling the truth. ‘You have always been the King’s man. You played a dangerous game with Bellême!’

  ‘I do not know what you are talking about,’ said Beaumais stiffly. ‘I have never made a secret of my loyalty to Bellême.’

  ‘To Bellême, no,’ said Geoffrey. ‘But y
ou have done well to conceal your allegiance to Henry, whom you have served since we met at Westminster Palace in March, if not before.’

  ‘You are wrong,’ said Beaumais coldly. ‘I—’

  ‘While we were there, you said Henry might kill me. It was a lie: Henry would not kill me, because I am too useful to him alive.’ Geoffrey spoke bitterly, because he disliked being a pawn in games played by men like the King. ‘You told that story to ensure I would go to Arundel with Bellême.’

  ‘It was not my idea and I did not want you there. I was afraid you might betray me with some of your pointed questions, but Henry insisted. He wanted more than one agent inside Arundel, and he decided on you. I was to recruit you if I needed help.’

  ‘But not the other way around.’ Geoffrey recalled Bishop Giffard mentioning there would be other spies in Arundel, and should have guessed one was the man who had spent time in Henry’s Court.

  ‘Right,’ agreed Beaumais. ‘I was more important, so you were to help me. My task was to spread unease and dissent, so the garrison would be more ready to surrender than one that was united. You helped me there, by telling Matilda that Arnulf killed Hugh and that Josbert prevented her from negotiating with the King.’

  He smiled, but Geoffrey did not think it was a pleasant expression. The knight realized he should have suspected why Beaumais was always ready to chatter and gossip: he was spreading lies and suspicion. He also recalled that Beaumais had thrived on the claustrophobic conditions of the siege, while others had cracked. The misery and frustration were part of his plan.

  ‘Are your activities why Arundel surrendered so quickly after Tickhill?’ Geoffrey supposed that if Beaumais had so damaged morale in a week, he had probably brought folk close to collective suicide after three months.