The King's Spies

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘They helped, and the siblings are more like bitter enemies than allies now. Henry also wanted me to send him messages about the state of Arundel’s defences, but Bellême had it too well guarded.’

  ‘I managed,’ said Geoffrey, gratified to see the man look surprised. ‘So, Henry gave himself two chances with his secret spies.’

  ‘Three,’ corrected Bellême. ‘There was one other, apparently. But I was the most important.’

  ‘I suppose he thought my very obvious presence would distract from yours.’ Geoffrey was not pleased that he had been the tethered goat to help the slippery Beaumais.

  ‘And it worked well. While you were there I was able to do what I liked. It became far more difficult after you left.’ He sighed and stretched. Geoffrey detected a strange odour, and noticed the man’s hair still glistened with large quantities of olive oil.

  ‘Has Emma succeeded in making good Greek Fire yet? Or in raising her mother from the dead?’

  ‘Her Greek Fire is better than Henry’s. It burns well, because of the unique adjustments she has made to the basic ingredients. The only thing she cannot do is propel it towards the enemy.’

  ‘But it was you who provided her with olive oil,’ said Geoffrey.

  ‘Are you insane?’ demanded Beaumais indignantly. ‘I had changed sides by then. I am hardly likely to provide my enemy with the raw materials to defeat my new master, am I?’

  ‘But you met her at All Hallows Barking, where she added olive oil to her Greek Fire for the first time,’ said Geoffrey, not mentioning that she had added raisins and severed fingers, too.

  ‘I most certainly did not,’ said Beaumais shortly. ‘I told you before: I have my own supplies of olive oil. It is imported from Sicily, and is far too expensive to waste on Emma’s experiments. I imagine it was Arnulf who met her at the church.’

  Geoffrey thought for a moment. ‘I see. But although he may have provided her with the oil, he was actually thwarting her by giving her ingredients that were tainted or of poor quality.’

  Beaumais grinned at him. ‘You understand the Bellêmes better than I thought. That is exactly what he did. I had a good look at his oil, and I certainly would not use that on my hair! He did not want Emma to become too powerful you see. He is greedy and self-serving, and feels as much threatened by his own family as he does by enemies like the King.’

  ‘Who can blame him?’ muttered Geoffrey. ‘But I should have guessed Arnulf was the person with Emma in All Hallows, because he called her “Emmy”, and I have heard no one other than him refer to her like that. I was blinded by the fact that I thought it was you.’

  You probably saw me “assisting” Emma in Arundel, but, like Arnulf, I was deliberately more hindrance than help – although I acted out of loyalty to Henry, not to further my own interests.’

  Geoffrey was not so sure about that, but he said nothing.

  ‘Was it you who extinguished the fire she set in All Hallows, then?’ Beaumais asked. ‘Yes, it must have been, or how would you have seen her and Arnulf working there? She was furious about that, since she was sure her device would work and destroy any evidence she might have left.’

  ‘Her device,’ mused Geoffrey. ‘A candle set to burn down and ignite a dangerous substance at a later time. She confessed to knowing about that sort of thing when Cecily died. Now we learn she did more than just know about them: she actually used them.’

  ‘She is a formidable lady, and that is why I did all I could to hinder her experiments with Greek Fire.’ He showed Geoffrey hands that still bore scars. ‘At great personal risk, I might add.’

  ‘However,’ said Geoffrey, still thinking, ‘while you deny involvement in the plan to make Greek Fire, you were certainly involved in the one to unite Old Mabel with her head. You expected Petronus to deliver information regarding its whereabouts before Easter, and I am sure you would have passed that knowledge directly to Emma, had it arrived.’

  ‘But before Easter, I still believed that Old Mabel’s resurrection would win the war against Henry. Now I know that even if Emma does succeed, Old Mabel will make no difference to the Bellême fortunes for two reasons: first, I doubt anyone will be able to control her, and second, I do not think she will be able to do much anyway – not without a head, and Emma still does not have one that fits.’

  ‘The one she stole from All Hallows was no good? What about the one she took from Hugh?’

  ‘They were too big, and Mabel will not want an overly large head on her body when she comes back to life. Well, who would?’ Beaumais shuddered, then walked away to pay homage to the King, leaving Geoffrey staring after him thoughtfully.

  Geoffrey was heartily sick of the whole business, and did not want to remain in Bridgnorth with men like Pantulf and Beaumais, who changed sides any time they thought it was personally expedient. Their actions went against everything he believed in, and he found their company distasteful. He determined to stay as far away from them as possible, although it was not always easy, because they believed they had something in common and often sought him out.

  ‘It is easy to serve Henry,’ said Pantulf lazily one day, when he came to sit with Geoffrey to eat his midday meal of bread and salted beef. ‘Especially when he promises me a prize like Stafford Castle.’

  ‘And I shall be Sheriff of Shropshire,’ said Beaumais gleefully. ‘What about you, Geoffrey? What did Henry promise you if you came to his side?’

  ‘A new surcoat,’ said Geoffrey shortly.

  He wondered how Henry could begin to trust men like them, and knew that if Bellême won any kind of victory, they would slip back to him in an instant. He was about to leave on the pretext of mounting a patrol, when Bishop Maurice joined the little gathering, and began to pester the knight yet again about securing the services of ‘Angel Locks’, making it difficult for Geoffrey to escape.

  ‘Let me show you the siege plans,’ said Pantulf suddenly to Beaumais. ‘You, too, Maurice. Come.’

  Geoffrey could hardly believe his ears. ‘I do not think that is a good idea,’ he said, thinking he had not worked so hard drawing maps and drafting strategies simply so Pantulf could show them to the first traitor who happened to pass. ‘The fewer people who see them, the better.’

  ‘They may have suggestions,’ said Pantulf. ‘Maurice has been to Shrewsbury, while Beaumais knows Bellême well, and is better able to predict how he might react in certain situations.’

  ‘Our plans will be no good if they slip into the wrong hands,’ warned Geoffrey, not caring whether he offended Beaumais or Maurice. If the King wanted to trust someone like Beaumais with strategic secrets, then that was his affair, but he did not think Pantulf should do it. And there was no need to confide in the Bishop of London at all, given that the prelate’s presence was more closely related to the efficient administration of Henry’s tax system than to warfare.

  Pantulf waved a dismissive hand at Geoffrey’s objections and led the way to the tent where the large table stood, still covered in diagrams. He brushed most aside with a sweep of his hand and took others from a locked chest. Eagerly – too eagerly Geoffrey felt – Beaumais and Maurice leaned forward to study them. Maurice reached across the table to point at something, and knocked over a goblet of wine, so that dark red liquid shot out across Geoffrey’s plans, making the ink run.

  ‘Careful!’ he snapped, mopping up the spillage with his sleeve. He examined the map critically and decided that, luckily for Maurice, the stain did not obliterate any of the important details. The mess was ugly, but it was a working battle plan, and its prettiness was irrelevant.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Maurice with a sheepish grin. He glanced at Pantulf. ‘Now, where did you say you will station the main troops in this particular attack?’

  Pantulf began to reply in great detail and, disgusted with the whole affair, Geoffrey left them to it, and spent the rest of the afternoon gambling with Roger and Helbye in a blatant flouting of the rules Henry had set to maintain discipline in his camp. That aft
ernoon, restless and unsettled among folk of whom he was deeply suspicious, he took his horse out for some exercise. His dog loped at his side, enjoying the opportunity to stretch its legs.

  The countryside around Bridgnorth was gently rolling, some of it dedicated to crops, but most left for grazing the many sheep that were farmed in the area. There were large tracts of woodland, too, not the dense wild forests like the ones farther south or in Wales, but areas of mixed oaks, beeches and elms, dappled with pleasant glades. Geoffrey aimed for a track he had followed before, knowing it was relatively free of roots and other obstacles that might trip a warhorse.

  After about an hour he became aware of voices, carried towards him on a soft summer breeze. He knew none of Henry’s men would be so far outside the camp – soldiers needed permits to forage in the woods, and none had been granted that day. He supposed it was possible that a noble had had the same idea as him, and wanted to exercise his steed, but most seemed lethargic and lazy, and tended to let their squires manage the care of their mounts.

  Hoping the discussion was nothing more threatening than a couple of poachers, Geoffrey eased his horse forward. He had no particular plan in mind, other than to ensure that the voices did not belong to someone who should be inside the castle, and which would mean that Henry needed to tighten the blockade. He dismounted, looped his reins over a tree stump and advanced on foot. His dog kept pace, straining forward as if it were hunting. Eventually, he came close enough to see the owners of the voices, and eased behind a tree when he identified one as Bishop Maurice. The prelate faced a second man and was passing him documents.

  Geoffrey frowned when he noticed one scroll was stained with wine. What was the prelate doing out in the woods with the King’s siege plans? He eased around his tree to try to see the identity of the second man, then felt his jaw drop in shock when the fellow turned slightly and he had a clear view of his face. It was Robert de Bellême.

  Geoffrey stood stock still with his mind racing. Had Bellême slipped out of Bridgnorth using some secret passageway known only to him? Geoffrey had come across such devices in the past – there was one in his own home in Goodrich – and Bellême was just the kind of man to install such a feature. But Geoffrey had been told that Bellême was in Shrewsbury, so why was he at Bridgnorth?

  The meeting of prelate and Earl certainly explained why Maurice had been so keen to learn about the besiegers’ plans. He was not only passing the maps to Bellême, but was elaborating on them by repeating the details Pantulf had been so willing to provide. As Geoffrey listened, he heard Bellême quizzing Maurice on specifics, and the bishop answering without hesitation. He cursed himself for not seeing sooner that Maurice was not to be trusted. Wulfric, the pot boy at the Crusader’s Head, had told him months before that the prelate was among those who attended clandestine meetings in Southwark. Geoffrey realized that Maurice must have been the King’s enemy for a very long time.

  He edged closer, wanting to hear exactly what Maurice said. It was too late to prevent the information from changing hands, so the most useful thing Geoffrey could do now was to learn the extent of the damage the bishop’s betrayal had caused. He certainly had no intention of challenging them. The Earl had a formidable reputation as a warrior, and was dressed in full armour. Geoffrey was clad only in boiled-leather leggings and a chain-mail tunic, and was not willing to squander his life fighting an enemy so much better equipped.

  But he had not taken his dog into account. It had met Bellême on a previous occasion, when it had been kicked, and it was not an animal to forget such an insult. It began to growl. Geoffrey pushed it with his foot, willing it to be quiet. It promptly barked. Bellême moved like lightning, striding towards the tree and pushing away the branches before Geoffrey could do more than turn and look at the path that would allow him to escape. With a triumphant cry, Bellême hauled him from his hiding place and threw him to the litter of leaves that comprised the forest floor.

  Geoffrey scrambled to his feet and made an insulting bow, thinking he was doomed anyway, so he might as well enjoy himself by aggravating the Earl before he was run through.

  ‘Good evening, My Lord,’ he said pleasantly. ‘I did not expect to see you again.’

  ‘Well, I expected to see you,’ snapped Bellême, in the kind of voice that indicated he did not regard it as a pleasure. Geoffrey’s dog snarled from behind the safety of its tree. ‘I see you still possess that miserable beast. You told me the King had killed it.’

  Geoffrey wished he had. ‘I was mistaken.’

  ‘You lied to me,’ said Bellême, more curious than angry. ‘I did not know you lied. You have misled me on previous occasions, but you have never told me an outright untruth.’

  ‘There is a first time for everything. Did Matilda tell you I discovered Hugh’s killer? It was Arnulf, but I did not think you would believe me.’

  ‘She mentioned it, but she and Arnulf have always despised each other and she has many reasons for wanting him discredited. Perhaps it is just as well you escaped, because I would have believed you when you identified Arnulf as my traitor, and I would have killed him. And I would have been wrong to do so, because you have just shown me that you are a liar.’

  ‘You would have kept your word and let me live?’

  ‘Of course not. But I knew you would rise to the challenge of completing a task in a set period of time, and there was no one better suited to investigate Hugh’s murder. I was quite serious when I said I wanted to know the identity of the traitor, and I was furious when you escaped without giving me a proper report first. I could not trust Matilda’s version of your reasoning. But it is all irrelevant now. I have learned that all my siblings are traitors in their own way. There is not one who would sacrifice himself to save me, and even Sybilla now wishes she had nailed her loyalty to another mast.’

  ‘We should not stay here, My Lord,’ said Maurice, looking around nervously. ‘Geoffrey will have guards with him, and I do not want to be caught here with you.’

  ‘He is alone,’ said Bellême, his cold black eyes boring into Geoffrey’s as though he wanted to read his mind. ‘Or his friends would have made themselves known by now. We shall dispatch him and continue our discussion uninterrupted.’

  ‘But it is time we were going,’ argued Maurice. ‘We do not have the leisure for this kind of thing.’

  ‘I would not betray the King if I were you,’ said Geoffrey to Maurice. ‘He is not a fool, and will find you out sooner or later. Your vocation will not save you, either.’

  ‘Bishop Maurice believes in me,’ said Bellême smoothly, cutting off the prelate’s reply. ‘I will win this campaign, Geoffrey. Even as we speak there are men gathering to ride to my aid – mercenaries from Normandy and Crusader knights who know how to fight. The King will not defeat me.’

  ‘You must not linger,’ said Maurice to Bellême urgently. ‘Ride back to Shrewsbury, before one of the patrols finds you and your campaign ends in capture.’

  ‘Back to Shrewsbury?’ mused Geoffrey. ‘So, you did not escape from Bridgnorth?’

  Bellême glowered at him. ‘How could I? You have it sealed up like some ancient relic. I cannot even get word to my followers through my secret doors. But it does not matter. Bridgnorth will hold Henry’s attention while I strengthen my position at Shrewsbury. It was always my intention to defeat him there, anyway.’

  ‘Do not tell him all this!’ squeaked Maurice in alarm. ‘He will pass your plans to the King.’

  ‘He will be dead,’ said Bellême, drawing his sword. ‘Fetch the horses, Maurice. We shall be done with Sir Geoffrey in a few moments, then we shall ride – you to the King before he notices you have gone, and me to victory at Shrewsbury.’

  Maurice opened his mouth to object, but Bellême lunged at Geoffrey, so he hurried away, unwilling to witness a slaughter. While the dog barked furiously, Geoffrey drew his sword and met Bellême’s advance with a stroke of his own. He followed it with a hefty kick aimed at Bellême’s knee.


  The Earl howled in pain, and came at Geoffrey with a series of sweeping blows that were so powerful they made whistling sounds through the air. One hit the trunk of a tree and splinters flew in all directions. Geoffrey dodged away, lighter of foot and more agile than the heavier man in his full armour. He ran all around a thick oak tree and managed to stab at the Earl’s back. Bellême gave a scream of outrage and turned faster than Geoffrey had thought possible. He hurled a dagger, and only good luck saved Geoffrey from being skewered. While he ducked, Bellême struck with his sword, and more of the tree flew apart.

  ‘You will blunt the blade,’ taunted Geoffrey, circling him. ‘Did no one teach you never to cut down trees with your sword?’

  He skipped to one side as the Earl came at him yet again, his eyes red-rimmed and longing for blood. Geoffrey teased him about his speed, hoping to encourage wild attacks that would tire him. Geoffrey’s shorter reach would not allow him a good strike, and his only chance was to wear the bigger knight down. But Bellême was an experienced warrior, too, and knew exactly what Geoffrey was trying to do. He controlled his rage, and came after Geoffrey in shorter, faster spurts to keep him on his guard, forcing him to use valuable energy of his own to leap away from attacks that never came.

  They lunged, weaved and swiped, but neither sword met its target, and Geoffrey soon felt sweat coursing down his back. Bellême’s face was red and shiny, and Geoffrey imagined he must be half cooked inside his armour. He redoubled his efforts, trying to force the Earl to move as much as possible in the hope that sweat would drip into his eyes and blind him for a vital moment, or make his sword slippery in his hand.

  The sun began to set, making it difficult to see. Geoffrey’s arms and legs started to ache, and he wondered how long they had been fighting, wielding their heavy weapons. Bellême was tiring, too, and made mistakes. Once he allowed Geoffrey to come too close and was rewarded with a stinging slash to the elbow that made him swear viciously. But then he found some demonic strength, and came after Geoffrey so fast that the smaller knight tripped as he staggered backwards. Geoffrey saw Bellême’s face lit with a savage smile, and rolled away just in time to prevent himself from being pinned to the ground through his middle. Bellême stabbed again, and Geoffrey felt the blade slice through the leather of his leggings and rake down his calf. He struggled away, trying to regain his feet before Bellême moved in for the kill.