The King's Spies

by Simon Beaufort

  But Bellême would not give Geoffrey the time to stand, and kept him rolling with savage stabs. Geoffrey twisted violently, then abandoned his sword to grab Bellême around the knees. Both toppled to the ground, with Bellême scratching and punching like a tavern brawler. He struck Geoffrey hard on the side of the head with the handle of his dagger, and Geoffrey felt himself begin to black out. He fought desperately against the encroaching darkness, knowing that if he swooned he would never wake.

  ‘I always knew you would die by my hand,’ Bellême whispered. He abandoned his dagger and his fingers began to tighten around Geoffrey’s throat. ‘I knew I only had to be patient.’

  Just when his world was beginning to turn silver around the edges, Geoffrey jerked one knee upwards as hard as he could, full into Bellême’s groin. The Earl’s grip eased immediately, and tears of agony rolled down his cheeks. Geoffrey pulled away and tried to stand, searching for his sword among the litter of last year’s leaves, so he could kill the man and bring an end to his reign of terror. But Bellême was not a man to let pain slow him down. He, too, scrambled to his feet and began another of his hacking attacks. This time Geoffrey had no weapon to counter the blows, and his injured leg slowed him. He jerked away and limped to a tree, where the two of them ducked and weaved around it for an age, while Geoffrey felt himself become weaker and slower.

  ‘Someone is coming,’ came Maurice’s urgent whisper through the trees. Geoffrey heard the rumble of hoofs, and knew Maurice was telling the truth. ‘They must be Henry’s men. Run, while you still can, My Lord Earl. If you are caught, they will kill you for certain.’

  Bellême hesitated, and Geoffrey dived at him while his attention wavered. But Geoffrey’s strength had ebbed, and he did no more than make the Earl stagger. Bellême, meanwhile, had gained new energy from learning he was on the verge of capture. He kicked out, knocking Geoffrey from his feet. Geoffrey tried to move away, but his limbs were slow to obey him. He was aware of his dog barking again, and saw it dart forward to sink its hard yellow teeth into Bellême’s leg. The Earl bellowed in fury, and kicked out fiercely, but the dog hung on. Cursing foully, the Earl raised his sword and aimed it at Geoffrey, who only just managed to roll away in time. He sensed he would not be able to do so again.

  ‘Hold him still,’ Bellême ordered the bishop, still trying to dislodge the dog. ‘He is a danger to us both alive. We must kill him, or we are undone.’

  ‘I cannot,’ said Maurice, his eyes wide. ‘My vocation forbids the spilling of blood.’

  ‘You have brought about the spilling of blood by passing me your plans,’ Bellême pointed out, swiping at the dog and missing. He winced as its fangs sank deeper.

  ‘That is different,’ said Maurice. He glanced behind him, panic-stricken. ‘The horsemen are here. Stay if you will, but I will wait no longer.’

  His words finally penetrated Bellême’s brain. With a sudden surge of strength, the Earl kicked away the dog, vaulted into his saddle and wheeled his horse around, aiming to trample Geoffrey under its hoofs. Geoffrey predicted what he intended to do and jerked away. Bellême hurled a dagger as a parting shot, trying one last time to kill the man who had been such a thorn in his side. It hissed harmlessly into the ground, but Geoffrey decided to lie still anyway. The Earl would not see his dagger had missed in the gathering dusk, and it seemed prudent to play dead until he had gone.

  ‘You have killed him, now go!’ urged Maurice desperately, while the dog yapped furiously around the horse’s feet. ‘I cannot be found here with you.’

  Bellême turned his horse and was gone, while Geoffrey struggled to his feet, aware that if any horsemen were coming, they would not be on his side. He had given no orders for patrols in that part of the woods, and suspected they would be Bellême’s men.

  ‘There,’ said Maurice, glancing wildly around him. ‘I have driven him away, and you had the sense to feign death. But we should not stay here, because he does not like men who tell him lies.’

  ‘Lies about what?’ asked Geoffrey, flexing his cut leg.

  ‘There are no soldiers coming,’ said Maurice. ‘Come! Quickly!’

  ‘Why are you …?’ began Geoffrey, but Maurice shook his head.

  ‘Will your horse bear my weight as well as yours? We must be away as fast as possible.’

  ‘Both of us would kill it,’ said Geoffrey, hearing the weary slur in his words. ‘You are not exactly feather-light.’ He gathered his scattered weapons, feeling the ground tip and sway as he leaned down; even exhausted and dazed he followed his knightly instincts and refused to ride without them.

  ‘Better it than us,’ said Maurice, clambering into Geoffrey’s saddle. He offered his hand and Geoffrey took it warily. ‘Hurry!’

  Geoffrey climbed slowly behind Maurice. The poor beast snickered angrily at the weight, but Geoffrey urged it into a canter, hoping it would be able to see in the failing light, and would not stumble and dump them both on the ground to die at Bellême’s mercy.

  ‘Tell me, bishop,’ he said as they went. ‘Whose side are you really on?’

  ‘The side of right,’ said Maurice. ‘And that is all you need to know. Now hurry.’

  Thirteen

  Maurice refused to answer Geoffrey’s questions until they were well away from the woods and could see the King’s campfires in the distance. Then he closed his eyes and heaved a sigh of relief. Geoffrey slid to the ground to spare his horse, leading it across fields and scrub, and feeling his strength return. He took several deep breaths, and leaned down to inspect the wound in his leg. It was just a scratch, and needed no more than a rinse with clean water to see it heal.

  The daylight soon faded, and night was full on them as they made their way home. The moon was obscured by clouds, and in the distance Geoffrey could hear thunder. A flicker of lightning told him that a summer storm was brewing somewhere to the north, and the air smelled metallic. His dog whimpered. He leaned down and patted its head, grateful for its intervention in the fight.

  ‘Now,’ he said to the portly bishop. ‘You had better tell me what you were doing. King Henry will not be pleased when he learns you have been meeting his enemy in secret.’

  ‘Fool!’ snapped Maurice. ‘Do you think I went there of my own accord? Put my head in the lion’s mouth for fun? There is nothing Bellême can offer that would make me take that sort of risk.’

  Geoffrey squinted up at him. ‘You were on the King’s business?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Maurice, aggrieved. ‘It was his idea that one of his most trusted ministers should pretend to cross to Bellême and feed him information that will bring about his downfall. And he decided that a prelate would make a better traitor than one of his nobles. I have been the King’s agent for months now – since Christmas, in fact.’

  ‘You attended Bellême’s clandestine meetings in the Crusader’s Head,’ said Geoffrey, recalling what the landlord and his pot boy had told him.

  ‘Yes,’ said Maurice huffily. ‘And I would not visit a place like that unless the King ordered me to do so. I was so unnerved by the whole venture that I was obliged to partake of some of the Winchester Geese immediately afterwards, to soothe my ragged nerves.’

  Geoffrey recalled the taverner telling him that, too. ‘Being a double agent cannot be easy.’

  ‘I am not a double agent,’ snapped Maurice angrily. ‘That implies I am a traitor to both sides, and I am not. I am loyal to the King, which is why I am prepared to risk my life for him.’

  ‘You are the reason the King knew about Bellême’s Greek Fire,’ mused Geoffrey. ‘And about the plan to unite Old Mabel with her missing head, so she could join their battle ranks.’

  ‘Me and Bishop Giffard both.’ Maurice sighed and ran a hand over his perspiring pate. ‘But I deplore this sort of activity. I am not built for the excitement spying brings. My heart is pounding, and if I do not have a woman soon I shall expire.’

  ‘What did Henry tell you to do today? Why does he want Bellême to have our pla
ns?’

  But Maurice was more interested in the state of his health than in satisfying the knight’s curiosity. ‘I feel quite sick, you know. I have never been so frightened in my life, especially when you appeared and I could see him thinking that I had led you there. You almost had us both killed, and the King’s plan thwarted at the same time. I should have let Bellême finish you off.’

  ‘Well, I am grateful you did not.’

  ‘Your fight looked set to continue for hours, so I decided my only option was to draw it to a close myself,’ said Maurice resentfully. ‘I could hardly leave while you still battled, or he would have assumed I had summoned him there to have him murdered. And, worse, he would have dismissed the information I gave him. You put me in a quandary.’

  ‘I apologize.’

  ‘I set my horse loose, so he would hear its hoofs and think soldiers were coming. I do not think he will return to see whether a patrol really came, so he probably still believes I am his man.’ Maurice was anxious. ‘You should not have followed me.’

  ‘I did not,’ said Geoffrey. ‘But if you hold secret meetings in the future, you would be wise to whisper, not bawl loud enough to be heard on the opposite side of a forest.’

  ‘I tried to make him speak more softly, but he said there was no one around. That man is too confident for his own good.’

  ‘So, the King ordered you to give our battle plans to Bellême?’ said Geoffrey, wanting to be sure he had not misunderstood.

  ‘Yes,’ said Maurice. ‘He thinks I understand maps, because he made me draw one of Arundel.’

  ‘You asked me if I had been there when we met at St Paul’s Cathedral,’ recalled Geoffrey. ‘You had been told to make a map, and wanted to speak to anyone who might give you further information.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Maurice. ‘Matilda de Mortain asked the same of me when I bedded her once. She questioned me relentlessly about what I remembered of the place. I played the bumbling fool, because it seemed a good idea at the time. Then Beaumais found out about my dalliance, so I was obliged to tell the King myself, before he did it for me.’

  ‘You asked whether Beaumais had gossiped about it to me,’ recalled Geoffrey. ‘At Westminster.’

  ‘I do not trust Beaumais. He is spiteful and sly. When I eventually plucked up the courage to tell Henry about Matilda, I anticipated that he would be angry, but I think it gave him the idea that plans of all the castles in his kingdom might be useful. I worked for weeks on Arundel, trying to recall every passage and chamber.’

  ‘Speaking of charts, my squire heard the dying archer at Westminster say “map”. Do you know anything about who killed him and Petronus? I know the map he referred to had nothing to do with sketching castles, although I suspect the King was involved.’

  ‘My servants would need to be paid a lot more than I could afford to induce them to murder a man of God on my orders. I do not know who killed poor Petronus.’

  ‘And the two archers?’

  ‘That was Beaumais. He was proving his loyalty to Henry, and killed them for their incompetence when they failed to secure the map from Petronus. He was part of the King’s hunting party that day, and it was his arrow that killed the man you had caught. Then he slipped away to finish the other one. Henry knew what he was doing, but did not stop him.’

  ‘Beaumais slips from side to side like a serpent. How do you know he did not strangle Petronus?’

  ‘Because I was with him,’ said Maurice with a heavy sigh. ‘I thought he might try to snatch the map for Bellême. But he merely executed the archers for failing to carry out the King’s instructions. You probably heard us arguing about it later, in Westminster Palace. I do not recall ever being so angry. I disapprove of wanton slaughter.’

  ‘So what happened to this map?’ asked Geoffrey, who had a vivid recollection of the furious, low-voiced altercation that had taken place between the two men that day. ‘It was not on Petronus’s body, and it seems the archers did not take it, or they would still be alive.’

  ‘No one seems to know,’ said Maurice. ‘Beaumais thought you took it, but I know that was not possible: you did not have the opportunity, because you ran straight into Henry and he escorted you to Westminster. Your friend Roger did not have it, because his belongings were thoroughly searched that afternoon by the King’s agents. We have no idea what happened to the thing.’

  ‘Perhaps Beaumais was lying about its existence,’ suggested Geoffrey, concealing his astonishment that anyone should be able to search Roger without being caught. Roger was very protective of his possessions. ‘To make himself seem more important in the eyes of the King.’

  ‘It exists,’ said Maurice with conviction. ‘Petronus saw it himself. But, if you know what is good for you, you will put it from your mind. You will not want to know what it contains, believe me.’

  ‘It reveals the whereabouts of Old Mabel’s head.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ demanded Maurice, startled. ‘Did someone tell you? Beaumais?’

  ‘I reasoned it out for myself. Emma is toting her mother’s bones all over the country in the hope of restoring them to life, and it is common knowledge that Old Mabel was decapitated. It is not a huge leap in logic to assume a resurrection is unlikely when the body is in two separate locations.’

  Maurice shuddered. ‘I hope a resurrection does not occur at all. I do not want to do battle with the likes of Old Mabel; I am not sure my religious skills are up to it. Still, the map seems to have disappeared, and the Bellêmes are not in a position to go hunting for heads anyway. Their day is almost over, and soon it will not matter whether Old Mabel makes an appearance or not. Beaumais thinks it is unlikely now – it is why he changed his allegiance.’

  ‘The King should not trust him,’ said Geoffrey distastefully.

  ‘I quite agree,’ said Maurice fervently. He shuddered. ‘I cannot tell you how vile it was passing Bellême those plans. I shall never do anything like that again. My poor heart would not allow it.’ He did indeed look shaken. His face was pale and his hands were unsteady on the reins.

  ‘You can regain your strength with a woman,’ Geoffrey suggested helpfully.

  ‘Yours?’ asked Maurice eagerly. ‘Only a paragon like Angel Locks will be able to restore the balance of my humours tonight, after what I have been through.’

  ‘You mean Durand?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘I can ask him, if you like.’

  ‘I do not know why you persist with this charade,’ said Maurice irritably. ‘I am a man who is intimately acquainted with women, and I know a lady when I see one. Angel Locks is one of the most glorious creatures I have ever had the pleasure to admire, and I cannot imagine why you always abuse her good name. You do not deserve her.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Geoffrey. ‘I do not.’

  Geoffrey and Maurice travelled the rest of the way to Henry’s camp in silence, as the knight wondered what Henry thought he would gain by leaking sensitive information to Bellême, and Maurice was lost in a lecherous reverie about Durand. Geoffrey assumed the King intended to develop new plans of his own, although he felt they would not be as good. Geoffrey had worked hard, taking careful measurements and performing calculations that took into account the lie of the land and the number of men needed to storm the castle. Henry had not, and Geoffrey knew an ill-prepared attempt to take a fortress like Bridgnorth by force would fail.

  ‘Do not worry,’ said Maurice, as they approached the first outpost and soldiers stepped forward to demand their names and the nature of their business. ‘The King knows what he is doing. Come with me to see him now. He will put your mind at rest.’

  Geoffrey demurred, preferring to return to his own campfire, but Maurice claimed the knight owed Henry an explanation as to why he had almost thwarted his carefully contrived plot. Reluctantly, he followed the bishop to the royal enclosure, and listened while Maurice told the King what had happened in the woods that evening. Geoffrey suppressed a smile when the prelate allocated himself a role that was rather more ac
tive in the fight than the reality, but said nothing to contradict him. Maurice had saved his life with his ruse, and Geoffrey owed the man his gratitude.

  Henry appeared to be satisfied with the way matters had ended, although he was not pleased that Geoffrey had almost foiled what he insisted was a clever ploy. Geoffrey rubbed the bridge of his nose, and hoped that the campaign against Bellême would soon be over. He was weary with nobles and their deceptions.

  ‘Bellême is at Shrewsbury,’ he said. ‘Not Bridgnorth, as we thought. We should leave a small force here and march on Shrewsbury immediately. That is where he intends to make his final stand, and we should prevent him from becoming too firmly entrenched—’

  ‘Not yet,’ interrupted Henry. ‘There are things that must happen first.’

  ‘Such as what?’ demanded Geoffrey, forgetting he was speaking to a monarch. ‘Bridgnorth will surrender as soon as Shrewsbury falls: there would be no point in holding out, and the man you most want to defeat – Bellême – is at Shrewsbury. Why wait here?’

  ‘My spies inform me that Bellême and Roger are at Shrewsbury,’ argued Henry. ‘But Arnulf is here, and I want him just as much as I do Bellême. He murdered young Philip, and I do not approve of the strong slaying the weak.’

  ‘He killed Hugh, too,’ said Geoffrey, aware that tiredness was making him incautious. The King had not been very interested in what Bellême had ordered Geoffrey to do during his week at Arundel, and Geoffrey had not mentioned that he had uncovered the identity of a murderer.