‘Durand!’ exclaimed Geoffrey in disgust. ‘You cannot go around choking people based on flawed interpretations of the facts – especially monks.’
‘Why not?’ demanded Durand. ‘Roger is always telling me that I need to get out and slaughter more, so I decided to take him at his word. Besides, what makes monks any different from common men? I was one once, and I can tell you there is no difference at all.’
Geoffrey supposed that the rules quelling the murderous instincts of other men, who were concerned for their immortal souls, might not apply to someone like Durand. He struggled to understand.
‘If Roger, Helbye and I had been obliged to escort Petronus to Westminster after you left us, we would have been killed, too,’ insisted Durand. ‘You were not there to help.’
‘But strangulation!’ Geoffrey was deeply repelled. It seemed such an unmanly way to deal with a victim. ‘Did you take the map he carried, as well as his cross? The document that the King’s men and Bellême’s agents have been at such pains to find?’
‘Is that what it was?’ asked Durand carelessly. ‘A map? I could not tell.’
‘Where is it now?’
‘I lost it,’ said Durand guilelessly. ‘I think it dropped out of my scrip during the incident at London’s public lavatory, but my scrip is always full, and I can never find anything in it, so who knows when the thing fell out?’
‘God’s teeth!’ muttered Geoffrey, regarding his squire uneasily. ‘I feel as though I am coming to know you for the first time.’
‘I hope you like what you see,’ said Durand with an impertinent wiggle of the hips. ‘Bishop Maurice certainly did – at least, with the torches doused. I am not so sure what would have happened if he had insisted on lighting a candle.’
Geoffrey did not want to know. ‘Tell me about this map. It is important and could be devastating in the wrong hands.’
Durand became serious. ‘I honestly have no idea where it might be. I shoved it in my purse in the woods near Westminster, and then I simply forgot about it. I did not think about it again until I heard Henry telling you about it a couple of days ago. I immediately emptied my scrip to see if it was still there, but it had gone. I probably lost it months ago.’
Geoffrey regarded him in disbelief. ‘Why did you not tell me all this back in March? That map may have allowed me to solve some of these mysteries weeks ago.’
‘Because if I told you I had taken the map, you would have accused me of killing Petronus,’ said Durand, not unreasonably. ‘And I knew you would be angry. I was right: you are furious.’
‘I am not furious!’ snapped Geoffrey. He glared at Durand, and wondered whether the squire had learned such behaviour from him and Roger, or whether he was naturally the kind of fellow to throttle wounded clerics on forest floors. He held up his hand to keep Durand away from him, and turned his attention to the parchments the squire had been about to deliver to Bellême.
He pulled them open and quickly scanned their contents. One was indeed a description of how to make Greek Fire, with an appended message stating that a condensed form of olive oil gave the best results. Geoffrey knew that edible oil – condensed or otherwise – had not been something the Crusaders had included in their experiments, and supposed Emma really had unravelled the mystery. He read on, and learned the original ‘secret’ ingredient was some kind of black oil that could be found only in the lands of the East, which collected in poisonous pools. It needed to be refined in a particular way before it was suitable for use in Greek Fire. Since Emma had not had access to the black oil, she had improvised, and had devised an alternative that was not perfect, but that had worked.
Geoffrey turned his attention to the second parchment. It was a letter from Sybilla to Bellême telling him that Matilda was the King’s spy. She outlined a detailed plan of how Bellême could avenge himself on his treacherous siblings, leaving him and Sybilla to rule Normandy together in glorious harmony. Geoffrey doubted whether Bellême would have taken her advice. He crumpled the parchment in disgust.
‘I believe those are addressed to me,’ came a low voice from behind Geoffrey. Durand gave a squeal of alarm and darted away through the undergrowth, while Geoffrey spun around and found himself face to face with Robert de Bellême.
‘I thought you were in Shrewsbury Castle,’ was all Geoffrey could think of to say to the Earl, who stood in front of him in full battle gear. Bellême’s dark eyes were flat and expressionless, and Geoffrey knew by now that this was a dangerous sign. He was angry and looking for spilled blood.
‘That particular fortress is not a good place to be today,’ said Bellême, regarding Geoffrey as intently as a cat would a mouse. ‘My troops are spineless cowards, and have refused to fight. They heard about the fall of Bridgnorth and claim they cannot win at Shrewsbury if all my other strongholds have gone. I told them I ordered Bridgnorth to surrender, so that its army could come and relieve us, but they do not believe me.’
‘They are right,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Bridgnorth’s defenders are heading south, hoping to board a ship for Normandy before the King changes his mind.’
Bellême shrugged. ‘It does not matter, if Shrewsbury is unwilling to fight. But I have not finished with England yet; I shall be back to claim what is mine. You will not be here to see it, though.’
‘No,’ agreed Geoffrey. ‘I will be in the Holy Land with Tancred.’
‘That is not what I meant,’ said Bellême, tugging his monstrous sword from his belt.
‘Not again,’ groaned Geoffrey, backing away but declining to draw his own weapon. ‘I do not want to fight you. Your rebellion is over, so why do you not follow the rest of your family and leave while you can?’
‘Not as long as you are alive,’ hissed Bellême. ‘I knew Bishop Maurice was wrong when he said you were dead. I might have known I could not trust a cleric to tell the difference between a living man and a corpse.’
‘You will not find me so easy to best today,’ warned Geoffrey. ‘This time we are more evenly matched in terms of armour and weapons. We could be circling and lunging at each other for hours, while your troops surrender and run away to save their lives.’
‘You are afraid of me. That is why you will not fight.’
‘I have never been afraid of you,’ said Geoffrey coolly. ‘Why should I be? I have never seen you kill a man in a fair fight – only when he is unarmed and defenceless, like that landlord in Winchester. How could I be afraid of a man like you?’
Bellême lunged, but it was an angry, clumsy blow, and Geoffrey had no trouble in evading it. He drew his own weapon and waited, determined that Bellême should do the attacking if he was so eager to fight, and tire himself first. Bellême swiped again, and their swords met with a loud clash that drew sparks. They pushed hard against each other, and Bellême’s greater strength showed when he almost shoved Geoffrey from his feet. Geoffrey pretended to stagger, and Bellême moved in to take advantage, while Geoffrey neatly stepped out of the way and struck hard to score a jagged wound in Bellême’s hand. Bellême regarded it in astonishment, as though he could not believe it had happened. Then his surprise turned to fury, and he lunged again.
His hacking blow was so powerful that parrying it numbed Geoffrey’s fingers. He almost dropped his weapon, and only just managed to block the second hacking sweep. Bellême gave one of his mirthless smiles and began to circle, while Geoffrey saw his relentless attack might well last until sunset, so determined was he to kill someone before he left England. Geoffrey knew he could not allow Bellême to defeat him, because then he would seize the secret of Greek Fire and Geoffrey knew he would use it. Knowledge of such a foul weapon might shift the balance of power in Normandy, and hundreds, perhaps thousands, of soldiers would die horribly at his hands. Geoffrey had to win.
The sun came out from behind a cloud, and Geoffrey was aware that he was sweating under his armour. His sword was slippery in his hand, and he was finding it difficult to clutch the thing. But he was used to fighting in the h
eat, and knew how to adapt. Bellême did not, and Geoffrey leapt forward to land a vicious stroke that saw the Earl’s sword cartwheel from his hand and disappear into the bushes. Bellême drew his dagger, and gestured that Geoffrey should dispense with his sword and use his knife, so they would be equally armed.
‘I do not think so,’ said Geoffrey, who had no intention of yielding any kind of advantage to Bellême, who would not have done the same for him. ‘Give yourself up, if you do not want to die.’
‘You will not kill me,’ jeered Bellême. ‘You do not have the courage. King Henry wants me alive, so he can gloat over my defeat. It would be a hollow victory for him if I die at your hands.’
Geoffrey advanced relentlessly, with Bellême giving ground at every step. This time, he was determined that Bellême would not survive to continue his wicked, butchering life. He intended to kill him, and did not care that it was no longer a fair fight.
‘Enough!’ came a voice from the edge of the clearing. ‘I have been watching for some time, and it is obvious who will win this duel. Geoffrey, put up your weapon.’
It was Henry, with Durand cowering behind him. Durand gave his master a feeble smile, and the knight supposed he had not fled, as he tended to do when faced with violence, but had summoned the King, warning him that his enemy was not in the castle but in the woods. Roger stood to one side, and Geoffrey thought how good it was to see a friendly face. His dog was at Roger’s side, and wagged its tail when it saw Geoffrey. Then it spotted Bellême, and its teeth bared in a snarl. Bellême heard it.
‘That cur attacked me the last time we fought. You would be dead if it were not for him.’
He braced himself, and Geoffrey saw that he intended to hurl his dagger at the dog. Bellême was right: it had saved Geoffrey’s life, and Geoffrey intended to do the same for the dog now. He gripped his sword and started towards the Earl, determined to bring the reign of Robert de Bellême to an end.
‘Geoffrey!’ came Henry’s sharp command. ‘I told you to disarm.’
But Geoffrey had no intention of putting up his weapon while Bellême held a knife. It was not just the dog Bellême had in his murderous sights: Henry was just as easy a target, and there would be little the King could do to avoid a powerfully flung blade. Geoffrey took another step towards the Earl.
‘Geoffrey!’ barked Henry. ‘I ordered you—’
Bellême moved like lightning, and Geoffrey saw the King’s jaw drop in horror as Bellême bent back his arm and prepared to hurl what could not fail to be a fatal weapon at such short range. Geoffrey lurched forward and crashed into him, so they both fell to the ground. He heard the breath rush out of Bellême, then felt himself grabbed by the arms and hauled away. Bellême was similarly secured, and stood struggling and spitting his hatred at both Geoffrey and Henry. One of the King’s men reeled back from Geoffrey with a sliced arm, and the other edged away when he saw he was likely to be next. No Crusader liked being manhandled.
‘All right, leave him,’ said Henry, seeing that Geoffrey was not going to surrender his weapons. ‘He has just saved me from being skewered, so he means me no harm.’
‘I was saving my dog,’ said Geoffrey, somewhat imprudently. But he was angry: with Bellême and his ridiculous and unwanted feud, and with Henry for forcing him into affairs that were none of his concern.
‘I almost killed the brute,’ said Bellême, an amused smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Geoffrey was not sure whether he referred to the King or his dog, and supposed he would never know. Bellême was unlikely to confess to attempted regicide now he was the King’s prisoner.
Meanwhile, the dog knew Bellême was not in a position to hurt it, so it ambled forward casually, nose to the ground, as if it were out for a pleasant walk. When it neared Bellême it darted forward and landed a vicious nip on the Earl’s left ankle, before moving away to hide behind Geoffrey. Bellême screamed his outrage, and the soldiers holding him were hard-pressed to keep him under control. Henry laughed in startled surprise, while Geoffrey glanced down at the animal and saw it was pleased with itself.
Henry addressed Bellême. ‘Shrewsbury has surrendered.’
‘Already?’ Bellême was shocked. ‘I thought they would hold out until sunset, at least.’
‘They handed me the keys of the castle as soon as I arrived,’ said Henry, obviously enjoying the Earl’s discomfort. ‘Abbot Ralph obliged, because none of your regular soldiers were brave enough to do it.’ He gestured behind him, and Geoffrey saw the gentle Benedictine who had befriended him at Arundel.
Bellême seemed to sag in his captors’ arms. ‘They did not even hold out for two hours,’ he muttered. ‘That was the extent of their loyalty to me.’
‘You will be escorted from here to the nearest port,’ proclaimed Henry in a loud voice. ‘And you will never enter my kingdom again. If you do, you will be executed. You shall forfeit all your English possessions, and all those of your family. There is no longer a place in England for any member of the House of Montgomery-Bellême. Now go.’
The Earl was hustled away, and Geoffrey saw the King had delegated a sizeable guard to travel with him. He was taking no chances with the man who had been a thorn in his side for so long. He was wise, Geoffrey thought. Bellême’s troops at Shrewsbury might have disappointed him, but there would be others willing to rally to a rebellious noble if the price was right.
‘You are wondering why I intervened,’ said Henry to Geoffrey, tapping his arm and indicating that he should sheath his sword. ‘You think I should have let you kill him.’
‘It would be safer for you than having him in Normandy, allowing his hatred to fester and planning his next invasion,’ Geoffrey pointed out. ‘He will be your enemy for as long as he lives.’
‘I know,’ said Henry. ‘But you are viewing the situation too simplistically. The truth is that I do not want my nobles to think I will resort to murdering any baron I cannot control. It would lead to even more rebellion, and I want my country to live in peace. The Bellême threat is gone, Geoffrey, and England is a better place for it.’
He turned and walked away, issuing orders as he went, while his courtiers hurried to follow him. The clearing was soon deserted, with only Roger slapping Geoffrey’s shoulders in comradely affection, and the dog winding about his legs in the hope that its courage would be rewarded with something edible. Abbot Ralph lingered, too.
‘It is over,’ said Roger in satisfaction. ‘Bellême will never befoul English shores again.’
‘Perhaps not, but he will certainly despoil Normandy.’
‘It is a pity you did not kill him,’ said Ralph sadly. ‘You are right: hundreds of innocents will perish by his hand before he is defeated or dies. It will weaken Normandy and make his domains dangerous and wretched places to live.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Geoffrey. ‘But a weakened, wretched Normandy can only be good for a King of England who has set his sights on ruling there, too. Henry knew what he was doing.’
‘I am sure he did,’ said Ralph softly.
Epilogue
Matilda smoothed out the crumpled parchment in front of her and stared at the uneven lines and words that were marked on it. The map had been through a good deal since it had been taken from the knight who had murdered her mother a quarter of a century earlier, and it had not benefited from being in the possession of the slippery Durand, either. Matilda had no illusions about Geoffrey Mappestone’s squire. He had sold the map to the highest bidder, and since Emma and Sybilla were dead and no longer in a position to make good on their offers, and Bellême had been driven with unseemly haste from England, Durand had relinquished the map to Matilda. He now owned enough gold to keep him in silken shirts and scented pomanders for the rest of his life – which Matilda suspected might be a very short one if Geoffrey ever discovered what he had done.
She had wondered at first whether she had wasted her money, but Bishop Maurice had obligingly shown her how to interpret the wavy lines and marks, and how to relate them t
o specific geographical features. She told him the map was from an old hermit, and that she intended to build a chapel on the spot he had indicated. Maurice was not interested in why she wanted his help, only that she did not repel his sweaty-handed advances as they rode at a leisurely pace to the coast.
When she eventually reached Normandy, Matilda went to the castle at Bures, where Old Mabel had died. She walked along the River Dives for the distance specified on the map, and discovered the great oak tree that stood in a woodland glade fifty-seven paces from its muddy banks. Then she dug until she discovered what she was looking for. It was wrapped in a leather sack and was heavy with soil, but a quick glance inside showed her a mass of thick grey hair still attached to a skull. It looked so similar to Emma’s that Matilda had almost dropped it, but she recovered herself and returned to where her brother Roger waited. Together they entered the castle and set about uniting head with body.
‘Now she can be at peace,’ said Roger, standing back from the wooden box and bowing his head as a mark of respect. ‘We all knew she would never rest easy until she was whole again. We shall bury her in the churchyard tomorrow, and that will be an end to her wanderings.’
He went to make the arrangements – hiring a priest to speak the proper words and a carpenter to craft a better chest than the one in which Old Mabel had reclined headless for so many years. When he had gone, a shadow emerged from behind one of the wall hangings.
‘Well?’ asked Bellême softly. ‘Can you do it, sister? Can you take up where Emma left off and see our mother walk the Earth once more?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Matilda confidently. ‘Our House will be strong again under her control, and we will take back what Henry stole.’
‘Under her control?’ asked Bellême warily. ‘I have no intention of relinquishing the little power I have left to a corpse.’
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