A Dead Man's secret

One

La Batailge, near Hastinges, early October 1103

Sir Geoffrey Mappestone did not like King Henry. He considered him devious and dangerous, and hated those occasions when he was summoned into the royal presence. Less worrisome, but equally annoying, was waiting around, kicking his heels, while the King determined that he might – or might not – see the knight.

Right now, Geoffrey was in just such a situation. He and his friend Sir Roger of Durham had recently helped thwart a minor rebellion and had finally been dismissed so that Geoffrey could return to his home in Goodrich on the Welsh borders. But within a day of leaving the abbey at La Batailge, they had been summoned back by a hard-riding messenger from the King. The two knights and their squires had then been forced to linger at the abbey until it was convenient for His Majesty to receive Geoffrey. The waiting was made even less tolerable because the one friend Geoffrey had made during his previous adventure – Wardard, an old Norman warrior turned monk – had evidently been sent ‘on retreat’ by the head of the abbey on the very day the knights had left. So Geoffrey could not even enjoy his company while waiting upon the King’s whim.

The area around La Batailge was windswept and lonely, and Geoffrey often wondered what his father had thought of it when he had fought the Saxons there almost forty years before. If Geoffrey closed his eyes, it was easy to imagine the clamour of battle – the clash of weapons, the piercing whinnies of horses, the screams of the wounded and dying. The slaughter had been terrible, and, to ease his conscience, the Conqueror had founded an abbey on the site. The sound of Benedictine chants now filled the air, but Geoffrey thought the place a desolate one even so.

Three Norman monarchs had reigned since then. The first William had died twenty-one years after the Conquest, leaving three ambitious sons. The oldest was Robert, Duke of Normandy, under whom Geoffrey had trained to become a warrior. The next was William Rufus, who had inherited the English throne and had agreed with Robert that if one of them died, the other should have his estates and titles. King William Rufus had been dispatched by an arrow in the New Forest, and the youngest of the Conqueror’s sons, Henry, had raced to have himself crowned before Robert could stop him.

Geoffrey thought Henry was wrong to have thus illicitly grabbed the throne. But as his own estates were in England, and Henry could easily take them away, he kept his thoughts private. He had never sworn fealty to Henry – his oath of allegiance had been to Tancred, Prince of Galilee, for whom he had fought most of his adult life – but Henry held a certain sway over him.

Henry was holding court in the church, a typically Norman building with a nave supported by thick pillars, and a clerestory of round-headed windows. Geoffrey leaned against a pillar and watched him conduct business. Henry had brought with him an enormous retinue of clerks, scribes, servants and courtiers. The clerks were the most numerous; Henry was wise enough to know that the key to a successful reign was as much administration as winning battles.

One clerk saw Geoffrey and walked towards him. He was a pleasant-faced man with a cheerful smile, although there was something about his eyes that suggested he was as devious as his master. His name was Eudo, and he was Henry’s most trusted scribe.

‘His Majesty has just told me that he will see you in a few moments.’

‘Thank you.’ Geoffrey hesitated before continuing. ‘Do you know why? I do not think there is more to be discussed about the recent events.’

Eudo inclined his head. ‘I am sure His Majesty would agree. It was a sordid business, and the less said the better.’

‘Then why did he recall me?’

The court had taken every available berth in the abbey, and Geoffrey and his companions had been reduced to sleeping behind the stables, rolled in their cloaks. It was warm for the time of year, and as a soldier he was used to uncomfortable conditions, but it was still not pleasant. Moreover, the monks were struggling to find enough food for such large numbers, and Geoffrey could not leave to forage for his own lest the King demanded his presence.

‘He has his reasons.’ Eudo saw the look on Geoffrey’s face and elaborated hastily: the knight was tall, strong and clearly not someone to be fobbed off with flippant responses. ‘He wants to discuss it in person. But it involves some letters.’

‘Letters?’ echoed Geoffrey.

‘You will find out soon enough,’ replied Eudo. Then it was his turn to hesitate. ‘I am sorry about Prince Tancred, by the way.’

‘What about Tancred?’ demanded Geoffrey.

Eudo looked at him warily. ‘I am sorry you are no longer in his service. The King tells me that the two of you were as close as brothers, but he has recently dismissed you most rudely.’

That was one way of putting it, Geoffrey thought bitterly. Tancred had actually threatened to execute his former favourite if he ever saw him again. And it was Henry’s fault – he had forced Geoffrey to remain in England, and Tancred had finally lost patience. Dismayed by Tancred’s final missive, Geoffrey had known he would never rest easy until he had explained in person what had happened. Tancred might still be angry, but at least he would understand that the decision to dally had not been Geoffrey’s.

‘The King discusses my personal correspondence with clerks?’ he asked coolly. ‘I thought he would have better things to do.’

‘He does,’ replied Eudo, matching his tone. ‘But, for some inexplicable reason, he likes you.’

Geoffrey seriously doubted it. Or perhaps Henry ‘liked’ him because he had a weakness – a sister of whom he was fond – and so was a suitable candidate for coercion. Henry had certainly exploited his knight’s unwillingness to see Joan harmed in the past, and would doubtless do so again.

‘Here is Sir Edward,’ said Eudo, nodding to where a man in impractically fashionable clothes was approaching with fussy, mincing steps. Like many courtiers, his hair was long, flowing around his shoulders, and his beard had been carefully sculpted into an eye-catching fork. Geoffrey regarded the figure warily. The title suggested Edward was a knight, but Geoffrey could not imagine such a fellow on a battlefield.

‘He is Constable of Kadweli Castle, in Wales,’ continued Eudo. ‘It is a prestigious post because Kadweli is strategically sited, and money has been set aside to build it in stone.’

‘The King is ready for you now,’ said Edward to Geoffrey. He looked the knight up and down, smothering a smirk. ‘He will be pleased to see you have dressed appropriately.’

A tart rejoinder died in Geoffrey’s throat when he glanced down at himself. His surcoat with its Crusader’s cross was decidedly grimy, and although his mail tunic and leggings were in good repair – no sensible knight would allow them to be otherwise – they were plain and functional. He had not shaved in days, and his light brown hair, cut short in military fashion, had not seen a comb in weeks. Edward had a point.

‘It is too late to change clothes now,’ said Eudo, frowning. ‘Go. He does not like to be kept waiting.’

Geoffrey was not pleased to find the King was not ready for him at all, but was leaning over his clerks as they scribbled feverishly at his directions. He dallied for so long that Geoffrey was tempted to walk away. But common sense reigned, and he forced himself to be patient. His dog, a savage back and white beast, also grew restless, and, foreseeing trouble if it bit someone, the knight told his squire to take it outside.

To pass the time, Geoffrey wandered to a table where building plans for the abbey had been laid out. He was impressed – it was going to be a massive foundation, housing upwards of a hundred Benedictines. The monks would have a huge cloister, dormitories, refectories, guesthouse, common rooms, fraters, kitchens, brewery, bakery, buttery and granaries.

‘Is it convenient to speak to you now, or shall I arrange for an appointment?’ came a caustic voice from behind him.

Geoffrey turned quickly, aware that he had been so engrossed that he had not realized the King was there.

‘I am sorry, sire,’ said Geoffrey. He gestured at the drawings. ‘The abbey will be remarkable.’

‘Expensive, too,’ said Henry resentfully. ‘But it cannot be helped. My father wanted to atone for the bloodshed that allowed him to conquer England, and I had better follow in his footsteps. There was that nasty rebellion on the Marches earlier this year, and now there is the one you have just quelled. It would be prudent to let God know that I am grateful that neither succeeded.’

‘Yes, sire,’ said Geoffrey, thinking the Almighty was unlikely to be impressed by acts of beneficence that were conducted with such obvious reluctance. He said no more and waited for Henry to speak.

On the surface, he and the King had much in common. Both were the youngest sons of powerful men, and neither had expected to inherit on the deaths of their fathers. But there the similarity ended, because Geoffrey had not wanted to accede to Goodrich Castle when his three older brothers had died, whereas Henry had seized his chance for land and property with considerable determination.

‘Where is your dog?’ asked Henry, looking around. ‘I thought it never left your side.’

The dog was more than happy to leave Geoffrey’s side if it thought its options were better elsewhere. Geoffrey frowned, wondering why the King should be interested in such an unappealing animal.

‘I would not mind him servicing some of my bitches,’ Henry went on before Geoffrey could reply. ‘They seem to produce docile pups, and I want some with more fire.’

‘You will not want him anywhere near them, sire,’ said Geoffrey hastily. Henry’s hounds were expensive, and his dog could not be trusted with them.

‘You were on the verge of leaving my kingdom when your ship floundered and you were cast up on the coast here,’ said Henry, changing the subject abruptly. ‘You would have been well east by now, were it not for that storm.’

‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey, heartily wishing the weather had remained fine.

‘You are my vassal by dint of your estates here, whether you like it or not,’ Henry went on. ‘I know you still consider yourself Tancred’s man, but you owe me consideration.’

‘Yes, sire,’ said Geoffrey, as politely as he could; they had been through this before. ‘But-’

‘Yet you tried to slip away,’ Henry continued, cutting across him. ‘Without my permission.’

Geoffrey frowned. He had never understood why Henry concerned himself with his comings and goings. The King was surrounded by able and loyal men, and did not need his services.

‘But you did give me permission to go, sire,’ he said. ‘A year ago. You said I could leave as soon as the trouble on the Marches was quelled. And there is peace now.’

‘Yes,’ said Henry, regarding him rather dangerously for daring to contradict. ‘But there is always the possibility that war might break out again, and Lord Baderon – your new father-in-law – will be incapable of subduing it.’

‘I do not see how I can help with that,’ said Geoffrey. He knew he was verging on the insolent, but he could not help it. ‘He is-’

‘I require reliable men in that turbulent region,’ said Henry, interrupting again. ‘Goodrich is small, but you are married to Baderon’s eldest daughter, so you have some sway over him. He will need you if trouble erupts, and I know he will accept your advice, because I have told him to.’

‘You have?’ Baderon had mentioned no such discussion when Geoffrey had taken leave of him back in August, and he was inclined to suspect that the King either misremembered or was lying. Probably the latter.

‘I have,’ said Henry coldly, as though he had read Geoffrey’s mistrust. ‘Besides, I understand your wife was unhappy with you disappearing for what might be a very long time.’

That was an understatement: Hilde was older than Geoffrey and acutely aware that women could not bear children indefinitely; there was no sign of an heir, and she had not wanted him to leave until he had done his duty.

‘And there is your sister,’ Henry went on, when there was no reply. ‘It was hardly fair to abandon your estates to her. And I doubt her husband will be much use: Joan and Hilde are twice the man that Sir Olivier will ever be.’

Geoffrey ignored the insult to his brother-in-law. It was true that his wife and sister were both formidable, quite capable of running the family estates and defending them against any enemies. He considered himself fortunate; it was not every lord of the manor who could disappear, confident that his property would still be in one piece when – if – he returned.

‘The three of them work well together,’ said Geoffrey, seeing some sort of answer was expected, ‘whereas I know nothing of farming. Besides, I wanted to see Tancred.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Henry. ‘Tancred. Unfortunately, he does not want to see you. Indeed, I believe he offered to kill you, should you venture into his domains again.’

‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey, irritated by the King choosing to air sensitive topics.

Henry saw his dark expression and sighed with affected weariness. ‘Tancred does not want you, Geoffrey. You should accept that.’

‘It does not matter whether I accept it or not,’ said Geoffrey, unable to keep the resentment from his voice, ‘because I have sworn a vow never to visit the Holy Land again.’

‘You have?’ asked Henry, startled. ‘Why in God’s name did you do that?’

‘Because the storms continued after the ship was wrecked. My companions said it was God’s displeasure at my travels, and we would all die unless I took an oath to stay in England.’

‘And did these tempests abate once you had made this vow?’ asked Henry, wide-eyed.

‘Eventually.’ Geoffrey still did not believe the Almighty had produced inclement weather for his sole benefit, and felt the pledge had been extracted by underhand tactics. But what was done was done, and he was not a man to break a promise to God.

Henry regarded him appraisingly. ‘I hope you are not expecting me to provide employment. You already declined such an offer in no uncertain terms, and I rarely extend the hand of friendship twice.’

‘I do not want your friendship,’ said Geoffrey before he could stop himself. He saw the monarch’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘I mean, I shall be happy to settle in Goodrich and learn how to farm.’

Henry laughed, although it was not a pleasant sound. ‘You will be miserable,’ he predicted. ‘But I am happy with your plans, because they fit rather well with my own.’

So here it comes, thought Geoffrey: yet another errand to be run – of the kind that Henry would never ask his usual retainers to perform. His heart sank, as he saw he was going to be plunged into intrigue and deception yet again; with Henry, there was no other kind of task.

Eudo arrived at that moment with urgent documents to be signed. Henry turned his back on Geoffrey, leaning over the desk to give them his attention. The clerk winked encouragingly at the knight, no doubt thinking that the length of the audience was a good sign. Geoffrey merely wanted to go home. Goodrich might well prove dull, but it beckoned to him like an oasis in the desert while he was with Henry.

Several of Henry’s barons approached when Eudo had finished, but Henry waved them away. Then he took Geoffrey’s arm and steered him into the north transept, indicating with a haughty flick of his hand that he was not to be disturbed. Geoffrey did not miss the resentful looks that followed. There were many at court who would love to be taken into Henry’s confidence, and they were jealous of the favour this unkempt, minor knight was shown.

‘As you are riding west, there is something you can do for me along the way,’ began Henry. ‘I have received word that there may be trouble in Kermerdyn.’

Geoffrey regarded him blankly. ‘Where?’

‘In the south of Wales. About two thirds of the way towards the western seas.’

Geoffrey stared at him. ‘But that is miles beyond Goodrich! It is not on the way at all.’

And, he thought, there was always going to be trouble with the Welsh, and he could hardly remain at Henry’s beck and call until an entire nation was subdued. Secretly, Geoffrey thought the Welsh were right to fight for their independence from the acquisitive, ruthless and greedy Normans.

‘It is still my country,’ Henry pointed out. ‘And I need a knight who can speak Welsh – preferably one who understands the politics of the region.’

‘But I do not understand them,’ objected Geoffrey. ‘Not down there. They are not the same as around Goodrich. Moreover, the language is not the same either. It varies from region to region, and the people there will find me incomprehensible.’

‘I am sure you will find a way around it,’ said Henry dismissively. ‘But, as it happens, my commission is very simple. I want you to deliver a letter that I hope will avert any trouble.’

‘Deliver a letter?’ echoed Geoffrey suspiciously. This was hardly work for a knight – kings had trained couriers for that sort of thing.

‘Yes, and I am doing you a favour, because the recipient is your kin – the husband of your wife’s sister Isabella.’

Geoffrey regarded him warily. He had never met Gwgan or Isabella, although his wife had mentioned them. He hoped his new relation was not the kind of man who indulged in rebellion.

‘Is he accused of treason or some such crime? This letter is one he will not want to receive?’

Henry grimaced. ‘Why must you always think the worst of me? It is hardly seemly, and there is only so long I can be expected to tolerate your insolence.’

‘I am sorry, sire,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Recent weeks have been difficult, and I am overly tired.’

‘You look tired,’ conceded Henry, softening a little. ‘Dirty, too. It seems suppressing revolts has left you scant time to wash.’

Geoffrey thought it best not to respond to such a remark.

‘The letter to Gwgan is nothing to do with treason,’ Henry went on. ‘It is one he will be quite happy to receive, I assure you, loyal subject that he is. But its contents are sensitive nonetheless.’

‘You mean you want it delivered with no one knowing about it?’

‘Precisely! I shall write a missive to the local bishop, too – one that will involve a princely amount of money, and so warrants a knight to deliver it. And I shall include one to Abbot Mabon, for the same reason. They do not like each other, and I do not want Mabon to take offence because I wrote to Bishop Wilfred and ignored him.’

‘Who is Abbot Mabon?’ asked Geoffrey, a little bewildered.

‘Head of Kermerdyn’s abbey,’ explained Henry. ‘Mabon is Welsh, and Bishop Wilfred itches to replace him with a Norman. They bicker constantly and are always writing to me about it. Indeed, there is a messenger from Mabon here now.’

‘Is there?’ Henry’s court was vast, and Geoffrey had not tried to work out who was who.

‘A sly monk named Delwyn. Doubtless, he will want to travel with you when you go west, because it will be safer in a larger party.’

Geoffrey did not like the sound of that. But he made no comment and brought the subject back to Kermerdyn’s religious squabbles.

‘What will you do?’ he asked. ‘Back the Norman bishop who will have the support of the Church, or the Welsh abbot who will have the support of the people?’

‘You see?’ asked Henry with a wry smile. ‘You do understand the politics! You show more insight by that question than my clerks have revealed in great discourses. And I, of course, want to be popular with both Church and people. So I shall resolve the matter by doing nothing.’

‘I do not understand,’ said Geoffrey, intrigued despite himself.

‘One of them will emerge triumphant, and I shall back whoever it is,’ explained Henry. ‘I cannot be seen to be on the losing side, but the winner will be worthy of my approbation.’

‘But the winner might not be a man you wish to own as an ally,’ Geoffrey pointed out. The moment he spoke, he wished he had not, because a predatory smile suffused Henry’s face.

‘Then there is something else you can do for me – send me your impressions of these two churchmen, recommending which is more deserving of my support.’

‘I am not suitable for such a delicate task, sire,’ objected Geoffrey. ‘I am a soldier, not a diplomat, and may inadvertently give you poor counsel.’

‘You will not,’ said Henry, making it sound more like a threat than a vote of confidence. ‘And I shall be happy to have your views regardless. Besides, I am sure you are grateful for me giving you this opportunity to prove yourself.’

‘To prove myself?’ asked Geoffrey, bemused. Surely, he had done that by risking his life to prevent rebels from trying to take Henry’s throne.

‘I am in the process of exiling anyone affiliated with my brother, the Duke of Normandy – and you became a knight under his tutelage. However, I am willing to overlook that in return for this small service. Refuse me, and you lose Goodrich – and I am sure your sister will not be happy about that.’

Joan would be livid, and Henry knew it. Geoffrey felt his temper begin to rise. He was not one of Henry’s creatures, to be ordered hither and thither, but a knight who had survived the Crusade – his white surcoat with its red cross told all who saw it that he was a Jerosolimitanus, one who had liberated Jerusalem from the Infidel. He bitterly resented being manipulated.

‘I have no allegiance to Robert, and neither does Joan,’ he said shortly.

Henry nodded. ‘Then you will do as I ask. You will deliver the letters to Abbot Mabon and Bishop Wilfred, and spend a little time in their company to provide me with impressions. And you will deliver my missive to Gwgan without anyone else knowing.’

‘Yes, sire,’ said Geoffrey, making no effort to keep the resentment from his voice.

The letters were not ready when Geoffrey went to collect them from the Chapter House – which had been commandeered by the King’s clerks – and he sighed irritably when he saw he was going to be made to wait yet again. He was eager to be on his way now he had permission to leave. It was not yet noon – with good horses, he could be twenty miles away by nightfall.

‘I am sorry,’ said Eudo, not sounding at all contrite. ‘But we have more pressing business to attend than yours.’

‘I am sure you do,’ said Geoffrey shortly. ‘But it will not take you a moment to gather these letters together, and then I can be away to do the King’s bidding.’

‘I will do it as soon as I can,’ snapped Eudo. ‘But you looming over me will not expedite the matter, so go away. I shall summon you when they are ready.’

Infuriated that a mere clerk should try to dismiss him, Geoffrey promptly sat on a large chest and folded his arms.

‘I would not like you to forget,’ he said in a voice that carried considerable menace.

‘I will not forget,’ said Eudo, alarmed. Crusader knights had a reputation for ruthless ferocity, and Geoffrey’s battle-stained armour and the compact strength of his body said he was a dangerous man.

‘Good,’ said Geoffrey, watching Eudo sort deeds into two neat piles with unsteady hands. He sighed, never easy with intimidation, and tried to engage Eudo in polite conversation instead, sensing friendliness might better serve his cause. ‘What can you tell me about Kermerdyn?’

Eudo shrugged. ‘Not much. It is under the dominion of a Welsh prince named Hywel. The King installed him there on the advice of influential nobles, because he helped quell the rebellion on the borders. But it was a mistake.’

‘Why?’

‘Because everyone likes him.’

‘And that is a problem?’

‘It is. He is powerful in his own right, and I doubt he will want to remain the King’s vassal. He will rebel, and he will have a strong base, because we installed him in a fortress called Rhydygors.’

‘But if Hywel has any sense, he will see that it is safer to live in harmony than to wage a war.’

‘You would think so, but, in my experience, rebels are usually rather short on sense. Moreover, there is always the danger that he will encourage other Welsh princes to join him. Not everyone appreciates that the best rulers are Normans, and that we are acting for their own good when we subjugate a people.’

‘Right,’ said Geoffrey, amused.

‘It is true!’ declared Eudo. ‘I know, from studying tax returns, that your father turned Goodrich into a highly profitable venture, whereas it was struggling under the Saxons.’

Geoffrey nodded. Godric Mappestone had been a ruthless tyrant, who had subdued his tenants with a fist of iron and had made up for any shortfalls by helping himself to his neighbours’ resources and supplies.

‘Is that all you know about Kermerdyn?’ he asked. ‘That its ruler is popular?’

‘I do not waste time learning about distant outposts.’ Eudo flinched as Geoffrey stood, although the knight had not intended to frighten him. ‘But I can tell you that Hywel represents a threat to the stability of the entire region.’

‘Really? But alliances have been made with marriages. My wife’s sister, for example. Surely, these count for something?’

‘They may keep some Welsh leaders from taking up arms,’ acknowledged Eudo. ‘But the longer I chat here with you, the longer it will be before your letters are ready. With your permission, I shall be about my duties.’

It was bad enough that Geoffrey had again been coerced into doing Henry’s bidding, but to be forced to wait for scribes was outrageous. Tiredness exacerbated his irritation, and he was sufficiently annoyed that he did not trust himself to hunt out Sir Roger, who had been travelling with him to the Holy Land before the storm had intervened. Roger might react with violence if he felt Geoffrey was being insulted.

Instead, he went for a walk, his dog loping at his side. It galled him that Henry should manipulate him quite so readily, and it occurred to him to leave without waiting for the letters. But that would be a mistake: Henry was vengeful, and Geoffrey did not want Hilde and Joan to suffer the consequences.

It was difficult to find a place to be alone when the abbey was full of Henry’s retainers, but a bell chimed to announce that a meal was ready, and the church emptied quickly. Geoffrey walked to the chancel, which was blessedly free of kings and clerks.

‘Geoffrey! I had no idea you were still here,’ came a cheerful voice from behind him.

Geoffrey spun around quickly, vexed that he was not to be permitted even a few moments of peace, but his pique faded when he found himself facing Maurice, the portly Bishop of London. Maurice was famous for his absolute loyalty to the King, his building of a magnificent cathedral, and his insistence that he suffered from a medical condition that necessitated regular frolics with pretty women. Geoffrey had worked with him in the past and liked him.

He smiled, feeling his bleak mood lighten. Maurice extended his be-ringed hand for the traditional episcopal kiss, but the moment the formal greeting was over, he gave the knight an affectionate hug.

‘It is good to see you, my friend!’ he cried. ‘Bishop Giffard often asks for news of you in his letters and will be delighted when I can report that you are safe and well.’

‘You look well, too,’ said Geoffrey, meaning it. The prelate was rosy-cheeked and shone with health and vitality.

Maurice leaned close. ‘I have just had a couple of very pretty damsels, and my humours are in perfect alignment. Of course, it will not last, and I shall have to find another one before long. I do not suppose your lady is with you, is she?’

‘You mean my wife?’ asked Geoffrey, sincerely hoping the lecherous prelate did not intend to put Hilde on his list of conquests.

‘No,’ whispered Maurice, looking around hopefully. ‘Your other lady. The one who was with you last summer, whom I dubbed Angel Locks. She gave me such pleasure one night!’

‘Oh, my squire,’ said Geoffrey flatly. ‘Durand.’

It was a sore point. With his flowing golden hair and mincing gait, Durand had often been mistaken for a woman from behind and had not minded at all. Geoffrey did not like to imagine what he had done with Maurice one dark evening to convince the prelate that he was a member of the fairer sex. He knew only that Maurice was keen to repeat the experience and that Durand had been paid extremely well.

‘Is she here?’ demanded Maurice eagerly.

‘He is no longer with me,’ replied Geoffrey shortly. ‘I have another squire now. Bale.’

Maurice grimaced. ‘I do not know why you persist with this charade of pretending she is a man, Geoffrey. There is no other woman like her.’

‘We can agree on that,’ said Geoffrey. He changed the subject. ‘How is the construction of your cathedral in London?’

‘St Paul’s,’ said Maurice with a fond smile. ‘It proceeds apace, thank you. But I am surprised to see you here. I thought you would be in the Holy Land by now.’

‘I took a vow not to go,’ said Geoffrey unhappily. ‘And the King has found a mission for me. Again. Will he never leave me alone?’

‘Hush!’ Maurice glanced around uneasily. ‘Walls have ears, and so does His Majesty. Long ones. I do not want to be seen as a traitor, even if you do not seem to care what he thinks. But let us talk of happier matters. Tell me about your new wife. Is she pretty?’

‘She has nice eyes,’ said Geoffrey loyally. No one in his right mind would call Hilde pretty.

‘Well, a man cannot be too fussy about his wife,’ said Maurice. He saw Geoffrey’s troubled expression, and his voice became kind. ‘Henry really has upset you. What does he want? Is there more trouble on the Marches?’

‘In Kermerdyn,’ said Geoffrey. ‘On the opposite side of the country. It seems he expects me to keep the peace through all of Wales, which is a lot more than he demands of his earls.’

‘Geoffrey, please!’ exclaimed Maurice, glancing around uneasily again. He took the knight’s arm and led him to an alcove. ‘If you have no care to keep your own head attached to your body, then try to think of mine.’

‘Sorry,’ said Geoffrey, genuinely contrite this time.

‘You mentioned Kermerdyn,’ said the Bishop. ‘There have been rumours at court about Kermerdyn.’

‘What rumours?’ asked Geoffrey, hoping he was not about to be sent into a situation that was more dangerous or complex than Henry had led him to believe. ‘Anything I should know?’

‘It can do no harm,’ said Maurice. ‘And I have not forgotten what you did for Giffard last year. Nor has he, and he made me promise to watch out for you in return.’

‘You mean escorting him out of the country after he defied the King?’ asked Geoffrey, wondering whether this had factored into Henry’s commission.

Maurice nodded. ‘Henry was furious, and there are many who would not hesitate to kill anyone who vexes their King – not that Henry would condone an act of violence against the Church, of course. But he surrounds himself with some very vicious men, and poor Giffard will not be safe until Henry has forgiven him.’

‘Does Henry know it was me who helped Giffard to the coast?’ asked Geoffrey.

‘Yes, of course. Nothing happens in his kingdom without his knowledge. Perhaps you will wipe the slate clean with this favour you are about to perform.’

Geoffrey sincerely hoped so.

Geoffrey joined Maurice for a stroll in the abbey grounds, moving away from the populated areas and walking down a hill to a series of boggy fishponds. Because most of the court was still eating, it was peaceful there, the only sounds the eerie calls of curlews and the wind whispering in the reeds.

They discussed mutual acquaintances and the adventures they had shared the previous year when they had worked hard to oust the tyrant Robert de Belleme from Henry’s domain. Maurice talked about his cathedral, too, and Geoffrey wished he could see how it had progressed. Unusually for a knight, he was literate and had once entertained hopes of attending the university in Paris. Philosophy was his first love, but he might have enjoyed a career in architecture, too.

‘So what are these rumours about Kermerdyn?’ he asked eventually, eager to learn about the place from a man whose opinions he trusted.

‘Its castle – Rhydygors – was built some ten years ago by the Sheriff of Devonshire, one William fitz Baldwin,’ Maurice began.

‘Why would the Sheriff of Devonshire build a castle so far from his home?’

‘He was ordered to by the last king. It was odd, though. William was not a very nice fellow when he lived in Devon – I found him extremely unpleasant. But in Kermerdyn, he changed – he became God-fearing, honest and good.’

‘I believe Rhydygors has been given to Prince Hywel,’ said Geoffrey, thinking of what Eudo had told him.

‘It has. William died seven years ago, and Rhydygors reverted to the Crown; Hywel was awarded it last year. But there was said to be something odd about William’s death. He died of a fever, although he was in his prime, not some old dotard to be felled by a passing sickness. And he had a secret.’

‘A secret?’

Maurice nodded. ‘One he believed brought him success and happiness, and made him a better man. It would certainly explain the transformation I observed.’

‘Did he drink?’ asked Geoffrey.

Maurice scowled. ‘No, he did not! Some men are changed when they are touched by God, so do not look so sceptical.’

‘You think he was touched by God?’

‘Well, he was certainly touched by something. A number of his friends and kinsmen tried to learn the secret while he lay dying, but no one understood his delirious ravings. The secret was lost.’

It sounded like a lot of nonsense to Geoffrey. ‘What happened to Rhydygors between William’s death and it passing to Hywel?’

‘A garrison was stationed there under William’s brother Richard. But Henry appreciated Hywel’s efforts against Belleme and wanted to show it. He appreciated your help, too.’

‘He did not reward me with a castle.’

‘You already have one – you would not have appreciated anything he gave you, anyway. And he is not a man to squander wealth.’

Geoffrey laughed, his good humour beginning to return. ‘So he gave me nothing because he thought it was a waste of a prize?’

Maurice nodded earnestly. ‘But he does not forget those who are good to him, which is why you have been allowed to wander freely after helping Giffard escape. He has a soft spot for you, because you are never afraid to speak your mind, and he is used to sycophants. Although a little more tact when dealing with him would not go amiss…’

‘I shall bear it in mind. What else do you know about Kermerdyn?’

‘Hywel was not the only man rewarded with a castle. At the same time, Henry gave a knight named Sear a fortress in a place called Pembroc.’

‘I have never heard of Sear, although Pembroc is famous.’

‘No one has heard of Sear, and it came as something of a surprise when Eudo was ordered to issue the relevant writ. Indeed, I recall there was speculation of a misunderstanding, and Eudo actually went to Henry and asked him to confirm Sear’s name.’

‘So who is Sear?’

Maurice shrugged. ‘He is just a bold knight. There is nothing unusual or commendable about him, although you would not know it if you met him. He is arrogant and swaggers horribly. I do not like him at all.’

Geoffrey felt as though they were getting away from the point. ‘Is there anything else about Kermerdyn that I should know before I go there?’

‘I was one of those who advised the King to give Rhydygors to Hywel. But it was a mistake.’

‘Because Hywel is popular?’ asked Geoffrey.

Maurice’s eyebrows shot up. ‘We do not want popular leaders in Wales because the locals may prefer them to Henry.’

‘Or they may see Henry as wise for appointing such men.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Maurice. ‘And William’s brother, Richard, cannot be happy about the situation – word is that he rather liked living in Rhydygors. Of course, he is wholly devoted to Henry, so would never voice his disappointment openly. He is in Gloucester at the moment, swearing fealty to the Crown in a formal ceremony.’

‘Does Henry not trust him to stay loyal without such an oath?’

‘Henry does not trust anyone. Richard will return to Kermerdyn to resume control of the Norman garrison. Obviously, Henry will want good men on hand if there is trouble brewing.’

‘Prince Hywel does not object to Norman soldiers in his lands?’

‘He understands that he holds them from Henry, and is said to be quite content with the arrangement. People are happy with his rule, and the garrison is never needed to quell trouble. Richard is thought to be bored with the inactivity, but everyone else is satisfied.’

‘How do you know all this?’

‘Partly from listening to the King, and partly from letters I have received from Wilfred, Bishop of St David’s. Kermerdyn is in his See.’

‘I am supposed to take a letter to Bishop Wilfred.’

Maurice smiled. ‘Then you must give him my blessings. He is involved in a dispute with Kermerdyn abbey at the moment. Apparently, its head constantly questions his authority.’

‘I have never been that far inside Wales,’ said Geoffrey, trying to look on the bright side of the commission. ‘Perhaps it will be interesting.’

‘I imagine it will,’ said Maurice. ‘But be careful. Any soldier can deliver letters, but Henry has chosen you. There will be a reason for that.’