A Dead Man's secret

Two

The letters were still not ready by that evening, and Geoffrey saw he would have to spend another night in La Batailge. When dusk brought with it a drenching drizzle, he decided he would no longer bed down behind the stables. He found a corner in the kitchens and was a good deal warmer than those of Henry’s retainers who had been allocated quarters in the dorter and guest hall, the roofs of which leaked. It allowed him to secure a decent breakfast, too, by raiding the platters before they were carried to the refectory.

However, he did not fare as well as Roger and the squires, who had passed the night in a nearby tavern. He found them there mid-morning, enjoying the company of three whores and a veritable mountain of food. There was plenty of ale, too, although it was cloudy and tasted vaguely rotten. Geoffrey drank it anyway. As a soldier, he had never had the luxury of being fussy about food, except fish soup or raisins; he would rather starve than ingest those.

‘Well?’ asked Roger. ‘What did Henry want? You were certainly with him long enough. We grew tired of waiting for you and came here.’

Roger was Geoffrey’s closest friend, albeit an unlikely one. He was a giant of a man, with thick black hair and matching beard, both worn fashionably long. His father was the notoriously treacherous Bishop of Durham, and it had always amazed Geoffrey that Roger was proud of his infamous forebear. Roger was happiest when fighting, looting or frolicking with any woman willing to tolerate his clumsy advances, and he had a deep-rooted distrust of anyone who was literate. This sometimes included Geoffrey, whose scholarly tendencies he deplored.

‘He wants me to deliver a letter to Kermerdyn,’ explained Geoffrey. ‘Although there is something odd about the affair, and you should not mention it to anyone else.’

‘Where is Kermerdyn?’ asked Roger, scratching his head. ‘And why would he order you to deliver a letter? Henry is a fool if he thinks you are a lackey. You have always been your own man, even when you were serving Tancred. It is what makes powerful men eager to claim your allegiance.’

‘Henry does not care about my allegiance. He makes no attempt to earn it, and forces me to do his bidding by blackmail and coercion.’

‘Because that is the only way you will do what he wants,’ said Roger, uncharacteristically astute. ‘I am sure he would rather you obeyed him willingly, but that will never happen, so he is reduced to other tactics. It is a pity you swore that vow never to visit the Holy Land, because we could have jumped on a ship and been gone before Henry realized.’

‘You were the one who insisted I took it,’ Geoffrey reminded him, resentfully. ‘Besides, it would leave Joan and Hilde to bear the brunt of his ire. I will not do that.’

Roger sniffed. ‘They can look after themselves. The Crusade would not have lasted half as long if the army had been populated with the likes of Joan and Hilde. I have never encountered such fierce women. They are true Normans!’

Geoffrey began to respond, but Roger continued. ‘You can pay a monk to release you from your promise, you know. You did not want to take it, so God will not object when you renege. Besides, you are a Jerosolimitanus, and all your sins have been forgiven. You can do no wrong in God’s eyes.’

Geoffrey laughed, amused by Roger’s fluid approach to religion. ‘Only past sins were forgiven for joining the Crusade, not ones committed since. And I cannot break my vow, anyway.’

‘Perhaps I should not have coerced you,’ said Roger sheepishly. ‘But I honestly thought we were going to die when that storm struck – and everyone said it was God’s disapproval of your travels. But God will understand. And if He does not, you can pay for a few masses in Jerusalem. That should take care of any misunderstanding.’

‘A misunderstanding with God,’ mused Geoffrey, smiling at the notion. ‘No. There is nothing I would like more, but it cannot be done.’

Roger grimaced. ‘I cannot see Tancred staying angry with you forever. You were like brothers in the Holy Land, and he valued your counsel more than that of any other. He will forgive you, and then we shall be given the best opportunities for looting and fighting. It will be marvellous!’

His eyes shone. Looting and fighting were two activities very close to his heart.

‘And my vow?’

‘Well, then, I suppose we must stay here to deliver your letter instead,’ said Roger stoically. ‘Besides, life with you is never dull. You will find us a battle somewhere. You always do.’

Geoffrey sincerely hoped he was wrong.

Geoffrey went to the Chapter House at noon, wondering why there was such a delay. Even if the letters to Gwgan, Abbot Mabon and Bishop Wilfred had not been written when Henry had ordered Geoffrey to deliver them, it should not have taken long for one of Eudo’s many scribes to dash them off.

He was not the only one waiting for the clerks, and the yard outside the Chapter House was full of courtiers and messengers, all kicking their heels while the ponderous wheels of administration turned at a slow, deliberate pace.

‘Perhaps later today,’ Eudo snapped when Geoffrey insisted on speaking to him. ‘Or tomorrow. His Majesty’s affairs cannot be rushed just because you are in a hurry.’

Geoffrey resisted the urge to grab him by the throat. ‘I am eager to do what the King has asked of me before he thinks I do not intend to bother.’

‘He will not notice whether you are here or not,’ retorted Eudo, truthfully enough. ‘He has far more important business to attend.’

The door was slammed with an abruptness that was rude and gave rise to an angry murmur from the people in the yard. Geoffrey studied them, noting that they included Bishop Maurice and several other high-ranking churchmen, along with two earls and a smattering of knights. If Eudo felt sufficiently secure to treat them with such insolent insouciance, then it showed the extent to which clerks now ruled Henry’s kingdom.

‘You are in good company,’ came a voice at his ear. ‘We are all at Eudo’s mercy.’

Geoffrey turned to see it was Sir Edward, the foppish Constable of Kadweli. He was even more splendidly attired than before, and his flowing locks and beard had been crimped into crisp curls. His cloak was fastened with a jewelled clasp that was decidedly feminine, and his fashionable tunic was a delicate purple.

‘I thought Henry was efficient,’ muttered Geoffrey resentfully. ‘It seems I was wrong.’

‘Oh, he is efficient,’ said Edward, smiling to reveal white, even teeth. ‘If your message was urgent, it would have been penned within moments. But on lesser matters, his clerks like everyone to know who is in charge. And the more you agitate, the longer they will make you wait.’

‘Then I shall not bother them again,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Or Henry may find he has one less clerk, because Eudo is asking for a sword in his gizzard.’

Edward laughed. ‘Much as I would like to see the man’s pomposity punctured, I cannot recommend that: Henry holds him in high esteem. But I understand you are lord of Goodrich, on the Welsh border. I shall travel west soon, too. Perhaps we could go together. There is safety in numbers, after all.’

‘You are a knight – you do not need such protection.’

Geoffrey was reluctant to accept company. He was used to travelling fast and hard, using every moment of daylight, sleeping under hedges and trees if necessary. Edward did not look as though he would appreciate journeying under such conditions, and Geoffrey assumed he would slow him down. Of course, there was no particular urgency in Henry’s quest, and he supposed it would not matter if he took longer to accomplish it. Yet old habits died hard, and the notion of dawdling when there was work to be done was anathema to him.

‘I have a knighthood,’ hedged Edward. ‘But I am not sure I would call myself a knight.’

Geoffrey was puzzled. ‘I do not understand.’

‘At the risk of sounding immodest, I am an extremely able administrator. The King appointed me Constable of Kadweli several years ago, but knowing the garrison was unlikely to follow orders from a parchment-hound, he knighted me.’

Geoffrey regarded him askance. ‘What happens when you need to deploy your troops? Surely, your lack of military experience will show?’

‘I was trained in the basics, like all men of noble family, so I am not wholly without knowledge. But, more often than not, it is wiser to negotiate peaceful solutions – and, on the few occasions where it is not, my captains are competent.’

‘I see,’ said Geoffrey. He was inclined to think it was a foolish state of affairs, but then reconsidered. If Edward really was able to parley his way out of confrontations, then surely it was better for all concerned? Geoffrey had seen too often the havoc needless skirmishes could wreak.

Edward smiled again. ‘So what do you say to my suggestion? I will be no trouble, I assure you. And I may even be of some use – I know the roads extremely well.’

Trapped, Geoffrey nodded reluctant agreement.

‘Look at them!’ exclaimed Edward suddenly, pointing to two knights who had pinned a monk against the wall. The monastic was cowering, hands over his head. ‘I know Brother Delwyn is a dreadful little worm, but it is not kind to bully him.’

The two knights were strong and tall. Both wore plain white surcoats, and the swords at their sides were well-honed and functional. One was Geoffrey’s age – mid-thirties – with dark hair and blue eyes. The other was older, larger and distinctly better-looking, with long auburn hair and a neat beard.

The monk was an unappealing specimen, with lank, greasy hair, eyes that went in slightly different directions, and a grubby habit. Geoffrey recalled that Bishop Maurice had mentioned a Brother Delwyn, sent by Kermerdyn’s abbey with messages to the King. Maurice had deemed him sly, and, judging from his appearance, Geoffrey suspected he might be right.

‘I will send you word the moment Eudo gives me the letters,’ said Geoffrey, beginning to walk away. He did not want to become embroiled in squabbles that were none of his concern.

‘Wait.’ Edward gripped his arm. ‘Sear and Alberic are violent men, and though my instincts clamour at me to leave well alone, my conscience will not let me walk away while a man of God is molested. Neither will yours, I am sure.’

With a resigned sigh, Geoffrey allowed himself to be led towards the trio, heartily cursing Eudo and his tardiness.

‘What seems to be the matter?’ asked Edward pleasantly. ‘Brother Delwyn?’

‘They say I smell,’ squeaked the monk, raising a tear-stained face to his rescuer. ‘And they are threatening to throw me in the fishponds.’

Geoffrey thought they had a point. He was not particularly devoted to hygiene himself, but he was a good deal more respectable than Delwyn.

‘The same might be true of others around here, too,’ said the larger of the knights. He did not look at Geoffrey, although the inference was clear. ‘The court is letting its standards drop.’

‘I could not agree more,’ said Edward amiably, pulling a pomander from his purse and pressing it against his nose. ‘It is quite disgraceful, and I am glad I shall soon be returning to Kadweli.’

‘When will you go?’ asked the younger knight, although he did not sound very interested in the answer, and Geoffrey was under the impression he spoke to prevent his companion from making another remark that might see them in a brawl. Henry disapproved of fighting among his retinue.

‘As soon as Eudo gives me the necessary documentation to begin building Kadweli in stone,’ replied Edward. He smiled at the older knight. ‘And you, Sir Sear? How much longer will you remain in this godforsaken bog? Personally, if I had been the Conqueror, I would have taken one look at this place and sailed straight back for Normandy.’

So this was Sear, thought Geoffrey. He regarded the knight with interest, wondering what had possessed Henry to appoint Sear, who looked every inch a fighting man, to Pembroc, but Edward, who was more woman than knight, to Kadweli. The two could not have been more different, and made it seem as though Henry could not decide whether he wanted his domain ruled by warriors or clerks.

Sear regarded Edward with haughty indifference. ‘My clerks made a mistake with Pembroc’s taxes, so I was obliged to travel here, to tell Henry that they will be somewhat reduced in future. Now I am waiting for Eudo to confirm the arithmetic. When he does, Alberic and I ride west.’

‘Was Henry not vexed?’ asked Edward. Geoffrey was wondering the same: Henry was inordinately fond of money.

Sear smirked. ‘Not when I told him he could keep the excess.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Edward warmly. ‘Pembroc and Kadweli have worked well together, and I am reassured to learn we shall continue to be neighbours.’

‘Make them apologize, Sir Edward,’ bleated Delwyn, cutting into the discussion. ‘I am a monk, and they have no right to abuse me.’

‘He asked for it,’ growled Alberic sourly. ‘He called us louts, expecting his habit to protect him from retribution. Well, he was wrong.’

‘I did no such thing!’ cried Delwyn, although Geoffrey could see from his furtive eyes that he probably had. ‘I said some knights who haunt the King’s court are louts. I did not mean you. Although, now I think about it-’

‘Go,’ interrupted Edward. ‘Or I will toss you in the fishpond.’

‘You would not,’ sneered Sear. ‘You would not want to soil your pretty white hands.’

At that moment, Eudo appeared with a sheaf of documents, and there was a concerted rush towards him, Edward, Sear and Delwyn included. Sear aimed a kick at Delwyn as he passed, but it was half-hearted, and the grubby monk did not see it. Certain his letters would not be among the pile, Geoffrey took the opportunity to escape.

The previous month, when the ship he was aboard sank, Geoffrey had lost everything except his armour and weapons, and a saddlebag containing writing equipment. He had no spare clothes and no money, but this was nothing compared to losing his horse. The animal had carried him into dozens of battles and skirmishes, and he missed it sorely. He still had his dog, but it was a sullen, vicious brute, which could not compare to his beloved destrier.

Fortunately, Roger – a true Norman in his love of wealth – had managed not only to save his purse from a watery end, but also to acquire a small fortune during their subsequent adventures. He had used some of it to purchase new mounts for Geoffrey and himself. Warhorses were not easily replaced. They had to be strong enough to carry a fully armoured knight into battle, fast enough to perform the intricate manoeuvres that made them so formidable, and brave enough not to flinch at slashing swords, raining arrows and jabbing lances. Needing to begin training his new horse to its duties, Geoffrey took him out that afternoon, welcoming the solitude after the busy abbey.

He rode towards the coast, giving the animal its head when they reached a long, sandy path, relishing the raw power thundering beneath him. It was larger than his previous one, a massive bay with a white sock. When it slowed, he took it through several exercises and was pleased with its responses. Would it conduct itself as well in combat? For the first time, it occurred to him that he was unlikely to find out if he returned to Goodrich. There would be skirmishes, certainly, but not the kind of pitched battle for which he had been trained. He was not disappointed. He had been fighting almost continuously since he was twelve, and twenty years of warfare was more than enough.

He turned back towards the abbey when the light began to fade, surprised to see his squire, Bale, riding to meet him. With his broad shoulders, muscular chest and baldly gleaming head, Bale looked every inch the killer. He had an unnatural fascination for sharp blades, and had been foisted on Geoffrey because the people in his village were afraid of him – they had decided that only a Crusader knight could keep his murderous instincts in check.

‘I was worried about you, sir,’ said Bale, grinning a greeting. ‘The abbey is full of unpleasant types – men who can read – and you cannot trust them as far as you can see them.’

‘I can read,’ said Geoffrey unkindly, because he knew exactly how Bale would react.

He was not wrong. Bale’s mouth fell open in horror when he realized what he had said. He had not been with Geoffrey long and was still trying to make a good impression, terrified that he would be ordered away from a life of glittering slaughter and back to the fields from whence he came. He was old to be a squire – older than Geoffrey himself – but had taken to the task with unrestrained enthusiasm and was thoroughly enjoying himself.

‘But you are different,’ he stammered uncomfortably.

‘Am I?’ asked Geoffrey wickedly. ‘How?’

Bale flailed around for a reason. ‘Well, you prefer fighting to writing,’ he said eventually.

‘That is untrue,’ said Geoffrey, indicating that Bale was to ride at his side. ‘Given the choice, I would far rather spend the day with a good book than on a battlefield.’

Bale regarded him uncertainly, then grinned. ‘You are teasing me, sir!’

Geoffrey changed the subject, suspecting he would be unlikely to persuade his squire that he would be more than happy to hang up his spurs.

‘What happened to Ulfrith?’ he asked. ‘I have not seen him today.’

Ulfrith was Roger’s squire, a big, stupid Saxon prone to falling in love with unsuitable women.

‘That is partly why I came to meet you. He has run away, and Sir Roger is vexed.’

Geoffrey was relieved, though. Ulfrith was a liability in a fight, because, unlike Bale, he did not possess the necessary aggression to become a soldier, and Geoffrey was constantly aware of the need to protect him. Moreover, he was by nature an honest, innocent lad, and Geoffrey did not like the fact that Roger was teaching him bad habits. Ulfrith would do better with another master – or, better still, by returning to his former life as a farmer.

Bale cleared his throat uncomfortably. ‘I think he stole your dog, sir,’ he began worriedly. ‘Because he is nowhere to be found, either.’

Geoffrey did not think that likely: the dog was not pleasant company.

‘Do you know why Ulfrith left?’ he asked. The dog would appear in its own good time; he knew its habits too well to share Bale’s concern.

Bale shrugged. ‘Well, there was a girl in that group of pilgrims from Southampton who caught his eye. Perhaps he went after her.’

‘Good,’ said Geoffrey, kicking his horse into a gallop. ‘He was far too gentle to be a soldier.’

‘Not like me, then,’ said Bale, trotting after him. ‘I am not gentle.’

‘No,’ agreed Geoffrey under his breath. ‘You are not.’

It was nearly three days before the King’s letters were ready, during which time Geoffrey became increasingly irate with Eudo. Meanwhile, Roger fretted and fumed over Ulfrith’s desertion.

‘How dare he leave without so much as a word!’ he snarled.

‘Especially with my dog,’ agreed Geoffrey. He found he missed the dog and wished Ulfrith had stolen something else.

‘I doubt Ulfrith chose to take that thing,’ said Roger disparagingly. ‘I imagine it decided it would have a better life with Ulfrith, and that was the end of the matter. It was never loyal to you. Just like Ulfrith was not to me, it seems. Damn the boy! He swore to serve me.’

‘Take Bale instead,’ suggested Geoffrey hopefully. His tenants at Goodrich would not thank him for bringing the man home.

‘I might,’ snapped Roger. ‘Because it is your fault we are still here. If we had slipped away on a ship as I suggested, we would be halfway to the Holy Land by now, Ulfrith with us.’

‘I cannot go to the Holy Land,’ said Geoffrey, becoming impatient in his turn. ‘How many more times must I say it? I swore a vow.’

Roger opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by the arrival of one of Eudo’s scribes, who came to say that Geoffrey was to report immediately to the Chapter House. Not sorry to be free of his friend’s testy company, Geoffrey walked there quickly, then sighed when he was ordered to wait because Eudo was out.

‘The letters are ready,’ said a portly Benedictine clerk named Pepin, pointing to a leather pouch on the table. ‘But he told me not to let you have them until he returned. He promised to be back before sext, so I cannot imagine where he might be. He is not normally late.’

‘Of course not,’ said Geoffrey, suspecting he would soon be told to return the following morning. It had not escaped his attention that most of the other petitioners had left, and his commission was one of the last to be completed.

‘No, really,’ said Pepin earnestly. ‘He is always extremely punctual, and it is not his fault you have been delayed. Indeed, he is anxious to get rid of this particular parcel.’

‘Oh?’ asked Geoffrey, instantly suspicious. ‘Why? Does it contain anything dangerous for the carrier?’

Pepin reached out to finger the material of Geoffrey’s surcoat. ‘You are a Jerosolimitanus, so nothing will trouble you. I heard that only the most dedicated warriors returned alive.’

That was true, although more soldiers had died from disease, thirst and starvation than in skirmishes with enemies. Geoffrey was not proud of what the Crusaders had done in other lands, and had considered abandoning the surcoat. Unfortunately, he, like all Tancred’s officers, had taken a vow to wear it whenever he donned armour.

‘Look inside the pouch,’ he suggested, when more time had passed and there was still no sign of Eudo. ‘To ensure everything is there. It would be unfortunate if I were to arrive in Kermerdyn and find someone forgot to put one of the missives in.’

Pepin bristled. ‘We may be slow, but we are not incompetent. I assure you, the package contains exactly what the King ordered us to include. No more and no less.’

‘Show me,’ ordered Geoffrey.

‘I suppose I can oblige, although you cannot take them until Eudo arrives.’

‘The letters,’ prompted Geoffrey.

Pepin opened the pouch and removed the contents. ‘There are five of them-’

‘ Five?’ interrupted Geoffrey. ‘The King told me there would be three.’

‘He changed his mind,’ said Pepin. ‘There is no point sending a second messenger when you can take the other two as well. Here is the first. It is the thickest and is for Bishop Wilfred. It tells him that some of his parish churches now belong to La Batailge – that the tithes accruing from them will come to this abbey, rather than to his own coffers.’

‘God’s teeth!’ muttered Geoffrey. ‘No prelate will be happy to receive that sort of news.’

‘No,’ said Pepin smugly. ‘I imagine he will be furious. But this endowment will make La Batailge the fifteenth richest house in England.’

‘I am sure Wilfred will be delighted to hear it,’ said Geoffrey acidly. ‘Especially as his See is in Wales. He will not mind his resources leeched away to fund already-wealthy houses.’

‘Has anyone ever told you that you have a caustic tongue?’ asked Pepin. ‘And it is not becoming in a man who has set eyes on the holiness of Jerusalem.’

‘Forgive me,’ said Geoffrey sourly.

Pepin sketched a blessing at him. ‘Very well, you are absolved, although you should bear in mind that God only forgives those whose penitence is genuine.’

‘Where is the letter to Abbot Mabon?’ asked Geoffrey.

Pepin held out a folded piece of parchment. ‘I have drawn a small green circle on the bottom, so you can tell it apart from the others, because it would not do to confuse them. You will not mistake Wilfred’s, because it is the thickest.’

‘I can read,’ said Geoffrey coolly. ‘Your coloured circles are quite unnecessary.’

‘Really?’ asked Pepin in surprise. ‘How curious! However, I would not attempt to digest these missives, if I were you. Even I do not know what is in some of them, because Eudo wrote them himself. The seals are special, too – tamper-proof. If you try to open them, they crack, and the recipient will know. Even I cannot bypass them, and God knows I have tried.’

‘I see,’ said Geoffrey. It had not occurred to him to interfere with the King’s messages, and he was astonished that the scribe should have done so.

‘So I am afraid you will have to carry them without knowing exactly what they say,’ Pepin went on. ‘But most messengers are in that position.’

‘I suppose they are,’ acknowledged Geoffrey.

‘I know what is in Abbot Mabon’s, though. It is not from the King, but from the Archbishop of Canterbury, and tells Mabon he must subjugate himself to Bishop Wilfred’s rule and defer to him in all things.’

Geoffrey groaned. It would not be easy gaining the measure of the two churchmen when he was the bringer of such unwelcome news. Had Henry done it deliberately, to make the commission more difficult? Or was it to annoy them both to indiscretion, to make Geoffrey’s task easier? Somehow, he suspected an agent’s ease would not be uppermost in Henry’s mind.

‘One of Mabon’s monks is here in La Batailge,’ said Pepin. ‘I imagine Brother Delwyn will ask to travel with you to Kermerdyn. The highways are not as dangerous as they were under King William Rufus, but it is a rash man who risks them alone.’

‘Then why does he not deliver the letter to Mabon?’ asked Geoffrey irritably.

‘He is keen to do just that, but the King gave specific orders that you were to do it.’ Pepin shrugged. ‘I have no idea why, and neither does Eudo.’

Geoffrey rubbed his head. The quest was becoming less appealing by the moment. ‘The next letter is to Gwgan,’ he said, reading the name.

Pepin nodded. ‘I understand he is the husband of your wife’s sister.’

‘News travels fast,’ remarked Geoffrey.

‘The King told me,’ said Pepin. ‘He also said that you can be trusted absolutely.’

‘Good,’ muttered Geoffrey, wondering whether he should bungle the mission, so Henry would be less inclined to ask for his help in future.

‘Its contents are secret, so I cannot divulge what is in it,’ said Pepin. Then he grimaced. ‘Well, I could not even if I wanted to, because Eudo would not let me see it. The fourth letter is for Richard fitz Baldwin. Its contents are highly sensitive, too.’

‘Richard fitz Baldwin,’ said Geoffrey, frowning. ‘He is the brother of the man who built Kermerdyn’s castle – and then died of an inexplicable fever.’

Pepin nodded appreciatively. ‘Taking the trouble to learn about the people there shows initiative. There were rumours that William fitz Baldwin was poisoned because he was believed to have acquired some kind of secret.’

‘A secret that made him happy and successful.’ Geoffrey was thoughtful. ‘Perhaps he learned something that allowed him to blackmail someone in authority. That would bring him riches and promotion – and happiness would follow.’

Pepin was shocked. ‘That is a terrible thing to say! There was not a malicious or greedy bone in his body. As I understand it, his secret had to do with something more… ethereal. He found a way to cover himself with holy blessings.’

‘Right,’ said Geoffrey, feeling he was wasting his time. He brought the discussion back on track. ‘So I am to deliver a message to this man’s brother. I do not suppose its sensitive contents pertain to what happened to William, do they?’

‘I sincerely doubt it,’ said Pepin scornfully. ‘He died seven years ago, and I cannot imagine anyone still being interested. Richard runs the Kermerdyn garrison, so I imagine the message will be about troops or supplies.’

‘And the last letter?’

Pepin pursed his lips. ‘That is to be delivered to Sear.’

‘Sear? Of Pembroc?’

Pepin nodded with a disagreeable face. ‘I cannot abide the man. He is arrogant, condescending and ignorant. Moreover, he is in La Batailge, so I do not know why the missive cannot be passed to him here. The King’s orders are explicit, however – you can read them for yourself.’

Geoffrey was startled to recognize the King’s own handwriting. ‘It says that Sear’s letter is not to be delivered to him until we reach Kermerdyn. Why?’

Pepin scowled. ‘As I said, I have no idea. But it must be important, or Henry would not have gone to such trouble.’

It smacked of politics to Geoffrey, and he hated being part of it. ‘Why does Sear not carry these messages? He is here and is due to travel to Wales anyway. Or Edward, for that matter? Or Brother Delwyn. Why does Henry need me?’

‘He can hardly ask Sear to deliver a letter to himself, can he?’ said Pepin with a shrug. ‘However, it might be a good idea not to let anyone know what you are charged to do. Tell anyone who asks that you are delivering messages from Bishop Maurice instead. He will not mind.’

Geoffrey had grown increasingly appalled as Pepin described what Henry expected him to do, and he was annoyed that two more letters had been added. Moreover, if Henry trusted Sear enough to award him Pembroc Castle, then what was wrong with him carrying the messages? He did not understand at all, but thought the entire affair reeked of dark politics – the kind he tried to steer well away from. He was racking his brains for an excuse that would allow him to dodge the mission when the door opened and Sear himself strode in.

‘Sir Sear!’ exclaimed Pepin, shoving the letters out of sight in a way that was distinctly furtive. The auburn-headed knight’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘I was not expecting you today.’

‘Well, you should have been,’ growled Sear. ‘I cannot leave for Kermerdyn until Eudo has checked my tax-collector’s arithmetic, and I am tired of kicking my heels here. Where is he?’

‘Out,’ gulped Pepin, looking frightened.

‘Out where?’ demanded Sear, shoving past Geoffrey to grab Pepin by the front of his habit.

‘Easy,’ said Geoffrey, stepping forward to push him away. ‘He does not know where Eudo is.’

Sear’s expression was murderous, and his hand went to the hilt of his sword. Then he let it drop, although his posture said he had not relaxed his guard completely.

‘I saw you three days ago,’ he said. ‘You are Sir Edward’s friend.’

‘Hardly!’ exclaimed Geoffrey. ‘I have only met him twice.’

‘He is Sir Geoffrey Mappestone,’ gabbled Pepin. ‘Who will travel to Kermerdyn at first light tomorrow – or sooner, if Eudo signs the release for the messages he is to deliver.’

‘Messages for Kermerdyn?’ asked Sear incredulously. ‘Then why not ask me to take them?’

‘And there is Edward,’ added Geoffrey. ‘I imagine he would make a good courier, too.’

‘Bishop Maurice is a law unto himself,’ blustered Pepin. ‘And if he says he wants Sir Geoffrey to take these messages, then it is not for me to question him. Is that not right, Sir Geoffrey?’

Geoffrey nodded reluctantly, loath to be drawn into lies. He hoped Sear would not storm up to Maurice and demand an explanation, because Maurice was certain to look confused, and Sear did not look like the kind of man Geoffrey wanted as an enemy.

‘The King has intimated that he would like you all to travel together,’ blurted Pepin. ‘Brother Delwyn, Sir Edward, Sir Alberic and you two. He is fond of you all, and you will be safer in one big group.’

‘I am quite capable of looking after myself,’ said Geoffrey, becoming even less enamoured of the mission. Sear did not look pleased, either. ‘And large parties travel more slowly than smaller ones. I will make better time alone.’

‘You must do what the King suggests,’ said Pepin unhappily. ‘He does not like it when people ignore his requests.’

Geoffrey was ready to argue, but Sear spoke first. ‘Well, I am not a man to question His Majesty. I shall be honoured to travel with a fellow knight, especially one who, like me, has the King’s favour. I understand you fought on the borders last summer and helped to defeat Robert de Belleme.’

‘I played a small part,’ acknowledged Geoffrey cautiously.

Sear smirked. ‘I heard you fought him in single combat – and would have won, but the King stopped you from killing him. It is a pity. The world will never be safe as long as he is in it.’

Once away from the Chapter House, Geoffrey set out to hunt down Eudo, so that the releases for the letters could be signed. He did not understand why Henry should insist he travel with others, and intended to dissuade him of the notion. Surely, he would want his messages delivered as quickly as possible and would see there was no sense in wasting time while others dallied? Unfortunately, Eudo was nowhere to be found, and his scribes were concerned, because they had important documents that needed his attention.

‘I saw him with Brother Delwyn earlier,’ said Maurice helpfully, after ushering two scullery maids from his quarters.

‘I cannot see Delwyn being conducive company,’ Geoffrey said, watching the women scurry away, all giggles and shining eyes. ‘Especially for a man with elevated opinions of himself, like Eudo.’

‘Eudo is a nasty fellow,’ agreed Maurice. ‘Still, he is better than Delwyn. The man brought complaints from his abbot about Bishop Wilfred, and I doubt Henry enjoyed hearing them – he is not interested in the Church’s squabbles, or in emissaries who smell.’

‘In Welsh, del means pretty and w yn means lamb. His parents were deluded!’

Laughing, Maurice indicated that Geoffrey was to step into his rooms and partake of a glass of wine. ‘What is Welsh for “sly”? That is the word that suits him best. Far be it from me to malign a man I barely know, but he seems devious.’

‘The King wants me to travel west with him,’ said Geoffrey. ‘But I will make better time alone.’

‘You will go with Delwyn, if that is what Henry desires,’ said Maurice severely. Then his expression softened. ‘Please do not defy him, Geoffrey. I do not want to see you in trouble – I count you among my friends. And I do not have many.’

‘But it is-’

‘And think about it logically,’ interrupted Maurice. ‘These letters cannot be urgent, or you would have been on your way days ago. Ergo, it cannot matter whether you take two weeks or two months to travel to Kermerdyn. Do as Henry asks – there is nothing to be gained by flouting his wishes.’

Geoffrey knew he was right. He took the cup Maurice proffered and took a gulp.

‘I am to travel with Sear, too,’ he said gloomily.

‘I have yet to gain his measure, although my instincts are to distrust him,’ said Maurice. He frowned. ‘However, Sear and Delwyn are paragons of virtue compared to Eudo. It is a pity he invented those tamper-proof seals, because I would like to open the letters you are to deliver.’

‘You would read Henry’s private correspondence?’ Geoffrey was shocked.

The prelate winced. ‘It is not something I indulge in regularly, but I distrust Eudo. It would not be the first time he has meddled in matters without the King’s consent, and he has accrued altogether too much power. I am afraid of what he might have included in these messages.’

‘Pepin said he was not permitted to see them, and that only Eudo knows their full contents.’

Maurice sighed. ‘Well, there is nothing we can do about it, I suppose. I dare not meddle with the seals, because I do not want to be exiled like Giffard – or to see you hanged. You will have to deliver them as they are, but I advise caution.’

‘I am always careful.’

‘It might be wise not to mention them to anyone else. Delwyn will know about the one to his abbot, but that is from the Archbishop, not Henry.’

‘Pepin told Sear I was delivering letters from you.’

Maurice beamed suddenly. ‘What a splendid idea! I shall write some immediately. I promised Giffard I would look after you, and this will go some way to salving my conscience.’

Geoffrey regarded him doubtfully. ‘Do you know anyone in Kermerdyn? If not, the lie may be unconvincing.’

‘I know lots of people there,’ declared Maurice, sitting at a table and reaching for pen and ink. ‘First, there is Robert, the steward of Rhydygors. He is distant kin, so I can regale him with details about my cathedral in London. You will like him. He is very odd.’

Geoffrey regarded him askance. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He has a gift for seeing into the future. I have it, too, although to a lesser extent. It must run in the family.’

‘And what do you see in mine?’ asked Geoffrey gloomily. ‘Death and danger?’

‘Of course, but you are a warrior, so that is hardly surprising.’

‘I will be a farmer when I have finished this errand. At Goodrich.’

Maurice reached up to pat his shoulder. ‘Good. I shall visit you there, and you can arrange for me to spend another enchanted evening with Angel Locks. But back to the business in hand. I shall write to Bishop Wilfred, too – I will send him a copy of a rather beautiful prayer that Giffard wrote.’

It sounded contrived to Geoffrey. ‘Can you not think of something else?’

‘Nothing comes to mind,’ said Maurice after a few moments of serious thought. ‘I do not like Wilfred very much. But I met a Kermerdyn butter-maker called Cornald in Westminster last year; he seemed a nice fellow. I shall write to him, too, and send him a recipe for a lovely cheese I sampled in Winchester.’

Geoffrey groaned. No one was going to believe such matters required the services of a knight. It would be worse than folk thinking he carried missives from the King.

‘These will be sealed, Geoffrey,’ said Maurice, seeing what he was thinking. ‘No one will know their contents are trivial until they are opened. And by that time, you will be in Kermerdyn. This ruse will serve to keep you safe.’

‘Very well,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Although it still does not explain why the King ordered me to join Sear, Edward and Delwyn. If I am your messenger, my plans are none of his concern.’

Maurice chewed the end of his pen. ‘Then we shall turn it about and say His Majesty is eager to ensure his constables arrive in one piece – that you are elected to protect Edward and Sear.’

Geoffrey regarded him in horror. ‘I doubt Sear will appreciate that!’

Maurice waved a dismissive hand. ‘Leave him to me. I think I shall pen a line to Isabella, your sister-in-law, too.’

Geoffrey’s jaw dropped. ‘You have not seduced…’

‘No!’ said Maurice hastily. Then he looked wistful. ‘Although I would not have minded her help with my health. However, I tend to stay away from ladies with jealous husbands, and my message will give her the name of a London merchant who sells excellent raisins. I may even include a sample. You will not eat them, will you?’

‘I will not,’ said Geoffrey firmly.

Maurice set the pen on the table and regarded him thoughtfully. ‘There is something else I should probably tell you, although I am not sure what it means. Before I do, will you promise not to leap to unfounded conclusions?’

‘What?’ Geoffrey had the distinct impression he was about to hear something he would not like. He saw the Bishop’s pursed lips. ‘Yes, I promise.’

Wordlessly, Maurice stood and unlocked a stout chest that stood near the window. He rummaged for a moment, then passed Geoffrey a piece of parchment. It was partially burned, but Geoffrey would have recognized the distinctive scrawl of Tancred’s scribe anywhere. It was in Italian, his liege lord’s mother tongue. To my dear brother, Geoffrey, greetings, on Easter Sunday, the third since you left us. I trust your health is returned, and the brain-fever that led you to write such

Geoffrey stared at it. It had been penned just five months earlier, and was dated after the one he had received threatening him with death if he ever returned. What did it mean?