A Dead Man's secret

Three

‘I found it during the summer,’ explained Maurice, as Geoffrey stared at the parchment in his hand. ‘I was looking for Eudo one day in Westminster and saw documents burning in his hearth. The room was empty, so, out of simple curiosity, I poked one, to see what it said.’

‘There were others?’ asked Geoffrey, his mind whirling.

‘A bundle, although they were too singed to allow me to say whether they were all in the same hand. Eudo is in the habit of destroying incriminating documents, and piles of ashes are commonplace in his lair, so they may have had nothing to do with you.’

‘But you cannot say for certain,’ pressed Geoffrey.

‘No,’ agreed Maurice. He looked down at his plump hands. ‘The thing has plagued my mind ever since. Clearly, it is a letter to you from Tancred. Yet I suspect, from the expression on your face, that it was not one you received. You have never seen that letter before, have you?’

‘No,’ said Geoffrey. ‘And the ones I did receive certainly did not call me “dear brother”. They did when I first left the Holy Land, but the later ones addressed me as “treacherous serpent” or “disloyal vermin”.’

‘I have given it a good deal of thought,’ said Maurice. ‘And it seems to me that someone intercepted them, replacing ones of affectionate concern – Prince Tancred seems to think you are ill – with unpleasant ones that he never wrote. It would not be the first time an allegiance was destroyed by a clerk with a talent for forgery, and Eudo is rather good at it.’

‘But why in God’s name would he do that?’ asked Geoffrey, bewildered. ‘I had never met him before a few days ago. And do not say he did it for Henry, because I doubt even he would stoop that low.’

‘No, he would not,’ agreed Maurice. ‘But someone has, and your friendship has been shattered. If Tancred thinks you were afflicted by a brain fever, then clearly someone sent him messages purporting to be from you that were uncharacteristically abusive or insolent.’

Geoffrey aimed for the door. ‘Then I am going to the Holy Land. It is not-’

‘You cannot,’ said Maurice, jumping up and grabbing his shoulder with a hand that was surprisingly strong. ‘First, you swore a vow to God. Second, you cannot neglect the King’s business – not without serious consequences for your loved ones. And, third, this is all supposition. I may be wrong. Perhaps this is the forgery – someone hoped to make you think you were forgiven, so you would run directly into Tancred’s noose. And yet…’

‘Yet what?’ asked Geoffrey heavily, knowing Maurice was right – not about Henry, whom he would defy in an instant, but about his promise to God.

‘And yet oaths can be retracted under certain conditions. I, for example, can absolve you of it.’

‘You can?’ Geoffrey felt the stirrings of hope. He wanted to believe Maurice was right, that someone had tampered with the correspondence. ‘And will you?’

‘No.’ Maurice raised his hand to quell the immediate objections. ‘Because it is not in your best interests at the moment. Talk to Eudo – ask for an explanation – and then do Henry’s bidding. After that, we shall discuss what might be done about your oath without imperilling your immortal soul.’

Geoffrey was silent, thinking about Maurice’s advice – and about his own promise not to jump to conclusions. The Bishop was right: Geoffrey could not leave for the Holy Land now, any more than he could have done when Roger encouraged him to break his vow.

‘Will you come with me to challenge Eudo?’ he asked after a while. ‘I am afraid that if he does admit to doing this, I will end his miserable existence. And then my soul really will be in peril.’

‘Then how can I refuse?’ asked Maurice with a smile. ‘Besides, I dislike Eudo and would like to see him squirm. Then I shall report to the King, who will not be pleased to learn that his clerks dabble with his subjects’ personal correspondence. No monarch likes to be tainted with scandal.’

They began a search of the abbey grounds, but Eudo remained annoyingly elusive. Maurice was on the verge of giving up in order to take more of his medicine when there was a shout.

‘Murder!’ screeched Delwyn, racing towards the church from the direction of the fishponds, his filthy habit flying. ‘Someone has murdered Eudo.’

‘Well, at least you know it was not me,’ said Geoffrey to the horrified Maurice.

Whoever had killed Eudo had chosen a lonely spot for his crime. To the south of the abbey, down a slope, was a boggy area that contained several fishponds. A line of trees effectively curtained it from the rest of the precinct. Geoffrey thought that if someone could not resist committing a murder in La Batailge, then these marshes were the best place for it. The abbey buildings and church were too crowded with members of Henry’s court, and the grounds to the north were populated by Benedictines who had been ousted from their usual haunts.

Eudo lay face down in one of the ponds, a short distance from the bank, and there was a knife in the middle of his back. It was a cheap metal weapon – Geoffrey had seen dozens of them lying around in the kitchens. The killer was not going to be identified from it.

‘Lord!’ muttered Maurice, crossing himself fervently. ‘Eudo is dead, and I have spent the last hour saying terrible things about him. God will not appreciate such behaviour!’

‘Eudo was arrogant and devious,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Being dead does not change that.’

‘You are a hard man, Geoffrey,’ said Maurice, sketching a blessing at him. ‘God forgive you.’

A number of people had responded to Delwyn’s shrieks of alarm. They included Sear and Alberic, who stood together with impassive faces. Edward was near them, fanning his face with his hand to indicate the run down from the abbey had been strenuous for him; Geoffrey wondered how he managed to control a garrison when he was so patently unfit. Meanwhile, Delwyn was leading a large party towards the scene of the crime, skinny arms flapping wildly.

As no one seemed inclined to do more than stare, Geoffrey waded into the water and hauled the body out. By the time he had the clerk on the bank, a sizeable audience had gathered. It included a large number of scribes and courtiers, plus several monks, although most Benedictines were at their mid-morning prayers. There were also servants, both Henry’s and lay-brothers from the abbey. They clustered around the King when he arrived, and several began to gabble at him.

‘Eudo asked me if I knew of a quiet place, so I told him it is always peaceful here,’ said Brother Ralph, the abbey’s sacristan. His face was ashen. ‘But I would never have suggested it, had I known…’

‘Who would want to kill poor Eudo?’ cried Pepin, appalled. ‘He never harmed anyone.’

Geoffrey glanced up to see a number of courtiers shooting each other meaningful looks and shuffling uncomfortably.

‘Who found him?’ Henry demanded. His face was a shade paler than usual, and Geoffrey saw that the death of a trusted scribe had upset him.

‘I did,’ said Delwyn shakily. ‘Do you remember me, sire? I am from the abbey in Kermerdyn; I delivered you some letters from Mabon.’

‘How could I forget?’ asked Henry dryly, looking him up and down. ‘Well? What happened?’

‘I came here for a quiet walk, because people keep picking on me when I loiter around the abbey.’ Delwyn shot Sear and Alberic a reproachful glance.

‘And what did you see?’ prompted Henry.

‘Eudo floating face-down in the water.’ Delwyn shuddered. ‘I am unused to violent death, and it was something of a shock. I am sorry if my agitated cries distressed you.’

‘Oh, they did,’ said Henry. ‘Especially when I learned poor Eudo was the reason for them. So why was he down here? I thought he had plenty of work to keep him busy in the Chapter House. God knows, enough of my court have complained about delays and hitches.’

‘He has been missing for several hours,’ said Pepin, rather tearfully. ‘We have been worried, because he never leaves us alone when there is important business to be done.’

‘Well, obviously he does,’ snapped Henry. ‘Because here he is.’

‘He spoke to me just after dawn,’ said Ralph. He crouched next to Geoffrey, peering into the dead man’s face. Then he reached out to touch it, although he withdrew his hand quickly and immediately crossed himself. ‘It is now mid-morning. It looks to me as though he has been dead for two or three hours at least.’

Geoffrey wondered how he could tell, although his own experience with corpses made him suspect the sacristan was right. Eudo was cold, but not yet stiff, and he could not have been dead for long – especially if he had been seen not long after dawn.

‘Do any of you come down here?’ asked Henry, gazing around at the assembled mass. ‘To escape the hurly-burly of court life?’

There was a chorus of denials and a lot of shaken heads.

‘Then did you see anyone else setting off in this direction?’ pressed Henry. ‘Think carefully, because Eudo was useful to me, and I am not pleased by his untimely demise.’

‘I may have seen him, sire,’ said Sear in a low voice. ‘At least, I saw someone hurrying in the direction of the ponds, but it was misty just after dawn, so I may have been mistaken.’

‘And he was on his own?’ demanded Henry.

Sear coloured. ‘I am sorry, sire. As I said, it was misty. He may have been alone, but he might equally well have been following someone who was already invisible in the fog.’

Henry turned to Ralph. ‘You seem to know about corpses. Tell me how he died. Was the knife in his back fatal?’

‘Well, it would not have done him any good,’ hedged the sacristan uncomfortably.

‘He drowned,’ said Geoffrey. He saw the King’s raised eyebrows and pointed to the foam that frothed from the clerk’s mouth and nose. ‘Only drowned men ooze so, and the knife wound is not in a place that would be instantly fatal.’

‘You are right,’ said Henry, leaning forward to look. ‘It is too high to have been mortal so quickly. So it seems he was stabbed first and then pushed in the pond.’

‘And churned mud and broken reeds suggest it happened there,’ said Ralph in an effort to redeem himself, as he pointed to a spot some distance away. Geoffrey was inclined to believe him, and went to look. Sear and Delwyn followed.

‘This is not your affair, monk,’ said Sear haughtily to Delwyn. ‘Mind your own business.’

‘It is not yours, either,’ flashed Delwyn.

‘It is – I am one of the King’s favourites,’ snapped Sear. ‘He gave me Pembroc Castle, so he will be interested to hear my opinion on this matter.’

While they sniped at each other, Geoffrey knelt and inspected the ground. There were footprints, but they were too smudged to be of any use, and some were likely to be Eudo’s anyway. There was also a smattering of blood on several reeds, which suggested that Eudo had indeed been stabbed first and then pushed in the pond to drown. Water had splashed into the footprints, and Geoffrey wondered whether the killer had followed Eudo into the pond and held him under until he was dead.

The only other thing was several silver pennies that had apparently been dropped during the struggle. Trailed by Sear and Delwyn, Geoffrey returned to the body, where a brief inspection indicated Eudo’s purse was still firmly closed. The money had not been lost by him, but by his killer.

‘What have you found?’ demanded Henry.

It was Sear who replied, speaking loudly and importantly. ‘The footprints are large ones. They were not made by an insignificant man, such as Delwyn here, but a bigger fellow, such as myself.’

‘Are you telling us you are the culprit?’ asked Delwyn archly. Several courtiers sniggered, and Sear flushed.

‘Do not be stupid,’ he snarled. He turned to the King. ‘It is just an observation, sire, which may help to solve the crime.’

‘Thank you, Sear,’ said Henry, with what sounded to be genuine sincerity. ‘Your observations are welcome.’

‘Thank you,’ said Sear smugly.

Henry smiled at him, and Geoffrey saw the knight was right when he claimed to be a royal favourite. Henry turned to Geoffrey.

‘And you?’ he asked. ‘What can you tell me?’

‘There were these,’ said Geoffrey, showing Henry the coins he had found.

‘Pennies from my mint in Pevenesel,’ mused the King, taking them. He did not hand them back, and Geoffrey saw them disappear into the royal purse. ‘Does it mean the killer is local?’

‘I have Pevenesel pennies, too, sire,’ said Geoffrey. ‘And so will most of your courtiers by now. Nothing can be concluded from it, except one thing: the killer is unlikely to have been a servant, because he would not have abandoned such a princely sum.’

‘A monk?’ asked Sear. ‘They are wealthy.’ He included Delwyn in his scathing glance.

‘I doubt a monk killed Eudo,’ said Henry, looking around at the throng in a way that made several glance away uneasily. ‘It must be a courtier. Or a knight.’

Because he did not like the notion of men standing around idly when they should be labouring on his behalf, Henry ordered everyone back to work, although he indicated that certain people were to stay. These included some of his favourites, the contingent from Wales, Pepin and several clerks, and Geoffrey. Maurice lingered, too, watching with narrowed eyes when the King caught Sear’s arm and whispered something that made him smile.

‘I do not understand what His Majesty sees in him,’ the prelate muttered to Geoffrey. ‘Oh, he is mannerly enough, and a bold warrior. But he is nothing unusual, and I do not see why the King makes a fuss of him.’

Geoffrey shrugged. ‘Perhaps he just likes him. It does happen that men make friends.’

‘That is not the King’s way,’ insisted Maurice. ‘There is a reason for everything he does, and he does not dispense his goodwill lightly. But Eudo’s death is a nuisance for you. Now you will never know what he was doing with Tancred’s letter.’

Geoffrey nodded unhappily. ‘Did he have a close friend? One he might have confided in?’

‘No. Eudo was not a man for companions. Still, I am glad I gave you that letter after he was murdered – I dread to think what would have been said had you confronted him and hot words been exchanged.’

Geoffrey would not have cared, as long as he had been given answers. He was still shocked by Maurice’s discovery, and now he was also frustrated that an explanation for Tancred’s uncharacteristic threats should have been so tantalizingly close, only to be ripped away. He left Maurice and went to speak to Pepin, who was standing in a disconsolate huddle with his fellow clerks. He showed them the burned letter.

‘Have any of you see this before?’ he asked.

Pepin took it from him, then shook his head. ‘I do not see how it can relate to Eudo’s murder, because it is addressed to you. I thought you told me you could read.’

‘Did you drop it in the fire by mistake?’ asked another clerk. ‘Eudo did that a lot – either he got flustered and consigned documents to the flames that should have been kept, or he fell asleep while reading by the fire and set them alight by accident.’

Pepin glared at him. ‘It is unfair to reveal such matters to strangers, Justin. Do you want people to think badly of Eudo?’

‘I want them to know the truth,’ countered Justin. ‘He was not the paragon you claim. He was not even very efficient. We were always helping him cover his mistakes.’

‘The King trusted him,’ cried Pepin, distressed. ‘He dictated all his most secret letters to him.’

‘Yes,’ agreed a third clerk spitefully. ‘Eudo certainly knew his share of secrets, and was as closed-mouthed as any man, I will grant him that. Of course, it made him dangerous, and I imagine there are dozens of men at court who will be delighted he is dead.’

‘This letter,’ said Geoffrey, not interested in Eudo’s death. ‘Are you sure none of you has seen it before. It is important.’

‘Is it now?’ asked Justin snidely.

Pepin examined it again. ‘I am good at recognizing handwriting, but this style is unfamiliar. Besides, none of us knows Italian – we only use Latin and French.’

‘Eudo knew Italian,’ interposed Justin. ‘He was the only one who did.’

Geoffrey watched them walk away, inclined to believe they were telling the truth: whatever Eudo had done had not involved them. But what had he done? And how was Geoffrey to find out now that he was dead and his colleagues were ignorant of the matter?

‘Now I wish I had never given it to you,’ said Maurice unhappily, coming to stand beside him. ‘I would not have done, had Eudo’s corpse been found earlier. All I have done is given you cause for distress, and it will make you restless to leave, too.’

‘Leave where?’ asked Henry, appearing suddenly behind them. ‘La Batailge, to go and do my bidding in Kermerdyn?’

‘Leave England, sire,’ said Maurice, before Geoffrey could stop him. He took the letter from Geoffrey and showed it to the King. ‘I found this several months ago. Eudo had burned it.’

‘What does it say?’ asked Henry. ‘The language is unfamiliar to me.’

‘It contains fond greetings from Prince Tancred, and was written at Easter,’ explained Maurice, although Geoffrey wished he had kept his mouth shut. He did not want the King to know his business. ‘It is either a forgery, to encourage Geoffrey to ride to his execution, or it is a real letter from Tancred, showing friendship and concern – meaning the hostile ones were false.’

Henry raised his eyebrows. ‘And you believe Eudo was complicit in this affair? But why would he do such a thing? What did you do to earn his dislike, Geoffrey?’

‘I met him for the first time a few days ago,’ said Geoffrey. ‘He had no reason to wrong me. The only explanation that makes sense is that someone paid him to do it.’

‘An enemy,’ mused Henry. ‘I imagine your insolence has earned you plenty. In the meantime, this does not look good for you.’ He looked pointedly at Eudo’s body.

‘Geoffrey knew nothing of this letter until I gave it to him a few moments ago,’ said Maurice firmly. ‘And then I helped him look for Eudo and did not leave his side for a moment. He did not slip away to murder your scribe. I will stake my life on it.’

‘Then I shall believe you,’ said Henry. ‘Geoffrey does have a hot temper, though, and I have warned Sear to be on his guard as they ride west together. I am fond of Sear and do not want to lose him to a spat. But time is passing, and I have much to do.’

He flicked imperious fingers, and his people surged towards him, all eager to please. Sear and Alberic were the first to arrive. Edward followed more slowly, sighing theatrically when he saw that mud had stained the bottom of his fine cloak.

‘We were discussing your journey west,’ said Henry, smiling pleasantly at Sear. ‘I know you and Alberic would rather go alone, but travelling together will be safer for everyone. My roads are freer of outlaws now than they were in my brother’s reign, but you cannot be too careful.’

‘Well, I am more than happy to be in a large party,’ declared Edward. ‘And when we reach Brechene, we shall have my garrison to accompany us, too. I did not bring them all the way here when I was summoned to see you, sire, because it was more economical to leave them in Wales.’

‘Very practical,’ said Henry, smothering a smile. ‘How large a force is it?’

‘Two dozen men, all well trained,’ replied Edward. ‘At least, that is what my captain tells me, and I am sure he is right. They certainly look the part – all oiled leather and gleaming weapons.’

‘Good,’ said Henry. ‘You are all very dear to me, and I shall sleep happier knowing you will be in each other’s company.’

Geoffrey was instantly on his guard, knowing he was not dear to Henry at all. Was Henry’s insistence that the party ride together to protect Sear? Geoffrey did not think so – Sear looked perfectly capable of looking after himself, and so did Alberic. Was it Edward, then, who was unlikely to be much good in a fight? Or Delwyn? Geoffrey doubted the grubby monk would rate highly among Henry’s friends and could only conclude that it was Edward he wanted to safeguard.

‘It might be a good idea, sire,’ began Maurice that evening, ‘to rewrite the letters Geoffrey will carry tomorrow. Then we can be sure of their contents.’

They were in the Abbot’s House. Henry was sprawled in front of the fire in a cushion-filled throne. There were several dogs at his feet, and he was devouring raisins at a rapid rate.

Geoffrey had been summoned to attend Henry at dusk, but had been kept waiting while the King looked over a horse, and then again while he ate his supper. By the time he had been admitted to the royal presence, he was tired, restless and irritable. Maurice had elected to accompany him, lest he say something to land himself in trouble.

Geoffrey’s mind was not on the King’s business, but on Tancred’s letter. He had never broken a vow in his life, and it did not seem a good idea to start by reneging on one made to the Almighty. Yet he longed to resolve the misunderstanding with the man he loved as a brother. It occurred to him to write to Tancred, but how could he be sure that his message would not be intercepted and replaced by one that would make matters worse?

‘But I am sure of their contents,’ Henry was saying, his voice bringing Geoffrey back to the present. ‘Eudo wrote them for me.’

‘Quite,’ said Maurice baldly, and Geoffrey held his breath, wondering whether the Bishop had overstepped the mark in criticizing His Majesty’s favourite clerk. He was grateful to Maurice for trying to keep him safe, but did not want to see him in trouble. ‘He had a tendency to include addendums. And they might be redundant now he is dead.’

‘Explain,’ ordered Henry, narrowing his eyes.

‘Eudo was not honest,’ said Maurice, meeting his gaze evenly. ‘But he was loyal and always scheming to advance your interests. However, now that he is not here to see these plots through, they may miscarry, and-’

‘No,’ interrupted Henry. ‘Kermerdyn is too distant an outpost to warrant Eudo meddling; you are worrying unnecessarily. Besides, there is no need to waste good parchment and wax, and these missives are already signed and sealed. Geoffrey will carry them as planned. Pepin!’

The door was flung open, and the scribe scurried in with the package he had shown Geoffrey earlier. ‘Sire.’

‘Give Sir Geoffrey the letters. Have you explained what I want him to do?’

‘Yes, sire,’ said Pepin. ‘Five letters to be delivered. Four from you, and one from the Archbishop to Abbot Mabon. The ones to Richard fitz Baldwin and Gwgan are secret, and Sear is not to have his until everyone is safely in Kermerdyn. He will not be pleased, though – he will wonder why he was not given it by you, personally.’

‘Because I do not want him to have it yet,’ snapped Henry. He turned to Geoffrey. ‘He doubtless will be vexed, but you must tell him not to question his King’s wishes.’

Geoffrey said nothing but raised his eyebrows, feeling it was hardly his place to make such a remark to a fellow knight.

‘Here are the letters,’ said Pepin, passing them over. ‘The green circle is for Abbot Mabon… but you can read so you do not need my devices. However, for your information, the red dagger is for Sear, because he is warlike, the diamond is for Richard fitz Baldwin, because he is hard, and the fancy cross is for Gwgan, because he is literate, like us.’

‘And Wilfred’s letter is the fat one,’ finished Geoffrey, to show he had been listening earlier.

Pepin nodded. ‘For God’s sake, do not deliver them to the wrong people.’

‘I think we can trust Sir Geoffrey to get it right,’ said Henry dryly. He nodded to indicate Pepin was dismissed. The scribe shot out as quickly as he had entered.

‘Is there no letter for Prince Hywel, sire?’ asked Maurice. ‘I imagine he will expect one, given that you are communicating with the two most powerful churchmen in his domain.’

Henry stretched. ‘I do not pander to the sensitivities of vassals, Maurice. Besides, Hywel is too busy being popular to care what I think of him.’

‘I imagine he will care,’ said Maurice unhappily. ‘And it is not pandering to sensitivities as much as acknowledging his continued loyalty. It is simple diplomacy.’

‘Unnecessary diplomacy,’ countered Henry. ‘I have nothing to say at this time.’

While Henry and Maurice continued to debate, Geoffrey studied the letters carefully to assess whether they were the ones he had been shown earlier – he mistrusted everyone. Then Maurice took them, too, and held them to the light, as if he hoped to read what was written inside. The Bishop shook them, rubbed them against his cheek, and finally blessed them with great solemnity. Henry watched in astonishment.

‘Are you finished?’ he asked.

‘I sense an evil in them,’ explained Maurice. ‘You know I have a knack for telling these things. I wish you would let me rewrite them, sire. I have a fair hand, and it will not take me long.’

‘I cannot be bothered,’ said Henry. ‘It has been a long day; I am tired. And there is nothing important in them. They pertain to Kermerdyn, for God’s sake – a place we could barely plot on a map.’

‘Then why send Geoffrey to deliver them?’ asked Maurice. ‘Why not let Edward or Sear do it?’

Geoffrey winced. Maurice rarely questioned his King.

‘Because it suits me to send him,’ snapped Henry. ‘Remember yourself, My Lord Bishop. Not even you have the right to question me.’

Maurice looked stricken. ‘I meant no disrespect, sire! I was merely-’

‘Merely poking your nose into matters that are none of your concern,’ finished Henry. But he relented when he saw the prelate’s distress. ‘I am sending Geoffrey because one of these letters is for his kinsman – Gwgan. My Normans are not overly enamoured with the Welsh, and I would not like them to “forget” to deliver it, in order to see Gwgan in trouble.’

‘I see,’ said Maurice. He swallowed hard. ‘Will you tell us what these messages contain? The recipients may have questions, and Geoffrey will look foolish if he cannot answer.’

‘Very well,’ said Henry with a bored sigh. ‘The letter to Bishop Wilfred is about property, the one to Abbot Mabon is about clerical obedience, and the ones to Richard, Sear and Gwgan pertain to the routine deployments of troops. There is no reason to assume I am sending Geoffrey into danger. On the contrary, these messages could not be more innocuous.’

‘I see,’ said Maurice. ‘Then why-’

‘Besides, it will give him an opportunity to visit Goodrich en route, and warn his hapless wife and sister that they are about to have his company for the rest of his natural days. His ensuing excursion to Kermerdyn will give them the chance to get used to the idea.’

Geoffrey struggled not to gape, feeling it was hardly the King’s place to meddle in his domestic arrangements. ‘But Goodrich is not on the way to Kermerdyn. I will not go there first.’

‘I insist you do,’ said Henry. ‘My letters are not urgent, and you must avail yourself of another opportunity to produce an heir. You do not have one in the making yet, I believe. We are similar in that respect, although neither of us has any trouble siring bastards.’

Geoffrey was not sure whether he was more taken aback by the bald order to impregnate his wife or the implication that he was the kind of man to leave women with unwanted offspring. With the exception of one lady – a duchess who still laid claim to his heart – he had never been in one place long enough to develop an enduring relationship, and the other women he had bedded tended to know how to avoid unwelcome pregnancies.

‘I want Goodrich to have an heir,’ Henry went on. ‘Of course, my own wife is slow in that regard, despite strenuous efforts on my behalf, and I can hardly compel you to do what I cannot achieve myself. However, I would like you to try.’

Again, Geoffrey said nothing, thinking that what he did with Hilde behind closed doors was none of the King’s damned business.

‘Perhaps you should take your wife to Kermerdyn,’ said Henry thoughtfully. ‘She will be pleased to see her sister Isabella again, and I understand she knows how to wield a sword. She might even be useful to you, and you can make the heir along the way.’

‘Sire!’ exclaimed Maurice, glancing uneasily at Geoffrey and obviously worried about a tart response to the order. ‘I hardly think this is a suitable-’

Henry laughed. ‘Geoffrey does not object to me talking to him man to man. He is a soldier, for God’s sake, and I know for a fact that they discuss little else when they are out on campaign.’

‘I will put the matter to Hilde,’ said Geoffrey cautiously.

‘Oh, she will go,’ predicted Henry. ‘Besides, she may be in a position to help me, too. You see, William fitz Baldwin had a secret, and Isabella was one of those who was at his deathbed when he raved about it. She may have an inkling as to what it is. If so, you can find out for me.’

Geoffrey frowned. Now what was he being ordered to do?

Maurice was more forthright. ‘Is that the real reason for you giving Geoffrey these letters, sire?’ he asked uneasily. ‘You want him to investigate another matter entirely?’

Henry raised his hands in a shrug. ‘Well, why not? He will be in the area anyway.’

A messenger arrived with an urgent question from one of the King’s barons at that point, and Henry ordered Geoffrey and Maurice to stand on the far side of the room while the man whispered to him and received his answer. Maurice’s flabby face was unhappy.

‘I do not like this,’ he said. ‘I wondered why you were selected to deliver these messages, and now we know: Henry wants William’s secret.’

‘You mentioned this secret before,’ said Geoffrey. ‘You said William had discovered a way to shower himself with blessings and make himself a better man.’

‘And a richer one. At first, I assumed he was speaking metaphorically, but then it became clear that he had discovered some literal way of earning his good fortune.’

Geoffrey frowned. ‘It sounds like superstition to me.’

‘Perhaps. However, if you do discover some actual, physical thing that turned William into a saint, I strongly recommend you leave it in Kermerdyn.’

Geoffrey regarded him askance. ‘But the King obviously wants it delivered to him.’

‘Do not even think of meddling in such matters, Geoffrey,’ said Maurice sternly, crossing himself. ‘Whether this secret derives from God or from sorcery, you would be well advised to leave it alone. I would not tamper, and I am a bishop.’

‘Not even for Henry?’

Maurice considered. ‘No,’ he said eventually, ‘not even for him. Although he could make life unpleasant for me on Earth, that is nothing compared to the eternity that comes after. So investigate this matter and be ready to give the King an honest report. But if the secret does transpire to be something tangible, leave it where it is.’

‘Very well.’

‘I am serious, Geoffrey. I promised Giffard to keep you safe, and that vow extends to your soul. Do not interfere in matters beyond human understanding.’

‘Come,’ called Henry, beckoning them forward as the messenger bowed his way out. He yawned. ‘Lord, I am weary! Have you two finished pestering me with silly questions?’

‘William fitz Baldwin’s secret,’ said Maurice worriedly. ‘You told Geoffrey to find out what it was, although I fear it may not be one you want to know.’

Henry’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, whatever it was did not protect William, because he died in suspicious circumstances. If my memory serves me correctly, there were rumours that he was poisoned. By rancid butter.’

Geoffrey could tell the information was not news to Henry, although the monarch did his best to feign astonishment.

‘Are you saying one of my constables was murdered?’ he asked. ‘That is a grave crime and one that must be investigated. Take Hilde with you, Geoffrey, and see what can be learned from Isabella about this secret. And if William was murdered, I want you to find the culprit.’

‘But William died seven years ago, sire,’ said Maurice, alarmed on Geoffrey’s behalf. ‘I doubt it will be possible to solve the case after so long.’

Henry smiled coldly. ‘On the contrary, if William was dispatched to gain his secret, it is just a case of seeing who at his deathbed has been showered with blessings ever since. Besides, William really did become a different man after he built Rhydygors, and I want to know why. I cannot have inexplicable events occurring in my kingdom – it may lead to trouble.’

‘Why look into the matter now?’ pressed Maurice. ‘Why not when it happened?’

‘Because I was not king when it happened,’ replied Henry shortly. ‘I have only had my throne three years, and there have been other matters to occupy me – such as quelling rebellions. But now my enemies are crushed, I find myself with more time to explore different matters.’

Except he would not be doing the exploring, thought Geoffrey. He would be lounging in abbots’ halls, eating raisins, while his hapless subjects trudged miles to distant castles to investigate incidents that had occurred far too long ago for any clues to remain.

‘I shall do my best,’ Geoffrey said unhappily, deciding that when he had completed this mission, nothing would keep him in England. Maurice would release him from his vow, and he would travel straight to Tancred.

‘Meanwhile, Maurice can explore Eudo’s death,’ Henry went on. ‘I want the culprit hanged.’

‘ I am not qualified to investigate such matters,’ said Maurice, horrified.

‘Then you will have to learn,’ said Henry shortly. ‘It is good for my bishops to develop a variety of skills. It is a pity Giffard was rebellious, because he would have done it.’

‘Very well,’ said Maurice. ‘Like Geoffrey, I shall do my best.’

‘Have you expunged the evil from my letters?’ asked Henry, nodding that Maurice was still clutching them. ‘Or shall I order a witch summoned to do it?’

‘Please, sire,’ said Maurice with quiet dignity. ‘Do not jest about such matters.’

Henry ignored him and looked back at Geoffrey. ‘And if you deliver my letters and send me William’s secret, I shall forgive you for helping Giffard escape last year. Do not look surprised, man! You know perfectly well that I am still unhappy with you for it.’

‘I accompanied him to the coast,’ admitted Geoffrey. ‘But I had nothing to do with his decision not to be consecrated. That was a matter between him and his conscience.’

‘He should have mentioned his qualms before the ceremony started,’ said Henry angrily. ‘It was not polite to leave in the middle of it. Nor to enjoy the adulation of commoners afterwards – they cheered him for defying me. He is my enemy now, and his friends are my enemies.’

‘In that case, perhaps you should entrust your mission to someone else,’ said Geoffrey.

‘How dare you!’ snarled Henry, coming quickly to his feet. There was a dangerous light in his eyes, and Maurice signalled frantically behind his back for Geoffrey to recant. ‘You are lucky Eudo is dead, or I would install you in my dungeons and send him instead.’

‘Sear is-’ began Geoffrey, ignoring Maurice’s increasingly agitated gestures.

‘How can I ask Sear to deliver a message to himself when he arrives in Kermerdyn?’ raged Henry. ‘He would do it, of course, honourable man that he is. But it is not for you to argue with me. Do it again and you will be sorrier than your darkest fears can imagine.’

‘My apologies, sire,’ said Geoffrey. His darkest fear was that Hilde and Joan would pay the price for his incautious tongue, and he was sure Henry knew it. ‘I spoke out of turn.’

‘Yes, you did,’ snapped Henry. His voice became a sneer. ‘You think someone tampered with Prince Tancred’s letters and that he still feels affection for you, but you are wrong. He will not miss such an insolent rogue, and was certainly sincere in his offer to put a noose around your neck. Now get out of my sight before I do it for him.’

Before Geoffrey could make a rejoinder, Maurice bundled him out of the room.

‘Are you insane?’ the Bishop hissed as soon as they were out of Henry’s hearing. ‘Do you want him to execute you? Then what would I tell Giffard?’

Geoffrey sighed and rubbed his head, anger subsiding as quickly as it had risen. ‘So the letters are a ruse, an excuse to take me to Kermerdyn and discover what turned an ordinary man into one who enjoyed wealth and success? And this same man died – possibly murdered with rancid butter – some seven years ago, and I am to discover how?’

‘So it would seem,’ said Maurice. His face was uncharacteristically bleak. ‘However, do not dismiss those letters as inconsequential, because I have a very bad feeling about them. Be on your guard at all times, and tell no one – no one – what you have been charged to do. Go with God, Geoffrey – I suspect you will need Him.’