The Coiner's Quarrel Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Titles by Simon Beaufort from Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Epilogue

  Historical Postscript

  Titles by Simon Beaufort from Severn House

  The Sir Geoffrey Mappestone Series

  MURDER IN THE HOLY CITY

  A HEAD FOR POISONING

  THE BISHOP’S BROOD

  THE KING’S SPIES

  THE COINER’S QUARREL

  DEADLY INHERITANCE

  THE BLOODSTAINED THRONE

  A DEAD MAN’S SECRET

  THE MURDER HOUSE

  THE KILLING SHIP

  THE COINERS’ QUARREL

  Simon Beaufort

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2004 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  This eBook edition first published in 2017 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD

  Copyright © 2004 by Simon Beaufort.

  The right of Simon Beaufort to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6109-2 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-889-6 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  In loving memory of my father

  One

  Westminster, October 1102

  Sir Geoffrey Mappestone was furious. He stood on the wharf that ran along the banks of the great River Thames with his dog at his side, and scowled at the flotilla of boats that tugged at their moorings, trying to bring his temper under control before his audience with the King. His friend, Sir Roger of Durham, watched him with a troubled expression, not sure what to say to calm him, but aware that for Geoffrey to stalk into the King’s presence and accuse him of false dealing would be unwise to say the least. Roger glanced at the sky, and saw dark clouds massing overhead, heralding the start of another autumn storm. They matched Geoffrey’s thunderous mood, and Roger muttered a fervent prayer that both tempests would blow over before any damage was done.

  Behind the two knights was Westminster, comprising the mighty Benedictine abbey with its cloisters, dormitories and refectories, and the stunning hall commissioned by the previous king. Conveniently close to the teeming metropolis of London, the hall was large enough to accommodate King Henry’s army of scribes and clerks, and he regularly convened his great councils in it. It was to this handsome palace on the banks of the River Thames that Geoffrey had been summoned, arriving cold, wet and resentful that blustery October morning.

  ‘I will tell the King you are indisposed,’ offered Roger, when he grew tired of waiting for Geoffrey to speak. ‘I will say you cannot meet him today.’

  Geoffrey continued to glare at the ships. ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘Because I have no wish to be hanged because you quarrel with him,’ replied Roger tartly. ‘If you tell him what you think, he will kill you. Then someone will mention that you did not come here alone, and he will hunt out the rest of us – me, Helbye, Ulfrith and Durand – and have us dispatched, too, just to show what happens to men who associate with traitors.’

  ‘I am not a traitor,’ snapped Geoffrey. ‘You cannot betray a man you do not serve, and I do not serve King Henry. My lord is Prince Tancred, and it is he who has my vow of loyalty.’

  ‘And Tancred has released you from it,’ Roger pointed out, nodding to the letter in Geoffrey’s hand that was the cause of his friend’s fury. ‘He has dismissed you from his service and urges you to take an oath of fealty to Henry instead. His instructions are quite clear.’

  Geoffrey waved the document in Roger’s face and the dog whined in alarm; Geoffrey was not a man given to rages, and it was rare to see him in such a temper. ‘Tancred did not send this; Henry did.’

  Roger scratched his head. Like Geoffrey, he eschewed the current fashion for flowing locks and plaited beards, and was clean-shaven with hair cut to a practical shortness. Geoffrey was tall and well built, but he appeared slight next to Roger, who was huge.

  ‘But it carries Tancred’s seal,’ objected Roger. ‘How can it not be from him?’

  ‘Henry forged it,’ replied Geoffrey, trying to be patient. Roger was inclined to take matters at face value – a rash assumption when men like Henry were concerned. ‘Tancred wrote to him demanding my return a few months ago, and he copied the style of writing and the seal from that.’

  ‘No,’ said Roger stubbornly. ‘I accept you are more useful to kings than me – you write and speak several languages – but you are not that valuable. Henry’s Court is full of clever men, and you are deluding yourself if you think he would commit forgery to secure you.’

  Geoffrey did not reply, but reluctantly conceded that Roger might be right. Henry, who had seized the English throne when his brother William Rufus had been shot in a hunting accident two years before, had indeed surrounded himself with intelligent and able courtiers. Also, he set great store by loyalty, which would not be forthcoming from those forced to serve him against their will.

  ‘Besides,’ Roger went on, ‘other than a small manor on the Welsh border, all you own is armour and a warhorse. You have wits and education, but you overrate the importance of those.’

  Geoffrey was well aware of what the illiterate Roger thought of his clerical skills. As a fourth son with scant hope of inheritance, Geoffrey had been destined for the Church, but he had proved himself unsuitable for a life of chastity and obedience, so had been sent to Normandy to train as a knight instead, to make his own fortune and not be a burden to his family. As a mark of the strategy’s success, it had been more than two decades before he had returned to England.

  ‘It is the timing that bothers me,’ he mumbled, some of his irritation dissipating when he saw Roger might be right. ‘We were on the ship at Southampton, on the verge of leaving England, when the King’s men arrived and ordered us here.’

  ‘Ordered you here,’ corrected Roger. ‘My father is the Bishop of Durham, Henry’s sworn enemy. He is quite happy for me to leave his kingdom. It was you he summoned back.’

  ‘“Summ
oned back”,’ mused Geoffrey. ‘That is a polite way of putting it! They pounced on us with drawn swords, and we were brought here like prisoners. And then, as soon as we arrive, I am given this.’ He brandished the letter again.

  ‘That was delivered here after Henry had dispatched men to fetch you back,’ said Roger patiently. ‘The messenger explained all this when he gave it to you.’

  Geoffrey regarded the parchment with contempt, and wondered how Roger could be so naïve. As far as Roger was concerned, the missive was exactly what it seemed: a recommendation from Tancred that Geoffrey should now serve Henry, delivered to Westminster because that was where Tancred thought Geoffrey might be. But Geoffrey was inclined to be suspicious, and suspected the royal clerks had needed more time to perfect their forgery – the letter had not been ready when Henry had ordered his soldiers to prevent him from leaving England.

  ‘I can think of worse men to serve,’ Roger continued. ‘He has plenty of gold to pay you, and an abundance of enemies to fight. What more can you want?’

  ‘I do not trust him,’ said Geoffrey, feeling his temper flare again. ‘And I want to return to Tancred.’

  ‘But Tancred does not want you,’ said Roger, brutally blunt as he nodded to the letter.

  The wind was sharp, and it was cold at the edge of the river, but Geoffrey did not feel like asking for an audience with the King just yet. The royal summons had nothing to do with Tancred’s letter – or it should not, if the missive really had arrived after Geoffrey had been ordered back – so Henry obviously had something else in mind. Geoffrey was not sure he was ready to know what.

  He walked along the riverbank to where a pier jutted into the grey, murky Thames, wanting time to think about the letter, the summons and the implications of both. The tide was out, so only the far end of the jetty was in the water. Geoffrey’s black and white dog trotted off the path, and headed for the structure’s barnacle-clad legs and the dark spaces between them. Then there was a flurry of activity. It began to bark furiously and a man broke cover and raced away, tossing something into the reeds as he went. The dog did not follow, but sniffed and worried at something that lay on the beach.

  Grateful for any excuse to delay speaking to the King, Geoffrey picked his way across the sticky, rock-strewn shore and ducked under the pier. The dog liked nothing more than a moving target to harry, and the knight was curious to know what it considered more interesting than a chase. He stopped short when he saw. A man lay there, his face covered with blood and his eyes staring sightlessly upward.

  When Roger realized a corpse had been abandoned under the jetty, he tore after the fleeing man, although Geoffrey knew he would not catch him. A Norman knight was heavy in his armour, and could only manage shorts bursts of speed. Roger’s quarry had too great a start, and was soon lost to sight, leaving Roger to return breathless and frustrated.

  ‘He threw this away,’ he said, dropping a bloodstained stone at Geoffrey’s feet.

  ‘His murder weapon,’ mused Geoffrey. ‘He used it to stove in his victim’s head.’

  ‘They were both Saxons,’ said Roger, noting the corpse’s flaxen locks and home-sewn woollen tunic. ‘Would you recognize the man I chased, if you saw him again?’

  Geoffrey shook his head. ‘I did not see his face.’

  ‘I saw yellow hair under his hat. He and his victim are probably here to petition the King. But we cannot leave this corpse here, or the tide will carry it away. Stay here, while I fetch help.’

  It began to rain after Roger had gone, spiteful little needles that stung, carried by a wind that was growing fierce. Trees swayed and bent, and the surface of the Thames was ruffled into scum-topped waves. While he waited, Geoffrey reread Tancred’s letter, trying to be objective.

  The writing was identical to that in missives he had received in the past, with distinctive embellishments on the letter T and, if the seal was not Tancred’s own, then it was an excellent imitation. But why would Tancred suddenly decide he could do without Geoffrey? Was it because his knight had recently spent too much time on personal business, and other men had taken his place as trusted advisers? Was it because he had not returned the moment he had been summoned, and Tancred did not want officers who disobeyed his orders? Or was it because Tancred had not sent the letter at all? Geoffrey did not know what to think, although he was aware that if the message were a forgery, and he followed its instructions to serve Henry, then Tancred would be furious. And being caught between Tancred’s temper and Henry’s scheming was not an attractive proposition for any man.

  Roger soon returned with four soldiers. Two began a futile search for the killer, while the others wrapped the body in a blanket, chatting to Roger as they worked.

  ‘The victim’s name was Fardin,’ said one in Norman-French. ‘He is one of a party of Saxons who are here to accuse each other of dishonest dealings. There are two factions, and they are bitter enemies. As far as I am concerned, we should leave them to kill each other. I am tired of hearing about downtrodden Saxons and Norman usurpers.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Roger fervently. ‘It is time the Saxons learnt to live with their lot.’

  ‘These men have been here a week now,’ the soldier went on. ‘They were polite at first, but the King has kept them waiting too long, and now they are rude and resentful. They are moneyers.’

  ‘Moneyers?’ queried Roger, confused. ‘You mean they own money?’

  ‘I mean they make money. They own mints in a place called Bristol, and Master Sendi has accused Master Barcwit of making underweight pennies. They detest each other, and it looks as though Barcwit’s men have just murdered one of Sendi’s.’

  ‘It is a pity I did not see the killer’s face, but he should not be too hard to find,’ said Roger. ‘You cannot smash a man’s head with a stone and not be covered in blood.’

  The soldier promised to inspect Barcwit’s party for tell-tale stains, then he and his companion carried Fardin away. When they had gone, Roger gave Geoffrey the news that the King was currently out hunting, but that he intended to see them that afternoon. Geoffrey was startled. It was far sooner than he had expected – as the squabbling Saxons had evidently discovered, people could be kept waiting a long time before the King deigned to grant them an audience.

  ‘Tancred probably prefers life without you,’ said Roger, seeing his friend turn his attention back to the letter. ‘Like me, he enjoys honest slaughter, and does not want someone preaching mercy all the time: he has more fun when you are not there.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Geoffrey had indeed urged Tancred to clemency when the Prince would have killed his enemies, but sparing them had reaped its own rewards in terms of returned favours, and he did not think Tancred should resent him for what had proved to be sound counsel.

  A jangle of bells announced that a meal was about to be served, and Roger brightened. It had been a long time since the pottage they had eaten before dawn, and he was hungry. But Geoffrey was still too angry for food. He stared moodily across the river, to where the ships at anchor shifted and strained in the gusting wind. He wondered whether they were in for a storm, and thought it might be a good thing if Westminster Palace was torn apart by a gale, preferably while the King was inside it. Then Henry’s older brother, the Duke of Normandy – whom many people thought was England’s rightful monarch anyway – could claim the throne.

  But would England be a better place under the Duke? Geoffrey reluctantly conceded that it would not. For all his faults, Henry was a good ruler, and had already exiled several greedy and corrupt barons – men like Roger’s father and Bellême, the Earl of Shrewsbury, popularly regarded as two of the most wicked men in Christendom. These selfish, profligate nobles would no doubt prosper again if the amiable, but lenient, Duke came to power.

  ‘Hurry, or there will be nothing left,’ said Roger, glancing to where people were beginning to converge on the hall. ‘These clerks eat far more than—’

  ‘There they are!’ came a shout. ‘They have not even
left the scene of their crime. Come on!’

  Geoffrey watched in astonishment as half-a-dozen men formed a tight little knot and began to charge towards him, wielding daggers and cudgels. He knew by their clothes that they were Saxons, and the one in the lead was a particularly large specimen, with flowing yellow locks and criss-cross leg bandages of a type never worn by the fashion-conscious Norman. They looked intent on mischief, so he drew his sword, but indicated to Roger that they should not fight if it could be avoided. It was obvious they were not warriors, and he did not want to begin his interview with Henry by trying to explain why he had massacred six of his subjects.

  He parried the leader’s clumsy, hacking blow, and sent him staggering back among his companions, amazed that the man would dare to attack fully armed knights. Both he and Roger wore mail under their Crusader’s surcoats, and helmets protected their heads. They carried heavy swords and daggers, and were formidable opponents to men armed only with knives and sticks.

  ‘You murdered Fardin!’ the leader yelled, struggling to regain his balance. His companions, quickly seeing they had picked a fight they could not win, prudently held back, weapons wavering uncertainly.

  ‘That soldier told us two Norman knights “found” him,’ spat another, who seemed angry enough not to care about the odds of victory. He was a small man, who wore peculiarly shaped shoes: the heels were higher than the soles, and were evidently designed to make him appear taller. ‘But my father taught me that the man who “finds” a murdered corpse is nearly always its killer.’

  ‘He was right,’ replied Geoffrey evenly. ‘Fardin’s attacker was with him when we stumbled across the body. My friend did his best to catch him, but he escaped.’

  ‘Fardin was my best coin-maker,’ snarled the leader. ‘How much did they pay you to kill him?’

  ‘No one pays me to kill,’ objected Roger indignantly, ignoring the fact that he often sold his martial skills to wealthy men. ‘I do it because I like it.’