A Dead Man's Secret Page 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Geoffrey regarded him blankly. ‘Where?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

&n
bsp; ‘Why?’

  ‘Because everyone likes him.’

  ‘And that is a problem?’

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

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

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

  ‘Right,’ said Geoffrey, amused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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