The Coiner's Quarrel Page 2

  ‘But not in this case,’ interjected Geoffrey hastily. ‘We did not harm Fardin.’

  The short man was unconvinced, and appealed to his companions. ‘He is just trying to make our feud with Barcwit worse than it is already. Do we let Norman scum—?’

  ‘Lifwine!’ came a sharp voice from the path. Geoffrey turned and saw a woman hurrying towards them. She wore a blue kirtle with pendant cuffs, and a belt accentuated her tiny waist. She was in her thirties and, in defiance of the Norman custom for women to conceal their hair with veils, she wore hers in two long plaits, so fair they were almost white.

  ‘Adelise,’ said the leader, clearly not pleased to see her. ‘I told you to let me deal with this.’

  When Adelise spoke, her voice was sharp. ‘I would not be a good wife to you, Sendi, if I let you fight two knights who will chop you into pieces.’

  Sendi was dismissive. ‘We are six, and they are only two.’

  ‘But they are experienced warriors,’ replied Adelise coolly. ‘And you are not.’

  The soldier had mentioned a moneyer called Sendi, and Geoffrey studied the Saxon carefully, noting that although his clothes were of a design that had been popular before the conquest, they were well made. There was silver thread in his tunic, and the brooch on his cloak was gold. Sendi was a man of some substance. The small man whom Adelise had called Lifwine was not so finely attired, although his shoes were clearly expensive. The rest of the Saxons were more plainly dressed, indicating they were Sendi’s supporters, rather than his equals.

  Adelise continued to address her husband. ‘It is obvious what has happened here: Barcwit’s men killed Fardin. They want to intimidate us into dropping the case against them.’

  ‘But Lifwine told me these Normans were alone with Fardin’s body,’ objected Sendi. ‘And—’

  Adelise rounded on Lifwine. ‘You should have listened more carefully. They also said that whoever killed Fardin will be drenched in blood.’ She indicated the knights were not, then turned to Geoffrey. ‘No harm has been done here. My husband and his colleagues made a simple mistake, that is all.’

  She nodded that her followers were to leave. Most went willingly, relieved to be away from what they knew was a dangerous confrontation. Soon, only she and Sendi were left. Sendi was unhappy.

  ‘But we watched Barcwit’s minions all morning,’ he said, perturbed. ‘Alwold escaped briefly, but I later heard him telling Rodbert he had been in the latrines – Norman food distresses his bowels.’

  ‘You watched Barcwit’s men, but not Barcwit himself?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Perhaps he is the culprit.’

  ‘Barcwit is not here,’ replied Adelise shortly. ‘He sent his wife Maude and his deputy Rodbert to plead his case, because he believes the King will dismiss our accusations as soon as he hears them. He said leaving Bristol was a waste of his time.’

  ‘Perhaps he is right,’ said Roger coldly. ‘You accused us without evidence, so perhaps you have done the same to him.’

  ‘We have an excellent case,’ she snapped. ‘It will see him discredited and his mint dismantled.’

  Sendi waved his knife, unwilling to leave without having the final word. ‘I will let you go this time, but if I discover you had anything to do with this murder, I will kill you.’

  ‘You could try,’ said Roger, bristling.

  Adelise spoke soothingly to her husband. ‘It is horrible waiting for the King to hear our case, but if we want him to believe us, we must show ourselves to be law-abiding citizens. It would be a pity if he decided in Barcwit’s favour, just because you start a fight with strangers. It is probably what Rodbert and Maude hope will happen, and is why they murdered Fardin. Do not let their tactics work.’

  They walked away, and Geoffrey exchanged a weary grin with Roger. He supposed such accusations were commonplace in the King’s Court, where folk with grievances were forced close together, and hoped he would be able to leave it as soon as possible.

  ‘We should get some food,’ said Roger. ‘And after, you will meet the King. Perhaps he will ask something you can decline, and we can start back for Jerusalem today.’

  Geoffrey doubted it would be so easy, and felt the anger begin to bubble inside him again.

  ‘You should eat,’ advised Roger, when his friend made no move to leave. ‘It may calm your temper. Henry will not like it if you are hostile towards him, and you do not want to begin the interview with both of you in a temper.’

  The palace at Westminster was a grand affair. It was dominated by its hall – the largest secular structure of stone in Europe – which was cathedral-like in its proportions. However, here any resemblance to a church ended. Its internal walls were covered with hunting-scene murals, and there was not a religious motif in sight. Its builder, William Rufus, had argued bitterly with the Church, and wanted none of it in his home.

  The hall opened on to a yard that thronged with people. Monks hurried from their devotions; grooms and cooks in the King’s livery flitted here and there; petitioners waited for royal audiences; and courtiers chatted in small groups. Despite his anger, Geoffrey looked around with interest, astonished by the vast number of folk who had gathered. He saw Sendi, Adelise, Lifwine and their companions huddled together, speaking in low voices. He followed the direction of their accusing scowls, and saw another cluster of Saxons. Unlike Sendi’s rabble, these were less defiantly Saxon, and two – a dark-featured knight, whose functional armour suggested he was a competent fighter, and an elegant woman with hair decorously concealed under a wimple – wore clothes that made them indistinguishable from high-ranking Normans. The woman sensed Geoffrey’s eyes on her and turned to stare back. Her expression was one of amused disdain, as if he was just one of many men who found her worthy of scrutiny and she was bored with it.

  Also among the crowd were Geoffrey’s travelling companions. Old Will Helbye, who had been with him for more than two decades, hurried forward with the two squires at his heels. Roger’s man was a burly Saxon called Ulfrith, who strode through life with a cheerful innocence that was sometimes irritating; Geoffrey’s own squire was called Durand.

  Geoffrey knew he would never make Durand a soldier, no matter how much effort was invested in his training. Durand had been destined for the Church, but had behaved badly and been dismissed. When his father had begged Tancred to make him a warrior, Tancred had promptly foisted him on Geoffrey. Durand was small and delicate, with a head of golden curls and a mincing walk. He was devious and sly, and Geoffrey longed to return him to Tancred and have no more to do with him. The fact that the King’s summons was prolonging time spent in Durand’s company was another reason to be annoyed.

  ‘Well?’ Durand asked insolently. ‘Have you calmed yourself? Or would you prefer me to meet the King and find out what he wants? It might be safer. He likes me.’

  Geoffrey grimaced, aware that Henry probably did like Durand, because he doubtless detected a kindred spirit. He also suspected that Henry had paid Durand to spy on him over the previous summer, although he had no proof.

  ‘Go to the stables after you have eaten,’ he said to Roger. ‘Saddle the horses and be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. Keep my dog, too. It has a habit of biting people it does not like, and I have a feeling we may meet a good many of those this afternoon.’

  ‘I am coming with you,’ said Roger, surprised Geoffrey should think otherwise. He fingered the hilt of his sword meaningfully. ‘You may need me.’

  ‘No,’ said Geoffrey, suspecting that Roger’s response to courtly threats would see them both killed.

  ‘You should take his advice,’ said Durand. ‘He is still not in charge of his temper, and the King will kill him if he says anything rude. You do not want to die, just because he cannot control his tongue.’

  Geoffrey ignored him and continued to address Roger. ‘Helbye and Ulfrith can stay, too, and Durand will come to warn you if anything goes wrong.’

  Durand stared at him. ‘But that means I will be in the hall with you. W
here it might be dangerous.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Geoffrey. ‘That is what squires are for – to be at their masters’ sides.’

  Durand blanched. ‘But what if you end up in a fight? Then what shall I do?’

  ‘Stand with me.’

  ‘But I am a man of God!’ cried Durand. ‘I cannot take up arms – especially under conditions where I might be hurt or killed.’

  Even Geoffrey, used to Durand’s feeble ways, was startled by the brazen cowardice. ‘You gave up the privilege of non-aggression when you tampered with that butcher’s son. But I do not think there is cause for concern: Henry would not bring us here just to kill us.’

  ‘It is not him I am worried about,’ protested Durand. ‘It is you. You have no idea how to be a proper courtier, and it may get us into trouble.’

  ‘And you do know, I suppose?’ asked Roger in disgust. He did not like Durand.

  ‘Of course. It is no different from a monastery. You must agree with whatever the King says, no matter how inane. Never answer back, and never lose your temper. Sir Geoffrey is normally slow to anger, but this letter from Tancred has incensed him.’

  ‘It is a forgery,’ said Geoffrey tightly. ‘Of course I am angry.’

  Durand took it from him and inspected it closely. ‘I am as good at my letters as you are – better, even, with my monastic training – and this writing definitely belongs to Tancred’s scribe. And this is his seal. It is genuine – there is no question about it.’

  ‘What was in the other letter waiting for you when we arrived?’ asked Roger, to change the subject. He did not want Geoffrey and Durand to begin a long and tedious debate about counterfeiting.

  ‘Was it from your sister Joan?’ asked Helbye fondly. ‘She is a good lady.’

  ‘She is a persistent lady,’ corrected Durand. ‘She writes to him every month, although most of her missives go astray because we travel a lot and the messengers cannot find us.’

  ‘It does not matter whether he gets them or not,’ said Roger. ‘He has been reading them to me for years now, and all they do is tell him which ram has mated with which ewe, or how much grain is stored in which barn. I do not know why he wastes his time with them.’

  Geoffrey sighed. It was not the first time this particular topic had been aired, and he was tired of Roger’s dismissive contempt and Durand’s mockery. Ulfrith and Helbye were more understanding – Helbye because Joan often included a message from his wife, and Ulfrith because, as a farm lad himself, he was interested in sheep and granaries. Although Joan and Geoffrey invariably quarrelled when they were together, her letters were a mark of affection and, other than an estranged brother called Henry, she was his only family and therefore important to him.

  ‘Did she mention my pig?’ asked Helbye eagerly. ‘Or my wife?’ he added as an afterthought.

  Geoffrey ignored Durand’s snort of derision. ‘Your sow had a litter of nine.’

  ‘Nine!’ exclaimed Helbye, pleased. ‘And Goodrich’s estates are still thriving?’

  Geoffrey nodded, fighting the urge to knock Roger and Durand’s heads together for their smirks. ‘Joan struggled for years to keep them working, but over the past few months they have become prosperous. She has bought new cattle, repaired the castle roof, and even plans to rebuild the chapel.’

  ‘She has probably been raiding her neighbours,’ said Roger, thinking about what he would do to improve his income. ‘How else would she suddenly become so rich?’

  ‘From a series of successful harvests,’ replied Geoffrey, although he was sceptical. Joan had been uncharacteristically vague when she had described the manor’s sudden upturn in fortune, and he suspected she had tapped into a source of wealth she intended to keep to herself. It was not something he wanted to discuss with Roger, however. ‘Her prosperity comes from hard work and kind weather.’

  ‘But the weather has not been kind,’ argued Roger. ‘It was damned hot in August, and crops withered in the fields.’

  ‘And there was the war with Bellême,’ added Ulfrith. ‘Many folk were too frightened to gather their grain – or he burned it.’

  ‘I have never met Joan,’ said Roger, when Geoffrey did not reply, ‘so I cannot say whether she is the kind to work miracles, but … Here comes the King’s clerk. What does he want?’

  ‘The King will see you now,’ said the young man as he approached. ‘It is windy, so he returned early from the hunt. When he heard you were here, he sent me to fetch you. You had better hurry; he does not like to be kept waiting.’

  With no choice but to comply, Geoffrey and Durand followed the clerk across the yard to the hall. As they climbed the flight of steps that led to the door, the wind gusted sharply, whipping dust into Geoffrey’s face. Instinctively, he closed his eyes, and immediately collided with someone who was coming down. He opened his mouth to apologize, but the man had already taken offence.

  ‘Clumsy oaf!’ he snapped. ‘Did you not see me?’

  ‘No,’ replied Geoffrey. He started to step around him, but the fellow refused to let him pass.

  ‘Will you slink away after almost knocking me to the ground, you unmannerly lout?’

  Geoffrey regarded him appraisingly. He was plump, with an oddly boyish face surrounded by fair curls. There were gold buckles on his shoes, while a huge silver brooch fastened his cloak around his shoulders. A sword dangled from his belt, and Geoffrey made the determination that, for all his lard, the man was probably an able fighter.

  ‘Hurry,’ urged the clerk. ‘The King is waiting.’

  ‘The King can wait,’ snapped the man. ‘I demand an apology.’

  ‘Apologize, Sir Geoffrey,’ recommended Durand. ‘And then come with us before the King accuses you of unnecessary dallying.’

  Geoffrey was about to oblige – not because he was cowed by the man or worried about offending the King, but because he had no desire to become enmeshed in a squabble that might interfere with his plans to leave – when others joined the altercation. The group Sendi had been glowering at was suddenly behind him, and he supposed the fat man was one of their number. He saw he should have guessed as much, because the fellow looked Saxon for all his Norman finery, and his handsome clothes indicated he held a lucrative post, such as moneyer.

  ‘What is going on?’ demanded the dark-haired knight, who, unlike his companions, was Norman. He looked strong and competent, and his well-maintained armour and weapons led Geoffrey to suppose he was a mercenary. ‘Do you need me, Rodbert?’

  The large man gave a derisive snort. ‘I need no help to teach this villain a lesson.’

  ‘The King,’ hissed Durand to Geoffrey. ‘You can thrust your sword into this fellow’s gizzard later, but now you should attend Henry.’

  ‘He will not be thrusting weapons into anyone while I am here,’ said the knight. ‘He may be a Jerosolimitanus, but I fought at Constantinople before I left the Crusade. He is no match for me.’

  ‘He is a what?’ asked one of the followers, bemused.

  The knight laughed mirthlessly. ‘Jerosolimitanus is a title afforded to those who were at the Fall of Jerusalem, although many claim it falsely. Are you one of those, sir?’

  His tone was insulting, but Geoffrey declined to be baited by the likes of a man who had abandoned the Crusade as early as Constantinople. He tried to step around Rodbert again, not surprised the moneyers were such bitter rivals when none seemed able to speak without saying something nasty.

  ‘He has lost his tongue,’ said Rodbert with a sneer, still preventing Geoffrey from passing. ‘What do you think, Tasso?’

  ‘Terrified into silence,’ agreed the knight. ‘Let him go. He is not worth our notice.’

  Durand heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Good. We should—’

  ‘No,’ said Rodbert firmly. ‘He must apologize. I will not be jostled by peasants.’

  ‘I am not a peasant,’ said Geoffrey mildly. ‘So you can rest assured you have not been jostled by one. But we both have better things to do than dance fr
om side to side all day, so step aside.’

  Rodbert was angry. ‘What if I refuse? You have only your squire to stand with you, whereas I have Sir Tasso and several strong men. Look behind you. My friends are armed and ready to fight.’

  ‘The King will not approve of that,’ said Durand in a fearful squeak. ‘Not in his own hall.’

  ‘We are not in his hall,’ said Rodbert smoothly. ‘We are outside.’

  ‘God’s teeth!’ muttered Geoffrey, wondering why so many people seemed intent on quarrelling with him that day. He glanced back, and saw five or six Saxons clutching daggers. They posed little threat to him in his armour, but he did not want to brawl in the King’s palace, and he certainly did not want Henry angry with him just because Rodbert fancied a diversion from the tedium of waiting for a royal audience. He moved quickly.

  He feinted to his left, so Rodbert dodged that way to prevent him from passing and, while the fat man was off balance, Geoffrey grabbed his cloak and swung him around, so he crashed into Tasso. Saxon and knight toppled backwards, falling on to the men behind them; all tumbled down the steps in a melee of arms and legs. Howls of laughter came from around the yard, most notably from Sendi and his rabble. Without a word, Geoffrey turned and marched inside the hall.

  ‘You are too late,’ snapped the waiting clerk. ‘I have just been informed that the King grew tired of waiting for you, and is seeing someone else. I told you to come at once.’

  The hall was busy when Geoffrey entered it to wait until Henry deigned to see him. At one end, a multitude of scribes laboured over desks, some writing, some dictating and others copying completed deeds on the great sheets of parchment that comprised the Court Rolls. The King was literate, and always ensured records were kept of his various transactions – or at least, records good enough to be used to his advantage later, if required.

  At the opposite end of the hall, near the door, were tables loaded with food for those who had been hunting. Men stood around them, helping themselves to bread and roasted meat, and Geoffrey recognized one or two. Most prominent, by virtue of his enormous size, was Maurice, Bishop of London, who was famous for raising a cathedral in London dedicated to St Paul. He was chatting to a lean, grim-faced man who wore a hair shirt under his habit. William Giffard, Bishop of Winchester, was a sober, unsmiling cleric fanatically loyal to Henry.