Simon Beaufort - A Dead Man's secret

‘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?

‘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.