Simon Beaufort - A Dead Man's secret

‘I have never been that far inside Wales,’ said Geoffrey, trying to look on the bright side of the commission. ‘Perhaps it will be interesting.’

‘I imagine it will,’ said Maurice. ‘But be careful. Any soldier can deliver letters, but Henry has chosen you. There will be a reason for that.’

The letters were still not ready by that evening, and Geoffrey saw he would have to spend another night in La Batailge. When dusk brought with it a drenching drizzle, he decided he would no longer bed down behind the stables. He found a corner in the kitchens and was a good deal warmer than those of Henry’s retainers who had been allocated quarters in the dorter and guest hall, the roofs of which leaked. It allowed him to secure a decent breakfast, too, by raiding the platters before they were carried to the refectory.

However, he did not fare as well as Roger and the squires, who had passed the night in a nearby tavern. He found them there mid-morning, enjoying the company of three whores and a veritable mountain of food. There was plenty of ale, too, although it was cloudy and tasted vaguely rotten. Geoffrey drank it anyway. As a soldier, he had never had the luxury of being fussy about food, except fish soup or raisins; he would rather starve than ingest those.

‘Well?’ asked Roger. ‘What did Henry want? You were certainly with him long enough. We grew tired of waiting for you and came here.’

Roger was Geoffrey’s closest friend, albeit an unlikely one. He was a giant of a man, with thick black hair and matching beard, both worn fashionably long. His father was the notoriously treacherous Bishop of Durham, and it had always amazed Geoffrey that Roger was proud of his infamous forebear. Roger was happiest when fighting, looting or frolicking with any woman willing to tolerate his clumsy advances, and he had a deep-rooted distrust of anyone who was literate. This sometimes included Geoffrey, whose scholarly tendencies he deplored.

‘He wants me to deliver a letter to Kermerdyn,’ explained Geoffrey. ‘Although there is something odd about the affair, and you should not mention it to anyone else.’

‘Where is Kermerdyn?’ asked Roger, scratching his head. ‘And why would he order you to deliver a letter? Henry is a fool if he thinks you are a lackey. You have always been your own man, even when you were serving Tancred. It is what makes powerful men eager to claim your allegiance.’

‘Henry does not care about my allegiance. He makes no attempt to earn it, and forces me to do his bidding by blackmail and coercion.’

‘Because that is the only way you will do what he wants,’ said Roger, uncharacteristically astute. ‘I am sure he would rather you obeyed him willingly, but that will never happen, so he is reduced to other tactics. It is a pity you swore that vow never to visit the Holy Land, because we could have jumped on a ship and been gone before Henry realized.’

‘You were the one who insisted I took it,’ Geoffrey reminded him, resentfully. ‘Besides, it would leave Joan and Hilde to bear the brunt of his ire. I will not do that.’

Roger sniffed. ‘They can look after themselves. The Crusade would not have lasted half as long if the army had been populated with the likes of Joan and Hilde. I have never encountered such fierce women. They are true Normans!’

Geoffrey began to respond, but Roger continued. ‘You can pay a monk to release you from your promise, you know. You did not want to take it, so God will not object when you renege. Besides, you are a Jerosolimitanus, and all your sins have been forgiven. You can do no wrong in God’s eyes.’

Geoffrey laughed, amused by Roger’s fluid approach to religion. ‘Only past sins were forgiven for joining the Crusade, not ones committed since. And I cannot break my vow, anyway.’

‘Perhaps I should not have coerced you,’ said Roger sheepishly. ‘But I honestly thought we were going to die when that storm struck – and everyone said it was God’s disapproval of your travels. But God will understand. And if He does not, you can pay for a few masses in Jerusalem. That should take care of any misunderstanding.’

‘A misunderstanding with God,’ mused Geoffrey, smiling at the notion. ‘No. There is nothing I would like more, but it cannot be done.’

Roger grimaced. ‘I cannot see Tancred staying angry with you forever. You were like brothers in the Holy Land, and he valued your counsel more than that of any other. He will forgive you, and then we shall be given the best opportunities for looting and fighting. It will be marvellous!’

His eyes shone. Looting and fighting were two activities very close to his heart.

‘And my vow?’

‘Well, then, I suppose we must stay here to deliver your letter instead,’ said Roger stoically. ‘Besides, life with you is never dull. You will find us a battle somewhere. You always do.’

Geoffrey sincerely hoped he was wrong.

Geoffrey went to the Chapter House at noon, wondering why there was such a delay. Even if the letters to Gwgan, Abbot Mabon and Bishop Wilfred had not been written when Henry had ordered Geoffrey to deliver them, it should not have taken long for one of Eudo’s many scribes to dash them off.

He was not the only one waiting for the clerks, and the yard outside the Chapter House was full of courtiers and messengers, all kicking their heels while the ponderous wheels of administration turned at a slow, deliberate pace.

‘Perhaps later today,’ Eudo snapped when Geoffrey insisted on speaking to him. ‘Or tomorrow. His Majesty’s affairs cannot be rushed just because you are in a hurry.’

Geoffrey resisted the urge to grab him by the throat. ‘I am eager to do what the King has asked of me before he thinks I do not intend to bother.’

‘He will not notice whether you are here or not,’ retorted Eudo, truthfully enough. ‘He has far more important business to attend.’

The door was slammed with an abruptness that was rude and gave rise to an angry murmur from the people in the yard. Geoffrey studied them, noting that they included Bishop Maurice and several other high-ranking churchmen, along with two earls and a smattering of knights. If Eudo felt sufficiently secure to treat them with such insolent insouciance, then it showed the extent to which clerks now ruled Henry’s kingdom.

‘You are in good company,’ came a voice at his ear. ‘We are all at Eudo’s mercy.’

Geoffrey turned to see it was Sir Edward, the foppish Constable of Kadweli. He was even more splendidly attired than before, and his flowing locks and beard had been crimped into crisp curls. His cloak was fastened with a jewelled clasp that was decidedly feminine, and his fashionable tunic was a delicate purple.

‘I thought Henry was efficient,’ muttered Geoffrey resentfully. ‘It seems I was wrong.’

‘Oh, he is efficient,’ said Edward, smiling to reveal white, even teeth. ‘If your message was urgent, it would have been penned within moments. But on lesser matters, his clerks like everyone to know who is in charge. And the more you agitate, the longer they will make you wait.’

‘Then I shall not bother them again,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Or Henry may find he has one less clerk, because Eudo is asking for a sword in his gizzard.’

Edward laughed. ‘Much as I would like to see the man’s pomposity punctured, I cannot recommend that: Henry holds him in high esteem. But I understand you are lord of Goodrich, on the Welsh border. I shall travel west soon, too. Perhaps we could go together. There is safety in numbers, after all.’

‘You are a knight – you do not need such protection.’

Geoffrey was reluctant to accept company. He was used to travelling fast and hard, using every moment of daylight, sleeping under hedges and trees if necessary. Edward did not look as though he would appreciate journeying under such conditions, and Geoffrey assumed he would slow him down. Of course, there was no particular urgency in Henry’s quest, and he supposed it would not matter if he took longer to accomplish it. Yet old habits died hard, and the notion of dawdling when there was work to be done was anathema to him.