Dead Man's Secret (2 page)

The area around La Batailge was windswept and lonely, and Geoffrey often wondered what his father had thought of it when he had fought the Saxons there almost forty years before. If Geoffrey closed his eyes, it was easy to imagine the clamour of battle – the clash of weapons, the piercing whinnies of horses, the screams of the wounded and dying. The slaughter had been terrible, and, to ease his conscience, the Conqueror had founded an abbey on the site. The sound of Benedictine chants now filled the air, but Geoffrey thought the place a desolate one even so.

Three Norman monarchs had reigned since then. The first William had died twenty-one years after the Conquest, leaving three ambitious sons. The oldest was Robert, Duke of Normandy, under whom Geoffrey had trained to become a warrior. The next was William Rufus, who had inherited the English throne and had agreed with Robert that if one of them died, the other should have his estates and titles. King William Rufus had been dispatched by an arrow in the New Forest, and the youngest of the Conqueror's sons, Henry, had raced to have himself crowned before Robert could stop him.

Geoffrey thought Henry was wrong to have thus illicitly grabbed the throne. But as his own estates were in England, and Henry could easily take them away, he kept his thoughts private. He had never sworn fealty to Henry – his oath of allegiance had been to Tancred, Prince of Galilee, for whom he had fought most of his adult life – but Henry held a certain sway over him.

Henry was holding court in the church, a typically Norman building with a nave supported by thick pillars, and a clerestory of round-headed windows. Geoffrey leaned against a pillar and watched him conduct business. Henry had brought with him an enormous retinue of clerks, scribes, servants and courtiers. The clerks were the most numerous; Henry was wise enough to know that the key to a successful reign was as much administration as winning battles.

One clerk saw Geoffrey and walked towards him. He was a pleasant-faced man with a cheerful smile, although there was something about his eyes that suggested he was as devious as his master. His name was Eudo, and he was Henry's most trusted scribe.

‘His Majesty has just told me that he will see you in a few moments.'

‘Thank you.' Geoffrey hesitated before continuing. ‘Do you know why? I do not think there is more to be discussed about the recent events.'

Eudo inclined his head. ‘I am sure His Majesty would agree. It was a sordid business, and the less said the better.'

‘Then why did he recall me?'

The court had taken every available berth in the abbey, and Geoffrey and his companions had been reduced to sleeping behind the stables, rolled in their cloaks. It was warm for the time of year, and as a soldier he was used to uncomfortable conditions, but it was still not pleasant. Moreover, the monks were struggling to find enough food for such large numbers, and Geoffrey could not leave to forage for his own lest the King demanded his presence.

‘He has his reasons.' Eudo saw the look on Geoffrey's face and elaborated hastily: the knight was tall, strong and clearly not someone to be fobbed off with flippant responses. ‘He wants to discuss it in person. But it involves some letters.'

‘Letters?' echoed Geoffrey.

‘You will find out soon enough,' replied Eudo. Then it was his turn to hesitate. ‘I am sorry about Prince Tancred, by the way.'

‘What about Tancred?' demanded Geoffrey.

Eudo looked at him warily. ‘I am sorry you are no longer in his service. The King tells me that the two of you were as close as brothers, but he has recently dismissed you most rudely.'

That was one way of putting it, Geoffrey thought bitterly. Tancred had actually threatened to execute his former favourite if he ever saw him again. And it was Henry's fault – he had forced Geoffrey to remain in England, and Tancred had finally lost patience. Dismayed by Tancred's final missive, Geoffrey had known he would never rest easy until he had explained in person what had happened. Tancred might still be angry, but at least he would understand that the decision to dally had not been Geoffrey's.

‘The King discusses my personal correspondence with clerks?' he asked coolly. ‘I thought he would have better things to do.'

‘He does,' replied Eudo, matching his tone. ‘But, for some inexplicable reason, he likes you.'

Geoffrey seriously doubted it. Or perhaps Henry ‘liked' him because he had a weakness – a sister of whom he was fond – and so was a suitable candidate for coercion. Henry had certainly exploited his knight's unwillingness to see Joan harmed in the past, and would doubtless do so again.

‘Here is Sir Edward,' said Eudo, nodding to where a man in impractically fashionable clothes was approaching with fussy, mincing steps. Like many courtiers, his hair was long, flowing around his shoulders, and his beard had been carefully sculpted into an eye-catching fork. Geoffrey regarded the figure warily. The title suggested Edward was a knight, but Geoffrey could not imagine such a fellow on a battlefield.

‘He is Constable of Kadweli Castle, in Wales,' continued Eudo. ‘It is a prestigious post because Kadweli is strategically sited, and money has been set aside to build it in stone.'

‘The King is ready for you now,' said Edward to Geoffrey. He looked the knight up and down, smothering a smirk. ‘He will be pleased to see you have dressed appropriately.'

A tart rejoinder died in Geoffrey's throat when he glanced down at himself. His surcoat with its Crusader's cross was decidedly grimy, and although his mail tunic and leggings were in good repair – no sensible knight would allow them to be otherwise – they were plain and functional. He had not shaved in days, and his light brown hair, cut short in military fashion, had not seen a comb in weeks. Edward had a point.

‘It is too late to change clothes now,' said Eudo, frowning. ‘Go. He does not like to be kept waiting.'

Geoffrey was not pleased to find the King was not ready for him at all, but was leaning over his clerks as they scribbled feverishly at his directions. He dallied for so long that Geoffrey was tempted to walk away. But common sense reigned, and he forced himself to be patient. His dog, a savage back and white beast, also grew restless, and, foreseeing trouble if it bit someone, the knight told his squire to take it outside.

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.