Dead Man's Secret (5 page)

‘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.

‘I have a knighthood,' hedged Edward. ‘But I am not sure I would call myself a knight.'

Geoffrey was puzzled. ‘I do not understand.'

‘At the risk of sounding immodest, I am an extremely able administrator. The King appointed me Constable of Kadweli several years ago, but knowing the garrison was unlikely to follow orders from a parchment-hound, he knighted me.'

Geoffrey regarded him askance. ‘What happens when you need to deploy your troops? Surely, your lack of military experience will show?'

‘I was trained in the basics, like all men of noble family, so I am not wholly without knowledge. But, more often than not, it is wiser to negotiate peaceful solutions – and, on the few occasions where it is not, my captains are competent.'

‘I see,' said Geoffrey. He was inclined to think it was a foolish state of affairs, but then reconsidered. If Edward really
was
able to parley his way out of confrontations, then surely it was better for all concerned? Geoffrey had seen too often the havoc needless skirmishes could wreak.

Edward smiled again. ‘So what do you say to my suggestion? I will be no trouble, I assure you. And I may even be of some use – I know the roads extremely well.'

Trapped, Geoffrey nodded reluctant agreement.

‘Look at them!' exclaimed Edward suddenly, pointing to two knights who had pinned a monk against the wall. The monastic was cowering, hands over his head. ‘I know Brother Delwyn is a dreadful little worm, but it is not kind to bully him.'

The two knights were strong and tall. Both wore plain white surcoats, and the swords at their sides were well-honed and functional. One was Geoffrey's age – mid-thirties – with dark hair and blue eyes. The other was older, larger and distinctly better-looking, with long auburn hair and a neat beard.

The monk was an unappealing specimen, with lank, greasy hair, eyes that went in slightly different directions, and a grubby habit. Geoffrey recalled that Bishop Maurice had mentioned a Brother Delwyn, sent by Kermerdyn's abbey with messages to the King. Maurice had deemed him sly, and, judging from his appearance, Geoffrey suspected he might be right.

‘I will send you word the moment Eudo gives me the letters,' said Geoffrey, beginning to walk away. He did not want to become embroiled in squabbles that were none of his concern.

‘Wait.' Edward gripped his arm. ‘Sear and Alberic are violent men, and though my instincts clamour at me to leave well alone, my conscience will not let me walk away while a man of God is molested. Neither will yours, I am sure.'

With a resigned sigh, Geoffrey allowed himself to be led towards the trio, heartily cursing Eudo and his tardiness.

‘What seems to be the matter?' asked Edward pleasantly. ‘Brother Delwyn?'

‘They say I smell,' squeaked the monk, raising a tear-stained face to his rescuer. ‘And they are threatening to throw me in the fishponds.'

Geoffrey thought they had a point. He was not particularly devoted to hygiene himself, but he was a good deal more respectable than Delwyn.

‘The same might be true of others around here, too,' said the larger of the knights. He did not look at Geoffrey, although the inference was clear. ‘The court is letting its standards drop.'

‘I could not agree more,' said Edward amiably, pulling a pomander from his purse and pressing it against his nose. ‘It is quite disgraceful, and I am glad I shall soon be returning to Kadweli.'

‘When will you go?' asked the younger knight, although he did not sound very interested in the answer, and Geoffrey was under the impression he spoke to prevent his companion from making another remark that might see them in a brawl. Henry disapproved of fighting among his retinue.

‘As soon as Eudo gives me the necessary documentation to begin building Kadweli in stone,' replied Edward. He smiled at the older knight. ‘And you, Sir Sear? How much longer will you remain in this godforsaken bog? Personally, if I had been the Conqueror, I would have taken one look at this place and sailed straight back for Normandy.'

So this was Sear, thought Geoffrey. He regarded the knight with interest, wondering what had possessed Henry to appoint Sear, who looked every inch a fighting man, to Pembroc, but Edward, who was more woman than knight, to Kadweli. The two could not have been more different, and made it seem as though Henry could not decide whether he wanted his domain ruled by warriors or clerks.

Sear regarded Edward with haughty indifference. ‘My clerks made a mistake with Pembroc's taxes, so I was obliged to travel here, to tell Henry that they will be somewhat reduced in future. Now I am waiting for Eudo to confirm the arithmetic. When he does, Alberic and I ride west.'

‘Was Henry not vexed?' asked Edward. Geoffrey was wondering the same: Henry was inordinately fond of money.

Sear smirked. ‘Not when I told him he could keep the excess.'

‘I am glad to hear it,' said Edward warmly. ‘Pembroc and Kadweli have worked well together, and I am reassured to learn we shall continue to be neighbours.'

‘Make them apologize, Sir Edward,' bleated Delwyn, cutting into the discussion. ‘I am a monk, and they have no right to abuse me.'

‘He asked for it,' growled Alberic sourly. ‘He called us louts, expecting his habit to protect him from retribution. Well, he was wrong.'

‘I did no such thing!' cried Delwyn, although Geoffrey could see from his furtive eyes that he probably had. ‘I said
some
knights who haunt the King's court are louts. I did not mean you. Although, now I think about it—'

‘Go,' interrupted Edward. ‘Or
I
will toss you in the fishpond.'

‘You would not,' sneered Sear. ‘You would not want to soil your pretty white hands.'

At that moment, Eudo appeared with a sheaf of documents, and there was a concerted rush towards him, Edward, Sear and Delwyn included. Sear aimed a kick at Delwyn as he passed, but it was half-hearted, and the grubby monk did not see it. Certain
his
letters would not be among the pile, Geoffrey took the opportunity to escape.

The previous month, when the ship he was aboard sank, Geoffrey had lost everything except his armour and weapons, and a saddlebag containing writing equipment. He had no spare clothes and no money, but this was nothing compared to losing his horse. The animal had carried him into dozens of battles and skirmishes, and he missed it sorely. He still had his dog, but it was a sullen, vicious brute, which could not compare to his beloved destrier.

Fortunately, Roger – a true Norman in his love of wealth – had managed not only to save his purse from a watery end, but also to acquire a small fortune during their subsequent adventures. He had used some of it to purchase new mounts for Geoffrey and himself. Warhorses were not easily replaced. They had to be strong enough to carry a fully armoured knight into battle, fast enough to perform the intricate manoeuvres that made them so formidable, and brave enough not to flinch at slashing swords, raining arrows and jabbing lances. Needing to begin training his new horse to its duties, Geoffrey took him out that afternoon, welcoming the solitude after the busy abbey.

He rode towards the coast, giving the animal its head when they reached a long, sandy path, relishing the raw power thundering beneath him. It was larger than his previous one, a massive bay with a white sock. When it slowed, he took it through several exercises and was pleased with its responses. Would it conduct itself as well in combat? For the first time, it occurred to him that he was unlikely to find out if he returned to Goodrich. There would be skirmishes, certainly, but not the kind of pitched battle for which he had been trained. He was not disappointed. He had been fighting almost continuously since he was twelve, and twenty years of warfare was more than enough.

He turned back towards the abbey when the light began to fade, surprised to see his squire, Bale, riding to meet him. With his broad shoulders, muscular chest and baldly gleaming head, Bale looked every inch the killer. He had an unnatural fascination for sharp blades, and had been foisted on Geoffrey because the people in his village were afraid of him – they had decided that only a Crusader knight could keep his murderous instincts in check.

‘I was worried about you, sir,' said Bale, grinning a greeting. ‘The abbey is full of unpleasant types – men who can read – and you cannot trust
them
as far as you can see them.'

‘I can read,' said Geoffrey unkindly, because he knew exactly how Bale would react.

He was not wrong. Bale's mouth fell open in horror when he realized what he had said. He had not been with Geoffrey long and was still trying to make a good impression, terrified that he would be ordered away from a life of glittering slaughter and back to the fields from whence he came. He was old to be a squire – older than Geoffrey himself – but had taken to the task with unrestrained enthusiasm and was thoroughly enjoying himself.

‘But you are different,' he stammered uncomfortably.

‘Am I?' asked Geoffrey wickedly. ‘How?'

Bale flailed around for a reason. ‘Well, you prefer fighting to writing,' he said eventually.

‘That is untrue,' said Geoffrey, indicating that Bale was to ride at his side. ‘Given the choice, I would far rather spend the day with a good book than on a battlefield.'

Bale regarded him uncertainly, then grinned. ‘You are teasing me, sir!'

Geoffrey changed the subject, suspecting he would be unlikely to persuade his squire that he would be more than happy to hang up his spurs.

‘What happened to Ulfrith?' he asked. ‘I have not seen him today.'

Ulfrith was Roger's squire, a big, stupid Saxon prone to falling in love with unsuitable women.

‘That is partly why I came to meet you. He has run away, and Sir Roger is vexed.'

Geoffrey was relieved, though. Ulfrith was a liability in a fight, because, unlike Bale, he did not possess the necessary aggression to become a soldier, and Geoffrey was constantly aware of the need to protect him. Moreover, he was by nature an honest, innocent lad, and Geoffrey did not like the fact that Roger was teaching him bad habits. Ulfrith would do better with another master – or, better still, by returning to his former life as a farmer.

Bale cleared his throat uncomfortably. ‘I think he stole your dog, sir,' he began worriedly. ‘Because he is nowhere to be found, either.'

Geoffrey did not think that likely: the dog was not pleasant company.

‘Do you know why Ulfrith left?' he asked. The dog would appear in its own good time; he knew its habits too well to share Bale's concern.

Bale shrugged. ‘Well, there was a girl in that group of pilgrims from Southampton who caught his eye. Perhaps he went after her.'

‘Good,' said Geoffrey, kicking his horse into a gallop. ‘He was far too gentle to be a soldier.'

‘Not like me, then,' said Bale, trotting after him. ‘I am not gentle.'

‘No,' agreed Geoffrey under his breath. ‘You are not.'