The Coiner's Quarrel

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘They will kill each other long before we reach Bristol,’ said Geoffrey, watching the spectacle in disgust. ‘Still, at least it will make our task simple: we will only have Barcwit alive to question.’

  ‘There are more than thirty people here,’ said Roger. ‘And the only ones without drawn weapons are Bloet and Durand.’

  Geoffrey glanced to where the pair stood with linked arms. Durand’s satisfied grin indicated that they had spent the night together, but Bloet’s expression was less ecstatic, and Geoffrey suspected the attraction might not be entirely mutual. Had Bloet seduced Durand in order to obtain inside information about the investigation Geoffrey was about to begin? Durand had certainly prised a lot of chatter from Bloet, and Geoffrey was not so naïve as to think the exchange was all one way. He realized he would have to be careful when Durand was near.

  The clamour grew louder, and there was a clang as Sendi’s blade met Tasso’s. The knight deflected the blow with single-handed ease, and urged him to try again. Rodbert had cornered Lifwine and several of his friends, and was poking them with his dagger, laughing when they tried to defend themselves against his superior skills. Adelise pummelled him with her balled fists, so Maude grabbed her by one of her thick golden plaits. Geoffrey’s dog snapped at Warelwast, then scurried away when the bishop-elect tried to kick it. It bit John instead, who immediately started to shriek about the damage to his fine boots.

  Geoffrey had had enough. There was a manger outside one of the stables, piled high with the pots that were used for feeding and watering the horses. He shoved it as hard as he could, so it toppled on to its side. It landed with an almighty crash. Jugs and bowls smashed out of it, bouncing across the cobbles with ringing clatters. When the last vessel had finished rolling, everyone was silent, and even the dog had stopped barking.

  ‘What did you do that for?’ asked John indignantly. ‘Look at the mess you have made.’

  ‘If there is a repetition of this spectacle, I shall tell the King you are all traitors eager to cheat him,’ said Geoffrey, gazing sternly at the astonished gathering. ‘We have already lost an hour because of your bickering, so gather your possessions and let us make a start before someone is killed.’

  ‘I am not leaving without my dies,’ said Sendi firmly.

  Geoffrey pointed. ‘Your pony is there, eating the mash prepared for the King’s favourite warhorse. You are too quick with your accusations, and one day it will land you in trouble.’

  ‘It has done that already,’ said Rodbert spitefully. ‘The King saw straight through his lies.’

  Geoffrey rounded on him. ‘The next person who makes an inflammatory remark can travel alone.’

  ‘But that would be dangerous,’ objected Rodbert.

  ‘Then behave,’ snapped Geoffrey. ‘You can resume these childish quarrels tonight, if you like. But we are leaving now, and if someone is not ready, then that is just too bad.’

  He climbed on to his horse, and headed for the road that led west, while the others scrambled to follow. Roger caught up with him and rode at his side.

  ‘And you accuse me of being impolitic,’ he murmured. ‘Those people already loathe you, and you have just given them cause to detest you more. What were you thinking?’

  Geoffrey was disgusted enough that he did not care.

  Five

  Bath, November 1102

  The caravan of moneyers, physicians and courtiers was so ungainly that progress to Bristol from Westminster was frustratingly slow. They travelled along roads that had been built by ancient conquerors, with raised centres of gravel or stone and ditches on either side to keep them drained. Nevertheless, so many people used them that even the ingenuity of the long-dead engineers was hard-pressed to cope with the volume. In parts, the track degenerated into morasses, which earlier travellers had skirted around. In time, the secondary tracks had become mud-logged, too, so another path was made, and another, with the result that the highway was so wide in places that it was difficult to find.

  The rain did not help. It fell in a steady drizzle that penetrated even the most carefully oiled cloaks. Geoffrey was used to being cold and wet, but the physicians, Warelwast and Bloet complained vigorously, and even suggested finding a tavern in which to wait until the weather cleared. The Saxons regarded them as if they were insane, and scornfully asked if they intended to arrive in Bristol the following summer.

  They followed the River Thames west through fields that were ploughed and ready for winter frosts to break up the clods. Everywhere, granaries were empty or only partly full, and Geoffrey wondered how many people would starve that winter, unable to pay the high prices that would be demanded for bread. He turned his thoughts to Joan and her inexplicable turn of fortunes when others had been broken by weather and war.

  After London, the country became hilly, and overlain with woods. Geoffrey urged his companions to move faster, knowing the longer they took to amble through them, the greater were their chances of being ambushed by robbers. Bloet maintained that only a fool would attack such a large party, while Tasso declared he would kill any outlaw who so much as looked at him. Sendi asked what he would do if the thief shot him with a crossbow first, which began yet another row.

  Warelwast contrived to ride next to Geoffrey as often as possible. The bishop-elect seemed to sense Geoffrey’s distrust of him, so sought to win him around by discussing architecture – a subject the knight found fascinating. However, Geoffrey was obliged to listen to more lectures on ecclesiastical construction than even he wanted, because the journey was taking so long.

  Bloet and John owned several mules that had to be loaded each morning. The process invariably took longer than it should have done. Clarembald only had one packhorse, but he was fussy about it, claiming it carried expensive medicines from distant lands, and hinted that John would stop at nothing to steal them; John always reacted to the accusation. Meanwhile, Bloet and Durand made a habit of disappearing into churches, ostensibly to pray, and everyone was obliged to wait until they had finished. Geoffrey suggested leaving them once but, in a rare consensus, everyone agreed that prayers were important, and no one wanted God irked over the abandonment of two such fervent petitioners.

  ‘I was not pleased when I heard we were to travel with women,’ Roger muttered one morning. ‘But Maude and Adelise are always on time. It is the men who give us trouble. It was almost noon before Bloet was ready yesterday, then Tasso’s horse went lame. We only covered five miles. At this rate, we will be old men before we reach Bristol, and Barcwit will have died from senility.’

  ‘We will arrive tomorrow, thank God,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Bath tonight, and Bristol the next day.’

  ‘The physicians are a nuisance with their bickering,’ said Ulfrith. ‘If I fall ill, I do not want them near me. They let Alwold die, when timely intervention could have saved him.’

  Geoffrey disagreed. ‘There was nothing they could have done. His wound was fatal.’

  ‘But the Two Suns had just appeared,’ argued Helbye, crossing himself. ‘Anyone could have been saved from any wound after that had happened.’

  ‘And that powerful gale the next night showed God was none too pleased about it, either,’ added Roger. ‘He sent the physicians a sign, and they ignored it by failing to bring someone back from the dead. I know about these things, because my father is a bishop.’

  Geoffrey said nothing; there was no point. Roger and Helbye were superstitious, and there was no changing their minds once they were made up about religious matters. He went to urge the others to hurry, because he wanted to be certain of reaching Bath that evening. They had been on the road for more than three weeks, and he was keen for the journey to end and begin his investigation in earnest.

  ‘Tonight will be our last chance,’ whispered Maude, when he went to help her on to her horse. She regarded him reproachfully, declining to put her knee in his hand until she had had her say. ‘You do not know what you have missed by declining my offers.’

  ‘I d
o,’ he replied. ‘The anger of Rodbert and Tasso – not to mention the wrath of Barcwit.’

  ‘Are you implying a dalliance would not be worth the risk?’ she asked, amusement in her voice.

  ‘I am sure it would be memorable,’ he replied carefully. She was virtually the only Saxon who had not threatened – or actually tried – to harm him over the last twenty-three days, and he felt he owed her some courtesy in return.

  ‘It would.’ She reached out to touch his cheek in an intimate gesture that drew the immediate hostile attention of Rodbert. ‘And I am sorry for us both. I wanted to hear tales of the Holy Land, but you spend all your nights with Roger. Or with women you barely know.’

  He saw she was laughing at him, referring to the occasions when prostitutes had inveigled themselves into his company. None had compared to Maude’s alluring sensuality, but, on the other hand, nor did they come with vengeful husbands or play a part in a case involving treason. However, he wondered whether he should have allowed her to seduce him after all. It certainly would have livened up what had been a tedious journey.

  She seemed to read his mind. ‘It would have passed the time pleasantly. It might also have deterred some people from trying to murder you as you slept.’

  There was no arguing with that point. He had woken at least three times when his dog had begun to growl. Once Rodbert appeared with a dagger, and once it was Sendi, although both claimed they were only taking the night air. Then Lifwine jabbed at him with a knife. The cambium proclaimed himself appalled when he recognized Geoffrey, saying he had seen a thief enter the room. A few moments later, there was a howl of pain and a would-be robber hobbled out with the dog attached to his leg, leaving Lifwine vindicated and Geoffrey not sure what to think. On yet another occasion, Adelise was keen for him to try some wine. Recalling the incident in the King’s chamber with the bitter brew that may have been poisoned, Geoffrey declined, and later saw her pouring it away. When he challenged her about it, she claimed it was sour.

  ‘I have survived,’ he replied, thinking that being a royal agent was far more risky than a crusade. ‘And we shall be in Bristol tomorrow. I am sure you are keen to see your husband after so long.’

  ‘Of course. It is always a pleasure to see Barcwit. He is a lovely man.’

  ‘Many people are frightened of him – even Clarembald, who does not live in Bristol. Lifwine told me he bites the heads off the pigeons that raid his currant bushes, and Bloet says he kills people, too. He has the reputation of a bully, and it seems Sendi was right about one of his accusations.’

  ‘Rumours and gossip,’ she said dismissively. ‘You will not find a shred of evidence that he has killed anyone.’

  It did not escape his attention that she failed to deny the charge, only stating that he would not be able to prove it. He frowned thoughtfully as he lifted her into her saddle, wondering what sort of stories he would hear about Barcwit when he reached Bristol. He was surprised that Tasso, who claimed to be honourable, should be willing to serve such a man.

  ‘What a filthy place,’ said Adelise in disgust, wiping her feet as she came out of the inn. ‘And full of whores, too.’ She glared at Geoffrey. ‘But I am sure you do not need me to tell you that.’

  ‘I had an early night,’ said Geoffrey. He saw her jump to the wrong conclusion. ‘Alone.’

  ‘This has been a wretched journey,’ she continued. ‘I hope I never leave Bristol again. The beds in every hostelry are crawling with vermin – I shared with a rat last night …’

  ‘Yes,’ murmured Maude. ‘His name is Sendi.’

  Adelise ignored her. ‘The food is disgusting, the weather dismal, and the water provided for washing stinks of sewage.’ She looked Geoffrey up and down. ‘Although I doubt cleansing water ever touches any part of you, so you probably do not care.’ She flounced away.

  Maude chuckled. ‘She is right, Geoffrey. A scrub would not go amiss with you. But dirt does not show in the dark, and I am not fussy. Come to me tonight, and perhaps I will make you a donation of some of my lavender oil. It masks all manner of stenches.’

  ‘I have been travelling,’ said Geoffrey shortly. ‘Roads are muddy, so what do you expect?’

  ‘We have all been travelling,’ said Maude, laughing. ‘But not all of us are as grimy as you.’

  Geoffrey stared indignantly after both women, sorely tempted to seize a handful of the ankle-thick muck in which he stood and hurl it at their retreating backs.

  They had been following the dark green ribbon of the River Avon for some time before Warelwast had his accident. The Avon was a smooth, mysterious channel with a deceptively calm surface. Its banks were steep and lined with bare-branched trees that curled over it like skeletal hands. When the party stopped to allow Tasso to catch up – his horse was lame again – Warelwast claimed he was thirsty and went to the river to drink. Recent rain had rendered the bank treacherously slippery, and he was not halfway down it before he lost his footing. He disappeared from sight, and when his head finally broke the surface, it was some distance away. The flooded river had a powerful undertow.

  ‘Damn the man!’ muttered Geoffrey, snatching a rope from his saddle.

  Warelwast was being carried almost as fast as Geoffrey could move, and the knight could see his terrified face as he tried to break free of the current. Geoffrey ran harder, so he was in front, then hurled the rope. It was a good throw, but Warelwast failed to catch it nonetheless. As quickly as he could, Geoffrey gathered it in and tried again. This time, the rope was too short, because Warelwast had been drawn to the other side of the water. Geoffrey raced ahead again, suspecting that if his third attempt failed, Warelwast would drown, because the man could not keep himself afloat much longer. He threw the rope as hard as he could and saw Warelwast splash towards it.

  Then it was over. Roger arrived and added his brawn to the operation, so Warelwast was soon out of the water and gasping for breath in a patch of grass. Geoffrey covered him with his cloak, rain-sodden though it was, while Roger tried to take the rope from him. But Warelwast gripped it tightly and Roger sat back on his heels, perplexed.

  ‘It is all right now,’ said Geoffrey kindly. ‘You can let go.’

  ‘I thought I was going to drown,’ gasped Warelwast, ‘and I have not yet been invested.’

  ‘Stand up and move around before you take a chill,’ advised Geoffrey practically. ‘But give me the rope first.’ A rope often came in useful, and he did not like to be without one when he travelled.

  Warelwast’s expression was alarmed. ‘I cannot! My fingers will not unfold. Lord help me! I am doomed to carry it for the rest of my life as a reminder of what passed today. It is a sign from God!’

  ‘It is a sign of fright,’ corrected Geoffrey, sawing off the end of the cord with his dagger, so the bishop-elect was left with a piece the length of his forearm. ‘Your fingers will unlock in time.’

  ‘I have seen men after battles, with their fists set rigid around their swords,’ said Roger conversationally. ‘Of course, they were all dead.’

  ‘Are you saying I did drown, and that I am a corpse?’ asked Warelwast uneasily.

  ‘You could be,’ replied Roger helpfully. ‘It would explain the clenched fingers, the white face, the wide and staring eyes, the—’

  ‘Corpses do not shiver,’ said Geoffrey firmly, before the discussion could go any further. He did not want the others to rebel at the prospect of travelling with a cadaver and insist the King’s cousin was left behind. Or worse, knowing how superstitious many folk were, that they dig a grave and bury the ‘corpse’ in it. ‘And you are shivering now.’

  ‘Thank God!’ said Warelwast. ‘I do not like the notion of being dead and still able to walk and talk. I doubt the Archbishop of Canterbury would anoint a corpse as Bishop of Exeter.’

  ‘I would not be so sure about that,’ said Roger prissily. ‘He has consecrated some very odd people in the past. Just ask my father.’

  Geoffrey saw some of the others hurrying towards t
hem, too late to help. Clarembald arrived first, while Helbye, Durand and Bloet were behind him. Of the Saxons there was no sign, and Geoffrey supposed the drowning of a Norman cleric was not deemed sufficiently important to warrant their attention. He was surprised and disappointed, since he had always believed that people forgot their differences and pulled together in a crisis.

  When Bloet saw the rope and was told Warelwast could not release it, he started to laugh, considering it a fine joke. Durand crossed himself, and added his voice to Helbye’s in claiming that it was a sign from God, while Clarembald fussed in what seemed genuine concern and offered to make a poultice of snakes’ eyes when they reached Bath. Snakes’ eyes, he assured the dubious bishop-elect, worked wonders on stiff muscles.

  ‘What did you pay him?’ asked Bloet, when he had brought his mirth under control. He was, Geoffrey decided, the kind of man who found humour in old ladies slipping on ice, or buckets of water cunningly placed over doors.

  ‘Pay him?’ Warelwast was bemused.

  ‘For saving you,’ said Bloet. ‘Your life has a price, surely? Ask the King for some of that silver he believes is hidden in Bristol. You are a favourite cousin, so I am sure he will oblige, and you can discharge your debt.’ His tone was acidic, and Geoffrey saw he was jealous of Warelwast’s kinship with Henry. He sighed, seeing there was yet another rift in the group.

  ‘What silver?’ asked Roger, immediately interested. He was fond of silver himself. ‘Do you mean the load that was stolen from Alwold? I thought outlaws took it.’

  ‘That is the rumour,’ said Bloet. ‘But the King has doubts.’

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Did he talk to you about it?’

  Bloet nodded. ‘He thinks it odd that such a large consignment should disappear so completely, and believes it must be hidden.’

  ‘Why did he confide in you?’ asked Clarembald, voicing what Geoffrey wanted to know. Bloet did not seem the kind of man whom Henry would choose as an intimate.