The Coiner's Quarrel

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘No?’ asked Tasso, his voice dangerously low. ‘No, what?’

  ‘No to fighting in a place where you are a guest,’ said Geoffrey, pointing to where Osmaer watched with an expression of alarm. ‘It would be rude to spill blood on his clean floors.’

  ‘Very rude,’ said Osmaer hastily. ‘Especially over whether or not some long-dead king issued gold coins. It is irrelevant – no matter whose ancestors made them – because we only use silver nowadays.’

  ‘Where does the silver come from?’ asked Geoffrey, hoping to begin a conversation that would give tempers a chance to cool. Tasso’s sword was still drawn, but he had lowered it, while Sendi’s dagger was back in its sheath. Sendi was like a fighting cock, Geoffrey thought. His temper flared quickly, but it subsided just as fast. Tasso was the brooding type, who would still be furious in an hour.

  ‘Mine comes from Lideforda in Devon,’ Osmaer explained, seeing what Geoffrey was trying to do and determined to give him all the help he could. He rattled off more information than was needed, watching with wary eyes as Tasso took a breath to calm himself and eventually shoved his weapon away. ‘Lideforda is also favoured by Sewine of Exeter, who produces exceptionally fine coins. We are all admirers of Sewine.’

  ‘We are,’ agreed Maude with an ambiguous smile. ‘He is quite a man!’

  ‘My silver comes from Lideforda, too,’ said Sendi. He smiled at Osmaer, trying to atone for his lapse of manners, desperate to win the man’s support. ‘So does some of Barcwit’s.’

  ‘We buy ours from a variety of sources,’ explained Maude, declining to rise to the bait. ‘You never know when one mine’s output might become unpredictable – or simply run out – and it is good practice to have more than one supplier.’

  ‘But different sources lead to irregular qualities,’ argued Sendi immediately. ‘And—’

  ‘Please!’ interrupted Geoffrey, becoming exasperated by their constant sniping. ‘I want to hear what Osmaer has to say, and I cannot if you argue over every detail.’

  ‘Perhaps Sendi can answer your questions, while Osmaer and I enjoy a goblet of wine,’ suggested Maude. The glance she shot the man smouldered with sensual promise. ‘I am very thirsty.’

  ‘I do not take wine when I am working,’ said Osmaer, flustered. ‘But my wife will give you some.’

  Adelise shot her a spiteful smile, so Maude promptly bumped into a table, upsetting an inkpot that splattered its contents over her rival’s kirtle. Adelise’s smirk turned to dismay.

  ‘So sorry,’ said Maude. ‘You had better go and soak that before it stains.’

  ‘Ink is permanent,’ snapped Adelise. ‘As any decent woman knows. This kirtle is ruined!’

  ‘Ask John to help you look for another,’ suggested Geoffrey helpfully. ‘I am sure he will oblige.’

  Osmaer gave a gulp of laughter, more from nervousness than amusement. ‘We call him the “Shopping Bishop” in Bath, because he enjoys haggling for trinkets. But, you did not come here to discuss our clerics, Sir Geoffrey. You came to learn about the process of moneying. Now, once we have cast the silver buttons, we hammer them to a predetermined thickness. Each ingot weighs a pound, and we aim to make precisely two hundred and forty discs from it.’

  ‘It is a very skilled part of the process,’ added Sendi. ‘It is important to get every coin in the realm as alike in size as possible. Or at least, some of us try.’ He looked meaningfully at Rodbert.

  ‘Barcwit does not,’ Lifwine confided to Geoffrey, lest the knight had not understood Sendi’s point. ‘His are made from overly thin silver and they are lighter than the legal twenty-two and a half grains. It means he gets an extra thirty pennies from every ingot – and that is a lot of money.’

  ‘It is,’ acknowledged Geoffrey. ‘Thirty pennies would pay a household servant for a month.’

  ‘You see?’ said Rodbert to Tasso. ‘He is agreeing with Sendi’s men already.’

  ‘I am not,’ said Geoffrey impatiently. ‘I merely said thirty pennies is a lot of money.’ He cut across Rodbert’s response and addressed Osmaer. ‘What happens after the discs are hammered flat?’

  ‘When they reach a specific standard, we call them blanks,’ said Osmaer. ‘That means they are ready for coining – but only when my cambium is happy that they are the correct size and weight.’

  ‘That is what I do,’ supplied Lifwine proudly. ‘I am Sendi’s cambium.’

  ‘But not a very independent one,’ Geoffrey heard Osmaer mutter, in the only personal opinion about the Bristol men he was to offer all morning. Osmaer did not approve of a cambium who was so thick with his moneyer, but he said no more, and Geoffrey did not ask him to elaborate.

  ‘Then comes the interesting part,’ said Sendi, who had not heard the comment. ‘With the dies.’

  ‘Every mint must purchase dies from Otto the Goldsmith in London,’ said Osmaer. ‘They are expensive and last for a limited period of time. When they wear out, we must buy new ones.’

  ‘Some of us do,’ said Rodbert unpleasantly. ‘But some doctor them, so they can continue to be used after they should be thrown away. This saves the corrupt moneyer a lot of expense.’

  ‘Some mints do use their dies more than they should,’ said Osmaer, carefully looking at no one. ‘But coins made with worn dies are inferior, and since every die is marked with the name of the moneyer, it is easy to see who has been cheating.’

  ‘Mules,’ said Geoffrey, recalling the discussion at Westminster. ‘Where the two sides of a coin are made from non-matching dies.’

  ‘Exactly,’ agreed Osmaer. ‘That is one way some mints extend the lives of their dies.’

  ‘And some moneyers change the name on the dies, too,’ said Rodbert, gazing at Sendi. ‘Some coiners change their own names to someone else’s.’

  ‘It happens,’ said Osmaer. He hurried on with his explanation when Sendi started to protest his innocence, and picked up two pieces of metal from a table. ‘This is a die, and you can see it is in two parts. The “pile” or lower part, has a spike which is driven into the workbench and so is held stable. The silver blank is placed on the pile. The upper part is the “trussel”, which is placed over the blank, so the blank is between them. The trussel is held in place by a twisted withe—’

  ‘Then it is struck,’ finished Edric enthusiastically. ‘That is the fun part.’

  ‘The pile carries the obverse of the coin,’ said Adelise. She regarded Geoffrey superiorly. ‘That is the side with the King’s head on it – “heads” to you. The trussel carries the reverse, which bears a cross, the name of the moneyer and the place of issue.’

  Osmaer handed Geoffrey a bright new coin. ‘Here is my name, written around the top in good, clean letters, and BATHAN for Bath is at the bottom.’

  ‘But not all letters are good and clean,’ said Sendi. ‘And because most people do not read, they will not know some letters are meaningless. Thus the corrupt moneyer ensures he is safe, because his own name is not carried on the coin.’

  ‘We have safeguards against corruption,’ said Osmaer to Geoffrey. He nodded at a man who leaned close to his work because his eyes were ruined from working in bad light. ‘My cambium assays my blanks and coins. Nothing leaves my mint that he has not inspected.’

  ‘Unfortunately, it depends on having a reliable cambium,’ said Adelise. ‘Ones who are perpetually drunk are not good regulators.’

  ‘Nor are ones who lick the—’ began Rodbert hotly.

  ‘And that is all I can tell you,’ said Osmaer loudly to Geoffrey. ‘It is simple, but skilled. There are safeguards to prevent corruption, although the determined cheat will circumvent them.’ His gaze encompassed all his visitors. ‘But the penalties are dire – severed hands and testicles, heavy fines and the loss of all property. Only a fool would do it.’

  ‘Look out!’ shouted someone in the silence that followed Osmaer’s none-too-subtle warning.

  Only Geoffrey’s quick reactions saved him from serious harm as one of the casts
of molten silver upended and splattered over the floor. Osmaer’s apprentices immediately darted forward with buckets of sand to prevent fire. The cast had been full, and Geoffrey did not like to imagine the injuries he might have sustained had it spilled on him. He glanced at the Saxons, trying to gauge which one had made this latest attempt on his life, but found he could not tell, and there was no point in ordering the culprit to own up. They would only accuse each other and begin another argument.

  ‘Dangerous places, mints,’ said Rodbert flatly.

  Sendi agreed. ‘You should never turn your back on molten metal.’

  ‘Christ’s wounds!’ breathed Osmaer, ushering his unwelcome guests out of his workshop while his apprentices dealt with the mess. He spoke in a low voice to Geoffrey. ‘You may visit me again, if I can be of further help to the King, but please do not bring this rabble with you.’

  It was dry that afternoon, although cold and windy. Roger, Helbye and Ulfrith were nowhere to be found, and Geoffrey supposed they had found some cosy and doubtless disreputable tavern where they would spend the rest of the day with their dice. The Saxons were bickering in John’s hall, while the Bishop himself was touring the market with a chain of servants to carry his purchases. Warelwast was still at the abbey, and Bloet was drinking himself into a state of even blacker depression, despite Durand’s attempts to distract him with wittily spiteful chatter. Geoffrey did not want to be with any of them, so elected to see more of Bath by himself.

  He clicked his fingers to his dog as he left, but wind was whistling down the chimney, and the animal gave him the kind of look that indicated it thought he was insane. Geoffrey did not press it. It was not good company, with its penchant for killing chickens and harrying goats, and he was just as happy to leave it behind.

  He spent a long time admiring the Saxon abbey, then inspected the foundations that were being laid for its Norman replacement. Dusk approached, but he did not feel like returning to John’s house to be insulted – or worse – so set out in search of the hot springs for which the town was famous. The gate of the largest fountain was locked for the night, so he decided to look for some of the smaller ones, in the hope that they would still be open.

  He discovered one in the southwest quarter of the town, housed in an unstable structure that was made of the same pale sandstone as the abbey. Its guardian had either forgotten to secure it, or it was not considered worth locking, because its door was ajar. He walked inside and waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. Finding a lamp near the door, he kindled it to discover walls that were thickly coated in slime, but saw faint splashes of colour underneath: once, when the town was more important, they had been decorated with bright and elaborate paintings.

  In front of him was a cistern full of a sulphurous liquid. It was fed and drained by lead-lined conduits, so it would never overflow but always be full, and, although the system was ancient – its stones were worn and its channels furred with salt deposits – it still worked. He knelt to dip a tentative hand in the water, and was pleasantly surprised as the warmth soaked through his chilled skin.

  Geoffrey did not take baths – although he had once made an exception in the Holy Land – because only a fool divested himself of clothes and armour and sat in a vat of water. But there was something appealing about the green tank before him, perhaps because it was hot and not topped by a layer of scum from previous users. He thought about the number of people who had recently told him he was dirty, and made his decision.

  He closed the door and placed a stave across it. It was not a particularly strong door, and the bar was soft and rotten, but it would serve to keep out casual visitors and afford him some privacy. Then, for the second time in as many days, he divested himself of his clothes. Clad in tunic and baggy braes, he walked across the floor to the bath and stared at the steaming water. The lamplight gave it an emerald sheen, and the spring that provided its fresh water rippled its surface. He could not see the bottom, and was inclined to abandon the whole foolish venture and join Roger in his game of dice. But it had taken him some time to clamber out of his armour, and it seemed a pity to give up now. Not liking the notion of a wet tunic when he dressed again, he shrugged it off and laid it on the floor, although the braes remained in place: only Greeks, heathens and the insane bathed naked, as far as he was aware.

  He sat on the side of the bath and lowered one foot. The water was hot and tingling, so he dipped the other one in, too. He remained there for some time, enjoying the sensation of heat bubbling around his legs. Then he took a deep breath and launched himself forward, keeping one hand on the edge in case some hidden current caught him and tried to drag him away, as the Avon had done to Warelwast. But the water only reached his chest, and he discovered underwater benches that allowed bathers to sit. Reclining against the hot stones, with the water flowing around his body, was one of the most pleasurable sensations he had ever experienced. He closed his eyes and relaxed properly for the first time in weeks. The sound of the wind outside made him feel warm and comfortable, and soon he did not even notice the rank smell of sulphur and mould.

  He had no idea how long he had been asleep when he woke with a start. The lamp had burned out, and it was dark. He raised one hand, feeling fingers that were tender and wrinkled from being soaked too long. He was overly hot, too, and sweat trickled in his eyes. He listened hard, wondering what had woken him, and wished his dog were there, because it was excellent at warning of lurking menaces. Rain had started to patter on the roof, but the only other sound was the gurgle of water from the spring. He was about to climb out, assuming the heat had roused him from his doze, when he heard something else: the soft tap of a leather-soled shoe on a flagstone.

  He tensed. His sword and knives were with his clothes on the opposite side of the chamber, and he cursed himself as a fool for wanting to take a bath when he should have known no good would come from it. He stood slowly, and glanced at the door. It was still closed. Then he scanned the room and saw a dark space where earlier there had been a wall. There was a second way in, which he had not noticed, and he supposed the algae covering the walls had disguised it, along with the fact that he had not bothered to conduct a proper search.

  He stayed stock still for a long time, feeling the water move around his body as he listened for any indication that someone else was there. There was nothing but silence. He took a step forward, towards the centre of the bath, and then he was underwater. Too late, he realized it was deeper in the middle than around the edges, designed to give bathers the choice of immersing themselves or sitting. He splashed to the surface and made his way to one side, eager to put solid ground under his feet.

  Then the attack came. He saw a dark shadow looming over him, and knew from the elongated arm that it held a dagger. He jerked back in time to avoid the blow, but that put him in the path of a second assailant. Strong hands fastened around his throat, immediately tightening, so he could not breathe.

  He knew he did not have long to act. He would quickly become light-headed from lack of air, and once he lost his strength it would be an easy matter for the two men to drown, strangle or stab him. He jerked to one side, so the man gripping his throat crashed into the one with the knife. Someone cursed, and there was a plop as the dagger fell in the water. Then he took a firm grip on the arm around his neck, braced his feet on the side of the bath, and pushed forward as hard as he could.

  The result was spectacular. The would-be strangler flew over his head, landing with an enormous slap that drove the breath from his body, because he surfaced gasping and choking. Geoffrey took a deep breath and ducked in a desperate attempt to locate the dropped knife. When his groping fingers eventually encountered it, he pushed to the surface, aiming to stab the second assailant. But the man was ready for him and, as Geoffrey broke through the water, he lashed out with his fist. He missed, but the blow was so forceful that he lost his balance. He, too, fell in the water, landing on Geoffrey and forcing him under with the weight of his body. The
knife slipped from Geoffrey’s hand.

  Geoffrey tried to wriggle away, but the first assailant had joined the second and suddenly four hands combined to keep his head under the surface. He kicked with his feet and punched with his hands, but could not break their hold. The sound of churning water roared in his ears, and he was aware that his struggles were becoming more feeble. At first, all he could see was darkness, but then pinpoints of light began to dance before his eyes. He gradually abandoned his attempts to break free, and felt himself floating. At first, he thought he was moving up, to where he would be able to suck air into his protesting lungs. But then something bumped against his face and he knew he had gone down, to the bottom of the bath.

  Geoffrey dreamed he was swimming in the Holy Land, where scarlet hills plunged into a warm ocean fringed with amber sands. His dog spoiled the idyllic scene by barking furiously. Tancred was there, too, explaining why he had released his knight from his vow of allegiance and asserting that Henry was a good master, worthy of loyalty. When Geoffrey responded with a disgusted snort, he began to choke. Then the peaceful lapping of waves on a sun-drenched beach receded until only the dog’s strident barks remained, along with the splintering of wood.

  For an instant, he had no idea where he was, but the air tasted of sulphur and then everything snapped into place. He was hanging on to the side of the bath, and someone was pounding on the door he had barred. He hauled himself out of the water and slapped wet-footed to where his sword lay on his clothes, gripping it with both hands and ready to fight whoever was so determined to enter. The door flew open with a crash and Geoffrey’s dog was suddenly at his side, winding around his legs. Then it went to the second door – the one Geoffrey had missed – and shot out of it.

  ‘You should choose your wenches with more care, lad,’ said Roger, regarding him disapprovingly. Durand and the others were behind him. ‘This one almost drowned you. What happened?’