The Coiner's Quarrel

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘I am tempted to stay, too,’ said Maude. ‘I enjoyed our tryst and would like to know you better. But Barcwit is waiting.’

  ‘So is Rodbert,’ said Geoffrey, nodding to where the deputy moneyer was scowling at them. ‘You had better go, before he tells Barcwit some tale about us, just to be nasty.’

  ‘He would not dare,’ said Maude. ‘Barcwit would want to know why he had not prevented it, and then it would not just be you chopped into pieces and fed to the dogs.’

  ‘Dear, gentle Barcwit,’ said Geoffrey wryly. ‘A kindly soul, much loved by good men.’

  Maude gave him one of her mocking smiles. ‘Do not tell me you are a good man, Geoffrey. That would be most disappointing.’

  The travellers clattered away, and Geoffrey began the first of several long and tedious days at the side of his ailing friend. He borrowed a scroll from the abbey, which listed plants and their medicinal uses, and read that neither yew leaves nor bryony roots should have worsened Helbye’s condition. He even rubbed some on his own leg to check for adverse reactions. Nothing happened, other than a slight tingling sensation that was not unpleasant.

  ‘You think Clarembald poisoned him?’ whispered Roger, while Helbye slept.

  Geoffrey rubbed his eyes, which ached from deciphering the tiny writing. ‘Several attempts on my life have failed, so someone might be trying an alternative way of keeping me from Bristol.’

  Roger stared at him. ‘By harming Helbye? That would be a sly thing to do.’

  Geoffrey agreed. ‘But it worked. Who knows how long we may have to wait until he is well enough to ride? It is frustrating, because I wanted to watch the moneyers when they arrive home, to see whether they meet anyone or go anywhere that might give me some clue as to who is lying and who is telling the truth.’

  ‘I do not like any of them,’ declared Roger vehemently. ‘If I learn that one has fed Helbye something to make him sick, I will run him through.’

  ‘No,’ said Geoffrey, watching the old man shift fitfully in his sleep, ‘because I will do it first.’

  By the next day, however, Helbye had improved. He urged the others to leave without him, but he had been with them through many awkward situations, and they declined to abandon him. While he rested, Geoffrey amused himself by reading more of the abbey’s medical scrolls, learning that wild thyme was a good cure for the headaches associated with too much wine, and that hemp juice in the ears was good for getting rid of worms in the stomach.

  On the evening of the third day, Durand slipped into the sickroom. ‘I have been visiting shops with Bishop John,’ he said. He shook his head in admiration. ‘That man certainly knows his way around a market! I needed some silk to make myself new braes, and he knew where to find just what I wanted. We had a most enjoyable afternoon.’

  ‘I see,’ said Geoffrey. He had not known his squire’s undergarments were silk, nor that he made them himself. Sewing with costly materials was not a skill most knights bothered to learn.

  ‘We bought some for you, too,’ Durand went on. ‘Two new tunics and more braes. You can pay me back when I collect them tomorrow. They were such a bargain that I could not resist them, and you really do need more. I had not realized your old ones were in such a state until I saw them in the bathhouse the other night. They are rather foul, if you want the truth.’

  Geoffrey was aghast. ‘You bought me silk underclothes?’

  Durand smothered a smile. ‘Of course not: silk would be wasted on you! Yours will be made from durable linen from Ireland. That is one of the advantages of being near the sea – imported goods are readily available. Bristol does a brisk trade with Ireland, which is why Bloet thinks the missing silver is no longer in the country, if you recall. But I did not come to regale you with details of my afternoon, delightful though it was. I came to say that I visited the apothecary’s shop with John – I wanted to buy a salve for this spot on my nose, and John wanted to know what Clarembald had purchased. The spot is becoming unsightly, and I must be rid of it before I meet Bloet again.’

  ‘Did this apothecary know anything about dishonest moneyers?’ asked Geoffrey hopefully.

  ‘No, but he told John that Clarembald bought every last grain of his bryony.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey, wondering what the squire was getting at. ‘He slathered it thickly on Helbye’s hip, so I am not surprised he needed a lot of it.’

  ‘The apothecary said large doses are dangerous for women – they bring on bleeding, cause babies to abort, that kind of thing.’ Durand saw Geoffrey was bemused and tried to make himself clear. ‘It is a strong herb, and not only for women, I wager. Helbye is better now you are the only one tending him.’

  Geoffrey frowned. ‘You think Clarembald used too much bryony in his poultice?’

  Helbye winced as he eased himself into a sitting position. ‘But you tried it on yourself and it caused you no problems.’

  Geoffrey rubbed his chin. ‘But Clarembald said that a thief had been in his bags and stolen the items he had bought in Bath …’

  ‘Precisely!’ said Durand. ‘The thief did not steal the rare and expensive items Clarembald has been guarding ever since we left Westminster, but the common potions bought here – bryony, which will not kill, but may lay a man low and prevent him from travelling.’

  ‘You think this potion was intended for Sir Geoffrey?’ asked Helbye.

  Durand shrugged. ‘It does not matter who was dosed with it. The point is that Sir Geoffrey was prevented from going to Bristol when he intended, thus giving his suspects ample time to hide things, prepare witnesses for his interrogations, and God knows what else. Clarembald may be the culprit, and he claimed the bryony was stolen to throw us off his scent. Or he may be innocent, and someone else took advantage of his purchases.’

  ‘In other words, anyone could have done it,’ said Geoffrey in disgust. ‘Just like everything else in this wretched case.’

  ‘Or no one,’ said Durand. ‘I know it was me who brought all this up, but there is always the possibility that everything is exactly as it seems: Clarembald was robbed by thieves who just happened to steal the bag containing bryony, and poor Helbye is simply ill after a night in the rain. There is no way to tell without more evidence.’

  ‘No,’ said Helbye firmly. ‘I know my own body, and the agonies in my hip are nothing like the twinges I have had before. I have been poisoned: there is no doubt about it.’

  Seven

  Bristol, November 1102

  Three more days passed before Geoffrey deemed Helbye fit enough to travel. The old soldier had become fastidious about what he ate or drank, and refused to touch anything that had not been tried by the others first. John provided him with a syrup of poppy juice to ease the discomfort of the journey ahead, but Helbye declined to touch even that until Durand had taken a healthy swig. It was therefore a pleasant trip, with Helbye free from pain, Durand sleepy and mercifully silent, and Geoffrey feeling fresh and clean in his new underclothes. John and Warelwast accompanied them – John because he wanted to see whether any new or interesting goods had found their way to Bristol since he had last visited, and Warelwast because he seemed glued to Geoffrey’s side.

  It was an unusually bright morning, which was one of the reasons why Geoffrey had elected to travel, even though it was Sunday – a day normally reserved for rest and religious activities. He wanted to reach Bristol and settle Helbye somewhere warm and dry before the rain started again. They left at first light and, even with Helbye’s infirmity, went far more quickly than they had with the Saxons and their baggage trains. It was not ten o’clock before they breasted a hill and looked down on the settlement that nestled at the confluence of two rivers. The mighty Avon curled and twisted to the south, while the smaller Frome lay to the north; the town and castle stood between them.

  Bristol Castle, like many others in England, had been raised by the Conqueror’s vassals to subdue the local population with a show of Norman might. The motte was surmounted by a wooden watch tower,
and a moat encircled the bailey, formed by channels dug from the rivers. The moat was fringed by a wooden fence, which was currently being strengthened in stone at its more vulnerable points. To the west lay the town. Like Bath, it had been a Saxon burgh, so its main streets were enclosed within walls, although the settlement was expanding and some houses lay outside. There were several bridges across the Frome, but only one across the stronger, powerfully tidal Avon.

  ‘What will you do first, Geoff?’ asked Roger, as they rode towards it. ‘Will you see Barcwit, and tell him what he is accused of?’

  ‘Maude and Rodbert will already have informed him. That was one reason why I wanted to be with them when they arrived back – to gauge his reaction.’

  ‘How about Sendi, then?’ asked Roger. ‘Will you demand to see his records – this so-called evidence he has amassed that will prove Barcwit’s guilt beyond the shadow of a doubt?’

  ‘Barcwit is the one accused, so we should start with him. Now, in fact, while he still feels holy from his Sunday devotions and so less likely to lie.’

  Warelwast gave a snort of derision. ‘Barcwit does not go to church – unless it is at the witching hour and he is carrying satanic regalia. You will waste your time if you scour the churches for him.’

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Roger curiously. ‘Have you seen him dabbling in sorcery?’

  ‘I spend a good deal of time here,’ replied Warelwast. ‘But I have never observed him entering a church.’

  ‘Have you ever seen him in person?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Clarembald told me he has not, despite his frequent visits to Bristol.’

  Warelwast ignored John’s disdainful grunt when his rival was mentioned. ‘He and I often travel together, since we live in Exeter. But I have seen Barcwit. He has a habit of standing and watching.’

  ‘Standing and watching what?’

  ‘Public hangings mostly,’ replied Warelwast. ‘He can see the gibbet from his mint, and I have often spied him observing the proceedings from his window.’

  Geoffrey knew some men enjoyed that sort of entertainment, although he was not among them. ‘What does he look like?’

  ‘He always dresses in black and his face is white. It gleams palely underneath his hood, because he never goes out in the sun. Only at night.’

  ‘He wears a hood inside his house?’ asked Geoffrey, thinking Barcwit sounded a little mad. ‘While he watches executions?’

  ‘He is an odd man,’ acknowledged John. ‘I have invested with him for years, and a good deal of money has changed hands. I must be one of his better customers – all strictly legal, as you will discover when you inspect his records – but he has never once greeted me in person. I see him at his window occasionally, watching me leave, but we have never spoken.’

  ‘He is savage as well as strange,’ added Warelwast. ‘You should take care when you meet him. He bites the heads off pigeons to amuse himself, and I have heard he would like to do the same to a man.’

  Geoffrey could not stop himself from laughing. ‘That would require either some very large teeth or a good deal of hard chewing. Human heads do not come off so easily.’

  Both clerics regarded him askance. ‘How do you know?’ asked John.

  ‘We have been to the Holy Land,’ said Roger, by way of explanation. The mysteriously evasive answer only served to increase their unease, and neither churchman spoke for some time.

  They rode across the bridge, which spanned the river at a point where the Avon was relatively narrow, although the silky coating of mud on its steep banks indicated a substantial tide. Once across, they passed through a gate and found themselves on one of the town’s main thoroughfares. It was lined by shops that had John’s eyes alight with gleeful anticipation.

  ‘There is an inn,’ said Helbye, pointing to a seedy-looking building called the Raven. The journey had tired him more than he was prepared to admit. ‘We can discuss how to approach Barcwit over a cup of ale.’

  ‘I will see him alone,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I do not want him on his guard because he thinks I have brought half the King’s army with me.’

  Roger objected, but Geoffrey did not want to lose what small element of surprise he had left by sitting in a tavern while he waited for Helbye to recover. He handed the reins of his horse to Durand, and strode up the high street to where John told him Barcwit’s mint was located. It was not difficult to find, particularly having visited a similar place in Bath. He smelled it before he saw it, identifiable by the sharp stink of hot metal, the coals that were needed to melt the silver, and the dirty aroma of dust and burning, even though it was Sunday and the furnaces were supposedly banked.

  Barcwit’s domain comprised an elongated building, which stood just north of the crossroads that marked the town’s centre. Geoffrey glanced up at the upper window that overlooked the street, and saw it was empty of spectators that morning. He knocked sharply on the door and waited for someone to answer. Eventually, he heard footsteps on the other side, and a grille clicked open.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Who are you?’ Geoffrey demanded in his turn.

  ‘Colblac, chief clerk to Master Barcwit.’

  ‘Open the door,’ ordered Geoffrey. ‘I am here to see Barcwit – in the name of the King.’

  ‘I will fetch Rodbert,’ said Colblac, and the grille snapped shut. Geoffrey sighed, suspecting it was going to be as difficult to extract information in Bristol as it had been on the journey west. It was some time before the grille cracked open a second time, and Rodbert’s blue eyes appeared on the other side.

  ‘Barcwit is busy,’ said Rodbert rudely.

  ‘It is Sunday,’ Geoffrey pointed out. ‘His mint is closed – unless he ignores the Church’s rules about working on Sundays. Now, let me in, before I tell the King you refused to co-operate.’

  The grille closed a second time and, for a moment, Geoffrey thought the deputy had ignored his threat and gone away, but there was a scraping sound as bolts were drawn back and the door was tugged open. Geoffrey stepped into a thin corridor, with an open door to the left, and a closed one at the far end. Clanks and knocks emanated from behind it, indicating some sort of labour was in progress, Sabbath or no. Geoffrey also noticed that someone had recently washed the floor, perhaps in an attempt to hide the fact that work was going on. Footprints of all shapes and sizes had trampled the wet flagstones, suggesting they had seen a good deal of traffic that morning.

  Rodbert led the way to the open door, and preceded Geoffrey into an airy room, where tables and benches were set to catch the light. Documents were stacked on shelves that covered almost every inch of wall. Colblac sat at a desk with a scroll in front of him; it was a devotional tract with religious motifs in the margins. It was upside-down and, since any clerk would be able to read, Geoffrey assumed the man had grabbed it in a hasty attempt to conceal what he had really been doing. He pushed the scroll to one side, revealing a list of accounts, the ink on which was still wet.

  ‘Prayers,’ said Colblac defiantly, not anticipating that a Crusader knight would be literate.

  ‘Prayers about the price of silver?’ asked Geoffrey, gratified to see the man start in surprise.

  ‘Barcwit is not here,’ said Rodbert rudely. ‘And he would refuse to deal with you on the Sabbath, anyway, because he is a very religious man.’

  ‘Which church did he attend?’ asked Geoffrey, thinking he would speak to the priest, to find out once and for all whether Barcwit was devout or a pagan.

  ‘St Ewen’s,’ said Rodbert. His expression was smug. ‘But it was a private mass, so no one saw him.’ He walked to the door and indicated Geoffrey should leave. ‘I will tell him you called.’

  ‘Sir Geoffrey,’ said Maude, sweeping into the office. Her amber eyes were mischievous, and she looked as though she was pleased to see him. ‘How is Helbye? Has he recovered?’

  ‘Frail old men and squires who wish they were women,’ said Rodbert in disdain. ‘And dirty knights with gaudy surcoats. What was t
he King thinking of, to appoint such people to investigate us?’

  ‘Actually,’ said Maude, walking in a circle around Geoffrey, ‘he is not as dirty as I recall. Has the rain washed him clean? And do I see a new tunic under his armour?’

  Geoffrey was disconcerted she had noticed, and supposed he had allowed himself to become grimier than he had appreciated. ‘If Barcwit is not in, then what about your cambium?’ he asked, determined not to allow her to deflect him from his purpose. ‘If he is sober, then at least one of Sendi’s claims against you will be deemed void.’

  ‘He is visiting his mother,’ said Rodbert, in a way that suggested he was lying.

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘I am not sure,’ said Maude, before Rodbert could answer. More intelligent than the deputy, she knew it was unwise to antagonize the King’s agent. ‘But perhaps you would care to take a cup of wine? Tasso will be home soon, and I am sure he will be delighted to see you.’

  ‘When will the cambium be back?’ asked Geoffrey, equally sure he would not.

  ‘Later,’ she replied vaguely. ‘But he will be tired and will retire directly to bed, as he always does of a Sunday evening. Come tomorrow, and I will ask if he is willing to speak to you.’

  ‘Willing to speak to me?’ Geoffrey was amused by her audacity. ‘He must, or the King will assume you have something to hide, and find in Sendi’s favour. I am sure you do not want to lose everything because your cambium cannot take a few moments to answer my questions.’

  Maude’s face lost its playful expression. ‘Our cambium is a contrary fellow and pleases himself what he will do. I will tell him it is imperative he speaks to you, but he may decline. He is not Lifwine, who does everything he is told. Our cambium is independent and free to do what he likes.’

  ‘I see,’ said Geoffrey, wondering whether ‘independent’ was a euphemism for ‘drunk’. ‘However, he is not free of the King, and it is in Henry’s name that I ask these questions.’