Geoffrey regarded his squire thoughtfully. ‘Bloet dined with Barcwit?’
‘That is what I said,’ snapped Durand, scrubbing his face with his hand. He was on the verge of weeping again. ‘Barcwit invited him, but he evades you. What does that suggest?’
‘That he prefers the company of his investors to men who threaten to expose his corruption?’
‘You are missing my point,’ said Durand, frustrated. ‘Like everyone, Bloet is afraid of Barcwit. However, he went to the man exuding charm and good manners, and was granted an audience – he was even guest of honour at Barcwit’s table. But does Barcwit do the same for you? No! He rides to Dundreg instead. My point is that Bloet succeeds where you do not. You are crude and brutal – and that is why I do not want to be with you any more.’
‘I see,’ said Geoffrey tiredly. He supposed he should have anticipated that Durand would want to leave him, now he was no longer bound to Tancred. Should he let him go? It would be one fewer mouth to feed with his rapidly dwindling resources, and he could hardly be expected to continue with Durand’s training now Tancred had dismissed him.
‘I apologize,’ said Durand miserably. ‘I should not have said that, but I am out of sorts today. Surely you have met someone who stole your heart, and made you realize life can be so much better?’
Geoffrey nodded slowly. ‘There was a woman once …’ He did not know how to continue, so he led his horse out to the bailey to mask his discomfort.
‘Who?’ asked Durand, following him. ‘Maude? You certainly enjoyed her company in Bath.’
‘It was not Maude,’ said Geoffrey. ‘It was a lady who …’ He trailed off a second time, unused to discussing matters that were still painful, even after several years.
Durand sensed his reticence and did not press the matter. ‘All I ask is that you think about my request. But do not go riding now. It looks like rain.’ He gestured to the dark clouds above.
His comment drew a reluctant smile from Geoffrey, who saw he had taught Durand nothing he had not wanted to learn. Durand still believed in remaining indoors each time a cloud appeared and, if anything, was even less of a warrior than when they had first been forced together.
Geoffrey climbed into his saddle and rode away, thinking about what Durand had said – that Barcwit had not only granted Bloet an interview, but had entertained him, too. Was it because Bloet was more charming? Or was there another reason Barcwit was willing to entertain the courtier? Geoffrey clattered out of the bailey, but was not so preoccupied that he did not notice Clarembald watching him from the shadows of an archway. He reined in and stared at the physician until he emerged.
‘Going out?’ said Clarembald. ‘You should ride to Dundreg, where there are splendid views.’
‘That is where Barcwit has gone,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Why were you watching me?’
The physician’s ginger brows waved. ‘I wanted to talk, but I believe in assessing men’s moods before launching into delicate discussions. I gauged yours to be preoccupied and uneasy, so I decided to wait. That is why I hid.’
Geoffrey was not sure whether to believe him. ‘What did you want to talk about?’
‘Your investigation, especially the part that involves me. Has Barcwit said anything about me? I assure you it will not be true. However, I guarantee you will find the “Shopping Bishop” is involved in something sinister.’
‘Barcwit declines to speak to me about you, John or anyone else.’
Clarembald rubbed his chin. ‘That is interesting. He is usually eager to meet men he perceives to be a threat, because he is keen to bully them into submission. Have you heard what people are saying about the Three Rainbows? They believe they were a sign from God that Barcwit’s reign will soon end – and that you, the King’s agent, will be their deliverer.’
Geoffrey shook his head. ‘Giffard will do that. However, he will achieve it by executing half the town – including my sister – if I do not find answers soon.’
‘People are frightened, and need the hope such omens offer,’ said Clarembald. ‘They were cheered by the fact that Sendi had the courage to go to the King about Barcwit, but were appalled when His Majesty failed to act on the accusations. And now look at what has happened to poor Sendi.’
‘What?’ asked Geoffrey uneasily. ‘He was well enough yesterday. Is he dead?’
‘One of his new dies has been stolen. If Barcwit has it, then he will use it to make bad coins in Sendi’s name and ruin him. It is a disaster of enormous proportions.’
‘How did it happen?’ asked Geoffrey, recalling the heavy palisade around Sendi’s insalubrious premises and the thick doors. ‘His mint is very secure.’
‘Not secure enough, apparently.’ Clarembald touched a hand to his hat. ‘But you have told me all I wanted to know, so I shall leave you to your ride. If you go to Dundreg, watch out for the marshes near Estune. Barcwit might know his way through them, but you will become bogged down, and your horse is not in the best of conditions.’
Geoffrey ignored Clarembald’s advice for the simple reason that he had come to assume everyone was lying to him, or following some personal agenda. But he had not gone far before he discovered the physician was right, and that the boggy wasteland near Estune was a maze of twisting paths, smelly marshes and impenetrable undergrowth, none of which his horse appreciated. It balked and sulked, and was reluctant to gallop, even when the road was firm.
But it was pleasant to be alone, and he stood for a long time watching the Avon ooze through a deep, rocky canyon as he considered the few facts he had accumulated. He returned to the castle as the sun was beginning to set, and spent the evening listening to more of Warelwast’s grand plans for Exeter cathedral. Olivier and Roger sat near the fire, heads close together as they continued to regale each other with their litanies of lies. Joan watched them fondly.
‘I am beginning to like your friend,’ she said. ‘He is dirty and rude, but I have not seen Olivier so animated for years.’ Her gaze settled on Warelwast, who was gathering his belongings in preparation for bed. ‘But I do not like him. Why does he wear that doll around his neck?’
‘He thinks it is a sign from God.’
Joan snorted her disdain. ‘He has fastened himself to you like a leech to a festering wound.’
Geoffrey raised his eyebrows. ‘You compare me to a festering wound?’
‘It is an acceptable analogy,’ she said, unrepentant. ‘Trouble always follows you, and you attract the attention of some very unsavoury characters. Your squire is a case in point. There are a hundred good men you could recruit, but you choose one with a devious mind and dishonest fingers, who rails against God every night for not making him a woman.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I heard him. He wants to wear silken—’
‘I mean, how do you know Durand is dishonest? You should tell me if he has done something wrong. It would not be the first time. I am certain he accepted payment from King Henry to spy on me this summer.’
‘He does have a lot of gold,’ agreed Joan. ‘Far more than you; you are all but penniless.’
Geoffrey regarded her warily. ‘And you know that because …?’
‘Olivier and I searched your bags today,’ she replied matter-of-factly. ‘Just before we looked in Durand’s. I wanted to know whether you came here because you are short of funds – if helping me elude the King’s clutches would end in a demand for money.’
‘God’s teeth!’ exclaimed Geoffrey, appalled. ‘Is that what you think?’
She shrugged. ‘Our brothers often claimed that no Mappestone would pee on a burning house unless he was paid first. I do not know you well enough to say whether you are the same. But we are drifting away from Durand. I am not surprised the King set him to spy on you.’
‘You think he is still Henry’s spy?’ asked Geoffrey, trying not to show he was hurt by her comments. He forced himself to think about Durand instead. It was possible the King had continued to pay him after the summer; t
he squire always had plenty of money to spend.
‘I am sure of it.’
Geoffrey studied her, and again had the sense that she was hiding something from him. Her eyes were uncharacteristically shifty, and she fiddled with the pendulous sleeves on her gown. ‘There is something you are not telling me. What is it?’
‘Nothing.’
Geoffrey sighed. ‘Giffard will arrive in a few days and I have nothing to tell him. He will respond by closing both mints and stripping every one of Barcwit’s investors of their property – or worse.’
‘Then you should be pleased,’ said Joan harshly. ‘The family estates will be empty, and you can claim them without the bother of ousting me first.’
‘I do not want Goodrich,’ said Geoffrey, trying to be patient. ‘Besides, the King will take it as forfeit if I do not give him his answers.’
‘You should not have come,’ said Joan softly. ‘Peter and Idonea believe we could have brazened it out, but we cannot now you are here, asking awkward questions. They are right: you will destroy us.’
‘Silence will destroy you,’ argued Geoffrey. ‘So, tell me what you are hiding. Is it about Sendi’s accusations? Or the plot to murder the King? Or this missing silver of Barcwit’s?’
‘Missing silver?’
Geoffrey saw he had touched a nerve. He grabbed her shoulders and forced her to look at him. ‘You have no idea how dangerous it is to keep these things hidden – not just for me, but for you, too.’
‘Are you threatening me?’ asked Joan, shocked.
‘Of course not. I am warning you that—’
‘You are threatening me,’ said Joan, regarding him with a stricken expression. ‘You profess to come here on my behalf, encouraging me to co-operate, but when I keep secrets you become angry. You are not here for me, but for yourself!’
‘You should know me better than that.’
‘But I do not know you!’ cried Joan. ‘We write, but we have not been together for more than a month in twenty years. But I am learning. You are just like our brothers, thinking only of yourself.’
‘Believe that, if you will,’ said Geoffrey, sensing he would not make her change her mind, no matter how eloquently he put his case. He had known it was only a matter of time before they quarrelled, because they always did, despite his affection for her. ‘But I will prove you wrong. However, I need you to help me. Your life may depend on it – Olivier’s, too.’
‘Olivier!’ said Joan, tears in her eyes. ‘You know he is the only man I care about, so he is the one you choose to threaten. I wish you had never come back from the Holy Land!’
‘Joan,’ said Geoffrey with quiet reason, thinking their row had gone too far, and it was time to bring it back to a civilized level. ‘Just tell me what you know about the silver. It may be important, because it relates to Barcwit. I have been inclined to dismiss it, but now I am not sure that is wise.’
‘You will not find it. Men have been looking ever since it was stolen, but not a trace has been found. Ask Bloet: he is here to get it for the King, but he will no more succeed than the rest of us.’
‘You looked for it, too?’
‘With Peter and Idonea.’
‘You are not the kind of person to race off blindly with a spade,’ said Geoffrey. ‘And that means you must have known something that told you how to narrow your search. What?’
She grimaced. ‘You are too astute for your own good. Peter heard a rumour that it had been dumped in the river near the village of Beiminstre, and that the thieves intended to retrieve it later, when the hue and cry had died down. We hired men to dive for it, intending to offer it to the King in exchange for our pardon. But the rumour was no more true than the one that said God had taken it to punish Barcwit for his greed. So, now you know everything. Are you satisfied?’
Her confession had told him nothing helpful, and he was simultaneously disappointed and worried. She mistook his silence for something else entirely.
‘You will die if you try to find Barcwit’s silver and keep it for yourself. Someone will kill you.’
‘Who?’ asked Geoffrey, not liking the fact that her voice carried the hint of a threat. He was unable to keep the disdain from his voice when he glanced at her husband. ‘Olivier?’
His tone was not lost on Joan, and when she spoke she was furious. ‘Olivier is worth ten of you. You have no friends here, Geoffrey. You are alone, and surrounded by folk who want you dead.’
‘I know,’ said Geoffrey with a sigh. ‘I seem to spend my whole life in this situation.’
Geoffrey woke early the next day. It was November grey, with fine drizzle in the air and fog around the river. He felt confined and restless in the castle, and Joan was still angry with him, so he decided to take his horse for another ride outside the town. Since Durand was asleep, he saddled it himself, noting the straps were becoming worn in places, and that the squire should have replaced them.
When he had finished, he stroked his horse’s nose. The animal was showing signs of age: there were grey flecks on its muzzle, and its coat was coarser than he remembered. There was also a dull look in its eyes that he did not like. He had not ridden it in a proper battle for two years, and he wondered how well it would perform when he did it again. Selling it in favour of a younger mount was not a prospect he relished. It took a long time to train them, and he liked the one he had.
He led it outside, climbed into the saddle, then headed towards the Avon, where a road called Wortheslupe ran towards the Bristol Bridge. He paid his toll and clattered across it, riding until he reached a junction. Ahead was a knoll of red cliffs topped by a church, so he took the road to the right, not knowing where it went, but not really caring as long as it did not lead to Estune’s bogs.
The track was not in good repair, and had flooded during the recent rains. He let his horse find its own pace, not surprised that it chose a leisurely amble, as opposed to the energetic gallop it might have enjoyed a couple of years before. He was used to seeing its ears pricked forward when he rode, and was unsettled by the fact that now they flicked back and forth listlessly.
His dog trotted at his side, stopping occasionally to sniff the undergrowth and leave its mark behind. Geoffrey’s mood was gloomy as he reviewed his situation. He was a knight whose lord had dismissed him, with an ageing warhorse, a dog that stole, and a family comprising one sister who was suspicious of his honourable intentions. He had no wife, nor any prospect of one, and the Mappestone clan had neglected to produce any heirs to succeed them; his brother Henry’s sons had died of an ague the previous year.
It was a depressing state of affairs, so he turned his thoughts to what Joan had told him the previous day – that Barcwit had killed their brother as a way to keep her in line. Henry had been found dead one morning with a knife in his stomach. Geoffrey had asked whether the death of his children had unhinged him, but Olivier claimed he had not been very fond of them anyway, because they were too similar to himself. There were no witnesses to Henry’s death, and Joan was adamant that Barcwit had sent a silent-footed killer who had done his work quickly and left no clues.
He turned his thoughts to Alwold. Perhaps Joan had been wise to hunt for the silver in order to bribe Henry – and the same would work for Geoffrey himself when Giffard arrived and learnt he had uncovered nothing of importance. He considered the mysterious Piers, then recalled something else Alwold had said. He had claimed that the ‘priest of St John’s’ was party to ‘the secret’. Feoc was the priest of St John the Baptist’s. Did that mean Feoc knew the whereabouts of the silver? And if so, then had the man befriended Joan as part of a plot to keep the ingots hidden, by leading the King’s agent astray with false information? Feoc seemed honest, but Geoffrey had encountered some very skilled liars, and knew better than to trust someone on the basis of a single meeting.
The sounds of the town were soon behind him – the yells of traders, the clatter of carts, the clang of bells, and the metallic thump of the masons at work on the cas
tle walls. The sounds of the country took their place, and Geoffrey could hear the sharp, sweet trill of larks, the wind hissing in the trees and the gurgle of the river to his right. It was pleasant, and his spirits began to rise. Soon he reached a crossroads overlooked by a hillock. The mound was surmounted by a substantial church, and the houses that clustered around it were affluent and well tended. It was a pretty place, with its gurgling brook and grassy meadows. The only odd thing was that it was wholly devoid of people.
Suddenly, there was a hissing sound that he recognized instantly: an arrow being loosed. He hauled his shield from its clip on his saddle, but he had not anticipated an attack and it was too firmly set to be hoisted fast. Fortunately, the quarrel sailed over his head, but the next one went through his saddle, causing his horse to scream in agony. He jabbed his heels into its sides, intending to thunder through the settlement and away from the ambush, but the animal was in trouble. It took one or two unsteady steps, then another arrow scorched across its flank.
It whinnied in pain, flailing with its front hoofs and almost dislodging him. Another quarrel struck his helmet, and when it glanced off he felt it scour a line down his cheek. His horse was not going to save him, and he knew he would be shot like a cornered stag if he stayed where he was. He hurled himself out of the saddle, rolling across the ground to let the momentum help him to his feet. Instinct told him that the arrows were coming from the house next to the church, and that he would be shot if he tried to run away. There was only one option. Holding his shield in front of him, he powered towards his attackers.
The hail of arrows petered out as he drew nearer, but he did not stop. When he reached the door he lowered his shield and used it as a battering ram. The whole frame tore clean from the wall and toppled inwards. With a bloodcurdling battle cry, he followed it, hauling his broadsword from his belt and preparing to fight whoever was inside. His blood was up, and he felt nothing but blind fury that the horse which had carried him to Jerusalem should be slaughtered so meanly.
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