The Coiner's Quarrel

by Simon Beaufort

  But when he exploded into the dark interior of the house, he stopped in confusion. Cowering in front of him were at least forty people, all clutching each other in terror. Two of the window shutters were ajar, and a couple of men, white-faced and trembling, stood near them with bows. A boy of eleven or twelve stood at a third window, holding a smaller weapon that had evidently been intended as a toy. A priest began to recite a final absolution in a voice that shook, and a baby started to cry. Geoffrey could tell from the expressions on their faces that they all thought they were going to die.

  The room Geoffrey had invaded exuded an odour he recognized only too well: the rank stench of fear. The priest continued his prayers, and the familiar Latin, far from having a comforting effect on his people, served to frighten them all the more. Mothers hugged their babies, and one began to sob.

  ‘What in God’s name are you doing?’ Geoffrey demanded, unnerved by the way they looked at him. He was sharply reminded of people who had huddled in their houses after the Fall of Jerusalem, before they had been massacred. It was not a pleasant memory, and he was unsettled by the fact that the faces in the village near Bristol brought it so vividly to his mind.

  ‘We were only trying to protect ourselves,’ whispered the priest. ‘We almost succeeded.’

  ‘You did not!’ snapped Geoffrey, unwilling to admit it had been a close shave. He waved his sword at the two men and the boy with bows. ‘And put those down, before I chop off your bloody hands!’

  ‘Do not swear!’ admonished the priest. ‘There are women and children here.’

  ‘I shall swear all I like,’ shouted Geoffrey, still furious. ‘Look what you have done to my horse!’

  ‘We were aiming at you; we did not mean to hurt the horse,’ said the boy apologetically, before a woman – his mother judging by the resemblance between them – poked him sharply.

  ‘Well, that is all right, then,’ said Geoffrey sarcastically. ‘All is forgiven.’

  ‘Really?’ asked the boy brightly. ‘That is good. I like it here in Beiminstre, and Father Wido says I am not ready for Heaven just yet.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Geoffrey glanced out of the door to see his horse standing with its head down and its flanks quivering in a way that alarmed him. ‘Then that is too damned bad, because I am tempted to run the lot of you through right now. You have injured my horse.’

  He was not very proud of himself when several children started to cry. He closed his eyes and lowered his sword, feeling the anger drain away from him, leaving only a sick disgust.

  ‘If you spare us, I will see to your mount,’ offered the boy. ‘I will have him right in no time.’

  ‘Stay away from him,’ ordered Geoffrey. ‘You have done enough damage, and he is too valuable to be tampered with by the likes of you.’

  ‘But this is Beiminstre,’ said Father Wido, sounding surprised that Geoffrey should make such a comment. ‘Men travel for miles to have their horses tended by us, and Kea here has a rare talent.’

  ‘You can have anything you want, if you let us live,’ said Kea’s mother. She glanced at the others, and received desperate nods of encouragement. ‘The pick of ponies in our stables – as many as you like. We had a good harvest, too, and you can have some grain. We only ask for our lives.’

  ‘I have a doll,’ said a small child tearfully. ‘You can have her, too – and she has real hair.’

  ‘God’s teeth!’ muttered Geoffrey, discomfited. He had little experience in dealing with peasants, especially children, and felt himself hopelessly out of his depth. ‘I am not going to kill anyone.’

  ‘You said you were,’ said Kea accusingly. He put a comforting arm around the smaller child, and Geoffrey supposed they were brother and sister.

  ‘I have changed my mind,’ replied Geoffrey shortly. ‘But what were you thinking of, opening fire on harmless passers-by? If the King catches you doing it, he will not be so merciful.’

  ‘We would not shoot the King,’ said Kea scornfully. ‘We would never ambush anyone wearing a crown. But we thought you came from him, and we were trying to protect ourselves. We do not want to be slaughtered without putting up a bit of a fight.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Geoffrey. He recalled Peter saying that Nauntel had been murdered in a place called Beiminstre. ‘Sir Peter de la Mare, to avenge the death of his friend?’

  ‘Sir Peter would not harm us,’ said Kea. ‘His wife might, though. She is quite a warrior.’

  ‘We thought you were from Barcwit,’ explained Kea’s mother. Her voice dropped to a whisper when she spoke the name, and several villagers crossed themselves.

  ‘We have been anticipating a visit from his henchmen ever since Nauntel was killed,’ added Wido. ‘Nauntel was one of his investors, and he was said to have been vexed when he was murdered here.’

  Geoffrey was confused. ‘I was under the impression Barcwit ordered Nauntel’s death himself. How can he be angry with you, when Nauntel was attacked on his own command?’ He regarded them uneasily. ‘Or did he hire you to frighten him, and you killed him by mistake?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Kea’s mother indignantly. ‘Barcwit has his own louts for that sort of thing and, besides, we are not very good with bows.’

  ‘My horse would not agree,’ Geoffrey pointed out, glancing at it again.

  ‘There is no understanding Barcwit,’ said Wido, hastily leading the discussion away from the subject of Geoffrey’s stricken mount. ‘He is not sane, and often issues contradictory orders. Poor Sir Peter. He wept for hours when Nauntel was shot, claiming he should have been the one to die.’

  ‘Is that what Barcwit intended, and the archer hit the wrong man?’ asked Geoffrey. He knew such things could happen; knights were often difficult to tell apart when they wore cloaks and armour.

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Wido. ‘Peter is worth more to Barcwit than Nauntel, because he is the constable.’

  ‘I still do not understand what Nauntel’s death has to do with you,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Or why you should think Barcwit wants to punish you for it.’

  ‘Nor do we, but you cannot be too careful where Barcwit is concerned,’ replied Wido. ‘Nauntel died here, in Beiminstre, and Barcwit is the kind of man to say that is more than enough to have us all slaughtered. He ate a family once, just because they happened to be standing outside his house.’

  Kea had been gazing through the shattered door at Geoffrey’s horse. He pushed past the knight and started to walk towards it; Geoffrey followed, not sure what the boy intended to do, but unwilling to leave him alone to do it. The rest of the villagers stood in a silent circle as Kea ran gentle hands over the horse’s flanks, assessing the extent of its injuries.

  ‘Back to your post, Ned,’ said Father Wido to a man with long teeth, while they awaited Kea’s verdict. ‘You, too, Theordic. It would be a shame to escape death at the hands of one man, only to allow others to catch us unawares.’

  The designated lookouts collected their bows before disappearing in opposite directions. Geoffrey watched them go, wondering how many more travellers would fall victim to their nervous weapons before Barcwit’s empire crumbled. He removed his helmet and touched the scratch on his face. It stung, and Roger would be sure to ask how he had come by it. He did not relish the prospect of telling him he had been ambushed by forty frightened peasants, all of whom seemed to take orders from an eleven-year-old boy. He hoped he would be able to fabricate a story that did not make him sound too foolish before he arrived back in Bristol.

  ‘You cannot blame us for shooting,’ said Kea as he worked. ‘You look dangerous with that funny mark on your surcoat.’

  ‘It is a Crusader’s cross,’ explained Geoffrey. It was unusual to find folk who did not recognize the distinctive garb of a Jerosolimitanus. ‘I was at the Fall of Jerusalem.’

  ‘Did it do much damage?’ asked Kea politely.

  Geoffrey regarded him warily. ‘Did what do much damage?’

  ‘Jerusalem,’ said Kea patiently. ‘When it fell
. I hope it did not land on any horses.’

  ‘No,’ said Geoffrey, fighting not to smile. ‘It did not.’

  Kea straightened up. ‘This poor animal has been very badly used.’

  ‘I know,’ said Geoffrey dryly. ‘Someone shot him.’

  ‘I do not mean the arrow wounds,’ said Kea. ‘Those will heal without lasting damage. I am talking about his general care. He needs warmed barley mash and a good daily combing, sweet hay—’

  ‘I have a squire,’ interrupted Geoffrey. ‘He takes care of those things.’

  ‘Then he does not do it very well,’ said Kea disdainfully. Geoffrey studied the animal, again noting its lustreless eyes and the slight discharge around its nostrils. Was Durand’s poor care the reason it had aged so suddenly, and why it walked rather than galloped? ‘But leave this beast with me, and in a week I will have him better than new.’

  ‘Leave him?’ echoed Geoffrey, aghast. ‘What am I supposed to ride in the meantime? My dog?’

  Several of the children burst out laughing, oblivious to the irritation in his voice. As if it knew it was being talked about, the dog released a low, piteous whine, which made several adults smile, too. Geoffrey was becoming exasperated, thinking he had better things to do than be a source of entertainment for half-witted villagers who had not even heard of the Crusade.

  ‘You can borrow one of our horses,’ offered Kea’s mother. ‘We have some very fine ones, and in a week, you can come back and collect your own. That is what we agreed, back there in the priest’s house. The people of Beiminstre never go back on what they say.’

  There was a murmur of assent, and several of them stood a little taller.

  ‘But first, you must visit our church,’ offered Wido, obviously out to impress now the danger was over. ‘It is the finest in the county. You cannot leave without seeing it, because we do not want it said that the people of Beiminstre have no manners.’

  ‘Then you should refrain from shooting at your visitors,’ retorted Geoffrey, but no one was listening. People were delighted by an opportunity to show off their assets, and he found himself manhandled in the direction of the church on its little hill. It took a long time for him to be shown round. The building was scrupulously clean: its windowsills were swept and adorned with fresh greenery, and there was not a cobweb in sight. Many of the carvings were of a very high standard, and he was genuinely impressed by the beautiful chancel and its impressive Saxon arches. Eventually, he followed them to a large stable that was well endowed with horses, some of which were far better than his own. He was astonished, but then recalled that Olivier bought horses from a village near Bristol, and he was a good judge of such matters.

  ‘Olivier d’Alençon,’ he said. ‘He comes here.’

  Kea nodded. ‘Did he recommend us to you? Is that why you rode this way?’

  ‘He is my brother by marriage.’

  Kea’s face split into a grin. ‘Then you know Dame Joanie. She is good with my little sister, who is simple-minded. The Dame is a beautiful lady.’

  ‘Joan?’ asked Geoffrey, bemused by the unfamiliar name, and certainly by the description. He had never heard anyone call Joan ‘beautiful’, not even Olivier when deep in his cups. He regarded the boy carefully, not sure whether he was jesting. ‘Do you not find her a little … intimidating?’

  ‘Joan?’ asked Wido, startled. ‘Of course not! She is the kindest and gentlest woman in the world, and she is greatly loved here.’

  ‘Joan?’ echoed Geoffrey again, not sure they were talking about the same woman.

  ‘Dame Joanie,’ said Kea firmly. ‘And do not think to slander that good lady’s name, or we shall begin to wish we had killed you after all.’

  Ten

  Geoffrey took leave of the people of Beiminstre, and rode towards Bristol on a vigorous, jet-black horse that Kea claimed was the best they had. Geoffrey concurred. It was a magnificent animal, and he decided that if Kea was unable to heal his own, he would keep it. He gave it its head along the path by the river, exhilarated by its raw power. His dog was hard-pressed to keep up.

  When they approached Bristol and he was obliged to share the road with others, he reined in and forced it to walk, although it did so reluctantly; it was an excellent horse, but needed training. His dog panted in an odd way as they slowed, as if through gritted teeth, and Geoffrey was concerned until he saw it held something in its mouth. At first, he thought it was a ferret, but with a sigh of annoyance, he saw it was a doll. He realized the animal had taken it from Kea’s simple sister, probably by force.

  He dismounted and tried to pull it away, but the dog’s eyes took on the opaque, slightly manic look that usually preceded a bite. He took a piece of dried meat from his scrip and waved it until he was sure he had its interest. It dropped the doll and raised one paw in the air, but he knew it too well to give it the food and expect to be able to retrieve the toy, too: the dog fully intended to have both. He threw the meat a short distance away and the dog saw it would have to make a choice. Eventually, its stomach won the contest and Geoffrey rescued the doll.

  It was not attractive, comprising a piece of wood that was twice as long as his hand, and a little wider than his palm. Its head was topped with a mass of matted fibre, probably horse-hair, and it wore a kirtle of filthy grey cloth. It was clearly loved, though, and it was with some dismay that Geoffrey saw it was peppered with tooth marks. He considered flinging it in the river, but it seemed a callous thing to do, so he shoved it in his saddlebag, and decided to ask Durand’s advice. The squire was useless with horses, but might know how to repair toys. He might even be persuaded to sew it new clothes.

  Geoffrey remounted and crossed the bridge into the town, intending to see whether Barcwit had returned from Dundreg. He was riding along the high street when he spotted Durand emerging from a tavern with Bloet. Bloet whispered something that made the squire emit a high-pitched giggle, accompanying his words with an obscene gesture that amused both of them. Their mirth was raucous enough to attract a disapproving stare from Clarembald.

  ‘People still recall the excesses of William Rufus and his love for other men,’ said the physician sternly, as the two men walked away. ‘Your squire is a fool to flaunt his womanliness so openly.’

  ‘I will speak to him,’ said Geoffrey, supposing the physician might be right.

  The medicus stared at the scratch on Geoffrey’s face, where the arrow had grazed him. ‘Since I am in the business of dispensing advice, heed this: abandon these solitary rides and concentrate on what you have been ordered to do. You do not want more arrows flying your way.’

  Geoffrey gazed at him, wondering whether he had just been threatened or counselled. How did Clarembald know the scratch was caused by an arrow? Or was he a sufficiently good physician to tell just by looking? But surely Clarembald had nothing to do with the ambush in Beiminstre? He could not have known Geoffrey intended to ride that way, so could not have arranged for the villagers to shoot at him. Or had he? Geoffrey recalled it was Clarembald who had recommended against riding to Estune the previous day – advice he had ignored and suffered the muddy consequences. Had his real intention been to point him towards Beiminstre?

  ‘I saw Helbye this morning,’ Clarembald went on, when Geoffrey did not reply. His voice was suddenly gentle. ‘His hip will never heal. He is an old man, and his bones are crusted and lumpy with age. He rallied to ride from Bath, but it would be cruel to take him to the Holy Land. Can you not see the pain in his face as he tries to keep up with you?’

  Geoffrey had, and did not need Clarembald to lecture him about it. ‘He does not want to retire from my service, and I will not force him. It is his decision to make.’

  ‘That is a coward’s answer. But, if you will not take pity on him, there is a potion I can give to ease the agony when it becomes too hard to bear.’

  ‘Like it did in Bath?’ asked Geoffrey shortly.

  ‘My poultice worked,’ said Clarembald indignantly. ‘I told him not to chase that
pig, but he would not listen. He would have been ill a good deal longer if I had not treated him.’

  ‘That was the night your bryony was stolen,’ said Geoffrey flatly

  Clarembald looked startled, then smiled craftily. ‘Nothing was stolen. That was just something I made up, to annoy John. I have the bryony here.’ He pulled a pot from his scrip, and Geoffrey could see it was full except for what had been used to make Helbye’s poultice.

  ‘None of it was taken?’ he asked, to be sure.

  ‘Not a speck,’ confirmed Clarembald with a wolfish grin. ‘Although my tale had the desired effect of embarrassing John and his beloved Bath. But remember what I say about Helbye. Any physician – with the exception of John, who does not know his arse from his elbow – will say the same. The incident in Bath was the first of many, and they will become more frequent and painful if you drag him around as though he was an agile youth.’

  He turned and walked away, leaving Geoffrey with one less problem to solve, but another to worry about. He believed Clarembald’s tale about fabricating the theft to annoy John, and he had seen that no bryony was missing – at least, not enough to lay Helbye low for five days. No one had harmed the old man to prevent Geoffrey from arriving in Bristol at the same time as his suspects, only Geoffrey himself with his carelessness. Helbye was understandably more willing to believe he had been poisoned than that he was suffering from a debilitating illness, but he was wrong. It had doubtless been excellent news to the moneyers that Geoffrey could not travel with them on the last leg of the journey, but they were innocent of bringing it about.

  ‘What was he saying about me?’ came a voice from Geoffrey’s other side. It was Bishop John.

  ‘That it looks like rain,’ lied Geoffrey, not wanting to become involved in their feud.

  John regarded him coolly. ‘You should choose your friends with more care. The King will not be pleased to hear his agent has been seduced by the likes of Clarembald.’