The Coiner's Quarrel

by Simon Beaufort

  Geoffrey freed himself from Maude and snatched up another bow. He aimed at Tasso, but someone stumbled into him and his shot went wide. More missiles hissed, followed by shrieks as men were hit. He saw Maude fall, and was aware of Tasso trying to rally his troops into some semblance of order.

  Then the door was wrenched open, and more men poured in while others scrambled out. Geoffrey had no idea what was happening, so obeyed his clamouring instincts: he grabbed a sword and fought with every ounce of his strength, determined that if he was to die, then he would take Maude, Tasso and their followers with him. It was some time before he became aware that someone was shouting his name with increasing desperation.

  ‘Geoffrey! Stop!’

  He stared at the yelling man in astonishment. It was Giffard, looking bulky in his monastic habit. Then he saw the livery of the soldiers who had burst into the mint, and recognized the King’s insignia. Durand hovered behind the bishop, pleased with himself, and Geoffrey supposed possessing a cowardly squire had its advantages: Durand had seen the raid turn into a rout and had run for help, rather than continue to fight for a lost cause, as Roger, Helbye and Ulfrith had done.

  Geoffrey looked around him. Helbye leaned against a table with his hand to his hip, while Roger gave him wine and Ulfrith hovered solicitously. The King’s soldiers were rounding up Maude’s men and a priest moved among the dead. Geoffrey saw with regret that there were many, and that Maude was among them, her eyes wide and sightless, and a crossbow quarrel protruding from her neck.

  Numbly, he thought about what she had told him. There had been no reason for her to lie, and he believed her when she said her crimes were minor. People were superstitious – as evidenced by their reactions to rainbows and suns, and even clenched muscles around a piece of rope – and he knew it would be easy for someone to turn such beliefs to advantage. It was a pity Maude was shot, because he suspected Henry might have been amused by her deception. He would have levied a hefty fine to warn her not to do it again, but he would have let her live.

  But she was dead now, and Rodbert and others with her. Tasso was not, though, and he was not with the prisoners, either. Geoffrey supposed he had slipped away during the chaos, and hoped he would have the sense to leave Bristol. The whole affair seemed so monstrously blown out of proportion that he was glad someone had escaped, even if it was a man who sliced the heads of unarmed enemies.

  ‘It is over,’ said Giffard, laying a hand on Geoffrey’s shoulder. ‘You have exposed the corruption of Maude and Rodbert, and saved Bristol from Barcwit’s terror.’

  ‘Not really,’ said Geoffrey tiredly. ‘I have no idea whether their cambium roused himself from his cups long enough to assay their coins, but even he must have been more honest than Lifwine. We have been led astray from the very beginning.’

  ‘By Maude?’ asked Giffard. ‘Or by Rodbert?’

  ‘By Sendi. Lifwine was right when he identified him as the more dangerous of the two moneyers.’

  ‘Sendi is innocent,’ said Giffard, bewildered. He gestured at the wreckage of Barcwit’s mint. ‘The criminals were all here, which is why they fought so hard when you exposed them.’

  ‘Sendi is worse,’ said Geoffrey firmly. ‘He has been forging for years, and he is a smuggler.’

  Giffard looked alarmed. ‘But this cannot be true! I spoke to him in the castle, just before Durand arrived and told me to hurry here.’

  Geoffrey regarded him uneasily. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘I let him out,’ said Giffard. ‘I set him and his friends free.’

  Geoffrey could not believe Giffard had ordered the release of prisoners without consulting him first. Peter had fled before Geoffrey had left to confront Barcwit, and Idonea, Joan, Olivier and Warelwast had gone with him; Bloet was out in a last, desperate attempt to locate the silver before Giffard asked for it in Henry’s name. Even the castle guards had disappeared, and were hiding until the battle was resolved and they knew whom to support. The upshot was that there was no one left to tell the bishop what had really happened.

  Seizing the opportunity afforded by the chaos, Sendi had informed Giffard he had been wrongfully imprisoned by Barcwit, who was currently doing battle with Geoffrey. He had urged the bishop to set him free, so he could help fight. Then Durand had arrived with news of the rout, which seemed to confirm his story. Giffard had rushed to Barcwit’s mint, leaving a guard to release Sendi on the understanding that he would join the affray as soon as he had armed himself. Needless to say, Sendi and his friends were nowhere to be found. Before they had left, they had cut Lifwine’s throat.

  ‘I doubt we will see them again,’ said Roger, deeply unimpressed by Giffard’s gullibility. ‘We had them, and now they have gone.’

  Giffard was chagrined that he had been so easily fooled. ‘We met Clarembald the physician on our way to Barcwit’s mint,’ he said, his voice thick with self-recrimination. ‘I told him about Sendi, but he gave no indication that we had made a mistake. He must have known, given that Sendi’s forgeries are the talk of the town today, so why did he not tell me?’

  Geoffrey rubbed his eyes. ‘Clarembald. I am not happy with his role in this.’

  ‘We should present him to the King as a traitor,’ said Roger angrily. ‘We need someone – but Maude, Rodbert and Lifwine are dead, Barcwit does not exist, and Sendi has escaped.’

  ‘There is no need to rub it in,’ said Giffard sharply. ‘We shall have to think very carefully about how to present this debacle. With some of the criminals dead, the King will be spared the expense of a trial. If we start by saying that, then perhaps he will be a little more forgiving …’

  ‘He wanted the truth,’ Geoffrey pointed out, unwilling to mislead the King. Giffard was clearly horrified by what he had done, or he would not be contemplating such a rash strategy. ‘And now he will not have it – at least, not from real witnesses and culprits.’

  ‘He will have it from you,’ said Giffard weakly. ‘Perhaps that will suffice.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Geoffrey. ‘As Adelise once said, truth is like molten silver, to be moulded how you want it. Henry will not trust my version of events when they are uncorroborated.’

  ‘The fact that you let your sister escape is not helpful,’ said Giffard unhappily. ‘It looks as though you hedged your bets, in case anything went wrong.’

  ‘Events did go wrong,’ said Geoffrey dryly.

  He spent the rest of the day in the castle, fretting about Joan and whether he had been wise to send Warelwast with her. Peter was weak, and would be of scant use if the party was attacked, while Olivier certainly would not. Still, he thought, Joan and Idonea could probably look after themselves. He fell into an exhausted sleep early that evening, and when he awoke, it was almost dawn. He stood and stretched, easing the stiffness out of his muscles, and went to feed his dog. The kitchens were deserted, so he found some bread and meat in a pantry, and they shared them alone. Then he walked through the slowly lightening streets to look for Giffard.

  Giffard had been working all night, sifting through the mints’ documents, while his clerks catalogued every item in every room and packed them in wooden crates. They had already stripped Sendi’s property, even removing brass fittings from doors, and were just finishing Barcwit’s. Geoffrey had seen a good deal of looting during his career as a soldier, but none as thorough as that committed by the King’s commissioners. He wondered whether they planned to take the shutters from the windows, too, and the lead lining from the drains.

  ‘Sendi has been cheating the King for years,’ said Giffard grimly, tapping the parchments with a bony finger. Geoffrey noticed again that he seemed heavier than normal, and it crossed his mind that the bishop might have secreted documents in his habit. ‘I was a fool to let him go: the crimes of which he accused Barcwit are nothing compared to the ones he committed himself. Not only that, but there is enough evidence here to prove that he made the “mules” he showed us in Westminster – the ones he said were Barcwit’s. Do you
remember the four charges he levelled then?’

  Geoffrey nodded. ‘The first was that Barcwit had a drunken cambium who did not assay his coins. That is true: the man’s mind must have been pickled, judging from the state of his corpse. The second was that Barcwit made underweight coins with too much tin in the silver.’

  ‘Barcwit’s coins are on the light side,’ acknowledged Giffard. ‘But it is Sendi’s that are full of tin.’

  ‘The third was Barcwit’s list of illegal investors,’ said Geoffrey, thinking about Joan.

  ‘Also proven,’ said Giffard, resting his hand on the parchments. ‘Although only occasionally and fairly discreetly. There is no evidence that higher rates were paid to your sister, Peter de la Mare, Clarembald or John, although Bloet once accepted eleven per cent. Again, Sendi was worse: his profit margins were greater, and he was far more brazen in his illegitimate dealings.’

  ‘Joan told me she never accepted an illegal rate from Barcwit. I should have believed her: she is too sensible to break the law with strangers.’

  ‘You should be pleased,’ said Giffard. ‘We can now prove Joan is neither a fool nor a traitor. She is innocent.’

  Geoffrey said nothing, thinking about the plot to kill the King. Maude and Tasso claimed it was untrue, but Peter and Joan did not concur. It was real to them. But Giffard had found no evidence of intended regicide in Barcwit’s documents, or he would have mentioned it. The letter Geoffrey had found in the barrel at Sendi’s mint crackled inside his surcoat, and he raised his hand to touch it. Who had written it? And was there a plot or no?

  ‘Bloet’s profiteering made him two shillings,’ Giffard went on disdainfully. ‘Barely enough to pay a servant for a month, and certainly not enough to risk the King’s wrath. He is a fool. But then so is Sendi. It was insane to go to the King with charges against Barcwit when he was committing them himself. God alone knows why he did it.’

  ‘Greed and jealousy can drive men to desperate lengths: he and Adelise were bitterly resentful of Barcwit’s success, and wanted to crush him and claim his investors for themselves. So, whose operation was the more profitable? Sendi’s, because he was so brazenly corrupt?’

  ‘Not by a long way. Barcwit’s established business and good location brought him excellent – and mostly honest – trade. Sendi could not hope to compete against such massive advantages.’

  ‘The fourth charge was that Barcwit frightened people.’ Geoffrey shook his head in disgust. ‘People were frightened all right, but by someone who does not even exist!’

  ‘The case is solved,’ said Giffard. ‘The four accusations were true – but two of them apply to Sendi just as much as Barcwit – and we have answers to most of the questions the King may ask.’

  Geoffrey perched on the edge of a table. ‘I know what Barcwit and Sendi have done is illegal, but is it unusual? I went through Roger’s purse last night – he has pennies from all over the country – and a number are mules or made with worn dies. They are easier to identify now I know what to look for.’

  ‘Increasing barbarism in coins is not confined to Bristol,’ admitted Giffard. ‘I predict it will reach a crisis, which will end in drastic monetary reform, although Henry wants to avoid that, if possible. But, to answer your question, Barcwit and Sendi have bent the rules no more than many others.’

  ‘Then why investigate them specifically?’

  ‘Because Sendi made a complaint against a fellow coiner, which is rare – normally, they stick together. Henry wanted to exploit their rivalry, and explore an aspect of his kingdom that is becoming rotten. When news seeps out that two corrupt moneyers have been exposed, others will improve their standards. Of course, they will slip into bad habits again eventually, and there will have to be another investigation to shake them up.’

  ‘It sounds pointless,’ said Geoffrey in disgust. ‘I have wasted my time.’

  ‘You have not,’ said Giffard sharply, ‘because you have served your King. He wants you to go Winchester next month, so we can make our final report together. Such as it is.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Geoffrey. ‘Such as it is.’

  Geoffrey and Giffard left Barcwit’s mint and went to an inn called the Greene Lattis. Geoffrey had noticed the inn before, because it was always surprisingly full, given that it stood so close to Barcwit’s property. It was empty now, however, and Geoffrey assumed the bishop had cleared it, so he and his clerks could enjoy ale and respite from their labours without being pestered by locals for gossip. The pot-boy who brought them wine was unfriendly to the point of hostility. He scowled at them, then disappeared into a back room, slamming a door in the kind of way that indicated that was all the service they were going to get. A cart, heavily laden with Barcwit’s property, trundled past the window, dragging Geoffrey’s attention away from the surly servant.

  ‘I see the looting is going well.’

  ‘I am hoping it will encourage Henry to be flexible over the misunderstanding with Sendi. And about the fact that you let Joan flee, thus indicating you do not trust him to keep his word about her pardon.’ Giffard frowned when a clerk approached and presented him with a list of everything that had been seized from Barcwit. ‘This is wrong. There should be five times the amount of silver you have listed.’

  ‘There is no mistake. That is all there is, and we have been over every inch of the property.’

  ‘No,’ said Giffard patiently. ‘I know exactly how much silver Barcwit owns, because I have seen receipts from the mines. You list only a fraction of what should be here. He must have hidden it.’

  ‘That must be the silver that was stolen,’ said Geoffrey. He glanced at the document. ‘I did not realize it was so much. No wonder so many people want to find it.’

  ‘But no one has?’ asked Giffard. He grimaced when Geoffrey shook his head.

  ‘We cannot stay to look for it,’ said the clerk. ‘Not if we want to reach Bath tonight with all the carts. We must leave now, or we will still be on the road after dark, and that would not be wise.’

  Giffard agreed. ‘Go. Leave me two soldiers, and take the rest. I will catch up with you later.’

  ‘Why the hurry?’ asked Geoffrey, after the scribe had gone.

  ‘This seized property should not stay here, when there are disaffected moneyers at large who might want it back. The sooner it is with Henry, the better.’ Giffard sighed unhappily. ‘I suppose I shall have to leave Bloet to locate the missing hoard. That is what the King ordered him to do, after all.’

  ‘Poor Bloet. There are rumours that it is in Ireland, which means he will never find it.’

  ‘Have you made any enquiries?’ asked Giffard hopefully. ‘It would be in both our interests to present it to Henry. Do you have any clues we might unravel between us?’

  ‘I heard Alwold mutter something as he died, but that is all.’

  ‘We all know about Piers,’ said Giffard dismissively. ‘It was the talk of the Court for days afterwards. But no one knows the man, not even Father Feoc, who has lived in Bristol all his life.’

  ‘There was an anchorite called Piers, but he is dead. Idonea told me there is a Beiminstre shepherd of that name, but he is said to know nothing, either.’ Geoffrey rubbed his head. ‘I thought Feoc was deceiving me when he said there was no Piers, then admitted to knowing the hermit.’

  Giffard understood what had happened. ‘You asked whether there was a man called Piers in Bristol, but you should have asked whether there was a Piers anywhere. That is why Feoc neglected to tell you about the anchorite and the shepherd – he took your question literally. These rural priests are apt to be pedantic. However, it is irrelevant, because it seems Alwold was rambling in his delirium, just as Maude claimed. His last words meant nothing, although they caused Bloet a lot of trouble.’

  ‘He said something else, too, which no one else heard.’ Geoffrey thought hard: Alwold’s death had been weeks ago, and the incident was fading from his mind. ‘He said, “the secret lies with the priest at St John’s. The King k
nows about it, and so do Bloet and William de Warel.”’

  Giffard was thoughtful. ‘Alwold did tell the King about the stolen silver. There were two other men in the room at the time.’

  ‘Warelwast and Bloet?’ Here Giffard nodded. ‘So, the “secret” really did mean the lost hoard? It does not sound very secret to me.’

  ‘It was to Alwold. He refused to speak about it to anyone – not even Maude. Henry heard about it from Sendi, and ordered Alwold to give him details, but the man said nothing, other than that the stuff was stolen. Bloet and Warelwast were with Henry at the time, which meant the “secret” was all over Court in hours. So, we have resolved that part of Alwold’s statement: he told his “secret” to Henry, Warelwast and Bloet. That leaves the other bit – the priest of St John’s. That is Feoc, I presume?’

  ‘There is something odd about this,’ said Geoffrey, thinking hard. ‘Alwold was Barcwit’s faithful steward. When he died, he was very particular about whom he spoke to – Maude, but definitely not Rodbert – and he insisted that Barcwit should be given his message.’

  ‘But Barcwit does not exist. And why did he wait until he was about to die before telling Maude? Because he stole the silver, and intended to keep it for himself, then recanted on his deathbed?’

  ‘No,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I think he was devoted to Barcwit, and it was only when he realized he had no choice that he confided in Maude.’

  Giffard was impatient. ‘We are going in circles here. I shall speak to Feoc myself. It is possible he does not know he has the secret – it may be a document concealed in his church, or some clue given to him during confession. But a good deal of money is involved, so we must do all we can to find it.’