The Coiner's Quarrel

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘Thank you, sire,’ said Clarembald with palpable relief. ‘John de Villula is not here. Is he …?’

  ‘The Shopping Bishop had no role in this,’ said Henry. ‘He invested with Barcwit, but there is no evidence of dishonesty. You may go.’

  Clarembald bowed his way from the room.

  ‘Warelwast,’ said Henry, turning to the bishop-elect. ‘You performed your duties adequately, but no more. You were not instrumental in assisting Geoffrey to uncover the plot, nor did you protect him.’

  ‘He would not let me,’ objected Warelwast. ‘He ordered me away when I offered my help openly, and gave me the slip when I followed him covertly. Besides, how can I protect a Jerosolimitanus? I probed his skills in Westminster, and learnt he would be a difficult man to harm.’

  ‘You attacked me?’ asked Geoffrey, startled. He recalled the odd words of one of the assailants – ‘we have done all we can’ – and supposed they had referred to assessing his talents for self-defence.

  ‘I needed to know the extent of the protection you would require,’ said Warelwast curtly. ‘I did not want to take soldiers if I did not have to – and I did not. Indeed, you were the one who saved me.’

  Geoffrey thought about it. While he did not like the notion that Warelwast had been detailed to protect him, it was scarcely his fault, and the bishop-elect had done his best.

  ‘He saved Joan, sire,’ he said, as Henry started to berate the hapless cleric for his failures. ‘When I made her go with Peter de la Mare, thinking he intended to head for Exeter, he helped her escape.’

  Henry sighed and relented. ‘Sir Geoffrey seems to have forgiven you for your shortcomings, Warelwast, so I shall do the same. You are a better ambassador than spy, and I shall use you for diplomatic missions in the future. You may go.’

  Warelwast bowed and left, smiling his thanks to Geoffrey as he went. Giffard abandoned his reflections near the empty hearth and went to light a lamp. It was becoming dim in the royal chamber.

  ‘Geoffrey,’ said Henry. The knight tensed, preparing himself for a reprimand, like the others. ‘Giffard tells me you have read his report. Do you have more to add? Sendi and Barcwit were corrupt moneyers, and Sendi rashly complained to me about his rival, while committing worse crimes himself. And Peter de la Mare was paid to look the other way.’

  Geoffrey nodded. ‘Peter also told Joan that Barcwit planned to kill you, but it was not true.’

  ‘It was not,’ agreed Henry. ‘It is a good thing Peter drowned, because otherwise I would have condemned him to death without a moment’s hesitation.’

  Geoffrey frowned, puzzled. ‘You seem angrier with him than the others. Is it because he was a constable, and you expect greater loyalty from him?’

  Henry raised his eyebrows. ‘I do not like traitors.’

  Geoffrey glanced at Joan’s unhappy face, and suddenly he understood. He gazed at Henry in astonishment. ‘Peter was your man? It was he who encouraged Joan to invest with Barcwit, and who kept her too afraid to withdraw, by fabricating this tale of regicide. Is that why you consider him a greater traitor: he was under your direct orders and he turned bad?’

  ‘I am careful who I choose as agents,’ said Henry softly. ‘So, I was shocked when I learnt Peter was in league with Sendi. And I was even more shocked to learn their arrangement was of several years’ duration. He was corrupt long before I trusted him with my business.’

  Giffard seemed equally startled by Henry’s revelation. ‘So, that explains why Peter was so keen to flee and why Idonea was preparing for a siege. They both knew it was only a matter of time before their double-dealing was exposed. Their terror was real.’

  ‘You used them to trap my sister,’ said Geoffrey, trying to keep the anger from his voice. He felt Roger’s hand on his shoulder, warning him to watch his tongue.

  ‘I did not know if she would agree to do what I asked,’ said Henry with a shrug. ‘I told her to invest in Barcwit’s enterprise, because I predicted I would later need an excuse to ask you to investigate the man – and what better reason than to help the last surviving member of your family?’

  ‘That,’ said Geoffrey coldly, ‘was not necessary.’

  ‘It was necessary,’ snapped Henry, while Giffard made frantic gestures behind his back to urge Geoffrey to caution. ‘You would not have gone to Bristol out of the goodness of your heart, and I want to know whether you are the kind of man I can trust with more delicate missions in the future. Durand tells me you have a way with such matters, but I was determined to judge for myself.’

  ‘But Joan was ordered to invest with Barcwit in March,’ said Geoffrey, appalled. ‘That means you have been intending to put this scheme into action for months.’

  ‘The idea came to me the day you visited Westminster, before Easter, when we discussed Bellême,’ agreed Henry amiably. ‘It is always wise to plan ahead, and I knew trouble was brewing with my Bristol moneyers. Sendi’s complaint against Barcwit was opportune, because it gave me a good reason to call you back before you vanished into the Holy Land. But do not think any of this makes you special. I have many similar experiments in progress, testing promising men and women, and this little episode is not particularly important or relevant.’

  ‘You used us as pawns?’ asked Geoffrey, a little shocked that a man who was supposed to protect his subjects should expose them to such grave dangers for what sounded like gratuitous amusement.

  Henry nodded carelessly. ‘But it all turned out well, so I do not think you have anything to complain about. I am sure you have not forgotten that you are always eager to please your monarch.’

  ‘I did not know what to do,’ said Joan in a low voice. Geoffrey saw that the events of the last few months were not unimportant or irrelevant to her: she was shaken to the core. ‘It was suggested that Olivier might be hurt if I did not invest with Barcwit, then our brother was stabbed and …’ She trailed off miserably.

  ‘Henry’s stabbing was nothing to do with me,’ said the King firmly. ‘It was an unfortunate coincidence. I ordered one of my best agents to investigate the matter, and he assures me that Barcwit had nothing to do with the death. I cannot be blamed because he pretended it did, can I?’

  Geoffrey glanced at Joan’s pale face and hated Henry for playing his selfish games with her. He felt a burning desire to tell him so, but he had not forgotten the King’s ire when he had insulted him in Westminster – nor his promise to hang him if it happened again. With admirable restraint, he suppressed his temper and resumed his analysis instead.

  ‘You told Peter to invent the story about regicide, to prevent Joan from telling me she was acting for you. You knew that was our weakness: I would not leave her when I thought she was in danger; she would never tell me the truth if she thought it might bring me to harm.’

  ‘I am a good judge of character,’ said Henry comfortably. ‘Most men would sell their kin for the price of a manor, but not you two. You have proved yourselves worthy of my trust.’

  ‘You overestimate us, sire,’ said Joan flatly. ‘We only did what others would have done.’

  Henry disagreed. ‘Geoffrey provided me with details of the case that most would have missed or ignored – the fact that Sendi was more corrupt than Barcwit, the fact that Barcwit’s children invented a myth and used it to terrify the locals, the fact that they enjoyed an incestuous relationship. And he drove Peter into the open and found my silver. He gave me the truth.’

  Geoffrey sincerely hoped it had distressed him – especially the part where he had taken the treacherous Peter into his confidence and had been betrayed. ‘The truth can be uncomfortable,’ he said, as insolently as he dared.

  ‘You are rebellious, disobedient and unpredictable, but I shall offer you a place in my service nonetheless,’ Henry went on, choosing to ignore the barb. ‘Durand tells me you are still waiting to hear from Tancred, because you believe I forged his original letter of dismissal, but I am prepared to wait. You will find it was genuine, and that your Holy Land
prince no longer wants you.’

  Geoffrey glared at Durand, who looked sheepish.

  ‘I would have found out anyway,’ said Henry irritably. ‘So do not pick on Durand. Visit Goodrich and think about my offer. We can discuss terms when you have made up your mind. You may go.’

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Joan, startled.

  ‘Thank you for your help,’ said Henry, clapping his hands for his secretary, and thus indicating that they were dismissed. ‘Giffard will see you receive compensation for all monies invested with Barcwit on my behalf – assuming you have proof of the transactions, of course.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Joan icily, producing a sheaf of parchments. ‘I have proof.’

  ‘I thought you might,’ said Henry, not altogether pleased. ‘Leave it with Giffard on your way out.’

  They quit the royal chamber with relief. Joan seemed suddenly lighter and happier, and Geoffrey sensed a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. He was surprised, because he had not imagined an audience with the King would have affected her so deeply.

  ‘I thought I would have to pretend we were enemies again,’ she said, taking his arm. ‘It is not easy saying I hate you, when I do not.’

  ‘Why would you do that? Henry knows it is not true: it is what allowed him to perpetrate this monstrous test in the first place.’

  ‘I thought I might have to persuade him he was wrong.’

  ‘Why?’ pressed Geoffrey. ‘Your so-called treachery was on his orders.’

  ‘Yes and no,’ said Joan. ‘If I thought I could put a knife into Henry’s black heart and not bring the fury of his minions down on you and Olivier, I would do it.’

  Geoffrey gazed at her in alarm. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘When Peter told me about the plot to kill the King I was pleased – delighted – to learn about it. I embraced it willingly, and made plans, arrangements and even additional payments. Idonea was hanged and Peter drowned, but until now I did not know whether they had told anyone else how eager I was for Henry’s death. I am a traitor, Geoffrey – and a very committed one.’

  Geoffrey regarded her uneasily. ‘Is that why you have been so subdued since we left Bristol? You were anticipating that you would be exposed?’

  She nodded. ‘As God is my witness, I am sorry my plotting came to nothing. I desperately wanted that usurper dead. And, after what he did to you, I want it even more.’

  Geoffrey was horrified. ‘Then you have had a luckier escape than I realized.’

  ‘I have,’ she agreed with a grim smile. ‘But it leaves me free to plot against him again, at some point in the future.’

  The following day, Durand sat in a church and flexed his aching fingers. He smiled at the priest who had furnished him with pen and ink, and indicated he was almost finished. He read over the two letters he had written with satisfaction, certain that no one could tell the difference between the distinctive script of Tancred’s scribe and that which he had forged so carefully. One missive was for Geoffrey. It told him that the earlier communication was indeed a true reflection of his status, and that he was no longer wanted in Tancred’s entourage. The other was for Henry, listing Geoffrey’s talents and recommending him for employment.

  Durand did not want to return to the Holy Land. He felt his future lay in England, but he needed Geoffrey until the King offered him a permanent post. His attempt to inveigle himself a place with Bloet had failed miserably, so his next best option was to remain in Geoffrey’s service. The knight courted danger and cared nothing for clean clothes and elegant company, but at least he did not steal his servants’ possessions.

  So, Durand tore up the affectionate letter in which Tancred expressed concern about Geoffrey’s delay, assuring him he would always have a place in his household, and substituted the new one. That was one advantage of being a squire: messages were almost always given to him first. He was confident Tancred would soon forget his absent knight, and Geoffrey would endure working for Henry for a little while – and a little while was all Durand needed. He sealed both letters with the ring he had stolen from Tancred months before, and strolled through the city. He delivered the first missive to Henry, then headed for Geoffrey’s lodgings.

  ‘This has just arrived,’ he announced, bursting into the knight’s chamber and pretending all was urgency and action. He feigned breathlessness, as though he had been running. ‘I met the messenger near the abbey, where I have been praying.’

  Geoffrey took it from him, but did not open it. He sat at a table with Joan, Olivier and Roger, while Helbye was opposite, and Giffard stood by the fire. It did not seem to be a particularly jolly gathering, and Roger had not touched the wine at his elbow. Something was wrong.

  ‘So,’ said Helbye, as if in conclusion. ‘These boots have damaged my feet, and I can no longer fight. That was the meaning of the Two Suns: it was a prediction that both my heels would burn in an unnatural manner. The Three Rainbows was a sign telling me to cross the rivers Avon, Severn and Wye and return to Goodrich. I am sorry to leave you, but I must.’

  Geoffrey nodded slowly, and Durand found the expression on his face oddly difficult to read. Durand knew the boots were a perfect fit and that Helbye was pleased with them; he also knew that a man limping from sore feet walked differently from a man whose hips were crumbling. He opened his mouth to expose the old man’s lies, but Geoffrey was looking at him.

  ‘The King wants to see you,’ he said.

  Durand grinned. Perhaps he had not needed to forge the letters after all. His reports on Geoffrey had been concise and mostly truthful, and it occurred to him that the King might be grateful.

  ‘I doubt it is anything to smile about,’ said Joan. ‘I do not think he is very pleased with you.’

  ‘He is not, and when you see him, you can tell him you are no longer my squire,’ added Geoffrey. ‘I am finished with you.’

  ‘What does he want?’ asked Durand, the first snakes of unease beginning to uncoil in his stomach.

  ‘Today, you tried to sell the die you stole from Sendi,’ explained Roger. ‘You disguised yourself, but your hair is distinctive, and it gave you away. The Winchester moneyer is an honest man – or a wary one – and reported you to the King. Bishop Giffard is waiting to escort you to the palace.’

  ‘It was not me,’ squeaked Durand in alarm. ‘I stole no stamp.’

  ‘You took it when Sendi showed us his mint,’ said Geoffrey. ‘He blamed me, because he said I was the only stranger to visit him. But I was not: you were there, too. You concealed it in those pink shoes I bought for Joan, which you were carrying.’

  ‘But that does not prove—’ began Durand.

  ‘Here is the doll I told you to return to Kea’s sister.’ Geoffrey held up the toy, then pulled off its head, revealing a hollow space inside. ‘This is where you hid the die. It explains why it was heavy the second time I picked it up – it was not sodden with spilled wine, as I assumed. You did not keep it in your own bag, in case its secret was discovered, so you kept it in mine instead. You were happy for me to take the risk.’

  Durand licked lips that were dry. ‘I …’ He could think of nothing to say.

  ‘I knew you were a thief,’ said Joan. ‘You stole one of my necklaces, and I tried to warn my brother about you. You have no place in the company of honest men.’

  ‘Honest men?’ sneered Durand, finding his voice. He glanced contemptuously at Olivier. ‘He cannot open his mouth without speaking a lie, with his tales of battles fought before he was born.’

  Geoffrey wanted to defend Olivier, but did not know how. Then Roger came to his feet, making the squire back away in alarm. ‘Olivier is a noble veteran,’ he snarled. ‘His stories show him to be a true and bold warrior, and I will hear no slander of his name.’

  Joan smiled at him gratefully, while Olivier blushed in surprise.

  ‘Now go,’ said Roger. ‘You can tell the King why you tried to cheat him – and saying you were short of funds after you fell foul of Bloet wil
l not soften his heart. You must think of a better excuse.’

  Durand smiled maliciously. ‘Oh, I shall.’ He shook off Giffard’s hand, and a confident gleam came into his eyes as a plan began to take form. ‘I know exactly what I shall say.’

  Geoffrey watched him stalk out. ‘I do not like the sound of that. I hope—’

  ‘You worry too much,’ interrupted Roger. He nodded to the message that lay untouched on the table. ‘Open it. I can tell from the dust that it hails from the Holy Land. Now we shall have the truth from Tancred.’

  Geoffrey picked up the letter and broke the seal.

  Historical Postscript

  Coins were a problem in the reign of Henry I. Matters came to a head in 1108, then in 1125, when a massive survey of all English moneyers was set in motion. Each was summoned to Winchester to give an account of himself, and some contemporary sources say the sentence of mutilation was passed on them all, with the subsequent loss of right hands and testicles.

  There was a mint (or mints) in Bristol from about 1020. Barcwit (or Barcuit) was producing pennies from about 1092, and he struck two types in the reign of Henry I. Sendi (whose coins sometimes read Sindi or Snedi) started at the same time, and was probably still going c. 1110–1113. Colblac and Lifwine (Leofwine) were moneyers before 1100, while Alwold (Ailwald) and Rodbert were later.

  The location of the Bristol mint in 1100 remains unknown. Some coins were produced next to St Ewen’s Church, at the corner of Broad and Corn streets in the mid-twelfth century, and some historians have suggested that others – perhaps from a second mint – were produced inside the castle. However, Bristol was not a royal castle at this time, it was a baronial one – and not all barons were King-friendly. Bishop Geoffrey of Coutances, who died in 1093 and is believed to be the castle’s founder, was definitely hostile to William Rufus.