Geoffrey aimed for the door. ‘Then I am going to the Holy Land. It is not-’
‘You cannot,’ said Maurice, jumping up and grabbing his shoulder with a hand that was surprisingly strong. ‘First, you swore a vow to God. Second, you cannot neglect the King’s business – not without serious consequences for your loved ones. And, third, this is all supposition. I may be wrong. Perhaps this is the forgery – someone hoped to make you think you were forgiven, so you would run directly into Tancred’s noose. And yet…’
‘Yet what?’ asked Geoffrey heavily, knowing Maurice was right – not about Henry, whom he would defy in an instant, but about his promise to God.
‘And yet oaths can be retracted under certain conditions. I, for example, can absolve you of it.’
‘You can?’ Geoffrey felt the stirrings of hope. He wanted to believe Maurice was right, that someone had tampered with the correspondence. ‘And will you?’
‘No.’ Maurice raised his hand to quell the immediate objections. ‘Because it is not in your best interests at the moment. Talk to Eudo – ask for an explanation – and then do Henry’s bidding. After that, we shall discuss what might be done about your oath without imperilling your immortal soul.’
Geoffrey was silent, thinking about Maurice’s advice – and about his own promise not to jump to conclusions. The Bishop was right: Geoffrey could not leave for the Holy Land now, any more than he could have done when Roger encouraged him to break his vow.
‘Will you come with me to challenge Eudo?’ he asked after a while. ‘I am afraid that if he does admit to doing this, I will end his miserable existence. And then my soul really will be in peril.’
‘Then how can I refuse?’ asked Maurice with a smile. ‘Besides, I dislike Eudo and would like to see him squirm. Then I shall report to the King, who will not be pleased to learn that his clerks dabble with his subjects’ personal correspondence. No monarch likes to be tainted with scandal.’
They began a search of the abbey grounds, but Eudo remained annoyingly elusive. Maurice was on the verge of giving up in order to take more of his medicine when there was a shout.
‘Murder!’ screeched Delwyn, racing towards the church from the direction of the fishponds, his filthy habit flying. ‘Someone has murdered Eudo.’
‘Well, at least you know it was not me,’ said Geoffrey to the horrified Maurice.
Whoever had killed Eudo had chosen a lonely spot for his crime. To the south of the abbey, down a slope, was a boggy area that contained several fishponds. A line of trees effectively curtained it from the rest of the precinct. Geoffrey thought that if someone could not resist committing a murder in La Batailge, then these marshes were the best place for it. The abbey buildings and church were too crowded with members of Henry’s court, and the grounds to the north were populated by Benedictines who had been ousted from their usual haunts.
Eudo lay face down in one of the ponds, a short distance from the bank, and there was a knife in the middle of his back. It was a cheap metal weapon – Geoffrey had seen dozens of them lying around in the kitchens. The killer was not going to be identified from it.
‘Lord!’ muttered Maurice, crossing himself fervently. ‘Eudo is dead, and I have spent the last hour saying terrible things about him. God will not appreciate such behaviour!’
‘Eudo was arrogant and devious,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Being dead does not change that.’
‘You are a hard man, Geoffrey,’ said Maurice, sketching a blessing at him. ‘God forgive you.’
A number of people had responded to Delwyn’s shrieks of alarm. They included Sear and Alberic, who stood together with impassive faces. Edward was near them, fanning his face with his hand to indicate the run down from the abbey had been strenuous for him; Geoffrey wondered how he managed to control a garrison when he was so patently unfit. Meanwhile, Delwyn was leading a large party towards the scene of the crime, skinny arms flapping wildly.
As no one seemed inclined to do more than stare, Geoffrey waded into the water and hauled the body out. By the time he had the clerk on the bank, a sizeable audience had gathered. It included a large number of scribes and courtiers, plus several monks, although most Benedictines were at their mid-morning prayers. There were also servants, both Henry’s and lay-brothers from the abbey. They clustered around the King when he arrived, and several began to gabble at him.
‘Eudo asked me if I knew of a quiet place, so I told him it is always peaceful here,’ said Brother Ralph, the abbey’s sacristan. His face was ashen. ‘But I would never have suggested it, had I known…’
‘Who would want to kill poor Eudo?’ cried Pepin, appalled. ‘He never harmed anyone.’
Geoffrey glanced up to see a number of courtiers shooting each other meaningful looks and shuffling uncomfortably.
‘Who found him?’ Henry demanded. His face was a shade paler than usual, and Geoffrey saw that the death of a trusted scribe had upset him.
‘I did,’ said Delwyn shakily. ‘Do you remember me, sire? I am from the abbey in Kermerdyn; I delivered you some letters from Mabon.’
‘How could I forget?’ asked Henry dryly, looking him up and down. ‘Well? What happened?’
‘I came here for a quiet walk, because people keep picking on me when I loiter around the abbey.’ Delwyn shot Sear and Alberic a reproachful glance.
‘And what did you see?’ prompted Henry.
‘Eudo floating face-down in the water.’ Delwyn shuddered. ‘I am unused to violent death, and it was something of a shock. I am sorry if my agitated cries distressed you.’
‘Oh, they did,’ said Henry. ‘Especially when I learned poor Eudo was the reason for them. So why was he down here? I thought he had plenty of work to keep him busy in the Chapter House. God knows, enough of my court have complained about delays and hitches.’
‘He has been missing for several hours,’ said Pepin, rather tearfully. ‘We have been worried, because he never leaves us alone when there is important business to be done.’
‘Well, obviously he does,’ snapped Henry. ‘Because here he is.’
‘He spoke to me just after dawn,’ said Ralph. He crouched next to Geoffrey, peering into the dead man’s face. Then he reached out to touch it, although he withdrew his hand quickly and immediately crossed himself. ‘It is now mid-morning. It looks to me as though he has been dead for two or three hours at least.’
Geoffrey wondered how he could tell, although his own experience with corpses made him suspect the sacristan was right. Eudo was cold, but not yet stiff, and he could not have been dead for long – especially if he had been seen not long after dawn.
‘Do any of you come down here?’ asked Henry, gazing around at the assembled mass. ‘To escape the hurly-burly of court life?’
There was a chorus of denials and a lot of shaken heads.
‘Then did you see anyone else setting off in this direction?’ pressed Henry. ‘Think carefully, because Eudo was useful to me, and I am not pleased by his untimely demise.’
‘I may have seen him, sire,’ said Sear in a low voice. ‘At least, I saw someone hurrying in the direction of the ponds, but it was misty just after dawn, so I may have been mistaken.’
‘And he was on his own?’ demanded Henry.
Sear coloured. ‘I am sorry, sire. As I said, it was misty. He may have been alone, but he might equally well have been following someone who was already invisible in the fog.’
Henry turned to Ralph. ‘You seem to know about corpses. Tell me how he died. Was the knife in his back fatal?’
‘Well, it would not have done him any good,’ hedged the sacristan uncomfortably.
‘He drowned,’ said Geoffrey. He saw the King’s raised eyebrows and pointed to the foam that frothed from the clerk’s mouth and nose. ‘Only drowned men ooze so, and the knife wound is not in a place that would be instantly fatal.’