He wondered why he had not thought of this before. In fact, he wished he had been open from the start and told everyone about the discovery when he had made it in Kermerdyn three years before. People had certainly asked what had happened to change him from a rather average man to one who was blessed with an abundance of good fortune. He had always refused to tell, and it had given rise to all manner of speculation. But there was no time left for games now.
‘I do not have long left for this world,’ he announced. ‘It is time to tell you my secret.’
There was an immediate rush towards the bed, but William could not see faces. They shifted constantly around him, so he was unsure whether all his friends and family were there, or just one or two. Sensing time was of the essence, he began to speak anyway, but his eyes were now so dim that he could not even tell if they were listening.
When he had finished, he lay back, exhausted, feeling darkness begin to envelop him. Had he revealed his secret to a roomful of people, who would monitor each other and see it used wisely? Or had he confided to just one person? Or had he dreamt it all?
And had the butter killed him?
William took one last, shuddering breath. He would never know.
One
La Batailge, near Hastinges, early October 1103
Sir Geoffrey Mappestone did not like King Henry. He considered him devious and dangerous, and hated those occasions when he was summoned into the royal presence. Less worrisome, but equally annoying, was waiting around, kicking his heels, while the King determined that he might – or might not – see the knight.
Right now, Geoffrey was in just such a situation. He and his friend Sir Roger of Durham had recently helped thwart a minor rebellion and had finally been dismissed so that Geoffrey could return to his home in Goodrich on the Welsh borders. But within a day of leaving the abbey at La Batailge, they had been summoned back by a hard-riding messenger from the King. The two knights and their squires had then been forced to linger at the abbey until it was convenient for His Majesty to receive Geoffrey. The waiting was made even less tolerable because the one friend Geoffrey had made during his previous adventure – Wardard, an old Norman warrior turned monk – had evidently been sent ‘on retreat’ by the head of the abbey on the very day the knights had left. So Geoffrey could not even enjoy his company while waiting upon the King’s whim.
The area around La Batailge was windswept and lonely, and Geoffrey often wondered what his father had thought of it when he had fought the Saxons there almost forty years before. If Geoffrey closed his eyes, it was easy to imagine the clamour of battle – the clash of weapons, the piercing whinnies of horses, the screams of the wounded and dying. The slaughter had been terrible, and, to ease his conscience, the Conqueror had founded an abbey on the site. The sound of Benedictine chants now filled the air, but Geoffrey thought the place a desolate one even so.
Three Norman monarchs had reigned since then. The first William had died twenty-one years after the Conquest, leaving three ambitious sons. The oldest was Robert, Duke of Normandy, under whom Geoffrey had trained to become a warrior. The next was William Rufus, who had inherited the English throne and had agreed with Robert that if one of them died, the other should have his estates and titles. King William Rufus had been dispatched by an arrow in the New Forest, and the youngest of the Conqueror’s sons, Henry, had raced to have himself crowned before Robert could stop him.
Geoffrey thought Henry was wrong to have thus illicitly grabbed the throne. But as his own estates were in England, and Henry could easily take them away, he kept his thoughts private. He had never sworn fealty to Henry – his oath of allegiance had been to Tancred, Prince of Galilee, for whom he had fought most of his adult life – but Henry held a certain sway over him.
Henry was holding court in the church, a typically Norman building with a nave supported by thick pillars, and a clerestory of round-headed windows. Geoffrey leaned against a pillar and watched him conduct business. Henry had brought with him an enormous retinue of clerks, scribes, servants and courtiers. The clerks were the most numerous; Henry was wise enough to know that the key to a successful reign was as much administration as winning battles.
One clerk saw Geoffrey and walked towards him. He was a pleasant-faced man with a cheerful smile, although there was something about his eyes that suggested he was as devious as his master. His name was Eudo, and he was Henry’s most trusted scribe.
‘His Majesty has just told me that he will see you in a few moments.’
‘Thank you.’ Geoffrey hesitated before continuing. ‘Do you know why? I do not think there is more to be discussed about the recent events.’
Eudo inclined his head. ‘I am sure His Majesty would agree. It was a sordid business, and the less said the better.’
‘Then why did he recall me?’
The court had taken every available berth in the abbey, and Geoffrey and his companions had been reduced to sleeping behind the stables, rolled in their cloaks. It was warm for the time of year, and as a soldier he was used to uncomfortable conditions, but it was still not pleasant. Moreover, the monks were struggling to find enough food for such large numbers, and Geoffrey could not leave to forage for his own lest the King demanded his presence.
‘He has his reasons.’ Eudo saw the look on Geoffrey’s face and elaborated hastily: the knight was tall, strong and clearly not someone to be fobbed off with flippant responses. ‘He wants to discuss it in person. But it involves some letters.’
‘Letters?’ echoed Geoffrey.
‘You will find out soon enough,’ replied Eudo. Then it was his turn to hesitate. ‘I am sorry about Prince Tancred, by the way.’
‘What about Tancred?’ demanded Geoffrey.
Eudo looked at him warily. ‘I am sorry you are no longer in his service. The King tells me that the two of you were as close as brothers, but he has recently dismissed you most rudely.’
That was one way of putting it, Geoffrey thought bitterly. Tancred had actually threatened to execute his former favourite if he ever saw him again. And it was Henry’s fault – he had forced Geoffrey to remain in England, and Tancred had finally lost patience. Dismayed by Tancred’s final missive, Geoffrey had known he would never rest easy until he had explained in person what had happened. Tancred might still be angry, but at least he would understand that the decision to dally had not been Geoffrey’s.
‘The King discusses my personal correspondence with clerks?’ he asked coolly. ‘I thought he would have better things to do.’
‘He does,’ replied Eudo, matching his tone. ‘But, for some inexplicable reason, he likes you.’
Geoffrey seriously doubted it. Or perhaps Henry ‘liked’ him because he had a weakness – a sister of whom he was fond – and so was a suitable candidate for coercion. Henry had certainly exploited his knight’s unwillingness to see Joan harmed in the past, and would doubtless do so again.
‘Here is Sir Edward,’ said Eudo, nodding to where a man in impractically fashionable clothes was approaching with fussy, mincing steps. Like many courtiers, his hair was long, flowing around his shoulders, and his beard had been carefully sculpted into an eye-catching fork. Geoffrey regarded the figure warily. The title suggested Edward was a knight, but Geoffrey could not imagine such a fellow on a battlefield.
‘He is Constable of Kadweli Castle, in Wales,’ continued Eudo. ‘It is a prestigious post because Kadweli is strategically sited, and money has been set aside to build it in stone.’
‘The King is ready for you now,’ said Edward to Geoffrey. He looked the knight up and down, smothering a smirk. ‘He will be pleased to see you have dressed appropriately.’
A tart rejoinder died in Geoffrey’s throat when he glanced down at himself. His surcoat with its Crusader’s cross was decidedly grimy, and although his mail tunic and leggings were in good repair – no sensible knight would allow them to be otherwise – they were plain and functional. He had not shaved in days, and his light brown hair, cut short in military fashion, had not seen a comb in weeks. Edward had a point.