“Surely that is unlikely, with so many contenders for heir,” Geoffrey pointed out. “If my father were childless, it might be a different matter. But you yourself have noted that my three brothers and Joan intend to have Goodrich for themselves.”
“But one, or perhaps more, of your siblings is attempting to kill your father, and you have already admitted to me that you would not stay if Goodrich were yours. I do not want a vacant landlord any more than I want a murderer as lord of Goodrich. And I certainly do not want one of the Earl of Shrewsbury’s creatures in charge. And there is another thing.”
He paused again, and regarded Geoffrey intently. Geoffrey sensed yet again that something was going to be said that he would rather not hear. If Henry were anyone other than the King of England, Geoffrey would have made his excuses and left. As it was, he was trapped, and obliged to listen to whatever sordid secrets the King chose to reveal.
“Do you know what happened to my brother, Rufus, in the New Forest last summer?”
Geoffrey was startled by the change of subject. “I was in the Holy Land at the time, but the story was that he was shot in a hunting accident.”
Henry nodded. “He was shot, certainly. But whether by accident or design is less certain.” He turned, very deliberately, and gazed at the remains of the arrow burning in the fire.
Geoffrey prudently maintained his silence. There had been a good many rumours when the news had reached Jerusalem that Rufus of England had been slain, one of which was that Henry, who stood to gain a good deal from his brother’s death, was not wholly innocent in the affair. He wondered why the King was choosing to discuss this particular matter with him now.
“You seem vague regarding the details of the events of last August,” said Henry. “Let me enlighten you. On the second day of that month, we were due to go hunting together, just after dawn. My brother Rufus, however, was ill. He had slept badly, plagued with nightmares, and felt unwell.” He looked hard at Geoffrey. “Rather as your father has been of late.”
“You believe Rufus was poisoned?” asked Geoffrey, startled. “Before he went hunting?”
Henry shrugged. “Why not? I am sure that had my brother been in his usual good health, he would not have fallen to the arrow that killed him. He would have sensed something was amiss, and moved away or called out. But I am getting ahead of myself. Because Rufus was indisposed, we did not leave to go hunting until much later-well into the afternoon. The party split, as is the custom, and my brother was left in the company of Walter Tirel, the Count of Poix.”
He paused yet again. Geoffrey glanced out through the door to where Caerdig stood, wondering, no doubt, what the King and Geoffrey were finding to discuss alone together for such a long time.
“Then, events are unclear. It seems a stag was driven to the clearing where my brother and Tirel waited. My brother fired, but only wounded the animal. Tirel fired, but he killed Rufus rather than the stag. Tirel immediately fled the country, but has been roaming France ever since claiming that it was not his arrow that killed Rufus. It is assumed by many that his instant flight is a clear statement of his guilt, but I am uncertain.”
If Geoffrey had been in a position whereby the King of England had been shot, and he was the only known person in the vicinity with a bow and arrows, he might well have fled himself, regardless of innocence or guilt. Regicide was a serious matter, and revenge tended to be taken before questions were asked. Geoffrey supposed that it was entirely possible Tirel had not killed Rufus, and that his flight had been nothing more than a case of instinctive self-preservation.
“I have my suspicions that the Earl of Shrewsbury might have had a hand in Rufus’s death,” the King finished.
Geoffrey was quite unprepared for this conclusion. Common sense told him to say nothing, but the King’s claim seemed so wild that he could not help but question it.
“But what would the Earl have to gain?” he asked. “It is said that he had a greater influence over Rufus than he could ever hope to have over you.”
He wondered if he had spoken out of turn, but the King only smiled. “That is reassuring to hear. I would not like my people to imagine that I consort with men such as Shrewsbury. But he has grown powerful under my brother-he owns too much land along the Welsh borders, and holds altogether too much power in my kingdom. And there is more. There are those who say that my other brother, the Duke of Normandy, is the rightful King of England, and not me at all.”
Geoffrey decided that silence was definitely required over this one. The supporters of the Duke of Normandy-who included Geoffrey-had a point. There had been a treaty signed by Rufus and the Duke of Normandy, stating that the Duke should have England if Rufus died childless. Rufus had indeed died childless, and, if the treaty had been honoured, Henry should not have taken the crown.
“I am certain the Duke of Normandy plans to invade England, and snatch my throne away from me-which is why Shrewsbury is consolidating his lands along the borders here. But the Duke is barely able to rule his own duchy, let alone a kingdom as well. He will need a regent for England. And who better than his loyal servant, Shrewsbury?”
It was well known that King Henry was twice the statesman his brother the Duke would ever be, and the Duke might well reward loyalty from a man like the Earl of Shrewsbury with the Regency of England-and that would be a tragedy for every man, woman, and child in the country, given the Earl’s reputation for violence. England would fare better under the harsh, but just, rule of King Henry than that of the tyrannical and unpredictable Earl of Shrewsbury.
“So what do you want me to do?” asked Geoffrey, aware that the King was gazing at him expectantly.
“I want you to keep your father’s estates from Shrewsbury at any cost. It might seem to you that Goodrich is unimportant in the battle for a kingdom. But battles have been won and lost on details. I want Goodrich in your father’s name for as long as possible, and then I want his heir to be a man loyal to me. That is the essence of what I want you to do for me, and that is the reason why I brought you to this chamber-away from prying ears.”
Geoffrey turned as the constable hurried towards them, triumphantly bearing aloft a scrap of parchment. “Here, my liege,” he said, presenting it with a bow. “I found this stuffed down one of Aumary of Breteuil’s boots.”
“Ah!” said the King, scanning it quickly. “You were most astute, my lord constable, for this indeed must have been the important message Sir Aumary wished to conceal with his worthless household accounts.” He waved it in the air, and then secreted it in a pouch on his belt.
Geoffrey, who had been unable to prevent himself from glancing over the King’s shoulder to read what was written, wondered why the King should consider a common recipe for horse liniment so vital to his country’s well-being.
It was with some relief that Geoffrey was dismissed by the King. Caerdig followed him out of the hall and into the bailey, where he grabbed the knight’s arm and stopped him.
“Well?” he demanded. “What did he say? Are we free to leave?”
Geoffrey nodded, his thoughts still tumbling around in confusion.
“And?” persisted Caerdig. “What else did he say? What was he telling you away in that chamber? Did it concern Lann Martin?”
Geoffrey did not feel it was appropriate to tell Caerdig that the King had ordered him to prevent the powerful and rebellious Earl of Shrewsbury from laying hands on his father’s lands-nor that the King whole-heartedly believed the truth of the story that one of Geoffrey’s siblings was trying to murder their father.