‘Then do not flout him,’ urged Geoffrey.
‘And my conscience?’ asked Giffard. ‘It tells me something different. You follow yours, so do not tell me to ignore mine.’
‘I would never do that,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I would always trust you to do what is right.’
Giffard was troubled. ‘The King has already questioned some of my actions. He took Agnes from the convent I put her in and she is back at court. Look, she is there.’
Dressed in her ceremonial best, Agnes Giffard looked stunning, and triumph was in every line of her being. Next to her was Walter, wearing a sword to indicate that he had recently been granted his spurs; he was officially a knight.
‘She told the King she was acting in
‘There are many rumours that she killed Sibylla,’ said Geoffrey. ‘By bringing Agnes to his court, Henry is perpetuating them. She is basking in her perceived success and is unlikely to confess that she failed. Do you not see what is happening?’
Giffard frowned. ‘I am so repelled by the whole business that I cannot imagine what Henry hopes to achieve by flaunting her sins.’
‘He is taking attention away from someone who might have had an even greater reason to want the Duchess dead and Normandy weakened.’
Giffard stared at him. ‘You think the
Geoffrey shrugged. ‘We will never know. But your ceremony is about to begin.’ He caught the Bishop’s hand as Giffard turned to leave. ‘And smile occasionally. You are happy, remember?’
The grin Giffard shot him was sickly, and Geoffrey thought it would do more harm than good if seen by the masses. Giffard hurried to take his place in the procession, and with a flurry of horns, the magnificent event began. First a line of monks chanting a psalm, then a number of assistant bishops who were also to be consecrated, with Giffard and Salisbury bringing up the rear. The procession was an explosion of gold and white, jewels glinting in the sunlight that flooded through the clerestory. Geoffrey’s ears rang from the exultant singing, and he did not think he had ever seen such a display of splendour.
The procession reached the high altar, and York began so speak, hushing even the rabble outside. More singing followed, then the heady scent of incense wafted up the aisles. In ringing tones, York invited the bishops to come before him and receive his blessing. Because Winchester had priority over Salisbury, Giffard went first. He knelt, then stood up.
‘I cannot do this,’ he announced. ‘It is not right.’
He shrugged out of his cope and mitre, shoved his crosier at a startled monk and strode towards the door. For a moment, there was only stunned silence and the sound of Giffard’s sandals slapping the flagstones. Then pandemonium erupted. Monks surged forward, as if to drag him back, while others pressed towards the altar. The ceremony quickly degenerated into a scene of confusion, with York howling for Giffard to return, some applauding Giffard’s courage and others cursing him.
Geoffrey ran to Giffard’s aid as people pressed around him. Tears coursed down the Bishop’s anguished face. Walter snatched his uncle’s arm and yelled that he was a traitor, and it was with some satisfaction that Geoffrey shot an elbow to the boy’s nose. Roger helped Geoffrey beat back those who wanted to haul Giffard to the altar and have him consecrated by force. Word quickly reached the common people, and they cheered Giffard for his courage. Eventually, Geoffrey managed to spirit him away.
‘Now you have done it,’ said Roger nervously. ‘The King will not be pleased.’
‘No, he will not,’ said Giffard with a serene smile. ‘But my conscience is clear.’
A few hours later, Roger waylaid a royal clerk and offered him a silver coin to read the documents he had taken from Durand. Roger had an unpleasant feeling that Durand’s ‘final secret’ had something to do with the parchments. He knew he should give them to Geoffrey, to make up his own mind, but Roger could not rid himself of the notion that they would bring more problems to his friend’s door.
The clerk, a man called Eudo, was one of Henry’s longest serving scribes. His kindly, honest features were a ruse: he was neither. However, he was absolutely and completely devoted to the King. He took the letters Roger proffered and began to read, making sure his face did not register the surprise he felt. They were missives sent from Prince Tancred to Geoffrey Mappestone, asking the knight to proceed to the Holy Land as soon as his business with King Henry was completed. Geoffrey’s wise counsel was missed, Tancred wrote, and there would always be a place for him in his Holy Land kingdom, no matter how often family obligations forced him to visit England. The tone was brotherly and affectionate, and it was clear the two men enjoyed a strong friendship.
Then there were copies of other letters that Eudo’s skilled eye told him were not written by the same scribe. They were forgeries, albeit clever ones. These railed furiously at Geoffrey for not returning when he had promised, and the last was a brutal severing of all further correspondence in a manner that could not have been more different from the originals.
There were also several missives signed by Geoffrey himself, apologizing for his tardiness in returning to his liege lord’s service and explaining his reasons in a clear, orderly manner. It was obvious these had never been sent. Notes on a scrap of parchment, along with several words mimicking Geoffrey’s writing, told what had been dispatched in their place – bald statements that verged on the insolent. Eudo was not surprised Tancred had professed himself concerned about his favourite commander’s health in his later replies: the letters Tancred had received were a far cry from the originals.
Listening to Roger’s explanation of how he had come by the documents, Eudo managed to piece together the puzzle: Durand had taken over the correspondence between knight and prince. Tancred now believed Geoffrey could no longer be bothered to fight his cause, and Geoffrey was under the impression Tancred would kill him for disloyalty if he set foot in his kingdom. Even Eudo would not have stooped to use such tactics, but it was done, and there was a chance that the King might benefit from the situation . . .
‘You were right not to give these to your friend – or to show them to anyone else,’ Eudo said to Roger, who was watching with troubled eyes. ‘They outline a treasonous plot against the King, led by Durand and in which Sir Geoffrey was to play a significant role.’
‘No!’ breathed Roger. ‘Durand might be that stupid, but Geoff has far too much sense.’
Eudo smiled his kindly smile. ‘Then the best thing we can do is burn these and ensure they never fall into the wrong hands. It would be unfortunate if your friend was charged with treason, just because Durand penned some deranged thoughts of regicide.’
Roger nodded eagerly, and they both watched as the letters were consumed by flame. Eudo knew the King would be keen to hear of Durand’s revenge on the two men he felt had tormented him. Their friendship was irreparably smashed, and neither was likely to write to the other again. Like other kings, Henry would soon have a
‘There,’ said Roger, when the last letter was curled and black. ‘Now he is safe.’
‘We have taken a serious risk,’ said Eudo sternly. ‘If we tell another soul what we have done, we may be accused of treason ourselves – and your friend will be doomed for certain.’
Roger rested his hand on the Crusader’s cross on his surcoat, and his face was grave. ‘I swear, by this holy symbol, that I will never tell
‘Good,’ said Eudo, who could see Roger meant every word. Only Eudo himself and the King would know what had really transpired between Tancred and his faithful knight.
A few days after Geoffrey’s return from seeing Giffard board a ship into exile, he opened the chest in his room and removed the Black Knife. He knew he should have disposed of it sooner, but he had been too busy with castle repairs and trying to pay court to Hilde. Now, with Goodrich recovering, he could delay no longer. He put the charm from Eleanor around his neck and took the dagger in his hands. He knew it was his imagination, but he thought he sensed the thing vibrating.
He shoved it in a sack, asked Bale to saddle his horse and rode out of the castle. He headed west, in the direction Eleanor had taken when she had gone to meet her lover, because he held the inexplicable belief that the weapon might cause less harm if closer to her. He had travelled about three miles when he met Olivier, returning
