‘We were not expecting you until next week, Sire,’ he said.
‘My business at Hereford was concluded sooner than anticipated,’ said Henry. He clapped his hands, making his courtiers jump. ‘But you must all leave us. I want a word with Sir Geoffrey, and now is as good a time as any. Sit.’
Geoffrey had no choice but to obey, so he perched in a window seat. The King watched the courtiers flow away, and only spoke when they had left.
‘Why are you here?’ he asked, pacing restlessly. ‘Did you want to see me?’
‘No, Sire,’ said Geoffrey, wincing when it sounded a little too fervent. His tone did not escape Henry, whose dark brows drew together in a frown.
‘What, then? Have you come to see which of the region’s heiresses you will have? Is there one you like in particular? I can help you. A word from me goes a long way.’
‘No, Sire,’ said Geoffrey again. He rubbed his head. It was the wrong answer. ‘Yes, Sire.’
Henry regarded him thoughtfully. ‘You are not in your right wits today. But which of these women do you want? Isabel is pretty, and a match with fitzNorman is good. Margaret is too old, so do not take her. Hilde will be lucrative, because her brother is a half-wit and Baderon will leave his estates in her care. Do not bother with the Welsh. And do not bother with Bicanofre, either. They may be keen for the match, but I am not.’
‘Why?’ asked Geoffrey, surprised Henry should be so well informed about such petty affairs.
‘Because they are poor,’ said Henry impatiently. ‘Why do you think, man? You can do better, and marriage is important. Your only real choices are Isabel or Hilde. So, make your decision, and I shall ensure you have the one you want.’
‘Very well, then,’ said Geoffrey with a sigh.
Henry frowned, although there was humour in his eyes. ‘The proper response is to thank me with appropriate gratitude, not assume a long-suffering expression. Most men would be honoured to have their monarch’s friendship.’
‘Yes, Sire.’
‘Now, since I have just offered to help
you
, there is something you can do for me. It concerns your old squire, Durand – the one you so obligingly released from your service so he could work for me, and whom you so strongly recommended.’
Geoffrey regarded Henry in astonishment. He had not recommended Durand – Durand had been dismissed under a cloud, and had not dared ask for a testimonial. And although Geoffrey did not bear grudges, and had allowed Durand to repair the rift with friendly letters, he would never encourage anyone to hire him – Durand was too ambitious and selfish, and the concept of loyalty was anathema to him.
‘I did not . . .’ He hesitated. He did not want to be responsible for Durand’s downfall by saying the man had probably written the recommendation himself. ‘Durand has remarkable abilities,’ he said instead. Henry waited, obviously expecting more, but since Geoffrey was not sure what the King was about to say of Durand’s recent activities – and would not be surprised to learn they were self-serving or dishonourable – it seemed wise to say as little as possible.
‘He does have remarkable abilities,’ agreed Henry, sitting next to Geoffrey. ‘His rise has been meteoric, and I am impressed by his talents. He will be invaluable in the future.’
‘Good,’ said Geoffrey.
‘But there is a problem,’ Henry went on, standing and pacing again. ‘Others resent his success, and I do not want to lose him to a dagger in the back.’
‘Is that why you sent him to Abbot Serlo?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘For safety? I thought it was because he was investigating taxes.’
‘There
are
tax irregularities in this region, which he is cleverly unravel-ling. But it was also a way to keep him out of harm’s way until I could find other posts for these rivals – which I must do carefully. An angry agent is a dangerous thing, and I need time to organize matters properly. It is a pity Durand is not more agreeable. He has a sharp tongue and does not care who he wounds.’
‘He
can
be testy,’ agreed Geoffrey.
‘He can be downright rude,’ countered Henry. ‘But here is my problem: I do not want him at Westminster until I have relocated his rivals, but I do not want to leave him with Serlo, lest he decides to become a monk. I need somewhere he will be safe, with someone who is patient with his abrasive character.’
‘I have a new squire,’ said Geoffrey quickly, sensing what was coming next.
‘Yes, I have seen him. Your taste in servants continues to astound me, Geoffrey. But this is a nuisance. I cannot leave Durand with fitzNorman, because they would argue and someone would die. And I cannot leave him with Baderon, because he is ineffectual and a poor protector.’
‘He would be safe with Giffard, Sire,’ suggested Geoffrey. ‘He has loyal bodyguards, and his hair shirt, poor diet and life of chastity will do more to persuade Durand against a monastic career than anything else would.’
Henry rubbed his hands together, pleased. ‘I should have thought of this myself. It is an excellent solution. I will inform them of the good news at once – I am sure they will be delighted.’
Geoffrey was sure they would not. Giffard would be appalled to have such a flagrant libertine in his household, while Durand would be horrified to be trapped with the dour, ascetic bishop. He sincerely hoped Henry would not tell them whose idea it had been.
‘But I want Durand to complete his work here first,’ said Henry. ‘You can watch him for a week or two, then escort him to Giffard when he has finished.’ He stood, business completed. ‘It is time I went hunting. You are dismissed – unless you would like to accompany me?’
‘My horse is lame, Sire,’ lied Geoffrey.
Geoffrey went to his bedchamber the moment Henry released him, and began to don his armour, intending to leave immediately. There was no need to linger and risk being asked for further favours. Giffard followed him from the hall, and watched him struggle into mail and surcoat.
‘The reason I summoned you had nothing to do with the King,’ he said. ‘He came here to hunt, and your meeting was pure chance. Do not think he engineered this encounter – he did not.’
‘
He
probably did not,’ said Geoffrey, letting the unspoken accusation hang in the air.
Giffard winced. ‘I did not expect him until next week, which is why I thought it would be safe to ask you to meet me. I know you prefer to be away from court and its machinations.’
‘The King,’ corrected Geoffrey, not caring that he was speaking imprudently. ‘I prefer to be away from the
King
and
his
machinations.’
‘There is no need to blare your treasonous feelings for all to hear – and I already know what you think. But hear me out. I accompanied the King when he came this way because I need your help.’
Geoffrey was sceptical. ‘Henry told you to say that.’
Giffard sighed irritably. ‘He did
not
. He likes you, even though you verge on insulting him every time you meet. Could you not at least have pretended to be pleased to see him?’
‘He took me by surprise.’
Giffard went to stare out of the window. ‘I need your help, Geoffrey, and I swear, by all that is holy, the King has nothing to do with it. It is personal . . . I am at the edge of an abyss . . .’
Geoffrey did not like the sound of that at all. ‘What is wrong?’
Giffard beckoned him to the window, throwing wide the shutters. ‘You see that lady there?’
He pointed down to the yard below, to a dark-eyed woman, whose laugh revealed a mouth full of small white teeth. She was exquisitely beautiful, with an athletically curved body. She fluttered her eyelashes at fitzNorman, and the old warrior preened. She was confident of her beauty, and her laughter and the way she flirted said she was a woman who liked fun.
‘Her name is Agnes Giffard,’ said the Bishop softly.
‘
Giffard
?’ asked Geoffrey, startled. ‘She is your wife?’
Giffard shot him a withering glance. ‘That is a remarkably stupid question! How can I be married? I am in holy orders.’
Holy orders meant little where powerful prelates were concerned, as Giffard knew perfectly well, and the question was far from stupid. Sensing the Bishop’s temper derived from anxiety, Geoffrey forced himself to be patient. ‘Is she your sister? She does not look like you; she is attractive.’
Giffard raised his eyebrows. ‘Are you insulting
me
, now the King is not here to be a receptacle for your barbed tongue?’
‘She smiles more than you do,’ hedged Geoffrey, who had not meant to offend.
Giffard’s face was glum. ‘I find little to amuse me in this world. It is brutal, cunning and greedy. I wish I were not Bishop of Winchester. I am not even consecrated, did you know that? I am, in fact, only a deacon.’ His voice was uncharacteristically bitter.
Geoffrey was confused. ‘But you were invested with your pastoral staff and ring by the Archbishop of Canterbury himself. You said it was the most satisfying day of your life.’
‘Being invested is not the same as being consecrated,’ snapped Giffard. ‘I am able to perform my episcopal duties, but have not been properly blessed in my office by
God
.’
Geoffrey shrugged. ‘Ask Henry to arrange it.’
‘The problem is Archbishop Anselm, who is in a dispute with the King over who should pay homage to whom. Anselm will not consecrate anyone until the issue is resolved. Henry has asked the Archbishop of York to do it, but York is inferior to Canterbury.’
Geoffrey thought it sounded like a lot of fuss. Giffard was a powerful man and had the King’s favour, so consecration was a formality. ‘I am sure you will be consecrated soon,’ he said. ‘Archbishops and kings are always fighting over something, but these rows do not go on forever.’
Giffard took a deep breath, and Geoffrey saw that his hands were shaking.
‘Tell me about your sister,’ Geoffrey suggested, in order to take his mind off the problem. It did not work. Giffard’s frown became deeper; he had never seen the man so unhappy.
‘Agnes is not my sister. She is – was – my brother’s wife. Walter was the Earl of Buckingham, and he died last summer, when you and I were chasing rebels in the north. You see that boy standing near her? That is their son, also called Walter.’
‘The one with the yellow hat?’ asked Geoffrey, recognizing the would-be Italian speaker.
‘He is a cockerel and, as the new Earl of Buckingham, he has funds to indulge himself. I have tried to teach him restraint, but with a mother like Agnes, it was inevitable that he should transpire to be all fluff and no substance.’
‘You do not like him, then?’
‘I think
he
may have encouraged Agnes to . . . do what she did.’
‘And what was that?’ asked Geoffrey patiently.
Giffard took a shuddering breath. ‘I summoned them from Normandy as soon as I heard about Sibylla. But it will not be long before people realize that Agnes’ husband died last July and Sibylla died less than a month ago.’
Geoffrey had no idea what he was talking about. ‘Who is Sibylla?’
‘Sibylla de Conversano. The Duchess.’ Giffard turned an anguished face to Geoffrey. ‘I fear she was poisoned.’
Geoffrey was bemused by Giffard’s confidences. ‘The Duke of Normandy’s wife? But I heard she died from complications following childbirth.’
‘I have tried to crush the gossip,’ said Giffard. ‘But it is common knowledge that Agnes dallied with the Duke during Sibylla’s confinement.’
‘You think Agnes murdered Sibylla?’ asked Geoffrey, trying to follow what Giffard was saying. ‘So she could continue to frolic with the Duke?’
‘Worse. I think she killed Sibylla – and perhaps my brother, her husband, too – so she could
marry
the Duke, and rule Normandy with him.’
‘Then you thwarted her,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Agnes is here, and the Duke is in Normandy.’
‘That is not the point,’ snapped Giffard. ‘I fear evil deeds, and Sibylla was a beautiful and intelligent lady. Normandy is a poorer place without her careful hand on the Duke’s shoulder and, if someone did kill her, then a great wrong has been perpetrated.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Geoffrey. ‘But it is only a matter of time before our King – whom
you
serve – invades Normandy. He will be delighted that the Duke no longer has Sibylla at his side.’
‘But it is
murder
!’ whispered Giffard, turning haunted eyes on Geoffrey. ‘I knew Sibylla, and she was remarkable. I see her in my dreams, and hear her calling to me for vengeance. I need to know the truth: did Agnes and her brat poison Sibylla, or was her death due to tragic illness?’
‘You may not like what you find,’ warned Geoffrey. ‘And what if they
did
kill her? Will you tell Henry? He admires initiative, and might employ them to do it again.’
Giffard was aghast. ‘How can you say such things?’
‘I am being practical. You want to be told that Agnes and Walter are innocent. But you must accept the possibility that you will learn otherwise. And you should consider what you would do with such knowledge. If you think your dreams are haunted by Sibylla’s cries for vengeance now, imagine what they will be like if you discover your family
is
responsible.’
‘So, what should I do?’ Giffard’s face was anguished.
‘Marry Agnes to a man who will keep her in a remote manor. Or place her in a convent. You must know some trustworthy abbesses. But we are assuming she is guilty. What evidence is there?’
‘None,’ admitted Giffard. ‘Just the fact that she dallied with the Duke when Sibylla was in confinement, and that Sibylla was conveniently dead a few days before that confinement was due to end. And my brother’s death was very timely, too. He died the very week that this lustful liaison between the Duke and Agnes began.’
‘That is nothing but a set of coincidences – and there is certainly nothing to implicate Walter.’
‘You think I should ignore that my brother might have been murdered by his wife and son?’ cried Giffard. ‘Ignore that, buoyed by their success, they then struck at Sibylla? And ignore that their selfish actions have caused immeasurable damage to Normandy, because its one sane voice is stilled forever?’