The Anarchy, page 8
I knew that if Amelina were beside me, she would stand painfully on my foot to remind me I must lie through my teeth to get my way and not speak plain truths. I took a shaky breath. ‘I have come to present a petition, sire.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘On behalf of your husband?’
‘No, sire. On my own behalf as Principissa Walliae, a princess of Wales.’
A slight smile curved his mouth for a fleeting moment. Henry was delighted by women in every way, and he was delighted when a woman lay claim to her rights and status. His delight did not mean he would agree, but it meant he would listen at least. ‘Then you must present your petition, Principissa.’ He nodded to a scribe sitting at the side of the raised dais where his throne was placed. The scribe dipped his nib in brown ink, smoothed his parchment and looked expectantly at me.
‘I ask that the king confirm my rights to my dower lands at Carew and Llansteffan that were bequeathed to me by my mother Gwladys ferch Rhiwallon, queen of Deheubarth. I would gladly swear my oath on a holy relic that the lands were left to me as my dower.’
‘There is no need to swear,’ the king declared. ‘I am well aware that these are your dower lands and do so confirm them in your hands as long as you use them for the benefit of my government of Wallia.’
I drew a deep breath. ‘Thank you, sire. And I ask that you grant me right to reside on my lands at Llansteffan.’
He raised an eyebrow.
‘My scribes,’ I announced grandly (though I referred, in fact, to Ida) ‘have drawn up this charter,’ I drew a rolled parchment from my sleeve, ‘and I ask that you consider it and, if it pleases you, that it be duly signed and witnessed.’ I heard people muttering in low voices behind me, but kept my eyes trained on the king’s own.
‘Do you, indeed?’ He took the rolled parchment that I held out to him and bent over it, holding it flat across his knees. I realised that his eyesight was not what it once was since he had to peer so close over the charter. The document confirmed my right to Llansteffan – the castle and its demesne and the small town at its foot. It confirmed my right to reside there and take a proportion of profits from the town market, by order of the king. It was my escape bid from de Marais.
‘There is no need for a written charter,’ Henry declared. ‘My confirmation of your dower lands is written down as the record of this court, as you see.’ He gestured to his own scribe.
‘Nevertheless, Deheubarth is far from your courts in England and a charter that I might carry would be of use to me.’ I took a step closer toward his knees and lowered my voice in a vain attempt to gain some intimacy and privacy between us. ‘I never asked you for anything before, sire.’
He pursed his mouth at me. He did not like the precedent it would set. ‘I will review the document and think on it,’ he stated loudly.
My heart sank. I knew him well enough to translate this statement to ‘no’.
* * *
In my chamber, I told Ida what had happened, and we discussed my disappointment.
‘Well, all is not lost yet, is it?’ Amelina insinuated, glancing at the great bed behind us. ‘He’s here for the night.’
‘Amelina, your thoughts do not contribute anything helpful to this discussion,’ I told her tersely. I turned to Ida. ‘There is no need to be concerned for your safety. The king has no idea you are here. You simply need to keep to my chambers until he leaves tomorrow.’
‘Unless, of course, the king finds his way to said chambers,’ Amelina persisted. ‘As he used to.’
‘Please! Be silent,’ I told her, exasperated. The notes of a lute being tuned rose up the stairwell to us and Amelina danced around the room, laying out my best red dress, which she had succeeded in drying, and my best jewels, and, of course, red hair ribbons.
Ida began to laugh at Amelina, but her laughter ceased abruptly. ‘No!’ She pushed herself up lopsidedly from her chair with one hand and clutched at her collar with her other hand. Amelina and I moved swiftly to support Ida, each taking one of her elbows. She had gone as white as fresh snow, and I feared she would fall.
‘What is it?’ I asked, bewildered at what might have suddenly frightened her.
‘It’s him.’ I realised she was listening to the melody of the voice spiralling up from the hall. I could hear, now, the Welsh tones of the song:
Sweet appletree of crimson colour,
Growing, concealed, in the wood of Celyddon
Though men seek your fruit, their search is vain.
The voice stopped for a moment, and I asked her, ‘Him?’
‘Breri.’
‘The king’s minstrel?’
‘He is a bard. A travelling bard. I last knew of him in the service of the king’s sister, Countess Adela de Blois. He knows me. Like the king, he knows who I am. He knew me as a nun at Fontevraud.’
8
Gisulf’s Box
Emerging from the shadow of the gatehouse, Haith rode into London, hearing the curfew bell at Saint-Martin-Le-Grand. Saint-Martin-Le-Grand offered sanctuary from law to anyone who could lay hands on the altar, and he wondered how many fugitives might be sheltering there right now. He had arrived with little time to spare before he must appear at Bishop Roger’s Upper Exchequer court at Westminster. The court was scheduled for the following day. He dismounted and pushed open the gate of his townhouse. Two armed men confronted him in the courtyard and, then, recognising him, bid him welcome. Haith was pleased to see that his deputy had thought to post guards. There would be a quantity of silver sitting in a chest inside the house to pay the taxes at the Exchequer that needed to be well looked after. Haith led his horse across the courtyard and his grinning stableboy came running to take the reins. ‘Welcome home, Master!’
Haith ruffled his hair. ‘Thank you, lad.’ Haith glanced up with satisfaction at the black and white columbage of the house. It was good to be home.
Haith’s deputy, Gwyn, had heard the horse and voices in the courtyard and he emerged from the door, shouting a greeting. ‘Sir Haith! Welcome back!’
‘Thanks!’ Haith gripped Gwyn’s shoulder. ‘All well here?’
‘Yes, sir.’ They moved inside and Haith subsided onto the comfortable chair close to the hearth to take off his damp boots. A good fire was burning, and he stretched his stockinged toes out to its heat, looking expectantly at Gwyn. ‘So, what’s the news?’
Gwyn waited while Haith’s housekeeper held out a bowl of water for Haith to wash his hands and face and provided them both with beakers of wine before responding. ‘I travelled up from Pembroke with the taxes last week.’
‘No trouble on the road?’
‘No. All was well. I had a solid guard of five men with me. The weather kept dry for us.’
‘Is the coin good?’ Haith asked.
‘I hope so, Sheriff.’
‘Your hopes are my neck, Gwyn. You’d best be right,’ Haith rebuked.
Gwyn held up a reassuring hand and stated in a tone of greater certainty. ‘You can depend on it. I had Gilpatric check the quality of the silver.’
Gilpatric was the minter at Pembroke, and Haith knew both he and Gwyn were dependable men. ‘Good,’ declared Haith. ‘Thank you for your work and care. What other news?’
‘The king’s in Bristol and planning to go north to York and inspect the silver mines at Alston.’
Haith nodded and wondered if Henry had received his message yet concerning the rebellion that Waleran and Amaury were brewing in Normandy. ‘And back in Pembroke?’
‘Lady Isabel birthed a girl and they are both well.’
Haith nodded again. This girl was another of Henry’s numerous illegitimate brood. He thought with a pang of his own son with Nest, Robert, who was unacknowledged by him and did not know his father. The boy must be three years old now. Perhaps Nest would let Haith take the boy into his household when he was old enough to train and then they could grow to know one another.
Haith listened with only half an ear to Gwyn’s litany of new shops and inns that had opened in Pembroke and Tenby, of husbands or wives caught out in adultery in the towns, of a fight on market day. Gwyn made no mention of Nest, and Haith forced himself not to ask. He could not keep running away from the loss of Nest forever. Soon, when the king was finished with him, he would have to return to Wales, to his office in Pembroke, and he would have to face it, to face the sight of her with de Marais. He had sent a letter to Ida at Cardigan Castle but received no reply as yet.
* * *
Haith left the guards and his sword at the door and entered the hall at Westminster with two of his men carrying the heavy, studded chest of silver. Bishop Roger of Salisbury was presiding over the Exchequer court session. At the extreme far end of the great length of the hall, most of the other sheriffs and clerks were already gathered around the exchequer table set up before the bishop. All other people were excluded from this morning’s closed session. The clerestory gallery that ran around the upper level of the walls was usually crammed with onlookers but stood empty today. The roof soared high above Haith’s head and when the hall was packed with all the people of the court, it was still a vast space. Reaching the table, Haith inclined his head in greeting to Miles of Gloucester, who was here to pay the dues for Carmarthen. The other sheriffs all answered for counties in England. The king’s empty marble throne with its lion’s feet was beyond the exchequer table, raised up on a dais. Haith found he was looking forward to seeing Henry, but it would be a while yet before he caught up with him on his progress north.
It came to his turn, and a clerk read out what was owed to the king by the sheriff of Pembroke for the annual farm of the counties, the proceeds of justice, and the national levies of Danegeld and feudal aids. Haith lifted the lid of the chest and the clerks set about weighing the purses and recording the payment on a wooden tally stick. The treasury clerk retained one half of the stick and Haith kept the other half as his receipt, and then the transaction was recorded on a sheet of parchment. At the end of the long day of payments, all the sheets would be carefully rolled and sealed, ready to be placed in the royal archive. Haith breathed a sigh of relief when the announcement of the assay, the blanch payment, was made. His payment was not to be one of the random sampling of coins that would be melted and checked to ensure that the silver was not debased. Since he had not checked it himself this time, he was taking an enormous risk on Gwyn’s assurance and even his friendship with the king might not save him, if he was accused of cheating the crown of its dues. Relieved to have successfully concluded his business at court, Haith found his horse and headed toward the eastern edge of the city.
He had made enquiries among the king’s household and been surprised to discover that the murdered clerk Gisulf had held a soke and burh in London. This was a private estate and residence of some importance and an indication of the wealth the clerk had managed to accumulate. A summons had come from the king this morning to attend him in Carlisle. Henry had received Haith’s message concerning the fermentation of rebellion in Normandy at Waleran’s castle. The king’s command meant that Haith had only one day to spare in London and would have to set out tomorrow morning to catch up with the king’s entourage.
Haith found Gisulf’s house on the edge of the city, close to a stinking and clogged ditch in the vicinity of Smithfield. Haith wondered at the choice of location. This place was as far away as it was possible to be from the royal palace and administrative offices at Westminster, where Gisulf’s duties as royal clerk had lain when the king was in residence. From the outside, the house had an air of neglect. Haith banged on the door, which quivered on loose hinges beneath his fist. The person on the other side of the portal took their time opening up. Haith regarded the door with scepticism. It was so badly maintained and flimsy that a quick kick would have easily collapsed it, despite the barrage of locks that he could hear being unlocked and the bolts being slid back.
The door opened a crack and the hostile gaze of a very fat and slovenly looking woman scoured Haith from head to foot. Finally, she asked him his business.
‘I am on the king’s business, madam,’ Haith told her. She looked alarmed. ‘I am required to collect all papers belonging to Gisulf, the clerk, who formerly lived here.’
‘We don’t want no Flemings here,’ she blurted, voicing the prejudice of many Londoners against the foreign traders and especially against the numerous Flemings. ‘Get away.’
She began to close the door, and Haith inserted a boot into the gap. ‘I told you, madam, I am on the king’s business. I am one of his sheriffs.’ Haith neglected to mention that his shrievalty was far away in south-west Wales.
‘Master Gisulf told me he held this soke from the archbishop of Canterbury himself and no writ, not even the king’s runs here. Get away or I’ll be calling the reeve on you.’ Her words were bold, but the fear in her face told a different story. She must have been holed up here for the last year, since report of Gisulf’s drowning would have reached her, just waiting for the day when an official of some sort would knock on the door and turf her into the street.
Gisulf’s burh was a defensible walled house, and, during his lifetime, it would have been staffed with guards and well-nigh impossible to breach but Haith had the impression that following her master’s death, this slatternly woman was the only person remaining. Gisulf’s other household staff would have long since left when the payment of wages abruptly dried up.
‘I know the law,’ she went on. ‘No one can be arrested in their house in a soke. It’s protected, private property. Only place you can arrest me is standing in the middle of the road.’
‘Well, perhaps you would care to step out and join me here, then,’ countered Haith in exasperation. ‘What are you defending, woman?’ He tried another tack. ‘Your master is dead. I have been instructed to search his papers in case he has left bequests for his retainers that must be honoured before his affairs are wound up and this very soke is returned to the jurisdiction of the archbishop.’
She heard the twin hint of something in it for her and the threat of eviction and gaped at him for a long moment, perplexed. ‘Master Gisulf didn’t want anyone knowing he was secreted away here,’ she complained, ‘but, true enough, he’s dead now.’ She opened the door to allow Haith over the threshold.
‘Indeed,’ Haith said, impatient in his hope that this run-down residence might give him a crucial piece of the puzzle of The White Ship.
‘He kept his paperwork all upstairs,’ she said, ‘but there’s nothing there now.’
‘Lead the way, please.’
The woman turned her broad back upon him and led him up several flights of narrow, precipitous stairs to the attic room. ‘This was his writing room,’ she said, throwing her arm wide as if she had led him to a palatial chamber rather than the sorry little room he was looking at. ‘I haven’t touched anything.’ Haith raised an eyebrow at her. He strongly doubted that. ‘I didn’t take in any tenants in respect for poor Master Gisulf.’ Haith ignored the hint that she might like some remuneration for her delicacy.
‘Leave me, mistress. I will let you know when I am finished here.’
She humphed, turned on a heel, and eased herself back down the creaking stairs.
Haith looked around him. A narrow bed, a desk, and chair. A candlestick on the desk. If there had been a candle, the woman had taken that long ago. A sliver of light came in through a skylight. More low beams for Haith to avoid. And these beams were rough and splintered and of many differing widths and woods, as if they had been collected in the forest and leant against each other, temporarily, to hold up the roof, rather than being carefully dressed and knit in place by a master carpenter. That was probably exactly what had happened. It gave the room the appearance of a kind of treehouse. Haith wound his head carefully around the treacherous beams to look at the desk. There was nothing on or under it. He sat on the chair and regarded the empty room. The woman would have ransacked its contents long ago. He rose up again, gingerly, to avoid braining himself on the ‘treehouse’ structure. He moved slowly and quietly down the stairs in search of the woman’s quarters.
He heard her chopping vegetables at the board in the kitchen. She had her back to the open door to the kitchen. Haith moved past the doorway to the next room, which appeared to be her bedchamber. There were clothes strewn around the room. He dropped to all fours to look under the bed and fished out a small chest. He sat back on his heels, regarding it. It was a good quality waxed canvas coffer strapped with leather. It did not look like the possession of the woman next door, but rather more like something Gisulf himself would have used to store parchments and carry about with him. It had a stout hasp and was locked. Haith tested the weight of the coffer. Whatever was inside was not heavy. He could carry it. Better to take it back to his own quarters and break it open there, rather than sit here hammering at the lock, and dealing with the woman’s resistance. He hefted the chest to his hip, draped his cloak about it and made for the door, calling out a cheery goodbye and thanks when he was clear of the threshold and closing the door behind him.
* * *
In his own townhouse, Haith rocked back in his chair, more shocked even than when Abbess Petronilla had told him that Benedicta had left Fontevraud. He had not thought it possible that he could be more shocked than that. Gisulf’s box contained scrolls and letters. Haith thought he had found the reason here, among these papers, for Berold and de Pirou’s commission to murder the clerk, but then he had found another, second letter from Robert de Bellême and it was that one, that letter that had given him the great shock.
The parchments in Gisulf’s coffer were in many different hands and they were all originals. This was a crime in itself. The king’s correspondence should be stored in his scriptorium at Westminster and not in a clerk’s obscure attic room down a back alley. It was quickly apparent to Haith that Gisulf had been a blackmailer. Clerks and messengers were in highly trusted positions, carrying secrets, as they often did. Clerks who could read, where many messengers might not, were an especial vulnerability. These letters that Gisulf had kept back or copied were all incriminating for some poor unfortunate. Most of the contents related to sexual misdemeanours by husbands, clerics, wives, but reading through the top layer, Haith had come across a letter from Waleran de Meulan addressed to William Clito, assuring him of his loyalty and his wish to see him in his proper place as duke of Normandy. This was a much more serious matter than all the rest, and surely the reason for Gisulf’s drowning in the barrel. The letter had been folded within a slip of paper addressed to Henry from his sister Adela, countess de Blois. ‘Brother,’ she wrote, ‘see here what my trusty network of spies has discovered now of the plotters, and weep. This ingrate was your beloved protégé and he betrays you so easily.’ Waleran’s letter was indeed damning. It was a stupid letter. It was the letter of a young man eager to show that he would gladly bite the hand that had fed and nurtured him. The king did not deserve such treatment from Waleran.
