‘Why are you here, brother?’ asked Zajíc the Bohemian herald.
Brother Geoffrey smiled. ‘I am an ambassador,’ he said. ‘Just like you, my friend.’
‘Friend. Are we friends, Geoffrey?’
The canon paused for a moment. ‘An excellent question. For a moment, back at Lens and Béthune, I thought perhaps we were. Has something changed?’
Zajíc said nothing. They were in the larger room of Brother Geoffrey’s lodgings, the canon seated before a blazing fire, trying to get rid of the cold that had settled into his bones. It had been a long journey from Calais across the wastelands of eastern Artois, along the valley of the Meuse and up over the wolf-haunted hills of the Ardennes before finally reaching the palace of Pfalzel, a heavily fortified enclave across the river Moselle from the city of Trier. Charles, King of the Romans was in residence here. Among his courtiers, Geoffrey knew, were the poet Guillaume Machaut, the king’s secretary; Guy, Count of Béthune, his brother-in-law; and Guy’s wife, the beautiful Yolande of Bohemia, the king’s half-sister.
‘To answer your first question, after our conversations at Lens and Béthune, I spoke to King Edward,’ Brother Geoffrey said. ‘He would like to discuss further the offer you made to Simon Merrivale at Calais.’
‘Why did he not send Merrivale?’
‘He is still not as well as we would like. Will King Charles see me?’
Zajíc watched him for a moment. ‘Possibly. It is not down to me. You will have to speak to Poděbrady.’
‘But you have influence with the king. It was the king, was it not, who instructed you to send the two musicians, Nikolas and Havel, to the English court?’
‘Ah, so you have discovered them,’ Zajíc said after a moment.
‘It was not difficult to work out. It was a little surprising, though, to find that they were instructed to deliver messages to Thomas Hatfield rather than King Edward. And it was even more surprising that they were told to offer their services to Merrivale, should he need them. Was that the king’s order as well?’
Zajíc did not answer. ‘Poděbrady is the king’s chamberlain. If you wish to speak to his Grace, you must see him.’
Geoffrey gazed at the herald for a moment. Zajíc looked steadily back at him. ‘Whose side are you on, Vilém? Or is your mind made up yet?’
‘Do you really think it is that simple, Geoffrey? Has it ever been that simple?’
‘Tell me about Béthune. Is he in high favour?’
‘Yes, but thanks only to his wife. Her influence is growing strong.’
‘She is popular?’
‘All of the nobles and courtiers are enraptured by her. They hold tournaments in her honour, and write poems about her beauty and nail them to the palace gates.’
Geoffrey smiled a little. ‘Some things never change. Are the poems any good?’
‘They are terrible. But Yolande is invaluable to the king. Many German nobles are indifferent to him, and some openly prefer Emperor Louis, but they are in thrall to Countess Yolande. They are becoming more loyal to her than the king.’
‘I see. So long as she remains loyal to her brother, all is well. But if she is working with her husband and the man from the north, then there is danger.’
‘Yes,’ Zajíc said. ‘However relations between Béthune and his wife are strained. They quarrel frequently. He is jealous, and has accused her of taking lovers.’
‘Has she?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I suspect you do. What about her brother, the king? Does he trust Béthune?’
‘He is a member of the king’s council, and is present at official sessions. But there are other meetings where he is not invited. Poděbrady arranges them, often at the archbishop’s palace in the city.’
‘Does Béthune know what is said at these meetings?’
‘Of course. Machaut, the king’s secretary, is spying for him.’
‘Yes, we know that. Do you know what goes on at these meetings? Are you present?’
‘Yes.’
‘So,’ Brother Geoffrey said, ‘Béthune is plotting against King Charles, and the king is formulating a counter-plot. Thank you, Vilém, this is all very useful. Why are you telling me this?’
‘So that you understand the situation,’ Zajíc said bluntly. ‘Every moment you are here, you are in danger.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Vilém. I am an official ambassador travelling under a flag of truce, no one will touch me.’
The Bohemian herald snorted. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses? Do you not realise what kind of people you are dealing with?’
‘Then I must trust in you to keep me safe. If you think your masters pose a danger to me, restrain them.’
‘It will not be easy,’ Zajíc said. ‘I meant what I said, Geoffrey. I am not your friend.’
‘I know.’ Brother Geoffrey smiled again. ‘But with enemies like you, my dear Vilém, who needs friends?’
It took Brother Geoffrey a couple of days to recover from his journey, and it was not until after dinner on Monday that he felt well enough to ask a servant to direct him to the Lord of Poděbrady. King Charles’s chamberlain received him in a solar high up in one of the towers next to the river. Windows looked out over turbulent waters pockmarked with rain. On the far side, forested slopes climbed steeply until they were lost in cloud. A fire smoked on the hearth, a mixture of wood and coal. The chimney was new and badly designed, and the room was full of smoke.
Poděbrady waved the smoke aside. He wore a sober dark coat with no adornment. ‘Sit down, brother. Zajíc told me of your arrival. I trust you are fully restored to health?’
Geoffrey smiled. ‘For the most part, although my bones are still creaking. To my annoyance, I have discovered that I am no longer a young man.’
‘It is the weather.’ Poděbrady gestured towards the window. ‘Every time it rains, I feel my joints swell up. Have some wine. It swells the joints too, but after a flagon or two you no longer care.’
A servant brought a jug of hot sweet Rheingau wine and two silver cups. ‘You wish to see the king,’ Poděbrady said when they were alone.
‘If he will receive me, yes.’
Poděbrady ran a hand through his luxuriant beard. ‘Have you anything new to say?’
Geoffrey pursed his lips. ‘Not really. But we were hoping you might.’
The chamberlain looked doubtful. ‘King Philippe is assembling an army at Amiens, and he has reinforced his garrisons on the Flemish frontier. More French convoys are preparing to resupply Calais. And your army still squats in the mud outside the town, growing weaker by the day. I’d say momentum is with the French.’
‘English reinforcements are on the way.’
‘They have been on the way for months, brother. And how will you pay them? According to rumours, your currency has been debased to the point where no one will accept it.’
‘Rumours are not always true. And the same could be said of the French coinage.’ Geoffrey set down his wine cup. ‘As a matter of fact, I do have one new thing to say.’
He told Poděbrady about the mint at Abbeville. ‘The French priory of the Knights of Saint John are clearly behind this. The entire operation is directed by Reynaud de Nanteuil.’
‘What about these mint marks from Dublin?’
‘We don’t understand those, not yet. Merrivale has written to a contact in Ireland who may be able to help, but a reply will take time.’
Poděbrady nodded. ‘Very well. How does this change the situation?’ He was clearly rather more shrewd than he first appeared.
‘It means the conspiracy is in motion. The assassination attempts last year were preliminary moves, designed to sow confusion; perhaps they were never meant to succeed. Now the real game has begun.’
‘And recognising this, King Edward has chosen to open negotiations again.’
‘Yes,’ Geoffrey said. ‘I admit our position is weak, my lord, but so is yours. The conspirators intend to control King Charles. If they cannot, they will kill him and replace him with someone more malleable.’
‘They may try,’ Poděbrady said. His beard bristled with outrage. ‘They will not succeed.’
‘No? From what I hear, they control the German nobles, through the king’s sister. Charles is already unpopular with many of them. If someone gives them the lead, they will turn against him.’
‘The Bohemians are loyal to the king. We will fight to defend him.’
‘But there are not enough of you, my lord. Too many died at Crécy. The conspiracy is a demon on the king’s back, Archbishop Balduin said. The only power that can help you now, that can get that demon off your back, is England.’
A few moments passed. ‘What is your offer?’ asked Poděbrady.
‘We will support King Charles’s bid to be crowned Holy Roman Emperor. In return, we want you to inform the French court about Nanteuil and his false mint.’
‘Why not tell them yourself? You have channels.’
‘They would not believe us. But they will believe you, their friends and allies. For all our sakes, we need the French to suppress the mint and stop the counterfeiting. It will not halt the conspiracy, but it will buy us time.’
Poděbrady stroked his beard again. ‘Very well,’ he said finally. ‘Come to court tonight. The king must decide.’
The great hall glowed with light. Dozens of lamps and candles shone off walls hung with woven cloths depicting scenes from the life of Charlemagne. Fires crackled and sparked and smoked, keeping out the chill. Stepping into the big room, Brother Geoffrey saw fifty or sixty people talking quietly and drinking wine, all dressed in sombre colours without jewels.
Music murmured in the air, the hum of a viol, the sweet notes of a lute, a clear tenor voice joining in. Geoffrey stood in the doorway for a moment. Public performances of music were forbidden during Lent, but that was not what gave him pause. He knew that voice, and those instruments; he had heard them before, in the house of the burgemeester of Bruges.
For he who walks without light
Is led by a blind guide
But for he who has a true leader
Every hour is light
You who lead us now
Confound those who would lead us astray
And lead us down the paths of light
So that we may find true peace
The three musicians were in a gallery overlooking the hall. Geoffrey glanced at them once and looked away again. King Charles sat in a gilded chair near one of the fires, hunched over a little. Poděbrady and Zajíc stood behind him; their eyes met Geoffrey’s, but neither made any move. Turning his head, Geoffrey saw another man, dark-haired, dressed all in black, staring back at him; Guy, Count of Béthune.
Béthune’s face was immobile, but his eyes were alive with anger. Geoffrey tensed a little, waiting for the other man to make a move. After a long moment, Béthune bowed and turned away. Geoffrey let out his breath a little. The music continued to play.
He heard a sudden movement behind him, and turned. Yolande stood smiling, dressed all in white, her fair hair bound up under a plain wimple. The prohibition on jewels clearly did not apply to scent; she smelled of roses and vervain. Unlike her husband, her eyes were warm and kind.
‘Brother Geoffrey! How good it is to see you again.’
‘You too, my lady. You are as beautiful as ever.’
‘I am not, but you are courteous to say so. I am sorry I was not able to welcome you when you came to Béthune.’
That could be read in two ways, Geoffrey thought. He bowed.
‘What news of Simon? Is he well?’
‘Simon is indestructible,’ he said. He was aware of Béthune, watching them from the far side of the room.
‘So I recall. Have you come to see the king?’
‘Yes. But I have not yet been summoned.’
She laid a hand on his arm. ‘We are terribly informal here at Pfalzel. Come, I will take you to him now.’
Yolande smiled graciously at the people around her as they passed across the room, greeting one or two by name as they bowed. Ten years ago in Savoy she had been a callow, impressionable girl, Geoffrey thought. Now she is a princess, full of power and grace. No wonder people are ready to follow her.
The musicians had struck up another tune.
Blessed Virgin, mother of Christ
What joy you bring to a sad world.
Geoffrey looked at Yolande and raised his eyebrows. ‘Music during Lent?’
‘The king has a dispensation to hear music each day. It eases his pain.’
Geoffrey smiled. ‘Especially if the music is composed by Master Machaut. Did he recruit the musicians too?’
‘I believe so, yes. They are very good, aren’t they?’
‘I have seldom heard finer,’ said Geoffrey.
They bowed to the king. ‘Your Grace,’ Yolande said. ‘I bring you Brother Geoffrey of Maldon, the envoy from England.’
Slowly, the king raised his head. Charles, King of the Romans was thirty years old, but looked older. Pain ages a man, Geoffrey thought. In the confused, chaotic fighting the morning after the battle at Crécy, Charles had been shot twice in the leg; according to rumour, one arrowhead was still embedded in the bone.
‘An envoy, you say,’ the king said finally. His voice was low and strained. ‘Are you certain he is not a spy?’
‘Your grace is perceptive,’ Geoffrey said. ‘All too often there is no difference.’
‘Brother Geoffrey is a man of God, sire,’ Yolande reproved.
‘A cassock can hide a multitude of sins,’ said the king. ‘Leave us for a moment, sister. I wish to speak to this man alone.’
She bowed and stepped away, moving in the opposite direction from her husband. The king waved a hand and Poděbrady and Zajíc stepped back too, leaving King Charles and Brother Geoffrey alone amid the crowd.
‘The Lord of Poděbrady has told me about the false money,’ the king said quietly. ‘I shall write personally to King Philippe and tell him what we have learned.’
‘Thank you, sire. This is a generous act, and my sovereign lord will be grateful.’
‘I am sure he will. But I want something in return.’
‘Name your desire, your Grace.’
‘Come closer,’ the king said. ‘No, closer still.’
Geoffrey moved up until he was standing no more than a foot from the king, his body shielding the latter from the gaze of the crowd. Charles spoke, his voice no more than a murmur. ‘I want you to rid me of Guy of Béthune,’ he said.
‘How?’ said Brother Geoffrey after a moment.
‘I leave that to you. I know your reputation.’ The king nodded. ‘That is all.’
The musicians watched Brother Geoffrey as he bowed and walked out of the hall.
Ask your Son, oh compassionate Lady
To drive away the evils and torments we suffer.
Oh Light of Light, we are dragged down
From the highest heaven to the lowest hell.