‘It is too late to change clothes now,’ said Eudo, frowning. ‘Go. He does not like to be kept waiting.’
Geoffrey was not pleased to find the King was not ready for him at all, but was leaning over his clerks as they scribbled feverishly at his directions. He dallied for so long that Geoffrey was tempted to walk away. But common sense reigned, and he forced himself to be patient. His dog, a savage back and white beast, also grew restless, and, foreseeing trouble if it bit someone, the knight told his squire to take it outside.
To pass the time, Geoffrey wandered to a table where building plans for the abbey had been laid out. He was impressed – it was going to be a massive foundation, housing upwards of a hundred Benedictines. The monks would have a huge cloister, dormitories, refectories, guesthouse, common rooms, fraters, kitchens, brewery, bakery, buttery and granaries.
‘Is it convenient to speak to you now, or shall I arrange for an appointment?’ came a caustic voice from behind him.
Geoffrey turned quickly, aware that he had been so engrossed that he had not realized the King was there.
‘I am sorry, sire,’ said Geoffrey. He gestured at the drawings. ‘The abbey will be remarkable.’
‘Expensive, too,’ said Henry resentfully. ‘But it cannot be helped. My father wanted to atone for the bloodshed that allowed him to conquer England, and I had better follow in his footsteps. There was that nasty rebellion on the Marches earlier this year, and now there is the one you have just quelled. It would be prudent to let God know that I am grateful that neither succeeded.’
‘Yes, sire,’ said Geoffrey, thinking the Almighty was unlikely to be impressed by acts of beneficence that were conducted with such obvious reluctance. He said no more and waited for Henry to speak.
On the surface, he and the King had much in common. Both were the youngest sons of powerful men, and neither had expected to inherit on the deaths of their fathers. But there the similarity ended, because Geoffrey had not wanted to accede to Goodrich Castle when his three older brothers had died, whereas Henry had seized his chance for land and property with considerable determination.
‘Where is your dog?’ asked Henry, looking around. ‘I thought it never left your side.’
The dog was more than happy to leave Geoffrey’s side if it thought its options were better elsewhere. Geoffrey frowned, wondering why the King should be interested in such an unappealing animal.
‘I would not mind him servicing some of my bitches,’ Henry went on before Geoffrey could reply. ‘They seem to produce docile pups, and I want some with more fire.’
‘You will not want him anywhere near them, sire,’ said Geoffrey hastily. Henry’s hounds were expensive, and his dog could not be trusted with them.
‘You were on the verge of leaving my kingdom when your ship floundered and you were cast up on the coast here,’ said Henry, changing the subject abruptly. ‘You would have been well east by now, were it not for that storm.’
‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey, heartily wishing the weather had remained fine.
‘You are my vassal by dint of your estates here, whether you like it or not,’ Henry went on. ‘I know you still consider yourself Tancred’s man, but you owe me consideration.’
‘Yes, sire,’ said Geoffrey, as politely as he could; they had been through this before. ‘But-’
‘Yet you tried to slip away,’ Henry continued, cutting across him. ‘Without my permission.’
Geoffrey frowned. He had never understood why Henry concerned himself with his comings and goings. The King was surrounded by able and loyal men, and did not need his services.
‘But you did give me permission to go, sire,’ he said. ‘A year ago. You said I could leave as soon as the trouble on the Marches was quelled. And there is peace now.’
‘Yes,’ said Henry, regarding him rather dangerously for daring to contradict. ‘But there is always the possibility that war might break out again, and Lord Baderon – your new father-in-law – will be incapable of subduing it.’
‘I do not see how I can help with that,’ said Geoffrey. He knew he was verging on the insolent, but he could not help it. ‘He is-’
‘I require reliable men in that turbulent region,’ said Henry, interrupting again. ‘Goodrich is small, but you are married to Baderon’s eldest daughter, so you have some sway over him. He will need you if trouble erupts, and I know he will accept your advice, because I have told him to.’
‘You have?’ Baderon had mentioned no such discussion when Geoffrey had taken leave of him back in August, and he was inclined to suspect that the King either misremembered or was lying. Probably the latter.
‘I have,’ said Henry coldly, as though he had read Geoffrey’s mistrust. ‘Besides, I understand your wife was unhappy with you disappearing for what might be a very long time.’
That was an understatement: Hilde was older than Geoffrey and acutely aware that women could not bear children indefinitely; there was no sign of an heir, and she had not wanted him to leave until he had done his duty.
‘And there is your sister,’ Henry went on, when there was no reply. ‘It was hardly fair to abandon your estates to her. And I doubt her husband will be much use: Joan and Hilde are twice the man that Sir Olivier will ever be.’
Geoffrey ignored the insult to his brother-in-law. It was true that his wife and sister were both formidable, quite capable of running the family estates and defending them against any enemies. He considered himself fortunate; it was not every lord of the manor who could disappear, confident that his property would still be in one piece when – if – he returned.
‘The three of them work well together,’ said Geoffrey, seeing some sort of answer was expected, ‘whereas I know nothing of farming. Besides, I wanted to see Tancred.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Henry. ‘Tancred. Unfortunately, he does not want to see you. Indeed, I believe he offered to kill you, should you venture into his domains again.’
‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey, irritated by the King choosing to air sensitive topics.
Henry saw his dark expression and sighed with affected weariness. ‘Tancred does not want you, Geoffrey. You should accept that.’
‘It does not matter whether I accept it or not,’ said Geoffrey, unable to keep the resentment from his voice, ‘because I have sworn a vow never to visit the Holy Land again.’
‘You have?’ asked Henry, startled. ‘Why in God’s name did you do that?’
‘Because the storms continued after the ship was wrecked. My companions said it was God’s displeasure at my travels, and we would all die unless I took an oath to stay in England.’
‘And did these tempests abate once you had made this vow?’ asked Henry, wide-eyed.
‘Eventually.’ Geoffrey still did not believe the Almighty had produced inclement weather for his sole benefit, and felt the pledge had been extracted by underhand tactics. But what was done was done, and he was not a man to break a promise to God.
Henry regarded him appraisingly. ‘I hope you are not expecting me to provide employment. You already declined such an offer in no uncertain terms, and I rarely extend the hand of friendship twice.’
‘I do not want your friendship,’ said Geoffrey before he could stop himself. He saw the monarch’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘I mean, I shall be happy to settle in Goodrich and learn how to farm.’
Henry laughed, although it was not a pleasant sound. ‘You will be miserable,’ he predicted. ‘But I am happy with your plans, because they fit rather well with my own.’
So here it comes, thought Geoffrey: yet another errand to be run – of the kind that Henry would never ask his usual retainers to perform. His heart sank, as he saw he was going to be plunged into intrigue and deception yet again; with Henry, there was no other kind of task.