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 Jerosolimitanus in his retinue.
‘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 anyone what we have just done.’
‘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.
Goodrich, mid-summer 1103
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 from an amble. Olivier frowned when he saw Geoffrey’s preoccupied expression, and, when Geoffrey told him what he planned to do, turned his little pony to follow him.
They searched in companionable silence for a long time, and Geoffrey was beginning to despair of ever finding what he sought, when suddenly they stumbled on a tree meeting Eleanor’s specifications. Geoffrey dismounted and stood beneath the oak. It felt strong and solid, and was a long way from any path, so he felt reasonably confident that the Black Knife would remain hidden until its evil powers had leached away. He fetched the spade he had brought and started to dig.
‘That is deep enough, Geoff,’ said Olivier, seeing a veritable chasm appearing. ‘If you go much further, you may damage the roots.’
‘Tell me what happened when Henry died,’ said Geoffrey, still digging hard. He did not want rains to wash the dagger out or winter frosts to force it to the surface.
Olivier sighed. ‘There is nothing to say that you do not already know.’
Geoffrey straightened. ‘No, there is not, but I would like to hear it from you. It was you who asked Eleanor to curse the knife, because it was you who killed Henry.’
Olivier stared at him, then sat down heavily. ‘How do you know?’
‘The bloody footprints around Henry’s body were small, which led me to wonder if a woman might be involved, but they were yours. And there was the blood that was never cleaned away and the bird charms – you did that with Jervil’s encouragement. It was why you always refused to enter the stables after the murder.’
‘They felt haunted,’ said Olivier in a strangled whisper. ‘They still do.’
‘Then there was Eleanor: she said the person who asked her to turn this dagger into a Black Knife knew her secret. That was why you both trusted each other.’
‘I do not-’
‘When you and I went riding the day Dun threw me, you said you would have asked Eleanor for a charm to calm his wild temper. That implies you had used her spells to good effect before. You also said she was “God knows where” after the fire, although everyone else thought she was dead. You knew she would be with her lover.’
‘She does not have a lover.’
‘She does; she told me herself. You need not pretend with me. You did witness the ceremony she performed on your knife – or rather on the knife Seguin gave Baderon – because you asked her to do it. But how did you come to have it in the first place?’
Olivier hung his head. ‘I do not . . . I . . .’
Geoffrey did not need his confession. ‘Actually, I know the answer to that, too: Henry stole it. He took it from Baderon’s house on the Feast of Corpus Christi. Baderon said he had invited all his neighbours – including Henry – to celebrate.’
Olivier nodded slowly. ‘Henry stole the dagger, and Eleanor told me a weapon that was already tainted with a crime would make a better receptacle for her curse. She was right.’
‘I do not blame you, Olivier,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I know Henry tried to kill you, but he only broke your arm. And I know about his plan to marry Joan to Hugh as soon as you were dead. He might have succeeded, had you not killed him first. But why did you always insist he committed suicide?’
Olivier gave a short, humourless laugh. ‘I doubt you will believe me, but when I saw his face in the moonlight, my nerve failed me, and I found I could not do it. I hesitated with the dagger at his stomach. But he lurched into me – straight at the thing. He died cursing every person who had ever crossed his path – especially Joan.’
‘Jervil said he mentioned Joan specifically. I suppose he cursed her for marrying you – because you were the one who brought him his death. Henry always did have a twisted sense of logic.’
Olivier’s face was white as he dredged up the terrible memory. ‘I thought his reign of terror would be over when he breathed his last, but he has continued to haunt us.’
‘Eleanor said a Black Knife is best buried by the person who bought the curse,’ said Geoffrey. He climbed out of the hole and removed the charm from around his neck. ‘You must do it.’
It took considerable courage for Olivier to don the charm and climb into the pit. Geoffrey handed him the dagger, which he accepted with unsteady hands. He placed it carefully in the deepest part, then took the spade and covered it with the rich forest soil. When it was done, he spent a long time stamping the ground flat, while Geoffrey covered it with leaves to hide evidence of disturbance. Then Olivier placed the charm in a crevice under the roots. It was done.
‘Will you tell Joan?’ asked Olivier shakily.
‘There is nothing to tell,’ said Geoffrey, his hand on his kinsman’s shoulder as they walked away. ‘The story ended when you buried the dagger, and I, for one, do not want to talk about it again.’
The early years of Henry I’s reign were marked by his dispute with Anselm, the Archbishop of Canterbury. William Giffard, who had been given his ecclesiastical ring and pastoral staff by Anselm, was caught in the middle. He was still unconsecrated when Henry suggested the Archbishop of York should do the job, and Giffard agreed to the ceremony. To be consecrated with him were Reinhelm of Hereford and Roger of Salisbury. Reinhelm, siding with Anselm, declined to accept York and did not attend the ceremony, but Giffard did, and it was only in the middle of the service that he gave way to his conscience and walked out.
There followed a scene of violent confusion, and the festivities were abandoned. Many people applauded Giffard’s courage in taking the side of the Church over the state in religious matters, but the King was less than pleased. He reacted with immediate and predictable harshness, banishing Giffard from England and confiscating all his property. Anselm tried to intervene, but Henry remained adamant. Anselm and Giffard grew closer, and when Anselm was exiled in 1103, Giffard accompan-ied him on his travels around Europe. We do not know when Henry forgave Giffard, but he was back in England by 1105, and was eventually consecrated – by Anselm – in 1107.
Giffard thereafter introduced Cistercian reform into England and founded its first house at Waverley in Surrey. He founded a house of Austin Canons at Taunton and was instrumental in raising the Church of St Mary Overy in Southwark. It was near this church that he built a palace, for use by future bishops of Winchester while they stayed in London. Contemporary chroniclers give him a strong moral character.
It is thought that Giffard came from the same family as Walter Giffard, the Earl of Buckingham. Walter Giffard died on 15 July 1102, leaving a widow called Agnes and a son named Walter. On 25 October of that same year, Sibylla de Conversano, Duchess of Normandy and wife to Henry I’s brother, Duke Robert, gave birth to a son, William (known as ‘the Clito’). It is not clear what happened later, only that by 18 March 1103, Sibylla was dead. She was reputed to be intelligent and sensible – which the Duke was not – and it is generally agreed that her death was bad news for Normandy.
The chronicler William of Malmesbury blames the disaster on medical problems following the birth of her son, but the contempor-ary historian Orderic Vitalis (1075-c. 1142) has a darker suggestion: that Duke Robert’s mistress, one Agnes Giffard, poisoned her. The rumour may have been down to spite, because Sibylla was popular and the mistress was not, but we shall never know the truth. We do know that if Agnes did murder the Duchess, she did not gain from her crime. The Duke’s realm began to fall apart, and he was far too busy quashing rebellions to marry his mistress.
