The Fallen Sword Page 4

  * * *

  Unlike the burgemeester’s palatial residence, the house of the banker Oppicius Adornes was relatively modest, a low, plain range of buildings built of white-painted brick with red tile roofs. A porter opened the gate and ushered them inside. House servants conducted them across a courtyard whose silence contrasted with the bustle of the streets outside, and into a parlour where light from mullion windows reflected off a row of mirrors. The parlour’s white walls were hung with enamelled brasses showing scenes from the life of Christ. One of these depicted the expulsion of the moneylenders from the temple. Someone has a sense of humour, Merrivale thought.

  A coal fire burned on the hearth. A servant offered wine, another brought a dish of candied fruits. Merrivale’s ribs ached from last night’s blow. He thought about Brother Geoffrey, laid up in bed. Geoffrey had only just recovered from the summer, when he and the herald had been taken prisoner in Normandy. Merrivale had been rescued by the English army, but Geoffrey had been held prisoner for several weeks by the Bishop of Bayeux before being released. The bishop’s hospitality had been enthusiastic, to say the least, and Geoffrey had been lucky to escape with only a broken collarbone and some spectacular bruises.

  The door opened and Oppicius Adornes limped slowly in, leaning on his stick. A younger man followed him, plain-faced, with watchful hazel eyes. ‘Welcome,’ said Adornes, sitting down on a padded bench. ‘This is my son Maarten. I thought it might be helpful to have him with us. My time is now largely taken up with guild business. Maarten manages the bank.’

  Maarten Adornes bowed. ‘I trust the servants have looked after you?’

  ‘Your hospitality does you great credit, meneer,’ Merrivale said.

  ‘Let us get down to business,’ said the older man. ‘You wish to ask about Willem Blyth. William, as your people call him.’

  The herald nodded. ‘We know Blyth was born in Bruges, to an English father and a Flemish mother. His father was a trader. His mother’s family was called Gistel, I believe. Were they bankers?’

  There was a moment of silence. ‘They were pawnbrokers,’ said Maarten Adornes. ‘Some would say there is no difference, of course.’

  Silence again. ‘Tell them the rest,’ said his father.

  ‘There was a scandal,’ Maarten said. ‘Several of the family were accused of counterfeiting and circulating false money.’

  ‘Were the charges proven?’

  ‘Yes. After the trial, three people were executed in the Burg. Katelijne Gistel, Blyth’s mother, was one of them.’

  That was unexpected, the herald thought. He glanced at Tiphaine. ‘Blyth’s father was imprisoned in the Steen but released,’ Maarten continued. ‘No evidence could be found against him. He returned to England, taking his young son with him. We heard no more of the father.’

  ‘But you knew of Blyth,’ Tiphaine said. ‘You had business dealings with him.’

  Oppicius Adornes sat silent, watching his son. ‘Of course,’ said the latter. ‘He built up his business rapidly, through dealings in coal and iron and lead, and became a very wealthy man. When he diversified into banking, it was natural that he should come to us.’

  ‘You had no qualms about dealing with him?’

  ‘Of course not. The sins of the parent should not be visited on the child. And unlike his family, his money was always good.’ Maarten paused. ‘We only learned of his treasonous activities very recently.’

  Merrivale nodded. ‘Blyth fled from England last month before he could be arrested. Somehow, despite the laws against exporting currency, he managed to take his money with him. We don’t know how much, but we estimate at least fifty thousand marks, probably more.’

  Maarten Adornes glanced at his father, who nodded. ‘That was not all of his wealth,’ the younger man said. ‘Blyth also has investments and partnerships in trading ventures all around the German Ocean. His bank had branches in Bergen and Hamburg, possibly elsewhere too. His fortune rivalled that of the Peruzzi; and indeed, our own. The value runs into the hundreds of thousands.’

  ‘He also has control of the remaining assets of Sir Gilbert de Tracey, formerly your king’s banker,’ said Oppicius Adornes. ‘That adds another hundred thousand marks at least.’

  They are being very cooperative, Merrivale thought. ‘Tracey told me he had entrusted his money to you.’

  ‘He asked me to handle it, yes. When I learned of the circumstances of his brother’s death, I temporised. No banker likes to be involved with traitors, it is bad for the reputation. How Blyth got his hands on the money, I do not know. And now that Gilbert is dead, like his brother, we may never know.’

  ‘Do you know where Blyth is now?’

  ‘He is not in Bruges,’ Oppicius Adornes said. ‘That is all I can tell you.’

  ‘How can you be so certain, meneer?’

  ‘He would not be welcome here. Bruges needs the friendship of England. If he were to be discovered, he would very quickly be arrested and handed over as proof of our goodwill.’

  Ah, that explains it. They want us to know – or to think – that they don’t know where Blyth is. No suspicion will attach to them. Business will carry on as usual. ‘These investments of Blyth’s. Has he begun to sell them?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the older man. He looked surprised by the question. ‘According to my banking contacts in other cities and the Hanseatic League, he is selling his entire business. Ships, warehouses, cargoes, loan books, everything.’

  Merrivale thought for a moment. ‘Banks keep records of bills of exchange, when and where they are issued and redeemed. If Blyth is trading in bills, we can track him down.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Maarten Adornes. ‘There are dark exchanges, donkere beurzen, secret markets where bills are traded and redeemed without records and no questions asked. Blyth may be using these.’

  ‘Blyth needs silver. Can bills be redeemed for specie in these markets?’

  ‘Of course. The bills are heavily discounted because of the risk involved, but it is common practice.’

  ‘Do you trade in these exchanges?’ Tiphaine asked.

  Maarten looked offended. ‘No respectable bank would do so.’

  ‘I am glad to hear that there are respectable banks,’ she said. ‘I thought bankers didn’t care where their money comes from.’

  ‘They don’t,’ said the older man. ‘But they do care about their reputation, demoiselle. If they are discovered to be fishing in dark waters, officials begin to ask questions. That in turn makes customers uneasy and they withdraw their money. It is all too easy for a bank to collapse. Speaking personally, I have worked too long and too hard to risk everything by dealing with people like Tracey and Blyth.’

  ‘I understand,’ the herald said. ‘But it is imperative that we find Blyth.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Oppicius Adornes. ‘So your king can take his revenge?’

  Merrivale looked at him steadily. ‘The money Blyth is raising through these dark exchanges is funding attacks on the crown. Like the one last night.’

  The older man nodded slowly. ‘You said Blyth needs silver.’

  ‘Of course. Assassins and rebels want payment in hard money, and Blyth and his masters need a great deal of it. You say he is not in Bruges. Do you have any idea where he might be?’

  ‘No,’ Maarten Adornes said finally.

  ‘Someone is giving him shelter, protecting him. Might it be the Pilgrims?’

  The younger man froze for a moment. A fleeting expression of fear crossed his face.

  ‘It is possible,’ Oppicius said finally. ‘But if they are, we will never know. Not even we know their secrets. No one penetrates their wall of silence.’

  ‘Have you tried?’ asked Tiphaine.

  Neither man said anything. Suddenly, Merrivale thought, they were no longer being so helpful. He rose to his feet. ‘We need to stop Blyth from redeeming any more bills of exchange. Will you help us?’

  Oppicius Adornes nodded. ‘We will do what we can.’

  ‘Thank you, meneeren,’ said the herald. ‘We will take up no more of your time.’

  * * *

  ‘What did you think?’ Merrivale asked as they walked back towards the Groenerei and their waiting boat.

  ‘I keep thinking about Katelijne Gistel. The penalties for counterfeiting are the same as for treason, aren’t they? And for women, that means death by burning.’

  Merrivale said nothing. ‘Do you suppose they forced the boy to watch?’ she asked. ‘If so, it might explain a great deal.’

  ‘The Flemish authorities executed her. Why would he bear a grudge against England?’

  ‘He has had a long time to think, Simon. I also had a long time to think, while I was in prison. After a while, you start to bear a grudge against everyone. There was a time when I hated you, for rescuing me.’

  It had begun to rain again. ‘I can understand that,’ Merrivale said finally. ‘My mother and sisters died of hunger during the famine, and my father lost his lands soon after. There were days when I too hated the world.’

  They passed a market, stalls selling eggs and turnips and red cabbages. ‘You asked what I think about the Adornes,’ she said. ‘They know more about Blyth than they are saying.’

  ‘I agree. They know where he is, and they also know how to communicate with the Pilgrims. The Pilgrims are dangerous, and bankers don’t like danger. Wherever possible, they try to control it.’

  ‘Bribes? They pay the Pilgrims to leave them alone?’

  ‘Possibly, but it could be something more complex. What is more, Blyth will learn, very soon, that we called on the Adornes, and will know we are looking for him.’

  ‘Do you think Blyth organised the attack last night? He knows Marcelis, after all.’

  ‘He didn’t organise it, but his money paid for it. Blyth is still the moneyman behind the conspiracy.’

  ‘The man from the north,’ she said.

  ‘Yes. We still don’t know who he is, or what his next move might be.’

  ‘Sir herald,’ said a voice. ‘Will you please come with us? Our master wishes to see you.’

  * * *

  Two men stood before them. Both wore red cloaks pinned at the throat with clasps of a familiar design; the white eight-pointed cross of the Knights of Saint John. ‘What is this about?’ Merrivale asked.

  ‘Our master wishes to see you,’ one of the men repeated.

  ‘Are you arresting us?’

  ‘No, sir herald. This is a request, not an order.’

  Brief memories flashed through Merrivale’s mind; Knights of Saint John lying in the streets, riddled with arrows; another Knight riding downhill past the old Roman wall in Northumberland, pursued by Scottish horsemen. ‘Very well,’ he said.

  The Hospital of Saint John was in the south of the city on the banks of another canal, the Dijver. Quietly and courteously, they were shown into a vaulted room with plain walls and a few pieces of simple wooden furniture. Two people rose as they entered, a tall man in a black tunic embroidered with the same white cross, and a woman in a simple black gown with a white wimple closely framing her face. At first Merrivale thought she was a Beguine, but then he noticed the little white eight-pointed brooch at the neck of her gown.

  ‘Greetings, sir herald,’ said the man. ‘If I may introduce myself, I am Commander Loijis DuSart, the senior officer of our Order in Flanders. This is Sister Adela Seton, consorore of the Order.’

  Merrivale looked at the woman. ‘Seton,’ he said. ‘A familiar name.’

  She nodded. She too was tall, nearly as tall as himself, and it was hard to guess her age. Her face was hollow with fatigue or recent sorrow; there were shadows under her clear blue eyes. ‘Alexander Seton was my brother,’ she said softly. ‘I received news of his death ten days ago.’

  Tiphaine bowed her head. ‘I am sorry,’ Merrivale said.

  ‘Do you know what happened?’

  ‘He was killed trying to protect the demoiselle and myself.’

  Sister Adela watched his face. ‘Please tell me the truth, sir herald. He was killed by his fellow Scots, was he not?’

  Merrivale nodded slowly. ‘The Demoiselle de Tesson and I discovered a plot to overthrow the crown of Scotland. Your brother helped us to escape from the Scottish army, and tried to draw off the pursuit so we could get away. We owe him our lives, and our eternal gratitude.’

  ‘Then my brother is at peace with God,’ she said quietly. ‘He had been much troubled in recent years. He joined the Order to fight the Saracens, but lately, he said, he had begun to believe that the real enemy of Christendom was much closer to home.’

  Commander DuSart cleared his throat. ‘The plot against Scotland collapsed with the defeat of the Scottish army at Neville’s Cross,’ he said. ‘What concerns us more is the rumour of a conspiracy against our Order. Brother Alexander spoke of this in his letters too. Did he mention it to you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Merrivale.

  ‘Thirty years ago, our brother order the Knights Templar was also the victim of a conspiracy,’ said DuSart. ‘Lies were spread, false accusations made, and the Templars were torn apart by men greedy for their lands and wealth. The Templars were martyred for their faith, their members exiled, imprisoned or burned. We have always known that one day, having devoured the carcass of the Templars, greedy, godless men would turn on us. We wonder if that day has now come.’

  ‘Why do you think so?’ Tiphaine asked. ‘Because of Brother Alexander’s letter?’

  ‘Partly. But we have been receiving disturbing reports from the French priory of the Order for nearly a year now. If these reports are correct, the French priory is working against the rest of the Order and conspiring to destroy it from within.’

  Merrivale watched him. ‘Have you been spying on your fellow members of the Order?’

  ‘We discovered that the Grand Prior of France was receiving very large payments from outside the Order,’ said Sister Adela. ‘We believe he was being bribed, but we do not know by whom. We were still investigating when the Grand Prior was killed at Crécy.’

  ‘We?’ said Merrivale.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I was the spy.’

  ‘Did anyone suspect you?’ asked Tiphaine.

  She smiled a little, and her face seemed suddenly lighter. ‘I am a woman. They barely noticed my existence.’

  ‘Here in Flanders we have a long tradition of nursing sisters and consorores playing a part in the governance of the Order,’ said Commander DuSart. ‘Elsewhere, some of our brethren have not yet seen the light.’

  ‘Was it only the Grand Prior who received payments?’

  ‘No, there were several others,’ said Sister Adela. ‘One was his cousin, Reynaud de Nanteuil. He holds the commandery of Saint-Riquier, and is very influential in the Order.’

  ‘Were other priories involved?’

  ‘I am afraid so. Payments were made to the priors of Bohemia and High Germany.’ She paused for a moment. ‘And England,’ she said.

  Merrivale glanced at Tiphaine, seeing the expression on her face. Philip de Thame, Grand Prior of England, had been under suspicion for some time, but this was the first firm evidence. This conspiracy is like the hydra, he thought. Every time we cut off one of its heads, it grows two more.

  ‘Thank you for telling us,’ he said. ‘What do you want in return?’

  ‘Anything that might help us,’ said DuSart. ‘The future of our Order is at stake. How can we defend it?’

  Merrivale rubbed his chin, wondering how much to tell them. Alexander Seton had died for him and Tiphaine, and with his last words he had enjoined Merrivale to pass on what he knew to the rest of the Order. And Seton’s sister was owed the truth.

  Or some of it, at least.

  ‘There is indeed a conspiracy,’ he said. ‘Not just against the Knights, but against England, Scotland, France and the papacy, perhaps the Empire as well. The man at the centre of the conspiracy is English. We know him only as the man from the north, because he is said to speak with a northern accent. The only other thing we know, or suspect, is that he is close to King Edward.’

  ‘A man with a grudge against the king?’ asked Sister Adela.

  ‘Possibly.’ He remembered what Tiphaine had said. ‘But I think this man has a grudge against the world. And, of course, he seeks to profit from the downfall of others. Chaos always brings opportunities for those ruthless enough to take advantage of them.’

  ‘And we saw how people profited from the fall of the Templars,’ DuSart said grimly. ‘Including our own Order, of course. We took over the Templar lands and commanderies here in Flanders without a qualm.’

  ‘You also gave refuge to Templars fleeing persecution, and protected them,’ Merrivale said. ‘No blame attaches to you.’

  ‘But we sowed the wind nonetheless. And now we are about to reap the whirlwind.’

  ‘Not if we stop them.’ The herald looked at Sister Adela. ‘Can you learn more about Reynaud de Nanteuil?’

  ‘I can try,’ she said.

  4

  Calais, 25th of November, 1346

  Report on the affray at Bruges on the XIVth day of November, in the nineteenth year of the reign of King Edward III.

  Item, the men who attacked her Grace the queen have not been found. It is likely that they fled the city soon after the attack.

  Item, it seems probable that the musicians, who left the burgemeester’s house without hindrance, warned the men known as the Pilgrims that her Grace was about to depart. Thus the Pilgrims were able to ambush the queen’s party en route rather than attack the house as originally planned. The musicians too have disappeared without trace.

  Item, the League of Three have now agreed to support the marriage of the Count of Flanders to Princess Isabella. The betrothal arrangements can proceed as planned. There is a risk that the conspirators will see this marriage as a threat to their own plans. I recommend that both the count and the princess be closely guarded at all times.

  Item, the whereabouts of the fugitive William Blyth are unknown, but he is probably in or near Bruges. It is possible that he too is receiving protection from the Pilgrims. The banker Oppicius Adornes has promised to try to locate Blyth, and also to use his influence in the exchanges to make it more difficult for Blyth to raise money.