The Bloodstained Throne

One

Near Pevenesel, Late September 1103

The groans of the dying ship were terrible to hear. The tearing of her hull and the snap of her spars and masts were audible even above the crashing of waves and the manic shriek of wind. The sails were reduced to tattered rags, and the ship’s carved bow was little more than splinters. Planking and stores ripped from her were thrown ashore by waves twice the height of a man.

Overhead, the afternoon sky was dark, although rent now and then by slashes of lightning. Thunder growled, but in the distance now, indicating that the storm was finally moving west. Miraculously, some passengers and crew had survived. A few were still flailing in the breakers, while others were in small groups ashore, huddled around the scanty possessions they had managed to salvage.

It was thanks to Captain Fingar’s skill and experience that anyone had survived at all. When the ship’s hold had flooded suddenly, Fingar had known she was lost, so he had driven her towards shore to give everyone a better chance. But within moments of scraping the bottom, the ship began to disintegrate.

Sir Geoffrey Mappestone was among the lucky ones. He had guessed as soon as he had heard the roar of breakers that the ship was doomed, and he had managed to warn his companions, seize his saddlebag and unleash his dog. The horses, however, had been tethered aft, and although he had tried his best to reach them, the task was impossible. It was a sickening wrench to lose his warhorse: the animal had carried him into battle when Jerusalem had fallen to the Crusading army three years before, and he could not imagine life without it. Geoffrey was a knight, trained from an early age to fight on horseback. Now he had no horse he was unable to suppress the sense that he was less of a man because of it.

‘I told you we should never have sailed in this weather,’ said his friend accusingly, spitting to remove the taste of salty water from his mouth.

Sir Roger of Durham was a massive, powerful man with a thick black beard and long raven curls, both cultivated in accordance with latest fashions at Court. Geoffrey preferred to keep his light-brown hair short, military fashion, and was clean-shaven, indicating Roger had adapted far more readily to civilian life than had Geoffrey. Both wore surcoats that proclaimed them Jerosolimitani — those who had rallied to the Pope’s call to wrest the Holy City from the infidel. Their surcoats, armour and small arsenal of weapons had been the first items they had bundled up to save from the wreck.

The two made unlikely companions. Roger was blunt, transparent and suspicious of anything he did not understand — and since he was illiterate and deeply superstitious, this meant there was a great deal he deemed heretical or sinister. By contrast, Geoffrey had occasionally considered dedicating his life to scholarship. Unusually for a knight, he could read and write, and he owned a deep love of books and scrolls.

‘The weather was fine when we left Bristol,’ he said, watching the dying ship writhe in the waves. It was ugly to behold, and when a shrill cry sounded, he hoped it was a gull, not a horse.

‘But there were omens,’ countered Roger. ‘And you ignored them. Your wife and your sister urged you to remain at Goodrich, and I said the same. But you knew better, and now look where it has landed us.’

‘At least we are landed,’ said Geoffrey’s squire, Bale, loyally defending his master, although he had not approved of the journey either, when celestial phenomenon had warned against it. He nodded towards the churning sea. ‘We might still be out there.’

Geoffrey glanced at the other survivors, noting that many were missing — Vitalis, an old man with whom he had quarrelled, and his two female companions; there had been a monk and a pair of Saxons, too. .

‘Vitalis will not be missed,’ said Roger, reading his thoughts. He glanced at Geoffrey, a hard look in his dark-brown eyes. ‘I do not take kindly to men who make accusations, then use their age as an excuse to avoid a duel.’

‘He was not in his right wits,’ said Geoffrey.

‘He deserved to drown,’ Bale declared harshly. ‘No man should accuse Sir Geoffrey of cowardice and live to tell the tale.’

‘He did not accuse me of cowardice!’ objected Geoffrey, startled by the way Bale had interpreted the argument from two days before.

‘It does not matter exactly what he said,’ stated Roger, his abrupt tone indicating he thought his friend was quibbling. ‘He insulted your family, and you should have fought him for it. Now he is drowned you will not have the chance to kill him.’

‘Perhaps God took Vitalis’s life because he spoke unjustly,’ suggested Bale. ‘The wicked are often struck down for their sins, and Sir Geoffrey is a Jerosolimitanus, so He will disapprove of people saying nasty things to him. Father Adrian loved talking about holy vengeance.’

His eyes took on a curiously pious expression, although Geoffrey strongly suspected that Goodrich’s gentle parish priest had actually been trying to warn Bale to curb his violent instincts. Bale was a huge hulk of a man, larger even than Roger, with a bald, shiny head and uncannily expressive eyes. His immense strength, combined with a passion for sharp implements, made him a sinister and unnerving figure. The people on Geoffrey’s estates had been delighted when he had agreed to take the man as his squire, and it was clear they hoped he would never return. Geoffrey understood their unease; he was wary of Bale himself.

‘There are still men in the water,’ Geoffrey said, scanning the tossing sea. ‘Vitalis may yet come ashore.’

‘Those are sailors,’ said Roger. ‘They went back to see what they could salvage before the ship is lost completely. Fingar is one of them; I recognize his orange hair.’

Geoffrey set off towards them. ‘If they have gone back, then perhaps we can do something for the horses-’

Roger’s heavy hand clamped around his arm to prevent him from going farther, although his voice was gentle when he spoke. ‘It is too late, lad. The stern went under first, and they were drowned long before we reached the shore. The sailors are used to the sea and know how to rescue stuff from it, but we are not. It would be madness to attempt it.’

‘That is true,’ agreed Roger’s squire, a sturdy Saxon youth by the name of Ulfrith, whose thick yellow locks were a mad tangle from their time in the water. ‘I grew up on the coast, and the sea is treacherous at this time of year.’ Tears filled his eyes. ‘Poor Lady Philippa! I cannot. .’

He trailed off, and Geoffrey rested a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. Ulfrith had been smitten with one of the female passengers and had been grieving for her ever since Geoffrey had pulled him from the waves. Ulfrith had loved the horses, too, but their loss seemed nothing compared to that of the woman he had idolized.

‘Vitalis was stupid,’ said Bale, studiously looking in the opposite direction to Ulfrith’s unmanly display. ‘You told him to take off his armour before we swam for the shore, because it would drag him under, but he refused.’

‘Worse yet, he accused you of wanting to steal it,’ said Roger, indignant on Geoffrey’s behalf. ‘The man was insane! What could you do with a tiny mail tunic and a blunt old sword? You tried to help him and he repaid you with nastiness.’

Roger patted his own armour — knee-length mail tunic with gauntlets and hood, boiled leather leggings, surcoat and a conical helmet with a distinctive Norman nosepiece. He had donned it all the moment he was on firm ground, in anticipation of an attack by locals, who might kill survivors so they could claim salvage.

‘It was a good idea, Sir Geoffrey, to put our equipment in a barrel and tow it ashore,’ said Bale. ‘But it is a shame you could not devise a way to save the horses, too.’

‘Of course,’ said Roger, turning accusing eyes on his friend, ‘they would not have died had you listened to the heavenly portents ordering you to stay in England.’

Geoffrey winced. He did not share his companions’ belief that the omens were aimed at his intended journey to Jerusalem, but he hated the fact that he was responsible for the horses’ deaths.

‘Not one beast has come ashore,’ elaborated Bale. ‘Poor things! It would have been better to have cut their throats than for them to drown.’

There had been a number of passengers aboard the ship — Captain Fingar was quite happy to accept paying fares for a journey he was making anyway. His ship Patrick traded between Dublin and Ribe in Denmark, carrying hides and linen one way, and timber and furs the other. It did not sound especially lucrative, but Fingar was clearly wealthy, and Geoffrey suspected that the large crew and abundance of weapons were not just for defence: Patrick was owned by pirates.

Autumn was normally a good time for sea-travel, and most of the ships Geoffrey had approached in the port of Bristol had been full. He was beginning to think they might have to go home again, when Patrick had put in, ostensibly for repairs, although she docked in a quiet backwater that was the haunt of those who preferred to unload their cargos away from the King’s taxors. Whether her goods were smuggled or stolen from another ship was impossible to say, but the number of guards and their furtive demeanour indicated it was one or the other.

Geoffrey was not the only one desperate enough to accept a berth on a ship operating outside the law. So had Sir Vitalis and his two women, a monk, and their servants. Vitalis, a crusty old knight from Falaise, owned lands in the ancient Danish diocese of Ribe, and he and his ladies were going to visit them. Meanwhile, Brother Lucian maintained he was on official Benedictine business. With his shiny black hair and ready smile for the ladies, everything about Lucian said he hailed from wealth. He was too young and handsome to be trusted out alone by any sensible abbot, and Geoffrey had not believed him when he said he had been carrying important documents.

When they had embarked, they discovered Fingar already had four other paying passengers, who had joined Patrick in Dublin. These comprised an uncommunicative Saxon and his servant who were secretive to the point of rudeness; a loquacious Breton named Juhel; and a Norman called Paisnel who had been lost overboard several days before.

During his career as a soldier, Geoffrey had spent a fair amount of time on ships, mostly in the Mediterranean Sea, travelling at the command of his liege lord, Prince Tancred. Patrick, however, was like no other. Normally, tents were rigged on deck for passengers, but Fingar claimed such clutter would interfere with safety. His fares had the choice of eating and sleeping on the open deck or crawling on top of the Irish leathers in the holds.

Geoffrey was blessed with a strong stomach, although even he had been sick in the monstrous seas in the Channel. His fellow passengers fared worse. Vitalis, the silent Saxons and the servants spent most of their time in the hold, vomiting what little they managed to eat. Geoffrey suggested they might feel better away from the odoriferous hides, but they groaned they were too ill to move. The longest conversation he had had with the Saxons — the squire was called Simon, but he had no idea of the master’s name — comprised them ordering him away when he tried to help them.

Vitalis’s women — each separately introduced as his wife — were more robust and made regular forays to the deck, where they stood clutching the rails and screeching at the size of the waves. They were often joined by Brother Lucian, who flirted outrageously despite the fact that he appeared at times when he should have been reciting his holy offices. It had not escaped Geoffrey’s attention that Lucian had not prayed when they were in danger, although every other soul on board had done so with increasing desperation.

Paisnel and Juhel had also been largely unaffected by the elements. Paisnel was the more likeable, a serious, sober senior clerk in the service of the Bishop of Ribe. His friend Juhel was a parchment merchant, and when he was not chatting to his fellow passengers, he talked to his pet chicken, a pale-brown bird with wicked eyes.

But, Geoffrey reflected sadly as he huddled with his companions in the biting wind and stinging rain, trying to regain his strength after the desperate struggle ashore, he could see none of them on the beach.

‘What shall we do?’ asked Bale eventually. ‘We cannot sit here all day. It is too cold.’

‘We should wait for the captain to say something,’ said Ulfrith. ‘He is in charge.’

‘Not any more,’ argued Bale. ‘Besides, all he is interested in is rescuing what he can from the waves before they move in.’

Geoffrey looked to where Bale pointed and saw a tremor in the vegetation behind the shore. People were gathering, watching the survivors but making no attempt to help.

‘Locals,’ said Ulfrith uneasily. ‘They are hoping we will all die, so they can claim what is washed ashore. Folk like them killed shipwrecked mariners when I was a boy.’

‘They had better not try anything with us,’ said Roger grimly, fingering his sword.

Geoffrey was glad they had all donned their armour. Mail was not total protection against arrows, but it would give them a chance to fight back, should the villagers be rash enough to attack two fully armed Norman knights and their squires.

‘They will,’ predicted Ulfrith. ‘But not yet — they are not stupid. They will wait for nightfall, when we fall asleep from exhaustion.’

Roger scowled. ‘They are already growing bold. Look at that fellow with the green hat there. He has been watching us from behind that tree since we first reached the shore.’

‘We should offer to help Fingar deploy sentries,’ said Geoffrey. It would not be easy to protect themselves in the dark, but it would be foolishness itself not to try.

The captain, however, was unreceptive to Geoffrey’s suggestion to move inland and find shelter. Fingar was a short, powerful man with red hair and a scar that ran from the centre of his forehead, down his nose and across his lips, to end at the cleft in his chin. It was perfectly symmetrical, and Geoffrey wondered how it had happened.

‘I am not playing milksop to passengers,’ Fingar growled, his attention on the seething waves and those of his men who still floundered in them. The rest sat in deflated, sullen groups around their salvage. ‘I am busy.’

‘Busy doing what?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Nothing is coming ashore in one piece, and smashed planking and soaking pelts cannot be of value to you. We should make our way to the nearest settlement for-’

Fingar rounded on him with a fury that would have made most men take a step back. ‘You do not know what you are talking about! We need to gather every scrap of timber or leather that washes ashore if we want a chance of buying a new ship. And my obligations to you finished when you reached the shore, so you can make your own way.’

‘We do not need your protection,’ said Geoffrey irritably. ‘But you can see from here that the locals have arrived and are just waiting for the right time to attack. None of us will be safe once night falls, so it is better to pool our-’

‘No one will dare attack me,’ said Fingar with great finality. ‘Now bugger off.’

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and strode towards the thundering surf, where two of his men were struggling with a barrel. Its side was stoved in and its contents lost, and Geoffrey wondered why they were so determined to have it. Disgusted and bemused, he headed back to where Bale and Ulfrith were packing sodden belongings into the saddlebags, aware that the silent locals had edged much closer.

‘No!’ howled Bale, whipping around suddenly, knife in hand. ‘Get away!’

By the time Geoffrey reached his companions, the hapless villager was staggering to safety, trailing blood behind him. The other villagers, clutching a haphazard array of cudgels and pikes, watched tensely, ready to flee if anyone should give chase.

‘That will warn them to keep their distance,’ said Roger, watching Bale wipe the blood from his blade with a handful of seaweed.

‘It will warn them to be careful,’ countered Geoffrey. ‘The fellow in the green hat is now even closer — so is that large man by him. Fingar will be in trouble tonight if he does not post guards.’

‘There is still no sign of our fellow passengers,’ said Roger, again scanning the turbulent sea. ‘I can only see crew.’

‘What a pity Lucian is dead,’ said Ulfrith with undisguised malice. Normally affable, Ulfrith had taken strongly against Lucian, whose courtly manners had made him feel gauche and loutish in front of Lady Philippa. He heaved a melancholy sigh. ‘Poor ladies! They were so lovely. I cannot imagine why either married Vitalis. He was old enough to be their grandfather.’

‘Perhaps he was their grandfather,’ suggested Bale. ‘I did not see him demanding his conjugal rights the whole time we were aboard.’

Carefully, he began to pack away the ink pots, pens and parchment that had been in the bag Geoffrey had saved, although his disapproving expression indicated he thought his master should have taken the other one — containing clothes and a small store of gold coins.

‘He was seasick,’ explained Ulfrith. ‘Although I suspect an hour or two with Philippa would have cured any sickness of mine.’

‘And I could have managed a bout with the other one — that Edith,’ said Roger salaciously. ‘She was a fine, strapping wench, with plenty of meat for a man to-’

‘There is Juhel!’ exclaimed Geoffrey, pointing suddenly along the beach.

‘So it is,’ said Ulfrith, squinting. ‘An undertow must have pulled him away from the rest of us. He is lucky — few men live once undertows get them.’

Bale stood to wave and catch the parchmenter’s attention. ‘He has the cage that held his pet chicken, although I cannot imagine the bird is in it.’

Geoffrey glanced down at his dog, glad it had survived, but thinking again with sadness about his horse. He wondered if Patrick had floundered because Fingar’s greed had led him to pile her with more cargo than was safe, or if she had simply been poorly loaded.

Juhel arrived, breathlessly relating his brush with death. He was stocky, with a wide, smiling mouth and prominent eyes reminiscent of a frog. Geoffrey wavered between liking him for his readiness to laugh and distrusting him because he had caught him out in several lies. The knight was amused to note that not only was the chicken in the cage but it was alive, albeit bedraggled.

Geoffrey tuned out the parchmenter’s gabbling and stared pensively across the heaving waves. Another casket, badly smashed and with its lid missing, rolled on to the shingle, where it was seized by crewmen. He looked up at the sky, gauging how much daylight was left. A glance behind showed that the villagers were inching forward again, all clutching weapons. Was there time for him and his companions to reach a friendly settlement with them before dark? And how easy would it be to find another ship that was eastward-bound? He realized he must have spoken aloud, because the others were gazing at him aghast.

‘You intend to try again?’ whispered Ulfrith. ‘After we narrowly escaped with our lives? God is telling us not to travel east, and only a fool would disobey His wishes!’

‘Only a fool would have gone in the first place,’ muttered Roger. ‘And we are bigger fools for going with him.’

‘Then stay,’ said Geoffrey shortly. There were often violent storms in the English Channel, and he did not imagine for a moment that God had engineered one for his benefit. ‘I will go alone.’

‘How?’ demanded Roger. He nodded to the saddlebag in Bale’s hand. ‘You did not bother to save your gold, and you have no horse. How do you propose to reach the Holy Land?’

He had a point. Geoffrey’s little manor on the Welsh borders was experiencing a lean period, but his sister — who managed the estate in his absence — had managed to scrape enough together for his journey. He could hardly go back and ask for more, especially since Joan had not wanted him to go in the first place. Neither had his wife — Geoffrey had recently been forced into a political marriage in the interests of peace. But he had a burning desire to travel east again, and it had not taken many weeks of life in the country before the yearning had become too strong to ignore.

‘You should return to Lady Hilde, sir,’ recommended Bale tentatively, when he saw Geoffrey had no reply to Roger’s remarks. ‘She is not yet with child.’

Geoffrey gaped at the effrontery, but Bale suddenly lowered his bald head and vomited a gush of seawater, and the knight supposed he had spoken out of turn because he was not himself: Bale was normally diffident to the point of obsequiousness. Meanwhile, Roger was more concerned about their current predicament than his friend’s obligations in the marriage bed.

‘Fingar is incompetent,’ he declared. ‘His ship was a paltry, leaking basin, not fit to bob down a river. I could tell just by looking that it would sink in the first puff of wind.’

‘Then why did you not say so in Bristol?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘You were happy when we sailed — especially when you learned he might be a pirate. You entertained high hopes of joining him in his work, so you might share the spoils.’

‘Pirates!’ spat Roger. ‘He and his crew are no more pirates than my mother.’

Geoffrey glanced at him. Roger had some very odd relations, so it was entirely possible that Roger’s mother — long-term Saxon mistress to the corrupt and treacherous Bishop of Durham — might take to the high seas for booty.

‘Irish pirates,’ said Bale, looking evilly at the seamen and fingering his favourite dagger. His weapons were his most prized possessions, lovingly honed to a vicious sharpness on a daily basis. ‘And not even a Christian part of Ireland. They are infidels who worship graven images and drink the blood of babies.’

‘Oh, really, Bale!’ exclaimed Geoffrey irritably. ‘They are just-’

‘I want them to pay for my horse,’ interrupted Roger, working himself into a temper. ‘I know they have gold, because I saw it.’

‘Where?’ asked Bale eagerly.

Roger pointed with a thick finger, indicating a sturdy, heavily secured box about the length of his forearm. It stood in the middle of one of the salvaged piles. ‘I saw them counting what was in it just this morning. If they had been watching their sails instead, we would still be afloat.’

‘It is thanks to Fingar’s fine seamanship that we survived at all,’ argued Geoffrey. ‘A lesser sailor would have lost the ship out at sea, where we would all have drowned.’

‘Regardless, they will pay for my horse,’ vowed Roger.

Meanwhile, a small sailor with a pinched, mean face became aware that Roger was eyeing the chest. Donan was Fingar’s second-in-command, and he muttered something to his companions as he pushed it out of sight. Geoffrey did not like the looks that were exchanged and was about to tell Roger to be careful when Juhel suddenly cried out, jabbing his finger towards someone struggling through the waves.

‘It is that rude Saxon,’ said Ulfrith. ‘The one who never bothered to tell us his name.’

‘His servant is with him,’ said Bale. ‘Simon.’

But the Saxons were in difficulty. Geoffrey tore down the beach and into the churning waves, fighting to stay upright as the water surged around his legs. Too late, he realized he should have removed his armour and surcoat first. Then a crashing breaker tossed the pair within reaching distance.

The Saxon was swimming strongly, so Geoffrey flailed towards Simon, but the Saxon grabbed Geoffrey around the neck as he passed. Geoffrey tried to push him away, but the Saxon’s grip was a powerful one. He glanced at the man’s face, expecting to see panic or terror, and was startled to see it calm and determined.

‘Bear me to the shore,’ the fellow ordered imperiously. ‘I cannot swim another stroke.’

Geoffrey struggled to be free of him. ‘Your servant needs help.’

‘Take me to the shore first,’ the man snarled.

Angrily, Geoffrey prised his hands away, but when he looked to where Simon had been, there was only water.

For the second time that afternoon, Geoffrey was forced to strip off his clothes so Bale could wring them out. It was not pleasant to replace them, chilled as he was, but even sodden garments were better than none in the biting wind. He jumped up and down in an attempt to warm himself, at the same time listening to Juhel regale the Saxon with details of how the current had dragged him miles along the beach before he could break free of it. The Saxon remained haughtily aloof, although he did not object when Juhel helped him remove his clothes for wringing — now the hapless Simon was dead he seemed unsure how to make himself more comfortable.

‘You cannot go to the Holy Land, Sir Geoffrey,’ said Bale, resuming their earlier conversation as though it had never been interrupted. ‘God wants you to stay here, see.’

Roger agreed. ‘He wants us in England, and I dare not risk His wrath again. I am staying and I urge you to do the same.’

Geoffrey was relieved. Since he had no money, taking companions was out of the question anyway. He would miss Roger’s ready sword and cheerful friendship, but it could not be helped.

‘We are lucky,’ said Bale. ‘Not only are we still alive, but we are still in England. We might have ended up in Normandy.’ He crossed himself vigorously, shooting the others meaningful looks.

Ulfrith nodded sagely. ‘And with Robert de Belleme rampaging there we would have been killed within a week.’

‘Do not be ridiculous!’ said Roger. ‘How would he have known we had arrived? Belleme does not rule all Normandy, and he does not know everything that happens.’

Bale and Ulfrith exchanged a glance that said they thought differently. Geoffrey was wary of the wicked Earl of Shrewsbury’s network of informants, too. Belleme had been banished from England the previous year and was currently venting his spleen on his Norman domains, leaving behind death and destruction. Geoffrey’s decision to travel to the Holy Land the longer way through Denmark and Franconia said a good deal about his reluctance to venture into the hellish maelstrom of Belleme’s sphere of influence.

The light was fading, but with the end of the day came a respite from the storm. The wind lessened and the stinging slash of rain gave way to drizzle. The waves still crashed on to the shore, however, thrusting pieces of wreckage before them. As the locals resumed their relentless advance, Geoffrey suggested that he and his companions find somewhere safe to spend the night.

‘Which way?’ asked Roger, gathering up his possessions. Besides his armour and weapons, he had somehow contrived to save all his better clothes and a heavy pouch stuffed with coins and jewellery. Geoffrey might be penniless, but Roger remained wealthy.

Geoffrey considered. ‘Just before we left the ship I saw a tower. It was probably a church, but it looked to be made of stone, so it must belong to a settlement of some substance — not like the hamlets of these fishermen.’

‘Then why did no one come to help us?’ demanded Roger. ‘It is unchristian to sit in warm houses while we shiver out here.’

‘All the villages around here consider wrecks their personal property,’ stated Ulfrith.

Geoffrey grimaced. Ulfrith spoke with conviction, but he was miles from where he grew up, so could not know what ‘all the villages around here’ believed. Still, Geoffrey was sure about one thing: the sullen fishermen who fingered their knives and cudgels were Saxon and would certainly be happy to strike a blow against two Norman knights. The conquest thirty-seven years before was still raw in the minds of many, and Normans had done little to make themselves popular with the nation they had so ruthlessly subjugated.

‘We had better make a move before it is too dark,’ he said.

‘I think that headland we passed — the one with the beacon — lies a few miles from Pevenesel,’ said Ulfrith tentatively. ‘We cannot be very far from the castle there.’

‘Good,’ said Roger fervently. ‘I would rather lie in a cramped hall full of snoring Norman soldiers than on a Saxon feather mattress.’

‘Look!’ cried Bale suddenly. ‘Someone else is coming our way!’

Ulfrith gave a grin of unadulterated delight. ‘It is Lady Philippa and Lady Edith! They must have been washed farther down the coast, like Juhel.’

With a happy whoop, he raced away to greet them.