The Bloodstained Throne

Ten

Geoffrey refused to drink anything except the fresh water Bale fetched from the well, and he ate only what Roger brought from the communal pans in the refectory. At first, Roger thought him overly suspicious, but Geoffrey made a rapid recovery once he had made his stand against medicines and, by the following day, was well enough to get up.

‘I told you,’ said Ulfrith. ‘I said you would grow well again once you stopped taking Aelfwig’s tonics.’

Geoffrey could not remember. ‘Did you?’

Ulfrith nodded. ‘I said water was best, but he said I did not know what I was talking about.’

Geoffrey frowned. Had it been Ulfrith who had made him drink water in the depths of his illness, and his deluded mind had seen Fingar? His recollection of everything after Werlinges was blurred, and he was unable to separate fact from fiction.

That evening, Harold poked an enquiring head around the door. ‘Galfridus said you were better,’ he said, smiling. ‘But I wanted to see for myself. Someone tried to kill you while you slept, I hear. Who was it?’

‘No one knows,’ said Roger. ‘But Bale stopped him.’

Geoffrey wondered why anyone should mean him harm. Was it because he had asked questions about the deaths of Vitalis and Paisnel, and someone was afraid he was heading towards a solution? Or had Fingar added some toxic substance to one of the medicines Geoffrey had swallowed, as revenge for the theft of his money?

Harold peeled a clove of garlic, struggling to hold something under his arm at the same time. It was a musical instrument, carefully wrapped in cloth. He offered Geoffrey the clove.

‘It is almost my last one,’ he said pensively. ‘But I am willing to sacrifice it for a friend.’

‘We are friends?’ The question was out before Geoffrey could stop it.

Harold took no offence and merely grinned merrily. ‘I would like to think our experiences in the marshes and at Werlinges have forged a bond between us. You are patient with Magnus, who is not the easiest of men, and you ordered my brother’s poor body put in the chapel when others would have left him for the crows.’

‘But my squire was the one who killed him.’ Geoffrey winced. Clearly, he was not quite back to normal, because that was hardly something to confess to a grieving brother.

‘Bale has already told me,’ said Harold sadly. ‘It happened during the heat of the battle, and if anyone is to blame, it is me — I should have looked for him the moment we arrived at Werlinges and kept him out of harm’s way. He said he might bring the horses there himself, so. .’ He looked out of the window, tears in his eyes. ‘But what is done is done, and there is no point in dwelling on what might have been.’

Geoffrey did not know what to say, so they sat in silence for a while. Then the door opened, and Ulfrith and Bale joined them.

‘Is that a horn?’ asked Bale, pointing eagerly at Harold’s bundle. ‘I have not heard a horn for years. Will you play it for us, sir?’

‘I would, but it is a poor instrument,’ said Harold, pulling off its wrappings. ‘I do not think it will sound very nice. Galfridus lent it to me.’

‘We are not fussy,’ said Roger. ‘It cannot be worse than that stringed affair Lucian used to seduce Edith on Patrick, which sounded like cats being throttled.’

‘Have you heard anything else about Edith’s death?’ asked Geoffrey.

‘Just that she was killed some time between Friday night and Saturday morning,’ supplied Harold. ‘She retired to bed, and Philippa found her the next morning.’

‘Philippa cries all the time,’ added Ulfrith from the window. ‘They were close, like sisters.’

‘Were they sleeping in different rooms?’ asked Geoffrey.

Roger shot a glance towards Ulfrith and lowered his voice, while Bale was distracting Harold by inspecting the horn. ‘They shared, but Philippa was out that particular night.’

‘Out?’ asked Geoffrey. He saw Roger’s sheepish expression and raised his eyebrows. ‘With you? God’s teeth, man! Take care Ulfrith does not find out. His sulk will know no limits.’

‘I left him a clear field, but he failed to take advantage of it,’ said Roger defensively. ‘Besides, she offered herself to me. But nothing happened anyway. We sat at the high altar in the church, and all she wanted to do was play dice.’

‘Dice?’ asked Geoffrey, not sure that a hot-blooded knight like Roger would have spent his time gaming when there had been promises of a different nature in the offing.

Roger sighed ruefully. ‘She declined to lie with me, and I am not a man for rape. We passed the night chastely, although I doubt Ulfrith will believe it. I would much rather have had Edith, if you want the truth — Philippa is a bit skinny for my taste — but Philippa looked at me prettily, and it seemed a shame to disappoint her. She asked about my gold.’

‘Did it occur to you that she might be looking for a wealthy husband now Vitalis is dead? And so was Edith probably, hence her friendship with Lucian.’

‘Yes, I had worked that out, thank you,’ said Roger dryly. ‘And, personally, I believe it was Lucian who killed her. I think she invited him to her chamber to make him break his vows of chastity, and Philippa agreed to make herself scarce for the occasion. But Lucian may not want a wife, so, to make sure Edith did not tell his brethren what he had done, he strangled her.’

‘With red ribbon,’ mused Geoffrey. ‘Does he have any?’

Roger waved a dismissive hand. ‘There is a scriptorium here, and any number of people have a supply he could have raided.’

‘Have you confronted him?’

‘No, because I do not want anyone to know about Philippa and me. We would both be in trouble — for breaking the monastery’s rules about associating with women at night, and for gambling on the high altar. But it was the best available surface for my dice.’

‘You are right! The monks will be furious. What were you thinking?’

Roger was surprised by the question. ‘Of getting her in the right mood, of course! Brother Wardard almost caught us. He came early for his offices, but Philippa was able to persuade him that we were praying for you. Unfortunately, I had to donate a lot of gold to make it convincing.’

‘And here I was, thinking you had done it for me. But you were only trying to evade a charge of blasphemy!’

Roger ignored the remark. ‘Do you remember when we met Lucian by that shepherd’s hut? The shepherd was dead under a fallen tree. Well, I think Lucian killed him, too. And, for all we know, he might have murdered Vitalis and Paisnel into the bargain. I said from the start that there was something nasty about him.’

‘Very well!’ snapped Harold loudly, his voice breaking into their discussion. ‘I will play if it will make you happy, but do not expect beauty. This instrument is no better than a piece of pipe.’

He put the horn to his lips and began to blow. Geoffrey winced at the raw, rasping sound that emerged, although Roger bobbed his head and tapped his feet in polite appreciation. Bale listened with a sober, intent face, and Ulfrith put his hands over his ears. Eventually, the noise stopped.

‘That was “Sumer is a Cumin in”,’ said Harold in the silence that followed. ‘I told you the instrument was not up to my talents.’

‘It was very nice,’ said Roger, whose idea of good music was anything with a bit of volume. ‘Do you know any dances?’

Harold obliged, with Bale hammering a pewter pot on a table and Roger adding his own rich bass to the cacophony. Geoffrey felt his headache return and was relieved when Aelfwig came to say the noise was disturbing the monks at their devotions.

‘Oh dear,’ said Harold with a conspiratorial grin. ‘Now we are in trouble!’

‘They are just jealous,’ said Roger. ‘They would rather be singing pretty songs, too, not chanting those tedious dirges.’

‘How much of the pirates’ gold did you take, Roger?’ asked Geoffrey the following day, as they ate breakfast with the squires on the steps outside the hospital.

He had slept soundly and was well on the road back to full health. His mind was sharp enough to think about the questions that had been plaguing him since the shipwreck, though there were frustrating blanks in his memory that included much of his meeting with Galfridus, and he was uncertain whether some of the discussions he recalled had actually taken place.

Roger pursed his lips. ‘I showed you in the marshes — a few coins for horses.’

‘You did not make off with the whole chest?’

‘If I had, you would have noticed, surely? That box was large and heavy.’

Geoffrey was not so sure. Roger’s salvage had been wrapped in the blanket he had taken from Pevenesel, so it was entirely possible that it had included a chest of gold. Roger was certainly strong enough to carry one and make it appear as if it were of no consequence.

‘Have the others gone?’ he asked, realizing he was unlikely to have the truth. ‘Lucian said he wanted to return to Bath, and Juhel was going to continue to Ribe.’

‘Galfridus suggested everyone remain here until we are sure there is no invasion,’ replied Ulfrith. ‘He said it was too dangerous to roam about until then. So everyone is still here. Well, almost everyone. Poor Philippa.’

‘Philippa?’ asked Geoffrey in confusion. ‘I thought it was Edith who died.’

‘Murdered,’ corrected Ulfrith. ‘Philippa is distraught about the loss of her companion. They loved each other like sisters, despite sharing the same husband.’

‘Philippa seemed more fond of Vitalis than Edith was,’ said Geoffrey, ‘although I suspect the security his money offered was a factor. Now she is afraid of being poor.’

‘She did say she wanted a husband,’ admitted Ulfrith, ‘but that she will not begin her search until the proper period of mourning is over. She spent much of yesterday with Brother Lucian, although I do not think he will renounce his vows and marry her.’

Geoffrey raised his eyebrows, recalling Roger’s contention that the monk was a prime suspect in Edith’s murder, and hoped Philippa knew what she was doing.

‘I think she is trying to catch him out,’ explained Roger in an undertone. ‘She is not a fool and doubtless drew the same conclusions I did.’

‘Then let us hope we do not have another strangling on our hands.’

‘She gave him a necklace,’ said Ulfrith, trying to hear what the knights were saying. ‘I think it was because Edith lent him a ring, and she did not want to appear mean by comparison.’

‘It was not valuable, though,’ said Roger, who had an eye for such things. ‘It was coloured glass and cheap metal, whereas the ring held a real ruby. Most monks cannot tell the difference, but Lucian can, of course.’ He shot Geoffrey a meaningful look, as if this was evidence of the man’s dubious claims to monasticism.

‘Well, he is a bursar,’ Geoffrey pointed out. ‘I imagine they are very familiar with jewels.’

‘I have barely spoken to Philippa in days,’ said Ulfrith, looking around wistfully for a glimpse of her. ‘But I thought I had better spend my time with you instead.’

‘Thank you,’ said Geoffrey, sensing that some acknowledgement of the sacrifice was expected.

‘I was worried,’ said Ulfrith in a small voice. ‘I thought you were going to die.’

‘He nearly did,’ said Roger grimly. ‘And when I find the culprit, he will wish he had never been born.’

After breakfast, Aelfwig talked about the ships that had been seen and his fear that they might be Belleme’s. Geoffrey pointed out that the Duke of Normandy was rumoured to be in St Valery, so they were more likely his, but Aelfwig countered that the Duke would not dare visit England without an official invitation from his brother.

‘I assume de Laigle has sent word to the King, regardless?’ Geoffrey asked, shaking his head when the herbalist offered him another draught of his raspberry tonic.

‘Who knows?’ muttered Aelfwig. ‘De Laigle is so addled by wine that it may not even have occurred to him to warn His Majesty. Did you hear what he did in Werlinges, when Galfridus told him to investigate? He gave his men leave to loot the place, then set it on fire.’

‘Did Bale tell you that?’

‘No — I was there. Galfridus sent me to monitor proceedings. It was disgraceful, and your squire was the only one who did not leave with his arms full of other folks’ possessions.’

Geoffrey was relieved by that at least. He watched Aelfwig pour his medicine back into its flask, thinking that if the Duke or Belleme were on the brink of invasion, the King should be told. He should also be informed about the simmering revolt. As Geoffrey did not want royal vengeance to descend on his wife and sister for the want of a letter, he decided to write to Henry that very day. Then he would borrow a horse from Galfridus and deliver it in person.

He was sorry to betray Harold and Magnus, but they both knew the risks and should be ready to suffer the consequences. He considered telling them what he intended to do, to give them a chance to escape, but his recent brush with death made him think twice about rash magnanimity.

While Roger and the squires played a quiet game of dice, Geoffrey wrote an account of all he had learned since the shipwreck, although he hesitated when he reached the part about Werlinges, not sure what was fact and what was speculation. Fingar had said that Ulf, not his sailors, was responsible for the massacre, but Geoffrey could not be sure that discussion had actually taken place. In the end, he merely reported that an entire village was dead for reasons unknown.

‘You cannot take that today,’ said Ulfrith as Geoffrey sealed the letter and stood. ‘You are not well enough.’

Geoffrey smiled at his transparency: Ulfrith did not want to leave Philippa, still hopeful he might be in with a chance if her other choices fell through.

‘He is right,’ agreed Roger, for more altruistic reasons. ‘Moreover, it is not wise to let Henry know you were slipping out of the country. He likes you here, at his beck and call.’

‘I doubt he will care. Besides, our names will be in de Laigle’s account, so it is only prudent to give our version of events.’

‘Then send a dispatch — I will even give you a ring to pay a good man — but do not ride yourself. You are still too pale for my liking.’

‘And who here is a good man?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Not Bale — he is too easily distracted.’

‘What about Breme?’ suggested Roger, pointing to the peddler of writing materials who was preparing to leave the abbey, pack already on his powerful shoulders.

Geoffrey still wore Breme’s charm — a bundle of herbs and an unusual stone, all tightly bound in twine. Breme had recommended that he keep it until the next full moon, and Geoffrey felt compelled to comply because it had cost fourpence.

‘I knew topaz would work,’ Breme said smugly, reaching out to ensure it was still in place. ‘It is your birthstone and much more powerful than garnet. We were lucky I had it.’

‘How do you know when I was born?’ asked Geoffrey curiously.

‘From Roger. He was ready to do anything to ensure your survival.’

Geoffrey had never told Roger his birth date, which meant the big knight must have picked one out of the blue. It lessened the likelihood that Breme’s magic had been responsible for his recovery, but it would have been churlish to point it out.

‘Now I am going to Winchester,’ said Breme. ‘Juhel tells me the monks there are always in need of decent ink, and he has given me a letter of introduction to a clerk. I feel almost guilty.’

Geoffrey was nonplussed. ‘About what?’

‘About overcharging for the parchment to write it on. Still, he is a merchant and should have haggled more efficiently.’

‘Will you carry a letter for me?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘I do not know whether the King will be at Winchester, but if you deliver it to the abbot, he will see it sent on.’

‘The King?’ asked Breme keenly. ‘I shall be a royal messenger, then? Well, I am pleased to be of service, especially if you mean to pay me with that ring you hold.’

Geoffrey handed it over. ‘I will hire a horse, too, so you can travel more quickly.’

Breme raised his eyebrows. ‘I do not blame you for not trusting de Laigle to tell the King about these ship sightings or about poor Werlinges — the man is a dreadful sot. So choose me a decent nag, Sir Geoffrey, and I shall ride like the wind for you.’

That evening, when the bells chimed for vespers and the sun was setting behind a bank of clouds, Geoffrey prepared to give Roger the slip. He was grateful for the big knight’s solicitous protection, but it was beginning to cloy, and he longed for solitude. He borrowed a warm cloak from Aelfwig and reached for Ulfrith’s water flask.

‘Where are you going?’ demanded Roger.

‘You cannot have that,’ objected Ulfrith at the same time. ‘There is wine on the table.’

‘I do not want wine,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I want water.’

‘Then use your own, sir,’ said Ulfrith. ‘I filled your flask an hour ago, whereas mine has not been changed since yesterday.’

‘Yes, but you keep yours with you all the time,’ said Geoffrey, taking a gulp, ‘whereas mine has been lying on the table, where someone might have tampered with it.’

‘You are wise to be cautious,’ said Roger. ‘Are you going out?’

‘Just to the church.’

‘I will come with you,’ offered Roger.

‘That is not necessary.’ Geoffrey tossed the flask back to Ulfrith and made for the door.

Ulfrith regarded him uneasily. ‘Are you going to see Lady Philippa?’

The question annoyed Geoffrey. ‘I am going to the church,’ he said shortly.

Before they could ask more, he left, closing the door firmly behind him. He walked across a grassy sward, aware that Ulfrith was watching him from the window. He had intended to visit the nearby village to make enquiries about his dog, but he could not do it while Ulfrith was watching. Ulfrith would tell Roger, who would insist on accompanying him.

With no option, he aimed for the church. It was the first time he had been inside, and he was impressed by the tier upon tier of round-headed arches, carved to flaunt the masons’ skills. The dominant colours of the ceiling were blue and gold, like the dawn sky, and the pillars and walls were pale green and yellow at the top, darkening to red and purple at the bottom. It made the building seem taller than it was, and he marvelled at the cleverness of the illusion.

Vespers had started, and the monks’ voices rose and fell as they chanted a psalm. Geoffrey leaned against a pillar and closed his eyes, finding peace in the music.

‘There you are, Sir Geoffrey! Are you better? Poor Sir Roger was convinced you were going to die and hurled gold at anyone who would pray. The only one who refused payment was Brother Wardard, but I am told he is a saintly man. His brethren wanted him to be abbot, but he declined.’

Geoffrey opened his eyes to see Philippa smiling at him in her flirtatious fashion. He stepped away, not wanting the monks to see them standing so close in their church. She inched forward, and they began a curious dance that saw him backing towards the door and her in dogged pursuit.

‘Stop!’ she ordered in a fierce whisper. ‘I want to talk to you without being overheard, but I cannot if you will not stand still.’

He relented when he saw she did not look well. She wore the thick red cloak he had last seen on Edith, but she kept rubbing her hands together, as though they were chilled. Her face was pale, and there were dark rings under eyes that had produced too many tears.

‘I am sorry,’ he said, contrite. ‘You have suffered another loss.’

She looked away, and two heavy drops made silvery trails down her cheeks. ‘Poor Edith! It does not seem possible she is gone. Now I am alone and I do not know what will become of me. It should not have been her.’

‘What do you mean? That you should have died in her place?’

Philippa nodded unhappily. ‘She was wealthy and had kin who loved her, but I have nothing. It would have been better if I had been the one to die.’ Her fists clenched tightly. ‘If I ever find the loathsome villain who snuffed out her life, I will choke him and dance on his grave!’

‘Hush!’ said Geoffrey, alarmed that such sentiments were being uttered in a church.

‘I do not know what will happen to me if I cannot find a protector.’ She reached out and took his hand, the coquettish smile back again. ‘Did anyone ever tell you that your eyes are the most beautiful shade of green? They are the hue of ferns.’

‘My wife mentioned it once,’ said Geoffrey, freeing his hand.

‘Vitalis had a wife, too, but the three of us came to an arrangement that made us all happy.’

Geoffrey smiled. ‘I doubt Hilde would agree to that.’

Philippa sighed. ‘I did love Vitalis. He was old and sometimes awry in the wits, but he was good to me and I miss him.’

‘I know,’ said Geoffrey gently. ‘You probably did take him for love. Edith, I suspect, was forced into the union. But she was his real wife, even so.’

Philippa’s eyes blazed. ‘I was legally married! In a church — Edith carried the flowers.’

‘But she was already wed to him. Ergo, the second ceremony was illegal.’

‘Are you calling me a whore?’

Geoffrey supposed he was. ‘Edith was grateful to you for drawing Vitalis’s attentions from her, and, against all odds, you became friends. Of course you were upset when he died — it shattered your safe life.’

‘Edith said she would look after me,’ said Philippa, tearful again. ‘She was the best friend anyone could have — better and more loyal than your Roger. She did not steal gold and have me implicated in a crime. And now she is dead and I must fend for myself. You have no idea how hard it is for a woman with no family and no money. I only hope Lucian means what he says when he waxes lyrical about giving up the cowl to enjoy a secular life.’

‘Did he meet Edith the night she died?’ asked Geoffrey, taking the opportunity to question her, since she seemed of a mind to talk.

She frowned. ‘Not that I know of. Why? Is that what Sir Roger told you? That I vacated our chamber so Edith could entertain a lover? I might have known he would assume something like that! I suppose he told you he and I were here all night?’

Geoffrey nodded. ‘Dicing on the high altar.’

She grimaced. ‘I told him we should use the floor. But he is a lewd man to think such things of poor Edith! If you must know, I left because sleeping has been difficult for me since the shipwreck, and my restlessness disturbed her. I told her I was going to keep vigil for Vitalis — to give her a chance to sleep. I wish to God that I had stayed.’

‘If you had, you might have been strangled, too.’

Philippa pulled the cloak more firmly around her shoulders: the notion seemed not to have occurred to her. More tears fell, and she brushed them away angrily.

‘I cannot seem to stop crying. But Ulfrith tells me you have investigated killers. Will you investigate this one? You do not need to denounce him publicly — just tell me his name, and I will slip a piece of ribbon around his throat.’

‘Then you will be a murderer, too.’

‘I do not care! It would be worth eternal damnation. But you will find it is Juhel. He killed Paisnel, and a man who kills once always itches to do it again — or so your man Bale told me.’

‘Did he?’ asked Geoffrey, wondering what else his squire had said.

Philippa was silent for a while, and when she next spoke, her voice was low and hoarse. ‘This is Edith’s cloak. Do you think it is wicked to use it, while her body is still unburied?’ She clutched it tighter and sobbed.

‘I would want Roger to use mine, if I was dead and he needed clothes.’ It occurred to Geoffrey that Bale had used similar arguments, and he supposed there was a very fine line between robbing the dead and justifiably making use of someone’s possessions.

‘Edith was strangled with ribbon,’ Philippa went on. ‘Who would do such a thing?’

‘Just like your husband,’ Geoffrey said absently.

Philippa gaped at him. ‘What did you say?’

Too late, Geoffrey realized that unless Ulfrith or Bale had told her what they had found, she would be ignorant of the fact that Vitalis had suffered a similar fate. Philippa gazed at him in horror as he described what they had discovered at Vitalis’s grave. He watched her closely for a sign that she might have known something about it, but from her shock, he thought that she had not.

‘Oh, God!’ she whispered. ‘Edith had some ribbon that Paisnel gave her, and we planned to use it to secure Vitalis’s cloak when we buried him. But a squall came and we ran for shelter. When we came back, it had blown away.’

Geoffrey took the bull by the horns. ‘You said you were with Vitalis when he died. That means either you strangled him or you are lying.’

‘It means neither! He gasped and choked in my arms, and I saw the life pass from him. Then the shower came, and Edith and I ran for shelter. We buried him when we returned.’

Geoffrey was not sure whether to believe her. It was a plausible explanation, but only just.

‘I would never harm him,’ she continued when he said nothing. ‘Without him I have nothing.’

‘Then what about Edith? She was less fond of him than you.’

‘But not enough to kill him! And I have changed my mind: you will not investigate Edith’s death. You will reach entirely the wrong conclusion. I am sure it is Juhel. He saw me leave and decided to chance his hand while my poor friend was alone, strangling her when she refused him.’

There was no more to be said, so Geoffrey took his leave, walking fast down the nearest path to test his strength. When he reached the bottom of the hill, he strode across the boggy area, towards the abbey’s carp ponds, hidden from the buildings by trees. He was breathless when he stopped. Roger was right: he needed more time to recover. He leaned against a tree to catch his breath, noting that he had reached the far southern boundary of La Batailge’s precinct.

He had not been there long when he heard a snap. He glanced up at the wall and saw a head poking over the top, and in the fellow’s hands was a loaded crossbow.

‘Do not move,’ ordered Fingar. ‘Or it will be the last thing you do.’

The captain had a clear shot and could not possibly miss from close range. Geoffrey was disgusted with himself for not wearing his armour. He glanced behind, noting that the ponds were completely screened by trees, so he should expect no rescue from anyone at the abbey.

‘We meet again,’ said Fingar softly. ‘I am pleased to see you recovered.’

‘Did you visit me in the hospital?’ asked Geoffrey, buying time while he tried to devise a way to escape.

Fingar smiled enigmatically and declined to answer. ‘Are you here to catch fish for the monk who is pretending to be the abbot?’

‘No, I came for a walk,’ replied Geoffrey, flapping away a marsh insect that whined around his face. ‘Why are you here?’

‘Why do you think? We have been watching La Batailge for days now and know how to move through its grounds unseen, especially at night. I have even been in the church, to thank God for delivering us from the storm.’ Fingar paused. ‘And to ask Him to help us get our gold back.’

‘How much did Roger take?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Was it a purse, or the entire chest?’

Fingar grimaced. ‘You know the answer to that. However, if you can persuade him to give it back, I shall let you both live. Refuse, and you will die. See reason, Sir Geoffrey. What use is gold, unless you are alive to enjoy it?’

Roger would never part with what he had taken, and Fingar might just as well have asked for the moon. Geoffrey doubted the pirate would keep his end of the bargain anyway — Roger had sentenced them both to look over their shoulders for the rest of their lives. Silently, he cursed his friend’s greed.

‘I will do my best,’ he promised. ‘How is Donan?’

‘More eager to leave with every passing day. You would be amazed at how many carts and horses start to appear on the roads after dark and how many men skulk in the shadows — it is downright dangerous here! And this abbey is a veritable refuge for thieves and murderers. Besides Roger, there is Philippa. At least, that is what Donan claims.’

‘Donan thinks Philippa stole something?’

‘No, he thinks she threw Paisnel overboard. I told you this the other night-’

Suddenly, Fingar disappeared from the wall, accompanied by a howl of pain. Geoffrey gazed in surprise, wondering if the abbey guards had dragged him down from the other side.

‘Run!’ came an urgent voice from behind him.

Geoffrey spun around: it was Ulfrith. He raced after the squire, who did not stop until they were well outside arrow range. Hands on knees to catch his breath, Geoffrey saw Ulfrith held several large stones.

‘You have not been well,’ said Ulfrith in explanation. ‘So I followed you, to make sure you came to no harm. It was good I did.’

But Geoffrey suspected he had been in no danger, because Fingar hoped to use him to retrieve his gold — Ulfrith’s well-meant interruption had merely served to end the conversation before Geoffrey had asked all his questions. Still, at least he now knew that Fingar had visited him in the hospital — and that Donan’s peculiar claim that it was Philippa who had tossed Paisnel overboard was not a figment of a fevered imagination.

‘Did Roger tell you to follow me?’ he asked. With hardly a pause, he answered his own question. ‘No, he would have come himself. You acted on your own initiative, because you were afraid I was going to meet Philippa.’

‘Well, I was right,’ said Ulfrith sullenly. ‘You did meet her.’

‘Not on purpose — she crept up on me. Do you have any water? All that running. .’

‘Here.’ It was Geoffrey’s own flask, and Ulfrith gestured impatiently when the knight hesitated to take it. ‘I filled it from the well before I followed you to the church, so it is perfectly safe. I thought if I brought your own supply, you might stop taking mine.’

Geoffrey drank and began to feel better.

Ulfrith hesitated, then spoke in a rush. ‘Do you feel any. . do you feel love for Lady Philippa? Did you offer her your heart and tell her you would be hers for ever?’

Geoffrey regarded him warily, thinking these were odd questions to be asking a battle-hardened knight. Especially one who was married. ‘No,’ he replied cautiously. ‘Why?’

‘You did not feel an urge to take her?’

Geoffrey blinked. ‘We were in a church, Ulfrith! What kind of man do you think I am?’

Ulfrith did not look convinced. ‘Then what did you talk about so intently?’

Geoffrey’s patience was wearing thin. ‘That is none of your affair. I am grateful to you for driving off Fingar, but that does not give you the right to question my actions. Not ever.’

Ulfrith regarded him sullenly, then turned on his heel and slouched away. Geoffrey shook his head, heartily wishing he had never made the vow to Joan, because the young man’s passions had grown too tiresome.