The Bloodstained Throne

Eleven

The following day was grey and drizzly, and there was a tang of salt in the air. Geoffrey woke when the bell sounded for prime, and he reached out to pet his dog before remembering it was not there. He wished he had asked Fingar about it the previous day. As the notion that it was in the man’s stomach made further sleep impossible, he went to the church.

When the service was over, he headed to the lady chapel, muttering prayers of thanks for his deliverance from the shipwreck and the return of his health. Seeing Philippa enter, he left before she could waylay him, and sat near a pillar in the south transept. It was not long before Magnus joined him.

‘Harold said you were better. Who poisoned us, do you think? I am certain the vile deed was aimed at me, and I was less badly affected because I am stronger.’

Geoffrey generally enjoyed excellent health and doubted the cadaverous Magnus was fitter than him. ‘Who do you think wants you dead?’ he asked.

Magnus pursed his lips. ‘Well, there are a great many Normans, starting with the Usurper. And not all Saxons are enamoured of me. Lord Gyrth is something of a malcontent.’

‘Who is Lord Gyrth?’

‘The Earl of East Anglia — my cousin. Well, his father was Earl and he would have inherited the title had Gyrth the Elder not died at Hastinges. The Bastard promptly appointed a Norman to the earldom, so Gyrth was disinherited. He is desperate to retrieve his birthright.’

Absently, Geoffrey wondered whether Gyrth’s name was on the list of potential rebels.

‘Here is Harold,’ said Magnus disapprovingly. ‘Grinning as usual and arriving on a waft of garlic. Must he smile all the time? And must he fraternize with servants? He will never be king by being popular.’

‘He might,’ Geoffrey pointed out. ‘You say the competition between you will be decided by an election. People will vote for him if they like him.’

‘But peasants will not vote,’ said Magnus in disdain. ‘Only nobles. Men like Gyrth.’

‘Gyrth!’ said Harold, overhearing as he approached. ‘There is a sullen fellow! He once told me that the only music he enjoys is the screams of dying Normans. What sort of man says that?’

‘There is Philippa,’ said Magnus, pointing as she emerged from the Lady Chapel. Her path crossed that of Lucian, and she took his arm playfully, much to the disapproval of the older monk who was with him. ‘And that is Brother Wardard, one of the “heroes” of Hastinges.’

‘I should speak to him,’ said Geoffrey. But he hung back, lest Philippa made another play for him, thus earning him the old monk’s disapproval, too. He wanted the truth about his father, not some tale coloured by what Wardard thought of his association with Philippa.

He waited, but Wardard went with Philippa when she left, apparently deciding she needed a chaperon. Geoffrey lingered by the high altar, in case he returned, but he was to be disappointed.

Eventually, a bell rang to announce breakfast. The monks filed into their refectory, the servants to a hall near the brewery, and the visitors collected bread, boiled eggs and salted fish from the kitchens — there was ale, but Geoffrey opted for Ulfrith’s water. He was surprised by the number of pilgrims, mostly Saxons, who were suddenly in evidence. Apparently unwilling to share the hospital with Norman knights, they had established a little tented camp near the gatehouse.

‘I am still surprised you recovered, Sir Geoffrey,’ said Aelfwig, when their paths crossed after the meal. He was with another monk — a tall man with a facial twitch. ‘Indeed, I told Roger to prepare for the worst one night and suggested he put a deposit down on a coffin — we only have one in stock at the moment, you see, and there is a sick villager who might have claimed it first.’

‘Oh,’ said Geoffrey, unsure of the appropriate response to such a remark.

‘You should be more careful in your predictions, Aelfwig,’ chided his companion. ‘You declared poor Abbot Henry cured from his fever last year, and he died within the hour.’ He turned to Geoffrey. ‘I am Ralph of Bec, the abbey’s sacristan.’

Aelfwig reached out and grabbed the charm Geoffrey wore around his neck before he could acknowledge the sacristan’s greeting.

‘What is this? A heathen artefact? You should denounce such things and put your faith in God.’

‘Just as long as he does not put his faith in you,’ murmured Ralph. He changed the subject before Aelfwig could defend himself. ‘I heard you were not very impressed by Galfridus’s collection of sculptures, Sir Geoffrey. You took a particular dislike to his amethyst horse, I am told.’

Geoffrey remembered nothing about a horse, although he vividly recollected the ivory carving on the windowsill. ‘The Lamb of God looks like a pig,’ he said.

The monks looked shocked, but before Geoffrey could say he was referring to the artwork, Ralph adopted an expression of concern.

‘Brother Wardard hopes to meet you today, but I hope you will not distress him with sacrilegious remarks. He is a good, honourable soul and will not appreciate heresy.’

‘Very well,’ said Geoffrey, suspecting there was no point in trying to rectify the misunderstanding. Thinking it might be a good time to look at the body of the man Bale had killed, he asked where the charnel house was.

‘Why?’ asked Aelfwig nervously. ‘Who told you that several of my other patients lie there?’

‘No one,’ said Geoffrey, supposing he had been right to refuse the herbalist’s raspberry tonic. ‘I want to look at the body of the man Bale killed, to see if I recognize him.’

‘He is to be buried this morning,’ said Ralph, ‘so you had better hurry. It is over there.’

He flapped vaguely with his hand, then both monks hurried away. Ralph’s directions had encompassed at least three buildings, and the first one Geoffrey tried was a small hut, apparently used as an annex dormitory when the hospital was full. It was dark inside, because the window shutters were closed, and he was surprised to see Juhel inspecting documents by candlelight. Juhel moved quickly when he saw Geoffrey, but not quickly enough to conceal what he had been doing.

‘I see you are better,’ said the parchmenter with an unreadable smile. ‘I am glad. None of us expected you to survive such a violent fever.’

‘I was saved by water, topaz, gold and the good auspices of King Harold,’ said Geoffrey, stepping inside the hut, trying to see what the man had been doing. ‘They counteracted the poison.’

Juhel regarded him uneasily. ‘Poison? Surely not!’

‘Magnus suffered, too, although the effects wore off him more quickly.’

‘I suspect you swallowed too many medicines in an effort to heal yourself. Some compounds react violently with each other, and you should have taken nothing else with my salve.’

‘That is what Bale told me. So did Breme.’ Fingar had, too, he thought. Or had he dreamed it?

‘I imagine you would have been well sooner if that herbalist had not dosed you with his remedies. I told Roger as much.’

‘What are those?’ asked Geoffrey, nodding at the documents Juhel had pushed under his blanket. ‘The parchments from Paisnel’s pack?’

Juhel regarded him with narrowed eyes. ‘How do you know what was in his bag? Did you rifle through it?’

‘No, but you did, after he died. You were seen.’

‘He was my friend. It was my duty to take charge of his belongings.’

‘But you hurled most of them into the sea. You were seen doing that, too.’

Juhel came to his feet fast, and Geoffrey saw there was a good deal of power in his squat limbs.

‘I have nothing to hide,’ said the parchmenter, smiling wryly when Geoffrey’s hand dropped to his dagger. ‘Come, see for yourself that you have no right to question my actions.’

Alert for hostile moves, Geoffrey pushed aside the blanket with his foot. The documents lay underneath. He hesitated, not wanting to bend and make himself vulnerable to attack. He indicated that Juhel was to pass them to him. Juhel gave one of his unreadable smiles and obliged wordlessly.

There were two bundles of documents. The first comprised the same gibberish Juhel had written for Edith. Geoffrey looked hard at the symbols in the light of the candle, but they were nonsense, although they would look like writing to an illiterate. They were tied with red ribbon, and the seals convinced him they were the ones he had seen Paisnel studying.

The second batch was slightly damp, with ink that had run. They were far too badly damaged by rain or seawater to be legible; it was impossible even to tell whether they had been real missives or the same meaningless scrawl of the others.

‘Can you read these?’ Geoffrey asked, indicating the second batch.

‘No,’ replied Juhel shortly. ‘They have been wet too many times. Still, if I dry them, I may be able to reuse the parchment. It is expensive, and I do not have money to waste.’

‘What about the dry ones? Can you read those?’

‘They are in the language of the Danes. Do you know it?’ Juhel looked superior when Geoffrey shook his head. ‘I thought not. The Danish alphabet is different from ours, like Arabic and Hebrew.’

Geoffrey was sceptical. He had never seen Danish written, but there was no reason to suppose it was different from Latin or French. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. These are runes, which are often used to convey Danish in official documents. Would you like me to translate them for you?’

‘Please.’

Juhel took a sheet and went to the door, where the light was better. He rested a grubby finger at the top right, then moved it left, as Geoffrey had learned to read Arabic. The knight was mystified; he had believed only the Semitic languages ran counter to Latin.

Juhel began to speak. ‘The Bishop of Ribe holds this manor. It was always in the hands of the monastery, and before there were fifty hides, and then it answered for thirty-eight hides; now for twenty-eight. Land for thirty-three ploughs. In lordship, five ploughs and fifty smallholders. There is meadow of fifteen acres, and woodland of forty. Would you like me to continue, Sir Geoffrey? There is a good deal more, and it gives a detailed account of the entire diocese, if you are interested.’

Geoffrey took the document from him, trying to see a pattern that would allow him to confirm the translation, but he could make neither head nor tail of it. Juhel retrieved it with a smirk.

‘Why do you have it?’ asked Geoffrey, still not sure Juhel was telling the truth about his literacy. For all he knew, the man was simply reciting something from memory and the so-called ‘runes’ were exactly what they appeared — gibberish.

‘That is none of your business. However, as I do not want you to start spreading tales about me, I shall answer. Paisnel was a clerk, and these are his documents. I took them from his pack after he died, so I can return them to the Bishop of Ribe. It is what he would have wished.’

‘Why did Paisnel have them in the first place? It strikes me that these are deeds that should be in Ribe, not being hauled all across Ireland and England.’

‘When he left Denmark after his last visit, Paisnel had a great chest of writs with him. But when he arrived in Ireland, he discovered these were included by mistake. He was returning them, in his capacity as the Bishop’s counsellor.’

Geoffrey frowned. ‘You told me earlier he was a clerk.’

Juhel licked his lips. ‘He was, but-’

‘If you lie, you must be blessed with a good memory,’ interrupted Geoffrey. ‘And you are not. Was Paisnel a clerk or a counsellor? Or would it be more accurate to call him a spy?’

‘You pay too much attention to those women,’ said Juhel, attempting nonchalance as he gathered up the parchments.

‘He was a spy,’ said Geoffrey, sensing his unease. ‘I imagine that is why you threw his pack overboard. You wanted to destroy any items that might incriminate him.’

Juhel’s face was white, and Geoffrey did not tell him he had been seen heaving Paisnel’s body into the sea as well, afraid it might incur a violent reaction — and he was not yet certain of his own strength. The Breton suddenly clapped both hands over his face and scrubbed hard.

‘All right,’ he said tiredly. ‘There is no point in denying it, when even those stupid women saw through Paisnel’s clumsy subterfuge. Yes, he was a spy, although not a very good one. I threw his pack in the sea, because I did not want to be accused of treason should his materials be found. I kept only these manorial rolls, which I know are innocent. Are you satisfied?’

‘Who was his master?’

‘Lord Belleme.’ Juhel gave a weak grin when he saw Geoffrey’s astonishment. ‘Even Philippa guessed that — but you thought the notion so outrageous that you did not believe her. Paisnel’s father holds his Norman estates from Belleme, who often calls for favours. This time, Paisnel was charged to look at England’s coastal defences, because Belleme is considering invading.’

‘Is he?’ Geoffrey supposed it might be true.

‘Yes, but Belleme should never have entrusted him with such a mission: Paisnel had no idea how to conduct a discreet survey and asked the most brazen of questions. We argued, because I was afraid his incompetence would see us both hanged.’

If that were true, then several things made sense: the whispered argument Geoffrey had witnessed on the ship; the other one observed by Philippa; Juhel’s easy familiarity with his friend’s possessions. But had their disagreement led Juhel to kill Paisnel because he was a liability?

‘Then what about this?’ he asked, producing the letter Juhel had written for Edith. ‘Is it more information about manorial rolls?’

Juhel took it from him, and his expression turned to alarm. ‘Where did you get this? It was supposed to have been sent to Edith’s family.’

‘She was sceptical about its contents and asked the monks to translate it for her. They told her it was nonsense. Now she is dead.’

Juhel was aghast at the implicit accusation. ‘Her death was nothing to do with-’

‘She was strangled with red ribbon. Just like Vitalis — he did not drown, as his wives claimed. And red ribbon fastens your documents.’

‘I have seen red ribbon on the parchments in your bags, too,’ Juhel shot back.

‘My cord is thicker and coarser. It was a finer braid that killed Vitalis and Edith.’

Juhel was appalled by the direction the discussion had taken. ‘You cannot accuse me of murder just because of ribbon! If you want to catch Edith’s killer, look to the men she encouraged with her fluttering eyelashes and then abandoned when someone better came along. Ask Roger about her.’

Geoffrey stared at him. ‘What are you saying?’

‘You know perfectly well: Edith enjoyed Roger’s company — until Lucian reappeared. If you want suspects for her murder, ask Roger what he was doing the night she died. He was certainly out and about, because I saw him.’

Of course, Roger had not harmed Edith, because he had been with Philippa. However, the big knight did solve problems with violence, and not everyone would believe his innocence. Moreover, Geoffrey did not trust Philippa to confirm his alibi. She was a woman out for her own ends and might well lie if she thought there was a chance she might benefit from it.

Juhel smirked victoriously when Geoffrey had no reply, ‘But I do not believe Roger is the culprit. I suspect Lucian, whom I also saw abroad that night. When I asked him the following day what he had been doing, he claimed he had been at a vigil all night. Do you believe such a tale from a man who did not utter a single prayer while we were on Patrick?’

Geoffrey admitted it sounded unlikely. ‘Read that to me,’ he said, indicating Edith’s letter. ‘What does it say?’

‘It relates a woeful tale to her father, all about high seas and unruly sailors. I will translate it if you like, but you will find it dull listening.’

‘But as it is written in runes, her father will not be able to decipher it.’

‘No,’ said Juhel with malicious satisfaction. ‘And it will serve her right. She said I would be paid to write it, but once it was done — and it took several hours, because I am not quick with my pen — Vitalis refused to pay. They cheated me, and I am glad I cheated them back.’

Geoffrey left the hut, not sure what to think. He still believed Danish was written in the same alphabet as other Western languages, but he had never seen it and could not be sure. Perhaps Juhel was telling the truth. But had Juhel killed Vitalis? Geoffrey realized that even if he had, it was not his concern. It was probably incautious queries that had seen him poisoned, and it was time to leave the matter to the appropriate authorities.

However, he had one last question. He retraced his steps, and his second unanticipated invasion showed him a heavy medallion under the blanket with the documents. Philippa had mentioned a necklace in Paisnel’s pack, and there was another memory of it, too. Geoffrey frowned, trying to pin down the elusive sense that he had seen it before. Then it came to him in a flash — Donan had found one in the hospital. Like Juhel’s, it was engraved with Celtic knots on one side and a lily on the other. Was it the same one? But if Donan had taken it, what was it doing with Juhel?

‘How did you come by that?’ he asked, forgetting his decision not to meddle.

Juhel shrugged. ‘It was Paisnel’s. I removed it from his pack when I took the documents. It is valuable, so I shall return it to his father.’

‘Have you ever been inside the hospital?’

‘Not after Roger accused me of poisoning you. That is why I came here, if you recall. I kept well away from you — but obviously not far enough, because you are still hurling accusations.’

‘I saw that pendant,’ mused Geoffrey, ‘in Donan’s hands.’

‘La Batailge may admit a lot of Saxon peasants to do homage at the battle shrine, but they will draw the line at pirates. I heard you claimed Fingar came when you were ill, but he would have been noticed — and ejected — I assure you.’

‘Has that locket been with you the whole time?’

‘No, I have not been as careful with it as I should have been. It was stolen, but then returned. I can only surmise that the culprit had second thoughts about stealing on hallowed ground.’

Roger would have had no such scruples — if he had taken the thing, he would still have it — although Bale and Ulfrith might have put it back when conscience began to prick.

‘I would be grateful if you would not mention it to anyone,’ Juhel continued. ‘I do not want other thieves setting greedy eyes on it.’

Geoffrey nodded agreement, although he was not sure whether he believed Juhel’s fear of thieves. He recalled that Roger had mentioned a pendant in Magnus’s possession, but Magnus had denied owning any such thing. In all, anything to do with medallions was murky, as far as he was concerned, and he knew he would be wise to put the matter from his mind.

‘Why did you come back?’ asked Juhel, breaking into his thoughts. ‘What do you want now?’

‘I wondered whether you had seen my dog. He is missing.’

To Geoffrey’s profound embarrassment, Juhel started to cry. ‘So is Delilah. I have not seen her for several days and I think she is still grieving for Paisnel. Animals feel a death very keenly, you know. When did you last see. . what is his name?’

‘He does not have one,’ said Geoffrey, who had once christened the beast Angel, then abandoned the appellation when he became acquainted with its true character.

Juhel was surprised. ‘Then how do you call him?’

‘By shouting “dog”.’

Juhel regarded him askance. ‘Does that not bring other mongrels?’

Geoffrey was beginning to feel foolish. He started to leave. ‘I am sorry to have bothered you.’

Juhel sniffed, and more tears rolled. ‘Call your dog, Sir Geoffrey. It is a terrible thing when a man loses a beloved companion. Call him, and see if it will bring him back.’

‘Dog!’ yelled Geoffrey, sorry for the man’s distress and willing to shout if it made him feel better. He knew the animal would have made itself known to him if it was close — to be fed — so he was startled to hear an answering bark.

‘Did you hear that?’ cried Juhel, happy for him.

‘He is in that building with the thick door,’ said Geoffrey, pointing to a hut with a stone roof and no windows. ‘He must have been locked in by accident.’

‘That is the charnel house,’ said Juhel. ‘Edith and the man who tried to stab you are inside.’

Geoffrey regarded him uneasily. ‘Lord! Are they?’

He did not like to think what he might find, given that the dog had been missing for some time and was not a beast to ignore the demands of its stomach. Meat was meat, after all. He broke into a run, although he knew haste would make no difference now. He reached the door and hesitated, not sure he wanted to see what he might find. Then he recalled that the monks were going to bury the dead man that morning and would discover it anyway. It would be better if they learned it from him. Aware of Juhel behind him, he pushed open the door — a heavy one with a latch.

He expected the dog to explode out, but it simply barked again. Then there was an answering cluck from above his head: Delilah was roosting above the lintel. The dog padded forward to greet Geoffrey, feathery tail wagging, but then there was a flurry of brown feathers and Delilah was flapping around its head. The dog yelped in terror and retreated to the shadows.

‘It is her!’ shrieked Juhel in delight, plucking the bird from Geoffrey’s shoulder. ‘Delilah! I did not think of looking for her here, Sir Geoffrey. I thought she had more taste than to frequent this sort of place.’

Delilah cackled her pleasure at seeing Juhel, and Geoffrey turned his attention to his dog. Its coat was matted and it seemed thinner, although the hen looked in fine fettle. Geoffrey was massively relieved. The dog had clearly not eaten in days, perhaps kept from the unthinkable by the presence of the chicken.

‘He must have followed her in here, and the door closed on them,’ Juhel said. ‘They could not escape, because the latch is on the outside.’

‘They could not have escaped if the latch was on the inside, either,’ Geoffrey pointed out.

Juhel regarded him in surprise. ‘Have you not taught your dog to open doors? Delilah can do it.’ He kissed her head and she clucked appreciatively. ‘She must have opened the door, but the wind blew it shut, trapping them both. Your dog cannot have had an easy time of it.’

As if to underline his point, the wind gusted suddenly. There was a creak, a slam and a click, and the charnel house was plunged into darkness. The dog whimpered, Delilah made a noise that sounded very much like disgust, and Geoffrey sighed in weary resignation.

‘Oh dear,’ said Juhel. ‘Now what?’

For several moments, Geoffrey could not even see the door, so complete was the darkness, but then he detected a faint rectangle of light. He made his way towards it. It did not take long, however, to realize that the latch was beyond him. He began to grope around for something to use as a battering ram, irritated that Juhel was more interested in crooning to his bird and did nothing to help.

Eventually, he grasped something that was the right shape for battering, but when he tugged at it, he discovered it was a leg. He released it hastily, but the next thing his tentative hands encountered was a face, cold and rigid. Abandoning the search, he returned to the door, swearing under his breath when increasingly violent tugs and thumps failed to make an impact.

‘You will not succeed with brute force,’ said Juhel. ‘Let me try.’

There was a series of scrapes and taps, then the latch clinked and the door swung open. Geoffrey regarded him warily, but Juhel was more interested in removing Delilah than in explaining how he had done it. He waved away Geoffrey’s thanks and started back to his hut, muttering sweet nothings to his feathered companion.

When man and bird had gone, the dog darted to Geoffrey’s side, winding around his legs and leaping up to rest its forepaws on his chest so it might be petted. It was not normally affectionate, and Geoffrey saw its experience had seriously discomfited it.

‘You have had a miserable time,’ he said sympathetically, rubbing its head. ‘Trapped by a chicken! You always were a cowardly hound, but I never thought to see you sink this low.’

‘Sir Geoffrey,’ came an uneasy voice that made him jump in alarm. It was Galfridus, with Aelfwig and Ralph behind him. They carried a box and had come for one of the dead. ‘Did I hear you chatting to the corpses? Aelfwig told me you were recovered.’

‘I have heard tales of men who talk to cadavers,’ said Ralph darkly. ‘Sometimes they encourage them to walk around. Is that what you have been doing, Sir Geoffrey? It would explain why there are suddenly so many Saxons in La Batailge.’

‘None of them are corpses,’ said Galfridus wryly. ‘Corpses do not eat, and these are devouring our stores at a rate of knots. I cannot imagine why the gatekeepers allow so many in.’

‘I was talking to my dog,’ said Geoffrey. He frowned, thinking they were not the first to comment on the number of Saxons. Were they men rallying to Magnus and Harold? He did not have time to ponder, however, because Galfridus was regarding him with a shocked expression.

‘Dogs are not permitted in here! They have a tendency to. . to ravage, if you understand me.’

Geoffrey hoped the conclusions he had drawn from the animal’s poor condition were correct and watched with considerable anxiety as Aelfwig pulled away the blankets that covered the bodies. There were three of them: Edith and two men. Neither of the men was familiar: one was old and looked as though he had long been ill — Geoffrey assumed it was his rival for the abbey’s last coffin — and the other was a hefty, thick-set man. He tried to disguise his relief that all three appeared to be unchewed.

‘I owe you an apology,’ he said to Galfridus. ‘I was not myself when I first arrived and regret any offence I may have given.’

Some of the rigid wariness faded from Galfridus’s face. ‘Your apology is accepted, although I suspect it was honesty, not illness, that made you refer to my amethyst horse as the work of a baboon. And to say that you had seen better art in brothels.’

‘I came to see if I recognize the man who was killed,’ said Geoffrey, to disguise his mortification. He wondered what else he had said.

‘He died clutching a dagger,’ said Galfridus. ‘But Sir Roger says he is not one of the pirates.’

Geoffrey went to inspect the body more closely, wincing when he saw Bale’s savage slash to its throat. It was a man in his late thirties with a strong, determined face. Its clothes were too tight for its muscular frame, and Geoffrey assumed that either someone had exchanged them after the man had died or he had borrowed them, perhaps as a disguise. When he inspected the fellow’s hair, he saw it had been dyed: in places it was black, in others yellow. He turned over one of the hands, which was soft-palmed with traces of ink on the thumb. The face was entirely unfamiliar, and Geoffrey could not imagine why this man should have been looming over his sickbed with a weapon. However, there were certain conclusions he could draw.

‘He was not a labourer, but a man who could write. I am not certain, but I saw a burly fellow rather like this on the beach with the villagers. His yellow hair suggests Saxon-’

‘Oh, Lord,’ said Galfridus, coming to inspect the dead man’s face himself. ‘It is Gyrth! I had no idea! Move him into the light, Ralph, so I can see better. Yes, it is him. But why is he wearing a peasant’s clothes, and where is his habit?’

Geoffrey looked from Galfridus to Ralph to Aelfwig, trying to work out what was happening. ‘Are you saying that one of your monks tried to stab me? But Aelfwig said he did not recognize him.’

‘I do not,’ objected Aelfwig. ‘I have never seen him before — I am sure of it!’

‘He was a novice,’ explained Ralph. ‘Or he wanted to be.’

Geoffrey was sceptical. ‘He is older than me. How could he be a novice?’

Galfridus shrugged. ‘Men come when God calls them, and there is no statutory age to serve Him. However, it helps if you bring a little something to smooth the way, and Gyrth offered the abbey a handsome bracelet — solid gold and studded with rubies.’

‘Magnus and Harold mentioned a Gyrth,’ said Geoffrey. ‘He was Earl of East Anglia.’

‘Actually he was not,’ said Ralph. ‘His father held the title, but this Gyrth never did, although he never stopped railing at the injustice of his disinheritance. He was quite tedious about it.’

‘Then he came to us six months ago,’ elaborated Galfridus, ‘and professed to have had a dream in which God ordered him to take the cowl.’

‘I was unsure whether his calling was genuine,’ finished Ralph, ‘so I recommended that he be sent to the chapel at Lullitune, to see how serious he was.’

‘Why did no one recognize him when he was killed?’ asked Geoffrey.

‘Because no one here had ever met him, except Galfridus and me,’ explained Ralph. ‘We sent him off to Lullitune the day he arrived, and although we heard that a man had been killed in the hospital, it did not occur to either of us to come and inspect the corpse.’

Geoffrey was bemused. ‘So why was he here wearing someone else’s clothes and with black dye on his hair?’

Galfridus shrugged again. ‘He is one of those Saxons for whom the fire of battle still burns. Perhaps he took against you because you are Norman. Do you think he murdered poor Edith, too?’

Geoffrey was surprised Galfridus should think he could supply solutions. ‘I do not know. I was ill at the time.’

‘Sir Roger says you have a way with murders,’ said Ralph. ‘And we would greatly appreciate any help. In return, we shall charge you nothing for the medicines Aelfwig provided, and, as Sir Roger told us you lost all your money in the shipwreck, this is a good offer. Just look at Edith’s body and see whether you can throw any light on her cruel death.’

Geoffrey wished Roger had kept his mouth shut. But the three monks were looking hopefully at him, and he felt a certain need to make amends for his uncharacteristically caustic criticism of Galfridus’s sculptures.

‘She was strangled,’ he said, walking to Edith’s body and noting that the red ribbon was still embedded in her neck. Someone had washed her face and dressed her hair, but the cord remained in place. He looked up questioningly, wondering why no one had removed it.

‘I did not like to poke her about too much,’ explained Aelfwig, embarrassed. ‘She is a woman, you see, and I took a vow to stay away from those.’

‘Surely you have female patients from time to time?’ asked Geoffrey.

‘Well, yes, but I am not tempted by those,’ replied Aelfwig enigmatically. Geoffrey decided he did not want to know more and applied himself to his task.

Whoever had throttled Edith had done so with considerable force. Broken fingernails showed she had struggled frantically to prise the ribbon loose, and there were corresponding scratches on her throat that she had put there herself. There were no other marks that he could see, and he had no intention of looking under her clothes when he was surrounded by monks. He stepped back with an apologetic shrug. Roger accused Lucian, Philippa accused Juhel, and the monks were suspicious of Gyrth, but there was nothing on Edith’s body to incriminate any of them.

‘Gyrth was strong,’ said Ralph. ‘He had a restrained tension that might have exploded.’

But Geoffrey was sceptical. ‘That means Gyrth strangled a woman with ribbon and then tried to stab a man. Two different modes of execution.’

‘What is the significance of that?’ asked Galfridus.

‘Most killers confine themselves to one,’ began Geoffrey, then stopped abruptly because he did not want the monks to think him overly familiar with such matters. Besides, it was too much of a coincidence that Edith should have been killed in exactly the same way as her husband.

He started to back away, loath to spend more time in the charnel house than necessary, but his dog, which had declined to stray far from his side, tripped him up. He could have saved himself by grabbing Gyrth’s bier, but it was unstable, and instinct told him that dragging a corpse to the ground would not be well received by the monastics. So he twisted to one side and landed on his knees. This placed him at eye level with Edith’s left hand, which he had not inspected.

Caught under one of her nails, and held there by dried blood, was a tiny thread of red. For a moment, he thought it was a fibre from the ribbon around her neck, but it was darker and made from cloth rather than cord. He was almost certain the fragment had come from her killer and that she had clawed it away during her death throes. He pointed it out to the three monks.

‘This means Gyrth is innocent,’ said Aelfwig. ‘There is nothing red on his corpse.’

‘He could have changed,’ suggested Ralph. ‘Although it makes no sense to remove clothes after one killing if you intend to indulge in another.’

‘I fear it means Edith’s murderer is still at large,’ said Galfridus, crossing himself. ‘God help us!’

Geoffrey left the monks to their ruminations. With his dog trailing at his heels, he wandered towards the battlefield, craving time alone to think. A pair of wading birds in the bogs near the fishponds released eerie cries that reminded him of Roger’s marsh fays. As he walked, he saw part of a sword blade jutting from the grass. He crouched to inspect it and realized the ground held many such relics from the battle, rusty and ancient and gradually being claimed by the earth.

He reached the top of a ridge and sat on a tree stump, considering what he had learned. Gyrth had offered himself as an abbey monk, but when Galfridus sent him to a distant chapel instead, he had returned in disguise. Geoffrey was fairly sure Gyrth was the burly figure he had seen after the shipwreck — with the man in the green hat. However, since he had done nothing to warrant an attack from strangers, he could only suppose that it was a case of mistaken identity.

The ink on his fingers showed Gyrth was literate, not someone who worked the land. Had he agreed to rally to Magnus and Harold, perhaps after promises to see him reinstated as Earl of East Anglia? Was that why he had tried to pass himself off as a man with a mission to serve God? To infiltrate La Batailge with a view to furthering whatever Magnus and Harold had in mind? If so, then it seemed the plot had been set in motion months ago.

Who had been Gyrth’s target? Magnus or Harold, because he thought they were failing to act quickly enough? Or was he acting under Magnus’s orders to dispatch Harold as a rival? Magnus had made no effort to disguise his satisfaction that Ulf would no longer be an issue.

And what about Edith? Were her killer and Vitalis’s the same? Geoffrey believed so, because of the ribbon. But who could it be? At one point, he had suspected the women, but their circumstances showed it was not in their interests to have killed the old man. Philippa said she had held him in her arms and had believed him dead. He had probably fainted, and the killer had moved in to finish him off when the women had fled from the drenching squall. Geoffrey was sure Philippa had not killed Vitalis — and neither had Edith, assuming the killer was one and the same.

Roger believed Lucian to be guilty, and Geoffrey admitted the monk’s behaviour was odd. There was also the pectoral cross Lucian said had been stolen, which the sailors had claimed was base metal. Or had they? Geoffrey could not decide whether that had been a genuine discussion or an imagined one. He frowned impatiently. It was hard enough to make sense of the situation, without being unsure which conversations had actually taken place.

And what about Juhel, whose friend was a spy for Belleme? Would he strangle a woman? He would according to Philippa, who also saw him as Paisnel’s murderer. Geoffrey tried to recall whether Lucian or Juhel had ever worn a garment of scarlet, but nothing sprang to mind. Of course, Edith had owned a red cloak herself, so perhaps the strand came from her own clothes, not the killer’s. Philippa had claimed the cloak, but that had been after Edith was dead, and Geoffrey doubted she would have been permitted to don it while her wealthier friend was still alive.

He turned his mind to the ribbon that had killed Vitalis and Edith. He pulled out the piece Bale had taken from the old man’s body and turned it over in his hands. Juhel was right to say there was a lot of it around. Edith had owned some, donated by Paisnel, and so had Juhel. Had ribbon been used to kill her because her murderer knew it had dispatched her husband and he was trying to create confusion?

But the deaths of Vitalis and Edith were irrelevant to the brewing Saxon rebellion. Geoffrey wondered how far Breme had travelled. He hoped his message would be taken seriously, because he was becoming increasingly convinced that the danger to Henry was real. He decided he would leave La Batailge the following morning and deliver his own account.

His mind turned to the battle that had raged over the ground in front of him some thirty-seven years before, changing England for ever. The ridge on which he sat was a superb vantage point, and the geography of the area explained why two fairly evenly matched forces had taken the best part of a day to decide the victor.

He was not alone for long. Several monks were strolling on the field, either singly or in groups, and one laboured up the ridge towards him.

‘You are Godric Mappestone’s son,’ said the monk. ‘I am Brother Wardard and I understand you want to speak to me.’

Geoffrey stood and bowed, but now the man was in front of him he did not know how to put his questions. He gestured that Wardard should sit on the tree stump and stared across the battlefield, wondering what it had been like when the monk had been a warrior waiting to advance. Wardard fumbled in his pouch and drew out a piece of dried meat, which he flung to the dog.

As the monk watched the animal eat, Geoffrey studied him. He must have been nearing his eighth decade but was still impressive. He was tall, strong and erect, although lines of pain etched around his mouth indicated his health was not all it might have been. He had obviously been a fine specimen in his prime, and confidence, nobilesse and dignity were still present. His eyes were alight with intelligence, and there was something about him that suggested he was still more soldier than monastic. Geoffrey understood why the monks of La Batailge had wanted him as their abbot.

‘You wanted to ask about your father,’ said Wardard eventually. ‘Sir Roger told me that Vitalis discussed Godric’s conduct during the battle. He should not have done.’

‘Vitalis was losing his wits,’ said Geoffrey, then realized he should moderate his tone. Wardard and Vitalis had been friends.

‘Illness had turned him self-absorbed and greedy, and the Vitalis you met was not the one who stood here and fought for the Conqueror. Do not think badly of him.’

Geoffrey inclined his head, although he would make up his own mind about Vitalis once he had heard the truth from Wardard.

‘It is wicked to denigrate a beloved father to a son,’ Wardard went on. ‘Dangerous, too — it is not unknown for sons to withdraw masses for their forbears’ souls when they learn certain things. I would not like such a fate to befall Godric’s beleaguered soul.’

‘Did you know him well?’

‘Did you?’ countered Wardard.

It was not an easy question to answer. Geoffrey had been sent away for knightly training at the age of twelve and had not met Godric again for twenty years. His memories were of an aggressive, brutal tyrant, who had ruled his household with a brooding temper and ready fists. They had never shared confidences, and even when he was dying, Godric had lied and schemed.

‘Not really,’ he replied eventually.

‘King Harold stood where you are now,’ said Wardard, after another silence. ‘He had come up in the night and chose to fight from this rise. His men stood close-packed, with their shields forming a solid wall. Duke William’s troops were down there, just out of range of the Saxon archers, and there was a bog between them. And then the Normans advanced.’

‘Up there, first,’ said Geoffrey, waving his hand towards the west, as he recalled Godric’s descriptions. ‘That was where the Bretons were stationed, and my father was with them. The main troops and Duke William were straight ahead.’

‘It was the Breton advance that almost saw the battle lost in its first hour,’ said Wardard. ‘They became mired in the bogs, then were forced to ride up this hill directly into the path of the Saxon archers. Their horses were unprotected, and most who reached the Saxon line were on foot, their mounts shot from under them. The Saxon counter-attack was savage, and it turned into a rout.’

‘Vitalis said my father told his men to retreat before they were halfway up this hill,’ said Geoffrey. ‘On the grounds that the assault was impossible. Once the Breton line was broken, the other invaders might have left the field — and the victory — to Harold. It was only William’s leadership that kept them in battle formation.’

Wardard rubbed his chin. ‘It was not easy to watch our comrades slaughtered in such terrible numbers. Our archers were supposed to have advanced first, but their arrows ran out. The Breton advance was a total failure — and demoralizing, too.’

‘Was my father the first to run?’

Geoffrey found he was afraid of the answer, worried that if Godric had been a coward, then cowardice might be in his own blood, and his courage might fail when he was faced with impossible odds. Of course, it had not failed at Civitot, Nicea, Antioch, Jerusalem or countless other skirmishes through the years when he had been certain he was going to die.

Wardard studied him. ‘What did Godric tell you?’

Geoffrey sighed, not liking the way Wardard answered questions with questions. ‘That he led the charge, screamed encouragement to the faint-hearted, killed at least twenty Saxons in the first assault, and was among the last to leave when it became a rout.’

‘And what do you believe?’

Geoffrey studied the terrain, noting the steep angle of the ridge and the soft, muddy ground that would need to be traversed before making the laborious ascent. And he saw how easy it would have been to rain arrows down on those who were scrambling up it.

‘That the Norman leading the charge was not likely to have lived very long.’

Wardard nodded. ‘So, you have unveiled one truth without my help. It was impossible to tell who reached the Saxons first, but the leaders quickly became trapped between Harold’s line and the press of Bretons surging behind. Death was inevitable.’

‘What else can you tell me?’ asked Geoffrey unhappily, seeing how the discussion was going to go. It was not that he was disappointed in Godric, whom he had never respected, but that he failed to understand how he could then have lied about his conduct on such an unrestrained scale.

Wardard’s expression was wistful. ‘I had an excellent view of the proceedings, although most of the time I wished I had not. But what I recall most vividly was your mother, swinging her axe. There was not a braver woman in Christendom than Lady Herleve. It was a pity she disguised herself, because her courage would have fired the palest of hearts. If she, a woman heavy with child, could fight like a lion, then so could any man.’

‘I am sure she was spectacular,’ said Geoffrey, recalling how she had always bested him and his brothers at axe work. ‘But I would rather hear about my father.’

‘He was given fine estates as a reward for his actions that day,’ said Wardard evasively.

‘I would like to know if he was awarded them on false pretences.’

‘No,’ said Wardard, standing up. ‘It was a long time ago, and no good can come of opening old wounds. Think of him as a great hero, because that is what he wanted you to believe. And your mother certainly was. If you love them, you will do this.’

‘But I do not-’ Geoffrey was going to say that he did not love Godric or Herleve and never had, but Wardard raised a hand to silence him.

‘We shall not speak of this again. Now, I have much to do: the Duke of Normandy is coming.’

Geoffrey had been about to argue, but the last statement jarred. ‘You mean he has invaded?’

Wardard smiled. ‘I would not go that far, although he is here without an invitation from King Henry. He apparently arrived with a handful of knights and intends to visit the abbey before riding to Winchester.’

‘Not an invasion, then,’ said Geoffrey relieved.

‘Not from him. But who knows about Belleme, who has been thinking of revenge ever since his defeat last year? He might be crazed enough to attempt it, and strange ships have been seen. .’

Geoffrey lingered on the rainswept battlefield. Had Wardard really refused to tell him the truth because he felt nothing good could come from sullying the memory of a dead warrior? Or was there another reason? It had not escaped Geoffrey’s attention how many old men spoke warmly of his mother, and she had certainly been the more popular of the two. Was the tale of Godric’s cowardice mere spite from thwarted rivals?

When he eventually returned to the hospital, he found Roger had visited the barber. His hair and beard were neatly trimmed, his face was scrubbed, and the wild, barbaric look he had assumed since the wreck was moderated. His surcoat had been cleaned, his boots polished, and the half-armour he wore as a knight at ease was spotless.

‘Is there a brothel nearby?’ Geoffrey asked.

‘Have you not heard?’ asked Roger. ‘The Duke of Normandy is coming, and Galfridus intends to honour him with a feast.’

‘Galfridus plays a dangerous game,’ said Geoffrey. ‘How many more of the King’s enemies will he house under his roof?’

‘The Duke is not Henry’s enemy. He is his brother.’

Geoffrey did not bother to point out that family members were usually the most deadly enemies when thrones were at stake. ‘Why is he coming?’

‘According to Aelfwig, some of the Duke’s friends — such as the Earl of Surrey — lost their English estates after helping Belleme last year, and he has come to ask for them to be given back.’

‘Why should Henry agree to that when they sided against him — and might again in the future?’

‘Such heady affairs are not our concern,’ said Roger carelessly. ‘But I am hoping it might set a precedent that will bring back my father, who is also in exile for defying Henry. So I thought I should make myself presentable.’ He flaunted his finery. ‘What do you think?’

Geoffrey shrugged. ‘Very fine. Where is Bale?’

‘He went with Galfridus’s groom to Werlinges, to collect those horses. Apparently, de Laigle decided they were not worth taking and left them. Bale persuaded Galfridus to let him rescue them. Why? Do you want him to wash your clothes? You probably should clean up for the feast.’

Brushing the advice away, Geoffrey told him what he had learned from Juhel and from his examination of Gyrth and Edith. As Roger mulled over the new information, the door opened and Bale walked in. His bald head shone with sweat, and he made straight for the wine jug. Finding it empty, he headed for the bucket of water Ulfrith fetched from the well each morning. Without bothering with a cup, he grasped the entire thing, lifted it to his lips and tipped. Most cascaded down his neck and chest, and Geoffrey sighed — he had wanted a drink himself.

‘Ulfrith has some spare water,’ said Roger, guessing the reason for his friend’s disapproval.

‘Again?’ muttered Ulfrith, glaring at Bale for his greed.

Roger’s expression hardened. ‘Again. And you will not answer back if you know what is good for you. I am tired of your cheek.’

Ulfrith was no fool and relinquished the flask, albeit reluctantly. Geoffrey took a gulp, but the contents had a bitter, unpleasant flavour. He supposed Ulfrith had added something nasty, in the hope that he would find another source in future.

‘Do not drink any more,’ said Ulfrith. He sounded concerned, and Geoffrey regarded him coldly, knowing his suspicions were correct.

‘Dogs had been in Werlinges church, after the charred corpses,’ reported Bale ghoulishly. ‘The fire did not burn hot enough, see, and some of them were still whole.’

Geoffrey shuddered. Bale’s fascination with such matters really was disagreeable.

‘The groom and I dug a pit and buried the larger pieces,’ Bale was saying. ‘I said a few Latin words, like you did for Vitalis.’

‘What did you say, exactly?’ asked Geoffrey.

Bale quoted a few of Geoffrey’s favourite obscenities, usually employed when he did not want others to know he was insulting them, and he saw he would have to be more careful in the future.

‘De Laigle did not wait around after he fired the church,’ Bale continued. ‘But he should have done, because a lot of it is intact, and so were several houses he put to the torch. I thought looters would have been, but there was no sign of any.’

‘You said de Laigle had already stripped the place,’ said Roger. ‘So there was probably nothing worth having.’

‘There were tables, benches and the like. And there was the altar cross, which de Laigle told his men to leave for fear of being damned. But that sort of thing does not usually bother scavengers.’

‘True,’ agreed Roger. ‘So it is odd that they did not take advantage of the situation — the ones who haunted the beach after the ship went down were determined, to say the least.’

‘It was odd,’ agreed Bale. ‘And did I tell you that blood had been smeared on all the doors? Like a warning that it could happen again elsewhere.’

Geoffrey frowned. ‘I did not notice any.’

‘It was not there initially,’ said Bale. ‘It had appeared by the time I returned with de Laigle. Perhaps that is why he did not linger. I wonder if the pirates did it, to warn folk for the future.’

Geoffrey did not know what to make of it. He handed the water flask back to Ulfrith as he considered the matter.

‘Since de Laigle did not explore much, I had a poke around myself,’ Bale continued. ‘But I have not had a chance to tell you because you were too ill. Would you like to hear now?’

‘Not really,’ said Geoffrey. Ulfrith’s water had disagreed with him, and he felt slightly sick.

Bale forged on. ‘De Laigle said it was obvious that the pirates were responsible — that a massacre and rough foreigners in the area could not be unrelated. But you said you were uncertain, so I decided to inspect the corpses for pieces of clothing ripped from their killers in their death throes.’ His eyes gleamed strangely.

‘Did you find any?’ asked Geoffrey, intrigued.

‘No,’ came the disappointing reply. Then Bale grimaced. ‘Moreover, I was so busy looking for clues on your behalf that the soldiers grabbed everything of value before I could get to it. There was nothing left for me.’

‘You got that little cross,’ said Ulfrith comfortingly. ‘And a nice, thick habit to cut up and make into a new tunic.’

Bale reached inside his jerkin and brought out a small wooden cross of the kind worn by novices. ‘It is nothing, and Galfridus will probably ask for it back if he finds out I have it.’

Geoffrey took it from him, then told him to fetch the habit. When it arrived, he inspected it carefully, noting the faint spray of blood across the front. He smiled at Bale and clapped him on the shoulder.

‘You underestimate yourself. You have found a very important clue indeed. You see these letters carved on the cross? They spell “Gyrth”.’

‘Gyrth!’ breathed Roger. ‘The man who tried to kill you.’

‘The very same. And Bale has just found his cross, and probably his habit, in a village where every living soul was murdered.’