The Bloodstained Throne

Fourteen

The arrival of Osbjorn and Eadric caused considerable delight among the Saxons. At the guest hall, they were plied with the dishes that had been prepared for the Duke of Normandy. The Norman monks were astonished at this, but Galfridus raised a hand to silence their indignation. Lay-brothers and ‘pilgrims’ continued to crowd in, and it quickly became clear what they really were. A kitchen scullion named Thurkill hefted a sword in a way that indicated he had wielded more than filleting knives in the past, and two ‘grooms’ clapped Osbjorn on the back in a manner that would have been inappropriate had they really been servants.

‘I sincerely hope help is on its way,’ said Galfridus when Geoffrey approached. ‘You have sent for some, have you not? The situation is rapidly becoming untenable.’

‘I did, but it will not materialize,’ replied Geoffrey.

Galfridus stared at him. ‘But I can see at least three disinherited earls from here, plus several fanatics who have made careers of insurrection!’

‘How many of your monks will stand against them?’

Galfridus regarded him askance. ‘None.’

It was Geoffrey’s turn to stare. ‘There is not a single man here who is loyal to the King?’

‘That is not what I meant. All the Normans will be loyal — about thirty men out of fifty-five — but they have forsworn arms. None will raise so much as a stick.’

‘I will,’ came Wardard’s quiet voice from behind them. ‘I will fight, as I did before, although I would prefer peace. Perhaps we can persuade them to disband.’

‘This is too far advanced to be stopped by speeches,’ said Galfridus. ‘If help is not coming, then all we can do is lock ourselves in the church and hope they do not set it alight.’

There was a colossal cheer from the Saxons. Osbjorn had just announced that others would soon arrive at La Batailge — good, honest Saxons armed with hoes and pitchforks.

Galfridus closed his eyes in defeat, but Wardard rested a hand on his shoulder.

‘Do not pay heed to defiant words. The nobles will fight, but the peasantry will not be blinded by impossible dreams. Most will slink away at the first clash of steel.’

Geoffrey hoped he was right. Nevertheless, he estimated that the abbey already contained at least three hundred would-be warriors. He turned at the sound of running feet. A number of people were converging on the kitchens, where a fight was in progress between Ralph the sacristan and Thurkill the scullion. Ralph was brandishing a ladle, but Thurkill had his sword.

‘Norman pig!’ Thurkill howled. ‘You have no right to order me around.’

‘I have every right,’ screeched Ralph, lunging with his spoon. ‘You are a scullion and I am sacristan. Of course you take orders from me, Saxon scum.’

Thurkill moved in for the kill, and Ralph suddenly realized he had bitten off more than he could chew. Panic-stricken, he darted behind a table and began to lob pieces of food. One hit a cook, who, trying to dodge it, inadvertently jostled a scribe. There followed an unseemly melee, as old scores were settled on both sides.

‘Stop them, Sir Geoffrey!’ shouted Galfridus in horror.

Geoffrey used the flat of his sword to beat a path through the mass of bodies. He caught the sacristan’s arm and yanked him away from a wicked stab by Thurkill. The scullion turned his murderous attention to Geoffrey, but the knight quickly had him in retreat. When Thurkill tripped and disappeared under milling feet, Geoffrey dragged Ralph outside.

‘God and all His saints!’ cried Galfridus, as Wardard casually repelled a dogged attack by a stable boy. ‘They will slaughter us! I thought they would leave me alone — my mother was Saxon, and I assumed they would honour my ancestry.’

‘If they are willing to attack you, they will have no compunction about assaulting other Norman monks,’ said Wardard urgently. ‘We must warn them. I will ring the bell — they will assume it is a call to terce and come to the church.’

‘Good,’ said Geoffrey. ‘It has strong doors and thick shutters. We will be able to defend it.’

‘I was thinking of saying prayers, actually,’ said Wardard.

‘We will fight the bastards!’ snarled Ralph. ‘Smash their skulls and tear out their innards! Our abbey should not be tainted with Saxons clamouring for my King to be overthrown.’

Geoffrey did not wait to hear more. He ran to the hospital, where Roger had already donned full armour and was inspecting the edge of his sword. Bale and Ulfrith wore their tough leather jerkins and hurried to help Geoffrey with his mail.

‘What do you intend to do?’ asked Roger. ‘There are about three hundred Saxons, most more proficient with hoes than with weapons. But even so, there is little we can do against such odds.’

‘We will join Galfridus in the church. I hope Magnus will not murder unarmed monks on holy ground, but if he does, we can try to defend them.’

‘Try?’ asked Ulfrith in alarm. ‘You think we might fail? We might die?’

‘Very likely,’ said Roger without emotion. ‘If they do not recognize the sanctity of a church, we stand no chance. We will take plenty with us, but with such numbers, defeat is inevitable.’

‘I am glad you are looking on the bright side,’ said Geoffrey dryly. ‘Steal a couple of horses, Ulfrith, and bring them to the church. No one will harm you — you are Saxon and you look it — and if anyone asks, say you are acting under Earl Osbjorn’s orders. Bale, come with me.’

Bale was armed to the teeth, and Geoffrey knew it was only a matter of time before he was at someone’s throat. He hoped he would not precipitate a fight that might yet be avoided.

Ulfrith hesitated. ‘Are you saying I should bring these nags inside the church?’

Geoffrey nodded as he set his helmet on his head. ‘And if you see any Normans, tell them to go there, too.’

Ulfrith sped away. Geoffrey, Roger and Bale left the hospital, alert and ready to fight if attacked. They turned at the sound of running feet, but it was only Juhel, chicken at his heels.

‘Those documents,’ Juhel gasped, fighting to catch his breath. ‘The ones Magnus threw in the well and that I have been attempting to salvage.’

‘Not now.’ Geoffrey was aware that men were pouring out of the guest hall. Some were armed and all were shouting. Osbjorn and Eadric had fired them up, and he felt vulnerable and exposed.

‘Two were stuck together and were only dry enough for me to separate a few moments ago,’ said Juhel, thrusting them at him. ‘They are smeared, but still legible. I have been wrong! Magnus is not the driving force behind this rebellion — Ulf is.’

Geoffrey paused just long enough to glance at the pact signed by Ulf and Gyrth. It detailed how they would divide England after the Usurper’s execution, and stated that the moment the kingdom was in Saxon hands, Gyrth was to dispatch Magnus. There was even an assassin picked for the task: Aelfwig. Geoffrey supposed the plotters were fortunate that Magnus could not read and had thus remained in ignorance of what his ‘loyal’ supporters had in mind for him.

‘What of it?’ he demanded impatiently. ‘Ulf is dead and so is Gyrth.’

Juhel grabbed his arm, forcing him to stop. ‘Think, man! You have heard the tales about Ulf’s temper and love of violence. He is a formidable warrior, and there is no way your squire could have overpowered him. I am disgusted with myself for not seeing this sooner. It was not Ulf who was killed in Werlinges: it was Harold.’

Geoffrey was about to take issue with Juhel when he saw a group of lay-brothers coming from the fishponds with furious looks on their faces. It was no time to be chatting, so he grabbed Juhel’s arm and hauled him towards the church. The door was already locked, and Geoffrey pounded on it with his fist. At that moment, a gaggle of Saxons headed towards them, and there was no mistaking their intentions. All carried knives and cudgels. Geoffrey hammered again, and Roger yelled for the door to be opened.

‘No!’ shouted Ralph. ‘If we do, those Saxons will come in with you.’

Geoffrey turned to face the mob, sword in hand, as the man in the lead lowered his pike and braced it under his arm. He was going to use it like a couched lance, and Geoffrey was not sure there was enough space to avoid being spitted. His shield was the one piece of armour he had not managed to salvage from the ship.

But there was a clank and the door opened. Juhel was through it in a trice, with Bale and Roger on his heels, but there was no time for Geoffrey to follow. He leapt in the opposite direction, and the pike whistled past him and struck the door with wicked force. The shaft shattered. Its owner was so intent on driving it home that he had overlooked the need to stop, and the collision knocked him senseless. Geoffrey jumped over him and aimed for the door, alarmed when Ralph tried to close it before he was through. With a furious roar, Roger shoved the sacristan away, and Geoffrey shot inside just as cudgels began to fly.

He turned quickly and added his strength to that of Wardard, Bale and Roger, as the rebels began to force the door open, inch by relentless inch. Geoffrey’s boots skidded on the flagstones as he tried to gain purchase, but he could see it was only a matter of moments before the first Saxon would be inside. In the nick of time, several monks rushed to help. Slowly, the door closed, and Roger was able to slide a substantial bar across it. The church was secure — for now, at least.

‘Fool!’ howled Ralph at Wardard. ‘What possessed you — opening the door like that?’

‘I was saving innocents from being slaughtered,’ said Wardard coolly. ‘You may be happy to stand meekly by as murder is done, but I am not. Now, go and check the window shutters are secure. Galfridus? Are you sure the cloister door is locked and barred?’

Galfridus nodded, his face white. ‘And ten monks set to guard it, as you ordered. With the dozen you have here, no one should be able to get in.’

‘Good,’ said Wardard. ‘I believe the best way to avert violence is to avoid confrontation. If the Saxons see no Normans, their fury may fade. Magnus cannot keep them at fever pitch indefinitely.’

‘I put Odo and Peter in the clerestory with bows, too, like you said,’ added Galfridus. ‘And there are lookouts everywhere. Your troops are deployed.’

Wardard smiled. ‘Then it is time to solicit God’s help. I want no more deaths on this field — Norman or Saxon. Will you join us, Geoffrey?’

Geoffrey shook his head. He wanted to inspect the defences and reorganize the ‘troops’ as he saw fit. Wardard might have been a professional soldier once, but it was a long time ago.

‘Our situation is worse than I thought,’ said Juhel worriedly. ‘If Magnus were in charge, we might have escaped unscathed, but Ulf is a different matter altogether.’

‘Are you saying I killed Harold?’ asked Bale, bewildered. ‘But they were wearing different clothes, and there was no time for them to change.’

‘I agree,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Besides, they were not identical — Harold has scars around his wrists, and the dead man was thinner.’

‘That is because we have been misled from the beginning,’ said Juhel, pacing back and forth in agitation. ‘He said he was Harold, and we all believed him. Even Magnus. But he was lying.’

‘That is ridiculous,’ declared Roger. ‘Magnus could tell his half-brothers apart.’

‘Why, when they spent most of their lives separated?’ countered Juhel.

‘But what benefit is there in Ulf pretending to be Harold?’ asked Geoffrey.

‘Ulf is a bully and a tyrant, who, given power, will become a monster. No Saxon will follow a man with his reputation, and so he has pretended to be gentle, smiling Harold. He is even allowing Magnus to take a certain degree of command, biding his time until the rebellion has sufficient momentum. Then he will take over.’

‘I have noticed the odd flare of nastiness in Harold,’ said Roger thoughtfully. ‘He put glass in Galfridus’s carp, and I saw him throw stones at Brother Wardard.’

‘That was him, was it?’ asked Wardard. ‘I thought it was Aelfwig, who has never liked me.’

‘I should have seen this sooner,’ said Juhel bitterly. ‘The clues were all there. At Werlinges, Magnus was sick, and even you two battle-hardened knights were shocked, but “Harold” had to fabricate emotions he certainly would not feel. And he did it badly.’

Geoffrey supposed he might be right: Harold had recovered fairly quickly from the shock of seeing his twin’s throat cut, which suggested a certain resilience to violent death.

‘Was it this Ulf who ordered the massacre, then?’ asked Bale.

‘I imagine so,’ replied Juhel. ‘When we first discovered the atrocity, we said it was the kind of thing Ulf would do — although “Harold” insisted on his brother’s innocence. I suspect he ordered Gyrth to do it, so knew exactly what we would find when we all arrived there.’

‘Ulf was held prisoner by the Conqueror,’ said Geoffrey thoughtfully. ‘Not Harold. Did you notice his wrists? They are scarred.’

‘From being kept in chains,’ said Roger in understanding. ‘If he is the maniac everyone says, his captors would have needed to subdue him.’

‘He also claimed Henry had given him a horse,’ Geoffrey went on, becoming more convinced Juhel was right as he considered what they knew. ‘But Henry is much more likely to have given one to Ulf — who was his father’s prisoner for twenty years. Why would he make a gift to Harold, a man to whom he did not need to make amends?’

‘True,’ agreed Roger.

‘And Harold is supposed to be a fine musician,’ said Geoffrey. ‘But this man could not play the horn properly — and tried very hard to avoid obliging when Bale insisted on a tune.’

‘Because he said it was a cheap, nasty instrument,’ supplied Ulfrith.

‘It is very expensive, actually,’ objected Galfridus. ‘From the curia in Rome.’

Juhel turned to Galfridus. ‘You know them both. What do you think?’

‘I am afraid Sir Geoffrey distracted me by insulting my objet d’art, and I paid Harold scant attention. He usually visits me a lot when he is here, but he has not been once this time. I have been busy, so have not thought to question why. But what about Osbjorn? He knows both twins and will be able to tell them apart. He likes Harold, but detests Ulf.’

Geoffrey recalled the way the surviving twin had almost dragged Osbjorn from his horse with the force of his greeting. It had not been an expression of familial affection, but a muttered threat.

‘I know how to tell them apart,’ said Wardard suddenly. ‘Garlic. Harold hates it, but Ulf is well known to chew it constantly.’

Geoffrey had done no more than make a preliminary inspection of the defences — in the process noticing that both Philippa and Lucian had taken refuge in the church — before there was a yell from a lookout. A contingent of Saxons was approaching. Geoffrey stationed Ulfrith and Bale at the cloister entrance, then trotted to the great west door — the only other way in.

‘We can hold out for a while,’ muttered Roger. ‘Some of the monks brought food, water and weapons. And a couple thought to grab some armour.’

‘And Ulfrith managed to acquire us seven horses,’ said Geoffrey, nodding to where the beasts were tethered. Four were warhorses belonging to the Saxon earls, but the remaining three were only fat mares.

‘Wardard and Ralph are ready to fight, but the others will be useless. We are essentially on our own, Geoff.’ Roger cocked his head. ‘I can hear Ulf, yelling to his men that we are cowards and ripe for the slaughter.’

They walked to the nearest window. Geoffrey poked a hole in the shutter with his dagger, so they could see what was happening outside.

‘God above!’ exclaimed Galfridus, white-faced as he peered through it. ‘Where have all those men come from?’

‘Lay-brothers,’ said Wardard shortly. ‘And supposed pilgrims. They have used our abbey as a rallying point.’

‘They are only armed with sticks, for the most part,’ said Ralph, eyeing them with disdain. He and Wardard wore mail jerkins and conical helmets. Little of his monastic clothing was visible, and he looked like a knight. Geoffrey hoped he would behave like one. ‘Whereas we have swords.’

‘But what are a few swords compared to three hundred hoes?’ whispered Galfridus.

‘Normans!’ came a stentorian voice from outside. It was Ulf. He had dispensed with civilian clothes and was wearing a knee-length mail tunic, leather leggings, and a helmet that looked to be gold. He was one of a dozen mounted men. ‘Come out before we come in.’

His men roared their approval at the challenge.

‘No, thank you,’ replied Galfridus in a wavering voice. ‘We do not want to.’

‘God’s blood!’ breathed Roger, appalled. ‘Could you not think of anything more manly to say? They are laughing at us!’

‘Who are you?’ shouted Ralph, belligerence dripping from every syllable. ‘I do not recognize you as a man to be giving me orders. I am the abbey’s sacristan.’

The jeers turned to murmurs of anger, and Geoffrey scowled at him.

‘I am Ulf,’ came the reply. ‘King Harold’s legitimate heir.’

This caused consternation on both sides. Those monks who knew of Ulf’s reputation crossed themselves, and two abandoned their posts and made a dash for the high altar. A ripple of unease passed along the Saxon lines, and Aelfwig and Eadric regarded Ulf in astonishment. Osbjorn’s face was impassive, but his unease was clear. Magnus, whose fat nag stood on Ulf’s other side, was patently disbelieving.

‘Ulf?’ he echoed. ‘But you are Harold!’

‘I am Ulf!’ yelled Ulf, raising his sword and standing up in his stirrups. ‘And I am here to lead my people in a glorious Saxon victory.’

There was a cheer, although it was decidedly tentative. Ulf apparently thought so, too, because he turned to glare furiously at his army. One or two bolted, clearly having second thoughts about associating with such a leader. Ulf’s scowl deepened, and he muttered to Eadric, who wheeled his horse around and rode to prevent more desertions.

‘I should have guessed,’ said Magnus coldly. ‘I should have known that Harold would not suddenly start chewing garlic. You lied when you told me you had acquired a recent taste for it.’

‘People of England,’ yelled Ulf, ignoring him. ‘Our day has come. We will avenge the blood of our fathers, spilled on this sacred ground. We will-’

‘Do not listen to him,’ ordered Magnus imperiously. ‘I am your rightful king. Ulf lied to me and he will lie to you. You will all serve King Magnus!’

The Saxons were confused. ‘I thought we were going to kill Normans first and then choose our king,’ said Aelfwig. His habit was hitched up to his knees, and he carried a knife from the kitchen.

‘We are,’ said Magnus angrily. ‘Moreover, I sent a letter to Ulf forbidding him to join us. When I heard he was dead in Werlinges, I was very relieved, because there is certainly no room for him in my plans.’

‘And there is no room for you in mine,’ snarled Ulf, and there was an appalled silence from both sides as he thrust his sword into his half-brother’s chest. The silence continued long after Magnus had crashed to the ground.

As soon as Ulf had dispatched his querulous rival, the situation changed. More Saxons dropped their weapons and ran towards the gate, too many for Eadric to stop. He used the flat of his sword to beat some back, then killed two to make his point. The ploy failed — instead of encouraging them, it saw resolve crumbling among those who had been steady. Next to Ulf, Osbjorn raised an unsteady hand to wipe sweat from his pallid face. Geoffrey had seen enough.

‘Mount up,’ he said to Roger. ‘If we make a charge, most will scatter and slink away. They did not mind rallying for Harold, or even Magnus, but they do not want Ulf. Will you ride with us, Brother?’

Wardard climbed into the saddle of one of the better horses. Geoffrey and Roger took two more, and an ancient pilgrim called Hugh d’Ivry claimed the last. Hugh had not been young when he had fought in the original battle, and it took some time to hoist him into the saddle, accompanied by a medley of grunts, groans and gasps. Geoffrey was not sure how much use he would be, but the man had a sword and knew how to ride. The three mares were left for Ralph, Juhel and Galfridus.

Juhel had a sword, although it was clear he was happier fighting with knives. Ralph’s blood was up, and Geoffrey suspected he would be difficult to control. Galfridus was openly terrified and had only agreed to join them because Ralph told him he needed to set an example to his monks.

Geoffrey indicated that the door should be opened, and he rode out. He had expected more taunts when the Saxons saw that the Norman ‘cavalry’ comprised only seven horsemen, but there was only silence as they formed a line.

‘Now we shall see Norman blood!’ howled Ulf in delight. ‘We have waited almost forty years for vengeance and we begin today. We shall start by killing the monks and replacing them with Saxons. Who will accept the post of abbot of La Batailge, the first monastery to be freed?’

‘I would not refuse it,’ offered Aelfwig modestly.

‘I am sure you would not,’ yelled Ralph. ‘But you are not worthy, you Saxon pig.’

‘I am a damned sight more worthy than you or Galfridus,’ retorted Aelfwig angrily. ‘At least I do not stuff myself with carp every day and spend the abbey’s money on bad carvings. Nor do I sneak off at night for secret sessions with sheep.’

There was an uncertain smattering of laughter.

‘I was testing the quality of their wool,’ said Ralph to Galfridus, flushing scarlet. Mortified, he lashed out at Aelfwig again. ‘You are the son of a whore, and you are a terrible herbalist. Our graveyard is full of the people you have killed with your bumbling ministrations.’

‘Well, your mother was a witch and your father was a. . a Norman!’ yelled Aelfwig, drawing appreciative cheers from the Saxons.

‘Lord!’ muttered Roger to Geoffrey, unimpressed. ‘Do we sit here all day and trade insults? Is that their idea of a battle?’

‘Let us hope so,’ said Geoffrey soberly. ‘Because these men are not soldiers. What a ridiculous state of affairs! Magnus and Ulf do deserve to die for initiating this.’

‘Vile, dirty pigs!’ yelled Ralph. ‘Cowardly, stupid oafs, who cannot even read!’

‘We do not want to read,’ said Osbjorn, galled into joining in. ‘Not if it will make us like you.’

‘Lovers of goats!’ came Ralph’s shrieked response. ‘And donkey bug-’

‘Ralph!’ snapped Galfridus, deeply shocked. ‘Please! This is an abbey!’

‘All Normans are slugs!’ shouted Aelfwig. His comrades regarded him with pained expressions, unimpressed by the quality of the rejoinder, so he added, ‘Uncultured ones.’

‘Do we ignore this abuse?’ demanded Hugh, keen for action now he had gone through the discomfort of loading his ancient bones with armour and being shoved on a horse.

‘Yes, we do,’ said Geoffrey quietly. ‘I do not want to kill such people, and I cannot imagine you do either.’

‘I do, actually,’ countered Hugh testily. ‘One of them just called me a maggot. Charge!’

And he was away, riding hard into the Saxons and slashing with his sword — until it became too heavy for him and he dropped it. Not wanting a seventh of his army to be cut down without support, Geoffrey had no choice but to follow. He drove his horse at the milling mass of humanity, but did not use his sword, which he held above his head. He was vaguely aware of Roger striking out with the flat of his, mostly terrifying his opponents into flight with a series of unnerving battle cries learned from the Saracens.

Geoffrey disarmed Aelfwig, who was causing as much damage to his friends as his enemies, then knocked a pitchfork from the hand of a groom. More Saxons shrank back in alarm when his horse, which had been well trained, reared and flailed with its front hooves. Suddenly, he found himself emerging at the back of the Saxon line, having ridden clean through it with virtually no resistance. Roger and Wardard were not far behind. When Eadric saw them, his jaw dropped in horror and he raced back to Ulf’s side.

‘I do not like this,’ said Roger in distaste. ‘It is like fighting nuns.’

Geoffrey saw he had grabbed Osbjorn as he had passed, and had the man slung over his saddle. The Saxon lord screeched his fury, but his struggles were to no avail as long as Roger’s powerful hand held him down.

‘They barely know how to hold their weapons,’ said Wardard, also disgusted.

Geoffrey glanced behind and saw that Galfridus had fallen off his mare and was riding pillion on Juhel’s, sketching benedictions in all directions. This threw Ulf’s troops into even greater confusion. Some bowed their heads to accept the blessings, while others stood uncertainly.

Ralph and Hugh were doing their best to make up for their comrades’ lack of aggression, though. The sacristan slashed wildly with his weapons, occasionally cutting his own mount as well as his opponents, while Hugh jabbed here and there with a dagger.

‘Perhaps it is just as well Breme did not deliver your message,’ said Wardard softly. ‘If royal troops had arrived, Werlinges would not have been the only place to suffer a massacre.’

Geoffrey agreed. ‘Run!’ he yelled, riding the warhorse at the Saxon line again. ‘Go home, before you are all in your graves.’

‘He is right,’ said one man, ducking away from one of Hugh’s blows. ‘It is too dangerous here.’

He turned and fled, and others joined him. Roger rode at a tight, bewildered pack of lay-brothers, who scattered in all directions, and then it was a case of driving others after them, much as dogs with sheep.

Ulf was livid and tore after his men, catching one a vicious chop between the shoulder blades. It served to drive even more of his followers towards the gate, and when Geoffrey yelled in the Saxon tongue that Ulf was defeated, the rout was complete. Ulf screamed that he was nothing of the kind, but his supporters had lost the stomach for their skirmish and preferred to believe Geoffrey.

Red with fury and frustration, Ulf charged back to a knot of his horsemen, who were milling about in hopeless confusion, and ordered them to take up formation around him. Then he bellowed an order, and the little cavalcade rode at a hard pace, not towards the gate, but to the ponds.

‘Who are those men?’ Geoffrey demanded of Osbjorn, who was still in an undignified heap over Roger’s saddle.

‘Seven are his housecarls,’ replied the captured Dane miserably. ‘And the eighth is Aelfwig — he must have grabbed someone else’s horse to join them. All will fight at Ulf’s side until they die.’

‘They will die if they continue to fight,’ said Roger grimly. ‘Where are they going?’

‘To the fishponds,’ said Osbjorn, pathetically eager to cooperate. ‘There is gold hidden there, and Ulf will claim it before he leaves. The treasure we hid in the water is stolen, but more is buried under a tree. He will use it to rebel again, although he can do it without me. I would have followed Harold or even Magnus. But never him.’

‘We must stop him,’ said Wardard urgently to Geoffrey and Roger. ‘Too many Saxons have died for his foolishness already, and I will not let him destroy more. Will you help me?’

‘Me, you and Geoff against eight Saxon warriors and an inept herbalist,’ said Roger. Then he grinned. ‘The odds are good enough for me!’

Geoffrey, Roger and Wardard thundered towards the marshes, leaving Juhel, Hugh and Ralph to chase away the last of the Saxons and imprison Osbjorn. Aelfwig was already emerging from the trees with a bundle, staggering under its weight.

‘We cannot let him take it,’ shouted Geoffrey.

Wardard chuckled. ‘Ulf will not be financing anything with what is inside that sack, Geoffrey. I took the opportunity to exchange it for a few rocks after I saw you had only given half his treasure trove to your pirate friends.’

Geoffrey glanced at him. ‘You were not with Juhel, were you?’

Wardard nodded. ‘This is my abbey, my home. Do you really think men can come in and hide their loot without me knowing?’

‘What did you do with it?’ asked Roger, with more than a passing interest.

Wardard smiled. ‘It is locked in the crypt and will be used to purchase the services of a decent medicus. We were wrong to give Aelfwig the post and we need to make reparation. Do not worry: it will not fall into the hands of rebels.’

‘This is your fault!’ shrieked Ulf, sword at the ready when he saw the three horsemen. ‘We were poised for victory, and you snatched it from us.’

Geoffrey reined in his horse and studied the opposition. He, Roger and Wardard were outnumbered three to one, and their opponents were of the same calibre as the men who had fought at Hastinges, then Ulf might yet live to sow more seeds of rebellion.

‘My mother could have commanded the situation better than you did today,’ jeered Roger. ‘If your rout is anyone’s fault, it is yours.’

Ulf snatched the sack from Aelfwig and scrambled back into his saddle.

‘Finish it,’ he ordered his men. ‘No survivors and no quarter.’

The housecarls advanced quickly, while he rode a short distance away to inspect his treasure. Aelfwig followed, muttering in his ear. But there was no time to ponder what he might be saying, because Geoffrey, Roger and Wardard were suddenly facing opponents who knew what they were doing.

‘If you had fought like this earlier, you might have won,’ gasped Roger, as he fenced with Eadric, forcing the smaller man back with the ferocity of his assault.

Geoffrey urged his horse forward fast as another knight aimed to strike his friend’s unprotected back. The resulting clang of the parry rang out like a bell. He recovered more quickly than his opponent, and a left-handed slash with his dagger opened the man’s innards, before a hard chop with his sword dropped another from his saddle. Wardard had already dispatched one of his adversaries, and Geoffrey saw that although the housecarls might well have trained hard, they had little experience of real fighting.

‘Kill them!’ Ulf screamed, flinging off his helmet and hauling a green hat on his head in its place. ‘I will meet up with you later!’

‘Go!’ Eadric yelled back. ‘Save yourself. We will keep them occupied.’

Ulf needed no second invitation. He rode between the skirmish and the fishponds, and Geoffrey saw he was going to escape. He spurred forward to stop him, but two housecarls mounted a coordinated attack that forced him to retreat. He wheeled around and swung his sword in a savage arc that dispatched one of them, and there was a howl of pain as Wardard dealt with the second. Leaving Wardard to help Roger with those remaining, Geoffrey tore after the would-be king.

‘You strangled Vitalis!’ he shouted, as the last mystery became clear. ‘You saw us wrecked, and waited to see if there was anything to steal. You were with Gyrth.’

‘I killed an old man,’ sneered Ulf, turning around to face him. ‘But he had nothing worth taking — except a paltry ring that I could not wrench from his finger anyway. Neither do you, but you will be worth killing regardless!’

Geoffrey met his powerful stroke, then thrust back, intending to force Ulf from his saddle. He might have succeeded, had Ulf’s horse not skittered backwards. Geoffrey slashed again, and as Ulf ducked away, his horse skidded in the mud at the pond edge. It slipped, then fell, hurling Ulf backwards into the water. His armour caused him to sink like a stone. Aelfwig ran to the edge of the water with a cry of horror.

‘Fetch him out!’ he screamed. ‘He will drown!’

Breaking away from Wardard, the last surviving housecarl leaped off his horse to obey, but the moment his feet touched the ground, Roger knocked him on the head with the pommel of his sword. The fellow dropped, insensible, and Eadric dropped his weapon and raised his hands when he found Wardard’s sword at his throat.

Aelfwig was pointing and gibbering, beside himself with anguish. Not far under the surface was Ulf, arms flailing. Geoffrey could see his terrified eyes and the whiteness of his face against the green water.

‘Help him!’ screeched Aelfwig.

‘You help him,’ said Roger, unmoved. ‘He is your king.’

‘I am not strong enough,’ sobbed Aelfwig. ‘He will drown me.’

Geoffrey watched as mud billowed to obscure the agonized face, aware that he was holding his own breath. He closed his eyes tightly, then began to pull the surcoat over his head. Roger grabbed his shoulder.

‘What are you doing?’ he demanded.

‘I cannot see a man die like this,’ said Geoffrey, struggling away from him. ‘Let me go.’

But Wardard joined Roger with a grip that was impossible to break, and Geoffrey had no choice but to watch the churning pool and the final torments of the man caught there.

Eventually the water became calm and the mud began to settle. No more than the length of an arm under the surface was Ulf, fair curls floating like a halo.

‘There they are!’ came a voice from farther up the field. It was Juhel, and with him was a stocky, dark-haired horseman whom Geoffrey recognized immediately. It was the Duke of Normandy.

‘Where is the battle?’ demanded the Duke eagerly.

‘Most of the rebels have fled, my Lord,’ replied Juhel. ‘These were all that remained.’

‘Oh,’ said the Duke, disappointed. ‘I was in the mood for a skirmish. Now, what did you say it was about?’

‘A Saxon uprising, Sire,’ explained Juhel.

‘Against my brother?’ asked the Duke keenly.

‘Only a very small one,’ explained Juhel. ‘Just a few peasants and a handful of disinherited Saxon nobles. The sight of you and your retinue was more than enough to end the last skirmishes.’

‘So, I helped to thwart a rebellion against Henry, did I?’ asked the Duke softly. ‘Damn!’