The Bloodstained Throne

Five

Inside the cave, a collective sigh of relief was heaved. Roger sheathed his sword, and Geoffrey opened the door a little wider. The shelter might be cleverly constructed, but it stank, for some reason, of garlic, and he preferred the odour of wet vegetation from outside.

‘We have given them the slip,’ said Bale in satisfaction. He sat on a platform that was obviously intended to serve as a bed, and glanced up at Roger. ‘How much are those coins worth?’

Roger tossed him one, accompanying it with a grin that oozed wicked greed. Bale hefted it in his hand and whistled under his breath before handing it to Geoffrey, who was also astonished by its weight. He had never seen such a thick, heavy coin and was certain each would be worth a small fortune — more than ample to buy horses and travel to the Holy Land. He was not surprised Fingar was keen to have them back.

‘How many did you take?’ he asked. ‘Just three?’

‘A handful,’ replied Roger evasively. ‘I did not have time to count.’

‘How many?’ repeated Geoffrey coldly.

With considerable reluctance, Roger emptied the pouch on his belt. A dozen or so gold coins dropped out, along with a huge number of silver ones of lesser value. Geoffrey was horrified.

‘There is a king’s ransom here!’ he cried. ‘Fingar and his men will follow us to the ends of the world to get this back.’

‘You are right,’ said Juhel. He was pale, and Geoffrey saw he was equally shocked by Roger’s crime. ‘Men are willing to risk anything for this kind of money.’

‘It is paltry,’ said Roger dismissively. ‘They were lucky I did not demand their salvage, too.’

‘If I had such a fortune, England would be mine in a week,’ said Magnus, eyeing it lustfully. ‘I do not suppose you would care to donate it to the cause? I will repay it with interest when I am king. And I will make you Bishop of Ely.’

‘Not Ely,’ said Roger in distaste. ‘It is surrounded by bogs. I want Salisbury.’

‘You may be waiting some time,’ warned Juhel. ‘For your gold and your title.’

Magnus glared. ‘I will repay him tenfold before the end of summer.’

‘I shall not part with it just yet,’ said Roger, although Geoffrey was alarmed to see he was giving the offer consideration. Roger was a man for whom ‘tenfold’ was a tempting word.

‘You are wise,’ said Juhel. ‘King Henry would not be pleased to hear that the funding for a Saxon revolt came from Norman knights.’

‘How would he hear that?’ demanded Magnus, rounding on him. ‘Will you tell?’

Juhel laughed. ‘Of course I will! He and I often dine in his private chambers, and he frequently asks my advice. I shall mention it the very next time I see him.’

‘Enough,’ said Geoffrey. Magnus’s visions of Saxon rebellion were no better than smoke in the wind. ‘I am more concerned with Fingar. None of us will be safe until you give that money back.’

‘Rubbish,’ declared Roger. ‘For all Fingar knows, these are coins I carried in my personal baggage, and he will never be able to prove otherwise. Besides, he is a pirate, so this is almost certainly gold he stole from someone else.’

‘Then it is probably cursed,’ said Juhel. ‘The original owners may have asked God to avenge the crime by making dreadful things happen to the thieves. I always do, when villains wrong me.’

‘We should give it back,’ said Bale, crossing himself hurriedly. ‘I have heard that pirates are rather free and easy with curses, too.’

‘They are not,’ said Roger, with completely unwarranted confidence. ‘My father is Bishop of Durham, so you can trust that I know about such things.’

Geoffrey was disinclined to argue. Like many Normans, Roger was highly partial to gold, and Geoffrey knew from long and bitter experience that nothing would induce him to part with it.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But I want no part of it.’

‘He is right,’ came an unfamiliar voice from the depths of the hole. Geoffrey and the others raised their weapons in alarm. ‘Nothing good ever comes from theft — as that usurper Henry is about to discover.’

‘Who are you?’ demanded Geoffrey, as a short, chubby man emerged from the darkness. His bright yellow hair and flowing moustache indicated he was in his thirties, like Geoffrey himself, but his skin had a reddish, debauched look, and the broken veins on his round nose indicated a fondness for good living. His clothes were fine, although mud-stained, and, like Magnus’s, were adorned with a good deal of expensive thread and intricate Saxon embroidery.

‘I am King Harold,’ replied the man grandly.

‘Lord,’ muttered Geoffrey in the startled silence that followed. ‘Another monarch?’

‘A number of us have claims,’ said Magnus stiffly. ‘Some stronger than others.’

‘Are you eating garlic?’ asked Juhel, sniffing. ‘The smell is suddenly a good deal stronger.’

‘I like garlic,’ said Harold defensively. ‘It thickens the blood, protects against evil and inspires courage. I have a few cloves here, ready peeled. Would you like one?’

When he stretched out his hand to present his offering, Geoffrey saw faint scars around the man’s wrists and wondered what had caused them.

‘No, thank you,’ said Juhel. ‘But I was under the impression that King Harold had died more than thirty years ago — on the battlefield.’

‘Hacked to pieces,’ added Roger rather ghoulishly, ‘with axes.’

‘Actually,’ said Magnus curtly, ‘my father was killed by an arrow in the face. I was not on the field when he died — a battleground is no place for a child of eight — but I saw his body afterwards.’

‘But my father said he was hacked to death by swords,’ said Geoffrey doubtfully. ‘He claimed to have witnessed it.’

Of course, Godric Mappestone had not been the most truthful of men, and his memories of the battle had grown more elaborate as he had aged. Further, Geoffrey’s mother, famous for her own martial skills, had once confided that she had fought at Hastinges herself, and she had told a different story — one of confusion and panic as the long day of fighting drew to a close, and encroaching darkness, blood and thick mud had rendered one man much like another. Herleve Mappestone had maintained that it was impossible to tell what had happened to King Harold. His corpse had certainly been mutilated, but it would never be known whether he had died at the point of a sword, an axe or an arrow.

‘All this is immaterial,’ said Roger to the newcomer. ‘The point is that you cannot be King Harold, because he is dead. Unless you are his ghost?’

He smirked, but, at that moment, a marsh bird released an eerie, whooping call, and the grin faded. He took a step away and crossed himself. Ulfrith and Bale did the same.

Harold did not seem affected by their superstitious unease and addressed Roger slowly, as if speaking to a simpleton. ‘I am his son — his legitimate son. He had twins from his marriage to Queen Ealdgyth, and I am one of them.’

‘You mean there is another, just like you?’ asked Roger rather stupidly.

Harold nodded. ‘Poor Ulf was kept prisoner after our father’s murder, but the Bastard released him on his deathbed. I suppose he thought it would lessen his time in Purgatory. But it will take a good deal more than the release of a few hostages to open the gates of Heaven to him. He is destined for the Other Place, because his soul is so deeply stained with Saxon blood.’

‘Too right,’ agreed Magnus fervently. ‘When I am king, I shall invade France, snatch the Bastard’s bones from his tomb and toss them in the nearest river.’

Harold regarded him admonishingly, his chubby face grave. ‘We agreed that we would not discuss this yet, that we would consult our Saxon vassals about-’

‘They will want me,’ stated Magnus confidently. ‘I am King Harold’s eldest surviving son and, according to Saxon law, his rightful heir. Your claim is based on the fact that he married Queen Ealdgyth in a church, which I deem irrelevant.’

Harold sighed in a long-suffering manner. ‘We are both irrelevant until we overthrow the Usurper. Then we shall ask our vassals to decide whom they want as king.’

‘A democracy to elect a king?’ asked Geoffrey, amused. ‘What an odd notion!’

‘Not at all,’ said Harold, smiling at him. ‘Once our subjects have made their choice, I shall revert to the autocracy that works so well.’

‘They will not choose you,’ said Magnus disdainfully. ‘You are too short.’

‘You mentioned a twin brother,’ said Juhel, as Harold looked hurt. ‘Is he to participate in this election, too? Or perhaps there are yet more siblings who would like a chance to win a crown?’

‘My two older brothers are dead, and the younger ones are happy in Norway,’ replied Magnus. ‘Ulf intends to put himself forward, but no one will choose him — he is violent and would be a tyrant. Indeed, I forbade him to come anywhere near my uprising — he will put people off.’

‘Not so,’ cried Harold, stung. ‘My brother is just misunderstood and has no patience with fools. He spent the best years of his life as the Bastard’s prisoner, so it is not surprising he is bitter.’

‘Whichever of you it is will have to dispatch England’s current king first,’ said Juhel. He was struggling to conceal his amusement at the notion that the likes of Harold and Magnus could best Henry.

‘We have a nation full of bold Saxon warriors,’ declared Magnus haughtily. ‘And when they see I have returned, they will rally to my call.’

Harold crunched loudly on a clove of garlic. Geoffrey wondered whether he had strayed into a community of madmen, because he had never heard a more ridiculous collection of claims and aspirations.

‘And when will this grand summoning take place?’ asked Juhel, smothering a smile.

‘In a while,’ said Harold, waving an airy hand. ‘Now Magnus is here we can get on with it. That is why I was waiting here for him, as we had agreed. We have signed a formal contract to be brothers-in-arms and to make no moves against each other until the Usurper is deposed.’

Juhel finally lost his self-control and roared with laughter, until Ulfrith pointed out that the sailors might hear. Geoffrey peered out of the door and detected angry voices in the distance. He frowned as something Harold had said jarred in his mind, and he turned to face him.

‘You said you were waiting here for Magnus, but Patrick was bound for Ribe. So how-’

Magnus was unrepentant. ‘I paid Fingar ten pounds to drop me off, but the storm blew up, and he said he would be unable to fulfil our arrangement. I was lucky we happened to founder here.’

‘I have been waiting here for the best part of a week,’ said Harold, looking at his surroundings in distaste. ‘A mud-hole is scarcely a suitable haunt for a future king!’

‘It was not chance that we sank here, was it?’ said Geoffrey, looking hard at Magnus. ‘That is why the sailors were inspecting the wreckage — they suspect foul play. It also explains why you were so keen to escape. It is not just the theft of their gold that drives them after us, but the sabotage of their ship.’

Magnus shrugged. ‘What choice did I have? England awaits, and I have a destiny to fulfil. Simon took an axe to some vital timber, so we would put ashore as near to Hastinges as possible.’

Geoffrey was disgusted. ‘Is that why you let him drown? You hoped his death would appease the crew, and they would not blame you for the disaster?’

‘It did not work,’ said Magnus ruefully. ‘But I am here now, and my work can begin.’

The storm that had been approaching all day hit with breathtaking ferocity. Even from their mud refuge, Geoffrey could hear the surf pounding the beach, while the wind that screamed across the marshes ripped branches from trees and uprooted bushes. Travel was impossible, so Roger, who hated long periods of enforced inactivity, probed the Saxons relentlessly about their plans. It was not long before the whole tale emerged.

Magnus had been a child and Harold unborn when their father had been defeated near Hastinges. There had followed a few sporadic rebellions, but the Normans were efficient and ruthless and soon stamped out revolts. The Bastard was succeeded by two of his sons — first William Rufus and then Henry. The latter had been obliged to quell an uprising by his barons, led by Belleme, but had put it down with comparative ease.

Harold’s offspring had watched from afar, and when Belleme was routed, they decided to act, on the grounds that Henry’s troops would be battle-weary and the royal coffers drained. Geoffrey thought they were wrong on both counts: Henry’s soldiers were professionals who did not tire of fighting, and Henry had seized the property of the exiled barons, so was actually rather well off. He had the resources to finance a war on a scale unimagined by the dreamers in the mud cave.

‘So,’ concluded Roger, ‘you agreed to meet in this hole a week ago. .’

‘I am a little late,’ acknowledged Magnus. ‘But how was I to know the journey from Ireland would take so long?’

‘And you bribed Fingar to drop you off,’ Roger continued, ‘because you decided it was better not to disembark at a proper port, lest King Henry got wind of it.’

Magnus nodded. ‘But I sense you are not fond of the Usurper, either; my instinct is never wrong about these things. Did you fight for Belleme last summer?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Roger, offended. ‘I would never demean myself by fighting for a tyrant — well, I might, if he paid well enough. Geoff and I were engaged on important business for the King, and Henry was so grateful that he offered us posts in his household.’

‘But you did not accept?’ asked Harold. ‘That was wise. The Usurper often forgets to pay and has a nasty habit of sending his retainers on very dangerous missions.’

Geoffrey gazed at him in surprise, wondering how an exile would know. Magnus saw the look and gave a self-satisfied smile.

‘We have our spies. You think we are unprepared, but we have been watching and waiting for more than thirty years.’

‘Do you prefer Tancred to Henry, Geoffrey?’ asked Juhel, sitting on the bed next to Bale and opening the chicken’s cage.

‘I prefer the Holy Land to England,’ he replied evasively. ‘It rains too much here.’

Juhel laughed. ‘So the weather determines your allegiances? Well, why not? It is as good a reason as any.’

The chicken emerged from its cage and fixed Magnus with sharp eyes. He edged away, sitting with his long legs folded in front of him and his bony arms ready to fend off an airborne attack.

‘Keep that thing away from me, Juhel,’ he ordered. ‘I do not like it.’

‘She is not overly enamoured of you, either,’ said Juhel, laughing again. ‘What strange company I find myself in today! Two princelings who intend to start a civil war, and two knights and their squires who prefer the Holy Land to the country where they were born.’

‘Not true,’ said Roger. ‘I do not care where I am, as long as I am well paid. And I am not going to the Holy Land. I shall head north as soon as I see him safely on a ship.’

‘You will serve us, then?’ asked Harold eagerly. ‘A knight would be a good start to our army.’

‘I might,’ replied Roger. ‘But I will wait and see what happens.’

Geoffrey was relieved, thinking that if Roger was their first recruit, then the rest of their force would take a long time to assemble — by which time Roger would have grown bored and deserted.

‘Come, my love,’ said Juhel, pursing his lips and blowing a smacking kiss at his hen. ‘Show these hot rebels and tepid loyalists your beautiful feathers.’

The chicken, having satisfied herself that the cave was safe, began to preen. Unable to resist the sight of a plump hen ready for the taking, Geoffrey’s dog wrenched itself from his grasp and hurtled towards her, leaving the horrified knight holding a few stray hairs. The chicken did not issue the terrified squawks that invariably preceded a kill, but fixed the dog with a pale eye. For a short moment, neither animal moved: they stood facing each other, slathering muzzle within inches of an avian dinner. Then the hen clucked. The dog released an abrupt yelp, turned tail and shot towards the door. When it found it could not squeeze through, it cowered behind Geoffrey. Proudly, Juhel stroked the hen’s soft brown feathers.

‘I do not think much of your hound,’ said Harold in disbelief. ‘Afraid of a chicken! If this is the quality of Norman courage, then our victory is going to come sooner that we anticipated!’

‘Like master, like dog,’ said Magnus contemptuously. ‘Thank God Roger has Saxon courage in his veins, or I might never reach the abbey! Perhaps Vitalis’s accusations were valid after all.’

‘Delilah is remarkable,’ said Juhel, ruffling her feathers with doting affection as Geoffrey stifled an irritable sigh at the reminder of the old man’s claims. ‘No mere dog will get the better of her. They try, of course, but she has no trouble in seeing them off.’

‘Delilah?’ asked Roger warily.

‘After the lady in the Bible who had the upper hand over manly suitors.’

Delilah flapped off his lap and began to strut around, pecking and scratching. When she approached the dog, she clucked challengingly, and it released a low whine. She fluffed herself up and moved away, and, had he believed in such things, Geoffrey would have sworn she was laughing.

Outside, the storm increased in intensity. The walls of the cave were thick and afforded good protection, but even they were beginning to be overwhelmed by the onslaught, and water was running freely down the walls.

‘This is no ordinary tempest,’ whispered Bale. ‘It is another omen. The moment we started talking about Sir Geoffrey travelling to the Holy Land, it became more violent.’

‘The day he told his wife of his plans, blood bubbled from a spring near the castle,’ Ulfrith told the Saxons. ‘And the night before we left, two moons were seen in the sky. Sir Roger said these were messages from God, advising us all to stay in England.’

‘And I am the son of a bishop,’ announced Roger. ‘So there is nothing you can tell me about such matters. And Bale is right: here is another warning. Since I have already decided to obey Him, this particular storm must be aimed at Geoff alone. He is the reason we are stuck here.’

While the others discussed omens, rebellion and the superiority of chickens, Geoffrey stared at the sodden marshes through the crack in the door. He touched the scratch on his cheek, which made his mind turn to Ulfrith. He had been astonished to learn that the lad had attacked Roger — and had lived to tell the tale. Ulfrith was normally gentle and amiable, and Geoffrey did not like the notion that Roger was corroding his decent nature. He supposed encouraging Ulfrith’s dormant temper might serve him well in battle, but, equally, blind rage might drive him into situations where he could be killed — as he might have been earlier that day, had Geoffrey been less tolerant.

And why had they fought? Because Ulfrith did not like the evidence that suggested Philippa had killed her husband. Geoffrey supposed Edith might be the murderer, acting without Philippa’s knowledge, but that did not fit well with Philippa claiming she had been with their husband when he had died and that his lungs had been full of water. Even if Edith had been responsible for the throttling, Philippa’s lie meant she was complicit in the crime. Or had the women found Vitalis already strangled, then fabricated the ‘death scene’ to arouse sympathy, so they could claim protection? But if that were the case, then who had throttled the old man?

Magnus? He was so determined to succeed in his ridiculous rebellion that he had allowed his servant to drown. That was murder in Geoffrey’s book. But had Magnus had the opportunity to dispatch Vitalis? Geoffrey had deduced that the murder had occurred on the beach, and he himself was Magnus’s alibi for that time. Or was his assumption wrong, given that he had based his conclusions on Philippa’s dubious testimony? But why would Magnus kill a half-senile old warrior? Because Vitalis had guessed his plans and threatened to expose him?

Or was Juhel the culprit? He had had plenty of opportunity, having been missing for several hours. Philippa claimed to have seen him murder Paisnel and had told her husband. Had Juhel strangled Vitalis to prevent him from blabbing? Did that mean Philippa was in danger, too? Geoffrey had not noticed any hostility towards the women the previous day, but Juhel was a complex man, and Geoffrey still did not have his measure.

Or had Vitalis been strangled by the pirates? Geoffrey had witnessed Fingar dispatching one of his own men, so they were certainly killers. Had they suspected early on that a passenger had damaged their ship, and taken instant revenge against Vitalis? Perhaps they had wanted to see what Vitalis had managed to bring ashore: he was a man of wealth, after all. A sailor seemed the most likely culprit.

And what about the odd business of Paisnel? If Philippa was a liar, should Geoffrey discount her tale about Juhel throwing him overboard? However, the details suggested there was some truth in her tale; her story explained the disappearance of Paisnel’s bag and accounted for Juhel’s inexplicable dampness afterwards.

Geoffrey found he could answer none of his questions with certainty, but he did not intend to remain with his suspects much longer anyway. He had decided to leave everyone, including Roger and the squires, before reaching the abbey, then travel alone to Dover. He did not want to accept a loan laden with inconvenient conditions, and Bale and Ulfrith were liabilities. He would do better with just his cowardly dog for company.

But he was no longer a bachelor with unlimited freedom. He was a married man with estates, and he was fond of his sister. He did not know his wife well enough for love, but he liked her. So where did his duty lie? Should he return to them and accept the yoke of lord of the manor? Should he leave England, so there could be no question of his having associated with Saxon rebels? Or should he ride to King Henry and warn him that there were men who intended to have his crown? But he looked at Magnus’s thin, eager face and Harold’s fat, smiling one, and he knew he could not sentence these inept dreamers to death. To take his mind off his questions and quandaries, he turned his attention to the discussion among his companions.

‘I saw Simon in the lower hold,’ Roger was saying to Magnus. ‘But when I asked why he was holding an axe, he said Fingar had ordered him to adjust the cargo, to reset Patrick’s balance.’

Geoffrey was unimpressed that Roger had not questioned such an explanation: Fingar would never have entrusted such a task to passengers. He wished Roger had mentioned it sooner, because he would never have contemplated reasoning with the pirates if he had understood the magnitude of his companions’ crimes against them.

Outside, the storm abated suddenly. The rain stopped, and the wind dropped with peculiar abruptness. Geoffrey glanced out of the door again, wondering whether it was his imagination or if he had heard voices carried on the remaining breeze.

‘I thought you had brought the Usurper’s men with you when you burst in with Norman knights at your heels,’ Harold was saying to Magnus, as Geoffrey turned his attention to the cave again. ‘I hid, quaking like a leaf. It might have been amusing, had you not given me such an awful fright!’

‘I hid here when I was a child,’ said Magnus. ‘After the battle, when the Bastard was looking for Saxons to slaughter. It seems an appropriate place from which to launch our glorious-’

Voices outside silenced him abruptly, and Geoffrey shot to his feet. Fingar sounded as though he might be standing on their roof as he hailed his men. They had taken advantage of the lull in the weather to resume their search.

‘He is calling his men over here, because this is the last place he saw footprints,’ said Magnus, cocking his head. ‘I know a little Irish, you see — I learned it when I was exiled there.’

At that moment, Delilah laid an egg, and her delighted clucks were answered by a peevish yap from the dog. No one needed to know Irish to understand Fingar’s next statement.

‘Hah! Now we have them!’

Silently, Geoffrey drew his sword and waited, Roger next to him similarly alert. Through the crack in the door they could see the sailors milling outside, and Geoffrey reviewed their options. He and Roger could not fight inside the shelter: there was no room to wield their weapons. But almost all Fingar’s men had gathered, and he and Roger were unlikely to defeat them all, even with Bale and Ulfrith. He dismissed the Saxons and Juhel as of no consequence — Magnus, for one, had always borrowed Simon’s knife when he had needed to cut his meat, and was never armed.

The pirates were arguing. Fingar was convinced their quarry was nearby — he tapped his nose to indicate he could smell something, and Geoffrey wondered if it was garlic — but his crew were pointing deeper into the marshes. Fingar was angry, his face a dangerous red. Kale, an unkempt, ugly man who had spent most of his time onboard trimming the sail, was the most vocal. The debate became heated, and although Geoffrey understood few of the words, the gist was clear.

Kale thrust a finger towards the sky, almost screaming in frustration: the sound the captain had heard was a bird, and they should not be wasting time in an area they had already searched. Most of the crew nodded agreement. Fingar roared something in return, perhaps that birds did not sound like dogs. Kale said something in a sneering voice that made the others snigger. Fingar moved quickly, and Kale was suddenly on his knees, gasping as blood gushed between his fingers. There was a deathly silence as he toppled forward.

Fingar’s eyebrows were raised in a question: did anyone else think he could not tell the difference between a bird and a dog? Then a flock of waterfowl flapped overheard, and one uttered a low honk — a sound that could easily have passed for a bark. There were a lot of carefully impassive faces as Fingar glared at his people. Clearly, no one wanted to say that Kale had told him so, and there was a sullen silence before Fingar gestured that Donan should lead them back the way they had come. Without a word, Donan obliged, Fingar and the others trailing.

When he was sure they had gone, Roger released a pent-up sigh. ‘Thank God for geese! I shall never eat one again.’

‘We cannot leave while they are rampaging around,’ said Geoffrey. ‘It is safer to wait here.’

He expected someone to disagree, but no one did. Magnus, Harold and Juhel clearly had no intention of challenging such ferocious adversaries, and Roger was too experienced a warrior to argue with sound military advice. They settled as comfortably as they could, Geoffrey keeping watch by the door.

It was not long before the wind began to pick up again. Then came the rain, brought by dark clouds that scudded in from the west. Lightning forked once or twice, and thunder rebounded across the marshes. Again, Geoffrey watched the grass outside go from a moderate sway to a violent flap, and then to lying flat against the ground.

‘What will you do next?’ Geoffrey asked after a while. He was bored, and even conversation with the Saxons was better than nothing, although common sense told him it might be wiser to remain in ignorance. ‘Now that you two are together and your plan is underway?’

‘As soon as it is safe to leave, you will escort us to the abbey,’ said Magnus.

‘I am travelling directly to Dover,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Nowhere near the abbey.’

‘It is only a few miles out of your way,’ said Magnus, wheedlingly. ‘And no ships can put to sea as long as the weather remains wild. You can stay in the abbey until the storms subside, and then your moral duty to me will have been fulfilled into the bargain.’

‘He has a point, Geoff,’ said Roger. ‘About the weather, I mean, not the moral duty. There is no point in travelling anywhere during storms. Besides, we should give thanks for our deliverance.’

It galled him, but Geoffrey knew they were right. All ships would be port-bound until the wind subsided, and he had no money for an inn. An abbey, however, would provide free food and shelter. And while he was at La Batailge, he could ask about the accusations Vitalis had made.

‘Your father fought at Hastinges,’ said Roger when he did not reply. ‘You should visit the abbey and pay the monks to say a mass for his soul — and for the souls of the men he killed.’

‘It might shorten his time in Purgatory,’ agreed Harold, taking another clove of garlic from his pouch and biting it in half. He offered the other to Geoffrey, who declined. ‘Of course, the slaughter of innocent Saxons was a dreadful thing, so I am fairly certain he will be condemned to Hell.’

He spoke without rancour, and Geoffrey had the feeling that he said such things because he was expected to, rather than from a deep conviction that they were right.

‘Tell me about the abbey,’ said Geoffrey, supposing that if there was no way to avoid the place, he might as well make the best of it. He was fascinated by architecture and reluctantly conceded that the excursion might be interesting.

‘It has a big church,’ said Harold with a shrug. ‘And it is full of Norman monks.’

Juhel laughed. ‘That description applies to virtually every religious foundation in England! How many monks are there?’

‘Forty, perhaps,’ said Harold vaguely. ‘Or fifty. Or sixty. But there are more than twice as many lay-brothers in the kitchens, stables, alehouse, bakery and gardens. And there are others still who tend the crops and the livestock. The abbey would be nothing without its Saxon helpers.’

‘Do you know if a monk called Wardard lives there?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘I am told he also fought at Hastinges.’

Harold nodded. ‘He is the fellow who looks after my father’s shrine — the abbey church’s high altar is on the spot where he died. Why do you ask?’

‘Do not pay any heed to what Vitalis said,’ advised Roger, who saw the direction in which the conversation was going. ‘You will probably have no truth from this Brother Wardard, just as you had none from Vitalis.’

‘Yes, but I may as well see Wardard and find out for certain,’ said Geoffrey.

‘Find out what?’ said Harold. ‘Perhaps I can help.’

‘I want to know about something that happened a long time ago,’ said Geoffrey, deliberately vague. ‘It concerns my father and his conduct at the battle at Hastinges.’

‘Vitalis cursed him for being lily-livered,’ elaborated Roger, ignoring Geoffrey’s wince. ‘He said it was Godric Mappestone’s cowardice that brought about the deaths of so many soldiers — that the fight would have ended hours sooner if Godric had done what he was ordered.’