The Bloodstained Throne

Eight

Harold dropped to his knees in horror when he saw Ulf’s body, and it was some time before the round-faced pretender to the crown was able to speak. He staggered to his feet, and the others came to stand next to him in mute sympathy.

‘He is covered in blood,’ he said hoarsely. ‘How did it happen?’

‘His throat was cut,’ said Geoffrey. He did not look at Bale. ‘By a madman.’

‘Some of this blood is dry,’ said Juhel, kneeling to inspect the corpse’s clothes, ‘and some is wet. What can be deduced from that?’

‘He is a disinherited Saxon in a land inhabited by Normans,’ said Magnus harshly. ‘He was probably obliged to fight for his life at some point.’

Geoffrey looked to where Juhel pointed. Ulf must have been fighting over a prolonged period, if the stains were anything to go by. However, there were no splatters or sprays, which Geoffrey would have expected had he been involved in killing the villagers. So, if Ulf was innocent of the massacre, then it made sense to assume Fingar was responsible — Geoffrey had seen him kill two of his own men without hesitation, so villagers would present no problem. Magnus was right: the atrocity was the work of ruthless pirates furious at being deprived of their ship and gold.

‘I will ask my father to say a mass for his soul if you like,’ said Roger kindly to Harold. ‘From what I heard, Ulf will need it, and prayers from a bishop go a long way.’

‘Thank you,’ said Harold weakly. ‘We did not know each other well — fate meant we have been separated most of our lives — but he is still my brother, and I loved him.’

‘His death may be a blessing in disguise,’ said Magnus, rather baldly. ‘It means one fewer contender for the throne. And his rough temper and violent reputation might have put people off joining our rebellion. I told you to keep news of our plans away from him, and you ignored me.’

‘He has a right to be here,’ said Harold tiredly. ‘His claim is as valid as yours or mine.’

‘Shall we bury them?’ asked Bale, breaking into the discussion before Magnus could reply. ‘If we should treat corpses with respect, we had better not abandon a Saxon king to the carrion crows.’

Geoffrey saw his earnest expression and knew he was trying to make amends for what he had done.

‘Should I say a prayer?’ asked Lucian. ‘I am a monk, so I know how.’

‘Then you should not need to ask whether you should do it,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Of course you should pray. The church is a good place to start.’

‘No,’ said Lucian hastily. ‘I am not going in there. Not with all those. . No!’

Geoffrey frowned. There was no way to know exactly when the massacre had occurred, but Lucian had been alone in the woods all night. There was no blood on his habit, but that did not mean he was not involved in some way.

‘Have you been here before?’ he asked the monk, who was already kneeling.

Lucian opened one eye to look at him. ‘You know I have not: I already told you that I hail from Bath and that I have abbey business in Ribe. Why would I ever have been in Werlinges?’

Geoffrey did not know whether to believe him, but it was not the time for an interrogation.

‘Take Ulf’s body inside the church,’ he ordered Bale. ‘Then we shall seal the doors. De Laigle may have a better idea about what happened if we leave everything as we found it.’

‘Then why seal the doors?’ asked Roger. ‘He should see them as they are: smashed open.’

‘Because he may take some time to arrive, and we do not want dogs and foxes chewing the corpses. Hurry up, Bale! We should aim for the castle as soon as possible.’

‘The castle?’ echoed Magnus. ‘We are going to the abbey.’

‘We need to inform de Laigle about this — back the way we came.’ And then, Geoffrey thought, de Laigle could deal with the massacre and the rebellion at the same time.

‘We will take the horses,’ said Roger. ‘If we meet the pirates, we can ride straight through them.’

‘But those are mine!’ exclaimed Magnus indignantly. ‘If you take them, what will I ride?’

‘No one will take the horses,’ said Geoffrey firmly. ‘It is possible that the priest did not purchase them for you, and they belong to the village — or to the Crown now all Werlinges is dead. We do not want to be accused of theft, so we will leave them here.’

‘In that case, you would do better going to La Batailge,’ said Harold. ‘And ask Galfridus — the head monk — to send one of his fast messengers to de Laigle.’

‘Besides, the tide is coming in and you cannot navigate the marshes alone,’ added Magnus. ‘And I am not going with you. I am a king, and I have had enough of bogs for a while.’

‘They cannot both be king,’ muttered Roger under his breath. ‘One will be disappointed.’

‘Both will be disappointed,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘However, I am increasingly suspicious of Magnus. I do not like the fact that he says he hid behind the church while we did battle. Not only was it cowardly but it is not true. He was not hiding behind the place, but in it.’

‘Perhaps that is what made him sick — the sight of those poor devils. I cannot condemn him for that, Geoff. Even I find such sights unsettling. And I have seen them all before.’

‘His sickness came later, when the battle was over. But when he came out of the chapel, he had something in his hand. I saw him drop it in the well over there.’

‘A weapon?’ asked Roger.

‘No. It was a package — it looked like documents — and he threw it away when he thought we were all preoccupied. And then he was sick.’

‘Documents? You mean that list of names you saw — tallies of troops?’

‘I do not know. It could have been, although I was under the impression it was something he had taken from the church.’

Roger was thoughtful. ‘Does he pose a danger to us? Other than the mere fact of our association with him?’

‘No,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I think he will bide his time until he thinks he has a real chance at the throne. But then I think he will kill Harold.’

There was a bitter argument when Geoffrey ordered Magnus and Harold to unsaddle the horses. Having met the drunken de Laigle, he knew it would be unwise to remove anything from a village that might later be forfeit to the Crown, even though the Saxons assured him that the nags would be returned. He did not trust them to honour their promises, or de Laigle to appreciate the difference between borrowing and stealing. The reaction of decent men to the massacre would be horror, and he knew from experience that such emotions often led to accusing fingers being pointed at convenient scapegoats. And he had no intention of being hanged because the Saxons were too lazy to walk.

‘It is wrong to deprive me of my mount,’ muttered Magnus resentfully. ‘No one will think I had anything to do with this nasty business.’

‘I hope they do not accuse Ulf,’ said Harold unhappily. ‘He has a reputation for ferocity, but he would never become embroiled in something like this. We must make certain that the blame rests with the sailors. It was hardly Ulf’s fault that he happened to be here when they attacked.’

‘The evidence is ambiguous,’ said Juhel. ‘The stains on Ulf’s clothes suggest violence on previous occasions, but do not point to him killing the villagers. Of course, he definitely stabbed someone recently, because there was fresh blood on the tip of his sword.’

Geoffrey itched to be away from the village and shaded his eyes against the sun to see whether Ulfrith had finished stabling the horses.

‘You have been hurt,’ said Juhel, noticing the blood on Geoffrey’s side when the knight raised his arm. ‘And you are very white. You should rest or you may find yourself weak later. And I doubt we can carry you.’

‘That will not be necessary,’ said Geoffrey, suspecting the scene in the church was responsible for his pallor. The injury was more an annoyance than an impediment.

‘I will give you a paste to smear on it. It contains woundwort, which will close the cut up and bring about clean healing. I always carry some, because I never know when I might need it.’

‘If you were a soldier, I would agree,’ said Roger, as Juhel removed a pot from his sack. It was a curious thing, with a blue glaze on one side and red on the other. ‘But you are not, so you should not need a potion for wounds.’

‘It is not a potion, it is a salve, and I carry it for cases like this,’ replied Juhel, unruffled. ‘Loosen your mail, Sir Geoffrey. I will apply some.’

‘You would do better to take a dose of my cure-all,’ said Lucian, producing a phial from inside his habit. The pirates had evidently not deprived him of everything. ‘Bishop de Villula — a physician as well as a prelate — insists all his monks take some on long journeys. I never leave home without it — it heals pains in the gut, headaches, sniffling noses, aching bones and sore gums.’

‘It is useful, then,’ remarked Roger dryly.

‘Very,’ said Lucian, upending the container and swallowing some, before closing his eyes and exhaling slowly. ‘I think it may quell tremors after nasty shocks, too, because I feel better already.’

‘It cannot do any harm,’ said Roger to Geoffrey, ‘especially the cure-all, as Lucian has just drunk some himself. Or, if you prefer, I can bind you up.’

Geoffrey had experienced Roger’s bandages on previous occasions and knew they were cruelly tight and sometimes did more harm than good, so he opted for Lucian’s cure-all. The monk poured a small amount in a cup supplied by Harold, and recommended that it be swallowed in one. Geoffrey gasped at the burning sensation and thought he might be sick.

‘What is in it?’ he asked suspiciously. His voice was hoarse.

‘I have no idea,’ replied Lucian airily. ‘And I had the same reaction as you when I first tasted it, but you grow to like it in time.’

Magnus stepped forward. ‘I shall take some, too. I need a physic if I am to walk to the abbey like a peasant, because I have hurt my arm. However, I want more than you gave Geoffrey.’

‘It is a powerful brew,’ objected Lucian. ‘A sip will be more than enough.’

‘Rubbish,’ snapped Magnus, jostling Lucian’s elbow so more flowed into the beaker. ‘There is no point in taking dribbles. Do not be miserly with your monarch. Lord preserve us! It is firewater.’

‘I told you so,’ said Lucian, watching him gag. ‘It is a waste to take more than you need, and I do not have much left. Can you feel it warming your throat, Sir Geoffrey?’

‘I can feel it searing my stomach,’ said Geoffrey. ‘And the taste. .’

‘Drink this,’ said Ulfrith, offering Geoffrey his water flask. ‘I filled up it this morning.’

The water had a nasty, brackish flavour that made Geoffrey wonder whether it was as fresh as Ulfrith claimed. The squire snatched it away before he had taken more than a mouthful.

‘Leave some for me!’

‘I will have some, too,’ said Magnus, grabbing the flask and taking a tentative sip. He had learned his lesson with the cure-all and was not about to gulp a second time. He took another sip, and was about to go for a third when Ulfrith pulled it away with a scowl.

‘It is not wine, lad,’ said Roger admonishingly. ‘You did not pay for it, so there is no cause to be mean. Now let me smear some of Juhel’s grease on you, Geoff. It contains woundwort, and we both know that is a fine substance for cuts.’

‘We do not have time,’ said Geoffrey, strangely light-headed. It was not an unpleasant feeling — akin to how he felt after a sixth goblet of wine — and with it came a vague sense of well-being. What was an extra moment? Roger was right: woundwort encouraged rapid healing. He hauled up the tunic, and Juhel rubbed the paste into the cut.

‘Now me,’ said Magnus, raising his sleeve to reveal a gash. ‘I was wounded, too.’

‘How?’ asked Geoffrey. He tried to remember what he had seen: Magnus entering the church and emerging a short while later. Then there was a blank, when the Saxon could have been anywhere. Next, he had slunk to the well and dropped the package down it. And finally he had deposited his breakfast in someone’s cabbage patch.

‘A pirate came for me,’ replied Magnus. ‘I am lucky to be alive.’

‘How did you escape?’ asked Juhel, smearing the oil on the afflicted limb, then bending to wipe his hand on the grass. ‘You had no weapon.’

‘The villain ran away when I fixed him with an imperial glare,’ replied Magnus.

‘I do not believe you,’ said Roger. ‘Why-’

‘All right — he ran because all his friends were routed,’ snapped Magnus impatiently. ‘Can we leave now? I do not want to be here if the pirates come back.’

‘Good idea,’ said Juhel, heaving the hen coop on his shoulders. ‘I have had enough of bloodshed for one day.’

‘So have I,’ said Geoffrey fervently.

The day wore on as they followed a path that ran through woods, across streams, up and down hills and finally along a wide track that wound through some pretty valleys — Harold had lied: the abbey was considerably farther than the castle would have been. Eventually, Magnus claimed his wound was making him dizzy and demanded that they rest. Geoffrey refused, wanting to reach La Batailge as quickly as possible.

‘What you said earlier,’ said Roger, walking next to him. ‘You really think he will kill Harold?’

‘If the unthinkable happens and Henry is ousted, Magnus would be a fool to let other contenders live. Perhaps I spoke wildly, and he does not intend to kill Harold but to lock him away in some remote dungeon. Regardless, the fact is that Magnus will not be a strong ruler and any opposition will be dangerous.’

‘Do you believe he fought a pirate?’ asked Roger. ‘I do not. Ulfrith cornered one, and Bale lumbered after that boy for a long time, but the rest concentrated on us. Still, we know where we stand: not one of our fellow passengers came to our assistance.’

‘They would have been killed if they had,’ said Geoffrey. He paused to catch his breath at the top of a rise. The sun was baking him inside his armour, and the light-headedness from the cure-all persisted. ‘But speaking of Bale, I am worried about him. It is only a matter of time before he kills someone who is innocent.’

‘Like Ulf, you mean?’

‘No, not like him, because I am not sure he was innocent. Juhel was right: there was old blood on his clothes, and I wager anything you like it was not his own. He also tried to kill Magnus.’

‘Magnus?’ exclaimed Roger, glancing behind to see Geoffrey was not the only one finding the rapid walk difficult: the would-be king was wan and held his arm awkwardly. ‘How do you know? He did not mention it.’

‘No, which is suspicious. Ulf’s sword was stained with fresh blood — not much, as there would have been had he killed the villagers, but enough to have scratched Magnus’s arm. I suspect he saw an opportunity to rid himself of a rival, but did not reckon with Magnus’s speed — he can run very fast. But Ulf was unlucky, because he blundered into Bale.’

‘And that was the end of him,’ mused Roger. ‘Unwittingly, Bale saved Magnus’s life.’

Geoffrey nodded. ‘So why did Magnus not tell us what had happened? Does he suspect Harold of being complicit in the attack? Or is he just loath to discuss anything about Werlinges? Given that he was sneaking in and out of the church and dumping documents down wells, I suppose his desire for secrecy is understandable.’

They both considered the matter, although neither had a solution.

‘Who has the better claim to the throne?’ asked Roger eventually. ‘Magnus, who is Harold’s eldest son, or Harold, who is legitimate? Personally, I would say Magnus. Being a bastard is no bar to kingship — just ask the Conqueror! I am a bastard myself — my father, being a churchman, could scarcely marry my mother — and it has never held me back. Marriage is overrated.’

‘Is it?’ asked Geoffrey absently. They were climbing again, and he was becoming tired.

‘Take yours,’ Roger went on. ‘You only married Hilde because Goodrich needs an heir, but left to your own devices, you could have had a much prettier lass. Perhaps even one you like.’

‘I like Hilde,’ objected Geoffrey. ‘I do not love her, but I am told that is irrelevant. Besides, I was in love once, and that was more than enough.’

‘Was she a whore?’ Roger was often in love with prostitutes.

‘No. She was the loveliest maiden who ever lived, with hair like shimmering gold and eyes so blue they seemed to be part of Heaven.’ Geoffrey was not usually poetic, but that particular lady merited such praise.

‘I like a blonde wench, too,’ agreed Roger. ‘As long as she is buxom. There is no point to a woman who is all bones. Of course, Magnus will need to pick a good one, if he is to rule England. Incidentally, I hope King Henry does not order you to look into what happened at Werlinges. He does trust you with that sort of thing.’

‘By the time he hears about it, I will be back in Goodrich.’ Geoffrey stopped again to catch his breath, blinking to clear the darkness that encroached the edges of his vision.

‘We should let Magnus and Harold take the news of Werlinges to La Batailge,’ said Roger, watching him. ‘You do not look well, and this walking is making it worse. You should rest.’

‘No,’ said Geoffrey, forcing himself on. ‘We do not know what story they will tell, and I do not want to be accused of the crime. I do not trust Magnus.’

‘Then we should hurry,’ said Roger, grabbing his arm to help him along. ‘Besides, there is the abbey now. Can you see the towers?’

Geoffrey nodded and tried to ignore the burning pain in his ribs.

Work had begun at La Batailge within five years of the Norman victory. The Conqueror had wanted it built so the high altar of the church would be in the exact spot where Harold had fallen, but the Benedictines had thought this a bad idea and had selected a site farther west — one that was not plum in the middle of a bog and that had a convenient source of fresh water.

But they had reckoned without William’s iron will. He was livid when he heard his instructions had been ignored; he ordered them to tear down what they had finished and start afresh. Funds poured in from the royal treasury, although the place was still not complete fifteen years later.

The church was a handsome building, comprising a nave with seven bays and three chapels radiating off a short apsidal presbytery. There was also an imposing chapter house, and a wooden fence with a lean-to roof marked where the cloister would be. Nearby were large hall-houses with thatched roofs that served as dormitories and refectories. A sturdy palisade punctuated by a stone gatehouse in the north marked off a sizeable tract of land that comprised the actual battlefield.

‘Those mounds are the graves of the Normans who fell that day,’ Harold explained, pointing to weathered bumps in the heath. ‘Some are marked, as you can see, but most are becoming difficult to identify.’

‘What happened to the Saxon dead?’ asked Ulfrith, wide-eyed.

‘The Bastard did not deign to bury them,’ replied Magnus with considerable bitterness. ‘The local people had to see them laid to rest in ones and twos, wherever they happened to fall.’

‘Do you know the abbot, Harold?’ asked Geoffrey, not inclined to listen to more Saxon grievances. ‘We should speak to him as soon as possible.’

‘There is no abbot,’ replied Harold. ‘The Usurper is currently keeping the office vacant, so he can keep the tithes for himself. It has been empty since Abbot Henry died last year.’

‘Then is there a prior?’ Geoffrey asked. ‘A second-in-command?’

‘A simple monk runs the abbey now,’ replied Harold. ‘A Benedictine named Galfridus de St Carileff. He is a good man, though apt to be greedy.’

‘How do you know him?’ asked Geoffrey, following the path that led to the stalwart stone gatehouse. He was grateful for Roger’s arm, because his head was beginning to ache in time to the throb in his side. Magnus looked little better, and there was a sheen of sweat on his pallid face.

‘That is a good question,’ said Roger. ‘I thought you had been in exile for three decades.’

‘I have not been away all that time,’ replied Harold, smiling at the notion. ‘Ulf has been living in this area for the past sixteen years — ever since he was freed on the Bastard’s deathbed — and I occasionally come to visit him. Besides, I like it better here than in Ireland.’

‘I have not been permitted such liberties,’ said Magnus resentfully. ‘This is the first time I have set foot in England since my last invasion more than thirty years ago. Or was it forty? I feel befuddled in my wits.’

‘Skirmishes can do that to a man,’ said Roger. Geoffrey saw he was about to make a clumsy attempt to force Magnus to admit that he had been attacked by Ulf. ‘And so can being savaged by a maniac intent on murder.’

‘Then I am grateful it does not happen very often,’ Magnus replied fervently, rubbing his head. ‘Lord! There is such an agony in my pate!’

‘Of course, King Henry always seemed to know when I was coming,’ said Harold ruefully. ‘He even sent me a horse once, although it was a poor brute with weak knees. Still, I put on a decent display of gratitude. It does not do to offend a man like Henry.’

‘You will offend Henry if you take his throne,’ Geoffrey pointed out.

‘Yes,’ agreed Harold with a twinkling smile. ‘But by then it will not matter.’

The gatehouse was a two-storeyed building that housed a portcullis. Arrow slits pierced the walls, and there was a gallery along the top that could be used by lookouts and bowmen. It was more akin to the entrance to a fortress than a monastery: the Saxons had not been exaggerating when they said the Benedictines were unpopular in the region. Traders, pilgrims and visitors formed a queue outside it, waiting patiently to be allowed in.

‘This is impressive,’ said Lucian appreciatively. ‘My Order certainly knows how to build!’

Magnus raked a supercilious gaze across the queue and strutted to the front, shoving more than one person out of the way as he went. ‘I have come to see Gerald. Stand aside and let me pass, you miserable wren.’

The guard regarded him askance. ‘There is no Gerald here. And, even if there were, you would not be allowed in. We try to keep lunatics out.’

‘I am your king,’ declared Magnus. Geoffrey winced. He had supposed that Magnus would keep his identity quiet until he had gone some way towards arranging his revolt; he had not expected him to announce it to servants.

The guard peered at him. ‘You are not Henry. Nor are you the Duke of Normandy, who is the man I would like on the throne. England should never have gone to his younger brother.’

‘He is reckless,’ said Geoffrey to Roger. ‘I would not make wildly treasonous statements to men I do not know.’

He must have spoken louder than he intended, because the guard overheard. ‘Actually, I am being prudent. There is a rumour that the Duke is in St Valery at the moment, and you only go there if you intend to cross into England.’

‘The Duke means to invade?’ asked Geoffrey uneasily.

‘He might, although I have heard nothing about him raising an army,’ replied the guard. ‘Perhaps he will challenge Henry to mortal combat and save the expense. But you cannot come in anyway, whoever you are,’ he added to Magnus.

‘Galfridus will see me, though,’ said Harold, jostling Magnus aside. He returned the guard’s welcoming smile. ‘Good afternoon, Jostin. Open up, will you? We have come with terrible news that must be carried to Richer de Laigle as soon as possible.’

The guard continued to beam. ‘Lord Harold! I did not see you there. Galfridus will be pleased to see you, I am sure. He was saying only yesterday that it has been a great while since you were last here. If you wait a moment, I will summon a novice to take you to him.’ He jerked his head at Magnus and lowered his voice. ‘Is he to be admitted, too?’

‘Yes, please, Jostin,’ said Harold cheerfully. ‘He is my half-brother, believe it or not.’

While they waited for their escort, the guard and Harold began a merry conversation about the service community that was growing up outside the abbey walls. There were smiths to make the nails and braces needed for the buildings, and there were carpenters, masons and stone-cutters and their families. There were also brewers, potters, candle-makers and bakers. Harold seemed to know them all, indicating that he had passed more time in the region than he had led them to believe. Geoffrey wondered what else the smiling Saxon had lied about.

Meanwhile, the waiting people were resentful that Harold’s party was to be admitted before them. One threw a small stone that sailed past Magnus. Then a clod of mud struck Roger square in the middle of his forehead with a resounding smack.

‘No!’ cried Geoffrey, when Roger’s sword appeared in his hand and he took several strides towards the culprit, intending to dispense a lesson that was likely to be fatal. Geoffrey staggered when he was suddenly deprived of his support; he had not realized how heavily he had been leaning on his friend. ‘Wait!’

The guilty party did not seem at all intimidated by Roger, which meant he was either very brave or a fool. He stood a little straighter under his heavy pack and looked the knight square in the eye. He was a burly fellow with wavy dark hair and a thick beard that had traces of grey. His eyes were dark brown, almost black, and his nose was so round and red that it looked like a plum.

‘You do not frighten me,’ he declared. ‘Crusader knights do not strike down unarmed citizens, so do not bluster and breathe at me like an angry bull!’

Roger’s advance faltered and he regarded the man in surprise. ‘You are very sure of yourself.’

‘Roger,’ Geoffrey called, painfully aware that most Crusader knights — Roger among them — were more than happy to slaughter unarmed citizens and that the fellow’s confidence was sadly misplaced. ‘Leave him alone.’

‘I have you, sir,’ said Bale, grabbing Geoffrey’s arm when he began to list heavily to one side.

Geoffrey wondered what was wrong with him. The gash in his side was not serious, and he had suffered a good deal worse in the past without swooning like a virgin.

Harold was next to him. ‘Have some garlic,’ he suggested solicitously, pressing a ready-peeled clove into the knight’s hand. ‘It will set you up nicely.’

It was a measure of Geoffrey’s muddled wits that the thing was in his mouth before he realized what he was about to crush between his teeth. Repelled, he spat it out.

‘What is your name?’ Roger was asking the man as he sheathed his sword. ‘And how do you know about Jerosolimitani? You are right, of course: we are an honourable brotherhood.’

‘My name is Breme, and my father told me about the Crusade. He was a skilled archer and fought at the battle here — one of the men the Conqueror said was most invaluable to him.’

‘You are the son of a soldier?’ asked Roger. ‘Why did you not follow in his footsteps?’

Breme shrugged. ‘I prefer to be my own master. But that does not make me a lesser man than you, and you should wait your turn. We all have important business with the abbey.’

‘Not as important as mine,’ declared Roger. ‘I have come to tell Galfridus about a dreadful massacre. That is more urgent than selling baubles.’ He cast a disparaging glance at Breme’s pack.

‘Pens and ink,’ corrected Breme. ‘I sell writing materials, and my wares are vital to any man who produces deeds and letters. How can your news be more important than providing an abbey with the means to communicate with its King?’

Fortunately, the escort arrived at that point, and the guard ushered Roger’s party inside before an argument could break out. The knights, squires, two Saxons, Lucian and Juhel followed the guide to a hall that was filled with benches and tables. It was a pleasant room, and there were goblets and a jug of cool ale set on one table, along with a basket of honey-smeared bread. Gratefully, the travellers ate, drank and sat to rest sore feet. Geoffrey hoped Galfridus would not be long, eager that messengers be sent to de Laigle as soon as possible. His thoughts were interrupted by a high, girlish voice.

‘Brother Lucian! You are still alive! What a lovely surprise! It is me, Philippa.’

All Geoffrey wanted to do was deliver his news to Galfridus and lie down. He did not want to make polite conversation with Philippa and Edith, both of whom were sweeping through the hall, clearly intent on enjoying a warm welcome. He felt what little energy he had left drain away at the prospect of their silly, prattling company.

‘Lady Philippa!’ cried Ulfrith in delight. ‘How do you come to be here?’

‘More bloody Normans,’ muttered Magnus. ‘And women, no less, so they can breed others, until they swarm over the Earth like ravenous locals. . locusts. I am going to sit down. I have no inclination for the empty-headed clatter of benches.’

‘The clatter of benches?’ asked Juhel, bemused.

‘Wenches,’ snapped Magnus. ‘I said the chatter of wenches.’

Philippa ignored the churlish Saxon and fixed her happy grin on the others. Edith was dressed in a splendid cloak made from thick, red wool and adorned with elegant embroidery. By contrast, Philippa wore a simple black gown that looked as if it had been borrowed from a nun. Absently, Geoffrey wondered at the disparity in the standard of clothes they had been lent.

‘I came ashore a long way from anyone else,’ Lucian was explaining. ‘And was obliged to flee inland when the storm struck. I was lucky I chanced to meet these others, or I might still be wandering. It is a very dangerous part of the world, with violent weather, marauding pirates and unfriendly inhabitants. I lost all my gold.’

‘Did you?’ asked Edith sympathetically. ‘Even your cross?’

‘Everything,’ said Lucian, looking away, as though the loss was too much to bear. ‘I may be able to beg funds from La Batailge, but I doubt they will be enough to keep me in the style to which I am accustomed.’

Immediately, Edith removed a ring from her finger and pressed it into his hand. ‘Then you must take this. You can repay me when you are safely home.’

Lucian accepted it, and there were tears in his eyes when he spoke. ‘You are a dear, kind lady. I shall certainly repay you — and I shall say masses for your soul every Sunday for a month.’

‘I doubt that,’ murmured Roger to Geoffrey. ‘He would not know the words.’

‘You were very wrong to leave us with Richer de Laigle,’ said Philippa scoldingly, pouting at Geoffrey. ‘Our virtue was in grave peril, and we were in constant fear of seduction.’

‘It must have been dreadful,’ murmured Juhel. Geoffrey glanced at him and saw humour gleam in his dark eyes for the first time since Werlinges.

Edith regarded him coolly. ‘I hope you are not being satiric with us, Master Juhel. That would be shabby after all we have been through to defend our honour.’

Lucian pressed her hand to his lips. ‘God bless you, dear lady. Juhel meant no offence and, like all of us, has been out of sorts since we happened across that poor village. I was obliged to pray for them, and now there is a splinter in my knee.’

‘You are a monk,’ said Roger, fixing him with an unfriendly eye. ‘You should be used to kneeling and praying. What sort of abbey is Bath that you are not?’

‘A very fine one,’ said Lucian coolly. He turned his back on the knight. ‘But, sweet lady, how do you come to be here, when Sir Geoffrey says he left you at Pevenesel?’

‘De Laigle is a knave, and his wife is almost as bad,’ replied Edith. ‘Still, we managed to learn from a guard that Galfridus de St Carileff is in charge here. He is my cousin, so it was only right that I should appeal to him for sanctuary. He was delighted to receive me.’

‘He was,’ agreed Philippa. She turned to Geoffrey with a smile that made Ulfrith bristle. ‘I told you I would prefer a nobleman’s court to a convent, but I was wrong. De Laigle’s household was populated by idle lechers, all far too drunk to know what they were doing. If I am to be ravished, I would at least like my seducer to remember me in the morning.’

‘Philippa!’ exclaimed Edith. ‘You should not say such things! They may believe you.’

Philippa’s puzzled expression made it abundantly clear that she had been speaking in earnest.

‘I reburied Vitalis in a lovely deep grave,’ blurted Ulfrith, eager to join the discussion and be noticed. ‘I did it for you, although it was a terrible task.’

‘I was going to ask Galfridus to do that, since de Laigle was never sober enough,’ said Edith. ‘Now you have saved me — and him — the trouble. It was very kind of you, Ulfrith.’

Philippa’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Poor Vitalis. I miss him so very much.’

‘Yes,’ said Edith, holding her hand with affectionate sympathy. ‘I know you do.’

Her response suggested she did not, although Geoffrey could not begin to fathom why he felt the remark was important. The blackness was beginning to seep into his vision again, and he desperately wanted to rest. While Ulfrith beamed his delight at their gratitude, Geoffrey took the squire’s flask, hoping water might render him more alert, given that the abbey’s ale was a powerful brew. The contents were warm and brackish, but he felt better once he had swallowed it all.

‘We both loved him,’ said Edith, apparently realizing that she might have said something inappropriate. ‘We both made our vows to him in the sight of God, and we kept them well.’

‘You both married him at the same time?’ asked Juhel, smothering a startled grin.

‘I was a year later,’ said Philippa, sniffing. ‘But in the same church.’

‘This is distressing her,’ said Edith, watching her friend in concern. ‘We must not talk about it any longer. You are as bad as that spy Paisnel with your questions about our home life.’

‘Paisnel was not a spy,’ said Juhel. The amusement was gone. ‘He was a clerk for the Bishop of Ribe.’

‘Actually, I am not so sure about that,’ said Lucian. ‘I have spent a lot of time in that Bishop’s court and I never met or heard of Paisnel there. If he was a clerk, he was a very junior one.’

‘I knew he was exaggerating his importance!’ exclaimed Philippa. ‘Senior clerks’ names appear all over the place in legal writs, but Paisnel’s never did. And we know that because Vitalis’s personal clerk told us so, although the poor man was drowned when Patrick went down. .’

‘Paisnel was very familiar with Normandy, though,’ said Magnus, rubbing his head. ‘So I expect he was a spy for the Duke. He will have heard about me and will be eager to capitalize on my imminent victory over his brother the Usurper. But he can hope, because I am not rewarding any Normans — not ever.’

‘Except me,’ said Roger. ‘Bishop of Salisbury, remember?’

‘Only if you lend us some money,’ said Harold pleasantly. ‘But you may be right about Paisnel, Magnus. I heard there might be a spy on the ship you were going to take.’

Geoffrey did not know what to think about Paisnel. Had he been murdered because he was the Duke’s spy? And if Juhel had dispatched him, was it because of Paisnel’s dubious occupation or simply an argument between friends? But it was all too complex for him to untangle, and he was grateful it was none of his affair. His attention returned to the discussion.

‘But how do you come to be here before us, Lady Philippa?’ Ulfrith was asking.

Philippa gave a tight smile, evidently wishing someone more important than a squire would show concern for her welfare. ‘We left to take refuge with Galfridus the very day you abandoned us with de Laigle. We were surprised when we did not meet you on the highway; our guards said you must have taken the slower and more dangerous route across the marshes.’

Roger shot Magnus a withering look, but the latter merely shrugged. ‘We were obliged to go that way to collect the horses. Besides, the pirates might have been watching the other route.’

‘Captain Fingar and his crew?’ asked Edith. ‘We did not see them. But we were escorted by several of de Laigle’s knights, all on horseback, and probably represented too formidable a target.’

‘Were you much battered by the storm?’ asked Ulfrith solicitously. He tried to take Philippa’s hand but was immediately pushed away.

‘Terribly,’ she replied, addressing her comments to Geoffrey. This did not escape Ulfrith’s notice, and some of the joy faded from his face. ‘But we arrived before it became too violent, and we have been here since Wednesday.’

‘Is he?’ Geoffrey asked. He sensed that everyone was regarding him oddly, and he struggled to put his question in a form Philippa might understand, wishing his mind was sharper. ‘Is Galfridus Edith’s cousin?’

‘Yes, of course,’ replied Edith indignantly. ‘And learning of his new post was a great excuse to be away from de Laigle. So now here we all are.’

‘But what have you been doing?’ asked Philippa, reaching out to touch Geoffrey’s scratched face. He was aware of Ulfrith’s dismay at the gesture, but she had removed her hand before he thought to push it away. ‘Did you meet Fingar and his men?’

‘Yes,’ said Lucian. ‘They came at us with whirling swords and cudgels. I am no fighting man, so I dropped to my knees and prayed for deliverance. But even so, we were almost killed.’

Philippa released an appalled shriek, a sound that drew admonishing glares from several elderly monks.

Edith wrinkled her nose at them and turned back to Lucian. ‘We were very worried about you.’

Lucian gave a courtly bow. ‘Would you like to hear about my adventures? Then we shall sit over there, where we will not be the object of disapproval by my prudish brethren.’

‘How fickle she is,’ muttered Roger, as Lucian escorted Edith away. ‘She was grabbing at me like a tavern wench not three days ago and now she shifts her amorous attentions to him.’

‘You were the one doing the groping, not her,’ retorted Geoffrey. ‘Will you save me from Philippa, before Ulfrith attacks me again? I do not feel well, and if he tries it, I might not be able to resist the impulse to skewer him.’

Roger tapped the side of his nose. ‘Leave it to me, lad. I will put her off you once and for all.’

‘Be discreet,’ warned Geoffrey. He was seized with the notion that he should not have asked.

‘Here,’ said Roger loudly, ‘did you know that Geoffrey carries a pox caught from whores? His wife says he should abstain from other women until he is cured.’

For a moment, Geoffrey was not sure he had heard correctly, but then he started to laugh. ‘You are discretion personified,’ he said, though Roger clearly did not see the joke.

‘Well,’ drawled Juhel, wide-eyed, ‘I feel better for knowing that! But Galfridus does not need us all to tell him about Werlinges, so if you will excuse me, I shall go to the guesthouse.’

He bowed and sauntered away.

Philippa’s eyes narrowed as she watched Juhel leave the hall. ‘He is sly and wicked, and do not forget what I told you, Sir Geoffrey — he is a killer. Moreover, Edith asked him to write her father a letter on the ship, but when she asked one of La Batailge’s monks to read it back to her, it was nothing but meaningless symbols. Juhel had deceived her — charged her a penny for a document that was nothing but gibberish.’

‘Why did she hire Juhel to write it?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Why not Lucian? Or me?’

‘Lucian had no pen and parchment to hand and told Juhel to oblige instead — well, he is a man who makes his living from the stuff, after all.’

‘Do you still have it?’ asked Geoffrey, thinking about Paisnel’s documents. Did this mean he could not read them and had no idea what they contained? Or that he knew they were important, but was unable to decipher them?

‘Edith threw it away, but I retrieved it,’ said Philippa. ‘I am going to show it to her father when he arrives, so he can get the penny back.’

She pulled something from the front of her gown, leaning forward provocatively. By the time his bemused wits had registered that he should look away before Ulfrith noticed, it was too late.

‘I was looking at the letter,’ he said, before reminding himself that he did not need to justify his actions to a servant. He took another deep breath and wondered why his mind and body were so out of step with each other. Was his injury more serious than he thought? He clumsily took the document Philippa proffered, then turned it this way and that as he attempted to stop it swimming before his eyes.

‘Christ’s blood!’ he muttered to himself, rubbing his eyes hard.

‘It looks like a neat hand to me,’ said Roger, who would not know a good one from a bad.

‘It is neat,’ agreed Geoffrey. ‘But these are random symbols, not letters.’ He tried to pass it back, but Philippa moved forward at the same time, and his hand brushed the bare skin of her bosom.

‘Stop!’ cried Ulfrith, shocked and angry. ‘She is a lady, and this is a monastery! Besides, you have a pox. You should not touch her.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Geoffrey, quite sincere. He realized he was addressing Ulfrith, when he had meant to speak to Philippa. He rubbed his face again. ‘Lord! What is wrong with me?’

‘Well, the pox, presumably,’ said Harold helpfully. ‘It is said to make men rave.’

‘Keep the letter,’ said Philippa, pressing it into Geoffrey’s hand. ‘Perhaps you can demand an explanation and get our penny back.’

‘Is it true?’ asked Magnus. ‘Is there pox among English whores? I shall put an end to that when I am king.’

‘How?’ asked Roger keenly. ‘By monitoring brothels? I know a lot about such places and will act as official advisor, if you like.’

‘Lord, I am thirsty — it must be all that seawater I swallowed,’ said Magnus, drinking more ale. ‘But I shall appoint you Whoremaster, Sir Roger. It will suit you better than Bishop of Salisbury.’

‘No,’ said Geoffrey, not wanting Roger to accept posts from an enemy of the King when there were witnesses. ‘He will not take it.’

‘I might,’ said Roger. ‘Do not be too eager to refuse tempting offers on my behalf, lad. I may never get another like it.’

‘I am sure you will not,’ said Harold, laughing. ‘I doubt the Usurper has a Whoremaster in his retinue, and I do not think I shall, either.’

Geoffrey’s mind was reeling again. He thought he might feel better if he drank more water. ‘Did I finish yours, Ulfrith? My own has gone.’

‘Your own what?’ cried Ulfrith. ‘Whore? I assure you I do not have any.’ He shot Philippa a sanctimonious smile. ‘I do not use whores.’

‘Water,’ said Geoffrey impatiently, wondering whom the lad thought he was fooling. Ulfrith was as willing as the next man to avail himself of the services of ready women.

‘It is all gone,’ said Ulfrith, upending his flask. ‘You finished it all.’

‘You have a spare,’ said Roger. ‘Give it to him.’

With considerable reluctance, Ulfrith withdrew a skin from his bag. ‘It is all I have left, so you can only have a sip.’

But Geoffrey wanted more than a sip and was startled when Ulfrith tried to wrest it from him before he was ready.

‘There is water aplenty at La Batailge,’ said Philippa angrily. ‘You are a mean boy, to begrudge a thirsty man a drink when you can easily replenish your supplies. I am ashamed of you!’

Ulfrith’s face took on a rigid, sullen look. ‘Then let him have it all,’ he snapped. ‘See if I care.’

But Geoffrey was not interested in a quarrel and pushed the skin back at Ulfrith. It had done nothing to make him better, and he wondered if he was about to be laid low with a fever.

‘Brother Galfridus will see you now,’ said a monk, appearing just in time to prevent Roger from cuffing Ulfrith for his truculence. ‘He will see Harold first, and Lucian after.’

Although the abbot’s house was a temporary building, with wooden walls and a thatched roof, it was still grand, as befitted a man who ran a community of fifty monks and a hundred lay-brothers, and who was responsible not only for overseeing the building of a monastery but also for managing its vast estates.

It boasted three floors. The lowest comprised offices, the top was a bedchamber and private chapel, and the middle was a hall dominated by a massive table and a number of benches. There was a fireplace at one end, where a fierce fire threw out a stifling heat. The walls were decorated with religious murals, and the floor was made from polished wood. It smelled of wood smoke, lavender that hung in bunches from the rafters, and cats.

Galfridus was a stooped, anxious man of indeterminate ancestry. His hair was an odd silvery brown, his eyes a bland brown-grey. He had a thin, nervous face, and Geoffrey’s first impression was that he was operating at the limits of his abilities — that he had been promoted to a position that did not suit him and was only just managing to cope.

‘Good Lord!’ he exclaimed as Magnus led the others inside. It was some moments before Geoffrey became aware that Galfridus was not looking at the Saxon, but at him. ‘It is Herleve Mappestone’s son.’