The Bloodstained Throne

Nine

Geoffrey found the heat in the hall oppressive, and sweat began to course down his back. It made his senses reel even more, and he found it a struggle to stay upright. As Galfridus continued to stare, it occurred to him that there was no reason for the monk to have known his mother. Neither she nor Godric had set foot outside Herefordshire once they had received their estates, not even to inspect their lands in Normandy, nor had they made a habit of entertaining churchmen. He studied the man’s face, but there was nothing familiar about it.

‘Do I detect garlic?’ asked Galfridus when Geoffrey did not reply. His expression hardened. ‘I thought I told the cooks to go easy on that, and I can smell it from here. Will no one listen to me?’

‘I am Magnus. Your king,’ declared Magnus, somewhat out of the blue.

‘I know,’ said Galfridus dryly. ‘We have met on previous occasions, if you recall.’

‘Where?’ asked Geoffrey, his wits not so dimmed that they did not register that Magnus had claimed to have been absent for three decades. ‘Here?’

‘Here and in the castle at Arundel, when we were guests of Robert de Belleme. Surely you remember, Magnus?’

‘Of course,’ said Magnus. ‘I was telling you my name because you did not acknowledge me. You spoke to Geoffrey instead.’

‘That is because I am surprised to see him, whereas you are expected,’ said Galfridus.

Geoffrey struggled to make sense of the information. More than ever he became convinced that there was more to know about Magnus’s plans.

Galfridus addressed him again. ‘I could tell just by looking that you are Herleve’s kin. You have her face and strength of body, although not her fine black eyes. Which son are you? Walter, Stephen or Henry?’

‘They are all dead,’ replied Roger helpfully. ‘This is Geoffrey, Godric’s youngest son.’

‘Henry was the youngest,’ said Galfridus. ‘He was born here, just after the battle. I know, because I was present.’ Geoffrey had a lurid vision of the monk looming over his mother’s birthing stool and must have appeared shocked, because Galfridus hastily corrected himself. ‘I mean I was with Sir Godric, in the next room.’

‘Which battle?’ asked Geoffrey numbly. ‘The Fall of Jerusalem?’

‘The one that took place here, of course,’ hissed Roger. ‘What is the matter with you?’

‘I do not feel well,’ Geoffrey whispered back irritably. ‘I should never have taken Lucian’s cure-all. Is there a statue of a pig on the windowsill?’

‘A sheep,’ replied Roger. He beamed at Galfridus, who was regarding them uncertainly, bemused by their muttering. ‘Geoffrey was just admiring your carving.’

‘It is the Lamb of God,’ explained Galfridus. ‘It is from some benighted kingdom of ice, far to the north, and is made from the tusk of a sea elephant. Exquisite, is it not?’

‘It looks like a pig,’ said Geoffrey.

Galfridus regarded it with troubled eyes. ‘I suppose it does, now you mention it. But we were talking about your brother. Godric never knew, but young Henry’s appearance was early, because of the battle. I advised Herleve not to fight, but when I next saw her, she was clad in mail and wielding her axe. Henry was early by three or four weeks — a puny little runt. I did not think he would survive. Did he?’

‘Oh, yes,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘But he died.’

Galfridus blinked, and Geoffrey was vaguely aware of Roger supplying additional details. He went to look more closely at the Lamb of God and picked it up, but it was heavier than he had anticipated and began to slide from his fingers. He moved quickly, so that it landed on the sill rather than the floor, but it did so with a resounding thump. He grinned sheepishly.

‘It must have been the sight of so much blood,’ said Magnus. ‘If I had been pregnant at Hastinges, I would have dropped my brat too.’

Geoffrey stared at him. He knew his own wits were sadly awry, but he began to wonder whether the others were similarly affected.

‘Blood would never upset her,’ said Galfridus admiringly. ‘She fought like a demon. I was just a novice at the time, but the sight of that noble lady waving her axe at the Saxons was a sight to behold.’

‘There was blood at Werlinges,’ said Geoffrey, recalling that the purpose of the visit was to inform Galfridus about the massacre, so that word could be sent to de Laigle. He rubbed his head and wondered whether it was Lucian’s cure-all or Juhel’s paste that had adversely affected him. Did one of them contain poison? But why would either want him ill? Was it something to do with Paisnel being a spy? But Geoffrey’s reeling wits were wholly incapable of providing answers.

‘Werlinges?’ asked Galfridus. ‘No, that was one of few villages that escaped being laid to waste by the Normans after the battle — the one place in the region where there was no blood.’

Geoffrey felt the room begin to tip. His legs were heavy, as if he had walked halfway to Jerusalem, instead of a few miles. And then he knew nothing at all.

When his senses cleared, he was slumped in a chair closer to the fire than was comfortable, and there was a cup of wine in his hand. He had no recollection of how it came to be there, but, judging by the lounging attitudes of Roger and the Saxons, they had been settled at the hearth for some time. He wondered how long he had been insensible, and what Galfridus’s reaction had been when he had learned about the massacre. And how had he responded when told that two claimants to the throne intended to take refuge with him? Or was he expecting them? It would certainly explain why they had been so determined to reach La Batailge — they had been meeting a co-conspirator.

‘Drink some wine,’ advised Galfridus, regarding him sympathetically. ‘Or perhaps I should send for a dish of carp. I apologize: I did not appreciate what a shock it must be to learn that your mother had donned armour and taken part in the most violent battle this country has ever known.’

Galfridus’s sympathy was misplaced; Geoffrey had known for years that his mother had played a significant role in the fighting. She had been a fearsome woman, and he would not have been surprised to learn that she had led the first charge herself.

He felt better now he was sitting, but his senses were still oddly unsettled. When he glanced at the floor, it seemed to be undulating, and Galfridus’s face was unnaturally elongated. Then a platter was set on his knees.

‘Carp,’ said Galfridus, as Geoffrey gazed at it in incomprehension. ‘The king of fish. It is from my own ponds, and it will settle your stomach.’

Geoffrey had never liked fish, but the pungent smell that emanated from the silvery beast in his lap rendered it less appealing than most. In an attempt to be polite, and because he had not eaten properly in several days, he forced himself to swallow some, but stopped after a few mouthfuls, certain that the round, glazed eye that gazed so balefully at him had winked.

‘So, Godric sired more children,’ Galfridus was saying. ‘Henry was followed by a fourth son and another daughter. And you honoured your family’s name by freeing the Holy City from the infidel. Godric must have been very proud.’

‘He was,’ said Roger, wholly without foundation, since he had never met Godric or heard his views on the Crusade.

A tabby cat, attracted by the smell of fish, rubbed itself around Geoffrey’s legs. Trying to be discreet, he slipped a portion off the platter to the floor. The cat sniffed it and stalked away.

‘Where is my dog?’ he asked.

‘Next to you,’ said Roger, regarding him with considerable concern.

Geoffrey looked down and saw the animal lying across his feet, making short work of the fish. Its eyes were fixed on the retreating moggy, and he wondered why there had not been a fight.

‘Do not worry about your dog,’ said Galfridus, reading his thoughts. ‘My cat will not harm it here, although you should endeavour to keep them apart outside. Thomas is fierce, and I am told your hound is frightened of chickens.’

There was unease in the dog’s eyes, and Geoffrey wondered whether its defeat by Delilah had unnerved it to the point where it was afraid of any encounter. He sighed and gazed out of the window. As he did so, it occurred to him that the pig on the windowsill had grown larger and was blocking out the sun.

‘The Lamb of God has been carved with too much wool,’ he remarked.

It was Galfridus’s turn to look concerned. ‘You are not well, Sir Geoffrey, and should visit our infirmary. Brother Aelfwig has excellent leeches.’

‘I do not eat leeches,’ said Magnus. ‘And especially not on a Friday.’

‘It is Wednesday,’ said Roger, regarding him askance.

‘Well, I still will not eat them,’ declared Magnus. ‘Filthy, vile, wriggling creatures. I would sooner have an egg. Or perhaps a cat.’

‘Have you been here long, Father?’ asked Roger quickly, to bring the discussion within normal parameters again.

‘For about an hour,’ replied Galfridus. ‘Before that I was in the church.’

‘I mean at La Batailge,’ said Roger. ‘How long have you been abbot?’

‘I am not abbot,’ said Galfridus resentfully. ‘I should be, because I do an abbot’s work, but the King does not see fit to appoint me, probably because my mother was Saxon. But I am perfect for this post: the abbey was built to honour the dead of both nations and I have mixed parentage. However, he does not concur, and so I remain simple Galfridus.’

‘Is there a monk here called Brother Wardard?’ asked Geoffrey. He knew there was a pressing reason to speak to Wardard, but his mind was frustratingly blank as to why. ‘He threw a man from the back of a ship and watched him drown.’

‘No, that was someone else,’ said Roger. He made a pretence of removing the platter, muttering under his breath, so the others would not hear. ‘Say no more, Geoff. Lucian’s cure-all or Juhel’s paste has sent you out of your wits. Galfridus thinks you are a heretic, and Harold believes you are ranting because of the pox.’

Geoffrey struggled to understand. ‘I do not have the pox. Why did you tell him I did?’

‘Because you told me to be discreet,’ hissed Roger obscurely. He offered Geoffrey his goblet. ‘Drink some of this.’

Geoffrey complied, but when he looked at Roger again, he was almost indistinguishable from the Lamb of God, black wool framing his face. There was a painful buzzing in his ears. Moreover, the Lamb of God was growling, and he was certain it would attack him if he moved.

Geoffrey was not sure how long the Lamb of God snarled at him, but eventually he became aware that Galfridus was talking about Wardard. Roger’s bulk was protecting him from some of the heat from the fire, but he was still bathed in sweat, and the light-headedness persisted.

‘Wardard is one of us. He fought in the battle, along with his friend Vitalis, whom I understand you met. Vitalis lived in Normandy and was a vassal of Robert de Belleme, God help him.’

‘I was under the impression you liked Belleme,’ said Roger. ‘You were his guest in Arundel.’

‘That was before he was exiled,’ explained Galfridus. ‘And I only went because I wanted to see his carp ponds.’

‘He tried to seduce my sister once,’ said Geoffrey, thinking about an incident in Goodrich. Or was he confusing Belleme with someone else? For a short moment, he could not recall what Joan looked like, but then her determined chin and strong face slipped into his mind. Like their mother, she was a formidable woman.

‘Juhel is one of his spies,’ said Magnus resentfully. ‘He is here to gather information, so that Belleme can invade. I do not know whether to let him do it or not. You see, if Belleme attacks the Usurper, it will squander the Usurper’s resources. But Belleme might win, and I do not like the notion of him being king. He will be worse than the Usurper.’

‘Belleme offered to help me, should I ever mount an armed invasion,’ said Harold chattily. ‘But he would want too many estates and titles, and it would be difficult to rule a vassal like him. So I decided to reject his kind proposal — politely, of course. I would not want to annoy him.’

‘I am sorry to hear Vitalis is dead,’ said Galfridus to no one in particular. He turned to Geoffrey, clearly bracing himself for an answer he might not understand. ‘Why do you ask about Wardard? Did your father ask you to pass his respects to an old comrade before he died?’

‘Not exactly,’ said Harold, answering when Geoffrey did not. ‘He has questions of a personal nature that he would like to ask Wardard.’

In a sudden flash, Geoffrey remembered Vitalis’s accusations. He did not understand why he had been so unsettled by them — he had neither respected nor liked Godric, but, for all his faults, Godric had always been the first to ride at enemies near his estates. In fact, he had always been too eager to fight, and Geoffrey had often wished he would allow longer for negotiations.

‘Vitalis said Godric ran away from Hastinges and hid until it was over,’ said Roger. ‘And he told Geoff to ask Brother Wardard.’

Galfridus raised his eyebrows. ‘Godric a coward? I doubt it! Herleve was very fussy about her men. But ask him anyway — he likes to talk about the battle, even though he took holy orders to atone for the lives he took that day. As warriors, you two did the right thing by undertaking a Crusade — now all your sins have been expiated and your souls are spotless before God.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Roger proudly. ‘It is always good to have a spotless soul.’

‘I do not think it was an open-ended expiation, though,’ warned Galfridus. ‘You cannot continue killing now you are home.’

Roger shrugged. ‘I usually pay a monk to recite prayers on my behalf, so I shall have no problems come Judgement Day. The arrangement suits everyone, because I do not have time to say them myself, and monks are always pleased to have the money.’

‘Does King Henry know you welcome Saxon rebels in your abbey?’ asked Geoffrey. His wits seemed to be returning at last.

Galfridus seemed surprised by the question. ‘Of course. I often provide hospitality for members of King Harold’s family: Harold, Ulf, Magnus, Edith of the Swan Neck. Why should I not?’

‘We will speak to Wardard and then leave,’ said Geoffrey, trying to stand. He found his legs were unequal to the task and he sank back down.

‘You cannot travel so soon after learning the truth about your mother,’ said Galfridus kindly. ‘Stay a few days — we have a clean, comfortable hospital, and our food is plentiful and wholesome.’

‘No,’ said Geoffrey. ‘King Henry is likely to arrive soon, and I do not want to meet the sly-’

’Why would Henry come here?’ interrupted Galfridus, startled.

‘To deal with those claiming his throne, for a start,’ said Roger, nodding at Magnus and Harold. ‘He is not a man to let a challenge go unanswered.’

Galfridus gazed at Magnus. ‘You plan to tell him you are here? That is foolish! He does not mind Harold, but he does not like you at all. And although he turns a blind eye to the occasional visit, to flaunt yourself is asking for trouble.’

‘The time for skulking in Flanders is over,’ said Magnus grandly. ‘I have come to claim my rightful inheritance: the land of my Saxon fathers. And mothers.’

‘That is my purpose also,’ said Harold. ‘I am King Harold’s legitimate heir, and England belongs to me.’

Galfridus looked from one to the other in consternation. ‘Well, you cannot both be king.’

‘Our people will choose which of us they want,’ said Magnus. ‘But for now we stand united — Saxon right against Norman might.’

‘I see,’ said Galfridus warily. ‘What support do you have? Where is your army?’

‘We do not have one yet,’ admitted Harold. ‘But when they hear we are here, our people will rise up from their ploughs and spades and rally to our cause. By Christmas, there will not be a Norman left in England.’

A waddling infirmarian called Brother Aelfwig led Geoffrey and Roger to the House of Pilgrims, or hospital, which adjoined the abbey gate, while the Saxons were escorted to separate lodgings that overlooked the cloisters. The hospital was a stone building that formed part of the outer wall and comprised a single room with a high ceiling and a beaten earth floor. There were no windows in the wall that bordered the road, but there were enormous ones in the wall that faced the abbey, so that pilgrims could see the church.

It was devoid of guests when Aelfwig opened its door, although an empty cage at the foot of one bed indicated Juhel had already claimed a berth. There were eight beds, each furnished with a chest at its foot for guests’ belongings, and two neatly folded blankets. Geoffrey’s dog made a quick circuit, sniffing each cot before selecting the only one in the shade. Bale and Ulfrith, the latter dragged from the chamber where Philippa and Edith were still chatting to Lucian, did as they had been taught and assessed the place’s defensibility — the quality of the window-shutters and the strength of the bar that would seal the door at night.

Aelfwig was a rotund man with short legs and a kindly face. He recited the abbey’s rules for hospital guests — mostly that women were not allowed in — and then extended an invitation for them to attend any of the monks’ services, day or night.

‘The bell will be chiming for vespers soon.’ He peered at Geoffrey. ‘But you are not well. Perhaps you should come to my infirmary. It is a pleasant place, near the herb garden, and you hardly notice the smell of the sewers once you are used to them.’

Geoffrey’s previous experiences in such places had taught him that they were full of old men waiting to die. He shook his head, only to find that the movement made his senses swim again.

‘I would rather stay here,’ he said, beginning to remove his armour. He was not sure whether he was relieved to be rid of its weight or uneasy to be stripped of his protection.

Aelfwig sighed disapprovingly. ‘Very well, but I shall bring you one of my special tinctures made from herbs of Saturn. It will ease your head and promote healing sleep.’

‘Where is Brother Lucian?’ asked Roger when Aelfwig returned with a large pottery flask and a beaker. ‘I do not want to share a chamber with him.’

‘He is far too important to stay here,’ said Aelfwig, pouring a measure of his tincture into the cup. ‘He is a close friend of Bishop de Villula — his bursar, no less — and hails from a very wealthy family. He will reside with Galfridus, who will do all he can to create a good impression. It is always wise to flatter the associates of powerful bishops.’

Geoffrey was feeling a good deal better now he had divested himself of his mail and was cooling down, and he suspected the strange effects of whatever had been in Juhel’s balm or Lucian’s cure-all were wearing off at last.

Aelfwig handed him the goblet. ‘This is mostly a wine of raspberries, with a little woundwort, henbane and comfrey, all herbs of Saturn that have a soothing effect.’

‘Henbane?’ asked Geoffrey suspiciously. ‘That is poisonous.’

‘Not in small quantities.’ Aelfwig retrieved the cup and drank some himself. ‘See? It is perfectly harmless, although I may have trouble staying awake during vespers now. Do not be awkward — I am a highly respected medicus in these parts.’

‘Do not drink it all,’ advised Ulfrith worriedly when he saw Geoffrey prepare to drain the cup. ‘Not after Lucian’s cure-all and Juhel’s salve.’

‘You have taken other medicines?’ asked Aelfwig in alarm. ‘You should have said. What?’

‘Something in Lucian’s potion made him ill,’ said Ulfrith, predictable in his choice of culprit. He lowered his voice to add in a spiteful hiss, ‘Poison.’

‘What?’ cried Bale, outraged. ‘Lucian tried to kill you? I will slit his throat!’

Aelfwig jerked away in horror when he saw a dagger appear in Bale’s hand.

‘Put it away, Bale,’ said Geoffrey tiredly. ‘Lucian drank some himself and said it came from his Bishop. Magnus swallowed a hefty dose, too — more than I did — and he is well enough.’

‘I am not so sure about that,’ said Roger thoughtfully. ‘Both you and Magnus said some very odd things when we were with Galfridus. I think there was something bad in Lucian’s cure-all. Or in Juhel’s salve. Magnus did avail himself of both, like you. So, we have two suspects: the villainous monk and the secretive Juhel.’

Aelfwig inspected Geoffrey’s scratched side. ‘There is no sign of poison here, although the wound is inflamed, probably from chafing under your armour.’

‘Then it was the cure-all that harmed him?’ asked Ulfrith hopefully. ‘Lucian is the villain?’

‘If Lucian drank this potion himself, and it came from Bishop de Villula, I doubt it contained anything untoward,’ replied the herbalist. ‘And your master seems lucid enough now, so whatever it was has worked itself out. Still, this should warn you all not to accept medicines from people you do not know.’

Geoffrey sipped the tonic tentatively, recalling the unpleasant burning that had accompanied Lucian’s brew that morning. By contrast, Aelfwig’s concoction tasted sweet, like summer fruit.

‘Do not drink any more, sir,’ begged Ulfrith. ‘My grandmother was good with healing herbs and she once told me that good medicines can turn bad when mixed.’

‘She was very wise,’ said Aelfwig. ‘But I suppose I had better ask Juhel what his salve contains. Who knows what enthusiastic amateurs add to their poultices?’

Ulfrith smiled fondly. ‘She was a witch and knew all about herbs and plants.’

Geoffrey’s dog suddenly abandoned the bed and slunk to the far end of the hall, where it hid behind a chest. Geoffrey turned to see that Juhel had arrived, chicken under his arm.

‘Aha!’ said Aelfwig. ‘Pray, sir, what toxin did you employ on Sir Geoffrey and Magnus?’

‘Toxin?’ asked Juhel, startled.

‘There was something nasty in your balm,’ said Bale. His face took on a sly expression. ‘Would you care to take a walk with me? Outside the abbey’s grounds?’

Juhel raised his hands to indicate he was innocent, then rummaged in his pack to produce the curious half-red, half-blue pot. ‘There is nothing nasty in my salve, I assure you — I might be obliged to use it on myself one day! Besides, why would I harm Geoffrey or Magnus?’

Aelfwig took the proffered pot and sniffed it. ‘All I can smell is hog’s grease.’

‘To bind the wound,’ explained Juhel, taking it back. ‘It also contains woundwort and a few crushed daisy leaves. If Geoffrey has been poisoned, it is none of my doing.’

‘Well, he would say that,’ muttered Bale in Geoffrey’s ear. ‘Aelfwig might be the best herbalist in the world, but even he cannot detect odourless poisons.’

Geoffrey closed his eyes once Juhel had left. The parchmenter had requested to be housed elsewhere, claiming stiffly that he would be open to further accusations if he remained in the same chamber as his alleged victim, and, in the interests of harmony, Aelfwig agreed. In his agitation at being accused of such an unpleasant crime, Juhel had neglected to take his travelling bag with him, and Bale, from sheer spite, hid it inside a chest. Intrigued by visitors who had seen the Holy Land, Aelfwig lingered to chat.

‘Do many people come here for pilgrimages?’ Roger asked conversationally.

‘Hundreds. First, there were veterans of the battle, who came to pray for their comrades, but these have grown fewer with the passing years. Now it is mostly sons and daughters, who petition for their fathers’ souls.’

‘Saxons or Normans?’ asked Ulfrith.

‘Both,’ replied Aelfwig. ‘We do not care about ancestry here and will pray for anyone who lost his life. The short, fat man with the yellow hair who arrived with you is Saxon — a son of King Harold himself. His twin brother is a terribly violent man, although he has not been here for several years — not since the altar incident. But we all like Harold.’

‘The altar incident?’ probed Roger curiously.

‘The high altar stands on the exact spot where King Harold died,’ explained the monk. ‘But Ulf, wild with drink, claimed it was in the wrong place — although he could not have known, since he was not at the battle. Anyway, he tried to move it with an axe.’

‘He is dead,’ said Bale without a flicker of remorse.

‘Then I hope he found peace before he died,’ said Aelfwig sadly. ‘His father’s fate turned him bitter and cruel, and he was not popular among his fellow Saxons. I am Saxon myself, and-’

‘What about Magnus?’ interrupted Roger. ‘Do folk like him?’

‘Not really. He is arrogant and silly. The only man strong enough to lead a Saxon uprising was Ulf. We would sooner have Harold, but a king cannot afford to be nice. Just look at King Henry. No one could ever accuse him of being nice, yet how well he governs the country!’

‘Magnus comes here a lot?’ asked Ulfrith. ‘He told us he had not been for years.’

‘He often drops in on his travels,’ said Aelfwig. ‘He must have lost his way in the marshes and pretended he had not been here in order not to look foolish.’

Aelfwig left eventually, and Geoffrey heard a rasping sound that he knew was Roger rubbing his hand across his beard. ‘Damn!’ he said. ‘We forgot to mention the massacre at Werlinges, and that was the main reason for us coming.’

Geoffrey sat up, his head swimming. ‘You forgot?’

‘It was your fault,’ Roger flashed back. ‘You distracted me when you kept passing out. But do not worry — I will do it now.’

‘God’s teeth!’ muttered Geoffrey, unimpressed. He tried to stand, not sure Roger could be trusted, but his side gave such a monstrous twinge that he was forced to lie back down.

‘Do not fret,’ said Roger. ‘I will watch what I say. You think me a fool, but I can be as discreet as the next man.’

After the big knight had gone, Geoffrey watched Bale and Ulfrith sit together near the window and realized they had been left to keep guard. It was a kindly thought, but they were noisy. When Ulfrith began a long list of Philippa’s virtues, Geoffrey ordered them both outside and waited for Roger’s return.

Closing his eyes, he thought about the sickness that assailed him — a man who was rarely ill and possessed the capacity to carry on through all but the most serious wounds. He was certain some noxious substance had been fed to him. Was it deliberate? And if so, was he or Magnus the intended victim? He thought for a while and concluded it was not Magnus. The Saxon had demanded the medicines — no one had forced him to take them.

So, was it Juhel, playing some game Geoffrey did not understand that involved killing friends and dropping them overboard in order to claim their documents? Or was it Lucian, an unconvincing monk, who might be using a religious habit to disguise his real business? Geoffrey was not sure why either would consider him a threat. Was it because he was more able than the others and could read? Or was Magnus responsible, taking a dose of the medicines himself to allay suspicion? He had acted oddly at Werlinges, disappearing inside the church and dropping the package down the well. Was that why Ulf had tried to kill him?

It occurred to Geoffrey that documents were a peculiarly recurring theme. Juhel had taken some from Paisnel; Magnus had thrown some down a well; Juhel had ‘written’ a letter for Edith. Geoffrey pulled the thing from his tunic and looked at it again, but his vision was blurred, and he knew he would be sick if he continued. He put it away, wondering if it was significant.

The headache was beginning to return, so he lay flat and watched the ceiling billow and twist, the beams closing together, then drifting apart again. Eventually, he dozed, aware of buzzing voices around him, some familiar and some not. Then there was silence, and he slept more deeply. But it did not seem many moments before he was awake again, jolted into consciousness by some innate, soldierly sense that something was amiss. He became aware of someone looming over him and opened his eyes to stare into the cold, furious face of Fingar.

Geoffrey’s fingers closed around his dagger even as his feverish mind grappled with Fingar having gained access to the abbey. Fingar looked disreputable, and the knight had imagined a monastery would be more particular about whom it admitted. He brought the blade up quickly, so it jabbed into Fingar’s throat. He had not intended to stab him, but his movements were uncoordinated and his hand had not gone quite where he had intended. Fingar yelped and jerked away.

‘There is no need for that!’ The pirate’s expression was one of disgust, as he rubbed the nick. ‘I should have known no good would come from mercy.’

‘Mercy?’ asked Geoffrey uncertainly, feeling Fingar take the dagger from his hand and alarmed that he was unable to stop him.

‘You are sick — poisoned, I am told. So I decided, being in sacred confines, I would not kill you. But then I am stabbed for my pains.’

‘Sorry,’ said Geoffrey. He wondered why he had apologized; Fingar did not merit it.

‘Then you can make amends by telling me what you did with my gold.’

‘I do not have it.’

‘I know,’ said Fingar. ‘I have searched your belongings. But tell me what Roger did with it, and I shall leave you in peace.’

‘I have no idea,’ said Geoffrey tiredly.

Fingar snorted his disdain. ‘You will tell me eventually, so you may as well do it now and save yourself some discomfort.’

‘I really have no idea.’ The pain in Geoffrey’s side, which had been a niggle, now came in a great wave, and the pounding in his head was almost blinding. He had been wounded many times before, sometimes seriously, but could not remember ever feeling so wretched.

Fingar leaned closer. ‘Where is Sir Roger now?’

‘Gone to tell Galfridus about the villagers you murdered.’

‘That was not our doing.’ Fingar sounded offended. ‘We do not make war on paupers. You must look to the flaxen-haired fellow your squire killed for that.’

‘Ulf did not do it alone.’ Geoffrey heard his voice losing its strength. ‘He had help.’

‘Not from us,’ said Fingar firmly. ‘We do not become embroiled in politics.’

‘Politics?’

‘Squabbles for thrones — it is not for us. And it would not be for you, either, if you had any sense.’

‘Are you talking about Magnus and Harold?’

‘I do not know any Harold, but Magnus is a good example. I overheard him on my ship, talking to his servant. He thinks he is the king of England and is gathering an army.’

‘He has no army,’ said Geoffrey tiredly. ‘It is all dreams.’

‘Yes and no. He may not have organized troops, but there are men who will give their lives for his cause. That is what happened at Werlinges. His Saxon cronies.’

Geoffrey struggled to understand. ‘You saw Saxons kill those people?’

Fingar looked furtive. ‘Not exactly. But they were in Werlinges when we reached it. We could see from the villagers’ faces that they were not welcome, but we did not want a fight, so we left. When we returned, we found the people dead. It was horrible.’

‘I thought you would be used to it. You are a pirate.’

‘Yes, but we do not kill women and children. Donan watched you after you had routed him and he says you were none too impressed, either.’

‘He did not rout us,’ said a loud voice. ‘I told you: we were outnumbered, so we withdrew.’

Geoffrey tried to see who was speaking, but could not. The man was lying, but Geoffrey did not blame him for declining to tell Fingar that a dozen sailors had failed to defeat two knights.

‘. . even that was fake,’ someone was saying. ‘I thought it was real gold, but it was base metal, and the purse was all but empty.’

‘I was always wary of him,’ said Fingar. ‘Too pleased with himself by half.’

‘Juhel?’ asked Geoffrey. He realized he must have lost consciousness and missed part of the conversation, because it seemed to have moved on without him.

‘No, “Brother” Lucian, who wore a cross of fake gold,’ someone replied.

‘Enough chatter,’ snapped Fingar, glancing towards the door. He grabbed Geoffrey by the front of his shirt. ‘I will let you live if you help me find my money, although it goes against the grain. You are lucky: being poisoned and lying on holy ground makes you doubly eligible for mercy.’

‘Then leave me alone,’ said Geoffrey weakly, ‘because I cannot help you.’

‘Will not, more like,’ said the second speaker, and Geoffrey saw Donan’s pinched features become a large rat. ‘Make him tell us or I will kill him.’

‘You will not,’ said Fingar with considerable force. ‘Do you want more storms to batter us at sea because you sinned on holy ground? Do you want the saints hurling lightning at us, as they did after we let that man drown?’

‘What man?’ Geoffrey mumbled.

‘Donan saw Paisnel in the water, but kept on course.’ Fingar scowled. ‘It is wicked to leave a man to drown, and he should not have done it. When I have my gold, I will pay for masses for his soul, to set matters right.’

‘But the day after Paisnel’s disappearance, you said you last saw him playing dice with Juhel,’ said Geoffrey, fighting to keep his eyes open.

‘Like I said, we do not become involved in politics. I knew from the blood on the deck the next day that Paisnel had fought someone, but it was not our affair. However, leaving him to die at sea — that is something else altogether.’

‘Who threw him overboard?’ asked Geoffrey, wondering if they would confirm Philippa’s tale.

‘Donan did not see. I assumed it was Juhel, but Donan thinks it was Philippa.’

‘Of course it was her,’ argued the rat. ‘I saw her sneaking around. She had a knife, too.’

‘How could she have lifted a man over the rail?’ snapped Fingar. ‘She is not strong enough. It was Juhel, I tell you. I saw him rifling through Paisnel’s bag, too. He took what he wanted and tossed the rest overboard. Why would he have done that, unless he was the killer?’

‘He can write,’ acknowledged the rat, making it sound sinister. ‘But Philippa killed Paisnel.’

‘Regardless, we should not have let him drown,’ said Fingar.

‘The gold,’ said Donan, who had turned into a weasel. ‘We should think of the gold.’

‘Sir Roger has it,’ said Fingar. ‘So we must wait for his return. Move behind the door, and be ready when he comes in, but do not kill him until I say so.’

‘I will make him give it back,’ said Geoffrey desperately. ‘No killing.’

‘You will not succeed,’ said Fingar. ‘When a man steals a chest of gold, he does not give it up easily, and your friend is greedy. Besides, you are in no condition to force him.’

‘It was a few coins, not a chest.’ Geoffrey flinched as the ceiling began to collapse. ‘Look out!’

Fingar glanced upwards with a puzzled expression. ‘I would not go to all this trouble for a few coins. He took our entire fortune.’

‘I do not believe you.’ The ceiling was back in its rightful place.

‘Give him more of that medicine,’ recommended the weasel. ‘He is out of his wits.’

Fingar took a flask and poured something into a cup. He sniffed it and grimaced. ‘No wonder he is ailing! What he needs is clean water.’

There was gurgling as liquid was poured. Geoffrey turned away when Fingar brought the cup to his lips, but the man was too strong.

‘More,’ said Fingar, refilling it. ‘Water is good for fevers.’

‘Look at this,’ said the weasel, holding something in the air. It glittered, and Geoffrey saw it was a pendant, probably gold.

‘Is it Roger’s?’ asked Fingar. He poked Geoffrey to make him answer. The finger grew longer until it appeared to be touching a sheep that was standing at the far end of the room.

‘How did you do that?’ Geoffrey asked, awed. ‘Magic?’

‘He is rambling again,’ said the weasel in disgust. He shoved something in Geoffrey’s face. ‘What do these say? I found them with the pendant, and I know you can read.’

Geoffrey tried to push him away. ‘That sheep — it must be the Lamb of God.’

‘These are holy visions,’ said one of the sailors uneasily.

‘Where is my dog?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘I do not want it chasing the Lamb.’

‘We ate him,’ replied Fingar. ‘Roasted with mint. Hush! I hear footsteps.’

‘How did you find us?’ asked Geoffrey, desperately trying to speak loudly to warn Roger, but his voice was little more than a whisper.

‘A fisherman told us you were heading this way, and we just climbed over the wall. There is a gatehouse, but no guards anywhere else. It was easy!’

There was a creak outside. Geoffrey braced himself, then, as the door began to open, he summoned the last of his strength to yell. ‘It is a trap! Fingar is-’

A hand clamped over his mouth, and, struggling to breathe, Geoffrey’s world went black.

When he opened his eyes again, the chamber was dim, although there was a candle burning next to the bed. It cast an orange glow and there were monstrous shadows playing on the walls. Someone was still looming over him, and his fingers fumbled for his dagger, but it was not there.

‘What are you doing?’ came Roger’s peevish voice. ‘Hoping to stab me?’

‘Where is Fingar? He was here. .’

‘Who is Fingar?’ asked a voice Geoffrey did not recognize.

‘I do not know,’ replied Roger shiftily.

Geoffrey struggled to understand what had happened, but the pain in his side was draining his strength, and he lapsed into unconsciousness again. When he next awoke, there was daylight flooding through the windows. A dull clinking was coming from one side. He turned his head and caught the gleam of metal. Roger was counting his ill-gotten gains — and there was a lot more than the handful he had shown Geoffrey in the marshes. Fingar had been telling the truth.

‘Where is Fingar?’ he asked. ‘Did you kill him?’

Roger stuffed the gold out of sight. ‘You have been raving about Fingar for two days now,’ he said testily. ‘He is not here and never has been.’

‘He was,’ objected Geoffrey, trying to sit up. His senses reeled, so he lay back down. ‘He was going to ambush you for his gold.’

‘My gold,’ corrected Roger. ‘But he cannot have it, because I have given most of it to the abbey. There have been so many tales about your father — first a paragon of virtue, then a traitor; a bold knight, then a coward — that I asked the monks to pray for the truth.’

‘You spent your gold to help me?’ asked Geoffrey, touched.

‘Masses of it. Then Aelfwig said you would not last the night, so I was obliged to buy candles to place on King Harold’s altar, too. I asked him to put in a word for a fellow soldier.’

‘I doubt Harold would do much to save a Norman. He is probably still irked over the battle.’

‘You are wrong: you fell into a natural sleep shortly after Brother Wardard lit them. Then there was Breme. He was more help than that useless herbalist.’

‘Breme?’

‘Me,’ said the voice Geoffrey had heard earlier. It was the peddler with whom Roger had argued. ‘I know a thing or two about medicine. I made a charm, which is still around your neck.’

Geoffrey felt the cord that held a small bundle at his throat, then sat up slowly. No dizziness this time. ‘Thank you.’

‘It is a pleasure — especially as Sir Roger has been so generous.’ He saluted the big knight and left, closing the door behind him.

‘I have cost you a great deal of money,’ said Geoffrey ruefully. ‘How shall I ever repay it?’

Roger waved a dismissive hand. ‘You can name your firstborn after me. Roger Mappestone has a fine ring to it.’

‘Not if it is a girl. But the bells are ringing. Is it Sunday?’

Roger nodded. ‘And the monks have put so many flowers in the church that it smells like a brothel. Remember Abdul’s Pleasure Palace in Jerusalem? Those were the days! We knew our enemies then and did not have to look over our shoulders all the time. Not like now.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Bale, Ulfrith and I have been taking turns to watch you, but Bale fell asleep once and only woke when someone was standing over you with a knife. He reacted with commendable speed and had his blade in the fellow’s throat before he could act, but it was a close call.’

Geoffrey stared at him. ‘Someone tried to kill me? Who?’

‘No one knows. His corpse is in the charnel house.’

‘It must have been one of Fingar’s men,’ said Geoffrey. ‘He laid an ambush for you, and that is the last thing I remember.’

‘But you have not been left alone,’ said Roger. ‘You must have seen the fellow with the dagger and assumed it was Fingar in your delirium. It is not a pirate in the charnel house.’

Geoffrey rubbed his head, but the memories were too jumbled to make sense. ‘Donan took a gold medallion. Has anyone lost one?’

‘I thought Magnus had one on the ship, but he says I am mistaken. And I have no idea what Juhel has — that damned chicken warns him every time I go near his bag.’

‘What about Lucian? Was his pectoral cross real gold or imitation?’

‘It looked real to me. But you have been dreaming these conversations, Geoff lad. I can understand it: I dream about gold myself.’

Geoffrey remembered something else. ‘They ate my dog.’

Roger stared at him. ‘I have not seen it for a day or two, but it will show up when it is hungry.’

‘He does not wander away for days on end,’ said Geoffrey, worried. ‘I should find him.’

Roger shook his head. ‘Not today. Rest and we will talk again later.’ He pulled the blanket up to Geoffrey’s chin with a powerful yank.

‘But I need answers,’ said Geoffrey. ‘What happened about Werlinges?’

‘I told Galfridus the facts with no embellishment or supposition — you would have been proud. He said the conjunction of pirates and massacre was damning but not conclusive, and he sent for young de Laigle, who arrived the next day. De Laigle listened to our story, then rode off to Werlinges, taking Bale with him to act as a guide.’

‘What did he deduce?’

‘Nothing, because he did not even try to investigate. He ordered half his men to loot the houses and the rest to set the church alight, to burn the corpses. Bale was alarmed that the matter was not going to be properly explored, and he tried to look for clues before the flames took hold.’

Geoffrey was anxious. ‘He should not have done! De Laigle might have misunderstood what he was doing; he may blame us for the massacre, just to be credited with finding a solution.’

‘Bale was careful. But I understand de Laigle’s reluctance to take time over such a matter: ships seen at sea have the whole coast buzzing with rumours.’

‘An invasion by the Duke of Normandy?’

‘Possibly, although people are more afraid that it might be Belleme. De Laigle is terrified and refuses to be outside his stronghold now.’

‘Did Bale discover anything?’ Geoffrey was uneasy, not wishing to imagine what the ghoulish squire had done unsupervised.

‘He can tell you himself. But there is something else you should know.’ Roger hesitated before continuing. ‘Edith is dead. She was strangled with red ribbon.’