‘I should speak to him,’ said Geoffrey. But he hung back, lest Philippa made another play for him, thus earning him the old monk’s disapproval, too. He wanted the truth about his father, not some tale coloured by what Wardard thought of his association with Philippa.
He waited, but Wardard went with Philippa when she left, apparently deciding she needed a chaperon. Geoffrey lingered by the high altar, in case he returned, but he was to be disappointed.
Eventually, a bell rang to announce breakfast. The monks filed into their refectory, the servants to a hall near the brewery, and the visitors collected bread, boiled eggs and salted fish from the kitchens – there was ale, but Geoffrey opted for Ulfrith’s water. He was surprised by the number of pilgrims, mostly Saxons, who were suddenly in evidence. Apparently unwilling to share the hospital with Norman knights, they had established a little tented camp near the gatehouse.
‘I am still surprised you recovered, Sir Geoffrey,’ said Aelfwig, when their paths crossed after the meal. He was with another monk – a tall man with a facial twitch. ‘Indeed, I told Roger to prepare for the worst one night and suggested he put a deposit down on a coffin – we only have one in stock at the moment, you see, and there is a sick villager who might have claimed it first.’
‘Oh,’ said Geoffrey, unsure of the appropriate response to such a remark.
‘You should be more careful in your predictions, Aelfwig,’ chided his companion. ‘You declared poor Abbot Henry cured from his fever last year, and he died within the hour.’ He turned to Geoffrey. ‘I am Ralph of Bec, the abbey’s sacristan.’
Aelfwig reached out and grabbed the charm Geoffrey wore around his neck before he could acknowledge the sacristan’s greeting.
‘What is this? A heathen artefact? You should denounce such things and put your faith in God.’
‘Just as long as he does not put his faith in you,’ murmured Ralph. He changed the subject before Aelfwig could defend himself. ‘I heard you were not very impressed by Galfridus’s collection of sculptures, Sir Geoffrey. You took a particular dislike to his amethyst horse, I am told.’
Geoffrey remembered nothing about a horse, although he vividly recollected the ivory carving on the windowsill. ‘The Lamb of God looks like a pig,’ he said.
The monks looked shocked, but before Geoffrey could say he was referring to the artwork, Ralph adopted an expression of concern.
‘Brother Wardard hopes to meet you today, but I hope you will not distress him with sacrilegious remarks. He is a good, honourable soul and will not appreciate heresy.’
‘Very well,’ said Geoffrey, suspecting there was no point in trying to rectify the misunderstanding. Thinking it might be a good time to look at the body of the man Bale had killed, he asked where the charnel house was.
‘Why?’ asked Aelfwig nervously. ‘Who told you that several of my other patients lie there?’
‘No one,’ said Geoffrey, supposing he had been right to refuse the herbalist’s raspberry tonic. ‘I want to look at the body of the man Bale killed, to see if I recognize him.’
‘He is to be buried this morning,’ said Ralph, ‘so you had better hurry. It is over there.’
He flapped vaguely with his hand, then both monks hurried away. Ralph’s directions had encompassed at least three buildings, and the first one Geoffrey tried was a small hut, apparently used as an annex dormitory when the hospital was full. It was dark inside, because the window shutters were closed, and he was surprised to see Juhel inspecting documents by candlelight. Juhel moved quickly when he saw Geoffrey, but not quickly enough to conceal what he had been doing.
‘I see you are better,’ said the parchmenter with an unreadable smile. ‘I am glad. None of us expected you to survive such a violent fever.’
‘I was saved by water, topaz, gold and the good auspices of King Harold,’ said Geoffrey, stepping inside the hut, trying to see what the man had been doing. ‘They counteracted the poison.’
Juhel regarded him uneasily. ‘Poison? Surely not!’
‘Magnus suffered, too, although the effects wore off him more quickly.’
‘I suspect you swallowed too many medicines in an effort to heal yourself. Some compounds react violently with each other, and you should have taken nothing else with my salve.’
‘That is what Bale told me. So did Breme.’ Fingar had, too, he thought. Or had he dreamed it?
‘I imagine you would have been well sooner if that herbalist had not dosed you with his remedies. I told Roger as much.’
‘What are those?’ asked Geoffrey, nodding at the documents Juhel had pushed under his blanket. ‘The parchments from Paisnel’s pack?’
Juhel regarded him with narrowed eyes. ‘How do you know what was in his bag? Did you rifle through it?’
‘No, but you did, after he died. You were seen.’
‘He was my friend. It was my duty to take charge of his belongings.’
‘But you hurled most of them into the sea. You were seen doing that, too.’
Juhel came to his feet fast, and Geoffrey saw there was a good deal of power in his squat limbs.
‘I have nothing to hide,’ said the parchmenter, smiling wryly when Geoffrey’s hand dropped to his dagger. ‘Come, see for yourself that you have no right to question my actions.’
Alert for hostile moves, Geoffrey pushed aside the blanket with his foot. The documents lay underneath. He hesitated, not wanting to bend and make himself vulnerable to attack. He indicated that Juhel was to pass them to him. Juhel gave one of his unreadable smiles and obliged wordlessly.
There were two bundles of documents. The first comprised the same gibberish Juhel had written for Edith. Geoffrey looked hard at the symbols in the light of the candle, but they were nonsense, although they would look like writing to an illiterate. They were tied with red ribbon, and the seals convinced him they were the ones he had seen Paisnel studying.
The second batch was slightly damp, with ink that had run. They were far too badly damaged by rain or seawater to be legible; it was impossible even to tell whether they had been real missives or the same meaningless scrawl of the others.
‘Can you read these?’ Geoffrey asked, indicating the second batch.
‘No,’ replied Juhel shortly. ‘They have been wet too many times. Still, if I dry them, I may be able to reuse the parchment. It is expensive, and I do not have money to waste.’
‘What about the dry ones? Can you read those?’
‘They are in the language of the Danes. Do you know it?’ Juhel looked superior when Geoffrey shook his head. ‘I thought not. The Danish alphabet is different from ours, like Arabic and Hebrew.’
Geoffrey was sceptical. He had never seen Danish written, but there was no reason to suppose it was different from Latin or French. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. These are runes, which are often used to convey Danish in official documents. Would you like me to translate them for you?’
‘Please.’
Juhel took a sheet and went to the door, where the light was better. He rested a grubby finger at the top right, then moved it left, as Geoffrey had learned to read Arabic. The knight was mystified; he had believed only the Semitic languages ran counter to Latin.
Juhel began to speak. ‘The Bishop of Ribe holds this manor. It was always in the hands of the monastery, and before there were fifty hides, and then it answered for thirty-eight hides; now for twenty-eight. Land for thirty-three ploughs. In lordship, five ploughs and fifty smallholders. There is meadow of fifteen acres, and woodland of forty. Would you like me to continue, Sir Geoffrey? There is a good deal more, and it gives a detailed account of the entire diocese, if you are interested.’
Geoffrey took the document from him, trying to see a pattern that would allow him to confirm the translation, but he could make neither head nor tail of it. Juhel retrieved it with a smirk.
‘Why do you have it?’ asked Geoffrey, still not sure Juhel was telling the truth about his literacy. For all he knew, t
he man was simply reciting something from memory and the so-called ‘runes’ were exactly what they appeared – gibberish.
‘That is none of your business. However, as I do not want you to start spreading tales about me, I shall answer. Paisnel was a clerk, and these are his documents. I took them from his pack after he died, so I can return them to the Bishop of Ribe. It is what he would have wished.’
‘Why did Paisnel have them in the first place? It strikes me that these are deeds that should be in Ribe, not being hauled all across Ireland and England.’
‘When he left Denmark after his last visit, Paisnel had a great chest of writs with him. But when he arrived in Ireland, he discovered these were included by mistake. He was returning them, in his capacity as the Bishop’s counsellor.’
Geoffrey frowned. ‘You told me earlier he was a clerk.’
Juhel licked his lips. ‘He was, but—’
‘If you lie, you must be blessed with a good memory,’ interrupted Geoffrey. ‘And you are not. Was Paisnel a clerk or a counsellor? Or would it be more accurate to call him a spy?’
‘You pay too much attention to those women,’ said Juhel, attempting nonchalance as he gathered up the parchments.
‘He was a spy,’ said Geoffrey, sensing his unease. ‘I imagine that is why you threw his pack overboard. You wanted to destroy any items that might incriminate him.’
Juhel’s face was white, and Geoffrey did not tell him he had been seen heaving Paisnel’s body into the sea as well, afraid it might incur a violent reaction – and he was not yet certain of his own strength. The Breton suddenly clapped both hands over his face and scrubbed hard.
‘All right,’ he said tiredly. ‘There is no point in denying it, when even those stupid women saw through Paisnel’s clumsy subterfuge. Yes, he was a spy, although not a very good one. I threw his pack in the sea, because I did not want to be accused of treason should his materials be found. I kept only these manorial rolls, which I know are innocent. Are you satisfied?’
‘Who was his master?’
‘Lord Bellême.’ Juhel gave a weak grin when he saw Geoffrey’s astonishment. ‘Even Philippa guessed that – but you thought the notion so outrageous that you did not believe her. Paisnel’s father holds his Norman estates from Bellême, who often calls for favours. This time, Paisnel was charged to look at England’s coastal defences, because Bellême is considering invading.’
‘Is he?’ Geoffrey supposed it might be true.
‘Yes, but Bellême should never have entrusted him with such a mission: Paisnel had no idea how to conduct a discreet survey and asked the most brazen of questions. We argued, because I was afraid his incompetence would see us both hanged.’
If that were true, then several things made sense: the whispered argument Geoffrey had witnessed on the ship; the other one observed by Philippa; Juhel’s easy familiarity with his friend’s possessions. But had their disagreement led Juhel to kill Paisnel because he was a liability?
‘Then what about this?’ he asked, producing the letter Juhel had written for Edith. ‘Is it more information about manorial rolls?’
Juhel took it from him, and his expression turned to alarm. ‘Where did you get this? It was supposed to have been sent to Edith’s family.’
‘She was sceptical about its contents and asked the monks to translate it for her. They told her it was nonsense. Now she is dead.’
Juhel was aghast at the implicit accusation. ‘Her death was nothing to do with—’
‘She was strangled with red ribbon. Just like Vitalis – he did not drown, as his wives claimed. And red ribbon fastens your documents.’
‘I have seen red ribbon on the parchments in your bags, too,’ Juhel shot back.
‘My cord is thicker and coarser. It was a finer braid that killed Vitalis and Edith.’
Juhel was appalled by the direction the discussion had taken. ‘You cannot accuse me of murder just because of ribbon! If you want to catch Edith’s killer, look to the men she encouraged with her fluttering eyelashes and then abandoned when someone better came along. Ask Roger about her.’
Geoffrey stared at him. ‘What are you saying?’
‘You know perfectly well: Edith enjoyed Roger’s company – until Lucian reappeared. If you want suspects for her murder, ask Roger what he was doing the night she died. He was certainly out and about, because I saw him.’
Of course, Roger had not harmed Edith, because he had been with Philippa. However, the big knight did solve problems with violence, and not everyone would believe his innocence. Moreover, Geoffrey did not trust Philippa to confirm his alibi. She was a woman out for her own ends and might well lie if she thought there was a chance she might benefit from it.
Juhel smirked victoriously when Geoffrey had no reply, ‘But I do not believe Roger is the culprit. I suspect Lucian, whom I also saw abroad that night. When I asked him the following day what he had been doing, he claimed he had been at a vigil all night. Do you believe such a tale from a man who did not utter a single prayer while we were on Patrick?’
Geoffrey admitted it sounded unlikely. ‘Read that to me,’ he said, indicating Edith’s letter. ‘What does it say?’
‘It relates a woeful tale to her father, all about high seas and unruly sailors. I will translate it if you like, but you will find it dull listening.’
‘But as it is written in runes, her father will not be able to decipher it.’
‘No,’ said Juhel with malicious satisfaction. ‘And it will serve her right. She said I would be paid to write it, but once it was done – and it took several hours, because I am not quick with my pen – Vitalis refused to pay. They cheated me, and I am glad I cheated them back.’
Geoffrey left the hut, not sure what to think. He still believed Danish was written in the same alphabet as other Western languages, but he had never seen it and could not be sure. Perhaps Juhel was telling the truth. But had Juhel killed Vitalis? Geoffrey realized that even if he had, it was not his concern. It was probably incautious queries that had seen him poisoned, and it was time to leave the matter to the appropriate authorities.
However, he had one last question. He retraced his steps, and his second unanticipated invasion showed him a heavy medallion under the blanket with the documents. Philippa had mentioned a necklace in Paisnel’s pack, and there was another memory of it, too. Geoffrey frowned, trying to pin down the elusive sense that he had seen it before. Then it came to him in a flash – Donan had found one in the hospital. Like Juhel’s, it was engraved with Celtic knots on one side and a lily on the other. Was it the same one? But if Donan had taken it, what was it doing with Juhel?
‘How did you come by that?’ he asked, forgetting his decision not to meddle.
Juhel shrugged. ‘It was Paisnel’s. I removed it from his pack when I took the documents. It is valuable, so I shall return it to his father.’
‘Have you ever been inside the hospital?’
‘Not after Roger accused me of poisoning you. That is why I came here, if you recall. I kept well away from you – but obviously not far enough, because you are still hurling accusations.’
‘I saw that pendant,’ mused Geoffrey, ‘in Donan’s hands.’
‘La Batailge may admit a lot of Saxon peasants to do homage at the battle shrine, but they will draw the line at pirates. I heard you claimed Fingar came when you were ill, but he would have been noticed – and ejected – I assure you.’
‘Has that locket been with you the whole time?’
‘No, I have not been as careful with it as I should have been. It was stolen, but then returned. I can only surmise that the culprit had second thoughts about stealing on hallowed ground.’
Roger would have had no such scruples – if he had taken the thing, he would still have it – although Bale and Ulfrith might have put it back when conscience began to prick.
‘I would be grateful if you would not mention it to anyone,’ Juhel continued. ‘I do not want other thieves setting greedy eyes
on it.’
Geoffrey nodded agreement, although he was not sure whether he believed Juhel’s fear of thieves. He recalled that Roger had mentioned a pendant in Magnus’s possession, but Magnus had denied owning any such thing. In all, anything to do with medallions was murky, as far as he was concerned, and he knew he would be wise to put the matter from his mind.
‘Why did you come back?’ asked Juhel, breaking into his thoughts. ‘What do you want now?’
‘I wondered whether you had seen my dog. He is missing.’
To Geoffrey’s profound embarrassment, Juhel started to cry. ‘So is Delilah. I have not seen her for several days and I think she is still grieving for Paisnel. Animals feel a death very keenly, you know. When did you last see . . . what is his name?’
‘He does not have one,’ said Geoffrey, who had once christened the beast Angel, then abandoned the appellation when he became acquainted with its true character.
Juhel was surprised. ‘Then how do you call him?’
‘By shouting “dog”.’
Juhel regarded him askance. ‘Does that not bring other mongrels?’
Geoffrey was beginning to feel foolish. He started to leave. ‘I am sorry to have bothered you.’
Juhel sniffed, and more tears rolled. ‘Call your dog, Sir Geoffrey. It is a terrible thing when a man loses a beloved companion. Call him, and see if it will bring him back.’
‘Dog!’ yelled Geoffrey, sorry for the man’s distress and willing to shout if it made him feel better. He knew the animal would have made itself known to him if it was close – to be fed – so he was startled to hear an answering bark.
‘Did you hear that?’ cried Juhel, happy for him.
‘He is in that building with the thick door,’ said Geoffrey, pointing to a hut with a stone roof and no windows. ‘He must have been locked in by accident.’
‘That is the charnel house,’ said Juhel. ‘Edith and the man who tried to stab you are inside.’
The Bloodstained Throne Page 20
