The Bloodstained Throne sgm-7

by Simon Beaufort

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Delilah?’ asked Roger warily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Hah! Now we have them!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Six

  ‘You should not heed Vitalis’s claims,’ said Roger, seeing the matter still bothered his friend. ‘He spoke to hurt you. As soon as he learned your name, he was
after blood. And because he knew he could never defeat you in a fair fight with swords, he resorted to striking at your dead father.’

  Geoffrey nodded. The old man’s eyes had gleamed with spite the moment he had learned that Geoffrey was Godric’s son. He looked out of the crack again, watching the wind whip some large pieces of vegetation past.

  ‘My father was many things, but I do not think he was a coward. He fought our Welsh neighbours for years, and I never saw him flinch.’

  ‘Well, there you are,’ said Roger. ‘I know you, and I know your sister. Neither is a coward, and I do not believe you sprang from the loins of one.’

  ‘Yet he always refused to visit the abbey raised to commemorate the battle’s dead,’ said Geoffrey, thinking back to his childhood. Hastinges had been a frequent topic of conversation — all of it tales that highlighted his father’s honour, courage and daring. If Godric were to be believed, the Conqueror would have been defeated if he had not been there. Yet Geoffrey’s mother, who had also played her part, had said very little.

  Geoffrey rubbed his head. Would the Conqueror have given Godric an estate if he had behaved dishonourably? Or had he not known, and the truth of Godric’s shabby conduct lay only with a few? Godric had been with the Norman army’s left flank, many of whom had been killed. Godric and Vitalis had agreed on that point: Godric had fought on the left.

  ‘Brother Wardard told me he became a monk to atone for the slaughter,’ said Harold helpfully. ‘He said the deaths of so many brave warriors weighed heavily on his conscience until he took the cowl. I expect your father felt the same, Sir Geoffrey.’

  ‘Not really,’ replied Geoffrey, recalling his father’s pride at the number of Saxons he had sent to their graves. The count of his victims had, of course, risen steadily through the years.

  Geoffrey had once sarcastically remarked to one of his brothers that the Conqueror had not needed an army at Hastinges, because Godric had managed the victory single-handed. When the comment had been repeated to Godric, Geoffrey had expected retribution to be immediate and severe, but Godric had only fixed his defiant son with an unreadable expression, then marched away. It had been the last time they had discussed the battle, however, because the following week Geoffrey had been sent to Normandy to begin his knightly training.