‘All Normans are murderers, Ulfrith,’ said the old man with grave authority. ‘And they are traitors, too – traitors to us Saxons. I was at Hastings thirty-five years ago, battling to keep King Harold on the throne, and I will fight those damned, usurping Normans until the day I die!’
Geoffrey rested his head on the pillar. While he knew many Saxons still resented King William’s conquest of England, open hostility towards the invaders was usually confined to sullen glances or occasional hurled clods of mud. Few risked physical encounters, and it was just plain bad luck that he had happened to encounter a couple of patriots while he was in the act of chasing down the man who had murdered Peterkin.
‘Actually, what I meant was I hope the man we helped to escape was not a murderer or a traitor,’ said Ulfrith. ‘This “poor peasant” of yours. I do not want to be accused of abetting a crime.’
The old man spat in disgust. ‘The only crime that has been committed here, is that a Norman was chasing a Saxon.’
‘How can you be sure he was Saxon, grandfather?’ asked Ulfrith doubtfully. ‘Or that the knight was Norman? It was impossible to tell in the dark.’
‘The knight was screeching obscenities in Norman-French – the Devil’s language – while his victim had the thick yellow hair that marked him as one of us.’ The old man’s voice was firm.
‘I did not see yellow hair,’ said Ulfrith dubiously.
Nor had Geoffrey. The bowman had worn a hood, but the greasy fringe that poked from beneath it was dark. He had also possessed coarse, rodent-like features that suggested he was probably Norman himself, or perhaps Celtic, but he was definitely not one of the flaxen-haired giants who claimed themselves the rightful inhabitants of England. And Geoffrey had certainly not been ‘screeching’ Norman-French – there had been no need for shouting, because he had intended to interrogate the man properly when he had caught him, probably in English, which Geoffrey spoke as well as French and several other languages.
‘The Norman’s victim was a Saxon lord,’ elaborated the old man with conviction. ‘Perhaps even the Aetheling himself – the true heir to England’s throne. And we saved him!’
‘No, grandfather,’ said Ulfrith firmly, doubtless sensing that someone needed to put a check on the rapidly escalating flights of fancy before they became too grotesque. ‘And I wish now we had minded our own business. I did not like the look of your “Saxon” victim, and he did not even have the courtesy to thank us when he made his escape. Now if there are questions asked about that knight’s disappearance, it is us who will be blamed, not the real culprit.’
The old man clicked his tongue at his grandson’s faint-heartedness. ‘There is not a man in the town who will not buy us a drink for ridding our country of a Norman. So, come on, lad. We will celebrate this Saxon victory with a flagon of ale!’
Their voices faded away and Geoffrey sighed in relief, knowing he would be able to climb out of the river without some patriotic veteran laying about him with his walking stick. But leaving the water was not so simple. He was too cold to scale the slippery weed-encrusted pillars any higher, and he could not relinquish his hold to move to a better place because he would sink.
He was considering some desperate options, such as removing his armour and attempting to swim, when he saw rough pegs protruding from the pillar to which he clutched. On closer inspection, he saw they formed a ladder. He grasped the lowest one, hoping it would bear his weight. Hauling himself up was not easy, and he was forced to stop several times and rest. But eventually he reached the top, and rolled on to the snow-dusted planking to lie gasping for breath.
Prompted by a chill wind, he looked around. Nearby was the hut in which, presumably, the patriots had been sitting when they had been roused by his pursuit of the Saxon nobleman. He walked towards it, and pushed open the door. The lamp had been left lit and there was a brazier that had been banked, but that still released a comforting warmth. Gratefully, he stumbled inside, fumbling with the buckles on his surcoat, which felt so heavy he wondered whether it might make him crash through the floor to the river below.
Once he had stoked up the fire and removed his sopping surcoat, he felt better. He jammed the door closed with a stool, and quickly divested himself of his armour and the soaking clothes underneath. While he knew he would not be able to dry them before the Saxons returned from their celebrations, he was able to wring them out, and even felt entitled to steal the rough, but dry, woollen jerkin that hung on the back of the door. On one lopsided shelf was a flask containing a clear liquid, which burned its way down his throat when he swallowed it. He shuddered, supposing it was some powerful local concoction that not only served to intoxicate whoever was rash enough to drink it, but that was also good for lighting fires and clearing blocked drains.
By the time he had re-donned his armour, the act of dressing and a lot of vigorous wringing had restored some warmth to his body, and he began to feel human again. He took another gulp of the potent Saxon wine, flung his surcoat over his shoulder, and began to retrace his footsteps through the snow to the tavern.
The first thing Geoffrey saw when he entered the Saracen’s Head was that a number of the tavern’s customers had congregated around the hearth. At their centre was a man so old he was bent almost double and a fair-headed giant who was probably his grandson. It did not take a genius to discern that here were Geoffrey’s would-be killers, recounting their great victory over the evil Norman empire with a cup of the inn’s best ale. Their story, however, was clearly being treated with some scepticism by the audience, some of whom were already drifting away, shaking their heads in amused disbelief.
‘But it is true!’ cried the old man angrily. ‘Every word is God’s truth. Is that not right, Ulfrith?’
The younger man nodded, although he did not do so with much conviction. Geoffrey watched from the doorway, tempted to stride over and teach them a lesson for their audacity. It would be an uneven contest, and then it would be Normans who would celebrate a victory over Saxons. But Geoffrey was not the kind of man to pick fights with old men and boys, even ones who had done their best to drown him, and he decided there was greater satisfaction to be had in watching the pair dismissed as flagrant liars by their friends.
‘You have been at that bunion lotion again,’ scoffed a man with bad skin. ‘You are drunk!’
So that was what it was, thought Geoffrey uneasily. Still, it had banished the cold readily enough.
‘I have not touched a drop of that since Christmas,’ protested the old man indignantly. ‘You go and look at the flask in my hut. You will find it full to the brim.’
‘Right, I will, then,’ said the man, winking at his friends as he left.
Geoffrey grinned and wished he had drunk more.
‘I tell you, we drowned a Norman by our jetty,’ the old man persisted in a voice that had changed from boastful to wheedling. ‘He was chasing a Saxon prince. Tell them, Ulfrith.’
‘Yes,’ said Ulfrith uncertainly. He blushed to the roots of his yellow hair and refused to look anyone in the eye. Geoffrey could not remember when he had seen a less convincing liar. The lad’s fellow drinkers apparently concurred, because more of the audience wandered away.
Some people were not amused, however, and Geoffrey saw Roger listening to the discussion with a troubled expression. Helbye already wore his cloak and helmet, and so did the men, and Geoffrey suspected they were waiting only for Roger to give the word before they went to search for him.
Roger gave a beam of delight when he saw Geoffrey, while Helbye nodded in relief and unfastened the clasp on his cloak. The men also began to relax, while even Geoffrey’s dog seemed pleased to see him, something that rarely happened unless there was food involved.
Roger nodded towards the old man and his grandson. ‘That pair claim to have drowned a Norman, and Helbye thought their victim might have been you.’ He roared with laughter at the improbable notion that a boy and his aged grandfather would be able to best Geoffrey.
/> Helbye did not join in the hilarity. He had seen the trail of drips from Geoffrey’s surcoat and noticed his wet hair. ‘What happened?’ he asked quietly. ‘Where is Peterkin? Those two did not harm him, did they?’
‘They would not dare attack any of us,’ said the older Littel brother confidently.
‘Where is my brother?’ asked Joab tremulously. He looked even more peculiar than usual that evening, and his wild eyes bulged with anxiety.
‘Someone shot him,’ said Geoffrey bluntly. He saw Joab’s jaw drop in shock. ‘I am sorry. There was nothing anyone could do to save him. He was dead when I arrived.’
Joab shook his head. ‘No, he is not dead. You are mistaken. No one would kill Peterkin.’
‘He is in the stable,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Tomorrow, we will …’
Before he could finish, Joab had darted from the room. Geoffrey instructed Helbye to follow him, then see that the sheriff was informed of the murder and the body carried to the nearest church. Wary of being out in a dark town with a killer at large, Helbye took the other men with him.
‘What is going on?’ demanded Roger when they had gone. ‘Peterkin is too stupid to die!’
‘I was wrong to bring him here,’ said Geoffrey bitterly. ‘Tomorrow, after he is buried, I am sending Joab home. Perhaps the others should go with him. None will ever make decent soldiers.’
‘Never mind that,’ said Roger impatiently. ‘What happened? You did not shoot Peterkin, did you, so his feeble wits will not delay us on our journey?’
Geoffrey was too drained to feel indignation that Roger should consider him the kind of man to murder one of his own soldiers for personal convenience. ‘He was shot with a red-stained crossbow bolt, just like the one that killed the youngster on the roof this afternoon.’
Roger gazed at him. ‘What are you saying? That the same scoundrel who murdered the boy also murdered Peterkin?’ For the first time, he noticed Geoffrey was wet. His astonishment quickly turned to anger, and he whipped his dagger from its sheath, the expression in his eyes murderous. ‘I will kill that pair of Saxon villains for this!’
‘You will not,’ said Geoffrey, pulling him down as he started to stand. ‘Their friends will not stand by while you slay them in cold blood, and even you cannot take on a hundred men armed with blades, staves, and God knows what else.’
‘I can,’ declared Roger in furious determination, starting to stand again. ‘You just watch me. And anyway, if I am hard pressed, you will come to my aid, just as you have done in the past.’
‘I cannot,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I am too cold to be of any use to you. And you have eaten all the food, it seems. Did you save me none?’
‘We were hungry,’ said Roger, reluctantly abandoning the attractive proposition of racing across the tavern and killing the insolent duo who had dared to attack his companion. He reached out and felt Geoffrey’s sleeve. ‘You will catch your death sitting around in here, lad. You should change. Landlord! Where is our chamber?’
Wearily, Geoffrey followed Roger to where the taverner waited to conduct them to the room they were to sleep in, although Geoffrey hoped Roger did not plan to do so in the company of half a dozen women to celebrate his departure from English soil. He was too tired for high-spirited jinxes that night, and wanted only to lie down and cover himself with as many blankets as he could find.
Two men sat on the stairs, nursing their ale disconsolately. They were the Saxon and his grandson. The old man gazed defiantly at Roger and remained seated, although his grandson quickly jumped to his feet so the knights could pass. Geoffrey gazed at him coldly.
‘I hear you murdered a Norman tonight,’ he said.
Ulfrith’s jaw dropped in astonishment. ‘How did you know that?’ he whispered, aghast.
‘You were bawling it to the whole tavern,’ said Geoffrey dryly, seeing that intelligence was not one of the Saxon’s more noteworthy characteristics. ‘Why? Was it meant to be a secret?’
‘I would kill another, if I could,’ said the old man, fixing Geoffrey with a malevolent glower. ‘I would run every Norman through with my broadsword – if I could still lift one.’
‘Grandfather, please,’ said Ulfrith nervously. He smiled uneasily at Geoffrey. ‘He means no harm, my lord. He is almost ninety years old.’
‘Is being ninety an excuse for rudeness, then?’ asked Geoffrey, raising his eyebrows.
The young Saxon nodded earnestly. ‘Yes, of course! Do you know any ninety-year-olds who are not rude to everyone they meet?’
Geoffrey smiled. His easy nature meant it was difficult for him to remain angry for long, and he was amused by the young man’s notion that age justified the old man’s ill manners. He was about to reply, when the door burst open and the man with the bad skin entered, waving aloft the flask of bunion medicine in gloating vindication.
‘Half empty!’ he crowed. ‘He has been drinking it, and that is why he invented his wild story of Saxon princes and murdering Normans!’
The old man’s face was a picture of wounded dismay, and he used his grandson’s legs to haul himself to his feet before hobbling off to try to snatch the offending phial as his tormentor bandied it about the tavern.
‘He promised he would not drink any more of that,’ said Ulfrith, troubled. ‘It contains all sorts of strong herbs, plus a powerful distillation of wine.’
‘It is not poisonous, is it?’ asked Geoffrey.
Ulfrith shrugged carelessly, then looked at the surcoat that was draped over Geoffrey’s shoulder. ‘You have been on Crusade,’ he said wistfully, reaching out to finger the damp linen. If his slow mind registered that it was unusually wet, then nothing showed on his face. ‘I wanted to fight the infidel, too, when I heard the Pope’s call for brave men to travel east.’
‘Why? Do you like slaughtering unarmed women and children, and stealing their property?’
‘I do,’ called Roger from the top of the stairs. Geoffrey was not entirely sure he was joking.
‘I just want to travel,’ said the Saxon. ‘But no one will take me.’
‘Is there a reason for that?’ asked Geoffrey, thinking it might be because the lad had a penchant for murdering Normans – not a characteristic to render him popular on a Crusade, where the main purpose was to kill Saracens, not each other.
‘I am overly big to be a sailor,’ said Ulfrith ruefully. ‘All the sea captains tell me I am too heavy for climbing rigging and furling sails, and the only soldier I know said I would eat too much and be too expensive to keep.’
‘Come on, Geoff,’ shouted Roger impatiently. ‘You will catch a chill in those wet clothes.’
‘Wet clothes,’ mused Ulfrith. Geoffrey watched in amusement as the connection between a sodden knight and his own escapade on the waterfront gradually formed in the Saxon’s mind. ‘Oh no!’ he breathed, the blood draining from his ruddy features. ‘It was you!’
By the following day, the blizzard had abated, and when Geoffrey awoke, a pale sun had already started the messy business of melting its leavings. He leaned out of the window and looked across a town of white roofs and muddy brown paths trampled through carpets of snow. In the distance, he could hear the sounds of the port: yelling voices, barking dogs, whinnying horses, and squawking gulls. Crashes echoed as cargo was loaded, and bells clanged as ships set sail or waited to dock.
The tavern had been lively well into the night, when Geoffrey was sure a good deal of illicit business had been conducted, and its patrons were either at home in bed or collapsed in drunken heaps on the tables downstairs. The noise had not bothered Geoffrey. He had been tired, and had barely stirred even when Roger had slipped into the chamber with a giggling woman in his arms.
‘Come on,’ he said, slapping the rounded hulk that was Roger, still asleep in the bed.
There was a startled squeak, and two bright blue eyes gazed dazedly at him from a tangle of fair curls. Geoffrey flung the prostitute the dress that had been hurled to the floor in the heat of the moment the night before, an
d waited for her to leave, while Roger slowly roused himself, scrubbing at his face with thick fingers and groaning as the morning light lanced into his eyes. His bleariness evaporated when he saw the woman.
‘Mary, lass,’ he said hoarsely, leaning towards her with a lecherous twinkle.
‘Maude,’ she corrected, a little crossly, fending him off. ‘Maude, not Mary.’
‘Maude, Mary,’ said Roger with a careless shrug. ‘What difference does it make?’
‘How would you feel if I called you Robert of Bristol?’ demanded Maude indignantly, fluffing up her hair in anticipation of an argument.
‘Bristol?’ bellowed Roger. ‘I am not from that stinking hell-hole. I am from Durham, lass – a place God Himself would be proud to call home.’
‘I would keep that quiet, if I were you,’ advised Maude practically. ‘The only thing we know about Durham around here is that it is the see of that vile man who claims to be its bishop.’
‘What a fine view there is from this window,’ said Geoffrey quickly, knowing Roger was unlikely to take such an insult to his father meekly.
‘Damn the view!’ snarled Roger. ‘This whore is maligning the finest man who ever set foot on English soil.’
Maude gazed at him in sheer disbelief, then started to laugh. Geoffrey could understand her amusement, given Bishop Flambard’s unhappy reputation.
‘Are we talking about the same man?’ she asked. ‘The toady of King William Rufus, who taxed us to breaking point and who was made Chief Justiciar by dint of his cunning and slippery ways? And I am not a whore, by the way, just a country lass who has lost her way.’
‘Lost her way to what?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘The brothel?’
‘Bishop Flambard is a great man,’ stormed Roger. ‘He is an honest, upright soul who has never done a corrupt deed in his life.’
The Bishop's Brood Page 4
