The Bloodstained Throne Page 10

  ‘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.

  ‘Was your father proud of his conduct, then?’ pressed Harold.

  ‘He saw the battle as his sacred duty. He never regretted what he did.’

  ‘He did not visit shrines and churches, to beg forgiveness?’ asked Harold uneasily.

  ‘Not that I recall. But I did not see him for twenty years once I left for Normandy.’

  But asking forgiveness for anything would have been anathema to Godric. Of course, if Vitalis was right, he would have had no need – because he had not fought at all, but had skulked in the woods, causing the battle to go on far longer than it should have done and bringing about the deaths of hundreds.

  Geoffrey sighed, not sure what to think. Vitalis had certainly known Godric, because he related details that only his family shared. He had also known Geoffrey’s mother and had confessed to being more afraid of her than her husband. Geoffrey understood that perfectly: he had been wary of the formidable Herleve himself. He had often wondered why, with such parents, he had not grown into a brutal tyrant; he could only suppose that being sent away at an early age had removed him from their malign influence.

  ‘Well, perhaps you should ask Wardard to intercede on your father’s behalf,’ suggested Harold.

  ‘He does need prayers, sir,’ added Bale, who had spent most of his life on Godric’s manor. ‘And not only for those he killed in battle. There are also those he hanged for poaching, even though they were innocent; the families he evicted for not paying rent – they had paid, but he demanded the money again; the people of that Welsh village he burned for stealing his cattle, although it turned out he had taken the cows to the high byre himself—’

  ‘Enough, Bale,’ interrupted Geoffrey tiredly.

  ‘It does sound as if you should see this monk,’ said Magnus. ‘You will want to put your mind at ease about your father’s doings. And you can escort me at the same time.’

  At that moment, the wind caught a tree outside, and its contorted trunk issued a low, moaning, keening sound that made Ulfrith and Bale start up in alarm.

  ‘It is only marsh fays,’ said Roger, which did little to allay their unease. ‘Or perhaps the soul of murdered Vitalis, howling for vengeance. Restless spirits will not like this gale, either.’

  ‘Then perhaps we should invite them in,’ said Geoffrey, his temper sour from the preceding discussion. ‘I am sure we can find them a corner.’

  ‘Do not jest about such matters,’ said Roger sternly. ‘This storm is your doing for ignoring God’s will. And you do not want marsh fays and ghosts angry with you as well.’

  ‘Marsh fays are terrible beings, and I should not like to see Vitalis here, either,’ said Bale fearfully. ‘But I would rather do that than meet the ghost of Sir Godric Mappestone. In fact, I would sooner meet the Devil than him!’

  The storm lasted a good deal longer than any of them anticipated. It raged all night and well into the following evening. They ate the rations in the knights’ saddlebags – dried meat past its best and a packet of old peas – and the corn that Juhel carried for Delilah, boiling them into a stew with some of Harold’s garlic. Roger, who could make a fire in almost any conditions, soon had a blaze going. The smoke threatened to suffocate them, but at least it kept them warm and provided a hot meal.

  Water they had in abundance. It battered the door, dripped through the roof and was soon calf-deep on the floor. They took it in turns to sit on the bed. But it was the wind that kept them pinned down. At times it reached deafening proportions, and Geoffrey was certain the top would be torn from the shelter. He had seen many storms, but none compared to the ferocity of this. Towards the end of the second day, there was an ominous crack above their heads.

  ‘The rain is making the mud too heavy for these wooden supports,’ said Harold, poking the structure with a podgy forefinger. ‘It may collapse and crush us all.’

  Manfully, Geoffrey resisted the urge to run outside.

  ‘It is because God knows he still plans to go to the Holy Land,’ murmured Ulfrith, glaring.

  ‘Do not be ridiculous,’ snapped Geoffrey curtly. ‘It has nothing to do with me.’

  Ulfrith started to argue, but Geoffrey rounded on him with such a dangerous expression that the squire’s mouth closed with a snap. The knight was not often angry, but his companions had learned that once he had been provoked into an outburst, it was wise to leave him alone.

  Geoffrey turned his attention to the crack in the door again, noting that the rainclouds were so thick that it was dark, even though the sun had not yet set. The wind’s howl rose another octave, and he was sure that if the door had faced directly into the wind, instead of to the lee, they would not have survived.

  The squires huddled together, making no attempt to disguise their fear, while Harold wedged himself at the very back of the shelter, as if he thought it might be safer. Juhel hugged his bird to his chest and attempted to comfort her with a handful of seed. She pecked the treats from his hand, but when he rummaged for more, his bag fell, spilling some of its contents into the water. He swore as he retrieved them, and Geoffrey saw that the bundle of documents was the first thing he saved. A flash of yellow indicated that something gold was the second.

  Geoffrey stared at him. The parchments were still bound together with red ribbon. Did it mean Juhel had not strangled Vitalis, because the ribbon was still in place? He fingered the piece Bale had recovered from Vitalis’s neck, noting that it was the same thickness and quality as that on Juhel’s package.

  ‘You should leave those out to dry,’ he advised. ‘The ink will run otherwise, and you will not be able to read them later.’

  Alarmed, Juhel unpicked the knotted ribbon, allowing Geoffrey to see the same seal he had observed on the letters Paisnel had owned. So, he thought, Juhel had managed to secure them before Paisnel and his bag had gone missing. But did it mean Philippa was right: that Juhel had murdered his friend, first ensuring that he had taken anything of value from his pack? He watched Juhel peer at the writing, then give it a rub, nodding in satisfaction when the i
nk stayed firm.

  ‘It is all right,’ he said, smiling. ‘I caught them in time.’

  ‘The Bishop of Ribe,’ said Geoffrey, reading the name on the top one. The second, addressed to Juhel himself, was upside down. Was that because Juhel could not read and up or down made no difference to him? He also seemed to know remarkably little about parchment for a man who sold it: it needed more than a rub to dry it out. ‘Paisnel said he was one of the bishop’s clerks.’

  ‘His best clerk,’ corrected Juhel sadly. ‘A man who was invaluable to him in many ways.’

  ‘You mean he was a spy?’ asked Magnus baldly.

  ‘No,’ said Juhel. His expression was cold, with no trace of its customary humour. ‘He was not a spy.’

  The words were hardly out of his mouth when the wind suddenly veered to the south, and a tremendous gust blasted the door inwards so it smashed against the wall, splinters flying in all directions. Geoffrey was hurled sideways, and feathers, splinters and pieces of vegetation billowed furiously around the shelter.

  The maelstrom of debris continued to whirl until Geoffrey and Roger used their combined strength to close the door. Fortunately, it was sturdy, and although it had been damaged, it still shut out the weather. Once closed – and this time Roger permitted no cracks – the shelter’s shaken occupants began to pull themselves together. Only Delilah seemed unperturbed: she had flown up to a rafter, where she settled down to roost. It was pitch black until Roger lit a candle, and Geoffrey looked around in dismay, not liking the notion of spending the night sealed in so tightly.

  ‘I have never known such a tempest,’ said Harold.

  ‘We might never get out of it alive,’ said Ulfrith unsteadily. ‘And it will be his fault.’ He glared at Geoffrey.

  ‘He is right, Geoff,’ said Roger quietly. ‘This storm has gone on too long to be natural. Do you really want to be in this cave for the next week – all dark and airless, with the sea whipping about outside and threatening to flood in and drown us? You must promise God that you will do what He wants and stay in England.’

  Using Geoffrey’s dislike of enclosed places was sly but effective. He did not want to spend another hour inside, and the thought of being there for days made his stomach churn.

  ‘I am going to the Holy Land,’ he said, defiantly but unsteadily. ‘This storm is not—’

  ‘Do you remember what happened to Job when he defied God during a storm?’ interrupted Roger, pressing his point relentlessly. ‘He was eaten alive by a great sea serpent and spent the rest of his life in its belly – in the dark, with no clean air, and up to his neck in water. I imagine it was much like this cave.’

  ‘It was Jonah, and he was inside a whale, not a serpent,’ said Geoffrey, wondering who had taught Roger his theology. ‘And he was only there for three days.’

  ‘Three days!’ echoed Roger, looking around meaningfully. ‘Do you want to be here for another three days? Look at how the water is rising. We will drown, just like Jonah almost did.’

  ‘Do you think these sea serpents will reach us here?’ asked Bale fearfully. ‘They have no legs, so cannot travel far, but . . .’

  ‘There are channels,’ said Ulfrith darkly, wincing as a particularly fierce gust rattled the door. ‘They can swim along those, so they do not need legs.’

  The wooden supports in the roof gave another ominous crack, and a clod of mud dropped on to Magnus, who gave a frightened yelp.

  ‘This place cannot take much more,’ said Juhel worriedly. ‘We should take the bed and turn it on its end, so when the roof does collapse, it will give us at least a chance of survival. Unless Sir Geoffrey appeases God, of course.’

  Geoffrey was beginning to feel sick, and he crawled towards the door, groping for the bar that secured it. Roger came to stand next to him, to make sure he did nothing foolish, although Geoffrey was somewhat calmed by the blasts of wind shooting through the gaps on to his hands.

  ‘You promised to show me a cathedral being built, sir,’ whispered Bale. ‘It is a pity I shall die without seeing one.’

  He was on the verge of tears, and Geoffrey was startled. In most situations, Bale was fearless enough to be a liability, yet he was frightened now. And Roger, one of the bravest men he had ever met, was reverting to underhand tactics to make him swear vows he did not want to take. The dog whined, and Juhel shot it a reassuring smile that failed to conceal the terror that lay beneath it.

  Then Roger dropped to his knees, hands clasped together. The big knight only ever prayed in churches, and then only in a very indifferent manner. The overt piety unsettled Geoffrey.

  ‘You must make the vow, sir,’ said Ulfrith in a low voice. ‘You must agree to bide by God’s wishes and not travel to the Holy Land.’

  ‘Please!’ squeaked Magnus. ‘It is unfair to kill us all for your own selfish ends.’

  ‘God, deliver us from small, dark, cramped, water-filled places,’ intoned Roger, one eye open to gauge his friend’s reaction. ‘Do not allow your faithful servants to perish in airless holes—’

  ‘All right,’ cried Geoffrey, yielding to the intolerable pressure. ‘I will not go.’

  Lightning forked outside, followed by a clap of thunder so loud that Magnus flung his hands over his ears and began to wail in terror. Harold dropped to his knees, as Roger shot up from his. Bale and Ulfrith clutched each other for support, and Juhel scrambled to grab his agitated chicken.

  ‘You have to do it properly,’ shouted Roger. ‘Kneel and put your hands together, like King Harold, and say the words in a clear, loud voice, to make sure the Almighty can hear. You have to mean them, too. He knew you were insincere just now, which is why He sent the lightning.’

  Geoffrey dropped to one knee in the icy water and placed his hands as Roger had instructed.

  ‘I will not go to the Holy City,’ he said, although the thunder was so loud that his voice was barely audible. ‘I will remain in England until God instructs me otherwise.’

  The thunder finished its roll and died away.

  ‘It is easing off already,’ said Bale, relieved. ‘We are all saved. Thanks be to God!’

  ‘Amen,’ chorused the others, and even the hen clucked.

  It did not sound as though it was easing to Geoffrey, although he supposed the next rumble might be a little farther away. His companions began an impromptu celebration, and Bale was so convinced the danger was over that he curled into a ball and fell asleep.

  The storm did fizzle out eventually, and Geoffrey stood to leave, itching to be away from the cave. But Harold said the marshes were likely to have been re-sculpted, and it would be a pity to survive the gale only to drown in a newly created bog in the dark. Geoffrey spent what was left of the night outside, sleeping peacefully, if damply, under an alder, while the others stayed in the comparative comfort of the shelter.

  Shortly after dawn, which was bright and clear, Geoffrey climbed to the top of the shelter to take stock of their surroundings. The marshes behind the coast were ruggedly beautiful and, now the storm was over, full of birds. But everywhere were signs of the storm: wood, branches and other debris lay thick on the ground, and Geoffrey could see at least six trees on their sides, roots clawing upwards. Nearby were two smashed boats and the sodden carcass of a sheep.

  It did not take long to locate a causeway that led roughly north, although parts had been washed away or were so covered in mud that it was difficult to follow. It was a grimy, dishevelled group that finally emerged from the squelching flatlands to climb a low, oak-clad hill. Geoffrey looked back at the land they had traversed. It was dissected by channels and streams, some fringed by trees and shrubs, but most bare, and everywhere were pools of water. To his surprise, the grey walls of Pevenesel Castle were startlingly near, and they were not in the direction he had expected. Thus, it was with reservations that he followed Harold and Magnus, both of whom claimed to know where they were going.

  ‘I have horses nearby,’ said Harold to his half-brother, taking a bulb of garlic
from his pack. ‘Well, for you and me. You did not tell me you would bring supporters, so I only arranged for two.’

  ‘We are not supporters,’ said Roger. ‘You should stop saying that.’

  ‘You should be proud to serve your rightful king,’ asserted Magnus. ‘Many men would give their right arms to be in your position.’

  ‘Men with no right arms would be of no use to you,’ Bale pointed out helpfully. ‘They would be unable to put up a fight, and warriors like me would slaughter them.’

  ‘I have decided not to accept your offer of a see, Magnus,’ said Roger. ‘On reflection, I do not think life as a bishop would suit me. So we will travel with you as far as this abbey, but there our association finishes.’

  ‘We shall see,’ said Magnus in a voice that made Geoffrey look at him sharply. The sense that things were not all they seemed, which had been with him since Magnus had grabbed him in the frothing waves, returned more strongly than ever, and when he saw Juhel listening carefully to the exchange, his unease intensified. He trusted none of the little party.

  ‘We will say prayers of deliverance in the abbey,’ determined Roger. ‘And Geoff can talk to Brother Wardard. But none of it will take long, and we shall be on the road today.’

  ‘The road to where?’ asked Ulfrith. He glanced uneasily at Geoffrey. ‘Not Dover, I hope.’

  ‘I swore a vow,’ said Geoffrey tartly, annoyed that the squire should question his integrity. ‘You are going to Durham, and I will travel west. Joan will not mind seeing me again so soon.’

  ‘Neither will Hilde,’ said Roger with a leering wink. ‘Unless you have put her with child already, in which case she will want you gone until it is safely delivered. She will not like you tampering with her when she is carrying – they never do.’

  Geoffrey did not reply and concentrated on their surroundings. It would be a pity to be taken by Fingar now, just because they were careless. He listened intently, alert for anything that might suggest an ambush. It would be a perfect place for one – the track was narrow and hemmed in by vegetation. Roger also listened, glaring Juhel into silence when the man started to chatter.