The Bloodstained Throne Read online

  ‘So Paisnel said,’ retorted Lucian. ‘But have you inspected them?’

  ‘I have no reason to,’ said Juhel, puzzled. ‘They all bear a seal depicting a legged fish, which is the Bishop’s personal symbol.’

  ‘All except the couple that are addressed to him,’ whispered Geoffrey to Roger. ‘I wonder if he can read. If not, he may have no idea that “Paisnel’s” bundle contains some of his own property. If he can, then he is lying.’

  ‘I told you there was something odd about Paisnel,’ said Magnus spitefully. ‘The man was a damned spy!’

  ‘They are property deeds,’ insisted Juhel, becoming annoyed. ‘He was not a spy. And it is none of your concern anyway.’

  A loud crunch punctuated the end of the sentence as Harold bit into one of his cloves. ‘Garlic, anyone? It is very good for cooling hot tempers.’

  The track twisted through several copses, then reached land that had been cleared for fields. Directly ahead were more trees with a hamlet nestling among them, comprising four or five pretty houses and an attractive church. A short distance away was an unusual building, which looked as though it had just been hit by a snowstorm. Geoffrey regarded it curiously.

  ‘Ah! Werlinges,’ said Harold in satisfaction. He pointed at the building that had caught Geoffrey’s attention. ‘And that is one of its salt-houses.’

  Geoffrey frowned. The village was strangely deserted at a time when men should have been tending fields or livestock. And someone certainly should have been in the salt-house. Salt was an expensive commodity and usually well guarded. Meanwhile, the door to the chapel was ajar, moving slightly in the breeze. The dog sniffed, then growled, a deep and long rumble that made up Geoffrey’s mind.

  ‘Stop,’ he said softly. ‘There is something wrong.’

  ‘Wrong?’ demanded Magnus. His voice was loud and rang off the nearest houses, and they seemed even emptier. ‘What do you mean? Are you afraid? Like father, like son?’

  The scorn in his voice was more galling than his words, and Roger bristled on his friend’s behalf. But Geoffrey was more concerned with the village. Bale gripped a long hunting knife and started to move forward, but Geoffrey stopped him. He had not survived three gruelling years on the Crusade by being reckless, and all his senses clamoured that something was badly amiss.

  ‘I do not want to go through this place,’ he said. ‘We will walk around it.’

  ‘But what about the horses Harold arranged?’ demanded Magnus angrily. ‘You cannot expect kings to arrive at La Batailge on foot, like common serfs.’

  ‘Then we will wait here,’ said Roger. ‘Go and collect your beasts.’

  ‘Alone?’ asked Magnus, immediately uneasy. ‘When you think it is dangerous?’

  ‘It is all right,’ said Harold in relief. ‘I can see the horses in the field over there. I asked Wennec the priest to hire me good ones, and he has! I confess I was concerned he might renege.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Geoffrey, scanning the trees. There was no birdsong again, and the entire area was eerily silent. ‘Is he dishonest? Or just loath to have anything to do with a rebellion?’

  ‘Werlinges has always expressed a preference for Normans,’ admitted Harold. ‘I imagine that was what prompted the Bastard to spare it.’

  ‘So why ask its priest to find your horses?’ asked Geoffrey suspiciously. ‘Why not go elsewhere for help?’

  ‘Harold has just told you why,’ said Magnus impatiently. ‘All the other settlements were laid to waste. Werlinges is the only village available, so he had no choice but to approach Wennec.’

  ‘Then that is even more reason to leave,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Surely you can sense something oddly awry here? There are no people, but there are the horses, flaunted in an open field. It is a trap.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ declared Magnus. ‘Everyone left because of the storm. But enough of this blathering – go and fetch the nags at once.’

  Neither knights nor squires moved. Then, casually, Roger drew his sword, testing the keenness of its blade by running the ball of his thumb along it. Geoffrey stood next to him, his senses on full alert.

  ‘If you want the horses, get them,’ said Roger to the Saxons. ‘If not, we shall be on our way.’

  ‘All right,’ said Harold, moving forward. ‘We shall show you Saxon courage.’

  ‘I will come with you,’ said Lucian. ‘I do not fancy walking all the way to La Batailge, so I will borrow a pony if there is one to be had.’

  ‘Do not make your selection before your monarch,’ ordered Magnus, hurrying after him.

  He broke into a trot. So did Lucian, until they both made an unseemly dash towards the field, like children afraid of losing out on treats. Juhel chortled at the spectacle, although Geoffrey was too uneasy to think there was anything remotely humorous in it.

  ‘Perhaps I had better ensure our noble king does not lose out to a “Benedictine”,’ said the parchmenter. ‘Because I suspect he is incapable of selecting a good horse.’

  Geoffrey regarded him sharply. ‘You are sceptical of Lucian’s vocation, too?’ he asked.

  Juhel gave one of his unreadable smiles. ‘Well, I have never seen him pray. Of course, it may just be youthful exuberance that makes him forget his vows.’

  ‘He is certainly not bound to chastity,’ said Roger. ‘I am sure he and Edith lay together on the ship. And that gold pectoral cross he wore speaks volumes about his adherence to poverty, too. If he is a monk, then he is not a very obedient one.’

  ‘His worldliness makes him an inappropriate choice for such a long, lonely mission,’ said Juhel. ‘So either Bishop de Villula had to choose him for reasons we will probably never know, or Lucian is using a religious habit to disguise his true identity.’

  ‘And why might that be?’ asked Geoffrey, regarding Juhel warily, aware that these were probably observations that had been fermenting for some time. But why was the man so interested in his fellow passengers? Geoffrey thought about Paisnel, who Magnus believed was a spy. Was it true, and had Juhel been sent to dispatch him? But who would order such a thing?

  ‘Lord knows,’ said Juhel. ‘An escape from an unhappy marriage, perhaps? He was the first to abandon ship, and, although he claims he took nothing, I saw him towing a small bundle. And I am sure it did not contain a psalter!’

  He ambled away, leaving Geoffrey confused and uncertain. Was Juhel casting aspersions on Lucian to deflect suspicion from himself? Or was he just a man who liked to watch the foibles of others?

  ‘This village has a smell,’ said Bale, his whisper hot on Geoffrey’s ear. The knight eased away, not liking the hulking figure quite so close. ‘A metallic smell, and one I know well.’

  ‘Something to do with the salt-house?’

  ‘Blood,’ drooled Bale. ‘I smell blood.’

  ‘You do not,’ said Geoffrey firmly. ‘But we are leaving as soon as Harold has his horses, so go and make sure the road north is clear. Take Ulfrith with you. And be careful.’

  ‘You were right: there is something wrong about this place,’ said Roger as Bale slipped away. ‘And Bale might be right: I think I can smell blood, too. The sooner we are gone, the better.’

  Geoffrey’s reply was drowned out by a monstrous shriek, and he saw men running from the woods wielding weapons. At their head was Donan, his face a savage grimace of hatred. In the distance, Geoffrey was aware of the Saxons, Juhel and Lucian swivelling around in alarm. They scattered immediately. Magnus ran awkwardly, all knees and flailing arms, while Juhel tipped himself forward and trotted like an overweight bull. Harold and Lucian were less ungainly, and Geoffrey did not think he had ever seen a faster sprinter than the monk.

  ‘Death to thieves and saboteurs,’ Donan howled, sword whirling. ‘Now you will pay!’

  Geoffrey’s weapon was drawn long before Donan’s cry had faded, and he stood calmly next to Roger, waiting for the onslaught. Not all the pirates were there, but Donan’s contingent numbered about a dozen, all carrying swords, daggers or cudgels
.

  If Geoffrey and Roger had been mounted, twelve sailors would not have caused them much trouble. The additional height, and the length of their swords, meant they could have hacked at their attackers without much risk to themselves. It was more difficult for a knight to fight on foot, but, even so, Geoffrey was not unduly worried by a dozen undisciplined mariners. He and Roger fought back to back, making it difficult for more than a few opponents to attack at a time. Roger’s long reach was especially devastating – he killed one and injured another in the first few moments.

  ‘That contains something of ours,’ yelled Donan when the first savage encounter was over and the surviving crew had fallen back to regroup. He pointed at the bundle near Roger’s feet. ‘Give it to me, and I shall kill you quickly. Refuse, and you will regret it.’

  ‘You drowned my horse,’ said Roger through clenched teeth. ‘And I took compensation. If you have any sense, you will leave while you are still in one piece.’

  Geoffrey stole a quick look beyond their attackers. Ulfrith was tackling a single opponent, the two slashing at each other in a highly predictable pattern, and Bale was chasing a cabin boy around one of the houses, doggedly determined to make a kill. Their fellow passengers were nowhere to be seen.

  Roger glanced at Geoffrey, passing a silent message, then, before the sailors understood what was happening, both knights launched simultaneous attacks, swords whistling in a series of vicious swipes and thrusts. The ferociousness of the offensive allowed for no rejoinder. Geoffrey dropped one man with a thrust through the chest, then twisted around and sent the dagger skittering from the grasp of another. Fingerless, the man fled, ignoring Donan’s screech to stand fast. Out of the corner of his eye, Geoffrey saw another man fall to Roger’s onslaught.

  Donan faced him, spitting his fury at what was becoming a rout. Geoffrey feinted to his left, then chopped at a man’s shoulder, but before he could follow up, he felt a burning pain as a dagger slid under the mail on his right side. He whipped around and saw off the attacker with a thrust that penetrated the man’s thigh, but the sharp sting of his own cut did not encourage him to press his advantage. Swearing vilely, the sailor limped after his retreating fellows, Donan among them.

  ‘We should finish this,’ said Roger grimly. ‘We shall have no peace as long as they are alive.’

  ‘If you want peace, then give them back their gold,’ snapped Geoffrey, hand to his side.

  ‘I will not! It is mine, and I will kill anyone who tries to take it.’

  As the sounds of the pirates’ flight receded, Geoffrey leaned against a tree to catch his breath. Roger took Ulfrith to check there were no lingerers, and Bale hurried to take his sword and clean it – a task he always enjoyed. The knight could see from the squire’s bloody hands that Bale had triumphed in his own skirmish.

  ‘Did you kill the cabin boy?’ he asked, disapprovingly.

  ‘Unfortunately, he was too nimble for me,’ said Bale unhappily. ‘I am not the hare I once was. But I slipped up behind one villain and slit his throat before he knew I was there.’

  Geoffrey did a quick survey. The encounter had left six dead and several seriously wounded, and he suspected Donan would not attack again until Fingar and the remaining seamen were there to reinforce him. Then he saw the gleam in Bale’s face that always shone when there was violence.

  ‘Do not gloat over your victims,’ he said sharply. ‘It is not seemly.’

  ‘Why not, sir?’ asked Bale with genuine curiosity. ‘He would have killed me – and you. Why should I not be pleased I got him first?’

  ‘We treat our dead enemies with respect.’ Geoffrey’s side was burning, and he was in no mood to discuss battle etiquette with a man who was incapable of understanding.

  Bale’s face was a picture of confusion. ‘William the Bastard did not treat the Saxon dead at Hastinges with respect. He left them for carrion and made no attempt to bury them.’

  ‘Perhaps so, but no one went around pawing their corpses and stealing their jewellery.’ Geoffrey looked pointedly at the gold earrings Bale held in one bloody paw.

  ‘Sir Roger took a dagger from the man he killed in Bristol last year,’ argued Bale. ‘He said the corpse no longer needed it, so it should go to a good home. I was following his example.’

  Geoffrey sensed he was losing the debate and did not have the energy to regain the initiative. ‘I cannot make it any clearer except to say that you should not steal from corpses or take pleasure in your opponents’ deaths,’ he said shortly.

  ‘But I do enjoy it, sir,’ protested Bale. ‘There is something satisfying about dispatching a man who would have killed me, and to pretend otherwise would be dishonest.’

  Geoffrey gave up. He shook his head in weary defeat and heaved himself upright as Roger and Ulfrith returned.

  ‘Is that a serious wound, Geoff?’ asked Roger. ‘Shall I see to it?’

  Geoffrey shook his head, not wanting to be subjected to Roger’s rough and clumsy ministrations. ‘We should leave before they come back. Where are the others?’

  ‘Well, poor Harold is over there,’ said Roger with a vague wave. ‘He is dead.’

  Geoffrey walked to where he indicated, aware of a sinking sensation in his stomach when he saw the slashed throat. Bright yellow hair tumbled across the cheerful, once-smiling face, and he crouched down to push it back.

  ‘Damn you, Bale,’ he said softly. ‘You have just killed a contender for the English throne.’

  ‘Bale killed King Harold?’ asked Roger, gaping in horror. ‘God’s blood! Now we shall have Saxon rebels baying for our blood, as well as pirates!’

  ‘But he was racing towards you with a sword, sir,’ objected Bale. ‘I acted from instinct.’

  ‘He did look fearsome,’ said Ulfrith loyally. ‘I saw him dash towards you while I was fighting that helmsman – the one I defeated.’

  ‘How did you know he was not aiming for the pirates?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘That he did not intend to join the fight on our side?’

  Bale thought carefully before replying. ‘Well, I did not know, not for certain. But he came out of that church, and everyone else in there is dead. Obviously, he killed them all, so I thought I had better cut his throat before he slaughtered you, too.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ snapped Geoffrey impatiently. ‘Who is dead in the chapel?’

  ‘The villagers, I suppose,’ replied Bale with a shrug. ‘Ask King Magnus.’

  ‘Where is Magnus?’ asked Roger.

  ‘Over there, being sick.’ Bale’s voice took on a note of defiant pride. ‘He does not have the stomach for massacres. You would never see me vomiting at such sights. And I told you I could smell blood. I was right – the church is drenched in it. I peeped inside it after that boy ran away.’

  Ulfrith was listening to the discussion with growing horror. He gazed at Bale with wide eyes. ‘Are you saying King Harold murdered the villagers while we were fighting pirates?’

  Ulfrith’s sword was stained, indicating he had inflicted some sort of harm on his opponent. The same could not be said of Juhel and Lucian, who came to join them, cool and unmarked. Geoffrey was not surprised Lucian had declined to fight – he was supposed to be in holy orders, after all – but he was disappointed in Juhel.

  ‘Well, Harold’s sword is bloody,’ Bale was saying, pointing at the stained weapon that lay in the grass next to the body. ‘Of course, he was not the only one who went inside the place where the slaughter took place. Others did, too.’ His accusing gaze encompassed the vomiting Magnus, Juhel and Lucian.

  ‘I do not kill,’ said Lucian indignantly. ‘I am a monk. Besides, I am not ashamed to admit that such situations terrify the wits out of me. I fled when I saw Donan coming, and, although one sailor pursued me, I ran fast enough to lose him.’

  ‘Well, I certainly did not kill anyone,’ said Magnus, white-faced and shaking as he approached. ‘I do not even own a weapon. I am afraid I hid behind the church when you were skirmishing.’
r />   ‘And where were you?’ Roger demanded of Juhel.

  The parchmenter held up the cage containing Delilah. ‘I was making sure the sounds of battle did not distress her, but I did not succeed. What should I do to calm her, do you think?’

  ‘Cover the cage and leave her to settle,’ advised Ulfrith. ‘She will soon forget it.’

  ‘I wish that would work for me,’ said Magnus miserably. ‘I shall remember this day for the rest of my life. Did Harold really kill all these poor people?’

  ‘They were dead when we arrived,’ said Geoffrey, recalling the eerie silence.

  ‘And Harold could not have killed them before that, because he was with us,’ added Roger. Then he frowned. ‘He could have killed them before he went to the mud shelter, I suppose.’

  Bale disagreed. ‘These villagers are fresh dead; the blood is still wet and bright.’

  Geoffrey supposed he should not be surprised that such a gruesome detail had stuck in Bale’s mind.

  ‘Then how did he do it?’ asked Ulfrith. ‘If they were dead when we arrived, and he did not have the chance to do it before . . .’

  Geoffrey felt blood oozing from his own cut and was aware of a sense of unreality. It was a reaction he often experienced after fierce fighting, but he knew he could not afford to give in to it – at least, not until they were safe in the abbey. Wincing, he knelt to inspect the corpse more closely.

  ‘This is not Harold,’ he said. ‘He is wearing different clothes and his face is thinner. And he does not have scars on his wrists. Unless I am mistaken, this must be Ulf. Harold’s twin.’

  ‘But why would he want to kill villagers?’ asked Roger. ‘Because he asked them to side with his revolt, and they refused? Magnus and Harold said this was a place loyal to Normans.’

  ‘But Magnus also said Ulf was violent,’ said Juhel. ‘So he must have killed these people.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Magnus. ‘This must be Ulf, although I have not seen him in years. I was not exaggerating when I described his evil character, though: destroying an entire village is exactly the kind of thing he would enjoy. Yet even so, he had no cause to attack Werlinges. Ergo, I do not believe he had anything to do with this.’