The Bloodstained Throne Read online

  ‘Good idea,’ said Juhel, heaving the hen coop on his shoulders. ‘I have had enough of bloodshed for one day.’

  ‘So have I,’ said Geoffrey fervently.

  The day wore on as they followed a path that ran through woods, across streams, up and down hills and finally along a wide track that wound through some pretty valleys – Harold had lied: the abbey was considerably farther than the castle would have been. Eventually, Magnus claimed his wound was making him dizzy and demanded that they rest. Geoffrey refused, wanting to reach La Batailge as quickly as possible.

  ‘What you said earlier,’ said Roger, walking next to him. ‘You really think he will kill Harold?’

  ‘If the unthinkable happens and Henry is ousted, Magnus would be a fool to let other contenders live. Perhaps I spoke wildly, and he does not intend to kill Harold but to lock him away in some remote dungeon. Regardless, the fact is that Magnus will not be a strong ruler and any opposition will be dangerous.’

  ‘Do you believe he fought a pirate?’ asked Roger. ‘I do not. Ulfrith cornered one, and Bale lumbered after that boy for a long time, but the rest concentrated on us. Still, we know where we stand: not one of our fellow passengers came to our assistance.’

  ‘They would have been killed if they had,’ said Geoffrey. He paused to catch his breath at the top of a rise. The sun was baking him inside his armour, and the light-headedness from the cure-all persisted. ‘But speaking of Bale, I am worried about him. It is only a matter of time before he kills someone who is innocent.’

  ‘Like Ulf, you mean?’

  ‘No, not like him, because I am not sure he was innocent. Juhel was right: there was old blood on his clothes, and I wager anything you like it was not his own. He also tried to kill Magnus.’

  ‘Magnus?’ exclaimed Roger, glancing behind to see Geoffrey was not the only one finding the rapid walk difficult: the would-be king was wan and held his arm awkwardly. ‘How do you know? He did not mention it.’

  ‘No, which is suspicious. Ulf’s sword was stained with fresh blood – not much, as there would have been had he killed the villagers, but enough to have scratched Magnus’s arm. I suspect he saw an opportunity to rid himself of a rival, but did not reckon with Magnus’s speed – he can run very fast. But Ulf was unlucky, because he blundered into Bale.’

  ‘And that was the end of him,’ mused Roger. ‘Unwittingly, Bale saved Magnus’s life.’

  Geoffrey nodded. ‘So why did Magnus not tell us what had happened? Does he suspect Harold of being complicit in the attack? Or is he just loath to discuss anything about Werlinges? Given that he was sneaking in and out of the church and dumping documents down wells, I suppose his desire for secrecy is understandable.’

  They both considered the matter, although neither had a solution.

  ‘Who has the better claim to the throne?’ asked Roger eventually. ‘Magnus, who is Harold’s eldest son, or Harold, who is legitimate? Personally, I would say Magnus. Being a bastard is no bar to kingship – just ask the Conqueror! I am a bastard myself – my father, being a churchman, could scarcely marry my mother – and it has never held me back. Marriage is overrated.’

  ‘Is it?’ asked Geoffrey absently. They were climbing again, and he was becoming tired.

  ‘Take yours,’ Roger went on. ‘You only married Hilde because Goodrich needs an heir, but left to your own devices, you could have had a much prettier lass. Perhaps even one you like.’

  ‘I like Hilde,’ objected Geoffrey. ‘I do not love her, but I am told that is irrelevant. Besides, I was in love once, and that was more than enough.’

  ‘Was she a whore?’ Roger was often in love with prostitutes.

  ‘No. She was the loveliest maiden who ever lived, with hair like shimmering gold and eyes so blue they seemed to be part of Heaven.’ Geoffrey was not usually poetic, but that particular lady merited such praise.

  ‘I like a blonde wench, too,’ agreed Roger. ‘As long as she is buxom. There is no point to a woman who is all bones. Of course, Magnus will need to pick a good one, if he is to rule England. Incidentally, I hope King Henry does not order you to look into what happened at Werlinges. He does trust you with that sort of thing.’

  ‘By the time he hears about it, I will be back in Goodrich.’ Geoffrey stopped again to catch his breath, blinking to clear the darkness that encroached the edges of his vision.

  ‘We should let Magnus and Harold take the news of Werlinges to La Batailge,’ said Roger, watching him. ‘You do not look well, and this walking is making it worse. You should rest.’

  ‘No,’ said Geoffrey, forcing himself on. ‘We do not know what story they will tell, and I do not want to be accused of the crime. I do not trust Magnus.’

  ‘Then we should hurry,’ said Roger, grabbing his arm to help him along. ‘Besides, there is the abbey now. Can you see the towers?’

  Geoffrey nodded and tried to ignore the burning pain in his ribs.

  Work had begun at La Batailge within five years of the Norman victory. The Conqueror had wanted it built so the high altar of the church would be in the exact spot where Harold had fallen, but the Benedictines had thought this a bad idea and had selected a site farther west – one that was not plum in the middle of a bog and that had a convenient source of fresh water.

  But they had reckoned without William’s iron will. He was livid when he heard his instructions had been ignored; he ordered them to tear down what they had finished and start afresh. Funds poured in from the royal treasury, although the place was still not complete fifteen years later.

  The church was a handsome building, comprising a nave with seven bays and three chapels radiating off a short apsidal presbytery. There was also an imposing chapter house, and a wooden fence with a lean-to roof marked where the cloister would be. Nearby were large hall-houses with thatched roofs that served as dormitories and refectories. A sturdy palisade punctuated by a stone gatehouse in the north marked off a sizeable tract of land that comprised the actual battlefield.

  ‘Those mounds are the graves of the Normans who fell that day,’ Harold explained, pointing to weathered bumps in the heath. ‘Some are marked, as you can see, but most are becoming difficult to identify.’

  ‘What happened to the Saxon dead?’ asked Ulfrith, wide-eyed.

  ‘The Bastard did not deign to bury them,’ replied Magnus with considerable bitterness. ‘The local people had to see them laid to rest in ones and twos, wherever they happened to fall.’

  ‘Do you know the abbot, Harold?’ asked Geoffrey, not inclined to listen to more Saxon grievances. ‘We should speak to him as soon as possible.’

  ‘There is no abbot,’ replied Harold. ‘The Usurper is currently keeping the office vacant, so he can keep the tithes for himself. It has been empty since Abbot Henry died last year.’

  ‘Then is there a prior?’ Geoffrey asked. ‘A second-in-command?’

  ‘A simple monk runs the abbey now,’ replied Harold. ‘A Benedictine named Galfridus de St Carileff. He is a good man, though apt to be greedy.’

  ‘How do you know him?’ asked Geoffrey, following the path that led to the stalwart stone gatehouse. He was grateful for Roger’s arm, because his head was beginning to ache in time to the throb in his side. Magnus looked little better, and there was a sheen of sweat on his pallid face.

  ‘That is a good question,’ said Roger. ‘I thought you had been in exile for three decades.’

  ‘I have not been away all that time,’ replied Harold, smiling at the notion. ‘Ulf has been living in this area for the past sixteen years – ever since he was freed on the Bastard’s deathbed – and I occasionally come to visit him. Besides, I like it better here than in Ireland.’

  ‘I have not been permitted such liberties,’ said Magnus resentfully. ‘This is the first time I have set foot in England since my last invasion more than thirty years ago. Or was it forty? I feel befuddled in my wits.’

  ‘Skirmishes can do that to a man,’ said Roger. Geoffrey saw he was
about to make a clumsy attempt to force Magnus to admit that he had been attacked by Ulf. ‘And so can being savaged by a maniac intent on murder.’

  ‘Then I am grateful it does not happen very often,’ Magnus replied fervently, rubbing his head. ‘Lord! There is such an agony in my pate!’

  ‘Of course, King Henry always seemed to know when I was coming,’ said Harold ruefully. ‘He even sent me a horse once, although it was a poor brute with weak knees. Still, I put on a decent display of gratitude. It does not do to offend a man like Henry.’

  ‘You will offend Henry if you take his throne,’ Geoffrey pointed out.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Harold with a twinkling smile. ‘But by then it will not matter.’

  The gatehouse was a two-storeyed building that housed a portcullis. Arrow slits pierced the walls, and there was a gallery along the top that could be used by lookouts and bowmen. It was more akin to the entrance to a fortress than a monastery: the Saxons had not been exaggerating when they said the Benedictines were unpopular in the region. Traders, pilgrims and visitors formed a queue outside it, waiting patiently to be allowed in.

  ‘This is impressive,’ said Lucian appreciatively. ‘My Order certainly knows how to build!’

  Magnus raked a supercilious gaze across the queue and strutted to the front, shoving more than one person out of the way as he went. ‘I have come to see Gerald. Stand aside and let me pass, you miserable wren.’

  The guard regarded him askance. ‘There is no Gerald here. And, even if there were, you would not be allowed in. We try to keep lunatics out.’

  ‘I am your king,’ declared Magnus. Geoffrey winced. He had supposed that Magnus would keep his identity quiet until he had gone some way towards arranging his revolt; he had not expected him to announce it to servants.

  The guard peered at him. ‘You are not Henry. Nor are you the Duke of Normandy, who is the man I would like on the throne. England should never have gone to his younger brother.’

  ‘He is reckless,’ said Geoffrey to Roger. ‘I would not make wildly treasonous statements to men I do not know.’

  He must have spoken louder than he intended, because the guard overheard. ‘Actually, I am being prudent. There is a rumour that the Duke is in St Valery at the moment, and you only go there if you intend to cross into England.’

  ‘The Duke means to invade?’ asked Geoffrey uneasily.

  ‘He might, although I have heard nothing about him raising an army,’ replied the guard. ‘Perhaps he will challenge Henry to mortal combat and save the expense. But you cannot come in anyway, whoever you are,’ he added to Magnus.

  ‘Galfridus will see me, though,’ said Harold, jostling Magnus aside. He returned the guard’s welcoming smile. ‘Good afternoon, Jostin. Open up, will you? We have come with terrible news that must be carried to Richer de Laigle as soon as possible.’

  The guard continued to beam. ‘Lord Harold! I did not see you there. Galfridus will be pleased to see you, I am sure. He was saying only yesterday that it has been a great while since you were last here. If you wait a moment, I will summon a novice to take you to him.’ He jerked his head at Magnus and lowered his voice. ‘Is he to be admitted, too?’

  ‘Yes, please, Jostin,’ said Harold cheerfully. ‘He is my half-brother, believe it or not.’

  While they waited for their escort, the guard and Harold began a merry conversation about the service community that was growing up outside the abbey walls. There were smiths to make the nails and braces needed for the buildings, and there were carpenters, masons and stone-cutters and their families. There were also brewers, potters, candle-makers and bakers. Harold seemed to know them all, indicating that he had passed more time in the region than he had led them to believe. Geoffrey wondered what else the smiling Saxon had lied about.

  Meanwhile, the waiting people were resentful that Harold’s party was to be admitted before them. One threw a small stone that sailed past Magnus. Then a clod of mud struck Roger square in the middle of his forehead with a resounding smack.

  ‘No!’ cried Geoffrey, when Roger’s sword appeared in his hand and he took several strides towards the culprit, intending to dispense a lesson that was likely to be fatal. Geoffrey staggered when he was suddenly deprived of his support; he had not realized how heavily he had been leaning on his friend. ‘Wait!’

  The guilty party did not seem at all intimidated by Roger, which meant he was either very brave or a fool. He stood a little straighter under his heavy pack and looked the knight square in the eye. He was a burly fellow with wavy dark hair and a thick beard that had traces of grey. His eyes were dark brown, almost black, and his nose was so round and red that it looked like a plum.

  ‘You do not frighten me,’ he declared. ‘Crusader knights do not strike down unarmed citizens, so do not bluster and breathe at me like an angry bull!’

  Roger’s advance faltered and he regarded the man in surprise. ‘You are very sure of yourself.’

  ‘Roger,’ Geoffrey called, painfully aware that most Crusader knights – Roger among them – were more than happy to slaughter unarmed citizens and that the fellow’s confidence was sadly misplaced. ‘Leave him alone.’

  ‘I have you, sir,’ said Bale, grabbing Geoffrey’s arm when he began to list heavily to one side.

  Geoffrey wondered what was wrong with him. The gash in his side was not serious, and he had suffered a good deal worse in the past without swooning like a virgin.

  Harold was next to him. ‘Have some garlic,’ he suggested solicitously, pressing a ready-peeled clove into the knight’s hand. ‘It will set you up nicely.’

  It was a measure of Geoffrey’s muddled wits that the thing was in his mouth before he realized what he was about to crush between his teeth. Repelled, he spat it out.

  ‘What is your name?’ Roger was asking the man as he sheathed his sword. ‘And how do you know about Jerosolimitani? You are right, of course: we are an honourable brotherhood.’

  ‘My name is Breme, and my father told me about the Crusade. He was a skilled archer and fought at the battle here – one of the men the Conqueror said was most invaluable to him.’

  ‘You are the son of a soldier?’ asked Roger. ‘Why did you not follow in his footsteps?’

  Breme shrugged. ‘I prefer to be my own master. But that does not make me a lesser man than you, and you should wait your turn. We all have important business with the abbey.’

  ‘Not as important as mine,’ declared Roger. ‘I have come to tell Galfridus about a dreadful massacre. That is more urgent than selling baubles.’ He cast a disparaging glance at Breme’s pack.

  ‘Pens and ink,’ corrected Breme. ‘I sell writing materials, and my wares are vital to any man who produces deeds and letters. How can your news be more important than providing an abbey with the means to communicate with its King?’

  Fortunately, the escort arrived at that point, and the guard ushered Roger’s party inside before an argument could break out. The knights, squires, two Saxons, Lucian and Juhel followed the guide to a hall that was filled with benches and tables. It was a pleasant room, and there were goblets and a jug of cool ale set on one table, along with a basket of honey-smeared bread. Gratefully, the travellers ate, drank and sat to rest sore feet. Geoffrey hoped Galfridus would not be long, eager that messengers be sent to de Laigle as soon as possible. His thoughts were interrupted by a high, girlish voice.

  ‘Brother Lucian! You are still alive! What a lovely surprise! It is me, Philippa.’

  All Geoffrey wanted to do was deliver his news to Galfridus and lie down. He did not want to make polite conversation with Philippa and Edith, both of whom were sweeping through the hall, clearly intent on enjoying a warm welcome. He felt what little energy he had left drain away at the prospect of their silly, prattling company.

  ‘Lady Philippa!’ cried Ulfrith in delight. ‘How do you come to be here?’

  ‘More bloody Normans,’ muttered Magnus. ‘And women, no less, so they can breed others, until t
hey swarm over the Earth like ravenous locals . . . locusts. I am going to sit down. I have no inclination for the empty-headed clatter of benches.’

  ‘The clatter of benches?’ asked Juhel, bemused.

  ‘Wenches,’ snapped Magnus. ‘I said the chatter of wenches.’

  Philippa ignored the churlish Saxon and fixed her happy grin on the others. Edith was dressed in a splendid cloak made from thick, red wool and adorned with elegant embroidery. By contrast, Philippa wore a simple black gown that looked as if it had been borrowed from a nun. Absently, Geoffrey wondered at the disparity in the standard of clothes they had been lent.

  ‘I came ashore a long way from anyone else,’ Lucian was explaining. ‘And was obliged to flee inland when the storm struck. I was lucky I chanced to meet these others, or I might still be wandering. It is a very dangerous part of the world, with violent weather, marauding pirates and unfriendly inhabitants. I lost all my gold.’

  ‘Did you?’ asked Edith sympathetically. ‘Even your cross?’

  ‘Everything,’ said Lucian, looking away, as though the loss was too much to bear. ‘I may be able to beg funds from La Batailge, but I doubt they will be enough to keep me in the style to which I am accustomed.’

  Immediately, Edith removed a ring from her finger and pressed it into his hand. ‘Then you must take this. You can repay me when you are safely home.’

  Lucian accepted it, and there were tears in his eyes when he spoke. ‘You are a dear, kind lady. I shall certainly repay you – and I shall say masses for your soul every Sunday for a month.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ murmured Roger to Geoffrey. ‘He would not know the words.’

  ‘You were very wrong to leave us with Richer de Laigle,’ said Philippa scoldingly, pouting at Geoffrey. ‘Our virtue was in grave peril, and we were in constant fear of seduction.’

  ‘It must have been dreadful,’ murmured Juhel. Geoffrey glanced at him and saw humour gleam in his dark eyes for the first time since Werlinges.

  Edith regarded him coolly. ‘I hope you are not being satiric with us, Master Juhel. That would be shabby after all we have been through to defend our honour.’