The Bloodstained Throne sgm-7 Read online

  ‘Yes,’ said Edith, holding her hand with affectionate sympathy. ‘I know you do.’

  Her response suggested she did not, although Geoffrey could not begin to fathom why he felt the remark was important. The blackness was beginning to seep into his vision again, and he desperately wanted to rest. While Ulfrith beamed his delight at their gratitude, Geoffrey took the squire’s flask, hoping water might render him more alert, given that the abbey’s ale was a powerful brew. The contents were warm and brackish, but he felt better once he had swallowed it all.

  ‘We both loved him,’ said Edith, apparently realizing that she might have said something inappropriate. ‘We both made our vows to him in the sight of God, and we kept them well.’

  ‘You both married him at the same time?’ asked Juhel, smothering a startled grin.

  ‘I was a year later,’ said Philippa, sniffing. ‘But in the same church.’

  ‘This is distressing her,’ said Edith, watching her friend in concern. ‘We must not talk about it any longer. You are as bad as that spy Paisnel with your questions about our home life.’

  ‘Paisnel was not a spy,’ said Juhel. The amusement was gone. ‘He was a clerk for the Bishop of Ribe.’

  ‘Actually, I am not so sure about that,’ said Lucian. ‘I have spent a lot of time in that Bishop’s court and I never met or heard of Paisnel there. If he was a clerk, he was a very junior one.’

  ‘I knew he was exaggerating his importance!’ exclaimed Philippa. ‘Senior clerks’ names appear all over the place in legal writs, but Paisnel’s never did. And we know that because Vitalis’s personal clerk told us so, although the poor man was drowned when Patrick went down. .’

  ‘Paisnel was very familiar with Normandy, though,’ said Magnus, rubbing his head. ‘So I expect he was a spy for the Duke. He will have heard about me and will be eager to capitalize on my imminent victory over his brother the Usurper. But he can hope, because I am not rewarding any Normans — not ever.’

  ‘Except me,’ said Roger. ‘Bishop of Salisbury, remember?’

  ‘Only if you lend us some money,’ said Harold pleasantly. ‘But you may be right about Paisnel, Magnus. I heard there might be a spy on the ship you were going to take.’

  Geoffrey did not know what to think about Paisnel. Had he been murdered because he was the Duke’s spy? And if Juhel had dispatched him, was it because of Paisnel’s dubious occupation or simply an argument between friends? But it was all too complex for him to untangle, and he was grateful it was none of his affair. His attention returned to the discussion.

  ‘But how do you come to be here before us, Lady Philippa?’ Ulfrith was asking.

  Philippa gave a tight smile, evidently wishing someone more important than a squire would show concern for her welfare. ‘We left to take refuge with Galfridus the very day you abandoned us with de Laigle. We were surprised when we did not meet you on the highway; our guards said you must have taken the slower and more dangerous route across the marshes.’

  Roger shot Magnus a withering look, but the latter merely shrugged. ‘We were obliged to go that way to collect the horses. Besides, the pirates might have been watching the other route.’

  ‘Captain Fingar and his crew?’ asked Edith. ‘We did not see them. But we were escorted by several of de Laigle’s knights, all on horseback, and probably represented too formidable a target.’

  ‘Were you much battered by the storm?’ asked Ulfrith solicitously. He tried to take Philippa’s hand but was immediately pushed away.

  ‘Terribly,’ she replied, addressing her comments to Geoffrey. This did not escape Ulfrith’s notice, and some of the joy faded from his face. ‘But we arrived before it became too violent, and we have been here since Wednesday.’

  ‘Is he?’ Geoffrey asked. He sensed that everyone was regarding him oddly, and he struggled to put his question in a form Philippa might understand, wishing his mind was sharper. ‘Is Galfridus Edith’s cousin?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ replied Edith indignantly. ‘And learning of his new post was a great excuse to be away from de Laigle. So now here we all are.’

  ‘But what have you been doing?’ asked Philippa, reaching out to touch Geoffrey’s scratched face. He was aware of Ulfrith’s dismay at the gesture, but she had removed her hand before he thought to push it away. ‘Did you meet Fingar and his men?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lucian. ‘They came at us with whirling swords and cudgels. I am no fighting man, so I dropped to my knees and prayed for deliverance. But even so, we were almost killed.’

  Philippa released an appalled shriek, a sound that drew admonishing glares from several elderly monks.

  Edith wrinkled her nose at them and turned back to Lucian. ‘We were very worried about you.’

  Lucian gave a courtly bow. ‘Would you like to hear about my adventures? Then we shall sit over there, where we will not be the object of disapproval by my prudish brethren.’

  ‘How fickle she is,’ muttered Roger, as Lucian escorted Edith away. ‘She was grabbing at me like a tavern wench not three days ago and now she shifts her amorous attentions to him.’

  ‘You were the one doing the groping, not her,’ retorted Geoffrey. ‘Will you save me from Philippa, before Ulfrith attacks me again? I do not feel well, and if he tries it, I might not be able to resist the impulse to skewer him.’

  Roger tapped the side of his nose. ‘Leave it to me, lad. I will put her off you once and for all.’

  ‘Be discreet,’ warned Geoffrey. He was seized with the notion that he should not have asked.

  ‘Here,’ said Roger loudly, ‘did you know that Geoffrey carries a pox caught from whores? His wife says he should abstain from other women until he is cured.’

  For a moment, Geoffrey was not sure he had heard correctly, but then he started to laugh. ‘You are discretion personified,’ he said, though Roger clearly did not see the joke.

  ‘Well,’ drawled Juhel, wide-eyed, ‘I feel better for knowing that! But Galfridus does not need us all to tell him about Werlinges, so if you will excuse me, I shall go to the guesthouse.’

  He bowed and sauntered away.

  Philippa’s eyes narrowed as she watched Juhel leave the hall. ‘He is sly and wicked, and do not forget what I told you, Sir Geoffrey — he is a killer. Moreover, Edith asked him to write her father a letter on the ship, but when she asked one of La Batailge’s monks to read it back to her, it was nothing but meaningless symbols. Juhel had deceived her — charged her a penny for a document that was nothing but gibberish.’

  ‘Why did she hire Juhel to write it?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Why not Lucian? Or me?’

  ‘Lucian had no pen and parchment to hand and told Juhel to oblige instead — well, he is a man who makes his living from the stuff, after all.’

  ‘Do you still have it?’ asked Geoffrey, thinking about Paisnel’s documents. Did this mean he could not read them and had no idea what they contained? Or that he knew they were important, but was unable to decipher them?

  ‘Edith threw it away, but I retrieved it,’ said Philippa. ‘I am going to show it to her father when he arrives, so he can get the penny back.’

  She pulled something from the front of her gown, leaning forward provocatively. By the time his bemused wits had registered that he should look away before Ulfrith noticed, it was too late.

  ‘I was looking at the letter,’ he said, before reminding himself that he did not need to justify his actions to a servant. He took another deep breath and wondered why his mind and body were so out of step with each other. Was his injury more serious than he thought? He clumsily took the document Philippa proffered, then turned it this way and that as he attempted to stop it swimming before his eyes.

  ‘Christ’s blood!’ he muttered to himself, rubbing his eyes hard.

  ‘It looks like a neat hand to me,’ said Roger, who would not know a good one from a bad.

  ‘It is neat,’ agreed Geoffrey. ‘But these are random symbols, not letters.’ He tried to pass i
t back, but Philippa moved forward at the same time, and his hand brushed the bare skin of her bosom.

  ‘Stop!’ cried Ulfrith, shocked and angry. ‘She is a lady, and this is a monastery! Besides, you have a pox. You should not touch her.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Geoffrey, quite sincere. He realized he was addressing Ulfrith, when he had meant to speak to Philippa. He rubbed his face again. ‘Lord! What is wrong with me?’

  ‘Well, the pox, presumably,’ said Harold helpfully. ‘It is said to make men rave.’

  ‘Keep the letter,’ said Philippa, pressing it into Geoffrey’s hand. ‘Perhaps you can demand an explanation and get our penny back.’

  ‘Is it true?’ asked Magnus. ‘Is there pox among English whores? I shall put an end to that when I am king.’

  ‘How?’ asked Roger keenly. ‘By monitoring brothels? I know a lot about such places and will act as official advisor, if you like.’

  ‘Lord, I am thirsty — it must be all that seawater I swallowed,’ said Magnus, drinking more ale. ‘But I shall appoint you Whoremaster, Sir Roger. It will suit you better than Bishop of Salisbury.’

  ‘No,’ said Geoffrey, not wanting Roger to accept posts from an enemy of the King when there were witnesses. ‘He will not take it.’

  ‘I might,’ said Roger. ‘Do not be too eager to refuse tempting offers on my behalf, lad. I may never get another like it.’

  ‘I am sure you will not,’ said Harold, laughing. ‘I doubt the Usurper has a Whoremaster in his retinue, and I do not think I shall, either.’

  Geoffrey’s mind was reeling again. He thought he might feel better if he drank more water. ‘Did I finish yours, Ulfrith? My own has gone.’

  ‘Your own what?’ cried Ulfrith. ‘Whore? I assure you I do not have any.’ He shot Philippa a sanctimonious smile. ‘I do not use whores.’

  ‘Water,’ said Geoffrey impatiently, wondering whom the lad thought he was fooling. Ulfrith was as willing as the next man to avail himself of the services of ready women.

  ‘It is all gone,’ said Ulfrith, upending his flask. ‘You finished it all.’

  ‘You have a spare,’ said Roger. ‘Give it to him.’

  With considerable reluctance, Ulfrith withdrew a skin from his bag. ‘It is all I have left, so you can only have a sip.’

  But Geoffrey wanted more than a sip and was startled when Ulfrith tried to wrest it from him before he was ready.

  ‘There is water aplenty at La Batailge,’ said Philippa angrily. ‘You are a mean boy, to begrudge a thirsty man a drink when you can easily replenish your supplies. I am ashamed of you!’

  Ulfrith’s face took on a rigid, sullen look. ‘Then let him have it all,’ he snapped. ‘See if I care.’

  But Geoffrey was not interested in a quarrel and pushed the skin back at Ulfrith. It had done nothing to make him better, and he wondered if he was about to be laid low with a fever.

  ‘Brother Galfridus will see you now,’ said a monk, appearing just in time to prevent Roger from cuffing Ulfrith for his truculence. ‘He will see Harold first, and Lucian after.’

  Although the abbot’s house was a temporary building, with wooden walls and a thatched roof, it was still grand, as befitted a man who ran a community of fifty monks and a hundred lay-brothers, and who was responsible not only for overseeing the building of a monastery but also for managing its vast estates.

  It boasted three floors. The lowest comprised offices, the top was a bedchamber and private chapel, and the middle was a hall dominated by a massive table and a number of benches. There was a fireplace at one end, where a fierce fire threw out a stifling heat. The walls were decorated with religious murals, and the floor was made from polished wood. It smelled of wood smoke, lavender that hung in bunches from the rafters, and cats.

  Galfridus was a stooped, anxious man of indeterminate ancestry. His hair was an odd silvery brown, his eyes a bland brown-grey. He had a thin, nervous face, and Geoffrey’s first impression was that he was operating at the limits of his abilities — that he had been promoted to a position that did not suit him and was only just managing to cope.

  ‘Good Lord!’ he exclaimed as Magnus led the others inside. It was some moments before Geoffrey became aware that Galfridus was not looking at the Saxon, but at him. ‘It is Herleve Mappestone’s son.’

  Nine

  Geoffrey found the heat in the hall oppressive, and sweat began to course down his back. It made his senses reel even more, and he found it a struggle to stay upright. As Galfridus continued to stare, it occurred to him that there was no reason for the monk to have known his mother. Neither she nor Godric had set foot outside Herefordshire once they had received their estates, not even to inspect their lands in Normandy, nor had they made a habit of entertaining churchmen. He studied the man’s face, but there was nothing familiar about it.

  ‘Do I detect garlic?’ asked Galfridus when Geoffrey did not reply. His expression hardened. ‘I thought I told the cooks to go easy on that, and I can smell it from here. Will no one listen to me?’

  ‘I am Magnus. Your king,’ declared Magnus, somewhat out of the blue.

  ‘I know,’ said Galfridus dryly. ‘We have met on previous occasions, if you recall.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Geoffrey, his wits not so dimmed that they did not register that Magnus had claimed to have been absent for three decades. ‘Here?’

  ‘Here and in the castle at Arundel, when we were guests of Robert de Belleme. Surely you remember, Magnus?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Magnus. ‘I was telling you my name because you did not acknowledge me. You spoke to Geoffrey instead.’

  ‘That is because I am surprised to see him, whereas you are expected,’ said Galfridus.

  Geoffrey struggled to make sense of the information. More than ever he became convinced that there was more to know about Magnus’s plans.

  Galfridus addressed him again. ‘I could tell just by looking that you are Herleve’s kin. You have her face and strength of body, although not her fine black eyes. Which son are you? Walter, Stephen or Henry?’

  ‘They are all dead,’ replied Roger helpfully. ‘This is Geoffrey, Godric’s youngest son.’

  ‘Henry was the youngest,’ said Galfridus. ‘He was born here, just after the battle. I know, because I was present.’ Geoffrey had a lurid vision of the monk looming over his mother’s birthing stool and must have appeared shocked, because Galfridus hastily corrected himself. ‘I mean I was with Sir Godric, in the next room.’

  ‘Which battle?’ asked Geoffrey numbly. ‘The Fall of Jerusalem?’

  ‘The one that took place here, of course,’ hissed Roger. ‘What is the matter with you?’

  ‘I do not feel well,’ Geoffrey whispered back irritably. ‘I should never have taken Lucian’s cure-all. Is there a statue of a pig on the windowsill?’

  ‘A sheep,’ replied Roger. He beamed at Galfridus, who was regarding them uncertainly, bemused by their muttering. ‘Geoffrey was just admiring your carving.’

  ‘It is the Lamb of God,’ explained Galfridus. ‘It is from some benighted kingdom of ice, far to the north, and is made from the tusk of a sea elephant. Exquisite, is it not?’

  ‘It looks like a pig,’ said Geoffrey.

  Galfridus regarded it with troubled eyes. ‘I suppose it does, now you mention it. But we were talking about your brother. Godric never knew, but young Henry’s appearance was early, because of the battle. I advised Herleve not to fight, but when I next saw her, she was clad in mail and wielding her axe. Henry was early by three or four weeks — a puny little runt. I did not think he would survive. Did he?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘But he died.’

  Galfridus blinked, and Geoffrey was vaguely aware of Roger supplying additional details. He went to look more closely at the Lamb of God and picked it up, but it was heavier than he had anticipated and began to slide from his fingers. He moved quickly, so that it landed on the sill rather than the floor, but it did so with a resounding thump.
He grinned sheepishly.

  ‘It must have been the sight of so much blood,’ said Magnus. ‘If I had been pregnant at Hastinges, I would have dropped my brat too.’

  Geoffrey stared at him. He knew his own wits were sadly awry, but he began to wonder whether the others were similarly affected.

  ‘Blood would never upset her,’ said Galfridus admiringly. ‘She fought like a demon. I was just a novice at the time, but the sight of that noble lady waving her axe at the Saxons was a sight to behold.’

  ‘There was blood at Werlinges,’ said Geoffrey, recalling that the purpose of the visit was to inform Galfridus about the massacre, so that word could be sent to de Laigle. He rubbed his head and wondered whether it was Lucian’s cure-all or Juhel’s paste that had adversely affected him. Did one of them contain poison? But why would either want him ill? Was it something to do with Paisnel being a spy? But Geoffrey’s reeling wits were wholly incapable of providing answers.

  ‘Werlinges?’ asked Galfridus. ‘No, that was one of few villages that escaped being laid to waste by the Normans after the battle — the one place in the region where there was no blood.’

  Geoffrey felt the room begin to tip. His legs were heavy, as if he had walked halfway to Jerusalem, instead of a few miles. And then he knew nothing at all.

  When his senses cleared, he was slumped in a chair closer to the fire than was comfortable, and there was a cup of wine in his hand. He had no recollection of how it came to be there, but, judging by the lounging attitudes of Roger and the Saxons, they had been settled at the hearth for some time. He wondered how long he had been insensible, and what Galfridus’s reaction had been when he had learned about the massacre. And how had he responded when told that two claimants to the throne intended to take refuge with him? Or was he expecting them? It would certainly explain why they had been so determined to reach La Batailge — they had been meeting a co-conspirator.

  ‘Drink some wine,’ advised Galfridus, regarding him sympathetically. ‘Or perhaps I should send for a dish of carp. I apologize: I did not appreciate what a shock it must be to learn that your mother had donned armour and taken part in the most violent battle this country has ever known.’