The Bloodstained Throne Page 2

  ‘It will warn them to be careful,’ countered Geoffrey. ‘The fellow in the green hat is now even closer – so is that large man by him. Fingar will be in trouble tonight if he does not post guards.’

  ‘There is still no sign of our fellow passengers,’ said Roger, again scanning the turbulent sea. ‘I can only see crew.’

  ‘What a pity Lucian is dead,’ said Ulfrith with undisguised malice. Normally affable, Ulfrith had taken strongly against Lucian, whose courtly manners had made him feel gauche and loutish in front of Lady Philippa. He heaved a melancholy sigh. ‘Poor ladies! They were so lovely. I cannot imagine why either married Vitalis. He was old enough to be their grandfather.’

  ‘Perhaps he was their grandfather,’ suggested Bale. ‘I did not see him demanding his conjugal rights the whole time we were aboard.’

  Carefully, he began to pack away the ink pots, pens and parchment that had been in the bag Geoffrey had saved, although his disapproving expression indicated he thought his master should have taken the other one – containing clothes and a small store of gold coins.

  ‘He was seasick,’ explained Ulfrith. ‘Although I suspect an hour or two with Philippa would have cured any sickness of mine.’

  ‘And I could have managed a bout with the other one – that Edith,’ said Roger salaciously. ‘She was a fine, strapping wench, with plenty of meat for a man to—’

  ‘There is Juhel!’ exclaimed Geoffrey, pointing suddenly along the beach.

  ‘So it is,’ said Ulfrith, squinting. ‘An undertow must have pulled him away from the rest of us. He is lucky – few men live once undertows get them.’

  Bale stood to wave and catch the parchmenter’s attention. ‘He has the cage that held his pet chicken, although I cannot imagine the bird is in it.’

  Geoffrey glanced down at his dog, glad it had survived, but thinking again with sadness about his horse. He wondered if Patrick had floundered because Fingar’s greed had led him to pile her with more cargo than was safe, or if she had simply been poorly loaded.

  Juhel arrived, breathlessly relating his brush with death. He was stocky, with a wide, smiling mouth and prominent eyes reminiscent of a frog. Geoffrey wavered between liking him for his readiness to laugh and distrusting him because he had caught him out in several lies. The knight was amused to note that not only was the chicken in the cage but it was alive, albeit bedraggled.

  Geoffrey tuned out the parchmenter’s gabbling and stared pensively across the heaving waves. Another casket, badly smashed and with its lid missing, rolled on to the shingle, where it was seized by crewmen. He looked up at the sky, gauging how much daylight was left. A glance behind showed that the villagers were inching forward again, all clutching weapons. Was there time for him and his companions to reach a friendly settlement with them before dark? And how easy would it be to find another ship that was eastward-bound? He realized he must have spoken aloud, because the others were gazing at him aghast.

  ‘You intend to try again?’ whispered Ulfrith. ‘After we narrowly escaped with our lives? God is telling us not to travel east, and only a fool would disobey His wishes!’

  ‘Only a fool would have gone in the first place,’ muttered Roger. ‘And we are bigger fools for going with him.’

  ‘Then stay,’ said Geoffrey shortly. There were often violent storms in the English Channel, and he did not imagine for a moment that God had engineered one for his benefit. ‘I will go alone.’

  ‘How?’ demanded Roger. He nodded to the saddlebag in Bale’s hand. ‘You did not bother to save your gold, and you have no horse. How do you propose to reach the Holy Land?’

  He had a point. Geoffrey’s little manor on the Welsh borders was experiencing a lean period, but his sister – who managed the estate in his absence – had managed to scrape enough together for his journey. He could hardly go back and ask for more, especially since Joan had not wanted him to go in the first place. Neither had his wife – Geoffrey had recently been forced into a political marriage in the interests of peace. But he had a burning desire to travel east again, and it had not taken many weeks of life in the country before the yearning had become too strong to ignore.

  ‘You should return to Lady Hilde, sir,’ recommended Bale tentatively, when he saw Geoffrey had no reply to Roger’s remarks. ‘She is not yet with child.’

  Geoffrey gaped at the effrontery, but Bale suddenly lowered his bald head and vomited a gush of seawater, and the knight supposed he had spoken out of turn because he was not himself: Bale was normally diffident to the point of obsequiousness. Meanwhile, Roger was more concerned about their current predicament than his friend’s obligations in the marriage bed.

  ‘Fingar is incompetent,’ he declared. ‘His ship was a paltry, leaking basin, not fit to bob down a river. I could tell just by looking that it would sink in the first puff of wind.’

  ‘Then why did you not say so in Bristol?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘You were happy when we sailed – especially when you learned he might be a pirate. You entertained high hopes of joining him in his work, so you might share the spoils.’

  ‘Pirates!’ spat Roger. ‘He and his crew are no more pirates than my mother.’

  Geoffrey glanced at him. Roger had some very odd relations, so it was entirely possible that Roger’s mother – long-term Saxon mistress to the corrupt and treacherous Bishop of Durham – might take to the high seas for booty.

  ‘Irish pirates,’ said Bale, looking evilly at the seamen and fingering his favourite dagger. His weapons were his most prized possessions, lovingly honed to a vicious sharpness on a daily basis. ‘And not even a Christian part of Ireland. They are infidels who worship graven images and drink the blood of babies.’

  ‘Oh, really, Bale!’ exclaimed Geoffrey irritably. ‘They are just—’

  ‘I want them to pay for my horse,’ interrupted Roger, working himself into a temper. ‘I know they have gold, because I saw it.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Bale eagerly.

  Roger pointed with a thick finger, indicating a sturdy, heavily secured box about the length of his forearm. It stood in the middle of one of the salvaged piles. ‘I saw them counting what was in it just this morning. If they had been watching their sails instead, we would still be afloat.’

  ‘It is thanks to Fingar’s fine seamanship that we survived at all,’ argued Geoffrey. ‘A lesser sailor would have lost the ship out at sea, where we would all have drowned.’

  ‘Regardless, they will pay for my horse,’ vowed Roger.

  Meanwhile, a small sailor with a pinched, mean face became aware that Roger was eyeing the chest. Donan was Fingar’s second-in-command, and he muttered something to his companions as he pushed it out of sight. Geoffrey did not like the looks that were exchanged and was about to tell Roger to be careful when Juhel suddenly cried out, jabbing his finger towards someone struggling through the waves.

  ‘It is that rude Saxon,’ said Ulfrith. ‘The one who never bothered to tell us his name.’

  ‘His servant is with him,’ said Bale. ‘Simon.’

  But the Saxons were in difficulty. Geoffrey tore down the beach and into the churning waves, fighting to stay upright as the water surged around his legs. Too late, he realized he should have removed his armour and surcoat first. Then a crashing breaker tossed the pair within reaching distance.

  The Saxon was swimming strongly, so Geoffrey flailed towards Simon, but the Saxon grabbed Geoffrey around the neck as he passed. Geoffrey tried to push him away, but the Saxon’s grip was a powerful one. He glanced at the man’s face, expecting to see panic or terror, and was startled to see it calm and determined.

  ‘Bear me to the shore,’ the fellow ordered imperiously. ‘I cannot swim another stroke.’

  Geoffrey struggled to be free of him. ‘Your servant needs help.’

  ‘Take me to the shore first,’ the man snarled.

  Angrily, Geoffrey prised his hands away, but when he looked to where Simon had been, there was only water.

  For
the second time that afternoon, Geoffrey was forced to strip off his clothes so Bale could wring them out. It was not pleasant to replace them, chilled as he was, but even sodden garments were better than none in the biting wind. He jumped up and down in an attempt to warm himself, at the same time listening to Juhel regale the Saxon with details of how the current had dragged him miles along the beach before he could break free of it. The Saxon remained haughtily aloof, although he did not object when Juhel helped him remove his clothes for wringing – now the hapless Simon was dead he seemed unsure how to make himself more comfortable.

  ‘You cannot go to the Holy Land, Sir Geoffrey,’ said Bale, resuming their earlier conversation as though it had never been interrupted. ‘God wants you to stay here, see.’

  Roger agreed. ‘He wants us in England, and I dare not risk His wrath again. I am staying and I urge you to do the same.’

  Geoffrey was relieved. Since he had no money, taking companions was out of the question anyway. He would miss Roger’s ready sword and cheerful friendship, but it could not be helped.

  ‘We are lucky,’ said Bale. ‘Not only are we still alive, but we are still in England. We might have ended up in Normandy.’ He crossed himself vigorously, shooting the others meaningful looks.

  Ulfrith nodded sagely. ‘And with Robert de Bellême rampaging there we would have been killed within a week.’

  ‘Do not be ridiculous!’ said Roger. ‘How would he have known we had arrived? Bellême does not rule all Normandy, and he does not know everything that happens.’

  Bale and Ulfrith exchanged a glance that said they thought differently. Geoffrey was wary of the wicked Earl of Shrewsbury’s network of informants, too. Bellême had been banished from England the previous year and was currently venting his spleen on his Norman domains, leaving behind death and destruction. Geoffrey’s decision to travel to the Holy Land the longer way through Denmark and Franconia said a good deal about his reluctance to venture into the hellish maelstrom of Bellême’s sphere of influence.

  The light was fading, but with the end of the day came a respite from the storm. The wind lessened and the stinging slash of rain gave way to drizzle. The waves still crashed on to the shore, however, thrusting pieces of wreckage before them. As the locals resumed their relentless advance, Geoffrey suggested that he and his companions find somewhere safe to spend the night.

  ‘Which way?’ asked Roger, gathering up his possessions. Besides his armour and weapons, he had somehow contrived to save all his better clothes and a heavy pouch stuffed with coins and jewellery. Geoffrey might be penniless, but Roger remained wealthy.

  Geoffrey considered. ‘Just before we left the ship I saw a tower. It was probably a church, but it looked to be made of stone, so it must belong to a settlement of some substance – not like the hamlets of these fishermen.’

  ‘Then why did no one come to help us?’ demanded Roger. ‘It is unchristian to sit in warm houses while we shiver out here.’

  ‘All the villages around here consider wrecks their personal property,’ stated Ulfrith.

  Geoffrey grimaced. Ulfrith spoke with conviction, but he was miles from where he grew up, so could not know what ‘all the villages around here’ believed. Still, Geoffrey was sure about one thing: the sullen fishermen who fingered their knives and cudgels were Saxon and would certainly be happy to strike a blow against two Norman knights. The conquest thirty-seven years before was still raw in the minds of many, and Normans had done little to make themselves popular with the nation they had so ruthlessly subjugated.

  ‘We had better make a move before it is too dark,’ he said.

  ‘I think that headland we passed – the one with the beacon – lies a few miles from Pevenesel,’ said Ulfrith tentatively. ‘We cannot be very far from the castle there.’

  ‘Good,’ said Roger fervently. ‘I would rather lie in a cramped hall full of snoring Norman soldiers than on a Saxon feather mattress.’

  ‘Look!’ cried Bale suddenly. ‘Someone else is coming our way!’

  Ulfrith gave a grin of unadulterated delight. ‘It is Lady Philippa and Lady Edith! They must have been washed farther down the coast, like Juhel.’

  With a happy whoop, he raced away to greet them.

  Two

  Philippa and Edith were elegant ladies, but chalk and cheese. Edith was a tall, golden-haired beauty with a long neck, large blue eyes and haughty Norman manners; Philippa was small, dark, lively and full of opinions. Edith was older and the more dominant of the pair.

  Geoffrey had spent little time in their company on Patrick due to their husband’s vehement accusations. However, what he had seen of them convinced him there was not an intelligent thought in the head of either.

  ‘Vitalis is dead!’ wept Philippa as Ulfrith ushered them forward. ‘He was alive when we reached the shore, but water must have swelled inside his lungs and choked him, even as he gave thanks for his deliverance. What shall I do now? He was all I had!’

  ‘There, there, sister,’ crooned Edith. ‘We shall look after each other. I will never leave you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Philippa, forcing a wan smile. ‘And I suppose we have two knights to protect us now. Thank God! I thought we might have to throw ourselves on the mercy of a rabble.’

  She gazed distastefully at the pirates and then at Ulfrith and Bale, who, as mere squires, were too lowly to be considered genteel company. Ulfrith did not notice and continued to beam. His happy grin faded at the next comment, however.

  ‘Have you seen dear Brother Lucian?’ asked Edith. ‘We looked for him on the beach but saw only two drowned sailors. And Lucian’s manservant. He was dead, too.’

  ‘Poor man,’ said Juhel with gentle compassion.

  Philippa barely glanced at him, clearly considering a mere parchmenter beneath her. Then she started to cry. ‘Actually, it is poor Vitalis! And poor Lucian!’

  ‘Vitalis was a good man,’ Edith agreed, also tearful. ‘We shall have masses said for his soul when we reach a place of safety.’ After a moment, she inclined her head towards the villagers. ‘Do they mean to attack us? They seem very menacing.’

  ‘They frighten me,’ added Philippa. ‘I do not want to stay here.’

  Edith agreed. ‘No one else will come ashore alive now, and we should consider our own safety. It distresses me to leave without knowing poor Brother Lucian’s fate, but he would have understood our need to protect ourselves.’

  ‘He certainly would,’ muttered Ulfrith. ‘He was a selfish brute, who put himself above everyone. He was the first overboard when Fingar gave the order to abandon ship.’

  ‘We must stay together,’ said Juhel to Geoffrey and Roger, apparently deciding that two knights represented his best chance of staying alive. ‘At least until we reach civilization.’

  ‘Do you have money?’ asked Roger bluntly. ‘Or just that chicken?’

  Juhel smiled and raised the cage so everyone could see the disconsolate bundle within. Geoffrey saw his dog lick its lips and leaned down to grab it before it did anything irreversible.

  ‘My bird is worth more than all the treasure in Jerusalem,’ Juhel declared. ‘But I have enough gold to pay my way. I saved my dagger, too, so I am not completely helpless. But the ladies are right: we should not linger here with daylight fading.’

  ‘A knight with a sword is better than a merchant with a dagger,’ said Philippa, simpering at Geoffrey. ‘We are fortunate to have found you.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Edith. She rested a hand on Roger’s arm and beamed. ‘I know you will find us somewhere warm tonight.’

  ‘Aye, lass,’ said Roger with a leer that suggested he might supply some of the heat personally.

  ‘Then we should go,’ said Geoffrey promptly. ‘We will walk towards that tower I saw.’

  ‘And tomorrow?’ asked the Saxon haughtily. ‘What happens tomorrow?’

  Geoffrey shrugged. ‘If we do not find shelter, there may not be a tomorrow for us.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed
Roger. ‘The fellow with the green hat is still watching us. The others are concentrating on Fingar’s salvage, but not him. Look! There he is among those trees.’

  ‘So he is,’ muttered Geoffrey, following Roger’s gaze. ‘And his large friend is with him. Is he interested in us because he thinks we will be easier to rob? Or is there another reason?’

  Unsettled by the peculiar interest of the green-hatted man and his hulking friend, Geoffrey began to walk towards the tower. Roger marched behind him, Edith clinging to his arm, followed by the other passengers, with Bale bringing up the rear. Philippa ran to catch up with Geoffrey, but so did Ulfrith, taking her hand in a powerful grip to support her over the uneven surface. She grimaced, loath to settle for a squire when her friend had a knight, but she made the best of it and began to chatter gaily about herself – the subject she seemed to like best.

  She had some serious competition, though, because Juhel was also determined to hear his own voice. He rattled on about some perfumed oil he had sold to Bellême. Geoffrey was dubious: he could not imagine that ruthless tyrant being interested in fripperies. As they babbled, Geoffrey glanced behind him to ensure Bale was carrying out his duties as vanguard.

  He need not have worried. Bale took seriously any order issued by his master and was assiduously looking backwards every two or three steps to ensure no one was in pursuit. He had Geoffrey’s dog on a piece of rope, knowing the animal would growl if any villager came too close. Geoffrey had a feeling the would-be looters would be disappointed if they did intend to attack after dark: about thirty sailors had survived, and such a large group would present a formidable challenge.

  ‘Have you noticed that Saxon has attached himself to us?’ asked Ulfrith of Geoffrey, rather indignantly. ‘He has been very unfriendly, so I do not know how he dares!’

  ‘Because we are a better proposition than Fingar and his rabble,’ said Juhel, overhearing. ‘We will not slit his throat in the night and make off with his belongings.’