The Bloodstained Throne Read online

  ‘Illness had turned him self-absorbed and greedy, and the Vitalis you met was not the one who stood here and fought for the Conqueror. Do not think badly of him.’

  Geoffrey inclined his head, although he would make up his own mind about Vitalis once he had heard the truth from Wardard.

  ‘It is wicked to denigrate a beloved father to a son,’ Wardard went on. ‘Dangerous, too – it is not unknown for sons to withdraw masses for their forbears’ souls when they learn certain things. I would not like such a fate to befall Godric’s beleaguered soul.’

  ‘Did you know him well?’

  ‘Did you?’ countered Wardard.

  It was not an easy question to answer. Geoffrey had been sent away for knightly training at the age of twelve and had not met Godric again for twenty years. His memories were of an aggressive, brutal tyrant, who had ruled his household with a brooding temper and ready fists. They had never shared confidences, and even when he was dying, Godric had lied and schemed.

  ‘Not really,’ he replied eventually.

  ‘King Harold stood where you are now,’ said Wardard, after another silence. ‘He had come up in the night and chose to fight from this rise. His men stood close-packed, with their shields forming a solid wall. Duke William’s troops were down there, just out of range of the Saxon archers, and there was a bog between them. And then the Normans advanced.’

  ‘Up there, first,’ said Geoffrey, waving his hand towards the west, as he recalled Godric’s descriptions. ‘That was where the Bretons were stationed, and my father was with them. The main troops and Duke William were straight ahead.’

  ‘It was the Breton advance that almost saw the battle lost in its first hour,’ said Wardard. ‘They became mired in the bogs, then were forced to ride up this hill directly into the path of the Saxon archers. Their horses were unprotected, and most who reached the Saxon line were on foot, their mounts shot from under them. The Saxon counter-attack was savage, and it turned into a rout.’

  ‘Vitalis said my father told his men to retreat before they were halfway up this hill,’ said Geoffrey. ‘On the grounds that the assault was impossible. Once the Breton line was broken, the other invaders might have left the field – and the victory – to Harold. It was only William’s leadership that kept them in battle formation.’

  Wardard rubbed his chin. ‘It was not easy to watch our comrades slaughtered in such terrible numbers. Our archers were supposed to have advanced first, but their arrows ran out. The Breton advance was a total failure – and demoralizing, too.’

  ‘Was my father the first to run?’

  Geoffrey found he was afraid of the answer, worried that if Godric had been a coward, then cowardice might be in his own blood, and his courage might fail when he was faced with impossible odds. Of course, it had not failed at Civitot, Nicea, Antioch, Jerusalem or countless other skirmishes through the years when he had been certain he was going to die.

  Wardard studied him. ‘What did Godric tell you?’

  Geoffrey sighed, not liking the way Wardard answered questions with questions. ‘That he led the charge, screamed encouragement to the faint-hearted, killed at least twenty Saxons in the first assault, and was among the last to leave when it became a rout.’

  ‘And what do you believe?’

  Geoffrey studied the terrain, noting the steep angle of the ridge and the soft, muddy ground that would need to be traversed before making the laborious ascent. And he saw how easy it would have been to rain arrows down on those who were scrambling up it.

  ‘That the Norman leading the charge was not likely to have lived very long.’

  Wardard nodded. ‘So, you have unveiled one truth without my help. It was impossible to tell who reached the Saxons first, but the leaders quickly became trapped between Harold’s line and the press of Bretons surging behind. Death was inevitable.’

  ‘What else can you tell me?’ asked Geoffrey unhappily, seeing how the discussion was going to go. It was not that he was disappointed in Godric, whom he had never respected, but that he failed to understand how he could then have lied about his conduct on such an unrestrained scale.

  Wardard’s expression was wistful. ‘I had an excellent view of the proceedings, although most of the time I wished I had not. But what I recall most vividly was your mother, swinging her axe. There was not a braver woman in Christendom than Lady Herleve. It was a pity she disguised herself, because her courage would have fired the palest of hearts. If she, a woman heavy with child, could fight like a lion, then so could any man.’

  ‘I am sure she was spectacular,’ said Geoffrey, recalling how she had always bested him and his brothers at axe work. ‘But I would rather hear about my father.’

  ‘He was given fine estates as a reward for his actions that day,’ said Wardard evasively.

  ‘I would like to know if he was awarded them on false pretences.’

  ‘No,’ said Wardard, standing up. ‘It was a long time ago, and no good can come of opening old wounds. Think of him as a great hero, because that is what he wanted you to believe. And your mother certainly was. If you love them, you will do this.’

  ‘But I do not—’ Geoffrey was going to say that he did not love Godric or Herleve and never had, but Wardard raised a hand to silence him.

  ‘We shall not speak of this again. Now, I have much to do: the Duke of Normandy is coming.’

  Geoffrey had been about to argue, but the last statement jarred. ‘You mean he has invaded?’

  Wardard smiled. ‘I would not go that far, although he is here without an invitation from King Henry. He apparently arrived with a handful of knights and intends to visit the abbey before riding to Winchester.’

  ‘Not an invasion, then,’ said Geoffrey relieved.

  ‘Not from him. But who knows about Bellême, who has been thinking of revenge ever since his defeat last year? He might be crazed enough to attempt it, and strange ships have been seen . . .’

  Geoffrey lingered on the rainswept battlefield. Had Wardard really refused to tell him the truth because he felt nothing good could come from sullying the memory of a dead warrior? Or was there another reason? It had not escaped Geoffrey’s attention how many old men spoke warmly of his mother, and she had certainly been the more popular of the two. Was the tale of Godric’s cowardice mere spite from thwarted rivals?

  When he eventually returned to the hospital, he found Roger had visited the barber. His hair and beard were neatly trimmed, his face was scrubbed, and the wild, barbaric look he had assumed since the wreck was moderated. His surcoat had been cleaned, his boots polished, and the half-armour he wore as a knight at ease was spotless.

  ‘Is there a brothel nearby?’ Geoffrey asked.

  ‘Have you not heard?’ asked Roger. ‘The Duke of Normandy is coming, and Galfridus intends to honour him with a feast.’

  ‘Galfridus plays a dangerous game,’ said Geoffrey. ‘How many more of the King’s enemies will he house under his roof?’

  ‘The Duke is not Henry’s enemy. He is his brother.’

  Geoffrey did not bother to point out that family members were usually the most deadly enemies when thrones were at stake. ‘Why is he coming?’

  ‘According to Aelfwig, some of the Duke’s friends – such as the Earl of Surrey – lost their English estates after helping Bellême last year, and he has come to ask for them to be given back.’

  ‘Why should Henry agree to that when they sided against him – and might again in the future?’

  ‘Such heady affairs are not our concern,’ said Roger carelessly. ‘But I am hoping it might set a precedent that will bring back my father, who is also in exile for defying Henry. So I thought I should make myself presentable.’ He flaunted his finery. ‘What do you think?’

  Geoffrey shrugged. ‘Very fine. Where is Bale?’

  ‘He went with Galfridus’s groom to Werlinges, to collect those horses. Apparently, de Laigle decided they were not worth taking and left them. Bale persuaded Galfridus to let hi
m rescue them. Why? Do you want him to wash your clothes? You probably should clean up for the feast.’

  Brushing the advice away, Geoffrey told him what he had learned from Juhel and from his examination of Gyrth and Edith. As Roger mulled over the new information, the door opened and Bale walked in. His bald head shone with sweat, and he made straight for the wine jug. Finding it empty, he headed for the bucket of water Ulfrith fetched from the well each morning. Without bothering with a cup, he grasped the entire thing, lifted it to his lips and tipped. Most cascaded down his neck and chest, and Geoffrey sighed – he had wanted a drink himself.

  ‘Ulfrith has some spare water,’ said Roger, guessing the reason for his friend’s disapproval.

  ‘Again?’ muttered Ulfrith, glaring at Bale for his greed.

  Roger’s expression hardened. ‘Again. And you will not answer back if you know what is good for you. I am tired of your cheek.’

  Ulfrith was no fool and relinquished the flask, albeit reluctantly. Geoffrey took a gulp, but the contents had a bitter, unpleasant flavour. He supposed Ulfrith had added something nasty, in the hope that he would find another source in future.

  ‘Do not drink any more,’ said Ulfrith. He sounded concerned, and Geoffrey regarded him coldly, knowing his suspicions were correct.

  ‘Dogs had been in Werlinges church, after the charred corpses,’ reported Bale ghoulishly. ‘The fire did not burn hot enough, see, and some of them were still whole.’

  Geoffrey shuddered. Bale’s fascination with such matters really was disagreeable.

  ‘The groom and I dug a pit and buried the larger pieces,’ Bale was saying. ‘I said a few Latin words, like you did for Vitalis.’

  ‘What did you say, exactly?’ asked Geoffrey.

  Bale quoted a few of Geoffrey’s favourite obscenities, usually employed when he did not want others to know he was insulting them, and he saw he would have to be more careful in the future.

  ‘De Laigle did not wait around after he fired the church,’ Bale continued. ‘But he should have done, because a lot of it is intact, and so were several houses he put to the torch. I thought looters would have been, but there was no sign of any.’

  ‘You said de Laigle had already stripped the place,’ said Roger. ‘So there was probably nothing worth having.’

  ‘There were tables, benches and the like. And there was the altar cross, which de Laigle told his men to leave for fear of being damned. But that sort of thing does not usually bother scavengers.’

  ‘True,’ agreed Roger. ‘So it is odd that they did not take advantage of the situation – the ones who haunted the beach after the ship went down were determined, to say the least.’

  ‘It was odd,’ agreed Bale. ‘And did I tell you that blood had been smeared on all the doors? Like a warning that it could happen again elsewhere.’

  Geoffrey frowned. ‘I did not notice any.’

  ‘It was not there initially,’ said Bale. ‘It had appeared by the time I returned with de Laigle. Perhaps that is why he did not linger. I wonder if the pirates did it, to warn folk for the future.’

  Geoffrey did not know what to make of it. He handed the water flask back to Ulfrith as he considered the matter.

  ‘Since de Laigle did not explore much, I had a poke around myself,’ Bale continued. ‘But I have not had a chance to tell you because you were too ill. Would you like to hear now?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Geoffrey. Ulfrith’s water had disagreed with him, and he felt slightly sick.

  Bale forged on. ‘De Laigle said it was obvious that the pirates were responsible – that a massacre and rough foreigners in the area could not be unrelated. But you said you were uncertain, so I decided to inspect the corpses for pieces of clothing ripped from their killers in their death throes.’ His eyes gleamed strangely.

  ‘Did you find any?’ asked Geoffrey, intrigued.

  ‘No,’ came the disappointing reply. Then Bale grimaced. ‘Moreover, I was so busy looking for clues on your behalf that the soldiers grabbed everything of value before I could get to it. There was nothing left for me.’

  ‘You got that little cross,’ said Ulfrith comfortingly. ‘And a nice, thick habit to cut up and make into a new tunic.’

  Bale reached inside his jerkin and brought out a small wooden cross of the kind worn by novices. ‘It is nothing, and Galfridus will probably ask for it back if he finds out I have it.’

  Geoffrey took it from him, then told him to fetch the habit. When it arrived, he inspected it carefully, noting the faint spray of blood across the front. He smiled at Bale and clapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘You underestimate yourself. You have found a very important clue indeed. You see these letters carved on the cross? They spell “Gyrth”.’

  ‘Gyrth!’ breathed Roger. ‘The man who tried to kill you.’

  ‘The very same. And Bale has just found his cross, and probably his habit, in a village where every living soul was murdered.’

  Twelve

  The following day, the abbey was full of chaos as monks and laymen hurried to make everything perfect for the Duke of Normandy. The other guests were considered a nuisance: they were of no help with the preparations, but still needed to be fed. Magnus was particularly bothersome, complaining vociferously that no such preparations had been made for him.

  Bale went to where a scanty breakfast of bread and unripe apples had been left, and swept the lot into a basket, which he then bore away. Realizing they would not eat unless they followed him, Magnus, Harold, Lucian and Juhel trailed him to where Geoffrey and Roger were sitting in the sun on a day as clear and blue as high summer.

  Ulfrith was not far behind, carrying a bucket of ale. Geoffrey regarded it with a distinct lack of interest, and since his own water-skin was inside, he deftly unhooked Ulfrith’s and took several gulps before he was discovered. He had spent an unsettled night with uncomfortable griping in his innards, and the bitter taste did little to put him in a better mood. With a scowl, Ulfrith stamped inside the building and pointedly retrieved Geoffrey’s own, thrusting it into his hands.

  Geoffrey declined the bread Bale offered, then rested his elbows on his knees and listened to the argument that broke out when Bale refused to share the food. Roger ordered the squire to accommodate the others, but only after he had taken the best for himself.

  ‘What was in that water, Ulfrith?’ asked Geoffrey after a while.

  Ulfrith regarded him in alarm. ‘Nothing! Why?’

  ‘It tasted bitter. Did you add anything that will make me sick again?’

  ‘Look!’ Ulfrith seized his flask and took several large gulps, although he winced as they went down. ‘See? The leather is old, so perhaps you can taste the tanning.’

  Geoffrey was not convinced but supposed Ulfrith’s concoction could not be too deadly if he was prepared to drink it himself. He turned his attention back to Roger and Lucian.

  ‘I did not kill Edith!’ Lucian was shouting. ‘Galfridus believes me or he would have locked me away. He accepts that I was praying all night, so why do you not?’

  ‘You did not recite a single office aboard ship, so why would you start now?’ snapped Roger. ‘Or were you doing it as penance for Edith’s murder?’

  ‘Go to Hell,’ muttered Lucian through clenched teeth.

  At that moment, Philippa arrived. Still scowling furiously at Roger, Lucian offered her his arm and invited her to stroll to the fishponds with him; good manners would not permit him to leave her in the company of rough knights, stupid squires and loutish Saxons.

  ‘Do not go down there,’ Harold called after them, cheeks bulging with the best part of a bulb of garlic. ‘There have been reports of pirates in the area, and that part of the abbey is a bit remote.’

  ‘Pirates?’ asked Philippa in alarm. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes – ask Ulfrith,’ replied Harold. ‘One of them shot at Sir Geoffrey, who is only alive now due to Ulfrith’s remarkable courage and foresight.’

  Geoffrey
laughed, earning himself a black glare from Ulfrith. The scowl intensified when Philippa declined to ask for details and flounced away at Lucian’s side. Appetite gone, Ulfrith tossed his bread back into the basket, where it was seized by Magnus, moving fractionally faster than Harold. Magnus grinned, gratified by the victory over his rival.

  ‘Are you saying these pirates came inside the abbey?’ Juhel asked uneasily.

  ‘Fingar told me he has been wandering around as he pleases,’ replied Geoffrey.

  ‘He had better not wander near me,’ growled Roger, ‘or he will find a sword in his gizzard.’

  ‘Do you still intend to leave today?’ asked Juhel. ‘To tell King Henry what is happening here? If so, you will have to watch yourselves, or Fingar and his crew will be after you in a trice.’

  ‘He is still not right,’ said Roger, jerking his thumb at Geoffrey. ‘And I refuse to let him go until he is. Besides, I do not want to leave without meeting the Duke. What is in that bag around your neck, Bale? It seems to get bigger every time I see it.’

  ‘This?’ asked Bale, shooting a nervous glance in Geoffrey’s direction. ‘Just bits and pieces.’

  ‘Not from Werlinges, I hope,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I thought the cross and habit were all you took.’

  ‘They were,’ said Ulfrith, standing up for his comrade. ‘He had the ring from Vitalis on the beach, and he stole money from the dead shepherd in the wood. None of that is from Werlinges.’

  Furious, Bale came to his feet fast, a dangerous look in his eyes. Ulfrith was startled, not understanding what he had done wrong. Geoffrey stood, too, and glared at Bale until he subsided.

  ‘What did you tell him that for?’ Bale demanded furiously.

  ‘I was defending you,’ snapped Ulfrith, angry in his turn. ‘I told him what you already had, so he does not assume it was from Werlinges. I was being a good friend to you.’

  Geoffrey sat again, grateful Ulfrith’s brand of friendship did not extend to him.

  Bale pulled a face at him, then turned to Geoffrey. ‘I was going to tell you, sir, but then you gave me that lecture at Werlinges, so I thought I had better keep quiet. I borrowed this from the shepherd, because I thought it was odd – a shepherd having this much gold.’