The Bloodstained Throne (25 page)

‘Edith was strangled with ribbon,’ Philippa went on. ‘Who would do such a thing?’

‘Just like your husband,’ Geoffrey said absently.

Philippa gaped at him. ‘What did you say?’

Too late, Geoffrey realized that unless Ulfrith or Bale had told her what they had found, she would be ignorant of the fact that Vitalis had suffered a similar fate. Philippa gazed at him in horror as he described what they had discovered at Vitalis’s grave. He watched her closely for a sign that she might have known something about it, but from her shock, he thought that she had not.

‘Oh, God!’ she whispered. ‘Edith had some ribbon that Paisnel gave her, and we planned to use it to secure Vitalis’s cloak when we buried him. But a squall came and we ran for shelter. When we came back, it had blown away.’

Geoffrey took the bull by the horns. ‘You said you were with Vitalis when he died. That means either
you
strangled him or you are lying.’

‘It means neither! He gasped and choked in my arms, and I
saw
the life pass from him. Then the shower came, and Edith and I ran for shelter. We buried him when we returned.’

Geoffrey was not sure whether to believe her. It
was
a plausible explanation, but only just.

‘I would never harm him,’ she continued when he said nothing. ‘Without him I have nothing.’

‘Then what about Edith? She was less fond of him than you.’

‘But not enough to kill him! And I have changed my mind: you will
not
investigate Edith’s death. You will reach entirely the wrong conclusion. I am sure it is Juhel. He saw me leave and decided to chance his hand while my poor friend was alone, strangling her when she refused him.’

There was no more to be said, so Geoffrey took his leave, walking fast down the nearest path to test his strength. When he reached the bottom of the hill, he strode across the boggy area, towards the abbey’s carp ponds, hidden from the buildings by trees. He was breathless when he stopped. Roger was right: he needed more time to recover. He leaned against a tree to catch his breath, noting that he had reached the far southern boundary of La Batailge’s precinct.

He had not been there long when he heard a snap. He glanced up at the wall and saw a head poking over the top, and in the fellow’s hands was a loaded crossbow.

‘Do not move,’ ordered Fingar. ‘Or it will be the last thing you do.’

The captain had a clear shot and could not possibly miss from close range. Geoffrey was disgusted with himself for not wearing his armour. He glanced behind, noting that the ponds were completely screened by trees, so he should expect no rescue from anyone at the abbey.

‘We meet again,’ said Fingar softly. ‘I am pleased to see you recovered.’

‘Did you visit me in the hospital?’ asked Geoffrey, buying time while he tried to devise a way to escape.

Fingar smiled enigmatically and declined to answer. ‘Are you here to catch fish for the monk who is pretending to be the abbot?’

‘No, I came for a walk,’ replied Geoffrey, flapping away a marsh insect that whined around his face. ‘Why are
you
here?’

‘Why do you think? We have been watching La Batailge for days now and know how to move through its grounds unseen, especially at night. I have even been in the church, to thank God for delivering us from the storm.’ Fingar paused. ‘And to ask Him to help us get our gold back.’

‘How much did Roger take?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Was it a purse, or the entire chest?’

Fingar grimaced. ‘You know the answer to that. However, if you can persuade him to give it back, I shall let you both live. Refuse, and you will die. See reason, Sir Geoffrey. What use is gold, unless you are alive to enjoy it?’

Roger would never part with what he had taken, and Fingar might just as well have asked for the moon. Geoffrey doubted the pirate would keep his end of the bargain anyway – Roger had sentenced them both to look over their shoulders for the rest of their lives. Silently, he cursed his friend’s greed.

‘I will do my best,’ he promised. ‘How is Donan?’

‘More eager to leave with every passing day. You would be amazed at how many carts and horses start to appear on the roads after dark and how many men skulk in the shadows – it is downright dangerous here! And this abbey is a veritable refuge for thieves and murderers. Besides Roger, there is Philippa. At least, that is what Donan claims.’

‘Donan thinks Philippa stole something?’

‘No, he thinks she threw Paisnel overboard. I told you this the other night—’

Suddenly, Fingar disappeared from the wall, accompanied by a howl of pain. Geoffrey gazed in surprise, wondering if the abbey guards had dragged him down from the other side.

‘Run!’ came an urgent voice from behind him.

Geoffrey spun around: it was Ulfrith. He raced after the squire, who did not stop until they were well outside arrow range. Hands on knees to catch his breath, Geoffrey saw Ulfrith held several large stones.

‘You have not been well,’ said Ulfrith in explanation. ‘So I followed you, to make sure you came to no harm. It was good I did.’

But Geoffrey suspected he had been in no danger, because Fingar hoped to use him to retrieve his gold – Ulfrith’s well-meant interruption had merely served to end the conversation before Geoffrey had asked all his questions. Still, at least he now knew that Fingar
had
visited him in the hospital – and that Donan’s peculiar claim that it was Philippa who had tossed Paisnel overboard was not a figment of a fevered imagination.

‘Did Roger tell you to follow me?’ he asked. With hardly a pause, he answered his own question. ‘No, he would have come himself. You acted on your own initiative, because you were afraid I was going to meet Philippa.’

‘Well, I was right,’ said Ulfrith sullenly. ‘You
did
meet her.’

‘Not on purpose – she crept up on me. Do you have any water? All that running . . .’

‘Here.’ It was Geoffrey’s own flask, and Ulfrith gestured impatiently when the knight hesitated to take it. ‘I filled it from the well before I followed you to the church, so it is perfectly safe. I thought if I brought your own supply, you might stop taking mine.’

Geoffrey drank and began to feel better.

Ulfrith hesitated, then spoke in a rush. ‘Do you feel any . . . do you feel
love
for Lady Philippa? Did you offer her your heart and tell her you would be hers for ever?’

Geoffrey regarded him warily, thinking these were odd questions to be asking a battle-hardened knight. Especially one who was married. ‘No,’ he replied cautiously. ‘Why?’

‘You did not feel an urge to take her?’

Geoffrey blinked. ‘We were in a church, Ulfrith! What kind of man do you think I am?’

Ulfrith did not look convinced. ‘Then what did you talk about so intently?’

Geoffrey’s patience was wearing thin. ‘That is none of your affair. I am grateful to you for driving off Fingar, but that does not give you the right to question my actions. Not ever.’

Ulfrith regarded him sullenly, then turned on his heel and slouched away. Geoffrey shook his head, heartily wishing he had never made the vow to Joan, because the young man’s passions had grown too tiresome.

Eleven

The following day was grey and drizzly, and there was a tang of salt in the air. Geoffrey woke when the bell sounded for prime, and he reached out to pet his dog before remembering it was not there. He wished he had asked Fingar about it the previous day. As the notion that it was in the man’s stomach made further sleep impossible, he went to the church.

When the service was over, he headed to the lady chapel, muttering prayers of thanks for his deliverance from the shipwreck and the return of his health. Seeing Philippa enter, he left before she could waylay him, and sat near a pillar in the south transept. It was not long before Magnus joined him.

‘Harold said you were better. Who poisoned us, do you think? I am certain the vile deed was aimed at me, and I was less badly affected because I am stronger.’

Geoffrey generally enjoyed excellent health and doubted the cadaverous Magnus was fitter than him. ‘Who do you think wants you dead?’ he asked.

Magnus pursed his lips. ‘Well, there are a great many Normans, starting with the Usurper. And not all Saxons are enamoured of me. Lord Gyrth is something of a malcontent.’

‘Who is Lord Gyrth?’

‘The Earl of East Anglia – my cousin. Well, his father was Earl and he would have inherited the title had Gyrth the Elder not died at Hastinges. The Bastard promptly appointed a Norman to the earldom, so Gyrth was disinherited. He is desperate to retrieve his birthright.’

Absently, Geoffrey wondered whether Gyrth’s name was on the list of potential rebels.

‘Here is Harold,’ said Magnus disapprovingly. ‘Grinning as usual and arriving on a waft of garlic.
Must
he smile all the time? And must he fraternize with servants? He will never be king by being popular.’

‘He might,’ Geoffrey pointed out. ‘You say the competition between you will be decided by an election. People will vote for him if they like him.’

‘But peasants will not vote,’ said Magnus in disdain. ‘Only nobles. Men like Gyrth.’

‘Gyrth!’ said Harold, overhearing as he approached. ‘There is a sullen fellow! He once told me that the only music he enjoys is the screams of dying Normans. What sort of man says that?’

‘There is Philippa,’ said Magnus, pointing as she emerged from the Lady Chapel. Her path crossed that of Lucian, and she took his arm playfully, much to the disapproval of the older monk who was with him. ‘And that is Brother Wardard, one of the “heroes” of Hastinges.’

‘I should speak to him,’ said Geoffrey. But he hung back, lest Philippa made another play for him, thus earning him the old monk’s disapproval, too. He wanted the truth about his father, not some tale coloured by what Wardard thought of his association with Philippa.

He waited, but Wardard went with Philippa when she left, apparently deciding she needed a chaperon. Geoffrey lingered by the high altar, in case he returned, but he was to be disappointed.

Eventually, a bell rang to announce breakfast. The monks filed into their refectory, the servants to a hall near the brewery, and the visitors collected bread, boiled eggs and salted fish from the kitchens – there was ale, but Geoffrey opted for Ulfrith’s water. He was surprised by the number of pilgrims, mostly Saxons, who were suddenly in evidence. Apparently unwilling to share the hospital with Norman knights, they had established a little tented camp near the gatehouse.

‘I am still surprised you recovered, Sir Geoffrey,’ said Aelfwig, when their paths crossed after the meal. He was with another monk – a tall man with a facial twitch. ‘Indeed, I told Roger to prepare for the worst one night and suggested he put a deposit down on a coffin – we only have one in stock at the moment, you see, and there is a sick villager who might have claimed it first.’

‘Oh,’ said Geoffrey, unsure of the appropriate response to such a remark.

‘You should be more careful in your predictions, Aelfwig,’ chided his companion. ‘You declared poor Abbot Henry cured from his fever last year, and he died within the hour.’ He turned to Geoffrey. ‘I am Ralph of Bec, the abbey’s sacristan.’

Aelfwig reached out and grabbed the charm Geoffrey wore around his neck before he could acknowledge the sacristan’s greeting.

‘What is this? A heathen artefact? You should denounce such things and put your faith in God.’

‘Just as long as he does not put his faith in you,’ murmured Ralph. He changed the subject before Aelfwig could defend himself. ‘I heard you were not very impressed by Galfridus’s collection of sculptures, Sir Geoffrey. You took a particular dislike to his amethyst horse, I am told.’

Geoffrey remembered nothing about a horse, although he vividly recollected the ivory carving on the windowsill. ‘The Lamb of God looks like a pig,’ he said.

The monks looked shocked, but before Geoffrey could say he was referring to the artwork, Ralph adopted an expression of concern.

‘Brother Wardard hopes to meet you today, but I hope you will not distress
him
with sacrilegious remarks. He is a good, honourable soul and will not appreciate heresy.’

‘Very well,’ said Geoffrey, suspecting there was no point in trying to rectify the misunderstanding. Thinking it might be a good time to look at the body of the man Bale had killed, he asked where the charnel house was.

‘Why?’ asked Aelfwig nervously. ‘Who told you that several of my other patients lie there?’

‘No one,’ said Geoffrey, supposing he had been right to refuse the herbalist’s raspberry tonic. ‘I want to look at the body of the man Bale killed, to see if I recognize him.’

‘He is to be buried this morning,’ said Ralph, ‘so you had better hurry. It is over there.’

He flapped vaguely with his hand, then both monks hurried away. Ralph’s directions had encompassed at least three buildings, and the first one Geoffrey tried was a small hut, apparently used as an annex dormitory when the hospital was full. It was dark inside, because the window shutters were closed, and he was surprised to see Juhel inspecting documents by candlelight. Juhel moved quickly when he saw Geoffrey, but not quickly enough to conceal what he had been doing.

‘I see you are better,’ said the parchmenter with an unreadable smile. ‘I am glad. None of us expected you to survive such a violent fever.’

‘I was saved by water, topaz, gold and the good auspices of King Harold,’ said Geoffrey, stepping inside the hut, trying to see what the man had been doing. ‘They counteracted the poison.’

Juhel regarded him uneasily. ‘Poison? Surely not!’

‘Magnus suffered, too, although the effects wore off him more quickly.’

‘I suspect you swallowed too many medicines in an effort to heal yourself. Some compounds react violently with each other, and you should have taken nothing else with my salve.’