It was easy to retrace his steps at first – his rush to Roger’s aid had left a trail of broken twigs and bruised leaves – but then the path disappeared. Geoffrey had the uneasy sense that Magnus had abandoned them, but he blundered on, breath coming in short gasps and sweat drenching his shirt under his heavy mail. Roger was already slowing, and Geoffrey knew they could not keep up such a rapid pace for much longer.
‘Here!’ Juhel suddenly hissed from one side. ‘This way.’
He rearranged the bushes after the knights went by, to disguise their passage. It was not a moment too soon, because one of the ship’s boys appeared, carrying a dagger and clearly intending to use it. He raced past, eyes fixed on the more obvious track ahead. Four or five others followed, and then there was silence.
‘Hurry,’ said Juhel, pushing past Geoffrey so he could be in front. ‘Magnus said he would post Ulfrith at the next junction, but I do not trust him.’
‘I do,’ panted Roger. ‘He needs us as much as we need him – more, probably. And besides, there he is.’
‘Where have you been?’ demanded Magnus furiously. ‘I ordered you to stay with me, not go haring off. Here is the next junction, and we turn right. No, left.’ He reconsidered. ‘No, it is right. Hide our tracks, Ulfrith.’
‘You must have been very young when William fought Harold,’ said Geoffrey to Magnus, watching Ulfrith jump to obey. ‘When were you last here?’
Magnus started to jog along the path he had chosen. ‘I was eight when I fought at my father’s side at Hastinges, and eleven when I last tried to wrest my throne from the Normans, so it has been some thirty years . . . but I know these paths well—’
The rest of the sentence was lost as he plunged head-first into a boggy pool. With some trepidation, and aware that the sounds of pursuit were coming closer again, Geoffrey tugged him out, recalling that earlier Magnus had admitted to being with his mother during the battle. The Saxons’ great hope was liberal with the truth.
‘I was just seeing how deep it was,’ snapped Magnus in embarrassment, once he was on dry land. He looked around quickly, then headed for a mud bank that stood the height of a man. Its sides were slippery with algae, and trees grew along its crest, roots twisting downwards. He scrabbled towards a dense patch of brambles. ‘This is it. Help me.’
To his surprise, Geoffrey saw a cunningly hidden refuge – a screen of woven twigs concealing a small door that led to a dank cavern. Magnus dived inside, leaving the others to follow. Ulfrith, Juhel and Bale were next, then Roger; Geoffrey brought up the rear, dragging the screen back into position as he did so.
The cave was a marvel. Not only was it so well concealed that it was invisible from outside, but it was surprisingly spacious. It comprised a single chamber, high enough at the front to allow a man to stand without stooping, and tapering off to shadowy recesses at the back. It was wide enough for several men to stand side by side without touching, and there were pots and containers attached to the walls, suggesting it was sometimes used for extended periods.
However, it was pitch black once the door was shut, and it felt close and airless. Geoffrey detested underground places of any kind, and ones that had slippery walls and water on the floor were among the worst. He felt his chest tighten when the stench of old mud clogged his nostrils, and he was sure there was not enough air for everyone to breathe. He began to cough, trying desperately to muffle the sound, which made it worse. The urge to run outside again was intense.
Roger reached past him and cracked open the door. The gap was no more than the width of a finger, but it allowed light and air to filter inside and was enough to let the panic recede. Roger clapped a gruffly comforting hand on his shoulder. Geoffrey had once been in charge of a countermine under a castle Tancred was besieging, and it had been several days before they had excavated him after its collapse. Although years had passed, the terror of his ordeal remained. He focussed his attention on the sliver of light, forcing himself not to think about where he was.
Meanwhile, the pirates had discovered the path and had reached the mud bank. It began to rain hard, so that the whole marsh seemed to hiss and sway with the force of it, and somewhere nearby a bird issued a low, undulating cry. Donan, Fingar’s rodent-faced second-in-command, muttered a prayer to ward off evil spirits.
‘Fays,’ he said. ‘They haunt bogs and come out to grab unwary souls. Unless you cross yourself and say the name of your favourite saint three times, they will get you.’
Immediately, a variety of saints were invoked in a mixture of Irish and English, some of whom Geoffrey had never heard of.
Fingar bent to inspect some footprints, and the dog began to growl. Sensing rather than seeing a movement behind him, Geoffrey became aware of Magnus holding a knife – he intended to kill the animal, to shut it up. Geoffrey crouched down and put his arm around it, reassuring it into silence.
Just when Geoffrey was sure they were going to be caught, Donan pointed across the marshes.
‘There!’ he hissed. ‘I saw a flash of movement. It must be them. Come on!’
Most of the men followed, although Fingar stood uncertainly, squinting into the rain and clearly not convinced that Donan was right. But Donan shouted something else, and, with an impatient grunt, Fingar followed. And then they were gone.
Five
Inside the cave, a collective sigh of relief was heaved. Roger sheathed his sword, and Geoffrey opened the door a little wider. The shelter might be cleverly constructed, but it stank, for some reason, of garlic, and he preferred the odour of wet vegetation from outside.
‘We have given them the slip,’ said Bale in satisfaction. He sat on a platform that was obviously intended to serve as a bed, and glanced up at Roger. ‘How much are those coins worth?’
Roger tossed him one, accompanying it with a grin that oozed wicked greed. Bale hefted it in his hand and whistled under his breath before handing it to Geoffrey, who was also astonished by its weight. He had never seen such a thick, heavy coin and was certain each would be worth a small fortune – more than ample to buy horses and travel to the Holy Land. He was not surprised Fingar was keen to have them back.
‘How many did you take?’ he asked. ‘Just three?’
‘A handful,’ replied Roger evasively. ‘I did not have time to count.’
‘How many?’ repeated Geoffrey coldly.
With considerable reluctance, Roger emptied the pouch on his belt. A dozen or so gold coins dropped out, along with a huge number of silver ones of lesser value. Geoffrey was horrified.
‘There is a king’s ransom here!’ he cried. ‘Fingar and his men will follow us to the ends of the world to get this back.’
‘You are right,’ said Juhel. He was pale, and Geoffrey saw he was equally shocked by Roger’s crime. ‘Men are willing to risk anything for this kind of money.’
‘It is paltry,’ said Roger dismissively. ‘They were lucky I did not demand their salvage, too.’
‘If I had such a fortune, England would be mine in a week,’ said Magnus, eyeing it lustfully. ‘I do not suppose you would care to donate it to the cause? I will repay it with interest when I am king. And I will make you Bishop of Ely.’
‘Not Ely,’ said Roger in distaste. ‘It is surrounded by bogs. I want Salisbury.’
‘You may be waiting some time,’ warned Juhel. ‘For your gold and your title.’
Magnus glared. ‘I will repay him tenfold before the end of summer.’
‘I shall not part with it just yet,’ said Roger, although Geoffrey was alarmed to see he was giving the offer consideration. Roger was a man for whom ‘tenfold’ was a tempting word.
‘You are wise,’ said Juhel. ‘King Henry would not be pleased to hear that the funding for a Saxon revolt came from Norman knights.’
‘How would he hear that?’ demanded Magnus, rounding on him. ‘Will you tell?’
Juhel laughed. ‘Of course I will! He and I often dine in his private chambers, and he frequently asks my advice. I shall
mention it the very next time I see him.’
‘Enough,’ said Geoffrey. Magnus’s visions of Saxon rebellion were no better than smoke in the wind. ‘I am more concerned with Fingar. None of us will be safe until you give that money back.’
‘Rubbish,’ declared Roger. ‘For all Fingar knows, these are coins I carried in my personal baggage, and he will never be able to prove otherwise. Besides, he is a pirate, so this is almost certainly gold he stole from someone else.’
‘Then it is probably cursed,’ said Juhel. ‘The original owners may have asked God to avenge the crime by making dreadful things happen to the thieves. I always do, when villains wrong me.’
‘We should give it back,’ said Bale, crossing himself hurriedly. ‘I have heard that pirates are rather free and easy with curses, too.’
‘They are not,’ said Roger, with completely unwarranted confidence. ‘My father is Bishop of Durham, so you can trust that I know about such things.’
Geoffrey was disinclined to argue. Like many Normans, Roger was highly partial to gold, and Geoffrey knew from long and bitter experience that nothing would induce him to part with it.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But I want no part of it.’
‘He is right,’ came an unfamiliar voice from the depths of the hole. Geoffrey and the others raised their weapons in alarm. ‘Nothing good ever comes from theft – as that usurper Henry is about to discover.’
‘Who are you?’ demanded Geoffrey, as a short, chubby man emerged from the darkness. His bright yellow hair and flowing moustache indicated he was in his thirties, like Geoffrey himself, but his skin had a reddish, debauched look, and the broken veins on his round nose indicated a fondness for good living. His clothes were fine, although mud-stained, and, like Magnus’s, were adorned with a good deal of expensive thread and intricate Saxon embroidery.
‘I am King Harold,’ replied the man grandly.
‘Lord,’ muttered Geoffrey in the startled silence that followed. ‘Another monarch?’
‘A number of us have claims,’ said Magnus stiffly. ‘Some stronger than others.’
‘Are you eating garlic?’ asked Juhel, sniffing. ‘The smell is suddenly a good deal stronger.’
‘I like garlic,’ said Harold defensively. ‘It thickens the blood, protects against evil and inspires courage. I have a few cloves here, ready peeled. Would you like one?’
When he stretched out his hand to present his offering, Geoffrey saw faint scars around the man’s wrists and wondered what had caused them.
‘No, thank you,’ said Juhel. ‘But I was under the impression that King Harold had died more than thirty years ago – on the battlefield.’
‘Hacked to pieces,’ added Roger rather ghoulishly, ‘with axes.’
‘Actually,’ said Magnus curtly, ‘my father was killed by an arrow in the face. I was not on the field when he died – a battleground is no place for a child of eight – but I saw his body afterwards.’
‘But my father said he was hacked to death by swords,’ said Geoffrey doubtfully. ‘He claimed to have witnessed it.’
Of course, Godric Mappestone had not been the most truthful of men, and his memories of the battle had grown more elaborate as he had aged. Further, Geoffrey’s mother, famous for her own martial skills, had once confided that she had fought at Hastinges herself, and she had told a different story – one of confusion and panic as the long day of fighting drew to a close, and encroaching darkness, blood and thick mud had rendered one man much like another. Herleve Mappestone had maintained that it was impossible to tell what had happened to King Harold. His corpse had certainly been mutilated, but it would never be known whether he had died at the point of a sword, an axe or an arrow.
‘All this is immaterial,’ said Roger to the newcomer. ‘The point is that you cannot be King Harold, because he is dead. Unless you are his ghost?’
He smirked, but, at that moment, a marsh bird released an eerie, whooping call, and the grin faded. He took a step away and crossed himself. Ulfrith and Bale did the same.
Harold did not seem affected by their superstitious unease and addressed Roger slowly, as if speaking to a simpleton. ‘I am his son – his legitimate son. He had twins from his marriage to Queen Ealdgyth, and I am one of them.’
‘You mean there is another, just like you?’ asked Roger rather stupidly.
Harold nodded. ‘Poor Ulf was kept prisoner after our father’s murder, but the Bastard released him on his deathbed. I suppose he thought it would lessen his time in Purgatory. But it will take a good deal more than the release of a few hostages to open the gates of Heaven to him. He is destined for the Other Place, because his soul is so deeply stained with Saxon blood.’
‘Too right,’ agreed Magnus fervently. ‘When I am king, I shall invade France, snatch the Bastard’s bones from his tomb and toss them in the nearest river.’
Harold regarded him admonishingly, his chubby face grave. ‘We agreed that we would not discuss this yet, that we would consult our Saxon vassals about—’
‘They will want me,’ stated Magnus confidently. ‘I am King Harold’s eldest surviving son and, according to Saxon law, his rightful heir. Your claim is based on the fact that he married Queen Ealdgyth in a church, which I deem irrelevant.’
Harold sighed in a long-suffering manner. ‘We are both irrelevant until we overthrow the Usurper. Then we shall ask our vassals to decide whom they want as king.’
‘A democracy to elect a king?’ asked Geoffrey, amused. ‘What an odd notion!’
‘Not at all,’ said Harold, smiling at him. ‘Once our subjects have made their choice, I shall revert to the autocracy that works so well.’
‘They will not choose you,’ said Magnus disdainfully. ‘You are too short.’
‘You mentioned a twin brother,’ said Juhel, as Harold looked hurt. ‘Is he to participate in this election, too? Or perhaps there are yet more siblings who would like a chance to win a crown?’
‘My two older brothers are dead, and the younger ones are happy in Norway,’ replied Magnus. ‘Ulf intends to put himself forward, but no one will choose him – he is violent and would be a tyrant. Indeed, I forbade him to come anywhere near my uprising – he will put people off.’
‘Not so,’ cried Harold, stung. ‘My brother is just misunderstood and has no patience with fools. He spent the best years of his life as the Bastard’s prisoner, so it is not surprising he is bitter.’
‘Whichever of you it is will have to dispatch England’s current king first,’ said Juhel. He was struggling to conceal his amusement at the notion that the likes of Harold and Magnus could best Henry.
‘We have a nation full of bold Saxon warriors,’ declared Magnus haughtily. ‘And when they see I have returned, they will rally to my call.’
Harold crunched loudly on a clove of garlic. Geoffrey wondered whether he had strayed into a community of madmen, because he had never heard a more ridiculous collection of claims and aspirations.
‘And when will this grand summoning take place?’ asked Juhel, smothering a smile.
‘In a while,’ said Harold, waving an airy hand. ‘Now Magnus is here we can get on with it. That is why I was waiting here for him, as we had agreed. We have signed a formal contract to be brothers-in-arms and to make no moves against each other until the Usurper is deposed.’
Juhel finally lost his self-control and roared with laughter, until Ulfrith pointed out that the sailors might hear. Geoffrey peered out of the door and detected angry voices in the distance. He frowned as something Harold had said jarred in his mind, and he turned to face him.
‘You said you were waiting here for Magnus, but Patrick was bound for Ribe. So how—’
Magnus was unrepentant. ‘I paid Fingar ten pounds to drop me off, but the storm blew up, and he said he would be unable to fulfil our arrangement. I was lucky we happened to founder here.’
‘I have been waiting here for the best part of a week,’ said Harold, looking at his surroundings in
distaste. ‘A mud-hole is scarcely a suitable haunt for a future king!’
‘It was not chance that we sank here, was it?’ said Geoffrey, looking hard at Magnus. ‘That is why the sailors were inspecting the wreckage – they suspect foul play. It also explains why you were so keen to escape. It is not just the theft of their gold that drives them after us, but the sabotage of their ship.’
Magnus shrugged. ‘What choice did I have? England awaits, and I have a destiny to fulfil. Simon took an axe to some vital timber, so we would put ashore as near to Hastinges as possible.’
Geoffrey was disgusted. ‘Is that why you let him drown? You hoped his death would appease the crew, and they would not blame you for the disaster?’
‘It did not work,’ said Magnus ruefully. ‘But I am here now, and my work can begin.’
The storm that had been approaching all day hit with breathtaking ferocity. Even from their mud refuge, Geoffrey could hear the surf pounding the beach, while the wind that screamed across the marshes ripped branches from trees and uprooted bushes. Travel was impossible, so Roger, who hated long periods of enforced inactivity, probed the Saxons relentlessly about their plans. It was not long before the whole tale emerged.
Magnus had been a child and Harold unborn when their father had been defeated near Hastinges. There had followed a few sporadic rebellions, but the Normans were efficient and ruthless and soon stamped out revolts. The Bastard was succeeded by two of his sons – first William Rufus and then Henry. The latter had been obliged to quell an uprising by his barons, led by Bellême, but had put it down with comparative ease.
Harold’s offspring had watched from afar, and when Bellême was routed, they decided to act, on the grounds that Henry’s troops would be battle-weary and the royal coffers drained. Geoffrey thought they were wrong on both counts: Henry’s soldiers were professionals who did not tire of fighting, and Henry had seized the property of the exiled barons, so was actually rather well off. He had the resources to finance a war on a scale unimagined by the dreamers in the mud cave.
The Bloodstained Throne Page 8