The Bloodstained Throne

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘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.’

  Galfridus’s sympathy was misplaced; Geoffrey had known for years that his mother had played a significant role in the fighting. She had been a fearsome woman, and he would not have been surprised to learn that she had led the first charge herself.

  He felt better now he was sitting, but his senses were still oddly unsettled. When he glanced at the floor, it seemed to be undulating, and Galfridus’s face was unnaturally elongated. Then a platter was set on his knees.

  ‘Carp,’ said Galfridus, as Geoffrey gazed at it in incomprehension. ‘The king of fish. It is from my own ponds, and it will settle your stomach.’

  Geoffrey had never liked fish, but the pungent smell that emanated from the silvery beast in his lap rendered it less appealing than most. In an attempt to be polite, and because he had not eaten properly in several days, he forced himself to swallow some, but stopped after a few mouthfuls, certain that the round, glazed eye that gazed so balefully at him had winked.

  ‘So, Godric sired more children,’ Galfridus was saying. ‘Henry was followed by a fourth son and another daughter. And you honoured your family’s name by freeing the Holy City from the infidel. Godric must have been very proud.’

  ‘He was,’ said Roger, wholly without foundation, since he had never met Godric or heard his views on the Crusade.

  A tabby cat, attracted by the smell of fish, rubbed itself around Geoffrey’s legs. Trying to be discreet, he slipped a portion off the platter to the floor. The cat sniffed it and stalked away.

  ‘Where is my dog?’ he asked.

  ‘Next to you,’ said Roger, regarding him with considerable concern.

  Geoffrey looked down and saw the animal lying across his feet, making short work of the fish. Its eyes were fixed on the retreating moggy, and he wondered why there had not been a fight.

  ‘Do not worry about your dog,’ said Galfridus, reading his thoughts. ‘My cat will not harm it here, although you should endeavour to keep them apart outside. Thomas is fierce, and I am told your hound is frightened of chickens.’

  There was unease in the dog’s eyes, and Geoffrey wondered whether its defeat by Delilah had unnerved it to the point where it was afraid of any encounter. He sighed and gazed out of the window. As he did so, it occurred to him that the pig on the windowsill had grown larger and was blocking out the sun.

  ‘The Lamb of God has been carved with too much wool,’ he remarked.

  It was Galfridus’s turn to look concerned. ‘You are not well, Sir Geoffrey, and should visit our infirmary. Brother Aelfwig has excellent leeches.’

  ‘I do not eat leeches,’ said Magnus. ‘And especially not on a Friday.’

  ‘It is Wednesday,’ said Roger, regarding him askance.

  ‘Well, I still will not eat them,’ declared Magnus. ‘Filthy, vile, wriggling creatures. I would sooner have an egg. Or perhaps a cat.’

  ‘Have you been here long, Father?’ asked Roger quickly, to bring the discussion within normal parameters again.

  ‘For about an hour,’ replied Galfridus. ‘Before that I was in the church.’

  ‘I mean at La Batailge,’ said Roger. ‘How long have you been abbot?’

  ‘I am not abbot,’ said Galfridus resentfully. ‘I should be, because I do an abbot’s work, but the King does not see fit to appoint me, probably because my mother was Saxon. But I am perfect for this post: the abbey was built to honour the dead of both nations and I have mixed parentage. However, he does not concur, and so I remain simple Galfridus.’

  ‘Is there a monk here called Brother Wardard?’ asked Geoffrey. He knew there was a pressing reason to speak to Wardard, but his mind was frustratingly blank as to why. ‘He threw a man from the back of a ship and watched him drown.’

  ‘No, that was someone else,’ said Roger. He made a pretence of removing the platter, muttering under his breath, so the others would not hear. ‘Say no more, Geoff. Lucian’s cure-all or Juhel’s paste has sent you out of your wits. Galfridus thinks you are a heretic, and Harold believes you are ranting because of the pox.’

  Geoffrey struggled to understand. ‘I do not have the pox. Why did you tell him I did?’

  ‘Because you told me to be discreet,’ hissed Roger obscurely. He offered Geoffrey his goblet. ‘Drink some of this.’

  Geoffrey complied, but when he looked at Roger again, he was almost indistinguishable from the Lamb of God, black wool framing his face. There was a painful buzzing in his ears. Moreover, the Lamb of God was growling, and he was certain it would attack him if he moved.

  Geoffrey was not sure how long the Lamb of God snarled at him, but eventually he became aware that Galfridus was talking about Wardard. Roger’s bulk was protecting him from some of the heat from the fire, but he was still bathed in sweat, and the light-headedness persisted.

  ‘Wardard is one of us. He fought in the battle, along with his friend Vitalis, whom I understand you met. Vitalis lived in Normandy and was a vassal of Robert de Bellême, God help him.’

  ‘I was under the impression you liked Bellême,’ said Roger. ‘You were his guest in Arundel.’

  ‘That was before he was exiled,’ explained Galfridus. ‘And I only went because I wanted to see his carp ponds.’

  ‘He tried to seduce my sister once,’ said Geoffrey, thinking about an incident in Goodrich. Or was he confusing Bellême with someone else? For a short moment, he could not recall what Joan looked like, but then her determined chin and strong face slipped into his mind. Like their mother, she was a formidable woman.

  ‘Juhel is one of his spies,’ said Magnus resentfully. ‘He is here to gather information, so that Bellême can invade. I do not know whether to let him do it or not. You see, if Bellême attacks the Usurper, it will squander the Usurper’s resources. But Bellême might win, and I do not like the notion of him being king. He will be worse than the Usurper.’

  ‘Bellême offered to help me, should I ever mount an armed invasion,’ said Harold chattily. ‘But he would want too many estates and titles, and it would be difficult to rule a vassal like him. So I decided to reject his kind proposal – politely, of course. I w
ould not want to annoy him.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear Vitalis is dead,’ said Galfridus to no one in particular. He turned to Geoffrey, clearly bracing himself for an answer he might not understand. ‘Why do you ask about Wardard? Did your father ask you to pass his respects to an old comrade before he died?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Harold, answering when Geoffrey did not. ‘He has questions of a personal nature that he would like to ask Wardard.’

  In a sudden flash, Geoffrey remembered Vitalis’s accusations. He did not understand why he had been so unsettled by them – he had neither respected nor liked Godric, but, for all his faults, Godric had always been the first to ride at enemies near his estates. In fact, he had always been too eager to fight, and Geoffrey had often wished he would allow longer for negotiations.

  ‘Vitalis said Godric ran away from Hastinges and hid until it was over,’ said Roger. ‘And he told Geoff to ask Brother Wardard.’

  Galfridus raised his eyebrows. ‘Godric a coward? I doubt it! Herleve was very fussy about her men. But ask him anyway – he likes to talk about the battle, even though he took holy orders to atone for the lives he took that day. As warriors, you two did the right thing by undertaking a Crusade – now all your sins have been expiated and your souls are spotless before God.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Roger proudly. ‘It is always good to have a spotless soul.’

  ‘I do not think it was an open-ended expiation, though,’ warned Galfridus. ‘You cannot continue killing now you are home.’

  Roger shrugged. ‘I usually pay a monk to recite prayers on my behalf, so I shall have no problems come Judgement Day. The arrangement suits everyone, because I do not have time to say them myself, and monks are always pleased to have the money.’

  ‘Does King Henry know you welcome Saxon rebels in your abbey?’ asked Geoffrey. His wits seemed to be returning at last.

  Galfridus seemed surprised by the question. ‘Of course. I often provide hospitality for members of King Harold’s family: Harold, Ulf, Magnus, Edith of the Swan Neck. Why should I not?’

  ‘We will speak to Wardard and then leave,’ said Geoffrey, trying to stand. He found his legs were unequal to the task and he sank back down.

  ‘You cannot travel so soon after learning the truth about your mother,’ said Galfridus kindly. ‘Stay a few days – we have a clean, comfortable hospital, and our food is plentiful and wholesome.’

  ‘No,’ said Geoffrey. ‘King Henry is likely to arrive soon, and I do not want to meet the sly—’

  ’Why would Henry come here?’ interrupted Galfridus, startled.

  ‘To deal with those claiming his throne, for a start,’ said Roger, nodding at Magnus and Harold. ‘He is not a man to let a challenge go unanswered.’

  Galfridus gazed at Magnus. ‘You plan to tell him you are here? That is foolish! He does not mind Harold, but he does not like you at all. And although he turns a blind eye to the occasional visit, to flaunt yourself is asking for trouble.’

  ‘The time for skulking in Flanders is over,’ said Magnus grandly. ‘I have come to claim my rightful inheritance: the land of my Saxon fathers. And mothers.’

  ‘That is my purpose also,’ said Harold. ‘I am King Harold’s legitimate heir, and England belongs to me.’

  Galfridus looked from one to the other in consternation. ‘Well, you cannot both be king.’

  ‘Our people will choose which of us they want,’ said Magnus. ‘But for now we stand united – Saxon right against Norman might.’

  ‘I see,’ said Galfridus warily. ‘What support do you have? Where is your army?’

  ‘We do not have one yet,’ admitted Harold. ‘But when they hear we are here, our people will rise up from their ploughs and spades and rally to our cause. By Christmas, there will not be a Norman left in England.’

  A waddling infirmarian called Brother Aelfwig led Geoffrey and Roger to the House of Pilgrims, or hospital, which adjoined the abbey gate, while the Saxons were escorted to separate lodgings that overlooked the cloisters. The hospital was a stone building that formed part of the outer wall and comprised a single room with a high ceiling and a beaten earth floor. There were no windows in the wall that bordered the road, but there were enormous ones in the wall that faced the abbey, so that pilgrims could see the church.

  It was devoid of guests when Aelfwig opened its door, although an empty cage at the foot of one bed indicated Juhel had already claimed a berth. There were eight beds, each furnished with a chest at its foot for guests’ belongings, and two neatly folded blankets. Geoffrey’s dog made a quick circuit, sniffing each cot before selecting the only one in the shade. Bale and Ulfrith, the latter dragged from the chamber where Philippa and Edith were still chatting to Lucian, did as they had been taught and assessed the place’s defensibility – the quality of the window-shutters and the strength of the bar that would seal the door at night.

  Aelfwig was a rotund man with short legs and a kindly face. He recited the abbey’s rules for hospital guests – mostly that women were not allowed in – and then extended an invitation for them to attend any of the monks’ services, day or night.

  ‘The bell will be chiming for vespers soon.’ He peered at Geoffrey. ‘But you are not well. Perhaps you should come to my infirmary. It is a pleasant place, near the herb garden, and you hardly notice the smell of the sewers once you are used to them.’

  Geoffrey’s previous experiences in such places had taught him that they were full of old men waiting to die. He shook his head, only to find that the movement made his senses swim again.

  ‘I would rather stay here,’ he said, beginning to remove his armour. He was not sure whether he was relieved to be rid of its weight or uneasy to be stripped of his protection.

  Aelfwig sighed disapprovingly. ‘Very well, but I shall bring you one of my special tinctures made from herbs of Saturn. It will ease your head and promote healing sleep.’

  ‘Where is Brother Lucian?’ asked Roger when Aelfwig returned with a large pottery flask and a beaker. ‘I do not want to share a chamber with him.’

  ‘He is far too important to stay here,’ said Aelfwig, pouring a measure of his tincture into the cup. ‘He is a close friend of Bishop de Villula – his bursar, no less – and hails from a very wealthy family. He will reside with Galfridus, who will do all he can to create a good impression. It is always wise to flatter the associates of powerful bishops.’

  Geoffrey was feeling a good deal better now he had divested himself of his mail and was cooling down, and he suspected the strange effects of whatever had been in Juhel’s balm or Lucian’s cure-all were wearing off at last.

  Aelfwig handed him the goblet. ‘This is mostly a wine of raspberries, with a little woundwort, henbane and comfrey, all herbs of Saturn that have a soothing effect.’

  ‘Henbane?’ asked Geoffrey suspiciously. ‘That is poisonous.’

  ‘Not in small quantities.’ Aelfwig retrieved the cup and drank some himself. ‘See? It is perfectly harmless, although I may have trouble staying awake during vespers now. Do not be awkward – I am a highly respected medicus in these parts.’

  ‘Do not drink it all,’ advised Ulfrith worriedly when he saw Geoffrey prepare to drain the cup. ‘Not after Lucian’s cure-all and Juhel’s salve.’

  ‘You have taken other medicines?’ asked Aelfwig in alarm. ‘You should have said. What?’

  ‘Something in Lucian’s potion made him ill,’ said Ulfrith, predictable in his choice of culprit. He lowered his voice to add in a spiteful hiss, ‘Poison.’

  ‘What?’ cried Bale, outraged. ‘Lucian tried to kill you? I will slit his throat!’

  Aelfwig jerked away in horror when he saw a dagger appear in Bale’s hand.

  ‘Put it away, Bale,’ said Geoffrey tiredly. ‘Lucian drank some himself and said it came from his Bishop. Magnus swallowed a hefty dose, too – more than I did – and he is well enough.’

  ‘I am not so sure about that,’ said Roger thoughtfully. ‘Both you a
nd Magnus said some very odd things when we were with Galfridus. I think there was something bad in Lucian’s cure-all. Or in Juhel’s salve. Magnus did avail himself of both, like you. So, we have two suspects: the villainous monk and the secretive Juhel.’

  Aelfwig inspected Geoffrey’s scratched side. ‘There is no sign of poison here, although the wound is inflamed, probably from chafing under your armour.’

  ‘Then it was the cure-all that harmed him?’ asked Ulfrith hopefully. ‘Lucian is the villain?’

  ‘If Lucian drank this potion himself, and it came from Bishop de Villula, I doubt it contained anything untoward,’ replied the herbalist. ‘And your master seems lucid enough now, so whatever it was has worked itself out. Still, this should warn you all not to accept medicines from people you do not know.’

  Geoffrey sipped the tonic tentatively, recalling the unpleasant burning that had accompanied Lucian’s brew that morning. By contrast, Aelfwig’s concoction tasted sweet, like summer fruit.

  ‘Do not drink any more, sir,’ begged Ulfrith. ‘My grandmother was good with healing herbs and she once told me that good medicines can turn bad when mixed.’

  ‘She was very wise,’ said Aelfwig. ‘But I suppose I had better ask Juhel what his salve contains. Who knows what enthusiastic amateurs add to their poultices?’

  Ulfrith smiled fondly. ‘She was a witch and knew all about herbs and plants.’

  Geoffrey’s dog suddenly abandoned the bed and slunk to the far end of the hall, where it hid behind a chest. Geoffrey turned to see that Juhel had arrived, chicken under his arm.

  ‘Aha!’ said Aelfwig. ‘Pray, sir, what toxin did you employ on Sir Geoffrey and Magnus?’

  ‘Toxin?’ asked Juhel, startled.

  ‘There was something nasty in your balm,’ said Bale. His face took on a sly expression. ‘Would you care to take a walk with me? Outside the abbey’s grounds?’

  Juhel raised his hands to indicate he was innocent, then rummaged in his pack to produce the curious half-red, half-blue pot. ‘There is nothing nasty in my salve, I assure you – I might be obliged to use it on myself one day! Besides, why would I harm Geoffrey or Magnus?’