‘Yes, but you keep yours with you all the time,’ said Geoffrey, taking a gulp, ‘whereas mine has been lying on the table, where someone might have tampered with it.’
‘You are wise to be cautious,’ said Roger. ‘Are you going out?’
‘Just to the church.’
‘I will come with you,’ offered Roger.
‘That is not necessary.’ Geoffrey tossed the flask back to Ulfrith and made for the door.
Ulfrith regarded him uneasily. ‘Are you going to see Lady Philippa?’
The question annoyed Geoffrey. ‘I am going to the church,’ he said shortly.
Before they could ask more, he left, closing the door firmly behind him. He walked across a grassy sward, aware that Ulfrith was watching him from the window. He had intended to visit the nearby village to make enquiries about his dog, but he could not do it while Ulfrith was watching. Ulfrith would tell Roger, who would insist on accompanying him.
With no option, he aimed for the church. It was the first time he had been inside, and he was impressed by the tier upon tier of round-headed arches, carved to flaunt the masons’ skills. The dominant colours of the ceiling were blue and gold, like the dawn sky, and the pillars and walls were pale green and yellow at the top, darkening to red and purple at the bottom. It made the building seem taller than it was, and he marvelled at the cleverness of the illusion.
Vespers had started, and the monks’ voices rose and fell as they chanted a psalm. Geoffrey leaned against a pillar and closed his eyes, finding peace in the music.
‘There you are, Sir Geoffrey! Are you better? Poor Sir Roger was convinced you were going to die and hurled gold at anyone who would pray. The only one who refused payment was Brother Wardard, but I am told he is a saintly man. His brethren wanted him to be abbot, but he declined.’
Geoffrey opened his eyes to see Philippa smiling at him in her flirtatious fashion. He stepped away, not wanting the monks to see them standing so close in their church. She inched forward, and they began a curious dance that saw him backing towards the door and her in dogged pursuit.
‘Stop!’ she ordered in a fierce whisper. ‘I want to talk to you without being overheard, but I cannot if you will not stand still.’
He relented when he saw she did not look well. She wore the thick red cloak he had last seen on Edith, but she kept rubbing her hands together, as though they were chilled. Her face was pale, and there were dark rings under eyes that had produced too many tears.
‘I am sorry,’ he said, contrite. ‘You have suffered another loss.’
She looked away, and two heavy drops made silvery trails down her cheeks. ‘Poor Edith! It does not seem possible she is gone. Now I am alone and I do not know what will become of me. It should not have been her.’
‘What do you mean? That you should have died in her place?’
Philippa nodded unhappily. ‘She was wealthy and had kin who loved her, but I have nothing. It would have been better if I had been the one to die.’ Her fists clenched tightly. ‘If I ever find the loathsome villain who snuffed out her life, I will choke him and dance on his grave!’
‘Hush!’ said Geoffrey, alarmed that such sentiments were being uttered in a church.
‘I do not know what will happen to me if I cannot find a protector.’ She reached out and took his hand, the coquettish smile back again. ‘Did anyone ever tell you that your eyes are the most beautiful shade of green? They are the hue of ferns.’
‘My wife mentioned it once,’ said Geoffrey, freeing his hand.
‘Vitalis had a wife, too, but the three of us came to an arrangement that made us all happy.’
Geoffrey smiled. ‘I doubt Hilde would agree to that.’
Philippa sighed. ‘I did love Vitalis. He was old and sometimes awry in the wits, but he was good to me and I miss him.’
‘I know,’ said Geoffrey gently. ‘You probably did take him for love. Edith, I suspect, was forced into the union. But she was his real wife, even so.’
Philippa’s eyes blazed. ‘I was legally married! In a church — Edith carried the flowers.’
‘But she was already wed to him. Ergo, the second ceremony was illegal.’
‘Are you calling me a whore?’
Geoffrey supposed he was. ‘Edith was grateful to you for drawing Vitalis’s attentions from her, and, against all odds, you became friends. Of course you were upset when he died — it shattered your safe life.’
‘Edith said she would look after me,’ said Philippa, tearful again. ‘She was the best friend anyone could have — better and more loyal than your Roger. She did not steal gold and have me implicated in a crime. And now she is dead and I must fend for myself. You have no idea how hard it is for a woman with no family and no money. I only hope Lucian means what he says when he waxes lyrical about giving up the cowl to enjoy a secular life.’
‘Did he meet Edith the night she died?’ asked Geoffrey, taking the opportunity to question her, since she seemed of a mind to talk.
She frowned. ‘Not that I know of. Why? Is that what Sir Roger told you? That I vacated our chamber so Edith could entertain a lover? I might have known he would assume something like that! I suppose he told you he and I were here all night?’
Geoffrey nodded. ‘Dicing on the high altar.’
She grimaced. ‘I told him we should use the floor. But he is a lewd man to think such things of poor Edith! If you must know, I left because sleeping has been difficult for me since the shipwreck, and my restlessness disturbed her. I told her I was going to keep vigil for Vitalis — to give her a chance to sleep. I wish to God that I had stayed.’
‘If you had, you might have been strangled, too.’
Philippa pulled the cloak more firmly around her shoulders: the notion seemed not to have occurred to her. More tears fell, and she brushed them away angrily.
‘I cannot seem to stop crying. But Ulfrith tells me you have investigated killers. Will you investigate this one? You do not need to denounce him publicly — just tell me his name, and I will slip a piece of ribbon around his throat.’
‘Then you will be a murderer, too.’
‘I do not care! It would be worth eternal damnation. But you will find it is Juhel. He killed Paisnel, and a man who kills once always itches to do it again — or so your man Bale told me.’
‘Did he?’ asked Geoffrey, wondering what else his squire had said.
Philippa was silent for a while, and when she next spoke, her voice was low and hoarse. ‘This is Edith’s cloak. Do you think it is wicked to use it, while her body is still unburied?’ She clutched it tighter and sobbed.
‘I would want Roger to use mine, if I was dead and he needed clothes.’ It occurred to Geoffrey that Bale had used similar arguments, and he supposed there was a very fine line between robbing the dead and justifiably making use of someone’s possessions.
‘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.’
‘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.’
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