The Bloodstained Throne (17 page)

‘They
are
,’ declared Magnus firmly. ‘And anyone who thinks otherwise is a fool.’

Harold scrubbed his cheeks; he was beginning to pull himself together. ‘Ulf said he would meet me here, so I suppose I should see if he is among the dead . . .’ He faltered, then looked at Geoffrey. ‘I do not suppose you would oblige, would you? He looks like me.’

Eight

Harold dropped to his knees in horror when he saw Ulf’s body, and it was some time before the round-faced pretender to the crown was able to speak. He staggered to his feet, and the others came to stand next to him in mute sympathy.

‘He is covered in blood,’ he said hoarsely. ‘How did it happen?’

‘His throat was cut,’ said Geoffrey. He did not look at Bale. ‘By a madman.’

‘Some of this blood is dry,’ said Juhel, kneeling to inspect the corpse’s clothes, ‘and some is wet. What can be deduced from that?’

‘He is a disinherited Saxon in a land inhabited by Normans,’ said Magnus harshly. ‘He was probably obliged to fight for his life at some point.’

Geoffrey looked to where Juhel pointed. Ulf must have been fighting over a prolonged period, if the stains were anything to go by. However, there were no splatters or sprays, which Geoffrey would have expected had he been involved in killing the villagers. So, if Ulf was innocent of the massacre, then it made sense to assume Fingar was responsible – Geoffrey had seen him kill two of his own men without hesitation, so villagers would present no problem. Magnus was right: the atrocity was the work of ruthless pirates furious at being deprived of their ship and gold.

‘I will ask my father to say a mass for his soul if you like,’ said Roger kindly to Harold. ‘From what I heard, Ulf will need it, and prayers from a bishop go a long way.’

‘Thank you,’ said Harold weakly. ‘We did not know each other well – fate meant we have been separated most of our lives – but he is still my brother, and I loved him.’

‘His death may be a blessing in disguise,’ said Magnus, rather baldly. ‘It means one fewer contender for the throne. And his rough temper and violent reputation might have put people off joining our rebellion. I told you to keep news of our plans away from him, and you ignored me.’

‘He has a right to be here,’ said Harold tiredly. ‘His claim is as valid as yours or mine.’

‘Shall we bury them?’ asked Bale, breaking into the discussion before Magnus could reply. ‘If we should treat corpses with respect, we had better not abandon a Saxon king to the carrion crows.’

Geoffrey saw his earnest expression and knew he was trying to make amends for what he had done.

‘Should I say a prayer?’ asked Lucian. ‘I am a monk, so I know how.’

‘Then you should not need to ask whether you should do it,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Of course you should pray. The church is a good place to start.’

‘No,’ said Lucian hastily. ‘I am not going in there. Not with all those . . . No!’

Geoffrey frowned. There was no way to know exactly when the massacre had occurred, but Lucian had been alone in the woods all night. There was no blood on his habit, but that did not mean he was not involved in some way.

‘Have you been here before?’ he asked the monk, who was already kneeling.

Lucian opened one eye to look at him. ‘You know I have not: I already told you that I hail from Bath and that I have abbey business in Ribe. Why would I ever have been in Werlinges?’

Geoffrey did not know whether to believe him, but it was not the time for an interrogation.

‘Take Ulf’s body inside the church,’ he ordered Bale. ‘Then we shall seal the doors. De Laigle may have a better idea about what happened if we leave everything as we found it.’

‘Then why seal the doors?’ asked Roger. ‘He should see them as they are: smashed open.’

‘Because he may take some time to arrive, and we do not want dogs and foxes chewing the corpses. Hurry up, Bale! We should aim for the castle as soon as possible.’

‘The castle?’ echoed Magnus. ‘We are going to the abbey.’

‘We need to inform de Laigle about this – back the way we came.’ And then, Geoffrey thought, de Laigle could deal with the massacre and the rebellion at the same time.

‘We will take the horses,’ said Roger. ‘If we meet the pirates, we can ride straight through them.’

‘But those are mine!’ exclaimed Magnus indignantly. ‘If you take them, what will I ride?’

‘No one will take the horses,’ said Geoffrey firmly. ‘It is possible that the priest did not purchase them for you, and they belong to the village – or to the Crown now all Werlinges is dead. We do not want to be accused of theft, so we will leave them here.’

‘In that case, you would do better going to La Batailge,’ said Harold. ‘And ask Galfridus – the head monk – to send one of his fast messengers to de Laigle.’

‘Besides, the tide is coming in and you cannot navigate the marshes alone,’ added Magnus. ‘And I am not going with you. I am a king, and I have had enough of bogs for a while.’

‘They cannot both be king,’ muttered Roger under his breath. ‘One will be disappointed.’

‘Both will be disappointed,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘However, I am increasingly suspicious of Magnus. I do not like the fact that he says he hid behind the church while we did battle. Not only was it cowardly but it is not true. He was not hiding
behind
the place, but
in
it.’

‘Perhaps that is what made him sick – the sight of those poor devils. I cannot condemn him for that, Geoff. Even I find such sights unsettling. And I have seen them all before.’

‘His sickness came later, when the battle was over. But when he came out of the chapel, he had something in his hand. I saw him drop it in the well over there.’

‘A weapon?’ asked Roger.

‘No. It was a package – it looked like documents – and he threw it away when he thought we were all preoccupied. And
then
he was sick.’

‘Documents? You mean that list of names you saw – tallies of troops?’

‘I do not know. It could have been, although I was under the impression it was something he had taken from the church.’

Roger was thoughtful. ‘Does he pose a danger to us? Other than the mere fact of our association with him?’

‘No,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I think he will bide his time until he thinks he has a real chance at the throne. But then I think he will kill Harold.’

There was a bitter argument when Geoffrey ordered Magnus and Harold to unsaddle the horses. Having met the drunken de Laigle, he knew it would be unwise to remove anything from a village that might later be forfeit to the Crown, even though the Saxons assured him that the nags would be returned. He did not trust them to honour their promises, or de Laigle to appreciate the difference between borrowing and stealing. The reaction of decent men to the massacre would be horror, and he knew from experience that such emotions often led to accusing fingers being pointed at convenient scapegoats. And he had no intention of being hanged because the Saxons were too lazy to walk.

‘It is wrong to deprive me of my mount,’ muttered Magnus resentfully. ‘No one will think I had anything to do with this nasty business.’

‘I hope they do not accuse Ulf,’ said Harold unhappily. ‘He has a reputation for ferocity, but he would never become embroiled in something like this. We must make certain that the blame rests with the sailors. It was hardly Ulf’s fault that he happened to be here when they attacked.’

‘The evidence is ambiguous,’ said Juhel. ‘The stains on Ulf’s clothes suggest violence on previous occasions, but do not point to him killing the villagers. Of course, he definitely stabbed someone recently, because there was fresh blood on the tip of his sword.’

Geoffrey itched to be away from the village and shaded his eyes against the sun to see whether Ulfrith had finished stabling the horses.

‘You have been hurt,’ said Juhel, noticing the blood on Geoffrey’s side when the knight raised his arm. ‘And you are very white. You should rest or you may find yourself weak later. And I doubt we can carry you.’

‘That will not be necessary,’ said Geoffrey, suspecting the scene in the church was responsible for his pallor. The injury was more an annoyance than an impediment.

‘I will give you a paste to smear on it. It contains woundwort, which will close the cut up and bring about clean healing. I always carry some, because I never know when I might need it.’

‘If you were a soldier, I would agree,’ said Roger, as Juhel removed a pot from his sack. It was a curious thing, with a blue glaze on one side and red on the other. ‘But you are not, so you should not need a potion for wounds.’

‘It is not a potion, it is a salve, and I carry it for cases like this,’ replied Juhel, unruffled. ‘Loosen your mail, Sir Geoffrey. I will apply some.’

‘You would do better to take a dose of my cure-all,’ said Lucian, producing a phial from inside his habit. The pirates had evidently not deprived him of everything. ‘Bishop de Villula – a physician as well as a prelate – insists all his monks take some on long journeys. I never leave home without it – it heals pains in the gut, headaches, sniffling noses, aching bones and sore gums.’

‘It is useful, then,’ remarked Roger dryly.

‘Very,’ said Lucian, upending the container and swallowing some, before closing his eyes and exhaling slowly. ‘I think it may quell tremors after nasty shocks, too, because I feel better already.’

‘It cannot do any harm,’ said Roger to Geoffrey, ‘especially the cure-all, as Lucian has just drunk some himself. Or, if you prefer, I can bind you up.’

Geoffrey had experienced Roger’s bandages on previous occasions and knew they were cruelly tight and sometimes did more harm than good, so he opted for Lucian’s cure-all. The monk poured a small amount in a cup supplied by Harold, and recommended that it be swallowed in one. Geoffrey gasped at the burning sensation and thought he might be sick.

‘What is in it?’ he asked suspiciously. His voice was hoarse.

‘I have no idea,’ replied Lucian airily. ‘And I had the same reaction as you when I first tasted it, but you grow to like it in time.’

Magnus stepped forward. ‘I shall take some, too. I need a physic if I am to walk to the abbey like a peasant, because I have hurt my arm. However, I want more than you gave Geoffrey.’

‘It is a powerful brew,’ objected Lucian. ‘A sip will be more than enough.’

‘Rubbish,’ snapped Magnus, jostling Lucian’s elbow so more flowed into the beaker. ‘There is no point in taking dribbles. Do not be miserly with your monarch. Lord preserve us! It is firewater.’

‘I told you so,’ said Lucian, watching him gag. ‘It is a waste to take more than you need, and I do not have much left. Can you feel it warming your throat, Sir Geoffrey?’

‘I can feel it searing my stomach,’ said Geoffrey. ‘And the taste . . .’

‘Drink this,’ said Ulfrith, offering Geoffrey his water flask. ‘I filled up it this morning.’

The water had a nasty, brackish flavour that made Geoffrey wonder whether it was as fresh as Ulfrith claimed. The squire snatched it away before he had taken more than a mouthful.

‘Leave some for me!’

‘I will have some, too,’ said Magnus, grabbing the flask and taking a tentative sip. He had learned his lesson with the cure-all and was not about to gulp a second time. He took another sip, and was about to go for a third when Ulfrith pulled it away with a scowl.

‘It is not wine, lad,’ said Roger admonishingly. ‘You did not pay for it, so there is no cause to be mean. Now let me smear some of Juhel’s grease on you, Geoff. It contains woundwort, and we both know that is a fine substance for cuts.’

‘We do not have time,’ said Geoffrey, strangely light-headed. It was not an unpleasant feeling – akin to how he felt after a sixth goblet of wine – and with it came a vague sense of well-being. What was an extra moment? Roger was right: woundwort encouraged rapid healing. He hauled up the tunic, and Juhel rubbed the paste into the cut.

‘Now me,’ said Magnus, raising his sleeve to reveal a gash. ‘I was wounded, too.’

‘How?’ asked Geoffrey. He tried to remember what he had seen: Magnus entering the church and emerging a short while later. Then there was a blank, when the Saxon could have been anywhere. Next, he had slunk to the well and dropped the package down it. And finally he had deposited his breakfast in someone’s cabbage patch.

‘A pirate came for me,’ replied Magnus. ‘I am lucky to be alive.’

‘How did you escape?’ asked Juhel, smearing the oil on the afflicted limb, then bending to wipe his hand on the grass. ‘You had no weapon.’

‘The villain ran away when I fixed him with an imperial glare,’ replied Magnus.

‘I do not believe you,’ said Roger. ‘Why—’

‘All right – he ran because all his friends were routed,’ snapped Magnus impatiently. ‘Can we leave now? I do not want to be here if the pirates come back.’

‘Good idea,’ said Juhel, heaving the hen coop on his shoulders. ‘I have had enough of bloodshed for one day.’

‘So have I,’ said Geoffrey fervently.

The day wore on as they followed a path that ran through woods, across streams, up and down hills and finally along a wide track that wound through some pretty valleys – Harold had lied: the abbey was considerably farther than the castle would have been. Eventually, Magnus claimed his wound was making him dizzy and demanded that they rest. Geoffrey refused, wanting to reach La Batailge as quickly as possible.

‘What you said earlier,’ said Roger, walking next to him. ‘You really think he will kill Harold?’

‘If the unthinkable happens and Henry is ousted, Magnus would be a fool to let other contenders live. Perhaps I spoke wildly, and he does not intend to kill Harold but to lock him away in some remote dungeon. Regardless, the fact is that Magnus will not be a strong ruler and any opposition will be dangerous.’

‘Do you believe he fought a pirate?’ asked Roger. ‘I do not. Ulfrith cornered one, and Bale lumbered after that boy for a long time, but the rest concentrated on us. Still, we know where we stand: not one of our fellow passengers came to our assistance.’