The Bloodstained Throne (32 page)

‘What love potion?’ asked Roger.

‘I needed help,’ said Ulfrith, unrepentant. ‘Nothing else was working, but now I see why. She was intent on having Lucian because she thought he was rich. And I am not.’

Geoffrey was about to take another gulp of water but paused with the flask in mid-air. ‘Is
that
what I have been drinking these past few days? Well, I suppose it explains your odd questions after you rescued me from Fingar – whether I felt the urge to lie with Philippa. You were afraid you had invested in a charm and I had reaped the benefits.’

‘It did not work for either of us,’ said Ulfrith mournfully.

Geoffrey rubbed his chin. ‘But there was an odd taste to the water
before
we met Aelfwig – after the fight at Werlinges, when you urged me to drink it. Magnus also wanted some, but you were reluctant to let him have it. Shortly afterwards, we were both plagued with odd visions. What was in it? A potion of your own that would make me repellent to her?’

Ulfrith’s guilty expression indicated Geoffrey was guessing along the right lines. ‘You were not supposed to
keep
drinking it, but I could not stop you.’

Roger looked more dangerous than Geoffrey had ever seen him. He advanced on Ulfrith with a gleam in his eye that was distinctly unnerving.

‘
You
poisoned Geoffrey? You fed him something you knew would make him ill? And then, when he was laid low, you gave him more?’

‘No!’ cried Ulfrith, leaping to his feet and backing away. ‘It was not like that! My grandmother used to swallow the stuff when she wanted to see into the future. It used to make her jabber nonsense, but she was never ill. All I wanted was for Sir Geoffrey to be unappealing to Lady Philippa, so she might spare a glance for me.’

Roger regarded him furiously. ‘But your grandmother probably drank it all her life, and you fed it to Geoff without knowing what might happen. She was a woman, and he is a man. They are different!’

Geoffrey was unable to prevent a smile. ‘But no harm was done.’

Roger rounded on him. ‘No harm? You would not say that if you could have seen yourself. Aelfwig told me you would not live the night, and I spent a lot of gold making you well again – buying prayers, paying for Breme’s charm, making donations to the abbey. He almost killed you!’

‘I did
not
!’ squeaked Ulfrith, cowering as Roger spun around again. ‘I tried to stop him from taking more, but you ordered me not to be mean. There was nothing I could do . . .’

‘He tried to make amends,’ said Geoffrey to Roger. ‘It was Ulfrith who gave me water instead of medicine. Breme told me it was his idea, but it was probably Ulfrith’s.’

‘Yes!’ insisted Ulfrith. ‘The idea came to me after I saw the jug next to his bed. He must have fetched it himself when I left him to watch . . .’

He trailed off, regarding Roger in horror, but the squire’s inadvertent confession clarified more issues in Geoffrey’s mind. If Ulfrith had left him unattended, it meant Fingar
had
visited, and he had
not
imagined the conversation. And since Geoffrey had been far too weak to fetch the water himself, it must have been Fingar who had given it to him, thus probably saving his life.

‘You
left
him?’ demanded Roger with icy fury. ‘After I gave you strict instructions to stay?’

‘I saw Philippa walking alone,’ the squire said miserably. ‘I had to make sure she was safe.’

‘What was in your water, Ulfrith?’ asked Aelfwig gravely, cutting across Roger’s spluttering rage. ‘My potion contained henbane, which does not mix well with other medicines. I asked whether you were giving him remedies after you arrived, but you all said no.’

‘I was not
giving
it to him,’ quibbled Ulfrith. ‘He just took it. And it was a black fungus that grows on wild grasses. My grandmother called it ergot.’

‘Well, there you are,’ said Aelfwig. ‘The combination of ergot and henbane will certainly drive a man from his wits. And if Geoffrey had continued to take both, we would not be talking now.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Geoffrey. ‘I accused Juhel of doing it. I shall have to apologize.’

‘I did not hurt you deliberately,’ mumbled Ulfrith. ‘I was confused. Philippa was so cold—’

At the name of the woman, Roger’s temper snapped. He advanced on his squire with a murderous expression in his eyes. Terrified, Ulfrith darted behind a table, but Roger flung it away as though it were made of feathers.

‘No,’ said Geoffrey, moving to stop the dreadful advance. He had seen that expression before and knew Roger would be sorry once his squire lay dead. ‘That is enough.’

‘It is enough when I say so,’ snarled Roger. ‘He almost killed you.’

‘I promise I will never do it again!’ squealed Ulfrith.

‘Damn right, lad,’ growled Roger, moving forward, dagger in his hand. ‘You will not.’

Geoffrey dived at the big knight’s knees, bringing him crashing to the floor just as the knife flashed towards Ulfrith’s throat. For a moment, he thought Roger meant to continue the fight and braced himself, but the fall had brought Roger to his senses. He shoved Geoffrey away.

‘Damn you, Geoff,’ he growled. ‘You have just ripped my best shirt.’

Because he did not feel like being in the same room as Ulfrith, Geoffrey wandered across the battlefield, wishing he did not have to wait until the following day to leave La Batailge. He walked to the tree trunk on the ridge, thinking about his father and the warriors of Hastinges. Pondering the scene of such slaughter made him maudlin, so he went to the church, where he spent a long time staring at the high altar. Several monks knelt around it, their whispered prayers hissing softly.

‘Roger told me your father died by his own hand,’ came a voice. Geoffrey turned to see Wardard. ‘You must have been distressed that he should meet such an ignoble end.’

‘Goodrich is a happier place without him,’ said Geoffrey shortly, thinking of the misery Godric had inflicted on family and tenants during his violent life.

‘So I heard from Bale.’ Wardard was rueful. ‘It seems I was over-hasty when I declined to tell you of Godric’s role in the battle. Most men whose fathers fought here revere them as heroes – and some were abject cowards. But Roger tells me you are well aware of Godric’s faults.’

‘He was flawed. Like all of us.’

‘Your mother deserved better,’ said Wardard, almost to himself. ‘She was a fine woman.’

‘So I am told,’ remarked Geoffrey dryly.

Wardard grinned suddenly. ‘Perhaps I would be wise not to reminisce too freely about her. Well, we shall discuss Godric instead, then. Men fight better when they have friends around them, but Godric was not a man for friends. He was too brutal, too outspoken and too arrogant.’

‘Did he run away that day?’

Wardard nodded. ‘But he was not the first, nor even the second. And he rallied with the rest when they were given orders to attack again. He was braver than some, less than others.’

‘Truly? He did not balk at the first hurdle and call for others to flee?’

Wardard rested his hand over his heart. ‘As God is my witness. Godric fell back early, but I did not hear him calling for anyone to go with him. He was not a hero, just a man.’

‘Then why did Vitalis tell me such a tale?’

‘I told you: his illness confused his memories. There
was
a knight who screamed his terror at the first charge and unnerved others. But it was not Godric. You will find
your
recollections become hazy with age, too. It happens to us all.’

‘So why did the Conqueror give him his estates?’

‘That was in recognition of your
mother’s
contribution,’ replied Wardard. ‘Herleve really
did
fight valiantly. She was an inspiration to all who saw her. Godric never knew the truth – and would not have acknowledged it if he had.’

Geoffrey was silent for a while, wondering how his mother could have borne listening to Godric’s self-aggrandizing lies all those years. He was not generally proud of his family. With the exception of Joan, they had been acquisitive, dishonest, violent and selfish. But, for the first time, he saw his mother might have possessed qualities he could admire.

‘Fear not,’ said Wardard, seeming to read his thoughts. ‘You are more like her than him.’

Geoffrey was relieved and grateful to know Vitalis had been mistaken. He tried to imagine the formidable Herleve at Hastinges with her axe, but he could not recall her face, and the features that came to mind were those of his wife. It was dusk as he stepped outside the church, and, full of thoughts and memories, barely heard Harold, who waylaid him to say again that he would protect him from Magnus once the Saxons had triumphed. Seeing himself ignored, Harold went to talk to some of the lay-brothers instead, all of whom were delighted to see him.

Geoffrey had not gone much farther when he saw Magnus slinking away from the abbey and towards the fishponds. Intrigued by the Saxon’s almost comic furtiveness, Geoffrey followed. Magnus glanced behind frequently and stopped to listen on several occasions, but Geoffrey had no trouble staying out of sight, even on the open battle land.

Eventually, Magnus reached the trees that shielded the ponds, and Geoffrey heard him speak, his tone urgent and confidential. Cautiously, Geoffrey eased through the vegetation to see that a number of men – many of them lay-brothers – had gathered around the largest pond. There was a good deal of splashing, some grunts of exertion, the sound of metal against metal, and then a deep plop. Magnus hissed some additional instructions, and the cohort trailed back towards the abbey, chatting happily and making no attempt to disguise where they had been.

When he was sure they had gone, Geoffrey eased forward and knelt where Magnus had crouched. The edge of the pond was thick with churned mud, amid which lay a flat stone. He lifted it and saw a rope underneath. One end disappeared into the water, and he traced the other to where it was securely fastened to a tree. He noted it was carefully concealed under grass the entire distance. Back at the pond, he discovered another two rocks, a rope leading from each.

He sat for a while, thinking, then walked to the hospital to fetch what he needed. Roger was already asleep – his vigil evidently forgotten – and although he stirred when Geoffrey moved about the room, he did not wake. Geoffrey returned to the fishponds and took up station in the undergrowth again. Gradually, daylight faded to dusk and then to night.

He was perfectly relaxed, and for the first time in days his thoughts were clear. He had answers to nearly all his questions – and he understood why he had made mistakes and drawn erroneous conclusions. Perhaps more importantly, he knew how to make amends. But first he had to wait until he heard the telltale scrape of a leather boot on the wall. When the sound came, he eased forward, so that as the dark figure dropped he was ready to meet him.

‘Fingar!’ he called softly. ‘It is Geoffrey.’

The pirate captain looked around wildly, sword in his hand. ‘Come out, where we can see you,’ he snarled.

More sailors swarmed over the wall, several holding crossbows and all carrying daggers. Geoffrey sincerely hoped his assumptions were right and that he was not about to make a fatal mistake. He stepped into the open. A crescent moon dodged in and out of flimsy clouds, just bright enough to let them see him. An owl hooted nearby, low and eerie, followed by the answering call from a marsh bird that had the pirates glancing around in alarm.

‘Fays,’ muttered Donan. ‘They have not gone far since
Patrick
went down.’

‘I have come to offer you some gold,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I do not know how much. It may be more than you lost to Roger, it may be less. If I tell you where it is, are you prepared to forget what he took and leave us alone?’

‘That depends,’ said Fingar. ‘I do not want to leave with next to nothing, because I make some Devil’s pact with you.’

‘The Saxons are mustering a rebellion and have been raising money to fund it. I know where they have hidden it. You can have it all. But you must give me your word that you will leave Roger alone.’

‘How much gold have they gathered?’ asked Fingar.

‘I told you: I do not know.’

‘Where is it?’ demanded Donan. ‘Tell us, and we will let you live.’

‘No,’ said Geoffrey. ‘That is not the bargain. I want you to swear – on your lives – that you will never trouble Roger or my squires again. You will forget about your own gold.’

‘No,’ said Donan suspiciously. ‘It sounds like a trick.’

Fingar agreed. ‘And how do
you
know you can trust
us
– that we will not take this Saxon gold and hunt Roger anyway?’

‘Because I have invoked a curse,’ replied Geoffrey calmly. ‘With those marsh fays you heard. If you break your word, the curse will follow you until they snatch away your souls.’

At that moment, the bird cried again, piercingly, so that some of the sailors crossed themselves. The moon ducked behind a thicker cloud, and the night was suddenly very dark.

‘All right,’ said Fingar, unsettled. ‘I am of a mind to be generous. Show us.’

‘Swear first,’ said Geoffrey.

‘You will tell us, and then I will thrust my sword into your gizzard, so you can thank God for a quick death!’ cried Donan, darting forward with his weapon raised. This time the bird’s cry was high and wavering. Fingar jumped forward and grabbed him.

‘Fool!’ he hissed. ‘Can you not see he can summon these creatures? Why do you think I did not kill him in the hospital?’

‘Tell me,’ said Donan, although the unsteadiness in his voice said he was growing frightened. He was not the only one: the sailors had gathered in a tight knot, finding reassurance in each other’s close proximity. ‘I did not understand it then, and I do not see why we cannot kill him now.’

‘Because the fays protected him when he was poisoned,’ snapped Fingar. ‘I heard what the herbalist said – that Geoffrey should have died. But he recovered. We cannot kill a man who has the love of fays. Now sheath your sword before you see us cursed.’