Simon Beaufort - The Bloodstained Throne

Geoffrey was disgusted. ‘No wonder they are angry! Give the money to me. I will return-’

‘No,’ said Roger shortly. ‘Those damned villains owe me a horse, so the only way they are getting this back from me is if they take it from my corpse.’

‘They will not be content with its return now anyway,’ Magnus pointed out. ‘They will kill us regardless. I have been forced to associate with Fingar for years, and he is deadly when crossed — even his own men are terrified of him.’

Geoffrey stole a glance over his shoulder and saw the captain was leading the chase. Even from a distance, Fingar’s face was slashed with a savage fury, and he suspected Magnus was right: Roger’s actions had crossed some irreversible line.

‘Your only hope for avoiding death is to come with me, but I will not wait,’ said Magnus, moving away. ‘Come now or die.’

Reluctantly, Geoffrey followed him along a narrow path that soon had them out of sight from the main track. Then he was stumbling along a barely visible trail that snaked past quicksands, through alder thickets and across muddy channels. It jigged and twisted, and Geoffrey quickly lost all sense of direction. They had not gone far when Roger, bringing up the rear, released a yell that brought Geoffrey to an abrupt standstill. Then came the sound of clashing weapons.

Ignoring Magnus, who declared that thieves should be left to their fate, Geoffrey raced back along the path. But when he reached Roger, it was to find his friend wiping the blade of his sword on the grass, two bodies lying nearby.

‘ They will not be hoodwinking hapless travellers into sailing with them again,’ he said grimly. ‘I have saved countless lives by dispatching such wicked fellows.’

‘Come on,’ said Geoffrey urgently. It was no time for Roger’s contorted logic and twisted morals — the slapping of feet on mud indicated more sailors were catching up. He turned and ran, Roger’s lumbering footsteps behind him.

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.

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.