Simon Beaufort - The Bloodstained Throne

‘I hid here when I was a child,’ said Magnus. ‘After the battle, when the Bastard was looking for Saxons to slaughter. It seems an appropriate place from which to launch our glorious-’

Voices outside silenced him abruptly, and Geoffrey shot to his feet. Fingar sounded as though he might be standing on their roof as he hailed his men. They had taken advantage of the lull in the weather to resume their search.

‘He is calling his men over here, because this is the last place he saw footprints,’ said Magnus, cocking his head. ‘I know a little Irish, you see — I learned it when I was exiled there.’

At that moment, Delilah laid an egg, and her delighted clucks were answered by a peevish yap from the dog. No one needed to know Irish to understand Fingar’s next statement.

‘Hah! Now we have them!’

Silently, Geoffrey drew his sword and waited, Roger next to him similarly alert. Through the crack in the door they could see the sailors milling outside, and Geoffrey reviewed their options. He and Roger could not fight inside the shelter: there was no room to wield their weapons. But almost all Fingar’s men had gathered, and he and Roger were unlikely to defeat them all, even with Bale and Ulfrith. He dismissed the Saxons and Juhel as of no consequence — Magnus, for one, had always borrowed Simon’s knife when he had needed to cut his meat, and was never armed.

The pirates were arguing. Fingar was convinced their quarry was nearby — he tapped his nose to indicate he could smell something, and Geoffrey wondered if it was garlic — but his crew were pointing deeper into the marshes. Fingar was angry, his face a dangerous red. Kale, an unkempt, ugly man who had spent most of his time onboard trimming the sail, was the most vocal. The debate became heated, and although Geoffrey understood few of the words, the gist was clear.

Kale thrust a finger towards the sky, almost screaming in frustration: the sound the captain had heard was a bird, and they should not be wasting time in an area they had already searched. Most of the crew nodded agreement. Fingar roared something in return, perhaps that birds did not sound like dogs. Kale said something in a sneering voice that made the others snigger. Fingar moved quickly, and Kale was suddenly on his knees, gasping as blood gushed between his fingers. There was a deathly silence as he toppled forward.

Fingar’s eyebrows were raised in a question: did anyone else think he could not tell the difference between a bird and a dog? Then a flock of waterfowl flapped overheard, and one uttered a low honk — a sound that could easily have passed for a bark. There were a lot of carefully impassive faces as Fingar glared at his people. Clearly, no one wanted to say that Kale had told him so, and there was a sullen silence before Fingar gestured that Donan should lead them back the way they had come. Without a word, Donan obliged, Fingar and the others trailing.

When he was sure they had gone, Roger released a pent-up sigh. ‘Thank God for geese! I shall never eat one again.’

‘We cannot leave while they are rampaging around,’ said Geoffrey. ‘It is safer to wait here.’

He expected someone to disagree, but no one did. Magnus, Harold and Juhel clearly had no intention of challenging such ferocious adversaries, and Roger was too experienced a warrior to argue with sound military advice. They settled as comfortably as they could, Geoffrey keeping watch by the door.

It was not long before the wind began to pick up again. Then came the rain, brought by dark clouds that scudded in from the west. Lightning forked once or twice, and thunder rebounded across the marshes. Again, Geoffrey watched the grass outside go from a moderate sway to a violent flap, and then to lying flat against the ground.

‘What will you do next?’ Geoffrey asked after a while. He was bored, and even conversation with the Saxons was better than nothing, although common sense told him it might be wiser to remain in ignorance. ‘Now that you two are together and your plan is underway?’

‘As soon as it is safe to leave, you will escort us to the abbey,’ said Magnus.

‘I am travelling directly to Dover,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Nowhere near the abbey.’

‘It is only a few miles out of your way,’ said Magnus, wheedlingly. ‘And no ships can put to sea as long as the weather remains wild. You can stay in the abbey until the storms subside, and then your moral duty to me will have been fulfilled into the bargain.’

‘He has a point, Geoff,’ said Roger. ‘About the weather, I mean, not the moral duty. There is no point in travelling anywhere during storms. Besides, we should give thanks for our deliverance.’

It galled him, but Geoffrey knew they were right. All ships would be port-bound until the wind subsided, and he had no money for an inn. An abbey, however, would provide free food and shelter. And while he was at La Batailge, he could ask about the accusations Vitalis had made.

‘Your father fought at Hastinges,’ said Roger when he did not reply. ‘You should visit the abbey and pay the monks to say a mass for his soul — and for the souls of the men he killed.’

‘It might shorten his time in Purgatory,’ agreed Harold, taking another clove of garlic from his pouch and biting it in half. He offered the other to Geoffrey, who declined. ‘Of course, the slaughter of innocent Saxons was a dreadful thing, so I am fairly certain he will be condemned to Hell.’

He spoke without rancour, and Geoffrey had the feeling that he said such things because he was expected to, rather than from a deep conviction that they were right.

‘Tell me about the abbey,’ said Geoffrey, supposing that if there was no way to avoid the place, he might as well make the best of it. He was fascinated by architecture and reluctantly conceded that the excursion might be interesting.

‘It has a big church,’ said Harold with a shrug. ‘And it is full of Norman monks.’

Juhel laughed. ‘That description applies to virtually every religious foundation in England! How many monks are there?’

‘Forty, perhaps,’ said Harold vaguely. ‘Or fifty. Or sixty. But there are more than twice as many lay-brothers in the kitchens, stables, alehouse, bakery and gardens. And there are others still who tend the crops and the livestock. The abbey would be nothing without its Saxon helpers.’

‘Do you know if a monk called Wardard lives there?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘I am told he also fought at Hastinges.’

Harold nodded. ‘He is the fellow who looks after my father’s shrine — the abbey church’s high altar is on the spot where he died. Why do you ask?’

‘Do not pay any heed to what Vitalis said,’ advised Roger, who saw the direction in which the conversation was going. ‘You will probably have no truth from this Brother Wardard, just as you had none from Vitalis.’

‘Yes, but I may as well see Wardard and find out for certain,’ said Geoffrey.

‘Find out what?’ said Harold. ‘Perhaps I can help.’

‘I want to know about something that happened a long time ago,’ said Geoffrey, deliberately vague. ‘It concerns my father and his conduct at the battle at Hastinges.’

‘Vitalis cursed him for being lily-livered,’ elaborated Roger, ignoring Geoffrey’s wince. ‘He said it was Godric Mappestone’s cowardice that brought about the deaths of so many soldiers — that the fight would have ended hours sooner if Godric had done what he was ordered.’

‘You should not heed Vitalis’s claims,’ said Roger, seeing the matter still bothered his friend. ‘He spoke to hurt you. As soon as he learned your name, he was after blood. And because he knew he could never defeat you in a fair fight with swords, he resorted to striking at your dead father.’