Simon Beaufort - The Bloodstained Throne

Geoffrey nodded. The old man’s eyes had gleamed with spite the moment he had learned that Geoffrey was Godric’s son. He looked out of the crack again, watching the wind whip some large pieces of vegetation past.

‘My father was many things, but I do not think he was a coward. He fought our Welsh neighbours for years, and I never saw him flinch.’

‘Well, there you are,’ said Roger. ‘I know you, and I know your sister. Neither is a coward, and I do not believe you sprang from the loins of one.’

‘Yet he always refused to visit the abbey raised to commemorate the battle’s dead,’ said Geoffrey, thinking back to his childhood. Hastinges had been a frequent topic of conversation — all of it tales that highlighted his father’s honour, courage and daring. If Godric were to be believed, the Conqueror would have been defeated if he had not been there. Yet Geoffrey’s mother, who had also played her part, had said very little.

Geoffrey rubbed his head. Would the Conqueror have given Godric an estate if he had behaved dishonourably? Or had he not known, and the truth of Godric’s shabby conduct lay only with a few? Godric had been with the Norman army’s left flank, many of whom had been killed. Godric and Vitalis had agreed on that point: Godric had fought on the left.

‘Brother Wardard told me he became a monk to atone for the slaughter,’ said Harold helpfully. ‘He said the deaths of so many brave warriors weighed heavily on his conscience until he took the cowl. I expect your father felt the same, Sir Geoffrey.’

‘Not really,’ replied Geoffrey, recalling his father’s pride at the number of Saxons he had sent to their graves. The count of his victims had, of course, risen steadily through the years.

Geoffrey had once sarcastically remarked to one of his brothers that the Conqueror had not needed an army at Hastinges, because Godric had managed the victory single-handed. When the comment had been repeated to Godric, Geoffrey had expected retribution to be immediate and severe, but Godric had only fixed his defiant son with an unreadable expression, then marched away. It had been the last time they had discussed the battle, however, because the following week Geoffrey had been sent to Normandy to begin his knightly training.

‘Was your father proud of his conduct, then?’ pressed Harold.

‘He saw the battle as his sacred duty. He never regretted what he did.’

‘He did not visit shrines and churches, to beg forgiveness?’ asked Harold uneasily.

‘Not that I recall. But I did not see him for twenty years once I left for Normandy.’

But asking forgiveness for anything would have been anathema to Godric. Of course, if Vitalis was right, he would have had no need — because he had not fought at all, but had skulked in the woods, causing the battle to go on far longer than it should have done and bringing about the deaths of hundreds.

Geoffrey sighed, not sure what to think. Vitalis had certainly known Godric, because he related details that only his family shared. He had also known Geoffrey’s mother and had confessed to being more afraid of her than her husband. Geoffrey understood that perfectly: he had been wary of the formidable Herleve himself. He had often wondered why, with such parents, he had not grown into a brutal tyrant; he could only suppose that being sent away at an early age had removed him from their malign influence.

‘Well, perhaps you should ask Wardard to intercede on your father’s behalf,’ suggested Harold.

‘He does need prayers, sir,’ added Bale, who had spent most of his life on Godric’s manor. ‘And not only for those he killed in battle. There are also those he hanged for poaching, even though they were innocent; the families he evicted for not paying rent — they had paid, but he demanded the money again; the people of that Welsh village he burned for stealing his cattle, although it turned out he had taken the cows to the high byre himself-’

‘Enough, Bale,’ interrupted Geoffrey tiredly.

‘It does sound as if you should see this monk,’ said Magnus. ‘You will want to put your mind at ease about your father’s doings. And you can escort me at the same time.’

At that moment, the wind caught a tree outside, and its contorted trunk issued a low, moaning, keening sound that made Ulfrith and Bale start up in alarm.

‘It is only marsh fays,’ said Roger, which did little to allay their unease. ‘Or perhaps the soul of murdered Vitalis, howling for vengeance. Restless spirits will not like this gale, either.’

‘Then perhaps we should invite them in,’ said Geoffrey, his temper sour from the preceding discussion. ‘I am sure we can find them a corner.’

‘Do not jest about such matters,’ said Roger sternly. ‘This storm is your doing for ignoring God’s will. And you do not want marsh fays and ghosts angry with you as well.’

‘Marsh fays are terrible beings, and I should not like to see Vitalis here, either,’ said Bale fearfully. ‘But I would rather do that than meet the ghost of Sir Godric Mappestone. In fact, I would sooner meet the Devil than him !’

The storm lasted a good deal longer than any of them anticipated. It raged all night and well into the following evening. They ate the rations in the knights’ saddlebags — dried meat past its best and a packet of old peas — and the corn that Juhel carried for Delilah, boiling them into a stew with some of Harold’s garlic. Roger, who could make a fire in almost any conditions, soon had a blaze going. The smoke threatened to suffocate them, but at least it kept them warm and provided a hot meal.

Water they had in abundance. It battered the door, dripped through the roof and was soon calf-deep on the floor. They took it in turns to sit on the bed. But it was the wind that kept them pinned down. At times it reached deafening proportions, and Geoffrey was certain the top would be torn from the shelter. He had seen many storms, but none compared to the ferocity of this. Towards the end of the second day, there was an ominous crack above their heads.

‘The rain is making the mud too heavy for these wooden supports,’ said Harold, poking the structure with a podgy forefinger. ‘It may collapse and crush us all.’

Manfully, Geoffrey resisted the urge to run outside.

‘It is because God knows he still plans to go to the Holy Land,’ murmured Ulfrith, glaring.

‘Do not be ridiculous,’ snapped Geoffrey curtly. ‘It has nothing to do with me.’

Ulfrith started to argue, but Geoffrey rounded on him with such a dangerous expression that the squire’s mouth closed with a snap. The knight was not often angry, but his companions had learned that once he had been provoked into an outburst, it was wise to leave him alone.

Geoffrey turned his attention to the crack in the door again, noting that the rainclouds were so thick that it was dark, even though the sun had not yet set. The wind’s howl rose another octave, and he was sure that if the door had faced directly into the wind, instead of to the lee, they would not have survived.

The squires huddled together, making no attempt to disguise their fear, while Harold wedged himself at the very back of the shelter, as if he thought it might be safer. Juhel hugged his bird to his chest and attempted to comfort her with a handful of seed. She pecked the treats from his hand, but when he rummaged for more, his bag fell, spilling some of its contents into the water. He swore as he retrieved them, and Geoffrey saw that the bundle of documents was the first thing he saved. A flash of yellow indicated that something gold was the second.

Geoffrey stared at him. The parchments were still bound together with red ribbon. Did it mean Juhel had not strangled Vitalis, because the ribbon was still in place? He fingered the piece Bale had recovered from Vitalis’s neck, noting that it was the same thickness and quality as that on Juhel’s package.