Simon Beaufort - The Bloodstained Throne

‘You should leave those out to dry,’ he advised. ‘The ink will run otherwise, and you will not be able to read them later.’

Alarmed, Juhel unpicked the knotted ribbon, allowing Geoffrey to see the same seal he had observed on the letters Paisnel had owned. So, he thought, Juhel had managed to secure them before Paisnel and his bag had gone missing. But did it mean Philippa was right: that Juhel had murdered his friend, first ensuring that he had taken anything of value from his pack? He watched Juhel peer at the writing, then give it a rub, nodding in satisfaction when the ink stayed firm.

‘It is all right,’ he said, smiling. ‘I caught them in time.’

‘The Bishop of Ribe,’ said Geoffrey, reading the name on the top one. The second, addressed to Juhel himself, was upside down. Was that because Juhel could not read and up or down made no difference to him? He also seemed to know remarkably little about parchment for a man who sold it: it needed more than a rub to dry it out. ‘Paisnel said he was one of the bishop’s clerks.’

‘His best clerk,’ corrected Juhel sadly. ‘A man who was invaluable to him in many ways.’

‘You mean he was a spy?’ asked Magnus baldly.

‘No,’ said Juhel. His expression was cold, with no trace of its customary humour. ‘He was not a spy.’

The words were hardly out of his mouth when the wind suddenly veered to the south, and a tremendous gust blasted the door inwards so it smashed against the wall, splinters flying in all directions. Geoffrey was hurled sideways, and feathers, splinters and pieces of vegetation billowed furiously around the shelter.

The maelstrom of debris continued to whirl until Geoffrey and Roger used their combined strength to close the door. Fortunately, it was sturdy, and although it had been damaged, it still shut out the weather. Once closed — and this time Roger permitted no cracks — the shelter’s shaken occupants began to pull themselves together. Only Delilah seemed unperturbed: she had flown up to a rafter, where she settled down to roost. It was pitch black until Roger lit a candle, and Geoffrey looked around in dismay, not liking the notion of spending the night sealed in so tightly.

‘I have never known such a tempest,’ said Harold.

‘We might never get out of it alive,’ said Ulfrith unsteadily. ‘And it will be his fault.’ He glared at Geoffrey.

‘He is right, Geoff,’ said Roger quietly. ‘This storm has gone on too long to be natural. Do you really want to be in this cave for the next week — all dark and airless, with the sea whipping about outside and threatening to flood in and drown us? You must promise God that you will do what He wants and stay in England.’

Using Geoffrey’s dislike of enclosed places was sly but effective. He did not want to spend another hour inside, and the thought of being there for days made his stomach churn.

‘I am going to the Holy Land,’ he said, defiantly but unsteadily. ‘This storm is not-’

‘Do you remember what happened to Job when he defied God during a storm?’ interrupted Roger, pressing his point relentlessly. ‘He was eaten alive by a great sea serpent and spent the rest of his life in its belly — in the dark , with no clean air , and up to his neck in water. I imagine it was much like this cave.’

‘It was Jonah, and he was inside a whale, not a serpent,’ said Geoffrey, wondering who had taught Roger his theology. ‘And he was only there for three days.’

‘Three days!’ echoed Roger, looking around meaningfully. ‘Do you want to be here for another three days? Look at how the water is rising. We will drown, just like Jonah almost did.’

‘Do you think these sea serpents will reach us here?’ asked Bale fearfully. ‘They have no legs, so cannot travel far, but. .’

‘There are channels,’ said Ulfrith darkly, wincing as a particularly fierce gust rattled the door. ‘They can swim along those, so they do not need legs.’

The wooden supports in the roof gave another ominous crack, and a clod of mud dropped on to Magnus, who gave a frightened yelp.

‘This place cannot take much more,’ said Juhel worriedly. ‘We should take the bed and turn it on its end, so when the roof does collapse, it will give us at least a chance of survival. Unless Sir Geoffrey appeases God, of course.’

Geoffrey was beginning to feel sick, and he crawled towards the door, groping for the bar that secured it. Roger came to stand next to him, to make sure he did nothing foolish, although Geoffrey was somewhat calmed by the blasts of wind shooting through the gaps on to his hands.

‘You promised to show me a cathedral being built, sir,’ whispered Bale. ‘It is a pity I shall die without seeing one.’

He was on the verge of tears, and Geoffrey was startled. In most situations, Bale was fearless enough to be a liability, yet he was frightened now. And Roger, one of the bravest men he had ever met, was reverting to underhand tactics to make him swear vows he did not want to take. The dog whined, and Juhel shot it a reassuring smile that failed to conceal the terror that lay beneath it.

Then Roger dropped to his knees, hands clasped together. The big knight only ever prayed in churches, and then only in a very indifferent manner. The overt piety unsettled Geoffrey.

‘You must make the vow, sir,’ said Ulfrith in a low voice. ‘You must agree to bide by God’s wishes and not travel to the Holy Land.’

‘Please!’ squeaked Magnus. ‘It is unfair to kill us all for your own selfish ends.’

‘God, deliver us from small, dark, cramped, water-filled places,’ intoned Roger, one eye open to gauge his friend’s reaction. ‘Do not allow your faithful servants to perish in airless holes-’

‘All right,’ cried Geoffrey, yielding to the intolerable pressure. ‘I will not go.’

Lightning forked outside, followed by a clap of thunder so loud that Magnus flung his hands over his ears and began to wail in terror. Harold dropped to his knees, as Roger shot up from his. Bale and Ulfrith clutched each other for support, and Juhel scrambled to grab his agitated chicken.

‘You have to do it properly,’ shouted Roger. ‘Kneel and put your hands together, like King Harold, and say the words in a clear, loud voice, to make sure the Almighty can hear. You have to mean them, too. He knew you were insincere just now, which is why He sent the lightning.’

Geoffrey dropped to one knee in the icy water and placed his hands as Roger had instructed.

‘I will not go to the Holy City,’ he said, although the thunder was so loud that his voice was barely audible. ‘I will remain in England until God instructs me otherwise.’

The thunder finished its roll and died away.

‘It is easing off already,’ said Bale, relieved. ‘We are all saved. Thanks be to God!’

‘Amen,’ chorused the others, and even the hen clucked.

It did not sound as though it was easing to Geoffrey, although he supposed the next rumble might be a little farther away. His companions began an impromptu celebration, and Bale was so convinced the danger was over that he curled into a ball and fell asleep.

The storm did fizzle out eventually, and Geoffrey stood to leave, itching to be away from the cave. But Harold said the marshes were likely to have been re-sculpted, and it would be a pity to survive the gale only to drown in a newly created bog in the dark. Geoffrey spent what was left of the night outside, sleeping peacefully, if damply, under an alder, while the others stayed in the comparative comfort of the shelter.

Shortly after dawn, which was bright and clear, Geoffrey climbed to the top of the shelter to take stock of their surroundings. The marshes behind the coast were ruggedly beautiful and, now the storm was over, full of birds. But everywhere were signs of the storm: wood, branches and other debris lay thick on the ground, and Geoffrey could see at least six trees on their sides, roots clawing upwards. Nearby were two smashed boats and the sodden carcass of a sheep.