Simon Beaufort - The Bloodstained Throne

And what about Juhel, whose friend was a spy for Belleme? Would he strangle a woman? He would according to Philippa, who also saw him as Paisnel’s murderer. Geoffrey tried to recall whether Lucian or Juhel had ever worn a garment of scarlet, but nothing sprang to mind. Of course, Edith had owned a red cloak herself, so perhaps the strand came from her own clothes, not the killer’s. Philippa had claimed the cloak, but that had been after Edith was dead, and Geoffrey doubted she would have been permitted to don it while her wealthier friend was still alive.

He turned his mind to the ribbon that had killed Vitalis and Edith. He pulled out the piece Bale had taken from the old man’s body and turned it over in his hands. Juhel was right to say there was a lot of it around. Edith had owned some, donated by Paisnel, and so had Juhel. Had ribbon been used to kill her because her murderer knew it had dispatched her husband and he was trying to create confusion?

But the deaths of Vitalis and Edith were irrelevant to the brewing Saxon rebellion. Geoffrey wondered how far Breme had travelled. He hoped his message would be taken seriously, because he was becoming increasingly convinced that the danger to Henry was real. He decided he would leave La Batailge the following morning and deliver his own account.

His mind turned to the battle that had raged over the ground in front of him some thirty-seven years before, changing England for ever. The ridge on which he sat was a superb vantage point, and the geography of the area explained why two fairly evenly matched forces had taken the best part of a day to decide the victor.

He was not alone for long. Several monks were strolling on the field, either singly or in groups, and one laboured up the ridge towards him.

‘You are Godric Mappestone’s son,’ said the monk. ‘I am Brother Wardard and I understand you want to speak to me.’

Geoffrey stood and bowed, but now the man was in front of him he did not know how to put his questions. He gestured that Wardard should sit on the tree stump and stared across the battlefield, wondering what it had been like when the monk had been a warrior waiting to advance. Wardard fumbled in his pouch and drew out a piece of dried meat, which he flung to the dog.

As the monk watched the animal eat, Geoffrey studied him. He must have been nearing his eighth decade but was still impressive. He was tall, strong and erect, although lines of pain etched around his mouth indicated his health was not all it might have been. He had obviously been a fine specimen in his prime, and confidence, nobilesse and dignity were still present. His eyes were alight with intelligence, and there was something about him that suggested he was still more soldier than monastic. Geoffrey understood why the monks of La Batailge had wanted him as their abbot.

‘You wanted to ask about your father,’ said Wardard eventually. ‘Sir Roger told me that Vitalis discussed Godric’s conduct during the battle. He should not have done.’

‘Vitalis was losing his wits,’ said Geoffrey, then realized he should moderate his tone. Wardard and Vitalis had been friends.

‘Illness had turned him self-absorbed and greedy, and the Vitalis you met was not the one who stood here and fought for the Conqueror. Do not think badly of him.’

Geoffrey inclined his head, although he would make up his own mind about Vitalis once he had heard the truth from Wardard.

‘It is wicked to denigrate a beloved father to a son,’ Wardard went on. ‘Dangerous, too — it is not unknown for sons to withdraw masses for their forbears’ souls when they learn certain things. I would not like such a fate to befall Godric’s beleaguered soul.’

‘Did you know him well?’

‘Did you?’ countered Wardard.

It was not an easy question to answer. Geoffrey had been sent away for knightly training at the age of twelve and had not met Godric again for twenty years. His memories were of an aggressive, brutal tyrant, who had ruled his household with a brooding temper and ready fists. They had never shared confidences, and even when he was dying, Godric had lied and schemed.

‘Not really,’ he replied eventually.

‘King Harold stood where you are now,’ said Wardard, after another silence. ‘He had come up in the night and chose to fight from this rise. His men stood close-packed, with their shields forming a solid wall. Duke William’s troops were down there, just out of range of the Saxon archers, and there was a bog between them. And then the Normans advanced.’

‘Up there, first,’ said Geoffrey, waving his hand towards the west, as he recalled Godric’s descriptions. ‘That was where the Bretons were stationed, and my father was with them. The main troops and Duke William were straight ahead.’

‘It was the Breton advance that almost saw the battle lost in its first hour,’ said Wardard. ‘They became mired in the bogs, then were forced to ride up this hill directly into the path of the Saxon archers. Their horses were unprotected, and most who reached the Saxon line were on foot, their mounts shot from under them. The Saxon counter-attack was savage, and it turned into a rout.’

‘Vitalis said my father told his men to retreat before they were halfway up this hill,’ said Geoffrey. ‘On the grounds that the assault was impossible. Once the Breton line was broken, the other invaders might have left the field — and the victory — to Harold. It was only William’s leadership that kept them in battle formation.’

Wardard rubbed his chin. ‘It was not easy to watch our comrades slaughtered in such terrible numbers. Our archers were supposed to have advanced first, but their arrows ran out. The Breton advance was a total failure — and demoralizing, too.’

‘Was my father the first to run?’

Geoffrey found he was afraid of the answer, worried that if Godric had been a coward, then cowardice might be in his own blood, and his courage might fail when he was faced with impossible odds. Of course, it had not failed at Civitot, Nicea, Antioch, Jerusalem or countless other skirmishes through the years when he had been certain he was going to die.

Wardard studied him. ‘What did Godric tell you?’

Geoffrey sighed, not liking the way Wardard answered questions with questions. ‘That he led the charge, screamed encouragement to the faint-hearted, killed at least twenty Saxons in the first assault, and was among the last to leave when it became a rout.’

‘And what do you believe?’

Geoffrey studied the terrain, noting the steep angle of the ridge and the soft, muddy ground that would need to be traversed before making the laborious ascent. And he saw how easy it would have been to rain arrows down on those who were scrambling up it.

‘That the Norman leading the charge was not likely to have lived very long.’

Wardard nodded. ‘So, you have unveiled one truth without my help. It was impossible to tell who reached the Saxons first, but the leaders quickly became trapped between Harold’s line and the press of Bretons surging behind. Death was inevitable.’

‘What else can you tell me?’ asked Geoffrey unhappily, seeing how the discussion was going to go. It was not that he was disappointed in Godric, whom he had never respected, but that he failed to understand how he could then have lied about his conduct on such an unrestrained scale.

Wardard’s expression was wistful. ‘I had an excellent view of the proceedings, although most of the time I wished I had not. But what I recall most vividly was your mother, swinging her axe. There was not a braver woman in Christendom than Lady Herleve. It was a pity she disguised herself, because her courage would have fired the palest of hearts. If she, a woman heavy with child, could fight like a lion, then so could any man.’