Simon Beaufort - The Bloodstained Throne

‘Leave it hidden: we are going nowhere.’ Geoffrey explained what he had done the previous night and outlined his discussion with Juhel. Roger listened without interruption, but his face was indignant when it finished.

‘You gave those pirates the Saxons’ treasure? Why did you not give it to me and let the pirates have their own back? I could have been fabulously rich!’

‘I did not know what the Saxons had. It was a gamble. You might have ended up poorer.’

Roger was about to argue, but was distracted by a commotion at the gatehouse. They went outside to see that a party of wealthy men had arrived, resplendent in fine clothes and awash with baggage. Lay-brothers hurried to welcome them, and Geoffrey could tell that they were more of those who intended to stand with Magnus.

‘The short fellow in the blue cloak is Osbjorn, one of Magnus’s Danish kinsmen,’ said Juhel, materializing suddenly. ‘The man with him is Eadric; his father was a deacon who fought at King Harold’s side. And there is Brother Aelfwig, greeting them like old friends.’

‘Well, he is a Saxon,’ said Roger disgustedly.

‘And no herbalist, as Geoffrey discovered to his cost. His father was King Harold’s uncle and Bishop of Winchester, which makes Aelfwig Magnus’s cousin. Aelfwig the Elder brought twelve monks and a score of soldiers to the battle. The traitors are coming home to roost.’

A good deal of the newcomers’ luggage was spirited away, and Geoffrey guessed it contained weapons or more treasure. Harold hurried forward and almost dragged Osbjorn from his horse with the ferocity of his greeting, muttering something in his ear that made him turn white. Geoffrey supposed Osbjorn had just been told the news about the missing treasure. Meanwhile, Magnus merely regarded his kinsman with cool hauteur.

Supplies were not all the party had brought. There was also a body. The lay-brothers cut the ropes that held it to the back of a horse, then laid it on the ground, where Aelfwig covered it with a piece of sacking.

‘About half an hour’s ride from here,’ Osbjorn was saying. ‘We thought he might be one of our own, so we brought him here.’

‘He was not one of us,’ said Aelfwig in a meaningful way. ‘He was just a peddler.’

Once the new arrivals had been escorted to the guest hall, Geoffrey went to inspect the body. He crouched down and removed the sack.

‘God’s blood!’ swore Roger. ‘It is Breme.’

‘Damn!’ said Juhel softly. ‘Are our letters in his pouch?’

Geoffrey searched the corpse quickly, then shook his head. ‘His pack is gone, too. I imagine we are supposed to assume he was attacked by robbers. But he is still wearing the ring we gave him, and thieves would have taken that.’

‘I said the rebels are incompetent,’ said Juhel in disgust. ‘They cannot even stage a fake robbery.’

‘Perhaps not, but they have ensured Breme never reached Winchester,’ said Geoffrey grimly. ‘We are on our own.’

The arrival of Osbjorn and Eadric caused considerable delight among the Saxons. At the guest hall, they were plied with the dishes that had been prepared for the Duke of Normandy. The Norman monks were astonished at this, but Galfridus raised a hand to silence their indignation. Lay-brothers and ‘pilgrims’ continued to crowd in, and it quickly became clear what they really were. A kitchen scullion named Thurkill hefted a sword in a way that indicated he had wielded more than filleting knives in the past, and two ‘grooms’ clapped Osbjorn on the back in a manner that would have been inappropriate had they really been servants.

‘I sincerely hope help is on its way,’ said Galfridus when Geoffrey approached. ‘You have sent for some, have you not? The situation is rapidly becoming untenable.’

‘I did, but it will not materialize,’ replied Geoffrey.

Galfridus stared at him. ‘But I can see at least three disinherited earls from here, plus several fanatics who have made careers of insurrection!’

‘How many of your monks will stand against them?’

Galfridus regarded him askance. ‘None.’

It was Geoffrey’s turn to stare. ‘There is not a single man here who is loyal to the King?’

‘That is not what I meant. All the Normans will be loyal — about thirty men out of fifty-five — but they have forsworn arms. None will raise so much as a stick.’

‘I will,’ came Wardard’s quiet voice from behind them. ‘I will fight, as I did before, although I would prefer peace. Perhaps we can persuade them to disband.’

‘This is too far advanced to be stopped by speeches,’ said Galfridus. ‘If help is not coming, then all we can do is lock ourselves in the church and hope they do not set it alight.’

There was a colossal cheer from the Saxons. Osbjorn had just announced that others would soon arrive at La Batailge — good, honest Saxons armed with hoes and pitchforks.

Galfridus closed his eyes in defeat, but Wardard rested a hand on his shoulder.

‘Do not pay heed to defiant words. The nobles will fight, but the peasantry will not be blinded by impossible dreams. Most will slink away at the first clash of steel.’

Geoffrey hoped he was right. Nevertheless, he estimated that the abbey already contained at least three hundred would-be warriors. He turned at the sound of running feet. A number of people were converging on the kitchens, where a fight was in progress between Ralph the sacristan and Thurkill the scullion. Ralph was brandishing a ladle, but Thurkill had his sword.

‘Norman pig!’ Thurkill howled. ‘You have no right to order me around.’

‘I have every right,’ screeched Ralph, lunging with his spoon. ‘You are a scullion and I am sacristan. Of course you take orders from me, Saxon scum.’

Thurkill moved in for the kill, and Ralph suddenly realized he had bitten off more than he could chew. Panic-stricken, he darted behind a table and began to lob pieces of food. One hit a cook, who, trying to dodge it, inadvertently jostled a scribe. There followed an unseemly melee, as old scores were settled on both sides.

‘Stop them, Sir Geoffrey!’ shouted Galfridus in horror.

Geoffrey used the flat of his sword to beat a path through the mass of bodies. He caught the sacristan’s arm and yanked him away from a wicked stab by Thurkill. The scullion turned his murderous attention to Geoffrey, but the knight quickly had him in retreat. When Thurkill tripped and disappeared under milling feet, Geoffrey dragged Ralph outside.

‘God and all His saints!’ cried Galfridus, as Wardard casually repelled a dogged attack by a stable boy. ‘They will slaughter us! I thought they would leave me alone — my mother was Saxon, and I assumed they would honour my ancestry.’

‘If they are willing to attack you, they will have no compunction about assaulting other Norman monks,’ said Wardard urgently. ‘We must warn them. I will ring the bell — they will assume it is a call to terce and come to the church.’

‘Good,’ said Geoffrey. ‘It has strong doors and thick shutters. We will be able to defend it.’

‘I was thinking of saying prayers, actually,’ said Wardard.

‘We will fight the bastards!’ snarled Ralph. ‘Smash their skulls and tear out their innards! Our abbey should not be tainted with Saxons clamouring for my King to be overthrown.’

Geoffrey did not wait to hear more. He ran to the hospital, where Roger had already donned full armour and was inspecting the edge of his sword. Bale and Ulfrith wore their tough leather jerkins and hurried to help Geoffrey with his mail.

‘What do you intend to do?’ asked Roger. ‘There are about three hundred Saxons, most more proficient with hoes than with weapons. But even so, there is little we can do against such odds.’