Simon Beaufort - The Bloodstained Throne

‘We will join Galfridus in the church. I hope Magnus will not murder unarmed monks on holy ground, but if he does, we can try to defend them.’

‘Try?’ asked Ulfrith in alarm. ‘You think we might fail? We might die ?’

‘Very likely,’ said Roger without emotion. ‘If they do not recognize the sanctity of a church, we stand no chance. We will take plenty with us, but with such numbers, defeat is inevitable.’

‘I am glad you are looking on the bright side,’ said Geoffrey dryly. ‘Steal a couple of horses, Ulfrith, and bring them to the church. No one will harm you — you are Saxon and you look it — and if anyone asks, say you are acting under Earl Osbjorn’s orders. Bale, come with me.’

Bale was armed to the teeth, and Geoffrey knew it was only a matter of time before he was at someone’s throat. He hoped he would not precipitate a fight that might yet be avoided.

Ulfrith hesitated. ‘Are you saying I should bring these nags inside the church?’

Geoffrey nodded as he set his helmet on his head. ‘And if you see any Normans, tell them to go there, too.’

Ulfrith sped away. Geoffrey, Roger and Bale left the hospital, alert and ready to fight if attacked. They turned at the sound of running feet, but it was only Juhel, chicken at his heels.

‘Those documents,’ Juhel gasped, fighting to catch his breath. ‘The ones Magnus threw in the well and that I have been attempting to salvage.’

‘Not now.’ Geoffrey was aware that men were pouring out of the guest hall. Some were armed and all were shouting. Osbjorn and Eadric had fired them up, and he felt vulnerable and exposed.

‘Two were stuck together and were only dry enough for me to separate a few moments ago,’ said Juhel, thrusting them at him. ‘They are smeared, but still legible. I have been wrong! Magnus is not the driving force behind this rebellion — Ulf is.’

Geoffrey paused just long enough to glance at the pact signed by Ulf and Gyrth. It detailed how they would divide England after the Usurper’s execution, and stated that the moment the kingdom was in Saxon hands, Gyrth was to dispatch Magnus. There was even an assassin picked for the task: Aelfwig. Geoffrey supposed the plotters were fortunate that Magnus could not read and had thus remained in ignorance of what his ‘loyal’ supporters had in mind for him.

‘What of it?’ he demanded impatiently. ‘Ulf is dead and so is Gyrth.’

Juhel grabbed his arm, forcing him to stop. ‘Think, man! You have heard the tales about Ulf’s temper and love of violence. He is a formidable warrior, and there is no way your squire could have overpowered him. I am disgusted with myself for not seeing this sooner. It was not Ulf who was killed in Werlinges: it was Harold.’

Geoffrey was about to take issue with Juhel when he saw a group of lay-brothers coming from the fishponds with furious looks on their faces. It was no time to be chatting, so he grabbed Juhel’s arm and hauled him towards the church. The door was already locked, and Geoffrey pounded on it with his fist. At that moment, a gaggle of Saxons headed towards them, and there was no mistaking their intentions. All carried knives and cudgels. Geoffrey hammered again, and Roger yelled for the door to be opened.

‘No!’ shouted Ralph. ‘If we do, those Saxons will come in with you.’

Geoffrey turned to face the mob, sword in hand, as the man in the lead lowered his pike and braced it under his arm. He was going to use it like a couched lance, and Geoffrey was not sure there was enough space to avoid being spitted. His shield was the one piece of armour he had not managed to salvage from the ship.

But there was a clank and the door opened. Juhel was through it in a trice, with Bale and Roger on his heels, but there was no time for Geoffrey to follow. He leapt in the opposite direction, and the pike whistled past him and struck the door with wicked force. The shaft shattered. Its owner was so intent on driving it home that he had overlooked the need to stop, and the collision knocked him senseless. Geoffrey jumped over him and aimed for the door, alarmed when Ralph tried to close it before he was through. With a furious roar, Roger shoved the sacristan away, and Geoffrey shot inside just as cudgels began to fly.

He turned quickly and added his strength to that of Wardard, Bale and Roger, as the rebels began to force the door open, inch by relentless inch. Geoffrey’s boots skidded on the flagstones as he tried to gain purchase, but he could see it was only a matter of moments before the first Saxon would be inside. In the nick of time, several monks rushed to help. Slowly, the door closed, and Roger was able to slide a substantial bar across it. The church was secure — for now, at least.

‘Fool!’ howled Ralph at Wardard. ‘What possessed you — opening the door like that?’

‘I was saving innocents from being slaughtered,’ said Wardard coolly. ‘You may be happy to stand meekly by as murder is done, but I am not. Now, go and check the window shutters are secure. Galfridus? Are you sure the cloister door is locked and barred?’

Galfridus nodded, his face white. ‘And ten monks set to guard it, as you ordered. With the dozen you have here, no one should be able to get in.’

‘Good,’ said Wardard. ‘I believe the best way to avert violence is to avoid confrontation. If the Saxons see no Normans, their fury may fade. Magnus cannot keep them at fever pitch indefinitely.’

‘I put Odo and Peter in the clerestory with bows, too, like you said,’ added Galfridus. ‘And there are lookouts everywhere. Your troops are deployed.’

Wardard smiled. ‘Then it is time to solicit God’s help. I want no more deaths on this field — Norman or Saxon. Will you join us, Geoffrey?’

Geoffrey shook his head. He wanted to inspect the defences and reorganize the ‘troops’ as he saw fit. Wardard might have been a professional soldier once, but it was a long time ago.

‘Our situation is worse than I thought,’ said Juhel worriedly. ‘If Magnus were in charge, we might have escaped unscathed, but Ulf is a different matter altogether.’

‘Are you saying I killed Harold ?’ asked Bale, bewildered. ‘But they were wearing different clothes, and there was no time for them to change.’

‘I agree,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Besides, they were not identical — Harold has scars around his wrists, and the dead man was thinner.’

‘That is because we have been misled from the beginning,’ said Juhel, pacing back and forth in agitation. ‘He said he was Harold, and we all believed him. Even Magnus. But he was lying.’

‘That is ridiculous,’ declared Roger. ‘Magnus could tell his half-brothers apart.’

‘Why, when they spent most of their lives separated?’ countered Juhel.

‘But what benefit is there in Ulf pretending to be Harold?’ asked Geoffrey.

‘Ulf is a bully and a tyrant, who, given power, will become a monster. No Saxon will follow a man with his reputation, and so he has pretended to be gentle, smiling Harold. He is even allowing Magnus to take a certain degree of command, biding his time until the rebellion has sufficient momentum. Then he will take over.’

‘I have noticed the odd flare of nastiness in Harold,’ said Roger thoughtfully. ‘He put glass in Galfridus’s carp, and I saw him throw stones at Brother Wardard.’

‘That was him, was it?’ asked Wardard. ‘I thought it was Aelfwig, who has never liked me.’

‘I should have seen this sooner,’ said Juhel bitterly. ‘The clues were all there. At Werlinges, Magnus was sick, and even you two battle-hardened knights were shocked, but “Harold” had to fabricate emotions he certainly would not feel. And he did it badly.’