Simon Beaufort - The Bloodstained Throne

Geoffrey supposed he might be right: Harold had recovered fairly quickly from the shock of seeing his twin’s throat cut, which suggested a certain resilience to violent death.

‘Was it this Ulf who ordered the massacre, then?’ asked Bale.

‘I imagine so,’ replied Juhel. ‘When we first discovered the atrocity, we said it was the kind of thing Ulf would do — although “Harold” insisted on his brother’s innocence. I suspect he ordered Gyrth to do it, so knew exactly what we would find when we all arrived there.’

‘Ulf was held prisoner by the Conqueror,’ said Geoffrey thoughtfully. ‘Not Harold. Did you notice his wrists? They are scarred.’

‘From being kept in chains,’ said Roger in understanding. ‘If he is the maniac everyone says, his captors would have needed to subdue him.’

‘He also claimed Henry had given him a horse,’ Geoffrey went on, becoming more convinced Juhel was right as he considered what they knew. ‘But Henry is much more likely to have given one to Ulf — who was his father’s prisoner for twenty years. Why would he make a gift to Harold, a man to whom he did not need to make amends?’

‘True,’ agreed Roger.

‘And Harold is supposed to be a fine musician,’ said Geoffrey. ‘But this man could not play the horn properly — and tried very hard to avoid obliging when Bale insisted on a tune.’

‘Because he said it was a cheap, nasty instrument,’ supplied Ulfrith.

‘It is very expensive, actually,’ objected Galfridus. ‘From the curia in Rome.’

Juhel turned to Galfridus. ‘You know them both. What do you think?’

‘I am afraid Sir Geoffrey distracted me by insulting my objet d’art, and I paid Harold scant attention. He usually visits me a lot when he is here, but he has not been once this time. I have been busy, so have not thought to question why. But what about Osbjorn? He knows both twins and will be able to tell them apart. He likes Harold, but detests Ulf.’

Geoffrey recalled the way the surviving twin had almost dragged Osbjorn from his horse with the force of his greeting. It had not been an expression of familial affection, but a muttered threat.

‘I know how to tell them apart,’ said Wardard suddenly. ‘Garlic. Harold hates it, but Ulf is well known to chew it constantly.’

Geoffrey had done no more than make a preliminary inspection of the defences — in the process noticing that both Philippa and Lucian had taken refuge in the church — before there was a yell from a lookout. A contingent of Saxons was approaching. Geoffrey stationed Ulfrith and Bale at the cloister entrance, then trotted to the great west door — the only other way in.

‘We can hold out for a while,’ muttered Roger. ‘Some of the monks brought food, water and weapons. And a couple thought to grab some armour.’

‘And Ulfrith managed to acquire us seven horses,’ said Geoffrey, nodding to where the beasts were tethered. Four were warhorses belonging to the Saxon earls, but the remaining three were only fat mares.

‘Wardard and Ralph are ready to fight, but the others will be useless. We are essentially on our own, Geoff.’ Roger cocked his head. ‘I can hear Ulf, yelling to his men that we are cowards and ripe for the slaughter.’

They walked to the nearest window. Geoffrey poked a hole in the shutter with his dagger, so they could see what was happening outside.

‘God above!’ exclaimed Galfridus, white-faced as he peered through it. ‘Where have all those men come from?’

‘Lay-brothers,’ said Wardard shortly. ‘And supposed pilgrims. They have used our abbey as a rallying point.’

‘They are only armed with sticks, for the most part,’ said Ralph, eyeing them with disdain. He and Wardard wore mail jerkins and conical helmets. Little of his monastic clothing was visible, and he looked like a knight. Geoffrey hoped he would behave like one. ‘Whereas we have swords.’

‘But what are a few swords compared to three hundred hoes?’ whispered Galfridus.

‘Normans!’ came a stentorian voice from outside. It was Ulf. He had dispensed with civilian clothes and was wearing a knee-length mail tunic, leather leggings, and a helmet that looked to be gold. He was one of a dozen mounted men. ‘Come out before we come in.’

His men roared their approval at the challenge.

‘No, thank you,’ replied Galfridus in a wavering voice. ‘We do not want to.’

‘God’s blood!’ breathed Roger, appalled. ‘Could you not think of anything more manly to say? They are laughing at us!’

‘Who are you ?’ shouted Ralph, belligerence dripping from every syllable. ‘I do not recognize you as a man to be giving me orders. I am the abbey’s sacristan.’

The jeers turned to murmurs of anger, and Geoffrey scowled at him.

‘I am Ulf,’ came the reply. ‘King Harold’s legitimate heir.’

This caused consternation on both sides. Those monks who knew of Ulf’s reputation crossed themselves, and two abandoned their posts and made a dash for the high altar. A ripple of unease passed along the Saxon lines, and Aelfwig and Eadric regarded Ulf in astonishment. Osbjorn’s face was impassive, but his unease was clear. Magnus, whose fat nag stood on Ulf’s other side, was patently disbelieving.

‘Ulf?’ he echoed. ‘But you are Harold!’

‘I am Ulf!’ yelled Ulf, raising his sword and standing up in his stirrups. ‘And I am here to lead my people in a glorious Saxon victory.’

There was a cheer, although it was decidedly tentative. Ulf apparently thought so, too, because he turned to glare furiously at his army. One or two bolted, clearly having second thoughts about associating with such a leader. Ulf’s scowl deepened, and he muttered to Eadric, who wheeled his horse around and rode to prevent more desertions.

‘I should have guessed,’ said Magnus coldly. ‘I should have known that Harold would not suddenly start chewing garlic. You lied when you told me you had acquired a recent taste for it.’

‘People of England,’ yelled Ulf, ignoring him. ‘Our day has come. We will avenge the blood of our fathers, spilled on this sacred ground. We will-’

‘Do not listen to him,’ ordered Magnus imperiously. ‘ I am your rightful king. Ulf lied to me and he will lie to you. You will all serve King Magnus!’

The Saxons were confused. ‘I thought we were going to kill Normans first and then choose our king,’ said Aelfwig. His habit was hitched up to his knees, and he carried a knife from the kitchen.

‘We are,’ said Magnus angrily. ‘Moreover, I sent a letter to Ulf forbidding him to join us. When I heard he was dead in Werlinges, I was very relieved, because there is certainly no room for him in my plans.’

‘And there is no room for you in mine,’ snarled Ulf, and there was an appalled silence from both sides as he thrust his sword into his half-brother’s chest. The silence continued long after Magnus had crashed to the ground.

As soon as Ulf had dispatched his querulous rival, the situation changed. More Saxons dropped their weapons and ran towards the gate, too many for Eadric to stop. He used the flat of his sword to beat some back, then killed two to make his point. The ploy failed — instead of encouraging them, it saw resolve crumbling among those who had been steady. Next to Ulf, Osbjorn raised an unsteady hand to wipe sweat from his pallid face. Geoffrey had seen enough.

‘Mount up,’ he said to Roger. ‘If we make a charge, most will scatter and slink away. They did not mind rallying for Harold, or even Magnus, but they do not want Ulf. Will you ride with us, Brother?’

Wardard climbed into the saddle of one of the better horses. Geoffrey and Roger took two more, and an ancient pilgrim called Hugh d’Ivry claimed the last. Hugh had not been young when he had fought in the original battle, and it took some time to hoist him into the saddle, accompanied by a medley of grunts, groans and gasps. Geoffrey was not sure how much use he would be, but the man had a sword and knew how to ride. The three mares were left for Ralph, Juhel and Galfridus.