Simon Beaufort - The Bloodstained Throne

Geoffrey glanced at him. ‘You were not with Juhel, were you?’

Wardard nodded. ‘This is my abbey, my home. Do you really think men can come in and hide their loot without me knowing?’

‘What did you do with it?’ asked Roger, with more than a passing interest.

Wardard smiled. ‘It is locked in the crypt and will be used to purchase the services of a decent medicus . We were wrong to give Aelfwig the post and we need to make reparation. Do not worry: it will not fall into the hands of rebels.’

‘This is your fault!’ shrieked Ulf, sword at the ready when he saw the three horsemen. ‘We were poised for victory, and you snatched it from us.’

Geoffrey reined in his horse and studied the opposition. He, Roger and Wardard were outnumbered three to one, and their opponents were of the same calibre as the men who had fought at Hastinges, then Ulf might yet live to sow more seeds of rebellion.

‘My mother could have commanded the situation better than you did today,’ jeered Roger. ‘If your rout is anyone’s fault, it is yours.’

Ulf snatched the sack from Aelfwig and scrambled back into his saddle.

‘Finish it,’ he ordered his men. ‘No survivors and no quarter.’

The housecarls advanced quickly, while he rode a short distance away to inspect his treasure. Aelfwig followed, muttering in his ear. But there was no time to ponder what he might be saying, because Geoffrey, Roger and Wardard were suddenly facing opponents who knew what they were doing.

‘If you had fought like this earlier, you might have won,’ gasped Roger, as he fenced with Eadric, forcing the smaller man back with the ferocity of his assault.

Geoffrey urged his horse forward fast as another knight aimed to strike his friend’s unprotected back. The resulting clang of the parry rang out like a bell. He recovered more quickly than his opponent, and a left-handed slash with his dagger opened the man’s innards, before a hard chop with his sword dropped another from his saddle. Wardard had already dispatched one of his adversaries, and Geoffrey saw that although the housecarls might well have trained hard, they had little experience of real fighting.

‘Kill them!’ Ulf screamed, flinging off his helmet and hauling a green hat on his head in its place. ‘I will meet up with you later!’

‘Go!’ Eadric yelled back. ‘Save yourself. We will keep them occupied.’

Ulf needed no second invitation. He rode between the skirmish and the fishponds, and Geoffrey saw he was going to escape. He spurred forward to stop him, but two housecarls mounted a coordinated attack that forced him to retreat. He wheeled around and swung his sword in a savage arc that dispatched one of them, and there was a howl of pain as Wardard dealt with the second. Leaving Wardard to help Roger with those remaining, Geoffrey tore after the would-be king.

‘You strangled Vitalis!’ he shouted, as the last mystery became clear. ‘You saw us wrecked, and waited to see if there was anything to steal. You were with Gyrth.’

‘I killed an old man,’ sneered Ulf, turning around to face him. ‘But he had nothing worth taking — except a paltry ring that I could not wrench from his finger anyway. Neither do you, but you will be worth killing regardless!’

Geoffrey met his powerful stroke, then thrust back, intending to force Ulf from his saddle. He might have succeeded, had Ulf’s horse not skittered backwards. Geoffrey slashed again, and as Ulf ducked away, his horse skidded in the mud at the pond edge. It slipped, then fell, hurling Ulf backwards into the water. His armour caused him to sink like a stone. Aelfwig ran to the edge of the water with a cry of horror.

‘Fetch him out!’ he screamed. ‘He will drown!’

Breaking away from Wardard, the last surviving housecarl leaped off his horse to obey, but the moment his feet touched the ground, Roger knocked him on the head with the pommel of his sword. The fellow dropped, insensible, and Eadric dropped his weapon and raised his hands when he found Wardard’s sword at his throat.

Aelfwig was pointing and gibbering, beside himself with anguish. Not far under the surface was Ulf, arms flailing. Geoffrey could see his terrified eyes and the whiteness of his face against the green water.

‘Help him!’ screeched Aelfwig.

‘ You help him,’ said Roger, unmoved. ‘He is your king.’

‘I am not strong enough,’ sobbed Aelfwig. ‘He will drown me.’

Geoffrey watched as mud billowed to obscure the agonized face, aware that he was holding his own breath. He closed his eyes tightly, then began to pull the surcoat over his head. Roger grabbed his shoulder.

‘What are you doing?’ he demanded.

‘I cannot see a man die like this,’ said Geoffrey, struggling away from him. ‘Let me go.’

But Wardard joined Roger with a grip that was impossible to break, and Geoffrey had no choice but to watch the churning pool and the final torments of the man caught there.

Eventually the water became calm and the mud began to settle. No more than the length of an arm under the surface was Ulf, fair curls floating like a halo.

‘There they are!’ came a voice from farther up the field. It was Juhel, and with him was a stocky, dark-haired horseman whom Geoffrey recognized immediately. It was the Duke of Normandy.

‘Where is the battle?’ demanded the Duke eagerly.

‘Most of the rebels have fled, my Lord,’ replied Juhel. ‘These were all that remained.’

‘Oh,’ said the Duke, disappointed. ‘I was in the mood for a skirmish. Now, what did you say it was about?’

‘A Saxon uprising, Sire,’ explained Juhel.

‘Against my brother?’ asked the Duke keenly.

‘Only a very small one,’ explained Juhel. ‘Just a few peasants and a handful of disinherited Saxon nobles. The sight of you and your retinue was more than enough to end the last skirmishes.’

‘So, I helped to thwart a rebellion against Henry, did I?’ asked the Duke softly. ‘Damn!’

Henry was none too pleased to learn that his brother had arrived in his kingdom uninvited, and the Duke was sufficiently alarmed by the prospect of a hostile reunion that he asked Henry’s queen to intercede on his behalf. In the end, the two met with forced amicability, after which the Duke set off for home. When he heard the news, Roger was bemused.

‘Is that it?’ he asked as he sat with Geoffrey in the hospital. ‘After all that sailing around at sea, terrifying the life out of half of Sussex, he just turns around and goes away?’

‘Just be thankful he did,’ said Geoffrey. ‘For a while, there was a very real possibility that Henry might eliminate the threat he presents by throwing him in prison — and imagine the trouble that would have caused!’

Roger blew out his lips in a sigh. ‘The Duke is a fellow Jerosolimitanus , so I owe him my respect. But the man is a damned fool! You may not like Henry’s devious ways, but England is safer with him than it ever could be with the Duke.’

It galled Geoffrey to agree with him.

He had not wanted to linger in Sussex, but Juhel pointed out that to travel to Herefordshire or Durham before explaining themselves to the King might be construed as sympathy for the Saxons. So Geoffrey and Roger kicked their heels at La Batailge, and within a few days the abbey was graced with a royal visit.

Juhel and Henry were sequestered in Galfridus’s solar for the best part of an afternoon. Almost immediately, Osbjorn and several Saxon nobles were spirited to distant castles to face lifelong imprisonment, and the abbey began to recruit new staff, all of them Norman. Before he disappeared on his next assignment, Juhel came to speak to the two knights.