Simon Beaufort - The Bloodstained Throne

De Laigle regarded him open-mouthed for a moment and then burst into derisive laughter. His wife lurched to the nearest table, grabbed someone else’s wine and raised it in a salute before downing it in a series of determined gulps. Geoffrey watched in fascination, waiting for her to fall flat on her face. He had never seen a woman drink with quite so much indomitable resolve.

‘The stable,’ prompted Juhel, prudently drawing an end to the encounter.

‘This way,’ said the guard, stepping aside smartly as Lady de Laigle pitched towards him, landing in a way that would have hurt had she been sober. ‘Follow me.’

‘Stable?’ whispered Roger indignantly in Geoffrey’s ear. ‘I am the son of the Bishop of Durham, and they put me in a stable?’

‘It does not matter,’ said Geoffrey quietly. ‘We leave at dawn — I have no intention of being around when de Laigle wakes. Especially if he recalls what Magnus said.’

Roger nodded slowly. ‘You are right. We do not want him telling King Henry that there is a Saxon claimant for his throne on the loose, and that I am his chief henchman.’

‘No,’ agreed Geoffrey vehemently. ‘We do not!’

Geoffrey followed the guard across the bailey to a dilapidated building with a sod roof, and thought Magnus had been right in his reluctance to accept Pevenesel’s hospitality. He did not like its drunken constable, slack guards and unruly merrymaking. Or was marriage ruining his sense of fun, and he was becoming a withered old prude who frowned on the gaiety of others?

‘Lord!’ exclaimed Philippa, impressed. ‘ They know how to entertain themselves!’

The guard grimaced. ‘Yes, and Lord de Laigle will not like it one bit.’

‘But he was liking it,’ Roger pointed out.

‘I mean the senior Lord de Laigle, who owns this castle. Richer is his son — the youngest and most useless of his brood. The real Lord de Laigle is with the King in Winchester, discussing how the coastal castles might be strengthened.’

‘Is there talk of an invasion, then?’ asked Geoffrey uneasily.

‘There is always talk of invasion,’ said the guard with a dismissive wave. ‘But the Duke of Normandy is in St Valery at the moment — the place where the Conqueror sailed from when he snatched the English throne. Lord de Laigle wants to be prepared.’

‘Then he had better hope the Duke does not invade while he is away,’ said Roger. ‘Because his son will do little to repel him — except perhaps shock him with his disgraceful manners.’

‘He writes,’ said the guard with considerable disapproval. ‘Young Richer, I mean. He was supposed to enter the Church, so they taught him his letters. Perhaps that is what sent him sour.’

‘It is often the case,’ agreed Magnus, as Geoffrey rolled his eyes. ‘No good ever comes from learning. Paisnel was a clerk, and look what happened to him.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Juhel, his voice tight.

‘I mean he was always poring over documents and they sent him insane,’ explained Magnus. ‘Then he fell over the side of the ship.’

‘I suspect he was a spy,’ said Philippa in a transparent effort to provoke Juhel into saying something incriminating. ‘It would explain why he took his bag when he jumped overboard .’

If she was expecting Juhel to confess to his friend’s murder, she was disappointed. Juhel only looked away, as if he found Paisnel’s death too painful to discuss. Philippa, seeing she was not to be satisfied, turned to the guard.

‘The locals were not very hospitable when our ship floundered in the storm,’ she said.

‘Well, you are Normans,’ said the guard. ‘And they recall what happened when the Conqueror arrived — how he destroyed all manner of villages before having himself crowned. People around here have long memories. You may think your welcome was unfriendly here at Pevenesel, but at least no one will cut your throat while you sleep.’

With that, he opened the door to the shabby building, handed her a candle and left. A number of men were already snoring inside, so Geoffrey took two blankets from a pile near the door, passed them to Philippa and Edith and suggested they sleep in the loft. Roger and Ulfrith volunteered to accompany them there, but, wisely, Edith declined their offer.

Philippa shot Geoffrey a smile full of invitation as she left, which had Ulfrith gaping in dismay. To allay his distress, Geoffrey suggested that he sleep at the foot of the ladder, to prevent anyone from following them. Pleased to serve Philippa, Ulfrith promptly curled around the bottom rung.

‘The rest of you will sleep in a circle around me,’ said Magnus. ‘It is your duty to protect me.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Roger, selecting a place as far away as possible. Magnus’s confident authority faltered when Geoffrey followed, leaving him with Juhel.

‘Have no fear,’ said Juhel, laughing when he saw Magnus’s distrust. ‘My chicken and I will look after you.’

‘I am uneasy here,’ Roger said to Geoffrey in a low voice, throwing his friend a blanket. ‘I distrust de Laigle and his whore wife.’

Geoffrey grimaced in distaste when he found his blanket was damp and stank of urine. He flung it away, and his dog scratched it into a suitable shape before sinking down in abject pleasure. It rested its head on its paws, but its eyes were open and its ears flicked back and forth. Geoffrey went to fetch a cleaner one, but there were only two left: one so thick with lice that they were visible even in the faint light of the candle, the other with brown stains that looked like blood. He chose the bloody one and went to lie next to Roger and Bale. ‘It is freezing, too,’ the big knight grumbled. ‘And it is only September. Another omen against your plans, Geoff. A sensible man always pays heed to the real meanings behind unseasonable weather.’

The words were no sooner out of his mouth than a distant howl sounded on the wind. The dog whimpered and Juhel’s chicken clucked and flapped in agitation.

‘That was a wolf!’ exclaimed Bale in astonishment. ‘I never expected to hear one again. They are all but gone near Goodrich.’

‘That was no wolf,’ said Roger with considerable conviction. ‘That was a fay.’

‘A fay?’ asked Geoffrey, peering at him in the darkness. ‘What is a fay?’

‘A fairy,’ replied Roger in a hoarse, meaningful whisper. ‘You know — a mysterious being. It is odd, is it not, that the moment I mention these omens, a fay should utter her eerie call?’

The animal howled a second time, and Roger and Bale both sat up.

‘She did it again,’ whispered Bale. ‘She is warning him to heed these omens.’

When the creature howled a third time, and Bale began to cross himself, Geoffrey lost patience.

‘That is a wolf, not a spirit. And omens can be interpreted in any number of ways. How do you know the signs were not telling me I should return to the Holy Land?’

‘Because God would not have wrecked your ship if they were,’ said Roger with finality. ‘He would have seen you safely across the water. I know what I am talking about: my father is a bishop, and your head is stuffed too full of silliness from books and scrolls.’

They were silent for a while, Geoffrey listening to the sounds of other men sleeping. Juhel lay flat on his back, seemingly asleep, but Geoffrey saw his hand edge towards his dagger when someone went to drink from a communal bucket. Juhel’s reactions were almost as finely honed as his own, and the knight wondered how a parchmenter came to be so well trained.

‘I do not want to travel any farther with our companions,’ he whispered to Roger. ‘Philippa says Juhel drowned Paisnel, and it would be rash to become involved with would-be Saxon kings.’