The Bloodstained Throne

‘I shall not part with it just yet,’ said Roger, although Geoffrey was alarmed to see he was giving the offer consideration. Roger was a man for whom ‘tenfold’ was a tempting word.

‘You are wise,’ said Juhel. ‘King Henry would not be pleased to hear that the funding for a Saxon revolt came from Norman knights.’

‘How would he hear that?’ demanded Magnus, rounding on him. ‘Will you tell?’

Juhel laughed. ‘Of course I will! He and I often dine in his private chambers, and he frequently asks my advice. I shall mention it the very next time I see him.’

‘Enough,’ said Geoffrey. Magnus’s visions of Saxon rebellion were no better than smoke in the wind. ‘I am more concerned with Fingar. None of us will be safe until you give that money back.’

‘Rubbish,’ declared Roger. ‘For all Fingar knows, these are coins I carried in my personal baggage, and he will never be able to prove otherwise. Besides, he is a pirate, so this is almost certainly gold he stole from someone else.’

‘Then it is probably cursed,’ said Juhel. ‘The original owners may have asked God to avenge the crime by making dreadful things happen to the thieves. I always do, when villains wrong me.’

‘We should give it back,’ said Bale, crossing himself hurriedly. ‘I have heard that pirates are rather free and easy with curses, too.’

‘They are not,’ said Roger, with completely unwarranted confidence. ‘My father is Bishop of Durham, so you can trust that I know about such things.’

Geoffrey was disinclined to argue. Like many Normans, Roger was highly partial to gold, and Geoffrey knew from long and bitter experience that nothing would induce him to part with it.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But I want no part of it.’

‘He is right,’ came an unfamiliar voice from the depths of the hole. Geoffrey and the others raised their weapons in alarm. ‘Nothing good ever comes from theft — as that usurper Henry is about to discover.’

‘Who are you?’ demanded Geoffrey, as a short, chubby man emerged from the darkness. His bright yellow hair and flowing moustache indicated he was in his thirties, like Geoffrey himself, but his skin had a reddish, debauched look, and the broken veins on his round nose indicated a fondness for good living. His clothes were fine, although mud-stained, and, like Magnus’s, were adorned with a good deal of expensive thread and intricate Saxon embroidery.

‘I am King Harold,’ replied the man grandly.

‘Lord,’ muttered Geoffrey in the startled silence that followed. ‘Another monarch?’

‘A number of us have claims,’ said Magnus stiffly. ‘Some stronger than others.’

‘Are you eating garlic?’ asked Juhel, sniffing. ‘The smell is suddenly a good deal stronger.’

‘I like garlic,’ said Harold defensively. ‘It thickens the blood, protects against evil and inspires courage. I have a few cloves here, ready peeled. Would you like one?’

When he stretched out his hand to present his offering, Geoffrey saw faint scars around the man’s wrists and wondered what had caused them.

‘No, thank you,’ said Juhel. ‘But I was under the impression that King Harold had died more than thirty years ago — on the battlefield.’

‘Hacked to pieces,’ added Roger rather ghoulishly, ‘with axes.’

‘Actually,’ said Magnus curtly, ‘my father was killed by an arrow in the face. I was not on the field when he died — a battleground is no place for a child of eight — but I saw his body afterwards.’

‘But my father said he was hacked to death by swords,’ said Geoffrey doubtfully. ‘He claimed to have witnessed it.’

Of course, Godric Mappestone had not been the most truthful of men, and his memories of the battle had grown more elaborate as he had aged. Further, Geoffrey’s mother, famous for her own martial skills, had once confided that she had fought at Hastinges herself, and she had told a different story — one of confusion and panic as the long day of fighting drew to a close, and encroaching darkness, blood and thick mud had rendered one man much like another. Herleve Mappestone had maintained that it was impossible to tell what had happened to King Harold. His corpse had certainly been mutilated, but it would never be known whether he had died at the point of a sword, an axe or an arrow.

‘All this is immaterial,’ said Roger to the newcomer. ‘The point is that you cannot be King Harold, because he is dead. Unless you are his ghost?’

He smirked, but, at that moment, a marsh bird released an eerie, whooping call, and the grin faded. He took a step away and crossed himself. Ulfrith and Bale did the same.

Harold did not seem affected by their superstitious unease and addressed Roger slowly, as if speaking to a simpleton. ‘I am his son — his legitimate son. He had twins from his marriage to Queen Ealdgyth, and I am one of them.’

‘You mean there is another, just like you?’ asked Roger rather stupidly.

Harold nodded. ‘Poor Ulf was kept prisoner after our father’s murder, but the Bastard released him on his deathbed. I suppose he thought it would lessen his time in Purgatory. But it will take a good deal more than the release of a few hostages to open the gates of Heaven to him. He is destined for the Other Place, because his soul is so deeply stained with Saxon blood.’

‘Too right,’ agreed Magnus fervently. ‘When I am king, I shall invade France, snatch the Bastard’s bones from his tomb and toss them in the nearest river.’

Harold regarded him admonishingly, his chubby face grave. ‘We agreed that we would not discuss this yet, that we would consult our Saxon vassals about-’

‘They will want me,’ stated Magnus confidently. ‘I am King Harold’s eldest surviving son and, according to Saxon law, his rightful heir. Your claim is based on the fact that he married Queen Ealdgyth in a church, which I deem irrelevant.’

Harold sighed in a long-suffering manner. ‘We are both irrelevant until we overthrow the Usurper. Then we shall ask our vassals to decide whom they want as king.’

‘A democracy to elect a king?’ asked Geoffrey, amused. ‘What an odd notion!’

‘Not at all,’ said Harold, smiling at him. ‘Once our subjects have made their choice, I shall revert to the autocracy that works so well.’

‘They will not choose you,’ said Magnus disdainfully. ‘You are too short.’

‘You mentioned a twin brother,’ said Juhel, as Harold looked hurt. ‘Is he to participate in this election, too? Or perhaps there are yet more siblings who would like a chance to win a crown?’

‘My two older brothers are dead, and the younger ones are happy in Norway,’ replied Magnus. ‘Ulf intends to put himself forward, but no one will choose him — he is violent and would be a tyrant. Indeed, I forbade him to come anywhere near my uprising — he will put people off.’

‘Not so,’ cried Harold, stung. ‘My brother is just misunderstood and has no patience with fools. He spent the best years of his life as the Bastard’s prisoner, so it is not surprising he is bitter.’

‘Whichever of you it is will have to dispatch England’s current king first,’ said Juhel. He was struggling to conceal his amusement at the notion that the likes of Harold and Magnus could best Henry.

‘We have a nation full of bold Saxon warriors,’ declared Magnus haughtily. ‘And when they see I have returned, they will rally to my call.’

Harold crunched loudly on a clove of garlic. Geoffrey wondered whether he had strayed into a community of madmen, because he had never heard a more ridiculous collection of claims and aspirations.

‘And when will this grand summoning take place?’ asked Juhel, smothering a smile.

‘In a while,’ said Harold, waving an airy hand. ‘Now Magnus is here we can get on with it. That is why I was waiting here for him, as we had agreed. We have signed a formal contract to be brothers-in-arms and to make no moves against each other until the Usurper is deposed.’

Juhel finally lost his self-control and roared with laughter, until Ulfrith pointed out that the sailors might hear. Geoffrey peered out of the door and detected angry voices in the distance. He frowned as something Harold had said jarred in his mind, and he turned to face him.

‘You said you were waiting here for Magnus, but Patrick was bound for Ribe. So how-’

Magnus was unrepentant. ‘I paid Fingar ten pounds to drop me off, but the storm blew up, and he said he