The Bloodstained Throne

Batailge, he could ask about the accusations Vitalis had made.

‘Your father fought at Hastinges,’ said Roger when he did not reply. ‘You should visit the abbey and pay the monks to say a mass for his soul — and for the souls of the men he killed.’

‘It might shorten his time in Purgatory,’ agreed Harold, taking another clove of garlic from his pouch and biting it in half. He offered the other to Geoffrey, who declined. ‘Of course, the slaughter of innocent Saxons was a dreadful thing, so I am fairly certain he will be condemned to Hell.’

He spoke without rancour, and Geoffrey had the feeling that he said such things because he was expected to, rather than from a deep conviction that they were right.

‘Tell me about the abbey,’ said Geoffrey, supposing that if there was no way to avoid the place, he might as well make the best of it. He was fascinated by architecture and reluctantly conceded that the excursion might be interesting.

‘It has a big church,’ said Harold with a shrug. ‘And it is full of Norman monks.’

Juhel laughed. ‘That description applies to virtually every religious foundation in England! How many monks are there?’

‘Forty, perhaps,’ said Harold vaguely. ‘Or fifty. Or sixty. But there are more than twice as many lay-brothers in the kitchens, stables, alehouse, bakery and gardens. And there are others still who tend the crops and the livestock. The abbey would be nothing without its Saxon helpers.’

‘Do you know if a monk called Wardard lives there?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘I am told he also fought at Hastinges.’

Harold nodded. ‘He is the fellow who looks after my father’s shrine — the abbey church’s high altar is on the spot where he died. Why do you ask?’

‘Do not pay any heed to what Vitalis said,’ advised Roger, who saw the direction in which the conversation was going. ‘You will probably have no truth from this Brother Wardard, just as you had none from Vitalis.’

‘Yes, but I may as well see Wardard and find out for certain,’ said Geoffrey.

‘Find out what?’ said Harold. ‘Perhaps I can help.’

‘I want to know about something that happened a long time ago,’ said Geoffrey, deliberately vague. ‘It concerns my father and his conduct at the battle at Hastinges.’

‘Vitalis cursed him for being lily-livered,’ elaborated Roger, ignoring Geoffrey’s wince. ‘He said it was Godric Mappestone’s cowardice that brought about the deaths of so many soldiers — that the fight would have ended hours sooner if Godric had done what he was ordered.’

Six

‘You should not heed Vitalis’s claims,’ said Roger, seeing the matter still bothered his friend. ‘He spoke to hurt you. As soon as he learned your name, he was after blood. And because he knew he could never defeat you in a fair fight with swords, he resorted to striking at your dead father.’

Geoffrey nodded. The old man’s eyes had gleamed with spite the moment he had learned that Geoffrey was Godric’s son. He looked out of the crack again, watching the wind whip some large pieces of vegetation past.

‘My father was many things, but I do not think he was a coward. He fought our Welsh neighbours for years, and I never saw him flinch.’

‘Well, there you are,’ said Roger. ‘I know you, and I know your sister. Neither is a coward, and I do not believe you sprang from the loins of one.’

‘Yet he always refused to visit the abbey raised to commemorate the battle’s dead,’ said Geoffrey, thinking back to his childhood. Hastinges had been a frequent topic of conversation — all of it tales that highlighted his father’s honour, courage and daring. If Godric were to be believed, the Conqueror would have been defeated if he had not been there. Yet Geoffrey’s mother, who had also played her part, had said very little.

Geoffrey rubbed his head. Would the Conqueror have given Godric an estate if he had behaved dishonourably? Or had he not known, and the truth of Godric’s shabby conduct lay only with a few? Godric had been with the Norman army’s left flank, many of whom had been killed. Godric and Vitalis had agreed on that point: Godric had fought on the left.

‘Brother Wardard told me he became a monk to atone for the slaughter,’ said Harold helpfully. ‘He said the deaths of so many brave warriors weighed heavily on his conscience until he took the cowl. I expect your father felt the same, Sir Geoffrey.’

‘Not really,’ replied Geoffrey, recalling his father’s pride at the number of Saxons he had sent to their graves. The count of his victims had, of course, risen steadily through the years.

Geoffrey had once sarcastically remarked to one of his brothers that the Conqueror had not needed an army at Hastinges, because Godric had managed the victory single-handed. When the comment had been repeated to Godric, Geoffrey had expected retribution to be immediate and severe, but Godric had only fixed his defiant son with an unreadable expression, then marched away. It had been the last time they had discussed the battle, however, because the following week Geoffrey had been sent to Normandy to begin his knightly training.

‘Was your father proud of his conduct, then?’ pressed Harold.

‘He saw the battle as his sacred duty. He never regretted what he did.’

‘He did not visit shrines and churches, to beg forgiveness?’ asked Harold uneasily.

‘Not that I recall. But I did not see him for twenty years once I left for Normandy.’

But asking forgiveness for anything would have been anathema to Godric. Of course, if Vitalis was right, he would have had no need — because he had not fought at all, but had skulked in the woods, causing the battle to go on far longer than it should have done and bringing about the deaths of hundreds.

Geoffrey sighed, not sure what to think. Vitalis had certainly known Godric, because he related details that only his family shared. He had also known Geoffrey’s mother and had confessed to being more afraid of her than her husband. Geoffrey understood that perfectly: he had been wary of the formidable Herleve himself. He had often wondered why, with such parents, he had not grown into a brutal tyrant; he could only suppose that being sent away at an early age had removed him from their malign influence.

‘Well, perhaps you should ask Wardard to intercede on your father’s behalf,’ suggested Harold.

‘He does need prayers, sir,’ added Bale, who had spent most of his life on Godric’s manor. ‘And not only for those he killed in battle. There are also those he hanged for poaching, even though they were innocent; the families he evicted for not paying rent — they had paid, but he demanded the money again; the people of that Welsh village he burned for stealing his cattle, although it turned out he had taken the cows to the high byre himself-’

‘Enough, Bale,’ interrupted Geoffrey tiredly.

‘It does sound as if you should see this monk,’ said Magnus. ‘You will want to put your mind at ease about your father’s doings. And you can escort me at the same time.’

At that moment, the wind caught a tree outside, and its contorted trunk issued a low, moaning, keening sound that made Ulfrith and Bale start up in alarm.

‘It is only marsh fays,’ said Roger, which did little to allay their unease. ‘Or perhaps the soul of murdered Vitalis, howling for vengeance. Restless spirits will not like this gale, either.’

‘Then perhaps we should invite them in,’ said Geoffrey, his temper sour from the preceding discussion. ‘I am sure we can find them a corner.’

‘Do not jest about such matters,’ said Roger sternly. ‘This storm is your doing for ignoring God’s will. And you do not want marsh fays and ghosts angry with you as well.’

‘Marsh fays are terrible beings, and I should not like to see Vitalis here, either,’ said Bale fearfully. ‘But I would rather do that than meet the ghost of Sir Godric Mappestone. In fact, I would sooner meet the Devil than him!’

The storm lasted a good deal longer than any of them anticipated. It raged all night and well into the following evening. They ate the rations in the knights’ saddlebags — dried meat past its best and a packet of old peas — and the corn that Juhel carried for Delilah, boiling them into a stew with some of Harold’s garlic. Roger,