The Bloodstained Throne

‘There was something else in Magnus’s bag,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Red ribbon.’

Seven

Geoffrey was thoughtful as he followed the track deeper into the woods. Could a vain, shallow man like Magnus really initiate a rebellion? It was no secret that many Saxons still itched to take their country back, although Geoffrey was certain they would never succeed. And were the names on Magnus’s list truly men who had agreed to provide troops and supplies? Even a glimpse had shown it ran to several pages.

Did Magnus’s supercilious airs conceal a mind that could set a country afire? Or did that honour go to Harold? Surely Harold was exactly what he seemed: foolish, genial and gentle? In that case, should Geoffrey warn the King? If he did, and Henry sent soldiers only to discover the ‘revolt’ comprised Magnus, Harold and a handful of Saxons with hoes and pitchforks, Geoffrey would look like an idiot.

And what of Vitalis’s murder? Magnus used red ribbon to tie back his hair, and Geoffrey had seen a roll of it when his bag had fallen open. Was he the culprit? Or had someone chosen the stuff deliberately so Magnus would be blamed? Of course, the sailors made far more likely suspects, especially as Geoffrey reasoned that Magnus had not had the opportunity to kill Vitalis on the beach. And the women? Philippa certainly knew something about her husband’s death, because she had lied about it.

Geoffrey’s glance strayed towards Lucian. He had had plenty of opportunity, too, although Geoffrey could not imagine why a monk would want to dispatch a feeble old man. And what about Juhel? He searched other people’s bags as they slept, and he may have stabbed a friend and thrown him overboard. Did he have a store of red ribbon? Or had he borrowed some from Magnus? If he had searched Magnus’s bag in the cave when he thought no one was looking, there was no reason to suppose he had not done it on other occasions, too.

‘I detest that man,’ growled Roger suddenly. ‘I do not want him with us.’

‘Juhel?’ asked Geoffrey, startled out of his thoughts. ‘We will be rid of him soon.’

‘No. Lucian. Ulfrith does not like him, either. And Lucian is no more a monk than I am — he is brazenly irreligious, and I doubt he knows one end of a psalter from another.’

Geoffrey laughed. ‘A damning indictment indeed, when it comes from the Bishop Elect of Salisbury! Ulfrith does not like me, either, because Philippa prefers us to him. It is jealousy.’

‘I should have looked at that shepherd’s corpse,’ said Roger sullenly. ‘I should have checked he was crushed and not strangled. You may have seen red ribbon in Magnus’s bag, but I wager Lucian owns a supply, too.’

‘But a tree had fallen on the hut,’ Geoffrey pointed out. ‘Lucian could not possibly have engineered that. What is odd is that a shepherd refused a monk shelter.’

‘It is strange, but so is this revolt, and the sooner we report it to Henry, the better.’

‘I am having second thoughts about that,’ said Geoffrey. ‘We have so few hard facts that it might be better to report it to the nearest baron and let him investigate.’

‘That is de Laigle. And as the father is away, you will have to speak to the son. Is that wise?’

‘He must have some merit, or his father would not have left him in charge. So we shall make our report to him, and if he fails to act, that is his prerogative — and his responsibility.’

‘I feel quite bereft without my purse,’ announced Lucian suddenly, speaking to Harold, Juhel and Magnus. His voice was loud, and Roger scowled at him to lower it. The monk complied, but he was still audible. ‘We will not be able to go anywhere without gold, and Donan took all mine. Did you salvage any, Magnus? You had a lovely gold pendant on the ship.’

‘I did not,’ said Magnus curtly. ‘But even if I had, I would not sell it to finance your travels.’

‘That is unchristian,’ admonished Lucian. ‘We have all been washed ashore together, and it is churlish to refuse each other help.’

‘Lucian thinks we should pool our possessions because he has none himself,’ murmured Roger. ‘Of course, Magnus is a liar. I, too, saw him with a gold medallion on the ship. He may have lost it in the wreck, but to say he never owned one is downright dishonest.’

‘Save your morality for your own brethren,’ Magnus sneered. ‘If you have any.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ demanded Lucian, his voice rising again.

‘I do not believe you are a monk,’ snapped Magnus. ‘You are too worldly and know too little about your devotions.’

‘I am bursar at Bath Abbey,’ said Lucian indignantly. ‘And, being from a good family, I have been appointed Bishop de Villula’s envoy, carrying important missives to the Diocese of Ribe.’

‘Then where are they?’ interrupted Juhel curiously. ‘I managed to salvage my important missives — or, rather, Paisnel’s. But you are empty-handed.’

‘I lost them,’ replied Lucian shortly. ‘I shall have to go home for copies, then start the journey all over again. Perhaps next time I should travel most of the way by road instead.’

‘You can take him with you when you go to Goodrich,’ whispered Roger wickedly. ‘Bath will not be far out of your way — assuming he is not making it all up, of course. We have met John de Villula, and he is not the sort of man to employ the likes of Lucian as his envoy.’

‘If Lucian really is from a prominent family,’ Geoffrey replied, ‘then perhaps his appointment came with a large benefaction. De Villula may have had no choice.’

‘Speaking of Paisnel, are you sure it was wise to salvage his documents?’ Lucian was asking Juhel. ‘I would not want those on my person.’

‘Why not?’ asked Juhel. He sounded startled. ‘They are only property deeds and reports from the Bishop of Ribe’s distant outposts.’

‘So Paisnel said,’ retorted Lucian. ‘But have you inspected them?’

‘I have no reason to,’ said Juhel, puzzled. ‘They all bear a seal depicting a legged fish, which is the Bishop’s personal symbol.’

‘All except the couple that are addressed to him,’ whispered Geoffrey to Roger. ‘I wonder if he can read. If not, he may have no idea that “Paisnel’s” bundle contains some of his own property. If he can, then he is lying.’

‘I told you there was something odd about Paisnel,’ said Magnus spitefully. ‘The man was a damned spy!’

‘They are property deeds,’ insisted Juhel, becoming annoyed. ‘He was not a spy. And it is none of your concern anyway.’

A loud crunch punctuated the end of the sentence as Harold bit into one of his cloves. ‘Garlic, anyone? It is very good for cooling hot tempers.’

The track twisted through several copses, then reached land that had been cleared for fields. Directly ahead were more trees with a hamlet nestling among them, comprising four or five pretty houses and an attractive church. A short distance away was an unusual building, which looked as though it had just been hit by a snowstorm. Geoffrey regarded it curiously.

‘Ah! Werlinges,’ said Harold in satisfaction. He pointed at the building that had caught Geoffrey’s attention. ‘And that is one of its salt-houses.’

Geoffrey frowned. The village was strangely deserted at a time when men should have been tending fields or livestock. And someone certainly should have been in the salt-house. Salt was an expensive commodity and usually well guarded. Meanwhile, the door to the chapel was ajar, moving slightly in the breeze. The dog sniffed, then growled, a deep and long rumble that made up Geoffrey’s mind.

‘Stop,’ he said softly. ‘There is something wrong.’

‘Wrong?’ demanded Magnus. His voice was loud and rang off the nearest houses, and they seemed even emptier. ‘What do you mean? Are you afraid? Like father, like son?’

The scorn in his voice was more galling than his words, and Roger bristled on his friend’s behalf. But Geoffrey was more concerned with the village. Bale gripped a long hunting knife and started to move forward, but Geoffrey