The Bloodstained Throne

well and dropped the package down it. And finally he had deposited his breakfast in someone’s cabbage patch.

‘A pirate came for me,’ replied Magnus. ‘I am lucky to be alive.’

‘How did you escape?’ asked Juhel, smearing the oil on the afflicted limb, then bending to wipe his hand on the grass. ‘You had no weapon.’

‘The villain ran away when I fixed him with an imperial glare,’ replied Magnus.

‘I do not believe you,’ said Roger. ‘Why-’

‘All right — he ran because all his friends were routed,’ snapped Magnus impatiently. ‘Can we leave now? I do not want to be here if the pirates come back.’

‘Good idea,’ said Juhel, heaving the hen coop on his shoulders. ‘I have had enough of bloodshed for one day.’

‘So have I,’ said Geoffrey fervently.

The day wore on as they followed a path that ran through woods, across streams, up and down hills and finally along a wide track that wound through some pretty valleys — Harold had lied: the abbey was considerably farther than the castle would have been. Eventually, Magnus claimed his wound was making him dizzy and demanded that they rest. Geoffrey refused, wanting to reach La Batailge as quickly as possible.

‘What you said earlier,’ said Roger, walking next to him. ‘You really think he will kill Harold?’

‘If the unthinkable happens and Henry is ousted, Magnus would be a fool to let other contenders live. Perhaps I spoke wildly, and he does not intend to kill Harold but to lock him away in some remote dungeon. Regardless, the fact is that Magnus will not be a strong ruler and any opposition will be dangerous.’

‘Do you believe he fought a pirate?’ asked Roger. ‘I do not. Ulfrith cornered one, and Bale lumbered after that boy for a long time, but the rest concentrated on us. Still, we know where we stand: not one of our fellow passengers came to our assistance.’

‘They would have been killed if they had,’ said Geoffrey. He paused to catch his breath at the top of a rise. The sun was baking him inside his armour, and the light-headedness from the cure-all persisted. ‘But speaking of Bale, I am worried about him. It is only a matter of time before he kills someone who is innocent.’

‘Like Ulf, you mean?’

‘No, not like him, because I am not sure he was innocent. Juhel was right: there was old blood on his clothes, and I wager anything you like it was not his own. He also tried to kill Magnus.’

‘Magnus?’ exclaimed Roger, glancing behind to see Geoffrey was not the only one finding the rapid walk difficult: the would-be king was wan and held his arm awkwardly. ‘How do you know? He did not mention it.’

‘No, which is suspicious. Ulf’s sword was stained with fresh blood — not much, as there would have been had he killed the villagers, but enough to have scratched Magnus’s arm. I suspect he saw an opportunity to rid himself of a rival, but did not reckon with Magnus’s speed — he can run very fast. But Ulf was unlucky, because he blundered into Bale.’

‘And that was the end of him,’ mused Roger. ‘Unwittingly, Bale saved Magnus’s life.’

Geoffrey nodded. ‘So why did Magnus not tell us what had happened? Does he suspect Harold of being complicit in the attack? Or is he just loath to discuss anything about Werlinges? Given that he was sneaking in and out of the church and dumping documents down wells, I suppose his desire for secrecy is understandable.’

They both considered the matter, although neither had a solution.

‘Who has the better claim to the throne?’ asked Roger eventually. ‘Magnus, who is Harold’s eldest son, or Harold, who is legitimate? Personally, I would say Magnus. Being a bastard is no bar to kingship — just ask the Conqueror! I am a bastard myself — my father, being a churchman, could scarcely marry my mother — and it has never held me back. Marriage is overrated.’

‘Is it?’ asked Geoffrey absently. They were climbing again, and he was becoming tired.

‘Take yours,’ Roger went on. ‘You only married Hilde because Goodrich needs an heir, but left to your own devices, you could have had a much prettier lass. Perhaps even one you like.’

‘I like Hilde,’ objected Geoffrey. ‘I do not love her, but I am told that is irrelevant. Besides, I was in love once, and that was more than enough.’

‘Was she a whore?’ Roger was often in love with prostitutes.

‘No. She was the loveliest maiden who ever lived, with hair like shimmering gold and eyes so blue they seemed to be part of Heaven.’ Geoffrey was not usually poetic, but that particular lady merited such praise.

‘I like a blonde wench, too,’ agreed Roger. ‘As long as she is buxom. There is no point to a woman who is all bones. Of course, Magnus will need to pick a good one, if he is to rule England. Incidentally, I hope King Henry does not order you to look into what happened at Werlinges. He does trust you with that sort of thing.’

‘By the time he hears about it, I will be back in Goodrich.’ Geoffrey stopped again to catch his breath, blinking to clear the darkness that encroached the edges of his vision.

‘We should let Magnus and Harold take the news of Werlinges to La Batailge,’ said Roger, watching him. ‘You do not look well, and this walking is making it worse. You should rest.’

‘No,’ said Geoffrey, forcing himself on. ‘We do not know what story they will tell, and I do not want to be accused of the crime. I do not trust Magnus.’

‘Then we should hurry,’ said Roger, grabbing his arm to help him along. ‘Besides, there is the abbey now. Can you see the towers?’

Geoffrey nodded and tried to ignore the burning pain in his ribs.

Work had begun at La Batailge within five years of the Norman victory. The Conqueror had wanted it built so the high altar of the church would be in the exact spot where Harold had fallen, but the Benedictines had thought this a bad idea and had selected a site farther west — one that was not plum in the middle of a bog and that had a convenient source of fresh water.

But they had reckoned without William’s iron will. He was livid when he heard his instructions had been ignored; he ordered them to tear down what they had finished and start afresh. Funds poured in from the royal treasury, although the place was still not complete fifteen years later.

The church was a handsome building, comprising a nave with seven bays and three chapels radiating off a short apsidal presbytery. There was also an imposing chapter house, and a wooden fence with a lean-to roof marked where the cloister would be. Nearby were large hall-houses with thatched roofs that served as dormitories and refectories. A sturdy palisade punctuated by a stone gatehouse in the north marked off a sizeable tract of land that comprised the actual battlefield.

‘Those mounds are the graves of the Normans who fell that day,’ Harold explained, pointing to weathered bumps in the heath. ‘Some are marked, as you can see, but most are becoming difficult to identify.’

‘What happened to the Saxon dead?’ asked Ulfrith, wide-eyed.

‘The Bastard did not deign to bury them,’ replied Magnus with considerable bitterness. ‘The local people had to see them laid to rest in ones and twos, wherever they happened to fall.’

‘Do you know the abbot, Harold?’ asked Geoffrey, not inclined to listen to more Saxon grievances. ‘We should speak to him as soon as possible.’

‘There is no abbot,’ replied Harold. ‘The Usurper is currently keeping the office vacant, so he can keep the tithes for himself. It has been empty since Abbot Henry died last year.’

‘Then is there a prior?’ Geoffrey asked. ‘A second-in-command?’

‘A simple monk runs the abbey now,’ replied Harold. ‘A Benedictine named Galfridus de St Carileff. He is a good man, though apt to be greedy.’

‘How do you know him?’ asked Geoffrey, following the path that led to the stalwart stone gatehouse. He was grateful for Roger’s arm, because his head was beginning to ache in time to the throb in his side. Magnus looked little better, and there was a sheen of sweat on his pallid face.

‘That is a good question,’ said Roger. ‘I thought you had been in exile for three decades.’

‘I have not been away all that time,’ replied Harold, smiling at the notion. ‘Ulf has been living in this area for the past sixteen years — ever since he was freed on the Bastard’s deathbed — and I occasionally come to visit him. Besides, I like it better here than in Ireland.’

‘I have not been permitted such liberties,’ said Magnus resentfully. ‘This is the first time I have set foot in England since my last invasion more than thirty years ago. Or was it forty? I feel befuddled in my wits.’