The Bloodstained Throne

‘Skirmishes can do that to a man,’ said Roger. Geoffrey saw he was about to make a clumsy attempt to force Magnus to admit that he had been attacked by Ulf. ‘And so can being savaged by a maniac intent on murder.’

‘Then I am grateful it does not happen very often,’ Magnus replied fervently, rubbing his head. ‘Lord! There is such an agony in my pate!’

‘Of course, King Henry always seemed to know when I was coming,’ said Harold ruefully. ‘He even sent me a horse once, although it was a poor brute with weak knees. Still, I put on a decent display of gratitude. It does not do to offend a man like Henry.’

‘You will offend Henry if you take his throne,’ Geoffrey pointed out.

‘Yes,’ agreed Harold with a twinkling smile. ‘But by then it will not matter.’

The gatehouse was a two-storeyed building that housed a portcullis. Arrow slits pierced the walls, and there was a gallery along the top that could be used by lookouts and bowmen. It was more akin to the entrance to a fortress than a monastery: the Saxons had not been exaggerating when they said the Benedictines were unpopular in the region. Traders, pilgrims and visitors formed a queue outside it, waiting patiently to be allowed in.

‘This is impressive,’ said Lucian appreciatively. ‘My Order certainly knows how to build!’

Magnus raked a supercilious gaze across the queue and strutted to the front, shoving more than one person out of the way as he went. ‘I have come to see Gerald. Stand aside and let me pass, you miserable wren.’

The guard regarded him askance. ‘There is no Gerald here. And, even if there were, you would not be allowed in. We try to keep lunatics out.’

‘I am your king,’ declared Magnus. Geoffrey winced. He had supposed that Magnus would keep his identity quiet until he had gone some way towards arranging his revolt; he had not expected him to announce it to servants.

The guard peered at him. ‘You are not Henry. Nor are you the Duke of Normandy, who is the man I would like on the throne. England should never have gone to his younger brother.’

‘He is reckless,’ said Geoffrey to Roger. ‘I would not make wildly treasonous statements to men I do not know.’

He must have spoken louder than he intended, because the guard overheard. ‘Actually, I am being prudent. There is a rumour that the Duke is in St Valery at the moment, and you only go there if you intend to cross into England.’

‘The Duke means to invade?’ asked Geoffrey uneasily.

‘He might, although I have heard nothing about him raising an army,’ replied the guard. ‘Perhaps he will challenge Henry to mortal combat and save the expense. But you cannot come in anyway, whoever you are,’ he added to Magnus.

‘Galfridus will see me, though,’ said Harold, jostling Magnus aside. He returned the guard’s welcoming smile. ‘Good afternoon, Jostin. Open up, will you? We have come with terrible news that must be carried to Richer de Laigle as soon as possible.’

The guard continued to beam. ‘Lord Harold! I did not see you there. Galfridus will be pleased to see you, I am sure. He was saying only yesterday that it has been a great while since you were last here. If you wait a moment, I will summon a novice to take you to him.’ He jerked his head at Magnus and lowered his voice. ‘Is he to be admitted, too?’

‘Yes, please, Jostin,’ said Harold cheerfully. ‘He is my half-brother, believe it or not.’

While they waited for their escort, the guard and Harold began a merry conversation about the service community that was growing up outside the abbey walls. There were smiths to make the nails and braces needed for the buildings, and there were carpenters, masons and stone-cutters and their families. There were also brewers, potters, candle-makers and bakers. Harold seemed to know them all, indicating that he had passed more time in the region than he had led them to believe. Geoffrey wondered what else the smiling Saxon had lied about.

Meanwhile, the waiting people were resentful that Harold’s party was to be admitted before them. One threw a small stone that sailed past Magnus. Then a clod of mud struck Roger square in the middle of his forehead with a resounding smack.

‘No!’ cried Geoffrey, when Roger’s sword appeared in his hand and he took several strides towards the culprit, intending to dispense a lesson that was likely to be fatal. Geoffrey staggered when he was suddenly deprived of his support; he had not realized how heavily he had been leaning on his friend. ‘Wait!’

The guilty party did not seem at all intimidated by Roger, which meant he was either very brave or a fool. He stood a little straighter under his heavy pack and looked the knight square in the eye. He was a burly fellow with wavy dark hair and a thick beard that had traces of grey. His eyes were dark brown, almost black, and his nose was so round and red that it looked like a plum.

‘You do not frighten me,’ he declared. ‘Crusader knights do not strike down unarmed citizens, so do not bluster and breathe at me like an angry bull!’

Roger’s advance faltered and he regarded the man in surprise. ‘You are very sure of yourself.’

‘Roger,’ Geoffrey called, painfully aware that most Crusader knights — Roger among them — were more than happy to slaughter unarmed citizens and that the fellow’s confidence was sadly misplaced. ‘Leave him alone.’

‘I have you, sir,’ said Bale, grabbing Geoffrey’s arm when he began to list heavily to one side.

Geoffrey wondered what was wrong with him. The gash in his side was not serious, and he had suffered a good deal worse in the past without swooning like a virgin.

Harold was next to him. ‘Have some garlic,’ he suggested solicitously, pressing a ready-peeled clove into the knight’s hand. ‘It will set you up nicely.’

It was a measure of Geoffrey’s muddled wits that the thing was in his mouth before he realized what he was about to crush between his teeth. Repelled, he spat it out.

‘What is your name?’ Roger was asking the man as he sheathed his sword. ‘And how do you know about Jerosolimitani? You are right, of course: we are an honourable brotherhood.’

‘My name is Breme, and my father told me about the Crusade. He was a skilled archer and fought at the battle here — one of the men the Conqueror said was most invaluable to him.’

‘You are the son of a soldier?’ asked Roger. ‘Why did you not follow in his footsteps?’

Breme shrugged. ‘I prefer to be my own master. But that does not make me a lesser man than you, and you should wait your turn. We all have important business with the abbey.’

‘Not as important as mine,’ declared Roger. ‘I have come to tell Galfridus about a dreadful massacre. That is more urgent than selling baubles.’ He cast a disparaging glance at Breme’s pack.

‘Pens and ink,’ corrected Breme. ‘I sell writing materials, and my wares are vital to any man who produces deeds and letters. How can your news be more important than providing an abbey with the means to communicate with its King?’

Fortunately, the escort arrived at that point, and the guard ushered Roger’s party inside before an argument could break out. The knights, squires, two Saxons, Lucian and Juhel followed the guide to a hall that was filled with benches and tables. It was a pleasant room, and there were goblets and a jug of cool ale set on one table, along with a basket of honey-smeared bread. Gratefully, the travellers ate, drank and sat to rest sore feet. Geoffrey hoped Galfridus would not be long, eager that messengers be sent to de Laigle as soon as possible. His thoughts were interrupted by a high, girlish voice.

‘Brother Lucian! You are still alive! What a lovely surprise! It is me, Philippa.’

All Geoffrey wanted to do was deliver his news to Galfridus and lie down. He did not want to make polite conversation with Philippa and Edith, both of whom were sweeping through the hall, clearly intent on enjoying a warm welcome. He felt what little energy he had left drain away at the prospect of their silly, prattling company.

‘Lady Philippa!’ cried Ulfrith in delight. ‘How do you come to be here?’

‘More bloody Normans,’ muttered Magnus. ‘And women, no less, so they can breed others, until they swarm over the Earth like ravenous locals. . locusts. I am going to sit down. I have no inclination for the empty-headed clatter of benches.’

‘The clatter of benches?’ asked Juhel, bemused.

‘Wenches,’ snapped Magnus. ‘I said the chatter of wenches.’

Philippa ignored the churlish Saxon and fixed her happy grin on the others. Edith was dressed in a splendid cloak made from thick, red wool and adorned with elegant embroidery. By contrast, Philippa wore a simple black gown that looked as if it had been borrowed from a nun. Absently, Geoffrey wondered at the disparity in the