The Bloodstained Throne

‘You were the one doing the groping, not her,’ retorted Geoffrey. ‘Will you save me from Philippa, before Ulfrith attacks me again? I do not feel well, and if he tries it, I might not be able to resist the impulse to skewer him.’

Roger tapped the side of his nose. ‘Leave it to me, lad. I will put her off you once and for all.’

‘Be discreet,’ warned Geoffrey. He was seized with the notion that he should not have asked.

‘Here,’ said Roger loudly, ‘did you know that Geoffrey carries a pox caught from whores? His wife says he should abstain from other women until he is cured.’

For a moment, Geoffrey was not sure he had heard correctly, but then he started to laugh. ‘You are discretion personified,’ he said, though Roger clearly did not see the joke.

‘Well,’ drawled Juhel, wide-eyed, ‘I feel better for knowing that! But Galfridus does not need us all to tell him about Werlinges, so if you will excuse me, I shall go to the guesthouse.’

He bowed and sauntered away.

Philippa’s eyes narrowed as she watched Juhel leave the hall. ‘He is sly and wicked, and do not forget what I told you, Sir Geoffrey — he is a killer. Moreover, Edith asked him to write her father a letter on the ship, but when she asked one of La Batailge’s monks to read it back to her, it was nothing but meaningless symbols. Juhel had deceived her — charged her a penny for a document that was nothing but gibberish.’

‘Why did she hire Juhel to write it?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Why not Lucian? Or me?’

‘Lucian had no pen and parchment to hand and told Juhel to oblige instead — well, he is a man who makes his living from the stuff, after all.’

‘Do you still have it?’ asked Geoffrey, thinking about Paisnel’s documents. Did this mean he could not read them and had no idea what they contained? Or that he knew they were important, but was unable to decipher them?

‘Edith threw it away, but I retrieved it,’ said Philippa. ‘I am going to show it to her father when he arrives, so he can get the penny back.’

She pulled something from the front of her gown, leaning forward provocatively. By the time his bemused wits had registered that he should look away before Ulfrith noticed, it was too late.

‘I was looking at the letter,’ he said, before reminding himself that he did not need to justify his actions to a servant. He took another deep breath and wondered why his mind and body were so out of step with each other. Was his injury more serious than he thought? He clumsily took the document Philippa proffered, then turned it this way and that as he attempted to stop it swimming before his eyes.

‘Christ’s blood!’ he muttered to himself, rubbing his eyes hard.

‘It looks like a neat hand to me,’ said Roger, who would not know a good one from a bad.

‘It is neat,’ agreed Geoffrey. ‘But these are random symbols, not letters.’ He tried to pass it back, but Philippa moved forward at the same time, and his hand brushed the bare skin of her bosom.

‘Stop!’ cried Ulfrith, shocked and angry. ‘She is a lady, and this is a monastery! Besides, you have a pox. You should not touch her.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Geoffrey, quite sincere. He realized he was addressing Ulfrith, when he had meant to speak to Philippa. He rubbed his face again. ‘Lord! What is wrong with me?’

‘Well, the pox, presumably,’ said Harold helpfully. ‘It is said to make men rave.’

‘Keep the letter,’ said Philippa, pressing it into Geoffrey’s hand. ‘Perhaps you can demand an explanation and get our penny back.’

‘Is it true?’ asked Magnus. ‘Is there pox among English whores? I shall put an end to that when I am king.’

‘How?’ asked Roger keenly. ‘By monitoring brothels? I know a lot about such places and will act as official advisor, if you like.’

‘Lord, I am thirsty — it must be all that seawater I swallowed,’ said Magnus, drinking more ale. ‘But I shall appoint you Whoremaster, Sir Roger. It will suit you better than Bishop of Salisbury.’

‘No,’ said Geoffrey, not wanting Roger to accept posts from an enemy of the King when there were witnesses. ‘He will not take it.’

‘I might,’ said Roger. ‘Do not be too eager to refuse tempting offers on my behalf, lad. I may never get another like it.’

‘I am sure you will not,’ said Harold, laughing. ‘I doubt the Usurper has a Whoremaster in his retinue, and I do not think I shall, either.’

Geoffrey’s mind was reeling again. He thought he might feel better if he drank more water. ‘Did I finish yours, Ulfrith? My own has gone.’

‘Your own what?’ cried Ulfrith. ‘Whore? I assure you I do not have any.’ He shot Philippa a sanctimonious smile. ‘I do not use whores.’

‘Water,’ said Geoffrey impatiently, wondering whom the lad thought he was fooling. Ulfrith was as willing as the next man to avail himself of the services of ready women.

‘It is all gone,’ said Ulfrith, upending his flask. ‘You finished it all.’

‘You have a spare,’ said Roger. ‘Give it to him.’

With considerable reluctance, Ulfrith withdrew a skin from his bag. ‘It is all I have left, so you can only have a sip.’

But Geoffrey wanted more than a sip and was startled when Ulfrith tried to wrest it from him before he was ready.

‘There is water aplenty at La Batailge,’ said Philippa angrily. ‘You are a mean boy, to begrudge a thirsty man a drink when you can easily replenish your supplies. I am ashamed of you!’

Ulfrith’s face took on a rigid, sullen look. ‘Then let him have it all,’ he snapped. ‘See if I care.’

But Geoffrey was not interested in a quarrel and pushed the skin back at Ulfrith. It had done nothing to make him better, and he wondered if he was about to be laid low with a fever.

‘Brother Galfridus will see you now,’ said a monk, appearing just in time to prevent Roger from cuffing Ulfrith for his truculence. ‘He will see Harold first, and Lucian after.’

Although the abbot’s house was a temporary building, with wooden walls and a thatched roof, it was still grand, as befitted a man who ran a community of fifty monks and a hundred lay-brothers, and who was responsible not only for overseeing the building of a monastery but also for managing its vast estates.

It boasted three floors. The lowest comprised offices, the top was a bedchamber and private chapel, and the middle was a hall dominated by a massive table and a number of benches. There was a fireplace at one end, where a fierce fire threw out a stifling heat. The walls were decorated with religious murals, and the floor was made from polished wood. It smelled of wood smoke, lavender that hung in bunches from the rafters, and cats.

Galfridus was a stooped, anxious man of indeterminate ancestry. His hair was an odd silvery brown, his eyes a bland brown-grey. He had a thin, nervous face, and Geoffrey’s first impression was that he was operating at the limits of his abilities — that he had been promoted to a position that did not suit him and was only just managing to cope.

‘Good Lord!’ he exclaimed as Magnus led the others inside. It was some moments before Geoffrey became aware that Galfridus was not looking at the Saxon, but at him. ‘It is Herleve Mappestone’s son.’

Nine

Geoffrey found the heat in the hall oppressive, and sweat began to course down his back. It made his senses reel even more, and he found it a struggle to stay upright. As Galfridus continued to stare, it occurred to him that there was no reason for the monk to have known his mother. Neither she nor Godric had set foot outside Herefordshire once they had received their estates, not even to inspect their lands in Normandy, nor had they made a habit of entertaining churchmen. He studied the man’s face, but there was nothing familiar about it.

‘Do I detect garlic?’ asked Galfridus when Geoffrey did not reply. His expression hardened. ‘I thought I told the cooks to go easy on that, and I can smell it from here. Will no one listen to me?’