The Bloodstained Throne

Geoffrey’s previous experiences in such places had taught him that they were full of old men waiting to die. He shook his head, only to find that the movement made his senses swim again.

‘I would rather stay here,’ he said, beginning to remove his armour. He was not sure whether he was relieved to be rid of its weight or uneasy to be stripped of his protection.

Aelfwig sighed disapprovingly. ‘Very well, but I shall bring you one of my special tinctures made from herbs of Saturn. It will ease your head and promote healing sleep.’

‘Where is Brother Lucian?’ asked Roger when Aelfwig returned with a large pottery flask and a beaker. ‘I do not want to share a chamber with him.’

‘He is far too important to stay here,’ said Aelfwig, pouring a measure of his tincture into the cup. ‘He is a close friend of Bishop de Villula — his bursar, no less — and hails from a very wealthy family. He will reside with Galfridus, who will do all he can to create a good impression. It is always wise to flatter the associates of powerful bishops.’

Geoffrey was feeling a good deal better now he had divested himself of his mail and was cooling down, and he suspected the strange effects of whatever had been in Juhel’s balm or Lucian’s cure-all were wearing off at last.

Aelfwig handed him the goblet. ‘This is mostly a wine of raspberries, with a little woundwort, henbane and comfrey, all herbs of Saturn that have a soothing effect.’

‘Henbane?’ asked Geoffrey suspiciously. ‘That is poisonous.’

‘Not in small quantities.’ Aelfwig retrieved the cup and drank some himself. ‘See? It is perfectly harmless, although I may have trouble staying awake during vespers now. Do not be awkward — I am a highly respected medicus in these parts.’

‘Do not drink it all,’ advised Ulfrith worriedly when he saw Geoffrey prepare to drain the cup. ‘Not after Lucian’s cure-all and Juhel’s salve.’

‘You have taken other medicines?’ asked Aelfwig in alarm. ‘You should have said. What?’

‘Something in Lucian’s potion made him ill,’ said Ulfrith, predictable in his choice of culprit. He lowered his voice to add in a spiteful hiss, ‘Poison.’

‘What?’ cried Bale, outraged. ‘Lucian tried to kill you? I will slit his throat!’

Aelfwig jerked away in horror when he saw a dagger appear in Bale’s hand.

‘Put it away, Bale,’ said Geoffrey tiredly. ‘Lucian drank some himself and said it came from his Bishop. Magnus swallowed a hefty dose, too — more than I did — and he is well enough.’

‘I am not so sure about that,’ said Roger thoughtfully. ‘Both you and Magnus said some very odd things when we were with Galfridus. I think there was something bad in Lucian’s cure-all. Or in Juhel’s salve. Magnus did avail himself of both, like you. So, we have two suspects: the villainous monk and the secretive Juhel.’

Aelfwig inspected Geoffrey’s scratched side. ‘There is no sign of poison here, although the wound is inflamed, probably from chafing under your armour.’

‘Then it was the cure-all that harmed him?’ asked Ulfrith hopefully. ‘Lucian is the villain?’

‘If Lucian drank this potion himself, and it came from Bishop de Villula, I doubt it contained anything untoward,’ replied the herbalist. ‘And your master seems lucid enough now, so whatever it was has worked itself out. Still, this should warn you all not to accept medicines from people you do not know.’

Geoffrey sipped the tonic tentatively, recalling the unpleasant burning that had accompanied Lucian’s brew that morning. By contrast, Aelfwig’s concoction tasted sweet, like summer fruit.

‘Do not drink any more, sir,’ begged Ulfrith. ‘My grandmother was good with healing herbs and she once told me that good medicines can turn bad when mixed.’

‘She was very wise,’ said Aelfwig. ‘But I suppose I had better ask Juhel what his salve contains. Who knows what enthusiastic amateurs add to their poultices?’

Ulfrith smiled fondly. ‘She was a witch and knew all about herbs and plants.’

Geoffrey’s dog suddenly abandoned the bed and slunk to the far end of the hall, where it hid behind a chest. Geoffrey turned to see that Juhel had arrived, chicken under his arm.

‘Aha!’ said Aelfwig. ‘Pray, sir, what toxin did you employ on Sir Geoffrey and Magnus?’

‘Toxin?’ asked Juhel, startled.

‘There was something nasty in your balm,’ said Bale. His face took on a sly expression. ‘Would you care to take a walk with me? Outside the abbey’s grounds?’

Juhel raised his hands to indicate he was innocent, then rummaged in his pack to produce the curious half- red, half-blue pot. ‘There is nothing nasty in my salve, I assure you — I might be obliged to use it on myself one day! Besides, why would I harm Geoffrey or Magnus?’

Aelfwig took the proffered pot and sniffed it. ‘All I can smell is hog’s grease.’

‘To bind the wound,’ explained Juhel, taking it back. ‘It also contains woundwort and a few crushed daisy leaves. If Geoffrey has been poisoned, it is none of my doing.’

‘Well, he would say that,’ muttered Bale in Geoffrey’s ear. ‘Aelfwig might be the best herbalist in the world, but even he cannot detect odourless poisons.’

Geoffrey closed his eyes once Juhel had left. The parchmenter had requested to be housed elsewhere, claiming stiffly that he would be open to further accusations if he remained in the same chamber as his alleged victim, and, in the interests of harmony, Aelfwig agreed. In his agitation at being accused of such an unpleasant crime, Juhel had neglected to take his travelling bag with him, and Bale, from sheer spite, hid it inside a chest. Intrigued by visitors who had seen the Holy Land, Aelfwig lingered to chat.

‘Do many people come here for pilgrimages?’ Roger asked conversationally.

‘Hundreds. First, there were veterans of the battle, who came to pray for their comrades, but these have grown fewer with the passing years. Now it is mostly sons and daughters, who petition for their fathers’ souls.’

‘Saxons or Normans?’ asked Ulfrith.

‘Both,’ replied Aelfwig. ‘We do not care about ancestry here and will pray for anyone who lost his life. The short, fat man with the yellow hair who arrived with you is Saxon — a son of King Harold himself. His twin brother is a terribly violent man, although he has not been here for several years — not since the altar incident. But we all like Harold.’

‘The altar incident?’ probed Roger curiously.

‘The high altar stands on the exact spot where King Harold died,’ explained the monk. ‘But Ulf, wild with drink, claimed it was in the wrong place — although he could not have known, since he was not at the battle. Anyway, he tried to move it with an axe.’

‘He is dead,’ said Bale without a flicker of remorse.

‘Then I hope he found peace before he died,’ said Aelfwig sadly. ‘His father’s fate turned him bitter and cruel, and he was not popular among his fellow Saxons. I am Saxon myself, and-’

‘What about Magnus?’ interrupted Roger. ‘Do folk like him?’

‘Not really. He is arrogant and silly. The only man strong enough to lead a Saxon uprising was Ulf. We would sooner have Harold, but a king cannot afford to be nice. Just look at King Henry. No one could ever accuse him of being nice, yet how well he governs the country!’

‘Magnus comes here a lot?’ asked Ulfrith. ‘He told us he had not been for years.’

‘He often drops in on his travels,’ said Aelfwig. ‘He must have lost his way in the marshes and pretended he had not been here in order not to look foolish.’

Aelfwig left eventually, and Geoffrey heard a rasping sound that he knew was Roger rubbing his hand across his beard. ‘Damn!’ he said. ‘We forgot to mention the massacre at Werlinges, and that was the main reason for us coming.’

Geoffrey sat up, his head swimming. ‘You forgot?’

‘It was your fault,’ Roger flashed back. ‘You distracted me when you kept passing out. But do not worry — I will do it now.’

‘God’s teeth!’ muttered Geoffrey, unimpressed. He tried to stand, not sure Roger could be trusted, but his side gave such a monstrous twinge that he was forced to lie back down.

‘Do not fret,’ said Roger. ‘I will watch what I say. You think me a fool, but I can be as discreet as the next man.’