The Bloodstained Throne

After the big knight had gone, Geoffrey watched Bale and Ulfrith sit together near the window and realized they had been left to keep guard. It was a kindly thought, but they were noisy. When Ulfrith began a long list of Philippa’s virtues, Geoffrey ordered them both outside and waited for Roger’s return.

Closing his eyes, he thought about the sickness that assailed him — a man who was rarely ill and possessed the capacity to carry on through all but the most serious wounds. He was certain some noxious substance had been fed to him. Was it deliberate? And if so, was he or Magnus the intended victim? He thought for a while and concluded it was not Magnus. The Saxon had demanded the medicines — no one had forced him to take them.

So, was it Juhel, playing some game Geoffrey did not understand that involved killing friends and dropping them overboard in order to claim their documents? Or was it Lucian, an unconvincing monk, who might be using a religious habit to disguise his real business? Geoffrey was not sure why either would consider him a threat. Was it because he was more able than the others and could read? Or was Magnus responsible, taking a dose of the medicines himself to allay suspicion? He had acted oddly at Werlinges, disappearing inside the church and dropping the package down the well. Was that why Ulf had tried to kill him?

It occurred to Geoffrey that documents were a peculiarly recurring theme. Juhel had taken some from Paisnel; Magnus had thrown some down a well; Juhel had ‘written’ a letter for Edith. Geoffrey pulled the thing from his tunic and looked at it again, but his vision was blurred, and he knew he would be sick if he continued. He put it away, wondering if it was significant.

The headache was beginning to return, so he lay flat and watched the ceiling billow and twist, the beams closing together, then drifting apart again. Eventually, he dozed, aware of buzzing voices around him, some familiar and some not. Then there was silence, and he slept more deeply. But it did not seem many moments before he was awake again, jolted into consciousness by some innate, soldierly sense that something was amiss. He became aware of someone looming over him and opened his eyes to stare into the cold, furious face of Fingar.

Geoffrey’s fingers closed around his dagger even as his feverish mind grappled with Fingar having gained access to the abbey. Fingar looked disreputable, and the knight had imagined a monastery would be more particular about whom it admitted. He brought the blade up quickly, so it jabbed into Fingar’s throat. He had not intended to stab him, but his movements were uncoordinated and his hand had not gone quite where he had intended. Fingar yelped and jerked away.

‘There is no need for that!’ The pirate’s expression was one of disgust, as he rubbed the nick. ‘I should have known no good would come from mercy.’

‘Mercy?’ asked Geoffrey uncertainly, feeling Fingar take the dagger from his hand and alarmed that he was unable to stop him.

‘You are sick — poisoned, I am told. So I decided, being in sacred confines, I would not kill you. But then I am stabbed for my pains.’

‘Sorry,’ said Geoffrey. He wondered why he had apologized; Fingar did not merit it.

‘Then you can make amends by telling me what you did with my gold.’

‘I do not have it.’

‘I know,’ said Fingar. ‘I have searched your belongings. But tell me what Roger did with it, and I shall leave you in peace.’

‘I have no idea,’ said Geoffrey tiredly.

Fingar snorted his disdain. ‘You will tell me eventually, so you may as well do it now and save yourself some discomfort.’

‘I really have no idea.’ The pain in Geoffrey’s side, which had been a niggle, now came in a great wave, and the pounding in his head was almost blinding. He had been wounded many times before, sometimes seriously, but could not remember ever feeling so wretched.

Fingar leaned closer. ‘Where is Sir Roger now?’

‘Gone to tell Galfridus about the villagers you murdered.’

‘That was not our doing.’ Fingar sounded offended. ‘We do not make war on paupers. You must look to the flaxen-haired fellow your squire killed for that.’

‘Ulf did not do it alone.’ Geoffrey heard his voice losing its strength. ‘He had help.’

‘Not from us,’ said Fingar firmly. ‘We do not become embroiled in politics.’

‘Politics?’

‘Squabbles for thrones — it is not for us. And it would not be for you, either, if you had any sense.’

‘Are you talking about Magnus and Harold?’

‘I do not know any Harold, but Magnus is a good example. I overheard him on my ship, talking to his servant. He thinks he is the king of England and is gathering an army.’

‘He has no army,’ said Geoffrey tiredly. ‘It is all dreams.’

‘Yes and no. He may not have organized troops, but there are men who will give their lives for his cause. That is what happened at Werlinges. His Saxon cronies.’

Geoffrey struggled to understand. ‘You saw Saxons kill those people?’

Fingar looked furtive. ‘Not exactly. But they were in Werlinges when we reached it. We could see from the villagers’ faces that they were not welcome, but we did not want a fight, so we left. When we returned, we found the people dead. It was horrible.’

‘I thought you would be used to it. You are a pirate.’

‘Yes, but we do not kill women and children. Donan watched you after you had routed him and he says you were none too impressed, either.’

‘He did not rout us,’ said a loud voice. ‘I told you: we were outnumbered, so we withdrew.’

Geoffrey tried to see who was speaking, but could not. The man was lying, but Geoffrey did not blame him for declining to tell Fingar that a dozen sailors had failed to defeat two knights.

‘. . even that was fake,’ someone was saying. ‘I thought it was real gold, but it was base metal, and the purse was all but empty.’

‘I was always wary of him,’ said Fingar. ‘Too pleased with himself by half.’

‘Juhel?’ asked Geoffrey. He realized he must have lost consciousness and missed part of the conversation, because it seemed to have moved on without him.

‘No, “Brother” Lucian, who wore a cross of fake gold,’ someone replied.

‘Enough chatter,’ snapped Fingar, glancing towards the door. He grabbed Geoffrey by the front of his shirt. ‘I will let you live if you help me find my money, although it goes against the grain. You are lucky: being poisoned and lying on holy ground makes you doubly eligible for mercy.’

‘Then leave me alone,’ said Geoffrey weakly, ‘because I cannot help you.’

‘Will not, more like,’ said the second speaker, and Geoffrey saw Donan’s pinched features become a large rat. ‘Make him tell us or I will kill him.’

‘You will not,’ said Fingar with considerable force. ‘Do you want more storms to batter us at sea because you sinned on holy ground? Do you want the saints hurling lightning at us, as they did after we let that man drown?’

‘What man?’ Geoffrey mumbled.

‘Donan saw Paisnel in the water, but kept on course.’ Fingar scowled. ‘It is wicked to leave a man to drown, and he should not have done it. When I have my gold, I will pay for masses for his soul, to set matters right.’

‘But the day after Paisnel’s disappearance, you said you last saw him playing dice with Juhel,’ said Geoffrey, fighting to keep his eyes open.

‘Like I said, we do not become involved in politics. I knew from the blood on the deck the next day that Paisnel had fought someone, but it was not our affair. However, leaving him to die at sea — that is something else altogether.’

‘Who threw him overboard?’ asked Geoffrey, wondering if they would confirm Philippa’s tale.

‘Donan did not see. I assumed it was Juhel, but Donan thinks it was Philippa.’

‘Of course it was her,’ argued the rat. ‘I saw her sneaking around. She had a knife, too.’

‘How could she have lifted a man over the rail?’ snapped Fingar. ‘She is not strong enough. It was Juhel, I tell you. I saw him rifling through Paisnel’s bag, too. He took what he wanted and tossed the rest overboard. Why would he have done that, unless he was the killer?’