The Bloodstained Throne

had cost fourpence.

‘I knew topaz would work,’ Breme said smugly, reaching out to ensure it was still in place. ‘It is your birthstone and much more powerful than garnet. We were lucky I had it.’

‘How do you know when I was born?’ asked Geoffrey curiously.

‘From Roger. He was ready to do anything to ensure your survival.’

Geoffrey had never told Roger his birth date, which meant the big knight must have picked one out of the blue. It lessened the likelihood that Breme’s magic had been responsible for his recovery, but it would have been churlish to point it out.

‘Now I am going to Winchester,’ said Breme. ‘Juhel tells me the monks there are always in need of decent ink, and he has given me a letter of introduction to a clerk. I feel almost guilty.’

Geoffrey was nonplussed. ‘About what?’

‘About overcharging for the parchment to write it on. Still, he is a merchant and should have haggled more efficiently.’

‘Will you carry a letter for me?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘I do not know whether the King will be at Winchester, but if you deliver it to the abbot, he will see it sent on.’

‘The King?’ asked Breme keenly. ‘I shall be a royal messenger, then? Well, I am pleased to be of service, especially if you mean to pay me with that ring you hold.’

Geoffrey handed it over. ‘I will hire a horse, too, so you can travel more quickly.’

Breme raised his eyebrows. ‘I do not blame you for not trusting de Laigle to tell the King about these ship sightings or about poor Werlinges — the man is a dreadful sot. So choose me a decent nag, Sir Geoffrey, and I shall ride like the wind for you.’

That evening, when the bells chimed for vespers and the sun was setting behind a bank of clouds, Geoffrey prepared to give Roger the slip. He was grateful for the big knight’s solicitous protection, but it was beginning to cloy, and he longed for solitude. He borrowed a warm cloak from Aelfwig and reached for Ulfrith’s water flask.

‘Where are you going?’ demanded Roger.

‘You cannot have that,’ objected Ulfrith at the same time. ‘There is wine on the table.’

‘I do not want wine,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I want water.’

‘Then use your own, sir,’ said Ulfrith. ‘I filled your flask an hour ago, whereas mine has not been changed since yesterday.’

‘Yes, but you keep yours with you all the time,’ said Geoffrey, taking a gulp, ‘whereas mine has been lying on the table, where someone might have tampered with it.’

‘You are wise to be cautious,’ said Roger. ‘Are you going out?’

‘Just to the church.’

‘I will come with you,’ offered Roger.

‘That is not necessary.’ Geoffrey tossed the flask back to Ulfrith and made for the door.

Ulfrith regarded him uneasily. ‘Are you going to see Lady Philippa?’

The question annoyed Geoffrey. ‘I am going to the church,’ he said shortly.

Before they could ask more, he left, closing the door firmly behind him. He walked across a grassy sward, aware that Ulfrith was watching him from the window. He had intended to visit the nearby village to make enquiries about his dog, but he could not do it while Ulfrith was watching. Ulfrith would tell Roger, who would insist on accompanying him.

With no option, he aimed for the church. It was the first time he had been inside, and he was impressed by the tier upon tier of round-headed arches, carved to flaunt the masons’ skills. The dominant colours of the ceiling were blue and gold, like the dawn sky, and the pillars and walls were pale green and yellow at the top, darkening to red and purple at the bottom. It made the building seem taller than it was, and he marvelled at the cleverness of the illusion.

Vespers had started, and the monks’ voices rose and fell as they chanted a psalm. Geoffrey leaned against a pillar and closed his eyes, finding peace in the music.

‘There you are, Sir Geoffrey! Are you better? Poor Sir Roger was convinced you were going to die and hurled gold at anyone who would pray. The only one who refused payment was Brother Wardard, but I am told he is a saintly man. His brethren wanted him to be abbot, but he declined.’

Geoffrey opened his eyes to see Philippa smiling at him in her flirtatious fashion. He stepped away, not wanting the monks to see them standing so close in their church. She inched forward, and they began a curious dance that saw him backing towards the door and her in dogged pursuit.

‘Stop!’ she ordered in a fierce whisper. ‘I want to talk to you without being overheard, but I cannot if you will not stand still.’

He relented when he saw she did not look well. She wore the thick red cloak he had last seen on Edith, but she kept rubbing her hands together, as though they were chilled. Her face was pale, and there were dark rings under eyes that had produced too many tears.

‘I am sorry,’ he said, contrite. ‘You have suffered another loss.’

She looked away, and two heavy drops made silvery trails down her cheeks. ‘Poor Edith! It does not seem possible she is gone. Now I am alone and I do not know what will become of me. It should not have been her.’

‘What do you mean? That you should have died in her place?’

Philippa nodded unhappily. ‘She was wealthy and had kin who loved her, but I have nothing. It would have been better if I had been the one to die.’ Her fists clenched tightly. ‘If I ever find the loathsome villain who snuffed out her life, I will choke him and dance on his grave!’

‘Hush!’ said Geoffrey, alarmed that such sentiments were being uttered in a church.

‘I do not know what will happen to me if I cannot find a protector.’ She reached out and took his hand, the coquettish smile back again. ‘Did anyone ever tell you that your eyes are the most beautiful shade of green? They are the hue of ferns.’

‘My wife mentioned it once,’ said Geoffrey, freeing his hand.

‘Vitalis had a wife, too, but the three of us came to an arrangement that made us all happy.’

Geoffrey smiled. ‘I doubt Hilde would agree to that.’

Philippa sighed. ‘I did love Vitalis. He was old and sometimes awry in the wits, but he was good to me and I miss him.’

‘I know,’ said Geoffrey gently. ‘You probably did take him for love. Edith, I suspect, was forced into the union. But she was his real wife, even so.’

Philippa’s eyes blazed. ‘I was legally married! In a church — Edith carried the flowers.’

‘But she was already wed to him. Ergo, the second ceremony was illegal.’

‘Are you calling me a whore?’

Geoffrey supposed he was. ‘Edith was grateful to you for drawing Vitalis’s attentions from her, and, against all odds, you became friends. Of course you were upset when he died — it shattered your safe life.’

‘Edith said she would look after me,’ said Philippa, tearful again. ‘She was the best friend anyone could have — better and more loyal than your Roger. She did not steal gold and have me implicated in a crime. And now she is dead and I must fend for myself. You have no idea how hard it is for a woman with no family and no money. I only hope Lucian means what he says when he waxes lyrical about giving up the cowl to enjoy a secular life.’

‘Did he meet Edith the night she died?’ asked Geoffrey, taking the opportunity to question her, since she seemed of a mind to talk.

She frowned. ‘Not that I know of. Why? Is that what Sir Roger told you? That I vacated our chamber so Edith could entertain a lover? I might have known he would assume something like that! I suppose he told you he and I were here all night?’

Geoffrey nodded. ‘Dicing on the high altar.’

She grimaced. ‘I told him we should use the floor. But he is a lewd man to think such things of poor Edith! If you must know, I left because sleeping has been difficult for me since the shipwreck, and my restlessness disturbed her. I told her I was going to keep vigil for Vitalis — to give her a chance to sleep. I wish to God that I had stayed.’

‘If you had, you might have been strangled, too.’

Philippa pulled the cloak more firmly around her shoulders: the notion seemed not to have occurred to her.