wishing he had never made the vow to Joan, because the young man’s passions had grown too tiresome.
Eleven
The following day was grey and drizzly, and there was a tang of salt in the air. Geoffrey woke when the bell sounded for prime, and he reached out to pet his dog before remembering it was not there. He wished he had asked Fingar about it the previous day. As the notion that it was in the man’s stomach made further sleep impossible, he went to the church.
When the service was over, he headed to the lady chapel, muttering prayers of thanks for his deliverance from the shipwreck and the return of his health. Seeing Philippa enter, he left before she could waylay him, and sat near a pillar in the south transept. It was not long before Magnus joined him.
‘Harold said you were better. Who poisoned us, do you think? I am certain the vile deed was aimed at me, and I was less badly affected because I am stronger.’
Geoffrey generally enjoyed excellent health and doubted the cadaverous Magnus was fitter than him. ‘Who do you think wants you dead?’ he asked.
Magnus pursed his lips. ‘Well, there are a great many Normans, starting with the Usurper. And not all Saxons are enamoured of me. Lord Gyrth is something of a malcontent.’
‘Who is Lord Gyrth?’
‘The Earl of East Anglia — my cousin. Well, his father was Earl and he would have inherited the title had Gyrth the Elder not died at Hastinges. The Bastard promptly appointed a Norman to the earldom, so Gyrth was disinherited. He is desperate to retrieve his birthright.’
Absently, Geoffrey wondered whether Gyrth’s name was on the list of potential rebels.
‘Here is Harold,’ said Magnus disapprovingly. ‘Grinning as usual and arriving on a waft of garlic.
‘He might,’ Geoffrey pointed out. ‘You say the competition between you will be decided by an election. People will vote for him if they like him.’
‘But peasants will not vote,’ said Magnus in disdain. ‘Only nobles. Men like Gyrth.’
‘Gyrth!’ said Harold, overhearing as he approached. ‘There is a sullen fellow! He once told me that the only music he enjoys is the screams of dying Normans. What sort of man says that?’
‘There is Philippa,’ said Magnus, pointing as she emerged from the Lady Chapel. Her path crossed that of Lucian, and she took his arm playfully, much to the disapproval of the older monk who was with him. ‘And that is Brother Wardard, one of the “heroes” of Hastinges.’
‘I should speak to him,’ said Geoffrey. But he hung back, lest Philippa made another play for him, thus earning him the old monk’s disapproval, too. He wanted the truth about his father, not some tale coloured by what Wardard thought of his association with Philippa.
He waited, but Wardard went with Philippa when she left, apparently deciding she needed a chaperon. Geoffrey lingered by the high altar, in case he returned, but he was to be disappointed.
Eventually, a bell rang to announce breakfast. The monks filed into their refectory, the servants to a hall near the brewery, and the visitors collected bread, boiled eggs and salted fish from the kitchens — there was ale, but Geoffrey opted for Ulfrith’s water. He was surprised by the number of pilgrims, mostly Saxons, who were suddenly in evidence. Apparently unwilling to share the hospital with Norman knights, they had established a little tented camp near the gatehouse.
‘I am still surprised you recovered, Sir Geoffrey,’ said Aelfwig, when their paths crossed after the meal. He was with another monk — a tall man with a facial twitch. ‘Indeed, I told Roger to prepare for the worst one night and suggested he put a deposit down on a coffin — we only have one in stock at the moment, you see, and there is a sick villager who might have claimed it first.’
‘Oh,’ said Geoffrey, unsure of the appropriate response to such a remark.
‘You should be more careful in your predictions, Aelfwig,’ chided his companion. ‘You declared poor Abbot Henry cured from his fever last year, and he died within the hour.’ He turned to Geoffrey. ‘I am Ralph of Bec, the abbey’s sacristan.’
Aelfwig reached out and grabbed the charm Geoffrey wore around his neck before he could acknowledge the sacristan’s greeting.
‘What is this? A heathen artefact? You should denounce such things and put your faith in God.’
‘Just as long as he does not put his faith in you,’ murmured Ralph. He changed the subject before Aelfwig could defend himself. ‘I heard you were not very impressed by Galfridus’s collection of sculptures, Sir Geoffrey. You took a particular dislike to his amethyst horse, I am told.’
Geoffrey remembered nothing about a horse, although he vividly recollected the ivory carving on the windowsill. ‘The Lamb of God looks like a pig,’ he said.
The monks looked shocked, but before Geoffrey could say he was referring to the artwork, Ralph adopted an expression of concern.
‘Brother Wardard hopes to meet you today, but I hope you will not distress
‘Very well,’ said Geoffrey, suspecting there was no point in trying to rectify the misunderstanding. Thinking it might be a good time to look at the body of the man Bale had killed, he asked where the charnel house was.
‘Why?’ asked Aelfwig nervously. ‘Who told you that several of my other patients lie there?’
‘No one,’ said Geoffrey, supposing he had been right to refuse the herbalist’s raspberry tonic. ‘I want to look at the body of the man Bale killed, to see if I recognize him.’
‘He is to be buried this morning,’ said Ralph, ‘so you had better hurry. It is over there.’
He flapped vaguely with his hand, then both monks hurried away. Ralph’s directions had encompassed at least three buildings, and the first one Geoffrey tried was a small hut, apparently used as an annex dormitory when the hospital was full. It was dark inside, because the window shutters were closed, and he was surprised to see Juhel inspecting documents by candlelight. Juhel moved quickly when he saw Geoffrey, but not quickly enough to conceal what he had been doing.
‘I see you are better,’ said the parchmenter with an unreadable smile. ‘I am glad. None of us expected you to survive such a violent fever.’
‘I was saved by water, topaz, gold and the good auspices of King Harold,’ said Geoffrey, stepping inside the hut, trying to see what the man had been doing. ‘They counteracted the poison.’
Juhel regarded him uneasily. ‘Poison? Surely not!’
‘Magnus suffered, too, although the effects wore off him more quickly.’
‘I suspect you swallowed too many medicines in an effort to heal yourself. Some compounds react violently with each other, and you should have taken nothing else with my salve.’
‘That is what Bale told me. So did Breme.’ Fingar had, too, he thought. Or had he dreamed it?
‘I imagine you would have been well sooner if that herbalist had not dosed you with his remedies. I told Roger as much.’
‘What are those?’ asked Geoffrey, nodding at the documents Juhel had pushed under his blanket. ‘The parchments from Paisnel’s pack?’
Juhel regarded him with narrowed eyes. ‘How do you know what was in his bag? Did you rifle through it?’
‘No, but you did, after he died. You were seen.’
‘He was my friend. It was my duty to take charge of his belongings.’
‘But you hurled most of them into the sea. You were seen doing that, too.’
Juhel came to his feet fast, and Geoffrey saw there was a good deal of power in his squat limbs.
‘I have nothing to hide,’ said the parchmenter, smiling wryly when Geoffrey’s hand dropped to his dagger. ‘Come, see for yourself that you have no right to question my actions.’
Alert for hostile moves, Geoffrey pushed aside the blanket with his foot. The documents lay underneath. He hesitated, not wanting to bend and make himself vulnerable to attack. He indicated that Juhel was to pass them to
