skirmishes through the years when he had been certain he was going to die.
Wardard studied him. ‘What did Godric tell you?’
Geoffrey sighed, not liking the way Wardard answered questions with questions. ‘That he led the charge, screamed encouragement to the faint-hearted, killed at least twenty Saxons in the first assault, and was among the last to leave when it became a rout.’
‘And what do you believe?’
Geoffrey studied the terrain, noting the steep angle of the ridge and the soft, muddy ground that would need to be traversed before making the laborious ascent. And he saw how easy it would have been to rain arrows down on those who were scrambling up it.
‘That the Norman leading the charge was not likely to have lived very long.’
Wardard nodded. ‘So, you have unveiled one truth without my help. It was impossible to tell who reached the Saxons first, but the leaders quickly became trapped between Harold’s line and the press of Bretons surging behind. Death was inevitable.’
‘What else can you tell me?’ asked Geoffrey unhappily, seeing how the discussion was going to go. It was not that he was disappointed in Godric, whom he had never respected, but that he failed to understand how he could then have lied about his conduct on such an unrestrained scale.
Wardard’s expression was wistful. ‘I had an excellent view of the proceedings, although most of the time I wished I had not. But what I recall most vividly was your mother, swinging her axe. There was not a braver woman in Christendom than Lady Herleve. It was a pity she disguised herself, because her courage would have fired the palest of hearts. If she, a woman heavy with child, could fight like a lion, then so could any man.’
‘I am sure she was spectacular,’ said Geoffrey, recalling how she had always bested him and his brothers at axe work. ‘But I would rather hear about my father.’
‘He was given fine estates as a reward for his actions that day,’ said Wardard evasively.
‘I would like to know if he was awarded them on false pretences.’
‘No,’ said Wardard, standing up. ‘It was a long time ago, and no good can come of opening old wounds. Think of him as a great hero, because that is what he wanted you to believe. And your mother certainly was. If you love them, you will do this.’
‘But I do not-’ Geoffrey was going to say that he did not love Godric or Herleve and never had, but Wardard raised a hand to silence him.
‘We shall not speak of this again. Now, I have much to do: the Duke of Normandy is coming.’
Geoffrey had been about to argue, but the last statement jarred. ‘You mean he has invaded?’
Wardard smiled. ‘I would not go that far, although he is here without an invitation from King Henry. He apparently arrived with a handful of knights and intends to visit the abbey before riding to Winchester.’
‘Not an invasion, then,’ said Geoffrey relieved.
‘Not from him. But who knows about Belleme, who has been thinking of revenge ever since his defeat last year? He might be crazed enough to attempt it, and strange ships have been seen. .’
Geoffrey lingered on the rainswept battlefield. Had Wardard really refused to tell him the truth because he felt nothing good could come from sullying the memory of a dead warrior? Or was there another reason? It had not escaped Geoffrey’s attention how many old men spoke warmly of his mother, and she had certainly been the more popular of the two. Was the tale of Godric’s cowardice mere spite from thwarted rivals?
When he eventually returned to the hospital, he found Roger had visited the barber. His hair and beard were neatly trimmed, his face was scrubbed, and the wild, barbaric look he had assumed since the wreck was moderated. His surcoat had been cleaned, his boots polished, and the half-armour he wore as a knight at ease was spotless.
‘Is there a brothel nearby?’ Geoffrey asked.
‘Have you not heard?’ asked Roger. ‘The Duke of Normandy is coming, and Galfridus intends to honour him with a feast.’
‘Galfridus plays a dangerous game,’ said Geoffrey. ‘How many more of the King’s enemies will he house under his roof?’
‘The Duke is not Henry’s enemy. He is his brother.’
Geoffrey did not bother to point out that family members were usually the most deadly enemies when thrones were at stake. ‘Why is he coming?’
‘According to Aelfwig, some of the Duke’s friends — such as the Earl of Surrey — lost their English estates after helping Belleme last year, and he has come to ask for them to be given back.’
‘Why should Henry agree to that when they sided against him — and might again in the future?’
‘Such heady affairs are not our concern,’ said Roger carelessly. ‘But I am hoping it might set a precedent that will bring back my father, who is also in exile for defying Henry. So I thought I should make myself presentable.’ He flaunted his finery. ‘What do you think?’
Geoffrey shrugged. ‘Very fine. Where is Bale?’
‘He went with Galfridus’s groom to Werlinges, to collect those horses. Apparently, de Laigle decided they were not worth taking and left them. Bale persuaded Galfridus to let him rescue them. Why? Do you want him to wash your clothes? You probably
Brushing the advice away, Geoffrey told him what he had learned from Juhel and from his examination of Gyrth and Edith. As Roger mulled over the new information, the door opened and Bale walked in. His bald head shone with sweat, and he made straight for the wine jug. Finding it empty, he headed for the bucket of water Ulfrith fetched from the well each morning. Without bothering with a cup, he grasped the entire thing, lifted it to his lips and tipped. Most cascaded down his neck and chest, and Geoffrey sighed — he had wanted a drink himself.
‘Ulfrith has some spare water,’ said Roger, guessing the reason for his friend’s disapproval.
‘Again?’ muttered Ulfrith, glaring at Bale for his greed.
Roger’s expression hardened. ‘Again. And you will not answer back if you know what is good for you. I am tired of your cheek.’
Ulfrith was no fool and relinquished the flask, albeit reluctantly. Geoffrey took a gulp, but the contents had a bitter, unpleasant flavour. He supposed Ulfrith had added something nasty, in the hope that he would find another source in future.
‘Do not drink any more,’ said Ulfrith. He sounded concerned, and Geoffrey regarded him coldly, knowing his suspicions were correct.
‘Dogs had been in Werlinges church, after the charred corpses,’ reported Bale ghoulishly. ‘The fire did not burn hot enough, see, and some of them were still whole.’
Geoffrey shuddered. Bale’s fascination with such matters really was disagreeable.
‘The groom and I dug a pit and buried the larger pieces,’ Bale was saying. ‘I said a few Latin words, like you did for Vitalis.’
‘What did you say, exactly?’ asked Geoffrey.
Bale quoted a few of Geoffrey’s favourite obscenities, usually employed when he did not want others to know he was insulting them, and he saw he would have to be more careful in the future.
‘De Laigle did not wait around after he fired the church,’ Bale continued. ‘But he should have done, because a lot of it is intact, and so were several houses he put to the torch. I thought looters would have been, but there was no sign of any.’
‘You said de Laigle had already stripped the place,’ said Roger. ‘So there was probably nothing worth having.’
‘There were tables, benches and the like. And there was the altar cross, which de Laigle told his men to leave for fear of being damned. But that sort of thing does not usually bother scavengers.’
‘True,’ agreed Roger. ‘So it is odd that they did not take advantage of the situation — the ones who haunted the beach after the ship went down were determined, to say the least.’
‘It
Geoffrey frowned. ‘I did not notice any.’
‘It was not there initially,’ said Bale. ‘It had appeared by the time I returned with de Laigle. Perhaps that is why he did not linger. I wonder if the pirates did it, to warn folk for the future.’
Geoffrey did not know what to make of it. He handed the water flask back to Ulfrith as he considered the
