Although the abbot’s house was a temporary building, with wooden walls and a thatched roof, it was still grand, as befitted a man who ran a community of fifty monks and a hundred lay-brothers, and who was responsible not only for overseeing the building of a monastery but also for managing its vast estates.
It boasted three floors. The lowest comprised offices, the top was a bedchamber and private chapel, and the middle was a hall dominated by a massive table and a number of benches. There was a fireplace at one end, where a fierce fire threw out a stifling heat. The walls were decorated with religious murals, and the floor was made from polished wood. It smelled of wood smoke, lavender that hung in bunches from the rafters, and cats.
Galfridus was a stooped, anxious man of indeterminate ancestry. His hair was an odd silvery brown, his eyes a bland brown-grey. He had a thin, nervous face, and Geoffrey’s first impression was that he was operating at the limits of his abilities – that he had been promoted to a position that did not suit him and was only just managing to cope.
‘Good Lord!’ he exclaimed as Magnus led the others inside. It was some moments before Geoffrey became aware that Galfridus was not looking at the Saxon, but at him. ‘It is Herleve Mappestone’s son.’
Nine
Geoffrey found the heat in the hall oppressive, and sweat began to course down his back. It made his senses reel even more, and he found it a struggle to stay upright. As Galfridus continued to stare, it occurred to him that there was no reason for the monk to have known his mother. Neither she nor Godric had set foot outside Herefordshire once they had received their estates, not even to inspect their lands in Normandy, nor had they made a habit of entertaining churchmen. He studied the man’s face, but there was nothing familiar about it.
‘Do I detect garlic?’ asked Galfridus when Geoffrey did not reply. His expression hardened. ‘I thought I told the cooks to go easy on that, and I can smell it from here. Will no one listen to me?’
‘I am Magnus. Your king,’ declared Magnus, somewhat out of the blue.
‘I know,’ said Galfridus dryly. ‘We have met on previous occasions, if you recall.’
‘Where?’ asked Geoffrey, his wits not so dimmed that they did not register that Magnus had claimed to have been absent for three decades. ‘Here?’
‘Here and in the castle at Arundel, when we were guests of Robert de Belleme. Surely you remember, Magnus?’
‘Of course,’ said Magnus. ‘I was telling you my name because you did not acknowledge me. You spoke to Geoffrey instead.’
‘That is because I am surprised to see him, whereas you are expected,’ said Galfridus.
Geoffrey struggled to make sense of the information. More than ever he became convinced that there was more to know about Magnus’s plans.
Galfridus addressed him again. ‘I could tell just by looking that you are Herleve’s kin. You have her face and strength of body, although not her fine black eyes. Which son are you? Walter, Stephen or Henry?’
‘They are all dead,’ replied Roger helpfully. ‘This is Geoffrey, Godric’s youngest son.’
‘Henry was the youngest,’ said Galfridus. ‘He was born here, just after the battle. I know, because I was present.’ Geoffrey had a lurid vision of the monk looming over his mother’s birthing stool and must have appeared shocked, because Galfridus hastily corrected himself. ‘I mean I was with Sir Godric, in the next room.’
‘Which battle?’ asked Geoffrey numbly. ‘The Fall of Jerusalem?’
‘The one that took place here, of course,’ hissed Roger. ‘What is the matter with you?’
‘I do not feel well,’ Geoffrey whispered back irritably. ‘I should never have taken Lucian’s cure-all. Is there a statue of a pig on the windowsill?’
‘A sheep,’ replied Roger. He beamed at Galfridus, who was regarding them uncertainly, bemused by their muttering. ‘Geoffrey was just admiring your carving.’
‘It is the Lamb of God,’ explained Galfridus. ‘It is from some benighted kingdom of ice, far to the north, and is made from the tusk of a sea elephant. Exquisite, is it not?’
‘It looks like a pig,’ said Geoffrey.
Galfridus regarded it with troubled eyes. ‘I suppose it does, now you mention it. But we were talking about your brother. Godric never knew, but young Henry’s appearance was early, because of the battle. I advised Herleve not to fight, but when I next saw her, she was clad in mail and wielding her axe. Henry was early by three or four weeks – a puny little runt. I did not think he would survive. Did he?’
‘Oh, yes,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘But he died.’
Galfridus blinked, and Geoffrey was vaguely aware of Roger supplying additional details. He went to look more closely at the Lamb of God and picked it up, but it was heavier than he had anticipated and began to slide from his fingers. He moved quickly, so that it landed on the sill rather than the floor, but it did so with a resounding thump. He grinned sheepishly.
‘It must have been the sight of so much blood,’ said Magnus. ‘If I had been pregnant at Hastinges, I would have dropped my brat too.’
Geoffrey stared at him. He knew his own wits were sadly awry, but he began to wonder whether the others were similarly affected.
‘Blood would never upset her,’ said Galfridus admiringly. ‘She fought like a demon. I was just a novice at the time, but the sight of that noble lady waving her axe at the Saxons was a sight to behold.’
‘There was blood at Werlinges,’ said Geoffrey, recalling that the purpose of the visit was to inform Galfridus about the massacre, so that word could be sent to de Laigle. He rubbed his head and wondered whether it was Lucian’s cure-all or Juhel’s paste that had adversely affected him. Did one of them contain poison? But why would either want him ill? Was it something to do with Paisnel being a spy? But Geoffrey’s reeling wits were wholly incapable of providing answers.
‘Werlinges?’ asked Galfridus. ‘No, that was one of few villages that escaped being laid to waste by the Normans after the battle – the one place in the region where there was no blood.’
Geoffrey felt the room begin to tip. His legs were heavy, as if he had walked halfway to Jerusalem, instead of a few miles. And then he knew nothing at all.
When his senses cleared, he was slumped in a chair closer to the fire than was comfortable, and there was a cup of wine in his hand. He had no recollection of how it came to be there, but, judging by the lounging attitudes of Roger and the Saxons, they had been settled at the hearth for some time. He wondered how long he had been insensible, and what Galfridus’s reaction had been when he had learned about the massacre. And how had he responded when told that two claimants to the throne intended to take refuge with him? Or was he expecting them? It would certainly explain why they had been so determined to reach La Batailge – they had been meeting a co-conspirator.
‘Drink some wine,’ advised Galfridus, regarding him sympathetically. ‘Or perhaps I should send for a dish of carp. I apologize: I did not appreciate what a shock it must be to learn that your mother had donned armour and taken part in the most violent battle this country has ever known.’
Galfridus’s sympathy was misplaced; Geoffrey had known for years that his mother had played a significant role in the fighting. She had been a fearsome woman, and he would not have been surprised to learn that she had led the first charge herself.
He felt better now he was sitting, but his senses were still oddly unsettled. When he glanced at the floor, it seemed to be undulating, and Galfridus’s face was unnaturally elongated. Then a platter was set on his knees.
‘Carp,’ said Galfridus, as Geoffrey gazed at it in incomprehension. ‘The king of fish. It is from my own ponds, and it will settle your stomach.’
Geoffrey had never liked fish, but the pungent smell that emanated from the silvery beast in his lap rendered it less appealing than most. In an attempt to be polite, and because he had not eaten properly in several days, he forced himself to swallow some, but stopped after a few mouthfuls, certain that the round, glazed eye that gazed so balefully at him had winked.