‘Do many people come here for pilgrimages?’ Roger asked conversationally.
‘Hundreds. First, there were veterans of the battle, who came to pray for their comrades, but these have grown fewer with the passing years. Now it is mostly sons and daughters, who petition for their fathers’ souls.’
‘Saxons or Normans?’ asked Ulfrith.
‘Both,’ replied Aelfwig. ‘We do not care about ancestry here and will pray for anyone who lost his life. The short, fat man with the yellow hair who arrived with you is Saxon – a son of King Harold himself. His twin brother is a terribly violent man, although he has not been here for several years – not since the altar incident. But we all like Harold.’
‘The altar incident?’ probed Roger curiously.
‘The high altar stands on the exact spot where King Harold died,’ explained the monk. ‘But Ulf, wild with drink, claimed it was in the wrong place – although he could not have known, since he was not at the battle. Anyway, he tried to move it with an axe.’
‘He is dead,’ said Bale without a flicker of remorse.
‘Then I hope he found peace before he died,’ said Aelfwig sadly. ‘His father’s fate turned him bitter and cruel, and he was not popular among his fellow Saxons. I am Saxon myself, and-’
‘What about Magnus?’ interrupted Roger. ‘Do folk like him?’
‘Not really. He is arrogant and silly. The only man strong enough to lead a Saxon uprising was Ulf. We would sooner have Harold, but a king cannot afford to be nice. Just look at King Henry. No one could ever accuse him of being nice, yet how well he governs the country!’
‘Magnus comes here a lot?’ asked Ulfrith. ‘He told us he had not been for years.’
‘He often drops in on his travels,’ said Aelfwig. ‘He must have lost his way in the marshes and pretended he had not been here in order not to look foolish.’
Aelfwig left eventually, and Geoffrey heard a rasping sound that he knew was Roger rubbing his hand across his beard. ‘Damn!’ he said. ‘We forgot to mention the massacre at Werlinges, and that was the main reason for us coming.’
Geoffrey sat up, his head swimming. ‘You forgot?’
‘It was your fault,’ Roger flashed back. ‘You distracted me when you kept passing out. But do not worry – I will do it now.’
‘God’s teeth!’ muttered Geoffrey, unimpressed. He tried to stand, not sure Roger could be trusted, but his side gave such a monstrous twinge that he was forced to lie back down.
‘Do not fret,’ said Roger. ‘I will watch what I say. You think me a fool, but I can be as discreet as the next man.’
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?’