‘Who knows?’ muttered Aelfwig. ‘De Laigle is so addled by wine that it may not even have occurred to him to warn His Majesty. Did you hear what he did in Werlinges, when Galfridus told him to investigate? He gave his men leave to loot the place, then set it on fire.’
‘Did Bale tell you that?’
‘No – I was there. Galfridus sent me to monitor proceedings. It was disgraceful, and your squire was the only one who did not leave with his arms full of other folks’ possessions.’
Geoffrey was relieved by that at least. He watched Aelfwig pour his medicine back into its flask, thinking that if the Duke or Belleme were on the brink of invasion, the King should be told. He should also be informed about the simmering revolt. As Geoffrey did not want royal vengeance to descend on his wife and sister for the want of a letter, he decided to write to Henry that very day. Then he would borrow a horse from Galfridus and deliver it in person.
He was sorry to betray Harold and Magnus, but they both knew the risks and should be ready to suffer the consequences. He considered telling them what he intended to do, to give them a chance to escape, but his recent brush with death made him think twice about rash magnanimity.
While Roger and the squires played a quiet game of dice, Geoffrey wrote an account of all he had learned since the shipwreck, although he hesitated when he reached the part about Werlinges, not sure what was fact and what was speculation. Fingar had said that Ulf, not his sailors, was responsible for the massacre, but Geoffrey could not be sure that discussion had actually taken place. In the end, he merely reported that an entire village was dead for reasons unknown.
‘You cannot take that today,’ said Ulfrith as Geoffrey sealed the letter and stood. ‘You are not well enough.’
Geoffrey smiled at his transparency: Ulfrith did not want to leave Philippa, still hopeful he might be in with a chance if her other choices fell through.
‘He is right,’ agreed Roger, for more altruistic reasons. ‘Moreover, it is not wise to let Henry know you were slipping out of the country. He likes you here, at his beck and call.’
‘I doubt he will care. Besides, our names will be in de Laigle’s account, so it is only prudent to give our version of events.’
‘Then send a dispatch – I will even give you a ring to pay a good man – but do not ride yourself. You are still too pale for my liking.’
‘And who here is a good man?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Not Bale – he is too easily distracted.’
‘What about Breme?’ suggested Roger, pointing to the peddler of writing materials who was preparing to leave the abbey, pack already on his powerful shoulders.
Geoffrey still wore Breme’s charm – a bundle of herbs and an unusual stone, all tightly bound in twine. Breme had recommended that he keep it until the next full moon, and Geoffrey felt compelled to comply because it 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.’