‘I will do my best,’ he promised. ‘How is Donan?’
‘More eager to leave with every passing day. You would be amazed at how many carts and horses start to appear on the roads after dark and how many men skulk in the shadows – it is downright dangerous here! And this abbey is a veritable refuge for thieves and murderers. Besides Roger, there is Philippa. At least, that is what Donan claims.’
‘Donan thinks Philippa stole something?’
‘No, he thinks she threw Paisnel overboard. I told you this the other night-’
Suddenly, Fingar disappeared from the wall, accompanied by a howl of pain. Geoffrey gazed in surprise, wondering if the abbey guards had dragged him down from the other side.
‘Run!’ came an urgent voice from behind him.
Geoffrey spun around: it was Ulfrith. He raced after the squire, who did not stop until they were well outside arrow range. Hands on knees to catch his breath, Geoffrey saw Ulfrith held several large stones.
‘You have not been well,’ said Ulfrith in explanation. ‘So I followed you, to make sure you came to no harm. It was good I did.’
But Geoffrey suspected he had been in no danger, because Fingar hoped to use him to retrieve his gold – Ulfrith’s well-meant interruption had merely served to end the conversation before Geoffrey had asked all his questions. Still, at least he now knew that Fingar had visited him in the hospital – and that Donan’s peculiar claim that it was Philippa who had tossed Paisnel overboard was not a figment of a fevered imagination.
‘Did Roger tell you to follow me?’ he asked. With hardly a pause, he answered his own question. ‘No, he would have come himself. You acted on your own initiative, because you were afraid I was going to meet Philippa.’
‘Well, I was right,’ said Ulfrith sullenly. ‘You did meet her.’
‘Not on purpose – she crept up on me. Do you have any water? All that running…’
‘Here.’ It was Geoffrey’s own flask, and Ulfrith gestured impatiently when the knight hesitated to take it. ‘I filled it from the well before I followed you to the church, so it is perfectly safe. I thought if I brought your own supply, you might stop taking mine.’
Geoffrey drank and began to feel better.
Ulfrith hesitated, then spoke in a rush. ‘Do you feel any… do you feel love for Lady Philippa? Did you offer her your heart and tell her you would be hers for ever?’
Geoffrey regarded him warily, thinking these were odd questions to be asking a battle-hardened knight. Especially one who was married. ‘No,’ he replied cautiously. ‘Why?’
‘You did not feel an urge to take her?’
Geoffrey blinked. ‘We were in a church, Ulfrith! What kind of man do you think I am?’
Ulfrith did not look convinced. ‘Then what did you talk about so intently?’
Geoffrey’s patience was wearing thin. ‘That is none of your affair. I am grateful to you for driving off Fingar, but that does not give you the right to question my actions. Not ever.’
Ulfrith regarded him sullenly, then turned on his heel and slouched away. Geoffrey shook his head, heartily 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. Must he smile all the time? And must he fraternize with servants? He will never be king by being popular.’
‘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.