Geoffrey was unable to prevent a smile. ‘But no harm was done.’
Roger rounded on him. ‘No harm? You would not say that if you could have seen yourself. Aelfwig told me you would not live the night, and I spent a lot of gold making you well again – buying prayers, paying for Breme’s charm, making donations to the abbey. He almost killed you!’
‘I did not!’ squeaked Ulfrith, cowering as Roger spun around again. ‘I tried to stop him from taking more, but you ordered me not to be mean. There was nothing I could do…’
‘He tried to make amends,’ said Geoffrey to Roger. ‘It was Ulfrith who gave me water instead of medicine. Breme told me it was his idea, but it was probably Ulfrith’s.’
‘Yes!’ insisted Ulfrith. ‘The idea came to me after I saw the jug next to his bed. He must have fetched it himself when I left him to watch…’
He trailed off, regarding Roger in horror, but the squire’s inadvertent confession clarified more issues in Geoffrey’s mind. If Ulfrith had left him unattended, it meant Fingar had visited, and he had not imagined the conversation. And since Geoffrey had been far too weak to fetch the water himself, it must have been Fingar who had given it to him, thus probably saving his life.
‘You left him?’ demanded Roger with icy fury. ‘After I gave you strict instructions to stay?’
‘I saw Philippa walking alone,’ the squire said miserably. ‘I had to make sure she was safe.’
‘What was in your water, Ulfrith?’ asked Aelfwig gravely, cutting across Roger’s spluttering rage. ‘My potion contained henbane, which does not mix well with other medicines. I asked whether you were giving him remedies after you arrived, but you all said no.’
‘I was not giving it to him,’ quibbled Ulfrith. ‘He just took it. And it was a black fungus that grows on wild grasses. My grandmother called it ergot.’
‘Well, there you are,’ said Aelfwig. ‘The combination of ergot and henbane will certainly drive a man from his wits. And if Geoffrey had continued to take both, we would not be talking now.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Geoffrey. ‘I accused Juhel of doing it. I shall have to apologize.’
‘I did not hurt you deliberately,’ mumbled Ulfrith. ‘I was confused. Philippa was so cold-’
At the name of the woman, Roger’s temper snapped. He advanced on his squire with a murderous expression in his eyes. Terrified, Ulfrith darted behind a table, but Roger flung it away as though it were made of feathers.
‘No,’ said Geoffrey, moving to stop the dreadful advance. He had seen that expression before and knew Roger would be sorry once his squire lay dead. ‘That is enough.’
‘It is enough when I say so,’ snarled Roger. ‘He almost killed you.’
‘I promise I will never do it again!’ squealed Ulfrith.
‘Damn right, lad,’ growled Roger, moving forward, dagger in his hand. ‘You will not.’
Geoffrey dived at the big knight’s knees, bringing him crashing to the floor just as the knife flashed towards Ulfrith’s throat. For a moment, he thought Roger meant to continue the fight and braced himself, but the fall had brought Roger to his senses. He shoved Geoffrey away.
‘Damn you, Geoff,’ he growled. ‘You have just ripped my best shirt.’
Because he did not feel like being in the same room as Ulfrith, Geoffrey wandered across the battlefield, wishing he did not have to wait until the following day to leave La Batailge. He walked to the tree trunk on the ridge, thinking about his father and the warriors of Hastinges. Pondering the scene of such slaughter made him maudlin, so he went to the church, where he spent a long time staring at the high altar. Several monks knelt around it, their whispered prayers hissing softly.
‘Roger told me your father died by his own hand,’ came a voice. Geoffrey turned to see Wardard. ‘You must have been distressed that he should meet such an ignoble end.’
‘Goodrich is a happier place without him,’ said Geoffrey shortly, thinking of the misery Godric had inflicted on family and tenants during his violent life.
‘So I heard from Bale.’ Wardard was rueful. ‘It seems I was over-hasty when I declined to tell you of Godric’s role in the battle. Most men whose fathers fought here revere them as heroes – and some were abject cowards. But Roger tells me you are well aware of Godric’s faults.’
‘He was flawed. Like all of us.’
‘Your mother deserved better,’ said Wardard, almost to himself. ‘She was a fine woman.’
‘So I am told,’ remarked Geoffrey dryly.
Wardard grinned suddenly. ‘Perhaps I would be wise not to reminisce too freely about her. Well, we shall discuss Godric instead, then. Men fight better when they have friends around them, but Godric was not a man for friends. He was too brutal, too outspoken and too arrogant.’
‘Did he run away that day?’
Wardard nodded. ‘But he was not the first, nor even the second. And he rallied with the rest when they were given orders to attack again. He was braver than some, less than others.’
‘Truly? He did not balk at the first hurdle and call for others to flee?’
Wardard rested his hand over his heart. ‘As God is my witness. Godric fell back early, but I did not hear him calling for anyone to go with him. He was not a hero, just a man.’
‘Then why did Vitalis tell me such a tale?’
‘I told you: his illness confused his memories. There was a knight who screamed his terror at the first charge and unnerved others. But it was not Godric. You will find your recollections become hazy with age, too. It happens to us all.’
‘So why did the Conqueror give him his estates?’
‘That was in recognition of your mother’s contribution,’ replied Wardard. ‘Herleve really did fight valiantly. She was an inspiration to all who saw her. Godric never knew the truth – and would not have acknowledged it if he had.’
Geoffrey was silent for a while, wondering how his mother could have borne listening to Godric’s self-aggrandizing lies all those years. He was not generally proud of his family. With the exception of Joan, they had been acquisitive, dishonest, violent and selfish. But, for the first time, he saw his mother might have possessed qualities he could admire.
‘Fear not,’ said Wardard, seeming to read his thoughts. ‘You are more like her than him.’
Geoffrey was relieved and grateful to know Vitalis had been mistaken. He tried to imagine the formidable Herleve at Hastinges with her axe, but he could not recall her face, and the features that came to mind were those of his wife. It was dusk as he stepped outside the church, and, full of thoughts and memories, barely heard Harold, who waylaid him to say again that he would protect him from Magnus once the Saxons had triumphed. Seeing himself ignored, Harold went to talk to some of the lay-brothers instead, all of whom were delighted to see him.
Geoffrey had not gone much farther when he saw Magnus slinking away from the abbey and towards the fishponds. Intrigued by the Saxon’s almost comic furtiveness, Geoffrey followed. Magnus glanced behind frequently and stopped to listen on several occasions, but Geoffrey had no trouble staying out of sight, even on the open battle land.
Eventually, Magnus reached the trees that shielded the ponds, and Geoffrey heard him speak, his tone urgent and confidential. Cautiously, Geoffrey eased through the vegetation to see that a number of men – many of them lay-brothers – had gathered around the largest pond. There was a good deal of splashing, some grunts of exertion, the sound of metal against metal, and then a deep plop. Magnus hissed some additional instructions, and the cohort trailed back towards the abbey, chatting happily and making no attempt to disguise where they had been.
When he was sure they had gone, Geoffrey eased forward and knelt where Magnus had crouched. The edge of the pond was thick with churned mud, amid which lay a flat stone. He lifted it and saw a rope underneath. One end disappeared into the water, and he traced the other to where it was securely fastened to a tree. He noted it was carefully concealed under grass the entire distance. Back at the pond, he discovered another two rocks, a rope leading from each.