‘What?’ came an irritable voice after she had hammered for some time.
‘I demand to see de Laigle,’ she shouted. ‘My… sister and I are shipwrecked gentlewomen in distress. Open the gate immediately.’
There was a short silence and then a lot of coarse laughter. ‘Nice try, Mabel! You almost had us convinced. But Lord de Laigle said we were not to let you in any more – not after that trick with the onion and the candle. You will have to ply your trade elsewhere.’
‘I am not Mabel!’ cried Philippa, outraged. ‘Open the gate, before I tell de Laigle what a dreadful gaggle of oafs he has in his service.’
‘Bugger off,’ came the reply.
‘Open up!’ yelled Roger in a furious bellow. ‘My name is Sir Roger of Durham, Jerosolimitanus, and I demand entry.’
This time a grille was unfastened, followed by a hasty, urgent debate inside. Some soldiers were won over by Roger’s fierce demeanour and the bright Crusader’s cross on his surcoat; others were sceptical. When Roger made some colourful threats, the gate was hastily pulled open. Geoffrey was unimpressed: they should have asked more questions before admitting strangers after dark. He saw Magnus watching in silence and wondered what they would say if they knew they had revealed their weakness to a Saxon pretender to the crown.
Once inside, a soldier led them across the bailey to a long hall. Although it was late and snores emanated from some of the huts they passed, the hall itself was ablaze with light, and the guard opened the door to reveal a throng of people who did not look at all as though they were ready for bed. Most were brightly clad nobles who raised brimming goblets in sloppy salutes or grabbed clumsily at the serving girls, while perspiring minstrels strove valiantly to make their music heard over the racket. The chamber smelled of roasted meat, spilt wine, stale rushes and damp dogs.
The soldier hurried to a young, jauntily dressed man who sat at a table on a dais. The fellow’s eyebrows shot up at the whispered message, and he tottered towards his unexpected guests. Several of his companions followed, including a woman dressed entirely in white. This was a poor choice of colours, since it revealed exactly where she had spilled her victuals, while manly fingermarks showed in inappropriate places.
‘Shipwrecked mariners?’ asked the man with supercilious amusement. ‘You do not look like sailors. And what do these women do aboard ship? Furl your sails? Or are they put to the oars?’
His friends howled with laughter, and Geoffrey felt Roger tense beside him. Philippa and Edith seemed bewildered, and Juhel startled into silence; Magnus kept to the shadows.
‘I should never be able to row a ship,’ declared the woman in white. ‘So you must protect me, husband. I would not like to be carried off by pirates.’
More laughter followed, and Geoffrey decided they were too intoxicated for sensible conversation. Explanations could wait until the next day. He had reckoned without Ulfrith, though.
‘Ladies Philippa and Edith are the wives of a knight, so treat them with respect,’ he said coldly.
‘Saxon dog,’ sneered the man contemptuously. ‘Who are you to address me, Richer de Laigle, so familiarly? Remember your place, boy, before I have you run through.’
‘We are sorry to interrupt your entertainment,’ said Geoffrey, before the argument could escalate. ‘We ask only for food and shelter – for which we can pay. Tomorrow we will be gone.’
De Laigle regarded him blearily. ‘You are a Jerosolimitanus, I see. I have heard they are a vile, unmannerly breed, and now I see for myself that the rumours are true.’
‘Now look here,’ hissed Roger, stepping forward in a way that had de Laigle staggering back in alarm. ‘I did not come here to be insulted by some cockerel-’
‘Cockerel, am I?’ asked de Laigle from behind the guard. ‘Well, you are a brute.’
He folded his arms and pursed his lips, as though he had scored some kind of point. Roger regarded him uncertainly, taken off guard by the peculiar response.
‘Oh, leave them, Richer,’ said Lady de Laigle, draining the contents of her cup. Another purple stain was added to her kirtle. ‘I would rather dance than exchange obscenities with ruffians.’
‘My guard will find you a stable,’ said de Laigle to Roger. He grabbed his wife and hauled her towards him for a long, passionate kiss that almost made her pass out. ‘I cannot be bothered to banter with you tonight.’
Lady de Laigle managed to claw herself more or less upright by using Geoffrey as a prop. ‘I hate England – there are too many Saxons scurrying about with their heads down and glints of malice in their eyes. They still think the country should be theirs, you know.’
‘It should,’ snarled Magnus, galled into imprudence.
De Laigle waved a finger at him, and it was only the guard’s timely lunge that prevented him from dropping into the startled Saxon’s arms like a lover.
‘It should be Norman, because Saxons are debauched drunkards who cannot hold their wine. But who are you, anyway? You are no Jerosolimitanus. You are too skinny to wield a sword. I, of course, leave that sort of thing to brutal fellows I employ.’
Geoffrey hoped Magnus would be discreet, but the Saxon was buoyed up with a sense of moral advantage. ‘I am King Magnus,’ he declared. ‘Rightful monarch of England.’
De Laigle regarded him open-mouthed for a moment and then burst into derisive laughter. His wife lurched to the nearest table, grabbed someone else’s wine and raised it in a salute before downing it in a series of determined gulps. Geoffrey watched in fascination, waiting for her to fall flat on her face. He had never seen a woman drink with quite so much indomitable resolve.
‘The stable,’ prompted Juhel, prudently drawing an end to the encounter.
‘This way,’ said the guard, stepping aside smartly as Lady de Laigle pitched towards him, landing in a way that would have hurt had she been sober. ‘Follow me.’
‘Stable?’ whispered Roger indignantly in Geoffrey’s ear. ‘I am the son of the Bishop of Durham, and they put me in a stable?’
‘It does not matter,’ said Geoffrey quietly. ‘We leave at dawn – I have no intention of being around when de Laigle wakes. Especially if he recalls what Magnus said.’
Roger nodded slowly. ‘You are right. We do not want him telling King Henry that there is a Saxon claimant for his throne on the loose, and that I am his chief henchman.’
‘No,’ agreed Geoffrey vehemently. ‘We do not!’
Three
Geoffrey followed the guard across the bailey to a dilapidated building with a sod roof, and thought Magnus had been right in his reluctance to accept Pevenesel’s hospitality. He did not like its drunken constable, slack guards and unruly merrymaking. Or was marriage ruining his sense of fun, and he was becoming a withered old prude who frowned on the gaiety of others?
‘Lord!’ exclaimed Philippa, impressed. ‘ They know how to entertain themselves!’
The guard grimaced. ‘Yes, and Lord de Laigle will not like it one bit.’
‘But he was liking it,’ Roger pointed out.
‘I mean the senior Lord de Laigle, who owns this castle. Richer is his son – the youngest and most useless of his brood. The real Lord de Laigle is with the King in Winchester, discussing how the coastal castles might be strengthened.’
‘Is there talk of an invasion, then?’ asked Geoffrey uneasily.
‘There is always talk of invasion,’ said the guard with a dismissive wave. ‘But the Duke of Normandy is in St Valery at the moment – the place where the Conqueror sailed from when he snatched the English throne. Lord de Laigle wants to be prepared.’
‘Then he had better hope the Duke does not invade while he is away,’ said Roger. ‘Because his son will do little to repel him – except perhaps shock him with his disgraceful manners.’
‘He writes,’ said the guard with considerable disapproval. ‘Young Richer, I mean. He was supposed to enter the Church, so they taught him his letters. Perhaps that is what sent him sour.’