At that moment, the wind caught a tree outside, and its contorted trunk issued a low, moaning, keening sound that made Ulfrith and Bale start up in alarm.
‘It is only marsh fays,’ said Roger, which did little to allay their unease. ‘Or perhaps the soul of murdered Vitalis, howling for vengeance. Restless spirits will not like this gale, either.’
‘Then perhaps we should invite them in,’ said Geoffrey, his temper sour from the preceding discussion. ‘I am sure we can find them a corner.’
‘Do not jest about such matters,’ said Roger sternly. ‘This storm is your doing for ignoring God’s will. And you do not want marsh fays and ghosts angry with you as well.’
‘Marsh fays are terrible beings, and I should not like to see Vitalis here, either,’ said Bale fearfully. ‘But I would rather do that than meet the ghost of Sir Godric Mappestone. In fact, I would sooner meet the Devil than him!’
The storm lasted a good deal longer than any of them anticipated. It raged all night and well into the following evening. They ate the rations in the knights’ saddlebags — dried meat past its best and a packet of old peas — and the corn that Juhel carried for Delilah, boiling them into a stew with some of Harold’s garlic. Roger, who could make a fire in almost any conditions, soon had a blaze going. The smoke threatened to suffocate them, but at least it kept them warm and provided a hot meal.
Water they had in abundance. It battered the door, dripped through the roof and was soon calf-deep on the floor. They took it in turns to sit on the bed. But it was the wind that kept them pinned down. At times it reached deafening proportions, and Geoffrey was certain the top would be torn from the shelter. He had seen many storms, but none compared to the ferocity of this. Towards the end of the second day, there was an ominous crack above their heads.
‘The rain is making the mud too heavy for these wooden supports,’ said Harold, poking the structure with a podgy forefinger. ‘It may collapse and crush us all.’
Manfully, Geoffrey resisted the urge to run outside.
‘It is because God knows he still plans to go to the Holy Land,’ murmured Ulfrith, glaring.
‘Do not be ridiculous,’ snapped Geoffrey curtly. ‘It has nothing to do with me.’
Ulfrith started to argue, but Geoffrey rounded on him with such a dangerous expression that the squire’s mouth closed with a snap. The knight was not often angry, but his companions had learned that once he had been provoked into an outburst, it was wise to leave him alone.
Geoffrey turned his attention to the crack in the door again, noting that the rainclouds were so thick that it was dark, even though the sun had not yet set. The wind’s howl rose another octave, and he was sure that if the door had faced directly into the wind, instead of to the lee, they would not have survived.
The squires huddled together, making no attempt to disguise their fear, while Harold wedged himself at the very back of the shelter, as if he thought it might be safer. Juhel hugged his bird to his chest and attempted to comfort her with a handful of seed. She pecked the treats from his hand, but when he rummaged for more, his bag fell, spilling some of its contents into the water. He swore as he retrieved them, and Geoffrey saw that the bundle of documents was the first thing he saved. A flash of yellow indicated that something gold was the second.
Geoffrey stared at him. The parchments were still bound together with red ribbon. Did it mean Juhel had not strangled Vitalis, because the ribbon was still in place? He fingered the piece Bale had recovered from Vitalis’s neck, noting that it was the same thickness and quality as that on Juhel’s package.
‘You should leave those out to dry,’ he advised. ‘The ink will run otherwise, and you will not be able to read them later.’
Alarmed, Juhel unpicked the knotted ribbon, allowing Geoffrey to see the same seal he had observed on the letters Paisnel had owned. So, he thought, Juhel had managed to secure them before Paisnel and his bag had gone missing. But did it mean Philippa was right: that Juhel had murdered his friend, first ensuring that he had taken anything of value from his pack? He watched Juhel peer at the writing, then give it a rub, nodding in satisfaction when the ink stayed firm.
‘It is all right,’ he said, smiling. ‘I caught them in time.’
‘The Bishop of Ribe,’ said Geoffrey, reading the name on the top one. The second, addressed to Juhel himself, was upside down. Was that because Juhel could not read and up or down made no difference to him? He also seemed to know remarkably little about parchment for a man who sold it: it needed more than a rub to dry it out. ‘Paisnel said he was one of the bishop’s clerks.’
‘His best clerk,’ corrected Juhel sadly. ‘A man who was invaluable to him in many ways.’
‘You mean he was a spy?’ asked Magnus baldly.
‘No,’ said Juhel. His expression was cold, with no trace of its customary humour. ‘He was not a spy.’
The words were hardly out of his mouth when the wind suddenly veered to the south, and a tremendous gust blasted the door inwards so it smashed against the wall, splinters flying in all directions. Geoffrey was hurled sideways, and feathers, splinters and pieces of vegetation billowed furiously around the shelter.
The maelstrom of debris continued to whirl until Geoffrey and Roger used their combined strength to close the door. Fortunately, it was sturdy, and although it had been damaged, it still shut out the weather. Once closed — and this time Roger permitted no cracks — the shelter’s shaken occupants began to pull themselves together. Only Delilah seemed unperturbed: she had flown up to a rafter, where she settled down to roost. It was pitch black until Roger lit a candle, and Geoffrey looked around in dismay, not liking the notion of spending the night sealed in so tightly.
‘I have never known such a tempest,’ said Harold.
‘We might never get out of it alive,’ said Ulfrith unsteadily. ‘And it will be his fault.’ He glared at Geoffrey.
‘He is right, Geoff,’ said Roger quietly. ‘This storm has gone on too long to be natural. Do you really want to be in this cave for the next week — all dark and airless, with the sea whipping about outside and threatening to flood in and drown us? You must promise God that you will do what He wants and stay in England.’
Using Geoffrey’s dislike of enclosed places was sly but effective. He did not want to spend another hour inside, and the thought of being there for days made his stomach churn.
‘I am going to the Holy Land,’ he said, defiantly but unsteadily. ‘This storm is not-’
‘Do you remember what happened to Job when he defied God during a storm?’ interrupted Roger, pressing his point relentlessly. ‘He was eaten alive by a great sea serpent and spent the rest of his life in its belly — in the dark, with no clean air, and up to his neck in water. I imagine it was much like this cave.’
‘It was Jonah, and he was inside a whale, not a serpent,’ said Geoffrey, wondering who had taught Roger his theology. ‘And he was only there for three days.’
‘Three days!’ echoed Roger, looking around meaningfully. ‘Do you want to be here for another three days? Look at how the water is rising. We will drown, just like Jonah almost did.’
‘Do you think these sea serpents will reach us here?’ asked Bale fearfully. ‘They have no legs, so cannot travel far, but. .’
‘There are channels,’ said Ulfrith darkly, wincing as a particularly fierce gust rattled the door. ‘They can swim along those, so they do not need legs.’
The wooden supports in the roof gave another ominous crack, and a clod of mud dropped on to Magnus, who gave a frightened yelp.
‘This place cannot take much more,’ said Juhel worriedly. ‘We should take the bed and turn it on its end, so when the roof does collapse, it will give us at least a chance of survival. Unless Sir Geoffrey appeases God, of course.’