‘I did not like to poke her about too much,’ explained Aelfwig, embarrassed. ‘She is a woman, you see, and I took a vow to stay away from those.’
‘Surely you have female patients from time to time?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘Well, yes, but I am not tempted by those,’ replied Aelfwig enigmatically. Geoffrey decided he did not want to know more and applied himself to his task.
Whoever had throttled Edith had done so with considerable force. Broken fingernails showed she had struggled frantically to prise the ribbon loose, and there were corresponding scratches on her throat that she had put there herself. There were no other marks that he could see, and he had no intention of looking under her clothes when he was surrounded by monks. He stepped back with an apologetic shrug. Roger accused Lucian, Philippa accused Juhel, and the monks were suspicious of Gyrth, but there was nothing on Edith’s body to incriminate any of them.
‘Gyrth was strong,’ said Ralph. ‘He had a restrained tension that might have exploded.’
But Geoffrey was sceptical. ‘That means Gyrth strangled a woman with ribbon and then tried to stab a man. Two different modes of execution.’
‘What is the significance of that?’ asked Galfridus.
‘Most killers confine themselves to one,’ began Geoffrey, then stopped abruptly because he did not want the monks to think him overly familiar with such matters. Besides, it was too much of a coincidence that Edith should have been killed in exactly the same way as her husband.
He started to back away, loath to spend more time in the charnel house than necessary, but his dog, which had declined to stray far from his side, tripped him up. He could have saved himself by grabbing Gyrth’s bier, but it was unstable, and instinct told him that dragging a corpse to the ground would not be well received by the monastics. So he twisted to one side and landed on his knees. This placed him at eye level with Edith’s left hand, which he had not inspected.
Caught under one of her nails, and held there by dried blood, was a tiny thread of red. For a moment, he thought it was a fibre from the ribbon around her neck, but it was darker and made from cloth rather than cord. He was almost certain the fragment had come from her killer and that she had clawed it away during her death throes. He pointed it out to the three monks.
‘This means Gyrth is innocent,’ said Aelfwig. ‘There is nothing red on his corpse.’
‘He could have changed,’ suggested Ralph. ‘Although it makes no sense to remove clothes after one killing if you intend to indulge in another.’
‘I fear it means Edith’s murderer is still at large,’ said Galfridus, crossing himself. ‘God help us!’
Geoffrey left the monks to their ruminations. With his dog trailing at his heels, he wandered towards the battlefield, craving time alone to think. A pair of wading birds in the bogs near the fishponds released eerie cries that reminded him of Roger’s marsh fays. As he walked, he saw part of a sword blade jutting from the grass. He crouched to inspect it and realized the ground held many such relics from the battle, rusty and ancient and gradually being claimed by the earth.
He reached the top of a ridge and sat on a tree stump, considering what he had learned. Gyrth had offered himself as an abbey monk, but when Galfridus sent him to a distant chapel instead, he had returned in disguise. Geoffrey was fairly sure Gyrth was the burly figure he had seen after the shipwreck — with the man in the green hat. However, since he had done nothing to warrant an attack from strangers, he could only suppose that it was a case of mistaken identity.
The ink on his fingers showed Gyrth was literate, not someone who worked the land. Had he agreed to rally to Magnus and Harold, perhaps after promises to see him reinstated as Earl of East Anglia? Was that why he had tried to pass himself off as a man with a mission to serve God? To infiltrate La Batailge with a view to furthering whatever Magnus and Harold had in mind? If so, then it seemed the plot had been set in motion months ago.
Who had been Gyrth’s target? Magnus or Harold, because he thought they were failing to act quickly enough? Or was he acting under Magnus’s orders to dispatch Harold as a rival? Magnus had made no effort to disguise his satisfaction that Ulf would no longer be an issue.
And what about Edith? Were her killer and Vitalis’s the same? Geoffrey believed so, because of the ribbon. But who could it be? At one point, he had suspected the women, but their circumstances showed it was not in their interests to have killed the old man. Philippa said she had held him in her arms and had believed him dead. He had probably fainted, and the killer had moved in to finish him off when the women had fled from the drenching squall. Geoffrey was sure Philippa had not killed Vitalis — and neither had Edith, assuming the killer was one and the same.
Roger believed Lucian to be guilty, and Geoffrey admitted the monk’s behaviour was odd. There was also the pectoral cross Lucian said had been stolen, which the sailors had claimed was base metal. Or had they? Geoffrey could not decide whether that had been a genuine discussion or an imagined one. He frowned impatiently. It was hard enough to make sense of the situation, without being unsure which conversations had actually taken place.
And what about Juhel, whose friend was a spy for Belleme? Would he strangle a woman? He would according to Philippa, who also saw him as Paisnel’s murderer. Geoffrey tried to recall whether Lucian or Juhel had ever worn a garment of scarlet, but nothing sprang to mind. Of course, Edith had owned a red cloak herself, so perhaps the strand came from her own clothes, not the killer’s. Philippa had claimed the cloak, but that had been after Edith was dead, and Geoffrey doubted she would have been permitted to don it while her wealthier friend was still alive.
He turned his mind to the ribbon that had killed Vitalis and Edith. He pulled out the piece Bale had taken from the old man’s body and turned it over in his hands. Juhel was right to say there was a lot of it around. Edith had owned some, donated by Paisnel, and so had Juhel. Had ribbon been used to kill her because her murderer knew it had dispatched her husband and he was trying to create confusion?
But the deaths of Vitalis and Edith were irrelevant to the brewing Saxon rebellion. Geoffrey wondered how far Breme had travelled. He hoped his message would be taken seriously, because he was becoming increasingly convinced that the danger to Henry was real. He decided he would leave La Batailge the following morning and deliver his own account.
His mind turned to the battle that had raged over the ground in front of him some thirty-seven years before, changing England for ever. The ridge on which he sat was a superb vantage point, and the geography of the area explained why two fairly evenly matched forces had taken the best part of a day to decide the victor.
He was not alone for long. Several monks were strolling on the field, either singly or in groups, and one laboured up the ridge towards him.
‘You are Godric Mappestone’s son,’ said the monk. ‘I am Brother Wardard and I understand you want to speak to me.’
Geoffrey stood and bowed, but now the man was in front of him he did not know how to put his questions. He gestured that Wardard should sit on the tree stump and stared across the battlefield, wondering what it had been like when the monk had been a warrior waiting to advance. Wardard fumbled in his pouch and drew out a piece of dried meat, which he flung to the dog.
As the monk watched the animal eat, Geoffrey studied him. He must have been nearing his eighth decade but was still impressive. He was tall, strong and erect, although lines of pain etched around his mouth indicated his health was not all it might have been. He had obviously been a fine specimen in his prime, and confidence, nobilesse and dignity were still present. His eyes were alight with intelligence, and there was something about him that suggested he was still more soldier than monastic. Geoffrey understood why the monks of La Batailge had wanted him as their abbot.