‘I might,’ said Roger. ‘Do not be too eager to refuse tempting offers on my behalf, lad. I may never get another like it.’
‘I am sure you will not,’ said Harold, laughing. ‘I doubt the Usurper has a Whoremaster in his retinue, and I do not think I shall, either.’
Geoffrey’s mind was reeling again. He thought he might feel better if he drank more water. ‘Did I finish yours, Ulfrith? My own has gone.’
‘Your own what?’ cried Ulfrith. ‘Whore? I assure you
I
do not have any.’ He shot Philippa a sanctimonious smile. ‘I do not use whores.’
‘Water,’ said Geoffrey impatiently, wondering whom the lad thought he was fooling. Ulfrith was as willing as the next man to avail himself of the services of ready women.
‘It is all gone,’ said Ulfrith, upending his flask. ‘You finished it all.’
‘You have a spare,’ said Roger. ‘Give it to him.’
With considerable reluctance, Ulfrith withdrew a skin from his bag. ‘It is all I have left, so you can only have a sip.’
But Geoffrey wanted more than a sip and was startled when Ulfrith tried to wrest it from him before he was ready.
‘There is water aplenty at La Batailge,’ said Philippa angrily. ‘You are a mean boy, to begrudge a thirsty man a drink when you can easily replenish your supplies. I am ashamed of you!’
Ulfrith’s face took on a rigid, sullen look. ‘Then let him have it all,’ he snapped. ‘See if I care.’
But Geoffrey was not interested in a quarrel and pushed the skin back at Ulfrith. It had done nothing to make him better, and he wondered if he was about to be laid low with a fever.
‘Brother Galfridus will see you now,’ said a monk, appearing just in time to prevent Roger from cuffing Ulfrith for his truculence. ‘He will see Harold first, and Lucian after.’
Although the abbot’s house was a temporary building, with wooden walls and a thatched roof, it was still grand, as befitted a man who ran a community of fifty monks and a hundred lay-brothers, and who was responsible not only for overseeing the building of a monastery but also for managing its vast estates.
It boasted three floors. The lowest comprised offices, the top was a bedchamber and private chapel, and the middle was a hall dominated by a massive table and a number of benches. There was a fireplace at one end, where a fierce fire threw out a stifling heat. The walls were decorated with religious murals, and the floor was made from polished wood. It smelled of wood smoke, lavender that hung in bunches from the rafters, and cats.
Galfridus was a stooped, anxious man of indeterminate ancestry. His hair was an odd silvery brown, his eyes a bland brown-grey. He had a thin, nervous face, and Geoffrey’s first impression was that he was operating at the limits of his abilities – that he had been promoted to a position that did not suit him and was only just managing to cope.
‘Good Lord!’ he exclaimed as Magnus led the others inside. It was some moments before Geoffrey became aware that Galfridus was not looking at the Saxon, but at him. ‘It is Herleve Mappestone’s son.’
Nine
Geoffrey found the heat in the hall oppressive, and sweat began to course down his back. It made his senses reel even more, and he found it a struggle to stay upright. As Galfridus continued to stare, it occurred to him that there was no reason for the monk to have known his mother. Neither she nor Godric had set foot outside Herefordshire once they had received their estates, not even to inspect their lands in Normandy, nor had they made a habit of entertaining churchmen. He studied the man’s face, but there was nothing familiar about it.
‘Do I detect garlic?’ asked Galfridus when Geoffrey did not reply. His expression hardened. ‘I thought I told the cooks to go easy on that, and I can smell it from here. Will no one listen to me?’
‘I am Magnus. Your king,’ declared Magnus, somewhat out of the blue.
‘I know,’ said Galfridus dryly. ‘We have met on previous occasions, if you recall.’
‘Where?’ asked Geoffrey, his wits not so dimmed that they did not register that Magnus had claimed to have been absent for three decades. ‘Here?’
‘Here and in the castle at Arundel, when we were guests of Robert de Bellême. Surely you remember, Magnus?’
‘Of course,’ said Magnus. ‘I was telling you
my
name because you did not acknowledge me. You spoke to Geoffrey instead.’
‘That is because I am surprised to see
him
, whereas you are expected,’ said Galfridus.
Geoffrey struggled to make sense of the information. More than ever he became convinced that there was more to know about Magnus’s plans.
Galfridus addressed him again. ‘I could tell just by looking that you are Herleve’s kin. You have her face and strength of body, although not her fine black eyes. Which son are you? Walter, Stephen or Henry?’
‘They are all dead,’ replied Roger helpfully. ‘This is
Geoffrey
, Godric’s youngest son.’
‘Henry was the youngest,’ said Galfridus. ‘He was born here, just after the battle. I know, because I was present.’ Geoffrey had a lurid vision of the monk looming over his mother’s birthing stool and must have appeared shocked, because Galfridus hastily corrected himself. ‘I mean I was with Sir Godric, in the next room.’
‘Which battle?’ asked Geoffrey numbly. ‘The Fall of Jerusalem?’
‘The one that took place here, of course,’ hissed Roger. ‘What is the matter with you?’
‘I do not feel well,’ Geoffrey whispered back irritably. ‘I should never have taken Lucian’s cure-all. Is there a statue of a pig on the windowsill?’
‘A sheep,’ replied Roger. He beamed at Galfridus, who was regarding them uncertainly, bemused by their muttering. ‘Geoffrey was just admiring your carving.’
‘It is the Lamb of God,’ explained Galfridus. ‘It is from some benighted kingdom of ice, far to the north, and is made from the tusk of a sea elephant. Exquisite, is it not?’
‘It looks like a pig,’ said Geoffrey.
Galfridus regarded it with troubled eyes. ‘I suppose it does, now you mention it. But we were talking about your brother. Godric never knew, but young Henry’s appearance was early, because of the battle. I advised Herleve not to fight, but when I next saw her, she was clad in mail and wielding her axe. Henry was early by three or four weeks – a puny little runt. I did not think he would survive. Did he?’
‘Oh, yes,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘But he died.’
Galfridus blinked, and Geoffrey was vaguely aware of Roger supplying additional details. He went to look more closely at the Lamb of God and picked it up, but it was heavier than he had anticipated and began to slide from his fingers. He moved quickly, so that it landed on the sill rather than the floor, but it did so with a resounding thump. He grinned sheepishly.
‘It must have been the sight of so much blood,’ said Magnus. ‘If I had been pregnant at Hastinges, I would have dropped my brat too.’
Geoffrey stared at him. He knew his own wits were sadly awry, but he began to wonder whether the others were similarly affected.
‘Blood would never upset
her
,’ said Galfridus admiringly. ‘She fought like a demon. I was just a novice at the time, but the sight of that noble lady waving her axe at the Saxons was a sight to behold.’
‘There was blood at Werlinges,’ said Geoffrey, recalling that the purpose of the visit was to inform Galfridus about the massacre, so that word could be sent to de Laigle. He rubbed his head and wondered whether it was Lucian’s cure-all or Juhel’s paste that had adversely affected him. Did one of them contain poison? But why would either want him ill? Was it something to do with Paisnel being a spy? But Geoffrey’s reeling wits were wholly incapable of providing answers.
‘Werlinges?’ asked Galfridus. ‘No, that was one of few villages that escaped being laid to waste by the Normans after the battle – the one place in the region where there was
no
blood.’
Geoffrey felt the room begin to tip. His legs were heavy, as if he had walked halfway to Jerusalem, instead of a few miles. And then he knew nothing at all.
When his senses cleared, he was slumped in a chair closer to the fire than was comfortable, and there was a cup of wine in his hand. He had no recollection of how it came to be there, but, judging by the lounging attitudes of Roger and the Saxons, they had been settled at the hearth for some time. He wondered how long he had been insensible, and what Galfridus’s reaction had been when he had learned about the massacre. And how had he responded when told that two claimants to the throne intended to take refuge with him? Or was he expecting them? It would certainly explain why they had been so determined to reach La Batailge – they had been meeting a co-conspirator.
‘Drink some wine,’ advised Galfridus, regarding him sympathetically. ‘Or perhaps I should send for a dish of carp. I apologize: I did not appreciate what a shock it must be to learn that your mother had donned armour and taken part in the most violent battle this country has ever known.’
Galfridus’s sympathy was misplaced; Geoffrey had known for years that his mother had played a significant role in the fighting. She had been a fearsome woman, and he would not have been surprised to learn that she had led the first charge herself.
He felt better now he was sitting, but his senses were still oddly unsettled. When he glanced at the floor, it seemed to be undulating, and Galfridus’s face was unnaturally elongated. Then a platter was set on his knees.
‘Carp,’ said Galfridus, as Geoffrey gazed at it in incomprehension. ‘The king of fish. It is from my own ponds, and it will settle your stomach.’
Geoffrey had never liked fish, but the pungent smell that emanated from the silvery beast in his lap rendered it less appealing than most. In an attempt to be polite, and because he had not eaten properly in several days, he forced himself to swallow some, but stopped after a few mouthfuls, certain that the round, glazed eye that gazed so balefully at him had winked.
‘So, Godric sired more children,’ Galfridus was saying. ‘Henry was followed by a fourth son and another daughter. And you honoured your family’s name by freeing the Holy City from the infidel. Godric must have been very proud.’
‘He was,’ said Roger, wholly without foundation, since he had never met Godric or heard his views on the Crusade.
A tabby cat, attracted by the smell of fish, rubbed itself around Geoffrey’s legs. Trying to be discreet, he slipped a portion off the platter to the floor. The cat sniffed it and stalked away.
‘Where is my dog?’ he asked.
‘Next to you,’ said Roger, regarding him with considerable concern.
Geoffrey looked down and saw the animal lying across his feet, making short work of the fish. Its eyes were fixed on the retreating moggy, and he wondered why there had not been a fight.
‘Do not worry about your dog,’ said Galfridus, reading his thoughts. ‘My cat will not harm it here, although you should endeavour to keep them apart outside. Thomas is fierce, and I am told your hound is frightened of chickens.’
There was unease in the dog’s eyes, and Geoffrey wondered whether its defeat by Delilah had unnerved it to the point where it was afraid of any encounter. He sighed and gazed out of the window. As he did so, it occurred to him that the pig on the windowsill had grown larger and was blocking out the sun.
‘The Lamb of God has been carved with too much wool,’ he remarked.
It was Galfridus’s turn to look concerned. ‘You are not well, Sir Geoffrey, and should visit our infirmary. Brother Aelfwig has excellent leeches.’
‘I do not eat leeches,’ said Magnus. ‘And especially not on a Friday.’
‘It is Wednesday,’ said Roger, regarding him askance.
‘Well, I still will not eat them,’ declared Magnus. ‘Filthy, vile, wriggling creatures. I would sooner have an egg. Or perhaps a cat.’
‘Have you been here long, Father?’ asked Roger quickly, to bring the discussion within normal parameters again.
‘For about an hour,’ replied Galfridus. ‘Before that I was in the church.’
‘I mean at La Batailge,’ said Roger. ‘How long have you been abbot?’
‘I am not abbot,’ said Galfridus resentfully. ‘I should be, because I do an abbot’s work, but the King does not see fit to appoint me, probably because my mother was Saxon. But I am perfect for this post: the abbey was built to honour the dead of both nations and I have mixed parentage. However, he does not concur, and so I remain simple Galfridus.’
‘Is there a monk here called Brother Wardard?’ asked Geoffrey. He knew there was a pressing reason to speak to Wardard, but his mind was frustratingly blank as to why. ‘He threw a man from the back of a ship and watched him drown.’
‘No, that was someone else,’ said Roger. He made a pretence of removing the platter, muttering under his breath, so the others would not hear. ‘Say no more, Geoff. Lucian’s cure-all or Juhel’s paste has sent you out of your wits. Galfridus thinks you are a heretic, and Harold believes you are ranting because of the pox.’
Geoffrey struggled to understand. ‘I do not have the pox. Why did you tell him I did?’
‘Because you told me to be discreet,’ hissed Roger obscurely. He offered Geoffrey his goblet. ‘Drink some of this.’
Geoffrey complied, but when he looked at Roger again, he was almost indistinguishable from the Lamb of God, black wool framing his face. There was a painful buzzing in his ears. Moreover, the Lamb of God was growling, and he was certain it would attack him if he moved.
Geoffrey was not sure how long the Lamb of God snarled at him, but eventually he became aware that Galfridus was talking about Wardard. Roger’s bulk was protecting him from some of the heat from the fire, but he was still bathed in sweat, and the light-headedness persisted.
‘Wardard is one of us. He fought in the battle, along with his friend Vitalis, whom I understand you met. Vitalis lived in Normandy and was a vassal of Robert de Bellême, God help him.’
‘I was under the impression you liked Bellême,’ said Roger. ‘You were his guest in Arundel.’