Wardard smiled. ‘Then it is time to solicit God’s help. I want no more deaths on this field – Norman or Saxon. Will you join us, Geoffrey?’
Geoffrey shook his head. He wanted to inspect the defences and reorganize the ‘troops’ as
he
saw fit. Wardard might have been a professional soldier once, but it was a long time ago.
‘Our situation is worse than I thought,’ said Juhel worriedly. ‘If Magnus were in charge, we might have escaped unscathed, but Ulf is a different matter altogether.’
‘Are you saying I killed
Harold
?’ asked Bale, bewildered. ‘But they were wearing different clothes, and there was no time for them to change.’
‘I agree,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Besides, they were not identical – Harold has scars around his wrists, and the dead man was thinner.’
‘That is because we have been misled from the beginning,’ said Juhel, pacing back and forth in agitation. ‘He
said
he was Harold, and we all believed him. Even Magnus. But he was lying.’
‘That is ridiculous,’ declared Roger. ‘Magnus could tell his half-brothers apart.’
‘Why, when they spent most of their lives separated?’ countered Juhel.
‘But what benefit is there in Ulf pretending to be Harold?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘Ulf is a bully and a tyrant, who, given power, will become a monster. No Saxon will follow a man with his reputation, and so he has pretended to be gentle, smiling Harold. He is even allowing Magnus to take a certain degree of command, biding his time until the rebellion has sufficient momentum. Then he will take over.’
‘I
have
noticed the odd flare of nastiness in Harold,’ said Roger thoughtfully. ‘He put glass in Galfridus’s carp, and I saw him throw stones at Brother Wardard.’
‘That was him, was it?’ asked Wardard. ‘I thought it was Aelfwig, who has never liked me.’
‘I should have seen this sooner,’ said Juhel bitterly. ‘The clues were all there. At Werlinges, Magnus was sick, and even you two battle-hardened knights were shocked, but “Harold” had to fabricate emotions he certainly would not feel. And he did it badly.’
Geoffrey supposed he might be right: Harold
had
recovered fairly quickly from the shock of seeing his twin’s throat cut, which suggested a certain resilience to violent death.
‘Was it this Ulf who ordered the massacre, then?’ asked Bale.
‘I imagine so,’ replied Juhel. ‘When we first discovered the atrocity, we said it was the kind of thing Ulf would do – although “Harold” insisted on his brother’s innocence. I suspect he ordered Gyrth to do it, so knew exactly what we would find when we all arrived there.’
‘Ulf was held prisoner by the Conqueror,’ said Geoffrey thoughtfully. ‘Not Harold. Did you notice his wrists? They are scarred.’
‘From being kept in chains,’ said Roger in understanding. ‘If he is the maniac everyone says, his captors would have needed to subdue him.’
‘He also claimed Henry had given him a horse,’ Geoffrey went on, becoming more convinced Juhel was right as he considered what they knew. ‘But Henry is much more likely to have given one to Ulf – who was his father’s prisoner for twenty years. Why would he make a gift to Harold, a man to whom he did not need to make amends?’
‘True,’ agreed Roger.
‘And Harold is supposed to be a fine musician,’ said Geoffrey. ‘But this man could not play the horn properly – and tried very hard to avoid obliging when Bale insisted on a tune.’
‘Because he said it was a cheap, nasty instrument,’ supplied Ulfrith.
‘It is very expensive, actually,’ objected Galfridus. ‘From the curia in Rome.’
Juhel turned to Galfridus. ‘You know them both. What do you think?’
‘I am afraid Sir Geoffrey distracted me by insulting my objet d’art, and I paid Harold scant attention. He usually visits me a lot when he is here, but he has not been once this time. I have been busy, so have not thought to question why. But what about Osbjorn? He knows both twins and will be able to tell them apart. He likes Harold, but detests Ulf.’
Geoffrey recalled the way the surviving twin had almost dragged Osbjorn from his horse with the force of his greeting. It had not been an expression of familial affection, but a muttered threat.
‘I know how to tell them apart,’ said Wardard suddenly. ‘Garlic. Harold hates it, but Ulf is well known to chew it constantly.’
Geoffrey had done no more than make a preliminary inspection of the defences – in the process noticing that both Philippa and Lucian had taken refuge in the church – before there was a yell from a lookout. A contingent of Saxons was approaching. Geoffrey stationed Ulfrith and Bale at the cloister entrance, then trotted to the great west door – the only other way in.
‘We can hold out for a while,’ muttered Roger. ‘Some of the monks brought food, water and weapons. And a couple thought to grab some armour.’
‘And Ulfrith managed to acquire us seven horses,’ said Geoffrey, nodding to where the beasts were tethered. Four were warhorses belonging to the Saxon earls, but the remaining three were only fat mares.
‘Wardard and Ralph are ready to fight, but the others will be useless. We are essentially on our own, Geoff.’ Roger cocked his head. ‘I can hear Ulf, yelling to his men that we are cowards and ripe for the slaughter.’
They walked to the nearest window. Geoffrey poked a hole in the shutter with his dagger, so they could see what was happening outside.
‘God above!’ exclaimed Galfridus, white-faced as he peered through it. ‘Where have all those men come from?’
‘Lay-brothers,’ said Wardard shortly. ‘And supposed pilgrims. They have used our abbey as a rallying point.’
‘They are only armed with sticks, for the most part,’ said Ralph, eyeing them with disdain. He and Wardard wore mail jerkins and conical helmets. Little of his monastic clothing was visible, and he looked like a knight. Geoffrey hoped he would behave like one. ‘Whereas
we
have swords.’
‘But what are a few swords compared to three hundred hoes?’ whispered Galfridus.
‘Normans!’ came a stentorian voice from outside. It was Ulf. He had dispensed with civilian clothes and was wearing a knee-length mail tunic, leather leggings, and a helmet that looked to be gold. He was one of a dozen mounted men. ‘Come out before we come in.’
His men roared their approval at the challenge.
‘No, thank you,’ replied Galfridus in a wavering voice. ‘We do not want to.’
‘God’s blood!’ breathed Roger, appalled. ‘Could you not think of anything more manly to say? They are laughing at us!’
‘Who are
you
?’ shouted Ralph, belligerence dripping from every syllable. ‘I do not recognize you as a man to be giving
me
orders.
I
am the abbey’s sacristan.’
The jeers turned to murmurs of anger, and Geoffrey scowled at him.
‘I am Ulf,’ came the reply. ‘King Harold’s legitimate heir.’
This caused consternation on both sides. Those monks who knew of Ulf’s reputation crossed themselves, and two abandoned their posts and made a dash for the high altar. A ripple of unease passed along the Saxon lines, and Aelfwig and Eadric regarded Ulf in astonishment. Osbjorn’s face was impassive, but his unease was clear. Magnus, whose fat nag stood on Ulf’s other side, was patently disbelieving.
‘Ulf?’ he echoed. ‘But you are Harold!’
‘I am Ulf!’ yelled Ulf, raising his sword and standing up in his stirrups. ‘And I am here to lead my people in a glorious Saxon victory.’
There was a cheer, although it was decidedly tentative. Ulf apparently thought so, too, because he turned to glare furiously at his army. One or two bolted, clearly having second thoughts about associating with such a leader. Ulf’s scowl deepened, and he muttered to Eadric, who wheeled his horse around and rode to prevent more desertions.
‘I should have guessed,’ said Magnus coldly. ‘I should have known that Harold would not suddenly start chewing garlic. You lied when you told me you had acquired a
recent
taste for it.’
‘People of England,’ yelled Ulf, ignoring him. ‘Our day has come. We will avenge the blood of our fathers, spilled on this sacred ground. We will—’
‘Do not listen to him,’ ordered Magnus imperiously. ‘
I
am your rightful king. Ulf lied to me and he will lie to you. You will all serve King Magnus!’
The Saxons were confused. ‘I thought we were going to kill Normans first and then choose our king,’ said Aelfwig. His habit was hitched up to his knees, and he carried a knife from the kitchen.
‘We are,’ said Magnus angrily. ‘Moreover, I sent a letter to Ulf forbidding him to join us. When I heard he was dead in Werlinges, I was very relieved, because there is certainly no room for him in
my
plans.’
‘And there is no room for you in mine,’ snarled Ulf, and there was an appalled silence from both sides as he thrust his sword into his half-brother’s chest. The silence continued long after Magnus had crashed to the ground.
As soon as Ulf had dispatched his querulous rival, the situation changed. More Saxons dropped their weapons and ran towards the gate, too many for Eadric to stop. He used the flat of his sword to beat some back, then killed two to make his point. The ploy failed – instead of encouraging them, it saw resolve crumbling among those who had been steady. Next to Ulf, Osbjorn raised an unsteady hand to wipe sweat from his pallid face. Geoffrey had seen enough.
‘Mount up,’ he said to Roger. ‘If we make a charge, most will scatter and slink away. They did not mind rallying for Harold, or even Magnus, but they do not want Ulf. Will you ride with us, Brother?’
Wardard climbed into the saddle of one of the better horses. Geoffrey and Roger took two more, and an ancient pilgrim called Hugh d’Ivry claimed the last. Hugh had not been young when he had fought in the original battle, and it took some time to hoist him into the saddle, accompanied by a medley of grunts, groans and gasps. Geoffrey was not sure how much use he would be, but the man had a sword and knew how to ride. The three mares were left for Ralph, Juhel and Galfridus.
Juhel had a sword, although it was clear he was happier fighting with knives. Ralph’s blood was up, and Geoffrey suspected he would be difficult to control. Galfridus was openly terrified and had only agreed to join them because Ralph told him he needed to set an example to his monks.
Geoffrey indicated that the door should be opened, and he rode out. He had expected more taunts when the Saxons saw that the Norman ‘cavalry’ comprised only seven horsemen, but there was only silence as they formed a line.
‘Now we shall see Norman blood!’ howled Ulf in delight. ‘We have waited almost forty years for vengeance and we begin today. We shall start by killing the monks and replacing them with Saxons. Who will accept the post of abbot of La Batailge, the first monastery to be freed?’
‘I would not refuse it,’ offered Aelfwig modestly.
‘I am sure you would not,’ yelled Ralph. ‘But you are not worthy, you Saxon pig.’
‘I am a damned sight more worthy than you or Galfridus,’ retorted Aelfwig angrily. ‘At least
I
do not stuff myself with carp every day and spend the abbey’s money on bad carvings. Nor do I sneak off at night for secret sessions with sheep.’
There was an uncertain smattering of laughter.
‘I was testing the quality of their wool,’ said Ralph to Galfridus, flushing scarlet. Mortified, he lashed out at Aelfwig again. ‘You are the son of a whore, and you are a terrible herbalist. Our graveyard is full of the people you have killed with your bumbling ministrations.’
‘Well, your mother was a witch and your father was a . . . a Norman!’ yelled Aelfwig, drawing appreciative cheers from the Saxons.
‘Lord!’ muttered Roger to Geoffrey, unimpressed. ‘Do we sit here all day and trade insults? Is that their idea of a battle?’
‘Let us hope so,’ said Geoffrey soberly. ‘Because these men are not soldiers. What a ridiculous state of affairs! Magnus and Ulf
do
deserve to die for initiating this.’
‘Vile, dirty pigs!’ yelled Ralph. ‘Cowardly, stupid oafs, who cannot even read!’
‘We do not want to read,’ said Osbjorn, galled into joining in. ‘Not if it will make us like you.’
‘Lovers of goats!’ came Ralph’s shrieked response. ‘And donkey bug—’
‘Ralph!’ snapped Galfridus, deeply shocked. ‘Please! This is an abbey!’
‘All Normans are slugs!’ shouted Aelfwig. His comrades regarded him with pained expressions, unimpressed by the quality of the rejoinder, so he added, ‘Uncultured ones.’
‘Do we ignore this abuse?’ demanded Hugh, keen for action now he had gone through the discomfort of loading his ancient bones with armour and being shoved on a horse.
‘Yes, we do,’ said Geoffrey quietly. ‘I do not want to kill such people, and I cannot imagine you do either.’
‘I do, actually,’ countered Hugh testily. ‘One of them just called me a maggot. Charge!’
And he was away, riding hard into the Saxons and slashing with his sword – until it became too heavy for him and he dropped it. Not wanting a seventh of his army to be cut down without support, Geoffrey had no choice but to follow. He drove his horse at the milling mass of humanity, but did not use his sword, which he held above his head. He was vaguely aware of Roger striking out with the flat of his, mostly terrifying his opponents into flight with a series of unnerving battle cries learned from the Saracens.
Geoffrey disarmed Aelfwig, who was causing as much damage to his friends as his enemies, then knocked a pitchfork from the hand of a groom. More Saxons shrank back in alarm when his horse, which had been well trained, reared and flailed with its front hooves. Suddenly, he found himself emerging at the back of the Saxon line, having ridden clean through it with virtually no resistance. Roger and Wardard were not far behind. When Eadric saw them, his jaw dropped in horror and he raced back to Ulf’s side.
‘I do not like this,’ said Roger in distaste. ‘It is like fighting nuns.’