Roger reached past him and cracked open the door. The gap was no more than the width of a finger, but it allowed light and air to filter inside and was enough to let the panic recede. Roger clapped a gruffly comforting hand on his shoulder. Geoffrey had once been in charge of a countermine under a castle Tancred was besieging, and it had been several days before they had excavated him after its collapse. Although years had passed, the terror of his ordeal remained. He focussed his attention on the sliver of light, forcing himself not to think about where he was.
Meanwhile, the pirates had discovered the path and had reached the mud bank. It began to rain hard, so that the whole marsh seemed to hiss and sway with the force of it, and somewhere nearby a bird issued a low, undulating cry. Donan, Fingar’s rodent-faced second-in-command, muttered a prayer to ward off evil spirits.
‘Fays,’ he said. ‘They haunt bogs and come out to grab unwary souls. Unless you cross yourself and say the name of your favourite saint three times, they will get you.’
Immediately, a variety of saints were invoked in a mixture of Irish and English, some of whom Geoffrey had never heard of.
Fingar bent to inspect some footprints, and the dog began to growl. Sensing rather than seeing a movement behind him, Geoffrey became aware of Magnus holding a knife – he intended to kill the animal, to shut it up. Geoffrey crouched down and put his arm around it, reassuring it into silence.
Just when Geoffrey was sure they were going to be caught, Donan pointed across the marshes.
‘There!’ he hissed. ‘I saw a flash of movement. It must be them. Come on!’
Most of the men followed, although Fingar stood uncertainly, squinting into the rain and clearly not convinced that Donan was right. But Donan shouted something else, and, with an impatient grunt, Fingar followed. And then they were gone.
Five
Inside the cave, a collective sigh of relief was heaved. Roger sheathed his sword, and Geoffrey opened the door a little wider. The shelter might be cleverly constructed, but it stank, for some reason, of garlic, and he preferred the odour of wet vegetation from outside.
‘We have given them the slip,’ said Bale in satisfaction. He sat on a platform that was obviously intended to serve as a bed, and glanced up at Roger. ‘How much are those coins worth?’
Roger tossed him one, accompanying it with a grin that oozed wicked greed. Bale hefted it in his hand and whistled under his breath before handing it to Geoffrey, who was also astonished by its weight. He had never seen such a thick, heavy coin and was certain each would be worth a small fortune – more than ample to buy horses and travel to the Holy Land. He was not surprised Fingar was keen to have them back.
‘How many did you take?’ he asked. ‘Just three?’
‘A handful,’ replied Roger evasively. ‘I did not have time to count.’
‘How many?’ repeated Geoffrey coldly.
With considerable reluctance, Roger emptied the pouch on his belt. A dozen or so gold coins dropped out, along with a huge number of silver ones of lesser value. Geoffrey was horrified.
‘There is a king’s ransom here!’ he cried. ‘Fingar and his men will follow us to the ends of the world to get this back.’
‘You are right,’ said Juhel. He was pale, and Geoffrey saw he was equally shocked by Roger’s crime. ‘Men are willing to risk anything for this kind of money.’
‘It is paltry,’ said Roger dismissively. ‘They were lucky I did not demand their salvage, too.’
‘If I had such a fortune, England would be mine in a week,’ said Magnus, eyeing it lustfully. ‘I do not suppose you would care to donate it to the cause? I will repay it with interest when I am king. And I will make you Bishop of Ely.’
‘Not Ely,’ said Roger in distaste. ‘It is surrounded by bogs. I want Salisbury.’
‘You may be waiting some time,’ warned Juhel. ‘For your gold and your title.’
Magnus glared. ‘I will repay him tenfold before the end of summer.’
‘I shall not part with it just yet,’ said Roger, although Geoffrey was alarmed to see he was giving the offer consideration. Roger was a man for whom ‘tenfold’ was a tempting word.
‘You are wise,’ said Juhel. ‘King Henry would not be pleased to hear that the funding for a Saxon revolt came from Norman knights.’
‘How would he hear that?’ demanded Magnus, rounding on him. ‘Will you tell?’
Juhel laughed. ‘Of course I will! He and I often dine in his private chambers, and he frequently asks my advice. I shall mention it the very next time I see him.’
‘Enough,’ said Geoffrey. Magnus’s visions of Saxon rebellion were no better than smoke in the wind. ‘I am more concerned with Fingar. None of us will be safe until you give that money back.’
‘Rubbish,’ declared Roger. ‘For all Fingar knows, these are coins I carried in my personal baggage, and he will never be able to prove otherwise. Besides, he is a pirate, so this is almost certainly gold he stole from someone else.’
‘Then it is probably cursed,’ said Juhel. ‘The original owners may have asked God to avenge the crime by making dreadful things happen to the thieves. I always do, when villains wrong me.’
‘We should give it back,’ said Bale, crossing himself hurriedly. ‘I have heard that pirates are rather free and easy with curses, too.’
‘They are not,’ said Roger, with completely unwarranted confidence. ‘My father is Bishop of Durham, so you can trust that I know about such things.’
Geoffrey was disinclined to argue. Like many Normans, Roger was highly partial to gold, and Geoffrey knew from long and bitter experience that nothing would induce him to part with it.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But I want no part of it.’
‘He is right,’ came an unfamiliar voice from the depths of the hole. Geoffrey and the others raised their weapons in alarm. ‘Nothing good ever comes from theft – as that usurper Henry is about to discover.’
‘Who are you?’ demanded Geoffrey, as a short, chubby man emerged from the darkness. His bright yellow hair and flowing moustache indicated he was in his thirties, like Geoffrey himself, but his skin had a reddish, debauched look, and the broken veins on his round nose indicated a fondness for good living. His clothes were fine, although mud-stained, and, like Magnus’s, were adorned with a good deal of expensive thread and intricate Saxon embroidery.
‘I am King Harold,’ replied the man grandly.
‘Lord,’ muttered Geoffrey in the startled silence that followed. ‘ Another monarch?’
‘A number of us have claims,’ said Magnus stiffly. ‘Some stronger than others.’
‘Are you eating garlic?’ asked Juhel, sniffing. ‘The smell is suddenly a good deal stronger.’
‘I like garlic,’ said Harold defensively. ‘It thickens the blood, protects against evil and inspires courage. I have a few cloves here, ready peeled. Would you like one?’
When he stretched out his hand to present his offering, Geoffrey saw faint scars around the man’s wrists and wondered what had caused them.
‘No, thank you,’ said Juhel. ‘But I was under the impression that King Harold had died more than thirty years ago – on the battlefield.’
‘Hacked to pieces,’ added Roger rather ghoulishly, ‘with axes.’
‘Actually,’ said Magnus curtly, ‘my father was killed by an arrow in the face. I was not on the field when he died – a battleground is no place for a child of eight – but I saw his body afterwards.’
‘But my father said he was hacked to death by swords,’ said Geoffrey doubtfully. ‘He claimed to have witnessed it.’
Of course, Godric Mappestone had not been the most truthful of men, and his memories of the battle had grown more elaborate as he had aged. Further, Geoffrey’s mother, famous for her own martial skills, had once confided that she had fought at Hastinges herself, and she had told a different story – one of confusion and panic as the long day of fighting drew to a close, and encroaching darkness, blood and thick mud had rendered one man much like another. Herleve Mappestone had maintained that it was impossible to tell what had happened to King Harold. His corpse had certainly been mutilated, but it would never be known whether he had died at the point of a sword, an axe or an arrow.