‘To deal with those claiming his throne, for a start,’ said Roger, nodding at Magnus and Harold. ‘He is not a man to let a challenge go unanswered.’
Galfridus gazed at Magnus. ‘You plan to tell him you are here? That is foolish! He does not mind Harold, but he does not like you at all. And although he turns a blind eye to the occasional visit, to flaunt yourself is asking for trouble.’
‘The time for skulking in Flanders is over,’ said Magnus grandly. ‘I have come to claim my rightful inheritance: the land of my Saxon fathers. And mothers.’
‘That is my purpose also,’ said Harold. ‘I am King Harold’s legitimate heir, and England belongs to me.’
Galfridus looked from one to the other in consternation. ‘Well, you cannot both be king.’
‘Our people will choose which of us they want,’ said Magnus. ‘But for now we stand united – Saxon right against Norman might.’
‘I see,’ said Galfridus warily. ‘What support do you have? Where is your army?’
‘We do not have one yet,’ admitted Harold. ‘But when they hear we are here, our people will rise up from their ploughs and spades and rally to our cause. By Christmas, there will not be a Norman left in England.’
A waddling infirmarian called Brother Aelfwig led Geoffrey and Roger to the House of Pilgrims, or hospital, which adjoined the abbey gate, while the Saxons were escorted to separate lodgings that overlooked the cloisters. The hospital was a stone building that formed part of the outer wall and comprised a single room with a high ceiling and a beaten earth floor. There were no windows in the wall that bordered the road, but there were enormous ones in the wall that faced the abbey, so that pilgrims could see the church.
It was devoid of guests when Aelfwig opened its door, although an empty cage at the foot of one bed indicated Juhel had already claimed a berth. There were eight beds, each furnished with a chest at its foot for guests’ belongings, and two neatly folded blankets. Geoffrey’s dog made a quick circuit, sniffing each cot before selecting the only one in the shade. Bale and Ulfrith, the latter dragged from the chamber where Philippa and Edith were still chatting to Lucian, did as they had been taught and assessed the place’s defensibility – the quality of the window-shutters and the strength of the bar that would seal the door at night.
Aelfwig was a rotund man with short legs and a kindly face. He recited the abbey’s rules for hospital guests – mostly that women were not allowed in – and then extended an invitation for them to attend any of the monks’ services, day or night.
‘The bell will be chiming for vespers soon.’ He peered at Geoffrey. ‘But you are not well. Perhaps you should come to my infirmary. It is a pleasant place, near the herb garden, and you hardly notice the smell of the sewers once you are used to them.’
Geoffrey’s previous experiences in such places had taught him that they were full of old men waiting to die. He shook his head, only to find that the movement made his senses swim again.
‘I would rather stay here,’ he said, beginning to remove his armour. He was not sure whether he was relieved to be rid of its weight or uneasy to be stripped of his protection.
Aelfwig sighed disapprovingly. ‘Very well, but I shall bring you one of my special tinctures made from herbs of Saturn. It will ease your head and promote healing sleep.’
‘Where is Brother Lucian?’ asked Roger when Aelfwig returned with a large pottery flask and a beaker. ‘I do not want to share a chamber with him.’
‘He is far too important to stay here,’ said Aelfwig, pouring a measure of his tincture into the cup. ‘He is a close friend of Bishop de Villula – his bursar, no less – and hails from a very wealthy family. He will reside with Galfridus, who will do all he can to create a good impression. It is always wise to flatter the associates of powerful bishops.’
Geoffrey was feeling a good deal better now he had divested himself of his mail and was cooling down, and he suspected the strange effects of whatever had been in Juhel’s balm or Lucian’s cure-all were wearing off at last.
Aelfwig handed him the goblet. ‘This is mostly a wine of raspberries, with a little woundwort, henbane and comfrey, all herbs of Saturn that have a soothing effect.’
‘Henbane?’ asked Geoffrey suspiciously. ‘That is poisonous.’
‘Not in small quantities.’ Aelfwig retrieved the cup and drank some himself. ‘See? It is perfectly harmless, although I may have trouble staying awake during vespers now. Do not be awkward – I am a highly respected medicus in these parts.’
‘Do not drink it all,’ advised Ulfrith worriedly when he saw Geoffrey prepare to drain the cup. ‘Not after Lucian’s cure-all and Juhel’s salve.’
‘You have taken other medicines?’ asked Aelfwig in alarm. ‘You should have said. What?’
‘Something in Lucian’s potion made him ill,’ said Ulfrith, predictable in his choice of culprit. He lowered his voice to add in a spiteful hiss, ‘Poison.’
‘What?’ cried Bale, outraged. ‘Lucian tried to kill you? I will slit his throat!’
Aelfwig jerked away in horror when he saw a dagger appear in Bale’s hand.
‘Put it away, Bale,’ said Geoffrey tiredly. ‘Lucian drank some himself and said it came from his Bishop. Magnus swallowed a hefty dose, too – more than I did – and he is well enough.’
‘I am not so sure about that,’ said Roger thoughtfully. ‘Both you and Magnus said some very odd things when we were with Galfridus. I think there was something bad in Lucian’s cure-all. Or in Juhel’s salve. Magnus did avail himself of both, like you. So, we have two suspects: the villainous monk and the secretive Juhel.’
Aelfwig inspected Geoffrey’s scratched side. ‘There is no sign of poison here, although the wound is inflamed, probably from chafing under your armour.’
‘Then it was the cure-all that harmed him?’ asked Ulfrith hopefully. ‘Lucian is the villain?’
‘If Lucian drank this potion himself, and it came from Bishop de Villula, I doubt it contained anything untoward,’ replied the herbalist. ‘And your master seems lucid enough now, so whatever it was has worked itself out. Still, this should warn you all not to accept medicines from people you do not know.’
Geoffrey sipped the tonic tentatively, recalling the unpleasant burning that had accompanied Lucian’s brew that morning. By contrast, Aelfwig’s concoction tasted sweet, like summer fruit.
‘Do not drink any more, sir,’ begged Ulfrith. ‘My grandmother was good with healing herbs and she once told me that good medicines can turn bad when mixed.’
‘She was very wise,’ said Aelfwig. ‘But I suppose I had better ask Juhel what his salve contains. Who knows what enthusiastic amateurs add to their poultices?’
Ulfrith smiled fondly. ‘She was a witch and knew all about herbs and plants.’
Geoffrey’s dog suddenly abandoned the bed and slunk to the far end of the hall, where it hid behind a chest. Geoffrey turned to see that Juhel had arrived, chicken under his arm.
‘Aha!’ said Aelfwig. ‘Pray, sir, what toxin did you employ on Sir Geoffrey and Magnus?’
‘Toxin?’ asked Juhel, startled.
‘There was something nasty in your balm,’ said Bale. His face took on a sly expression. ‘Would you care to take a walk with me? Outside the abbey’s grounds?’
Juhel raised his hands to indicate he was innocent, then rummaged in his pack to produce the curious half-red, half-blue pot. ‘There is nothing nasty in my salve, I assure you – I might be obliged to use it on myself one day! Besides, why would I harm Geoffrey or Magnus?’
Aelfwig took the proffered pot and sniffed it. ‘All I can smell is hog’s grease.’
‘To bind the wound,’ explained Juhel, taking it back. ‘It also contains woundwort and a few crushed daisy leaves. If Geoffrey has been poisoned, it is none of my doing.’
‘Well, he would say that,’ muttered Bale in Geoffrey’s ear. ‘Aelfwig might be the best herbalist in the world, but even he cannot detect odourless poisons.’
Geoffrey closed his eyes once Juhel had left. The parchmenter had requested to be housed elsewhere, claiming stiffly that he would be open to further accusations if he remained in the same chamber as his alleged victim, and, in the interests of harmony, Aelfwig agreed. In his agitation at being accused of such an unpleasant crime, Juhel had neglected to take his travelling bag with him, and Bale, from sheer spite, hid it inside a chest. Intrigued by visitors who had seen the Holy Land, Aelfwig lingered to chat.