‘It is the bald head, man,’ said Roger bluntly. ‘They do not like the way you shave it. You would do better if you had a bit of hair.’
‘If I had hair, it would only be at the back and sides, and it would be grey,’ said Bale mournfully. ‘I would look like a monk, and no woman wants to bed one of those.’
Geoffrey tried to imagine what his squire might look like with a tonsure, but found he could not do it. However, he certainly did not think patchy grey locks would make Bale resemble a cleric – unless it was a very debauched and violent one.
‘Lady Hilde cried bitterly when you left,’ Bale went on, still thinking of female companions. ‘I wish a lady would weep for me.’
Geoffrey regarded him in surprise. ‘She did not! She had no interest in marrying me, and I imagine she is only too pleased to be left on her own. My estates will do well under her and my sister, and they were both relieved when I said I was leaving.’
‘They were not,’ contradicted Roger immediately. ‘Joan was furious, and Hilde was hurt. They like you better than you think, lad. They will be pleased when you return so soon – and you have to go home now, because you cannot travel without money.’
‘Perhaps Lord Baderon will give you some,’ suggested Ulfrith. ‘Your father-in-law is a wealthy man. You can offer to pray for his soul when you reach the Holy City. In fact, you can persuade him while Sir Roger and I deliver Philippa and Edith to their home.’
Geoffrey smiled at Ulfrith’s transparency. He was also amused by the notion that Baderon would pay for his visit to the Holy Land: his kinsman had been dead set against the journey in the first place. Geoffrey’s sole duty, Baderon had claimed angrily, was in the marriage bed until he had produced a son to ensure the succession. Geoffrey had done his best, but Hilde was old to be a first-time mother. Moreover, he could tell from their time together that he was not the first man to enjoy her favours, but she had not conceived before. It was entirely possible that their union was destined to be childless.
‘You were not married a month before you mentioned travelling east,’ said Roger. ‘What is wrong with Hilde? She is a nice, big lass – better than the other weaklings that were on offer.’
Geoffrey had not taken to any of the local heiresses presented to him, and that had included Hilde at first. Almost as tall and broad as Geoffrey – and he was taller and broader than most – Hilde could wield a variety of weapons with devastating effect and was not afraid to practise her military skills in the skirmishes that often broke out in the volatile Marches. Roger admired her greatly, but Geoffrey wished she was gentler. He was still pondering her idiosyncrasies when his dog growled. The aloof Saxon was approaching.
‘It is too dangerous to linger here,’ he declared. ‘If the women cannot continue, we shall abandon them. It is imperative that you convey me to a place of safety.’
‘Is it indeed?’ asked Geoffrey, as Roger gaped at the presumption.
‘Yes,’ stated the Saxon with finality. ‘And do not tell me you plan to continue your journey east instead, because you barely have enough to take you to Hastinges, let alone Jerusalem.’
‘How do you know?’ demanded Roger. Geoffrey might be penniless, but he himself had enough to travel to the Holy Land and back several times in comparative luxury.
‘Because I overheard you talking. You were right: it was folly to have undertaken your journey when there were double moons portending disaster and blood bubbling from the ground in lieu of springs. God’s message to you is clear: stay in England. Now we must find the church you saw from the ship. It cannot be far, and I want to reach it before it is completely dark.’
‘I shall go when it pleases me,’ said Roger dangerously. ‘It is not for you to tell a Jerosolimitanus what to do.’
‘Ah, but it is,’ replied the Saxon enigmatically. ‘Your father is only a Norman bishop, but your mother was a true Saxon lady, and you have a fine Saxon lad as your squire. You are a Saxon at heart, and that is why I have decided to trust you.’
‘Trust him for what?’ asked Geoffrey suspiciously, knowing that Roger was far more Norman than Saxon, especially in his love of other people’s property.
‘To help me in my quest. But I do not need you. I am only interested in recruiting Saxons. Now, if we walk along this beach for just a little longer, we should reach that church.’
‘Who are you?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘And how do you know this coast? You joined the ship in Ireland, and it is only by chance that we landed here.’
The man pulled himself up to his full height, which was considerable: he towered over Roger. ‘I am Magnus, eldest son of King Harold and England’s rightful monarch.’
Despite Ulfrith carrying Edith, and Geoffrey setting a pace that had them all gasping for breath, it was pitch black by the time they reached the tower. It was not a church at all – which made him sceptical of Magnus’s local knowledge – but a fortress glowering across the heaving waves.
‘What place is this?’ asked Roger, studying the stalwart earthworks and ancient but powerful stone wall that ran in a massive oval around a substantial bailey. A stone keep dominated the buildings inside, standing atop a motte.
‘It must have been built by Romans,’ said Geoffrey, admiringly. ‘The walls have been repaired in places, but they still stand tall and strong.’
‘Never mind that,’ said Edith irritably. ‘My leg hurts. Tell them to admit us at once.’
‘God help us!’ breathed Magnus in sudden alarm, once he had come close enough to see the place through the darkness. ‘It is Pevenesel Castle! We must have fetched up farther west than I thought. It is a Norman stronghold, in the care of a nobleman named Richer de Laigle.’
‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ said Roger suspiciously.
Magnus regarded him pityingly. ‘Yes. What sort of king would I be if I were unfamiliar with the defences of my enemies? But we cannot stay here. If they learn who I am, they will kill me.’
‘Then do not tell them,’ suggested Juhel. ‘As I always say to the Duke of Normandy, if you-’
‘You must find somewhere else,’ said Magnus to Roger. ‘This is unacceptable.’
‘Any ideas where?’ asked Geoffrey archly, gesturing around him. ‘The castle is the only thing here – except for those houses outside the bailey, and they will be inhabited by people who work for de Laigle. We have no choice but to beg his hospitality.’
‘And I am staying with him,’ said Roger, pointing at Geoffrey. ‘So you can stop giving me orders. I may have Saxon blood, but I do not serve any master who demands my loyalty. I only honour leaders who can pay.’
‘ I will pay you,’ insisted Magnus. ‘As soon as I am king. But you must conduct me to a Saxon haven first – tonight. It is imperative that I do not fall into enemy hands.’
‘I doubt de Laigle will see you as an enemy,’ said Geoffrey, suspecting the man would probably deem Magnus insane.
He was not sure he believed the tale himself, because Magnus did not look like the son of a great warrior, although embroidery and gold thread on his clothes indicated that he had some wealth. Tall and painfully thin, he had straggly grey hair tied in a meagre tail at the back of his head, and an enormous silver moustache – an odd fashion in England, where most men were bearded. His bony face – which still bore the scars of its spat with Juhel’s chicken – was dominated by a wedge-shaped nose and bloodless lips. Geoffrey’s father had fought at Hastinges and had often talked about King Harold’s strength of body and character. If Magnus was indeed his son, then he had not inherited his sire’s looks or his commanding personality.
‘I cannot take that chance,’ said Magnus curtly. ‘Lead on, Sir Roger.’
‘No,’ said Roger firmly. ‘I have been shipwrecked, man. All I want is meat, wine and a wench to warm my bed.’ He winked at Edith, who ignored him.
‘Well, I cannot walk any further,’ declared Philippa. ‘So I shall throw myself on their mercy.’
Before anyone could stop her, she strode up to the gatehouse and thumped on the door.