‘The evidence is ambiguous,’ said Juhel. ‘The stains on Ulf’s clothes suggest violence on previous occasions, but do not point to him killing the villagers. Of course, he definitely stabbed someone recently, because there was fresh blood on the tip of his sword.’
Geoffrey itched to be away from the village and shaded his eyes against the sun to see whether Ulfrith had finished stabling the horses.
‘You have been hurt,’ said Juhel, noticing the blood on Geoffrey’s side when the knight raised his arm. ‘And you are very white. You should rest or you may find yourself weak later. And I doubt we can carry you.’
‘That will not be necessary,’ said Geoffrey, suspecting the scene in the church was responsible for his pallor. The injury was more an annoyance than an impediment.
‘I will give you a paste to smear on it. It contains woundwort, which will close the cut up and bring about clean healing. I always carry some, because I never know when I might need it.’
‘If you were a soldier, I would agree,’ said Roger, as Juhel removed a pot from his sack. It was a curious thing, with a blue glaze on one side and red on the other. ‘But you are not, so you should not need a potion for wounds.’
‘It is not a potion, it is a salve, and I carry it for cases like this,’ replied Juhel, unruffled. ‘Loosen your mail, Sir Geoffrey. I will apply some.’
‘You would do better to take a dose of my cure-all,’ said Lucian, producing a phial from inside his habit. The pirates had evidently not deprived him of everything. ‘Bishop de Villula — a physician as well as a prelate — insists all his monks take some on long journeys. I never leave home without it — it heals pains in the gut, headaches, sniffling noses, aching bones and sore gums.’
‘It is useful, then,’ remarked Roger dryly.
‘Very,’ said Lucian, upending the container and swallowing some, before closing his eyes and exhaling slowly. ‘I think it may quell tremors after nasty shocks, too, because I feel better already.’
‘It cannot do any harm,’ said Roger to Geoffrey, ‘especially the cure-all, as Lucian has just drunk some himself. Or, if you prefer, I can bind you up.’
Geoffrey had experienced Roger’s bandages on previous occasions and knew they were cruelly tight and sometimes did more harm than good, so he opted for Lucian’s cure-all. The monk poured a small amount in a cup supplied by Harold, and recommended that it be swallowed in one. Geoffrey gasped at the burning sensation and thought he might be sick.
‘What is in it?’ he asked suspiciously. His voice was hoarse.
‘I have no idea,’ replied Lucian airily. ‘And I had the same reaction as you when I first tasted it, but you grow to like it in time.’
Magnus stepped forward. ‘I shall take some, too. I need a physic if I am to walk to the abbey like a peasant, because I have hurt my arm. However, I want more than you gave Geoffrey.’
‘It is a powerful brew,’ objected Lucian. ‘A sip will be more than enough.’
‘Rubbish,’ snapped Magnus, jostling Lucian’s elbow so more flowed into the beaker. ‘There is no point in taking dribbles. Do not be miserly with your monarch. Lord preserve us! It is firewater.’
‘I told you so,’ said Lucian, watching him gag. ‘It is a waste to take more than you need, and I do not have much left. Can you feel it warming your throat, Sir Geoffrey?’
‘I can feel it searing my stomach,’ said Geoffrey. ‘And the taste. .’
‘Drink this,’ said Ulfrith, offering Geoffrey his water flask. ‘I filled up it this morning.’
The water had a nasty, brackish flavour that made Geoffrey wonder whether it was as fresh as Ulfrith claimed. The squire snatched it away before he had taken more than a mouthful.
‘Leave some for me!’
‘I will have some, too,’ said Magnus, grabbing the flask and taking a tentative sip. He had learned his lesson with the cure-all and was not about to gulp a second time. He took another sip, and was about to go for a third when Ulfrith pulled it away with a scowl.
‘It is not wine, lad,’ said Roger admonishingly. ‘You did not pay for it, so there is no cause to be mean. Now let me smear some of Juhel’s grease on you, Geoff. It contains woundwort, and we both know that is a fine substance for cuts.’
‘We do not have time,’ said Geoffrey, strangely light-headed. It was not an unpleasant feeling — akin to how he felt after a sixth goblet of wine — and with it came a vague sense of well-being. What was an extra moment? Roger was right: woundwort encouraged rapid healing. He hauled up the tunic, and Juhel rubbed the paste into the cut.
‘Now me,’ said Magnus, raising his sleeve to reveal a gash. ‘I was wounded, too.’
‘How?’ asked Geoffrey. He tried to remember what he had seen: Magnus entering the church and emerging a short while later. Then there was a blank, when the Saxon could have been anywhere. Next, he had slunk to the well and dropped the package down it. And finally he had deposited his breakfast in someone’s cabbage patch.
‘A pirate came for me,’ replied Magnus. ‘I am lucky to be alive.’
‘How did you escape?’ asked Juhel, smearing the oil on the afflicted limb, then bending to wipe his hand on the grass. ‘You had no weapon.’
‘The villain ran away when I fixed him with an imperial glare,’ replied Magnus.
‘I do not believe you,’ said Roger. ‘Why-’
‘All right — he ran because all his friends were routed,’ snapped Magnus impatiently. ‘Can we leave now? I do not want to be here if the pirates come back.’
‘Good idea,’ said Juhel, heaving the hen coop on his shoulders. ‘I have had enough of bloodshed for one day.’
‘So have I,’ said Geoffrey fervently.
The day wore on as they followed a path that ran through woods, across streams, up and down hills and finally along a wide track that wound through some pretty valleys — Harold had lied: the abbey was considerably farther than the castle would have been. Eventually, Magnus claimed his wound was making him dizzy and demanded that they rest. Geoffrey refused, wanting to reach La Batailge as quickly as possible.
‘What you said earlier,’ said Roger, walking next to him. ‘You really think he will kill Harold?’
‘If the unthinkable happens and Henry is ousted, Magnus would be a fool to let other contenders live. Perhaps I spoke wildly, and he does not intend to kill Harold but to lock him away in some remote dungeon. Regardless, the fact is that Magnus will not be a strong ruler and any opposition will be dangerous.’
‘Do you believe he fought a pirate?’ asked Roger. ‘I do not. Ulfrith cornered one, and Bale lumbered after that boy for a long time, but the rest concentrated on us. Still, we know where we stand: not one of our fellow passengers came to our assistance.’
‘They would have been killed if they had,’ said Geoffrey. He paused to catch his breath at the top of a rise. The sun was baking him inside his armour, and the light-headedness from the cure-all persisted. ‘But speaking of Bale, I am worried about him. It is only a matter of time before he kills someone who is innocent.’
‘Like Ulf, you mean?’
‘No, not like him, because I am not sure he was innocent. Juhel was right: there was old blood on his clothes, and I wager anything you like it was not his own. He also tried to kill Magnus.’
‘Magnus?’ exclaimed Roger, glancing behind to see Geoffrey was not the only one finding the rapid walk difficult: the would-be king was wan and held his arm awkwardly. ‘How do you know? He did not mention it.’
‘No, which is suspicious. Ulf’s sword was stained with fresh blood — not much, as there would have been had he killed the villagers, but enough to have scratched Magnus’s arm. I suspect he saw an opportunity to rid himself of a rival, but did not reckon with Magnus’s speed — he can run very fast. But Ulf was unlucky, because he blundered into Bale.’
‘And that was the end of him,’ mused Roger. ‘Unwittingly, Bale saved Magnus’s life.’