Geoffrey nodded. ‘So why did Magnus not tell us what had happened? Does he suspect Harold of being complicit in the attack? Or is he just loath to discuss anything about Werlinges? Given that he was sneaking in and out of the church and dumping documents down wells, I suppose his desire for secrecy is understandable.’
They both considered the matter, although neither had a solution.
‘Who has the better claim to the throne?’ asked Roger eventually. ‘Magnus, who is Harold’s eldest son, or Harold, who is legitimate? Personally, I would say Magnus. Being a bastard is no bar to kingship — just ask the Conqueror! I am a bastard myself — my father, being a churchman, could scarcely marry my mother — and it has never held me back. Marriage is overrated.’
‘Is it?’ asked Geoffrey absently. They were climbing again, and he was becoming tired.
‘Take yours,’ Roger went on. ‘You only married Hilde because Goodrich needs an heir, but left to your own devices, you could have had a much prettier lass. Perhaps even one you like.’
‘I like Hilde,’ objected Geoffrey. ‘I do not love her, but I am told that is irrelevant. Besides, I was in love once, and that was more than enough.’
‘Was she a whore?’ Roger was often in love with prostitutes.
‘No. She was the loveliest maiden who ever lived, with hair like shimmering gold and eyes so blue they seemed to be part of Heaven.’ Geoffrey was not usually poetic, but that particular lady merited such praise.
‘I like a blonde wench, too,’ agreed Roger. ‘As long as she is buxom. There is no point to a woman who is all bones. Of course, Magnus will need to pick a good one, if he is to rule England. Incidentally, I hope King Henry does not order you to look into what happened at Werlinges. He does trust you with that sort of thing.’
‘By the time he hears about it, I will be back in Goodrich.’ Geoffrey stopped again to catch his breath, blinking to clear the darkness that encroached the edges of his vision.
‘We should let Magnus and Harold take the news of Werlinges to La Batailge,’ said Roger, watching him. ‘You do not look well, and this walking is making it worse. You should rest.’
‘No,’ said Geoffrey, forcing himself on. ‘We do not know what story they will tell, and I do not want to be accused of the crime. I do not trust Magnus.’
‘Then we should hurry,’ said Roger, grabbing his arm to help him along. ‘Besides, there is the abbey now. Can you see the towers?’
Geoffrey nodded and tried to ignore the burning pain in his ribs.
Work had begun at La Batailge within five years of the Norman victory. The Conqueror had wanted it built so the high altar of the church would be in the exact spot where Harold had fallen, but the Benedictines had thought this a bad idea and had selected a site farther west — one that was not plum in the middle of a bog and that had a convenient source of fresh water.
But they had reckoned without William’s iron will. He was livid when he heard his instructions had been ignored; he ordered them to tear down what they had finished and start afresh. Funds poured in from the royal treasury, although the place was still not complete fifteen years later.
The church was a handsome building, comprising a nave with seven bays and three chapels radiating off a short apsidal presbytery. There was also an imposing chapter house, and a wooden fence with a lean-to roof marked where the cloister would be. Nearby were large hall-houses with thatched roofs that served as dormitories and refectories. A sturdy palisade punctuated by a stone gatehouse in the north marked off a sizeable tract of land that comprised the actual battlefield.
‘Those mounds are the graves of the Normans who fell that day,’ Harold explained, pointing to weathered bumps in the heath. ‘Some are marked, as you can see, but most are becoming difficult to identify.’
‘What happened to the Saxon dead?’ asked Ulfrith, wide-eyed.
‘The Bastard did not deign to bury them,’ replied Magnus with considerable bitterness. ‘The local people had to see them laid to rest in ones and twos, wherever they happened to fall.’
‘Do you know the abbot, Harold?’ asked Geoffrey, not inclined to listen to more Saxon grievances. ‘We should speak to him as soon as possible.’
‘There is no abbot,’ replied Harold. ‘The Usurper is currently keeping the office vacant, so he can keep the tithes for himself. It has been empty since Abbot Henry died last year.’
‘Then is there a prior?’ Geoffrey asked. ‘A second-in-command?’
‘A simple monk runs the abbey now,’ replied Harold. ‘A Benedictine named Galfridus de St Carileff. He is a good man, though apt to be greedy.’
‘How do you know him?’ asked Geoffrey, following the path that led to the stalwart stone gatehouse. He was grateful for Roger’s arm, because his head was beginning to ache in time to the throb in his side. Magnus looked little better, and there was a sheen of sweat on his pallid face.
‘That is a good question,’ said Roger. ‘I thought you had been in exile for three decades.’
‘I have not been away all that time,’ replied Harold, smiling at the notion. ‘Ulf has been living in this area for the past sixteen years — ever since he was freed on the Bastard’s deathbed — and I occasionally come to visit him. Besides, I like it better here than in Ireland.’
‘I have not been permitted such liberties,’ said Magnus resentfully. ‘This is the first time I have set foot in England since my last invasion more than thirty years ago. Or was it forty? I feel befuddled in my wits.’
‘Skirmishes can do that to a man,’ said Roger. Geoffrey saw he was about to make a clumsy attempt to force Magnus to admit that he had been attacked by Ulf. ‘And so can being savaged by a maniac intent on murder.’
‘Then I am grateful it does not happen very often,’ Magnus replied fervently, rubbing his head. ‘Lord! There is such an agony in my pate!’
‘Of course, King Henry always seemed to know when I was coming,’ said Harold ruefully. ‘He even sent me a horse once, although it was a poor brute with weak knees. Still, I put on a decent display of gratitude. It does not do to offend a man like Henry.’
‘You will offend Henry if you take his throne,’ Geoffrey pointed out.
‘Yes,’ agreed Harold with a twinkling smile. ‘But by then it will not matter.’
The gatehouse was a two-storeyed building that housed a portcullis. Arrow slits pierced the walls, and there was a gallery along the top that could be used by lookouts and bowmen. It was more akin to the entrance to a fortress than a monastery: the Saxons had not been exaggerating when they said the Benedictines were unpopular in the region. Traders, pilgrims and visitors formed a queue outside it, waiting patiently to be allowed in.
‘This is impressive,’ said Lucian appreciatively. ‘My Order certainly knows how to build!’
Magnus raked a supercilious gaze across the queue and strutted to the front, shoving more than one person out of the way as he went. ‘I have come to see Gerald. Stand aside and let me pass, you miserable wren.’
The guard regarded him askance. ‘There is no Gerald here. And, even if there were, you would not be allowed in. We try to keep lunatics out.’
‘I am your king,’ declared Magnus. Geoffrey winced. He had supposed that Magnus would keep his identity quiet until he had gone some way towards arranging his revolt; he had not expected him to announce it to servants.
The guard peered at him. ‘You are not Henry. Nor are you the Duke of Normandy, who is the man I would like on the throne. England should never have gone to his younger brother.’
‘He is reckless,’ said Geoffrey to Roger. ‘I would not make wildly treasonous statements to men I do not know.’
He must have spoken louder than he intended, because the guard overheard. ‘Actually, I am being prudent. There is a rumour that the Duke is in St Valery at the moment, and you only go there if you intend to cross into England.’