Aelfwig left eventually, and Geoffrey heard a rasping sound that he knew was Roger rubbing his hand across his beard. ‘Damn!’ he said. ‘We forgot to mention the massacre at Werlinges, and
that
was the main reason for us coming.’
Geoffrey sat up, his head swimming. ‘You
forgot
?’
‘It was
your
fault,’ Roger flashed back. ‘You distracted me when you kept passing out. But do not worry – I will do it now.’
‘God’s teeth!’ muttered Geoffrey, unimpressed. He tried to stand, not sure Roger could be trusted, but his side gave such a monstrous twinge that he was forced to lie back down.
‘Do not fret,’ said Roger. ‘I will watch what I say. You think me a fool, but I can be as discreet as the next man.’
After the big knight had gone, Geoffrey watched Bale and Ulfrith sit together near the window and realized they had been left to keep guard. It was a kindly thought, but they were noisy. When Ulfrith began a long list of Philippa’s virtues, Geoffrey ordered them both outside and waited for Roger’s return.
Closing his eyes, he thought about the sickness that assailed him – a man who was rarely ill and possessed the capacity to carry on through all but the most serious wounds. He was certain some noxious substance
had
been fed to him. Was it deliberate? And if so, was he or Magnus the intended victim? He thought for a while and concluded it was not Magnus. The Saxon had demanded the medicines – no one had forced him to take them.
So, was it Juhel, playing some game Geoffrey did not understand that involved killing friends and dropping them overboard in order to claim their documents? Or was it Lucian, an unconvincing monk, who might be using a religious habit to disguise his real business? Geoffrey was not sure why either would consider him a threat. Was it because he was more able than the others and could read? Or was Magnus responsible, taking a dose of the medicines himself to allay suspicion? He had acted oddly at Werlinges, disappearing inside the church and dropping the package down the well. Was that why Ulf had tried to kill him?
It occurred to Geoffrey that documents were a peculiarly recurring theme. Juhel had taken some from Paisnel; Magnus had thrown some down a well; Juhel had ‘written’ a letter for Edith. Geoffrey pulled the thing from his tunic and looked at it again, but his vision was blurred, and he knew he would be sick if he continued. He put it away, wondering if it was significant.
The headache was beginning to return, so he lay flat and watched the ceiling billow and twist, the beams closing together, then drifting apart again. Eventually, he dozed, aware of buzzing voices around him, some familiar and some not. Then there was silence, and he slept more deeply. But it did not seem many moments before he was awake again, jolted into consciousness by some innate, soldierly sense that something was amiss. He became aware of someone looming over him and opened his eyes to stare into the cold, furious face of Fingar.
Geoffrey’s fingers closed around his dagger even as his feverish mind grappled with Fingar having gained access to the abbey. Fingar looked disreputable, and the knight had imagined a monastery would be more particular about whom it admitted. He brought the blade up quickly, so it jabbed into Fingar’s throat. He had not intended to stab him, but his movements were uncoordinated and his hand had not gone quite where he had intended. Fingar yelped and jerked away.
‘There is no need for that!’ The pirate’s expression was one of disgust, as he rubbed the nick. ‘I should have known no good would come from mercy.’
‘Mercy?’ asked Geoffrey uncertainly, feeling Fingar take the dagger from his hand and alarmed that he was unable to stop him.
‘You are sick – poisoned, I am told. So I decided, being in sacred confines, I would not kill you. But then I am stabbed for my pains.’
‘Sorry,’ said Geoffrey. He wondered why he had apologized; Fingar did not merit it.
‘Then you can make amends by telling me what you did with my gold.’
‘I do not have it.’
‘I know,’ said Fingar. ‘I have searched your belongings. But tell me what Roger did with it, and I shall leave you in peace.’
‘I have no idea,’ said Geoffrey tiredly.
Fingar snorted his disdain. ‘You will tell me eventually, so you may as well do it now and save yourself some discomfort.’
‘I really have no idea.’ The pain in Geoffrey’s side, which had been a niggle, now came in a great wave, and the pounding in his head was almost blinding. He had been wounded many times before, sometimes seriously, but could not remember ever feeling so wretched.
Fingar leaned closer. ‘Where is Sir Roger now?’
‘Gone to tell Galfridus about the villagers you murdered.’
‘That was not our doing.’ Fingar sounded offended. ‘
We
do not make war on paupers. You must look to the flaxen-haired fellow your squire killed for that.’
‘Ulf did not do it alone.’ Geoffrey heard his voice losing its strength. ‘He had help.’
‘Not from us,’ said Fingar firmly. ‘We do not become embroiled in politics.’
‘Politics?’
‘Squabbles for thrones – it is not for us. And it would not be for you, either, if you had any sense.’
‘Are you talking about Magnus and Harold?’
‘I do not know any Harold, but Magnus is a good example. I overheard him on my ship, talking to his servant. He thinks he is the king of England and is gathering an army.’
‘He has no army,’ said Geoffrey tiredly. ‘It is all dreams.’
‘Yes and no. He may not have organized troops, but there are men who will give their lives for his cause.
That
is what happened at Werlinges. His Saxon cronies.’
Geoffrey struggled to understand. ‘You saw Saxons kill those people?’
Fingar looked furtive. ‘Not exactly. But they were in Werlinges when we reached it. We could see from the villagers’ faces that they were not welcome, but we did not want a fight, so we left. When we returned, we found the people dead. It was horrible.’
‘I thought you would be used to it. You
are
a pirate.’
‘Yes, but we do not kill women and children. Donan watched you after you had routed him and he says you were none too impressed, either.’
‘He did not
rout
us,’ said a loud voice. ‘I told you: we were outnumbered, so we withdrew.’
Geoffrey tried to see who was speaking, but could not. The man was lying, but Geoffrey did not blame him for declining to tell Fingar that a dozen sailors had failed to defeat two knights.
‘. . . even that was fake,’ someone was saying. ‘I thought it was real gold, but it was base metal, and the purse was all but empty.’
‘I was always wary of him,’ said Fingar. ‘Too pleased with himself by half.’
‘Juhel?’ asked Geoffrey. He realized he must have lost consciousness and missed part of the conversation, because it seemed to have moved on without him.
‘No, “Brother” Lucian, who wore a cross of fake gold,’ someone replied.
‘Enough chatter,’ snapped Fingar, glancing towards the door. He grabbed Geoffrey by the front of his shirt. ‘I will let you live if you help me find my money, although it goes against the grain. You are lucky: being poisoned and lying on holy ground makes you doubly eligible for mercy.’
‘Then leave me alone,’ said Geoffrey weakly, ‘because I cannot help you.’
‘Will not, more like,’ said the second speaker, and Geoffrey saw Donan’s pinched features become a large rat. ‘Make him tell us or
I
will kill him.’
‘You will not,’ said Fingar with considerable force. ‘Do you want more storms to batter us at sea because you sinned on holy ground? Do you want the saints hurling lightning at us, as they did after we let that man drown?’
‘What man?’ Geoffrey mumbled.
‘Donan saw Paisnel in the water, but kept on course.’ Fingar scowled. ‘It is wicked to leave a man to drown, and he should not have done it. When I have my gold, I will pay for masses for his soul, to set matters right.’
‘But the day after Paisnel’s disappearance, you said you last saw him playing dice with Juhel,’ said Geoffrey, fighting to keep his eyes open.
‘Like I said, we do not become involved in politics. I knew from the blood on the deck the next day that Paisnel had fought someone, but it was not our affair. However, leaving him to die at sea – that is something else altogether.’
‘Who threw him overboard?’ asked Geoffrey, wondering if they would confirm Philippa’s tale.
‘Donan did not see. I assumed it was Juhel, but Donan thinks it was Philippa.’
‘Of course it was her,’ argued the rat. ‘I saw her sneaking around. She had a knife, too.’
‘How could she have lifted a man over the rail?’ snapped Fingar. ‘She is not strong enough. It was Juhel, I tell you. I saw him rifling through Paisnel’s bag, too. He took what he wanted and tossed the rest overboard. Why would he have done that, unless he was the killer?’
‘He
can
write,’ acknowledged the rat, making it sound sinister. ‘But Philippa killed Paisnel.’
‘Regardless, we should not have let him drown,’ said Fingar.
‘The gold,’ said Donan, who had turned into a weasel. ‘We should think of the gold.’
‘Sir Roger has it,’ said Fingar. ‘So we must wait for his return. Move behind the door, and be ready when he comes in, but do not kill him until I say so.’
‘I will make him give it back,’ said Geoffrey desperately. ‘No killing.’
‘You will not succeed,’ said Fingar. ‘When a man steals a chest of gold, he does not give it up easily, and your friend is greedy. Besides, you are in no condition to force him.’
‘It was a few coins, not a chest.’ Geoffrey flinched as the ceiling began to collapse. ‘Look out!’
Fingar glanced upwards with a puzzled expression. ‘I would not go to all this trouble for a few coins. He took our entire fortune.’
‘I do not believe you.’ The ceiling was back in its rightful place.
‘Give him more of that medicine,’ recommended the weasel. ‘He is out of his wits.’
Fingar took a flask and poured something into a cup. He sniffed it and grimaced. ‘No wonder he is ailing! What he needs is clean water.’
There was gurgling as liquid was poured. Geoffrey turned away when Fingar brought the cup to his lips, but the man was too strong.
‘More,’ said Fingar, refilling it. ‘Water is good for fevers.’
‘Look at this,’ said the weasel, holding something in the air. It glittered, and Geoffrey saw it was a pendant, probably gold.
‘Is it Roger’s?’ asked Fingar. He poked Geoffrey to make him answer. The finger grew longer until it appeared to be touching a sheep that was standing at the far end of the room.
‘How did you do that?’ Geoffrey asked, awed. ‘Magic?’
‘He is rambling again,’ said the weasel in disgust. He shoved something in Geoffrey’s face. ‘What do these say? I found them with the pendant, and I know you can read.’
Geoffrey tried to push him away. ‘That sheep – it must be the Lamb of God.’
‘These are holy visions,’ said one of the sailors uneasily.
‘Where is my dog?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘I do not want it chasing the Lamb.’
‘We ate him,’ replied Fingar. ‘Roasted with mint. Hush! I hear footsteps.’
‘How did you find us?’ asked Geoffrey, desperately trying to speak loudly to warn Roger, but his voice was little more than a whisper.
‘A fisherman told us you were heading this way, and we just climbed over the wall. There is a gatehouse, but no guards anywhere else. It was easy!’
There was a creak outside. Geoffrey braced himself, then, as the door began to open, he summoned the last of his strength to yell. ‘It is a trap! Fingar is—’
A hand clamped over his mouth, and, struggling to breathe, Geoffrey’s world went black.
When he opened his eyes again, the chamber was dim, although there was a candle burning next to the bed. It cast an orange glow and there were monstrous shadows playing on the walls. Someone was still looming over him, and his fingers fumbled for his dagger, but it was not there.
‘What are you doing?’ came Roger’s peevish voice. ‘Hoping to stab me?’
‘Where is Fingar? He was here . . .’
‘Who is Fingar?’ asked a voice Geoffrey did not recognize.
‘I do not know,’ replied Roger shiftily.
Geoffrey struggled to understand what had happened, but the pain in his side was draining his strength, and he lapsed into unconsciousness again. When he next awoke, there was daylight flooding through the windows. A dull clinking was coming from one side. He turned his head and caught the gleam of metal. Roger was counting his ill-gotten gains – and there was a lot more than the handful he had shown Geoffrey in the marshes. Fingar had been telling the truth.
‘Where is Fingar?’ he asked. ‘Did you kill him?’
Roger stuffed the gold out of sight. ‘You have been raving about Fingar for two days now,’ he said testily. ‘He is not here and never has been.’
‘He was,’ objected Geoffrey, trying to sit up. His senses reeled, so he lay back down. ‘He was going to ambush you for his gold.’
‘
My
gold,’ corrected Roger. ‘But he cannot have it, because I have given most of it to the abbey. There have been so many tales about your father – first a paragon of virtue, then a traitor; a bold knight, then a coward – that I asked the monks to pray for the truth.’
‘You spent your gold to help me?’ asked Geoffrey, touched.
‘Masses of it. Then Aelfwig said you would not last the night, so I was obliged to buy candles to place on King Harold’s altar, too. I asked him to put in a word for a fellow soldier.’
‘I doubt Harold would do much to save a Norman. He is probably still irked over the battle.’
‘You are wrong: you fell into a natural sleep shortly after Brother Wardard lit them. Then there was Breme. He was more help than that useless herbalist.’
‘Breme?’