The Bishop's Brood

by Simon Beaufort

  Geoffrey settled back again. ‘Poor Helbye. I do not think he would have come with me this time, had he known the kind of rabble I expect him to convert into military men.’

  Roger chuckled. ‘He is happy enough – more so than had he been forced to watch you ride to the Holy Land while he ended his days hoeing weeds and counting sheep. Helbye is a soldier, and will never be content with farming.’ He gave Geoffrey a disparaging glance. ‘Unlike you.’

  ‘I am no farmer,’ said Geoffrey, startled by the insult. ‘I inherited my manor twenty years ago, but have spent less than a week there. I have been a soldier most of my life. You know that.’

  Roger looked him up and down critically, his eyes lingering meaningfully on the book that poked from his friend’s saddlebags. Roger did not approve of books or the fact that Geoffrey enjoyed reading them, considering such pastimes unknightly.

  Geoffrey and Roger had little in common, other than the fact that they were both knights, but they had formed a firm friendship nonetheless. They were physically very different: Roger was huge, red-faced, and cared little for his personal appearance, while Geoffrey was usually neat, if not clean, and had expressive green eyes that showed him to be a man of intelligence with a sense of humour.

  Their personalities were even more disparate. Roger loved nothing more than a good fight, and his other pleasures included making a nuisance of himself in brothels and drinking to a state of rowdy bonhomie with his friends. His view of the world was as uncomplicated as was his personality, and he never suffered from the moral dilemmas that had plagued Geoffrey as the Crusader army butchered, looted, and plundered its way across half the known world. Geoffrey, however, was regarded as something of an oddity among his fellow knights. When city after city fell to the greedy hands of the Crusader army, Geoffrey had declined to steal the gold and precious jewels that most knights considered their right, preferring instead to add to his collection of books and scrolls.

  ‘You might not see your estate for years once we leave,’ declared Roger. ‘We will be on our way tomorrow and by next week, we will be in Normandy, where we will ride south to Venice to board another ship that will take us to Jaffa. Then it will only be a day’s ride to the Holy City itself.’

  Geoffrey recalled Jerusalem with pleasure, thinking about the new Crusader church at the Holy Sepulchre with its yellow stones and round-headed arches, and the fabulous Dome of the Rock, resplendent in Turkish mosaics and its great cupola glittering like a glimpse of Heaven itself.

  Roger also reviewed Jerusalem’s delights and sighed wistfully. ‘The brothels are a taste of Paradise, and the wines are like nectar. It is the finest city in the world.’

  He gave a sudden bellow to attract the attention of the pot boy, a noise that made Geoffrey jump in alarm and stilled the hum of manly conversation in the tavern as abruptly as if a troupe of nuns had entered. Roger ordered more ale when an alarmed servant came rushing over to see what was the matter, then stretched his legs out in front of him as he rested his back against the wall.

  ‘You usually claim that Durham is the finest city in the world,’ Geoffrey observed. ‘Have you changed your mind?’

  ‘Hush!’ snapped Roger in a voice sufficiently loud to draw startled glances from the unsavoury occupants of the nearby tables. ‘It is not wise to mention that place in public these days. It is too closely associated with Bishop Flambard.’ He leaned forward conspiratorially, although Geoffrey noticed that the volume of his voice did not diminish. ‘He is my father, you know.’

  He sat back and folded his arms defiantly, while Geoffrey noted that Roger’s incautious declaration had drawn more than one interested appraisal from the other customers. Roger was proud of his father, and never allowed an opportunity to pass without boasting about their alleged consanguinity, despite the fact that Geoffrey knew the details of his ancestry perfectly well.

  Flambard had been the previous king’s Chief Justiciar, an office that had entailed raising large sums of money for the king to squander. When King William Rufus had been killed in a hunting accident the previous year, Flambard offered to serve the new king, Henry. Henry, however, did not want an unpopular man like Flambard in his court, so the wicked bishop found himself under arrest and incarcerated in the formidable White Tower of London.

  Geoffrey suspected Roger was right to conceal his parentage in Southampton, although he thought the big knight would not keep his secret long if he yelled it at the top of his voice in crowded taverns. Whenever Geoffrey considered the relationship between one of the most cunning men in the country and the bluff knight who sat next to him, he could not help but wonder whether Roger’s mother had been mistaken. Roger was straightforward and blunt, and political subterfuge was as alien to him as honesty and plain-dealing were to his alleged father.

  At that moment, the servant, a skinny youth with a jaw that sagged to reveal yellow teeth, arrived with a tray of food. His apron was dark with spilled grease, tavern dirt, and ale, and Geoffrey was not encouraged to observe him ‘cleaning’ his hands on it before he unloaded a few sorry-looking lumps of bread and a bowl of onions.

  ‘I want more than that,’ said Roger, looking disparagingly at the offerings. ‘Bring me some meat, boy. None of your fancy stews, though – I want a real piece of flesh.’

  ‘It is Lent,’ said the boy nervously, taking in Roger’s size and the array of weapons he carried with him. ‘We do not provide meat at this time of year.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ declared Roger dismissively. ‘I am a Crusader knight – a Jerosolimitanus – who fought to free the Holy Land from the infidel, and I expect meat for my pains, Lent or no.’

  Intimidated, the lad hurried away. Roger had not needed to tell him he had been on the Crusade; both he and Geoffrey wore white – albeit grimy, especially in Roger’s case – surcoats with red Crusader’s crosses emblazoned on them. Under these they wore chain mail – knee-length tunics of connected iron rings that were strong and heavy, and allowed the freedom of movement necessary when wielding a heavy broadsword. Their legs were protected by boiled-leather leggings, tucked into boots made from donkey hide. Chain-mail gauntlets and conical metal helmets with Norman nosepieces completed their armour. At their waists were thick belts, to which were attached huge swords, and both had daggers strapped to their legs. Geoffrey’s arsenal included a lance, while Roger preferred a mace. It was protection far in excess of what was needed for a port in England, but old habits died hard, and Geoffrey and Roger felt vulnerable without it.

  ‘That told him,’ said Roger, satisfied as he watched the pot boy in urgent discussion with the taverner, casting frightened glances to where Roger sat. ‘A man needs more than bread and a few onions to stave off the cold of this miserable land.’

  The door opened a second time, and a cold draught swept across the room, rustling the rushes on the floor and sending hard pellets of snow swirling towards the hearth. Helbye entered with the recruits at his heels. With an exasperated sigh, Geoffrey saw there were not six men who stood waiting like sheep for Helbye to tell them where to sit, but five, and it was the addle-witted Peterkin who was missing. When Geoffrey pointed out that Peterkin was not there, Helbye’s shoulders slumped in weary resignation.

  ‘Damn the boy! He was with us a moment ago. I suppose he is dallying with his nag – you know he prefers to tend her himself rather than leaving her to the grooms. I will go and ferret him out.’ He was grey with fatigue, and, not for the first time, Geoffrey wondered at the wisdom of allowing the older man to accompany him to Jerusalem.

  ‘See to the others, Will,’ he said, easing him towards a vacant table. ‘I will find Peterkin.’

  And then I will either kill him myself or abandon him permanently, he thought uncharitably, as he stepped into the swirling snow and headed for the stables. Although the distance between the outbuildings and the tavern was not great, Geoffrey knew Peterkin could lose his way between them.

  The night had turned frosty, so the ice-covered ground cracked an
d shattered like glass as Geoffrey walked. The cosy hum of voices faded quickly as he moved farther from the tavern, the snow serving to smother the familiar sounds of night – the snicker of ponies in their stalls, the yowl of a courting cat, the drunken babble of some sailor who had tumbled into a ditch. As he drew closer to the stables, he saw a flicker of a light under the door, and assumed it belonged to the grooms who would be settling the horses. He supposed Peterkin was with them, ensuring as always that his own evil-tempered mount received better attention than the others.

  He pushed open the stable door and strolled inside. Immediately, the stalls were plunged into complete blackness. Horses whinnied and shuffled uneasily. Instinctively, he dropped one hand to the hilt of his sword as he waited for his eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom. To his right, a shadow flitted, and he made his way towards it, moving carefully across the straw-strewn floor. Then there was another movement, as if the person sensed him drawing closer and did not like it. It was cold and late, and Geoffrey did not want to spend the night chasing a half-witted boy who should never have been taken away from his home in the first place. His patience began to wear thin.

  ‘Peterkin!’ he snapped. ‘Come out at once. You will unsettle the horses with all this prowling around in the dark.’

  There was no reply. Geoffrey grew exasperated, torn between leaving the lad to spend the night in the stables, if that was what he wanted, and a nagging concern that he was not fit to be left alone in a place like the Saracen’s Head.

  ‘Peterkin!’ he shouted. ‘Enough of this foolery. Come out!’

  But the shadows remained silent, although Geoffrey heard someone breathing unevenly nearby. Irritation with Peterkin began to give way to the feeling that all was not well, and he drew his dagger, wondering whether he was already too late to prevent Peterkin from falling foul of some of the tavern’s less respectable clients.

  He took a step forward, but then stumbled over something lying in his way. His dagger flew from his hand, and landed in a pile of straw. Cursing under his breath, he crouched down to find it. But it was not cold steel his groping fingers encountered; it was warm flesh that was sticky with what Geoffrey’s military experience told him was blood. As he straightened, someone launched himself at him, so violently that both he and his attacker went tumbling to the ground.

  Two

  It was not easy to best an experienced knight in full battle armour, even when he had dropped his dagger. Geoffrey’s attacker, though, was putting up a respectable fight. He feinted this way and that with a long-bladed hunting knife, and used his familiarity with the dark stables to his advantage by ducking in and out of stalls while Geoffrey was forced to grope around blindly.

  However, it was not long before Geoffrey was able to grab the man, and then it was only a matter of moments before he had him pinned to the ground. He twisted the man’s wrist until he dropped the knife with a cry of pain, then hauled him upright, pulling him to the door so he could see his face in the dim light that filtered through the tavern’s windows into the yard.

  His assailant was nondescript, with mouse-coloured hair, a sallow complexion, and drab brown eyes. There was nothing unusual or memorable about him, and Geoffrey did not think he had seen him before. He was about to demand an explanation for the attack when he became aware of a still shape lying on the ground nearby. For the first time, Geoffrey was able to see it was Peterkin, and realized it had been his body he had stumbled over when he had first entered the stables. Not releasing his hold on his captive, Geoffrey stared at the boy.

  Peterkin’s large blue eyes were wide and sightless, and blood gleamed darkly in a puddle beneath him, trailing from the wound inflicted by the crossbow bolt – red in colour – that protruded from his chest. Geoffrey’s shock turned to anger when he realized the lad had come to a stupid, meaningless end at the hands of a ruthless robber. He grabbed his captive with both hands, forcing him up against the door so hard that the man’s feet barely touched the ground.

  ‘You bastard!’ he snarled, further incensed by the blind fear in the man’s eyes. ‘The lad was a simpleton! He would have given you his purse, had you asked. There was no need to kill him for it!’

  The man said nothing, although he gagged and struggled as Geoffrey’s hands tightened around his throat. For a few wild moments, Geoffrey considered throttling him there and then, certain the lawless patrons in the Saracen’s Head would say nothing if he dispensed instant justice to a thief and left his body in the snow. But killing unarmed men did not come easily, and he decided to let the sheriff deal with the matter. He began to haul the murderer across the yard, intending to hand him over to the town’s bailiffs.

  He had almost reached the tavern door, when there was a hiss and a thump, and the man jerked convulsively. Geoffrey stared at him in astonishment. A crossbow bolt – red again – protruded from his chest. From the darkness to his left, Geoffrey heard a sharp gasp of horror, which made it obvious that a dreadful mistake had been made and that the quarrel had missed its intended victim.

  Geoffrey dropped the dying man and took cover behind a stack of barrels, wondering what connection Peterkin’s killers had with the roof-top fighter, and whether whoever had been following them all afternoon – and on reflection Geoffrey realized they had been shadowed only after they had witnessed the skirmish – was anything to do with it.

  But it was not a good time for analysis. As he peered from behind the barrels, there was a sharp twang, and another quarrel smacked into the ground near his feet. As he ducked back, he saw a figure dart from the stable and race towards the seedy wharves that fringed the river. Geoffrey followed, but his armour was not designed for running and few knights took to their feet for exactly that reason. It was not long before he began to gasp for breath, and his quarry easily outdistanced him. Then an image of the slow-witted Peterkin came into his mind, and he forced himself to run harder, determined that neither of the two murderers should escape justice.

  The bowman dodged around the nautical clutter that filled the shore road, a muddy track that ran along the quay and was bordered by a stone sea wall. Ramshackle piers jutted into the river at right angles to the wall, unstable structures of decaying wood that were coated with algae and seaweed. Boats were moored to them, jostling each other as they rose and fell on the swell. These were not the great, proud ships that carried legal cargo, which were anchored in the main harbour, but small, ill-kept vessels that looked as if their owners would carry anything – or anyone – for a high enough price.

  The shore road was littered with ropes, broken barrels, the abandoned hulks of boats, and discarded fishing nets, made more treacherous by the film of snow that masked them from sight. Geoffrey tripped and almost fell over a rusting anchor chain, but regained his balance and thundered on. He saw the bowman slow down and zigzag as he reached a chaotic scatter of crates that were awaiting collection. He began to gain on him, and in desperation, the bowman vaulted across the wall, and scampered down one of the battered jetties. Geoffrey was bemused: the pier went nowhere, and once the man had reached the end of it, there would be nowhere left to go – unless he planned on swimming.

  The bowman soon realized he was trapped, and glanced behind him in an agony of terror. He reached a watchman’s tiny hut, and in the dim light of its lamp, Geoffrey recognized the rodent-like features: it was the older of the two roof-top combatants. Confused, Geoffrey watched him stumble over uneven planks and coiled ropes, wondering why the man should want to kill Peterkin. He broke into a run again, and was almost to the point where he could grab the hem of the killer’s flying cloak, when something hit him on the shoulder. It was not a serious blow, and he barely felt its impact through his chain mail, but it was enough to send him staggering towards the water. The timbers were rotten near the edge of the pier, and Geoffrey felt them crumble under his weight. He tried to fling himself sideways before the whole thing gave way, but a shadowy figure emerged from the darkness and gave him a shove. The wood snapped and Geo
ffrey began to fall.

  He hit the river with a tremendous splash. For an instant, he felt nothing, then a searing cold seeped through his clothes and shocked him into immobility. His padded linen surcoat soaked up water like a sponge and his chain mail and sword were heavy anyway. He began to sink like a stone.

  Water roared and frothed in Geoffrey’s ears, and he could see nothing in the pitch blackness. His instinct was to try to claw his way back to the surface to escape the black seawater that foamed and gurgled all around him, but a distant, rational part of his mind told him it would be futile given how heavy he was in his armour.

  Visions of being washed out to sea filled his mind, but then he bumped into something hard. It was one of the wooden piles that had been driven into the river bed to support the pier. He grabbed it in relief, wrapping his arms and legs around its barnacle-encrusted surface, and began to work his way up, climbing it as though it were a rope. It was easier than he imagined, and the vegetation that swept and waved around it helped, because he was able to use it to gain handholds.

  Just when he thought his lungs would burst, and he was on the verge of abandoning the sensible approach in favour of a panicky struggle upwards, his head broke the surface. As he took a great gasp of air, a wave slapped into his mouth, making him cough and splutter, retching as the sour, bitter taste of salt stung his throat. Gagging, he heard voices over the soft swish and gurgle of water, and realized his attackers were watching to see if he surfaced. He heard footsteps on the planking as they moved, walking along the pier to ensure he did not emerge farther down.

  ‘Who was he?’ one asked the other.

  ‘Who cares?’ said another man in the tremulous tenor of old age. ‘All I know is that we saw a bullying Norman knight chasing a peasant and we evened the odds in the peasant’s favour.’

  ‘I hope he was not a murderer or a traitor,’ said the first uneasily, and Geoffrey heard the planking groan above his head. He closed his eyes, feeling as though he were in the depths of some ghastly nightmare. Seldom had he ever felt so helpless, knowing it would take very little for the pair to dislodge his precarious grip on the slippery pillar and send him back to the bottom of the river.