‘Tancred,’ mused Flambard. ‘An ambitious and greedy prince, who went on Crusade for the sole purpose of amassing personal power and fortune. I considered doing the same myself, but things were going rather well at home, and I thought it was rash to risk so much on what might have proved an unprofitable venture.’
Geoffrey turned to Flambard’s companions. ‘How did you help him escape?’ he asked with genuine interest. ‘The Tower is supposed to be impregnable – at least, that is what the King tells the citizens of London, who are being taxed to pay for the thing.’
‘I put the rope in the wine and arranged for horses to be ready,’ the redhead said. ‘But the whole thing was Odard’s idea.’
Odard demurred. ‘Xavier flatters me. I am just a humble monk.’
He looked anything but humble, and Geoffrey imagined him capable of arranging a good deal more than mere prison break-outs.
‘Geoffrey wanted to be a scholar,’ boomed Roger irrelevantly. ‘It was because he ran away to Paris’s libraries so often that the Duke of Normandy sent him to tutor Tancred in Italy.’
‘What was wrong with a career in healthy slaughter?’ asked Flambard, humour glinting again in his eyes. ‘Do you prefer books to butchery, Sir Geoffrey?’
‘Don’t you, My Lord Bishop?’ replied Geoffrey evasively.
‘I considered a military life when I was younger,’ said Flambard, wincing as he used his damaged hands to take a piece of meat from Roger’s platter. ‘Pork in Lent! Still, it is my favourite meat.’
‘It is mine, too,’ said Roger fawningly.
‘So what prevented you from pursuing a career in slaughter?’ asked Geoffrey of Flambard.
The bishop chewed thoughtfully. ‘It did not take long for me to learn that life as a courtier was far more lucrative. I took holy orders when King William Rufus offered to make me a bishop.’
‘I heard the office cost you a thousand pounds,’ remarked Geoffrey. It was a fabulous sum of money, beyond the wildest dreams of most folk.
Flambard sighed. ‘You are right. I did not relish watching such a large sum disappear, but it will be worth the price eventually. Durham is a great prize. I own huge tracts of land, my own mint, my own court of law, and several castles. It will make me rich.’
‘You will miss them, then,’ said Geoffrey insolently, ‘when you flee to Normandy.’ He did not like this gloating, complacent churchman, no matter how much Roger would have him believe that his father was only a miracle or two short of canonization.
‘I will not leave them for long,’ said Flambard, unmoved by Geoffrey’s obvious antipathy. ‘Henry is not secure on his throne yet, and may be ousted by a man with a greater claim – like the Duke. Failing that, I am rich enough to win Henry over eventually.’
‘You mean you will bribe him to allow you to return?’ asked Geoffrey.
Flambard pretended to be shocked. ‘Sir Geoffrey! That would be tantamount to the crime of simony, and I am a man of God! I was merely proposing that I might offer the King a loan, so he can use the money to protect his kingdom against his enemies.’
‘I see,’ said Geoffrey, thinking that Flambard was a brave man indeed, if he planned to visit the Duke of Normandy first, to see what might be gained from serving him, and then proposed to return to King Henry if the Duke proved unsuitable. Geoffrey would not have attempted to play such a dangerous game.
‘Good meat, this,’ said Roger, waving a bone in Geoffrey’s direction. ‘You should try some. It will fortify you for our journey north, to complete the small task my father asks of us.’
‘My journey is east – to Normandy and the Holy Land,’ said Geoffrey, as the big knight cracked the bone between his powerful jaws.
Roger shook his head. ‘My father wants something first.’
Geoffrey regarded Flambard coolly. ‘We are taking a serious risk even to be seen with you. You are an escaped felon, and King Henry will not look kindly on anyone who helps you. But it would be more dangerous still to run your errands. We will not do it.’
‘We will,’ said Roger. ‘My father needs me.’
Dark-haired Odard gestured around the tavern. ‘Where lies the danger? We are three humble monks enjoying a cup of ale in the company of strangers. No one will associate your change of plans – to travel north instead of to the Holy Land – with us. We met purely by chance.’
‘No,’ said Geoffrey. ‘This is no random encounter, but one that has been carefully planned. You knew Roger would be in Southampton looking for a ship to take him to Normandy. You have been following him all day, waiting for an opportunity to speak.’
‘What do you mean?’ demanded Roger. ‘I was just sitting here and he spotted me. I had no idea he would be in this tavern.’
‘But he knew you would be here,’ said Geoffrey. ‘It was he who recommended the Saracen’s Head as a place to stay, remember? And now I cannot help but wonder whether all those captains were bribed not to sell us passage – to prevent you from leaving before you had been inveigled into doing whatever it is Flambard feels he cannot do himself.’
‘How could a mere cleric hold such sway over rough sea captains?’ asked Flambard, in a way that suggested rough sea captains posed no problem at all for a ‘mere cleric’ of his talents and resources.
‘We sensed we were being followed,’ Geoffrey continued. ‘And we were right. The good brothers here were probably doing that – although not very well.’
Xavier was indignant at the criticism, although Odard merely smiled his secret smile. Their reactions told Geoffrey his guess was correct, and his unease intensified. The errand Flambard wanted his son to complete must be important indeed, if he were prepared to go to such lengths to ensure cooperation.
‘Father would never do such a low thing,’ said Roger defensively, to the startled amusement of Xavier and Odard. Flambard inclined his head graciously, and Geoffrey felt a surge of fury that the man should so casually abuse the blind trust Roger placed in him.
Observing Geoffrey’s anger, Flambard fixed him with a cold glower and for the first time, Geoffrey sensed his malevolence, aware he would sacrifice anything and anyone to get what he wanted. He had not risen from obscurity to one of the most powerful positions in England by ability alone, and Geoffrey detected a ruthlessness in him that was chilling.
‘Roger is my son,’ said Flambard in a soft voice with steel in it. ‘When I command him to do something, he obeys.’
‘Even when you command him to break the law?’ asked Geoffrey, holding Flambard’s gaze. His instincts told him to leave immediately, but then what would happen to Roger? The big knight would be putty in Flambard’s hands, and who knew what he might agree to do without Geoffrey to advise him? ‘Would you have him executed by King Henry because he plots treason on your behalf?’
‘Now, just a moment,’ objected Roger indignantly. ‘He has only asked me to deliver a message. Where lies the treason in that?’
Flambard ignored him and shook his head at Geoffrey. ‘You do me an injustice – and Roger, too. Do you put so little faith in his integrity?’
It was not Roger’s integrity that Geoffrey was worried about – although integrity was not a word he would have used to describe Roger’s straightforward outlook on life – it was his gullibility. Geoffrey knew that Roger genuinely believed Flambard could do no wrong.
‘I have intestacy and plenty of it,’ declared Roger, earning a bemused look from the others. He beamed at his father. ‘You can put your faith in my intestacy all you like.’
Flambard patted his hand and then turned his bright gaze on Geoffrey again. ‘I want Roger to deliver a message to my prior at Durham. It contains nothing treasonous or sinister: it is merely a pastoral missive from one cleric to another.’
‘Really?’ asked Geoffrey sceptically. ‘Can I see it?’
‘Certainly,’ said Flambard, reaching for his scrip.
‘He can read,’ interposed Roger for Flambard’s information. ‘He likes to look at books.’ He made it
sound a pastime akin to sodomy or conjuring up black spirits from Hell.
‘What I say to my prior is none of your affair,’ said Flambard, dropping his hand away from his scrip as though it had been burned.
Clearly, he had not anticipated that one of the notoriously rough Holy Land knights would be literate, and Geoffrey was more convinced than ever that Flambard’s missive was anything but pastoral. He determined that Roger should have nothing to do with it.
‘The Prince-Bishop of Durham will not have his private messages perused by nosy knights,’ said Odard with courtly disdain. ‘I imagine you are not even a knight with property to speak of. You are doubtless an impecunious younger son of a man with too many children.’
It did not take a genius to see that Odard hoped to make Geoffrey feel he was unworthy to read Flambard’s episcopal missives, but his guess about Geoffrey’s heritage was right to a certain extent: Geoffrey was a fourth son and his tiny manor on the Welsh borders would never make him wealthy. However, he felt himself justified in reading whatever it was Flambard wanted to give to Roger.
‘I will not yield to your demand to read my correspondence,’ said Flambard haughtily. ‘You can go back to Jerusalem, to murder old men and steal from widows too weak to stop you.’
‘Very well,’ said Geoffrey, standing to leave and thinking that the descriptions of his supposed activities in the Holy Land were more akin to the wrongs Flambard had perpetrated than anything he had ever done.
‘Geoff, wait!’ cried Roger. ‘I cannot do this alone. I need someone to go with me.’
‘People journey north every day,’ said Geoffrey, hoping Roger would see sense and decline Flambard’s mission when he realized he would have to do it alone.
‘I need soldiers,’ protested Roger, grabbing Geoffrey’s arm to prevent him from walking away.
‘You have Ulfrith,’ said Geoffrey. ‘He will protect you.’
Roger’s tone became wheedling. ‘Please, Geoff! You always said you wanted to see the cathedral in Durham. I will show it to you. And there are other churches, too, not to mention a fine library.’
Geoffrey smiled at Roger’s attempts to entice him. ‘All the churches and libraries in the world will mean nothing if the King’s agents arrest us for carrying secret dispatches from Flambard to his minions. I will have nothing to do with this, and if you have the remotest grain of sense in your thick head, you will not either.’
Flambard stood as Geoffrey picked up his cloak, ignoring Roger’s indignant spluttering. ‘Very well. I see I will have to take you further into my confidence.’
‘No, thank you!’ objected Geoffrey hastily, trying to step around him.
A meaty hand grabbed the hem of his surcoat and prevented him from leaving. ‘Just listen,’ said Roger quietly. ‘Listening will harm no one.’
That depended on what you heard, thought Geoffrey. He was certain King Henry would not appreciate the difference between listening to treason and acting on it.
‘You consider me a traitor,’ said Flambard reproachfully. ‘I am not. However, while I was in the service of Rufus, I had occasion to amass a little personal wealth.’
‘So I gather,’ said Geoffrey dryly. While most taxes Flambard had collected had doubtless found their way to Rufus’s coffers, Flambard was far too greedy to have handed them all over, and Geoffrey was not at all surprised to hear he was a rich man.
‘I intend to donate most of my gold for the building of my cathedral,’ said Flambard. He lowered his voice, so Geoffrey had to strain to hear what he was saying. ‘It is not cheap to hire a hundred masons for four decades, yet that is what I must do if my mighty church-fortress is to be completed. We have been working ten years already, and only the chancel is finished. We are just beginning the nave and the transepts. A vast sum will be needed, and I have it hidden in a safe place.’
‘So, you have set money aside for the cathedral, and you want us to tell the prior of Durham where it is?’ asked Geoffrey, not sure he believed it. Coming from a man of Flambard’s dubious reputation, it sounded unlikely at best.
Flambard nodded. ‘You are a shrewd man, Geoffrey Mappestone. I would feel happier if I knew my son’s safety was in your hands.’
‘Now, just a moment,’ objected Roger, offended. ‘I can look after myself. I am no child to be given a nursemaid. I am a Jerosolimitanus!’
‘I know,’ said Flambard soothingly. ‘But all men fare better with a friend than alone.’
‘That depends on the friend,’ said Geoffrey.
Flambard was still gazing at him. ‘Your guess about the nature of my message is not quite right. You see, the amount of money we are talking about here is considerable – so considerable I can trust no one person to resist its lure and ensure it goes to the cathedral.’
‘You have appointed men you cannot trust to build it?’ asked Geoffrey, amused that Flambard was reaping the fruits of his corrupt practices in such a way.
Flambard sighed. ‘I would trust them with lesser sums, but this is a fortune beyond the imaginations of most men.’
‘Then you should not tell greedy Crusader knights about it,’ advised Geoffrey.
Flambard sighed impatiently. ‘Listen, and you will understand all. I have drawn three maps on three pieces of parchment. Separately, these maps mean nothing, but together they form a whole and will reveal where my treasure is hidden. I have already sent two parchments by separate messengers – one to the Sheriff of Durham and the other to a goldsmith called Walter Jarveaux. The third, I will send with Roger to Prior Turgot.’
‘Who are the other messengers?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘Men I trust,’ said Flambard evasively.
‘It would not be these two, would it?’ asked Roger, pointing at Xavier and Odard.
Flambard smiled indulgently. ‘I have just told you that the other two messages have already been dispatched. Odard and Xavier would not be sitting here if they had been sent north, would they?’
‘I do not understand how this map works,’ said Roger, frowning. ‘Why are the parchments impossible to interpret alone?’
Flambard withdrew something from the scrip at his side, while his two companions regarded it in horror, clearly appalled to see it waved openly in a tavern. Flambard ignored them.
‘This is the map for Turgot,’ he said, as Geoffrey took it from him ‘As you can see, it is blank except for a cross. This cross marks where the treasure is hidden.’
‘I see,’ said Geoffrey. ‘A cross on a blank page is useless, but if it is laid over a map showing rivers, forests, and villages, it will tell you where this fortune is located.’
‘Precisely,’ said Flambard. ‘The second map depicts two streams and a path; the third map indicates the location of a settlement. You might think that whoever has the map with the name of the area has an advantage over the others, but all it will tell him is that the treasure is hidden within a five-mile radius. And even a man desperate with greed cannot dig up huge tracts of countryside on the vague chance that he might discover my hoard.’
‘I would,’ said Roger. ‘I would hire a team of men and promise them a share when it was found.’
‘I would explore the area carefully, looking for evidence of disturbed soil,’ said Geoffrey. ‘If this hoard is as large as you suggest, then burying it would have left a mark on the ground.’
Flambard grinned. ‘And that intelligent approach would mean you would be more likely to find it than Roger. But I am not stupid. I employed men skilled in such matters to bury my treasure. It is hidden so well that no one will ever find it without the help of my maps.’
‘And what is to stop these “skilled men” from helping themselves?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘They have been taken care of,’ said Odard smoothly.
‘You mean you have killed them to ensure their silence?’ asked Geoffrey coldly. ‘Is that what will happen to Roger once he has done your bidding?’
‘Nothing will happen to him – or you – because you know not
hing important,’ said Flambard. ‘Without the other two, your map is worthless. I know I can trust Roger to do as I ask.’
‘You can trust Geoff, too,’ said Roger, giving his friend a comradely slap on the back. ‘He is less interested in riches than anyone I know. Even if he did come across the treasure, he would probably donate it to the cathedral anyway. He likes a pretty building.’
‘Well, that is settled then,’ said Flambard, mischief glinting in his dark-brown eyes. ‘None of us has anything to worry about. Roger is a good son who will carry out his father’s wishes; Geoffrey has no ambition for wealth; and my treasure will be used to praise the glory of God with a great cathedral that will be one of the wonders of the world. What evil is there in that?’
Four
March 1101, Durham
‘God’s teeth!’ breathed Geoffrey in awe, as he and Roger, with their men streaming behind them, crested the rise of a hill and the city of Durham came into view. He reined in his horse to admire the spectacle in front of him. ‘That is remarkable!’
The city was several miles away, yet it dominated the landscape. It stood on a rocky peninsula set in a loop of the River Wear. On three sides, it was protected by cliffs and the river; the fourth was defended by the castle, which comprised a double moat, an octagonal keep atop a motte, and a wall. Entry to the peninsula was controlled by sturdy and well-guarded gates.
On the highest point of the peninsula, occupying the best position, was the cathedral. The completed chancel stood like a palace, with layer upon layer of blind arcades and round-headed windows. The foundations were already laid for the nave, which promised to be so large it took Geoffrey’s breath away. Once it was finished, Flambard’s largess in funding it would be remembered for centuries – and Geoffrey was certain the notion of everlasting fame was not too far from the bishop’s mind as he continued what his ecclesiastical predecessors had started.
The Bishop's Brood Page 7
