‘St Giles’ Church,’ said Roger. ‘He is less famous, but the Saxons are fond of him.’
‘They were,’ said Simon. ‘But he was stolen four years ago and no one has heard of him since.’
‘Someone stole Balthere’s bones?’ asked Roger, horrified. He crossed himself quickly. ‘Then someone is bound for the fires and brimstone of Hell and that is certain. The saints do not like their mortal remains manhandled.’
‘Most people have forgotten about Balthere,’ said Simon. ‘Especially now we will soon have something to put even Cuthbert in the shade. Everyone will like Aaron’s Rod.’
‘I am sure they will,’ said Geoffrey. ‘And I am equally sure they will pay handsomely to pray near it and ask it for boons.’
‘Oh, yes,’ agreed Roger, rubbing his hands together. ‘It will certainly bring in the money.’
‘Come on,’ said Simon, yanking on Roger’s surcoat. ‘It is cold in here. I do not want to spend the day gawking at relics – no matter how holy they are. That is for monks and men who can read.’
He gave Geoffrey another unpleasant look, so the knight wondered yet again what it was about literacy that so often provoked hostile reactions from those who did not possess such skills.
He followed the brothers along the footpath that wound back to Owengate. It jigged to the left, and Geoffrey found himself in the marketplace, the heart of the city. The market comprised a rectangle of trampled mud, fringed by the houses of merchants who owned the right to sell their goods there. Some, like the tanner’s home, were small and mean, with rotting roofs and walls covered in cheap plaster. Others, like the clothier’s establishment, showed signs of recent wealth, and work was in progress to add more storeys and larger rooms. Some even had windows filled with what looked to Geoffrey to be real glass.
To one side of the square was the house of Haymo Stanstede, husband to Roger’s sister. Oddly, it appeared as though its occupants were still asleep, even though the sun was already dipping in the west. It was a fine house, with a smart tiled roof. The door was a startling red, while the shutters, closed against the winter chill, were painted in a lively but eccentric pattern of green and yellow. It was not the kind of house Geoffrey usually associated with spice merchants, but supposed the man’s trade had allowed him to travel, and his tastes were accordingly exotic.
Simon hammered on the door, which was eventually answered by a woman sleepily rubbing her eyes. She was in her early twenties, and her full figure was only just covered by the tight-fitting lace dress that Geoffrey doubted did much in the way of warding off the cold.
Roger treated her to a leering wink. ‘Good morning, Agnes. Is my sister in?’
‘Roger!’ she cried, hurling herself into his arms. ‘You are back! The infidel did not kill you!’
‘No, lass,’ said Roger, treating her to a smacking kiss that made her eyes water. ‘But I killed a good number of them. Thousands, probably. But do not keep an old warrior out in the wind. Let me in, and tell my sister that me and my friend have come to stay with her.’
Agnes shrieked indignantly as Roger’s hand snaked behind her, and then beckoned him inside the house with a coquettish smile.
The house comprised a large chamber on the ground floor with a flight of wooden stairs to one side. The main room was hall-like, with a central hearth and tables and benches set out like those of a tavern. The walls were painted in bright colours, and the rushes on the floor were reasonably clean. Geoffrey was impressed. The house was enormous by any standards, and even his brother’s castle in Goodrich did not boast such space.
There were a number of women inside, some wearing little more than their undergarments, although the unannounced presence of two knights did not seem to unsettle them unduly. Geoffrey made an association between their weary insouciance and the bawdy depictions in most of the wall paintings, and realized that while Stanstede might well sell spices, he indulged in an entirely different trade after dark. Geoffrey imagined Roger’s sister at the centre of it all, a formidable matron with whiskers on her chin and a ready hand to thump recalcitrant customers into submission should the need arise – a female version of Roger, in fact.
‘Eleanor!’ exclaimed Roger, stepping forward to greet the woman who walked down the stairs to see who was calling out of hours. ‘You look bloody marvellous, lass!’
That was one way of putting it, thought Geoffrey. He found himself gazing at one of the loveliest women he had ever seen. Like Roger, her hair was dark, almost black, although hers hung in a shining sheet down her back, not arranged in dirty short spikes. Her eyes were an arresting dark amber, and were surrounded by long eyelashes that accentuated the alabaster colouring of her skin. She was tall – almost as tall as Geoffrey – but her graceful posture did not make her seem oversized. Geoffrey was very seldom at a loss for words, but he found himself so when he first set eyes on Roger’s sister.
That evening, Geoffrey, Roger and Simon sat at a long oak table in the solar, an upper-storey room in Eleanor’s sumptuous house, well away from the noisy activities that were taking place in the brothel below. Eleanor waited on her guests, filling a cup here and offering a plate of nuts there, ensuring they were comfortably seated. Ranulf Flambard had evidently ensured his daughter was well trained in courtly manners, because Geoffrey had seldom been so graciously and politely attended. There was a roaring fire in the hearth, and the meal she had provided was delicious.
It was also the first time in years that Geoffrey had dined in formal clothes. Usually, he wore either full battle gear or the light chain-mail tunic and boiled-leather leggings that passed as half-armour. Very occasionally, he dispensed with military regalia and wore the hose and shirt that went underneath, although he only had two sets of each and both were in desperate need of repair and laundering.
Roger insisted that to wear armour would be an insult to his sister’s hospitality, and that they should dress in something more appropriate. He donned the shirt of blue silk he usually wore when he visited brothels, a less-than-salubrious garment with a sinister rip surrounding a dark stain on the back that indicated the fate of its first owner. With it he wore red woollen leggings and a handsome jerkin with gold laces on the front – clothes that Eleanor had kept for him while he went on the Crusade.
Geoffrey was pondering which of his shapeless brown hose and stained shirts would be least offensive to female company, when Roger had offered to lend him something. Geoffrey had demurred, not wanting to be clad in clothes looted from someone Roger had killed in battle, or in something so thick with filth that it could stand of its own accord. But he had been astonished to learn that Roger, before he had gone to fight Saracens, had been considered quite a sartorial figure. The day he had left, Eleanor had washed and folded his many fine clothes and packed them in a chest with scented wood balls – and something that smelled a little less pleasant to take care of moths – to await his return.
Nonchalantly, the big knight recommended a few appropriate items for his friend, as a result of which Geoffrey was dressed in dark blue hose that were too big for him, and a shirt of thick linen that was whiter than anything he had owned in his life. He had washed away most of the grime of the journey in a bowl of hot water scattered with rose petals, and had shaved himself with his dagger, making a neater job of it than Roger, whose face was ravaged by crusted blobs of blood and angry red grazes. To complete the effect, Geoffrey’s hair was neatly trimmed and brushed, and he had even remembered to scour his fingernails.
‘Tell me about your journey from Southampton, Sir Geoffrey,’ said Eleanor, wearily breaking into another of Roger’s lurid tales of slaughter and looting in the Holy Land.
Roger gazed at her in surprise. ‘But nothing happened, except for the odd skirmish with robbers who thought better of it once they encountered real fighting men. All our best stories are from the Crusade.’
Eleanor smiled, revealing small white teeth, and gave her brother an affectionate tap on the cheek. ‘But I find it hard to b
elieve that every man, woman, and child in Palestine lusts for Christian blood, and that their sole purpose in life is to desecrate Christian shrines.’
‘It is true!’ protested Roger indignantly. ‘Ask Geoffrey.’
Geoffrey did not feel comfortable lying to the lovely Eleanor, but nor did he want to expose his friend as a man who stretched the truth. No matter how much Roger had convinced himself that the butchery and slaughter of the Crusade was just, there had been some appalling acts of inhumanity that still troubled Geoffrey’s sleep on occasions. He had barely begun to consider how to extricate himself from his dilemma when Eleanor spoke.
‘I imagine these sword-wielding savages you slew by the thousand were like people here would be, if a foreign force invaded their lands,’ she said dryly. ‘I cannot see the infidel are so different from us.’
Simon gave a snort of derision. ‘Do not talk rubbish, Eleanor! The Saxons barely raised a finger when the Normans seized their lands thirty-five years ago.’
‘But the Normans did not slaughter as many Saxons as they could find, then set out to ensure the rest led lives of such misery that they would be forced to leave, did they?’ said Eleanor sharply. ‘The conquest of England and the conquest of the Holy Land are not comparable.’
Roger gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘That is because the Saxons are Christians, Ellie. They knew the Normans were coming to make life better for them.’
‘So, when the Conqueror seized England, he was doing it out of the goodness of his heart, was he?’ asked Geoffrey, amused by the notion.
Simon gave him an unpleasant look. He had taken every opportunity that evening to voice his disapproval of Roger’s guest, and Geoffrey was beginning to find his poor manners tiresome. ‘The Saxons are an inferior race, and should be grateful we offered them better lives,’ he said coldly.
‘Simon’s mother was a Norman blacksmith’s daughter,’ said Eleanor to Geoffrey. ‘And so he claims pure Norman ancestry. Roger and I, however, had a mother who was Saxon, so, I suppose he is saying he considers himself superior.’
‘Our mother was a fine woman,’ said Roger, before Simon could reply. ‘Our father knows how to select wenches! Every one of them was a beauty.’
Eleanor smiled, and laid an elegant hand on Roger’s brawny arm. ‘You are trying to prevent us from arguing. You are right. We should not bicker as we celebrate the return of our dearest brother.’
‘Exactly,’ said Roger, raising a slopping cup in a clumsy salute. ‘Drink to my health, Simon! And then I will tell you about the Siege of Antioch.’
‘No!’ said Eleanor firmly. ‘If you keep up these stories, I shall have nightmares all night.’
‘Your husband can comfort you, then,’ said Roger, disappointed that his colourful tales were to be cut short. ‘That is what they are for.’
‘Haymo is away. He has gone to New Castle for spices, so I shall be alone tonight.’
‘But I cannot stop now,’ said Roger, recalling yet another story he wanted to share with his family. ‘I still have not told you about when I killed seven Saracens with a single sweep of my sword.’
Eleanor regarded her brother sceptically and then turned to Geoffrey. ‘Did he? Then all I can say is that they must have been standing very conveniently close together.’
‘Do not ask him to verify my bravery that day,’ said Roger, flashing Geoffrey a scornful glance. ‘He went off to look at books during the height of the slaughter.’
‘So he is a coward,’ pounced Simon with spiteful satisfaction. ‘A man who prefers to read than join his friends in a noble battle against the Devil’s spawn.’
‘Why did you not join the Crusade?’ asked Geoffrey, turning on him, and finally tired of his insults.
Roger had been correct in that Geoffrey had declined to take part in the slaughter at Antioch, but most of that had occurred after the battle, in which Geoffrey had acquitted himself as well – and better in many cases – than his fellow knights. He objected to being called a coward, especially by Simon, who had probably never seen a real fight in his life. Automatically, his hand dropped to the hilt of his dagger, only to find that it was not there. It was in another chamber, along with his sword, because Eleanor had taken one look at the arsenal carried by the two knights, even in civilian clothes, and had ordered them away to disarm themselves before sitting at her table.
‘I have a bad leg,’ replied Simon icily, although Geoffrey had detected no limp. ‘I received a near-fatal wound defending Durham from a raid by Scots.’
‘That near-fatal wound was a scratch, Simon,’ said Eleanor, laughing. ‘You men! Why do you always exaggerate? A graze is always a serious injury, and a running nose is a falling sickness. You are worse than children.’
‘It was not really a raid, either,’ added Roger. ‘Two Scottish peasants tried to steal that pig of yours and you fell over attempting to get it back.’
Simon’s lips compressed into a hard thin line. ‘The thieves outnumbered me and I was injured protecting my property. I—’
Roger guffawed and gave his brother one of his hearty shoulder claps. ‘You and that pig! I swear you love the thing more than you would a wife.’
‘Why not tell Geoffrey the real reason you did not join Roger on the Crusade?’ asked Eleanor. ‘It was because you were needed to organize the castle guards. The security of a city like Durham is a considerable responsibility and Sheriff Durnais felt he could trust no one else to do it.’
Simon’s glittering gaze was fixed on Geoffrey. ‘I am no coward – unlike you.’
‘Geoffrey is no coward,’ said Roger. ‘He fights better than any knight I know, but prefers to kill soldiers, rather than women or unarmed men – for the added challenge, I suppose. At Antioch, there were very few armed soldiers to fight. We crept in at night, you see, when most of them were in bed.’
‘That is horrible!’ said Eleanor, pulling a face that registered her disgust. She stood abruptly. ‘That is enough! You can discuss this tomorrow if you must, but there will be no more tales of killing in my house tonight!’
The rest of the evening passed uncomfortably. Roger had to be interrupted on numerous occasions when he started to relate the kind of tale that was forbidden; Eleanor was angry with him for spoiling a happy occasion; and Simon was sullen because he did not like Geoffrey. His temper expressed itself in a variety of ways, ranging from spilling wine so it dripped in the knight’s lap, to making disparaging remarks about his dog.
Reluctantly, Roger described the journey he and his companions had made from Southampton. He was, however, careful to omit the real reason for their visit. Geoffrey had decided that the fewer people who knew about Flambard’s maps and the hidden treasure, the safer it would be – for everyone concerned. Geoffrey had devised a lie that Roger knew he was to tell if anyone asked why he had travelled north.
Roger had done well for himself in the Holy Land, and his saddlebags were full of loot. Geoffrey recommended that he should deposit some of it with the Durham goldsmith, so it would be there for him when he returned home – or would pass to Eleanor if he did not. No one, except the prior, need ever know the true reason for the visit.
‘Did you travel through London?’ asked Simon in a bored voice, pandering to Eleanor’s demand for non-violent conversation. ‘It would be the most direct route.’
‘We did not,’ said Roger sourly. ‘We went via Salisbury, because someone had an urge to see some standing stones. It added days to our journey.’
‘But it was worth it,’ said Geoffrey enthusiastically. ‘I have read about the ancient stone circle that stands outside the city of Salisbury, although no one knows who put it there—’
‘He refused to come with me unless we made the detour,’ interrupted Roger. ‘He likes looking at that sort of thing.’
‘I can well imagine,’ muttered Simon disparagingly. ‘But why did you want him with you at all? You must know your way from the southern ports to Durham by now.’
‘We have enjoyed ma
ny adventures together,’ said Roger, reaching across the table to take a large piece of meat. His next words were all but indecipherable when he declined to allow speaking to interfere with the more important process of chewing. ‘It is good to travel with a man you can trust, and he wanted to see our cathedral anyway.’
‘He would,’ muttered Simon, eyeing Geoffrey unpleasantly.
‘I could tell you about the two horse thieves we met at York,’ said Roger, eyeing Eleanor hopefully. ‘That is a tale related to our journey from Southampton and not about the Crusade.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Eleanor. ‘Tell me about the city of York instead. Is it true that a great minster is being built, and that the market is the finest in England?’
Roger sighed. ‘It is a church, no more. And I did not notice the market. I am a soldier, not a tradesman. But our journey here was a hard one, and more than once we were in danger—’
‘Our journey was uneventful,’ interrupted Geoffrey quickly.
‘But that one-eyed knight from York—’
‘The minster is a fine building,’ said Geoffrey. ‘It is not as grand as Durham, but it—’
‘Since we are talking about York, I must tell you about the one-eyed knight,’ boomed Roger. Simon leaned forward, interested. ‘It is not a tale with too much bloodshed.’
Geoffrey resigned himself to the fact that if Roger wanted to tell stories of battles and slaughter, there was very little anyone could do to prevent it – even Eleanor, a forceful lady who knew her own mind. Simon was entranced, though, and it was not long before the comparatively bloodless encounter with the poor one-eyed soldier had become embellished to the point where Geoffrey was not sure whether he and Roger had even shared the same experience.
‘Have you lived in Durham all your life?’ Geoffrey asked Eleanor politely, feeling obliged to offer an alternative topic of conversation.
She smiled gratefully. ‘For most of it. My father sent me to a convent to receive training in some of the courtly arts.’
The Bishop's Brood Page 9
