The Bishop's Brood

by Simon Beaufort

  Eleanor looked doubtful, as well she might. Geoffrey thought she should decline his help, if she had any sense. It would be like placing a fox in charge of a hen coop, and all the wares would be sampled long before the masons or the soldiers had their chance.

  ‘You can think about this later,’ he said gently. ‘The first thing to do is collect your husband. Roger and I will escort you and arrange a litter.’

  ‘If you go with her, then I can stay here,’ said Roger, a predatory gleam in his eye. ‘I will make sure things are in order for tonight.’

  ‘Not before you have been to the castle,’ said Geoffrey sharply. However Roger might rank his preferences in ways to help his sister, his first duty was to escort her to collect the body of her husband, not leave that task to a comparative stranger. He also had to deliver Flambard’s letter.

  Eleanor gave Geoffrey a grateful look. ‘I am glad you are here – both of you. I might need your services, if the business downstairs becomes as lively as Cenred anticipates.’

  Geoffrey, unlike Roger, had no wish to be a brothel warden, but could think of no way to refuse her. He said nothing, but determined to think of an excuse that would allow him to leave in a day or two without seeming rude. Roger was more than capable of maintaining order in a bawdy house, even if he would be disastrous at running one.

  ‘I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news,’ said Cenred, setting down his unfinished ale. ‘But Durnais is due back soon. I will put the matter in his hands when he returns.’

  ‘Sheriff Durnais has left the city?’ asked Roger, astonished. ‘But he has never so much as set a foot outside the town gates the whole time I have known him.’

  ‘I know,’ said Cenred tiredly. ‘And his absence has put something of a burden on me, given that I am obliged to do his work as well as my own. He said he would be gone for seven days, which means he should return today or tomorrow.’

  ‘Where has he gone?’ asked Roger. ‘New Castle?’

  ‘New Castle is seventeen miles away,’ said Cenred heavily. ‘Of course he has not travelled such a vast distance on his first excursion in more than twenty years. He has ventured a mere eight miles from his cosy quarters, and has gone to Chester-le-Street.’

  ‘Chester-le-Street?’ echoed Roger, even more astonished. He elaborated for Geoffrey’s benefit. ‘That is between New Castle and Durham, and has nothing but a church and a few houses.’

  ‘I do not know what tempted him there,’ said Cenred, the bitterness in his voice suggesting he was offended that he had not been taken into the sheriff’s confidence. ‘But what with killers breaking into the homes of merchants, and the murder of travellers on the roads, I wish to God he was here!’

  Eleanor, gripping Geoffrey’s arm for support, followed the under-sheriff through the muddy streets to the castle chapel. The bitter north wind brought flakes of hard snow to sting uncovered hands and faces, and the stinking muck that carpeted the roads – a putrid combination of sewage, animal dung, and rotting vegetable parings – was already dusted white. Here and there, the gutters that channelled the liquid waste down through the city towards the river were frozen, and the ice caused blockages that spewed evil yellow-brown gouts across the streets. Geoffrey’s dog paddled among them in ecstasy.

  Roger walked with Cenred, telling him about the ambush in Eleanor’s house. Anxious that Roger might inadvertently betray the true purpose of his visit while doing so, Geoffrey listened to the conversation with half an ear, while Eleanor sobbed at his side and regaled him with an improbable list of her late husband’s virtues. Sergeant Helbye, puffy-eyed after what had probably been a lively night in the company of other professional soldiers, met them as they walked up the hill. Ulfrith was with him, fresh-faced and bright, suggesting that he, unlike Helbye, had managed an early night.

  ‘I heard what happened,’ Helbye muttered, as Eleanor went to walk with Roger. ‘Some villains probably saw you go into her house with loaded saddlebags and decided to chance their luck. I always said the north was a dangerous place.’

  ‘The luck of one of them ran out,’ replied Geoffrey, deciding not to take issue with him on the subject of dangerous places – their home at Goodrich was hardly a haven of peace and safety, either. He told Helbye what had happened and asked him to take the intruder’s body to the castle.

  ‘I will do it,’ said Ulfrith eagerly. ‘I will sling it over my shoulder and have it there in a trice!’

  ‘I am sure you will,’ said Geoffrey, noting the way the Saxon’s powerful shoulders already rippled in anticipation of exercise. ‘But use a bier instead. It looks more respectful.’

  Ulfrith nodded, his fair features grave as he listened to the instructions, then strode away in entirely the wrong direction. Geoffrey sighed.

  ‘Lord save us, Will! Watch him – and keep the horses ready, too. Roger plans to stay, but I want to leave as soon as I can.’

  ‘I thought he was pining for the Holy Land – wine, women and lots of fighting,’ said Helbye.

  ‘I do not think those are in short supply here,’ said Geoffrey, thinking Roger had made a wise choice to help his sister run her brothel, if wine, women and fighting were his criteria for a happy life.

  ‘I would not stay here,’ said Helbye firmly. ‘I have been talking to the soldiers at the castle. There is a competition between abbey and bishop to see who can be the least popular.’

  ‘Given that most people believe Flambard is the Devil Incarnate, the abbey must be doing an impressive job, then,’ remarked Geoffrey.

  ‘Oh, yes. Especially when you consider St Balthere’s bones.’ Helbye pursed his lips, and regarded Geoffrey knowingly, although the knight had no idea what he was talking about.

  ‘They were stolen,’ he said, recalling Simon talking about the theft of some relics the previous day.

  ‘When Flambard decided to become a bishop – about four years ago – he gave St Balthere’s bones to the people of Durham to show them he is a good man. But St Giles’ Church had barely finished making a hole in the altar to keep them when they were stolen. The word is that the abbey has them.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Geoffrey, puzzled.

  ‘So that all the pilgrims will go there, and the monks will not have to share their revenues with the town. The abbey cannot bear to lose what it considers its money.’

  ‘The sooner we leave here the better. If I hear much more about this abbey, I might feel the right course of action is not to deliver Flambard’s map to the prior, and then where would we be?’

  ‘Embroiled in politics,’ replied Helbye disapprovingly. ‘Deliver the map, lad, and let us be gone. Do not start considering what is right or wrong, or God knows what might happen.’

  It was sound advice. Geoffrey returned his sergeant’s salute and rejoined Eleanor and Roger. When they reached Owengate, a guard admitted Cenred and his companions into the castle’s bailey. Before Geoffrey could stop him, Roger darted towards an untidy cluster of houses between fort and cathedral, calling over his shoulder that he was going to ask Simon why he had failed to tell Cenred about the attack the previous night. Geoffrey scowled at his friend’s retreating back when he saw Eleanor’s look of dismay. Cenred shook his head with an expression that suggested he had expected no better from Roger, then led the way to the barbican that protected the castle’s main entrance. It lay beyond a series of ditches and banks, and was an impressive stone structure with a wooden archers’ gallery running around the top.

  Cenred strutted through the gate, giving his soldiers a brief nod as he passed, and entered an area dominated by the wooden keep. It stood atop its motte, and was reached by a flight of makeshift steps. Geoffrey saw that the sentries who patrolled its roof would be able to see for miles across the surrounding countryside. No army of any size would be able to come near without the alarm being raised. And from what Roger claimed, early warning of an attack was something vital in a place where Scots and Saxons alike bided their time to rebel against Normans, and where northern barons we
re not always loyal to the King.

  Cenred strode across the muddy courtyard to the chapel, and opened the clanking door to its dim and silent interior. It was small and intimate, and sturdy columns supported its barrel-vaulted roof. An unusual honey-coloured sandstone had been used for the piers, in which darker yellows swirled around paler ones to create an effect that was almost like marble. At the eastern end was the altar, which comprised a table bearing a single gold cross and two candlesticks. The floor was flagged with grey tiles, and daylight filtered dimly through the small windows to create an intriguing contrast of brightness and shadows. Geoffrey stood still, entranced by its stark simplicity.

  Eleanor’s attention, however, was on the three shrouded figures by the altar. She stood uncertainly until Cenred gave Geoffrey a poke with his elbow to bring him out of his reverie.

  ‘Do your duty,’ he muttered. ‘Do not just stand there gaping like a moonstruck calf!’

  ‘I was about to,’ whispered Geoffrey testily, reluctantly tearing his attention away from architecture and back to the grim realities of life – or rather of death. ‘Which corpse is Stanstede’s?’

  Cenred shrugged irritably. ‘I do not know. You will have to look. He will be the oldest. Proceed.’

  Instinct told Geoffrey to ignore such an insolent command, but Eleanor was white-faced, and he did not want to add to her distress by starting an argument with Cenred. He walked to the nearest body, and peeled back the cover that had been placed over its face. And gazed down in shock.

  The body was that of Xavier, the monk who had been with Flambard in Southampton.

  Geoffrey stared at the still features in confusion. Xavier’s flame-coloured hair and scarred face made him quite unmistakable. But he had not been wearing the habit of a Benedictine when he had died; he wore chain mail and a good-quality surcoat that had seen almost as much hard wear as had Geoffrey’s. It was marked with a black cross that indicated he was a Knight Hospitaller – an order of soldier-monks founded to protect pilgrims in the Holy Land. The Hospitallers were becoming a powerful force in the east, and their influence was spreading in the western world. Geoffrey regarded Xavier thoughtfully. Why had he worn the habit of a Benedictine in Southampton? And perhaps more importantly, what had he been doing to end up dead in Durham?

  ‘That is not my Haymo,’ said Eleanor. ‘He was much older than this man.’

  Geoffrey realized he had been staring at the body for some moments, and that she was waiting for him to move on to the next one. Cenred, however, was watching Geoffrey.

  ‘Do you know him? You seem startled by what you see.’

  Uncomfortably, Geoffrey saw that Cenred was intrigued by his reaction to Xavier’s body, and was intelligent enough to sense something amiss. He was relieved Roger was not there to reveal secrets he would rather no one else knew.

  ‘I am not from the north,’ he answered vaguely, ‘so am unlikely to be acquainted with anyone here.’

  ‘That is not what I asked,’ said Cenred, with more astuteness than Geoffrey would have accredited him. ‘I asked whether you know him.’

  ‘No,’ said Geoffrey shortly. ‘I do not.’

  It was not a lie: Geoffrey had no idea who ‘Brother Xavier’ really was. However, he was certain that whatever had transformed Xavier from a Benedictine in a harbour tavern to a dead Knight Hospitaller in Durham was something to do with Flambard and his dubious affairs.

  ‘I see,’ said Cenred, equally ambiguously. ‘However, even a dim-witted man could not fail to notice that the moment Roger reappears in my city, I find myself with three corpses on my hands.’

  ‘I know my brother has a reputation for brawling,’ said Eleanor softly, ‘but he cannot be responsible for these deaths. You said the attack took place at dusk, and he was with me at the time.’

  Cenred looked as though he would argue, but he nodded to her and turned to Geoffrey. ‘Cover him and show Mistress Stanstede her husband, so she can leave this place of death.’

  ‘Do you know him?’ asked Geoffrey, indicating Xavier. ‘Is he a local nobleman?’

  Cenred shook his head. ‘His name is Xavier de Downey, a knight in the Order of St John Hospitaller, according to a document he was carrying. I have no reason to believe otherwise.’

  ‘Document?’ asked Geoffrey, thinking of Flambard’s maps.

  Cenred made an impatient movement with his hand. ‘He had a letter from his Grand Master telling anyone concerned that he was on Hospitaller business. One of the castle clerks read it to me.’

  ‘Was there anything else?’ asked Geoffrey.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Cenred with a suspicious frown. ‘Why?’

  Sensing Cenred was not entirely convinced he was innocent of involvement in Xavier’s death, Geoffrey knew he should cover the dead knight and leave Durham before he was accused openly. But the questions that tumbled around in his mind were far more alluring, and he found his curiosity begin to get the better of his common sense.

  Making up his mind, he hauled the sheet away from Xavier’s body and let it drop on the ground, ignoring Eleanor’s startled gasp and Cenred’s indignant demand to know what he thought he was doing. The first thing that arrested Geoffrey’s attention was that Xavier had been shot in the chest. A circle of blood stained the surcoat around a small tear that had been caused by an arrow or a crossbow bolt, although the missile itself had been removed. Idly, Geoffrey wondered if it had been red.

  He looked more closely at the wound, and then poked it with his finger. Eleanor gave a horrified cry, and Cenred pushed forward, calling to the soldiers who waited outside. Quickly, Geoffrey stepped away from the body, raising his hands to indicate he had finished.

  ‘Look,’ he said to Cenred. ‘The surcoat is stained with blood, but when you feel underneath, you can see his chain mail protected him. The tip of the quarrel pierced his skin, but not sufficiently deeply to kill him.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ demanded Cenred. ‘Of course he died from the arrow wound.’

  ‘He did not. The arrow did not pass through his armour. He died by some other means.’

  Cenred stared at Geoffrey with a mixture of unease and distrust. ‘And how do you know such things? Are you a surgeon?’

  ‘No, but I have seen many men killed in battle, and I am telling you no arrow killed this man.’

  ‘What does it matter?’ asked Eleanor in a small voice. Geoffrey started guiltily. He had forgotten Eleanor in the clamour of questions about Xavier that had been jangling in his mind. ‘The poor man is dead anyway. What does it matter whether he was shot by an arrow or killed another way?’

  Cenred’s pig-like eyes swivelled from Geoffrey to her. ‘It matters very much. When Durnais returns, he will claim that a Norman has been slain by Saxon outlaws and revenge killings will follow. I would like to prevent that, if I can.’

  ‘Durnais will not blame Saxons for this,’ said Eleanor.

  ‘Oh, but he will,’ said Cenred bitterly. ‘He has done so before. Durnais is a man who sees everything in terms of Saxon-Norman rivalry. That will not happen when I am sheriff.’

  He nodded to his soldiers, who began to strip Xavier’s body. They did so with such efficiency and deftness that Geoffrey suspected they were no novices at removing clothing from corpses, and that Xavier’s was probably not the first to be deprived of its valuables. One of them held up the chain-mail tunic for Cenred to inspect, revealing that two metal rings had been displaced by the arrow, but that the resulting hole was too small to have allowed serious injury. This was borne out by the superficial puncture in Xavier’s chest, which had bled a little, but that even the uninitiated could see would not have been fatal.

  Cenred looked at Geoffrey coolly. ‘So, how did he die?’

  Now the corpse was naked, Geoffrey was surprised he should need to ask. He pointed to Xavier’s neck. ‘There are bruises there – as might be made by eight fingers and two thumbs.’

  ‘He was strangled?’ asked Cenred incredulously. ‘I do not think so! K
nights are not the kind of men who allow others to choke the life out of them. You can see for yourself he was armed to the teeth with daggers. If someone had tried to throttle him, he would have run his attacker through.’

  Geoffrey was about to say he did not know the answer, when he saw Xavier’s helmet. It was well worn, but polished. In it was a dent, and it looked as though someone had struck it, possibly stunning its wearer. He pointed it out to Cenred.

  ‘Perhaps he was knocked from his horse by a stone, then choked while he lay insensible and unable to defend himself.’

  Cenred considered for a while, staring down at the corpse and oblivious to Eleanor’s mounting distress. ‘As under-sheriff, I have seen a few murdered corpses and I am slowly becoming familiar with the clues they offer. I think he was strangled first and shot later. There would have been more blood if he had been alive when he was shot.’

  ‘Why would someone shoot a dead man?’ asked Geoffrey, puzzled.

  ‘Who knows? But Saxon outlaws are unlikely to strangle their victims – they would sooner use their bows. Perhaps I can use this fact to subdue rumours of a Saxon atrocity against Normans.’

  Geoffrey pulled away the sheet from the next of the bodies. The youthful face that gazed sightlessly at the fine barrel-vaulted ceiling meant nothing to Geoffrey, although his age and clothes suggested he was Xavier’s squire. There was no question that he had been killed by an arrow, because the missile had struck him in the face, piercing the skull near the eye. Geoffrey replaced the cover and moved to the last corpse, aware that he had prolonged Eleanor’s ordeal long enough, and that he should do his duty and help her take her husband home.

  She sighed when she saw the grizzled old face, and leaned down to touch its cheek. Like the squire, Haymo had died from arrow wounds. Tears glistened on her face, and she brushed them away slowly. ‘Poor Haymo. He did not deserve this.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Cenred sincerely. ‘I have no words of comfort other than that I will try to find the men responsible for this and bring them to justice.’

  Geoffrey declined Cenred’s offer of soldiers to carry Stanstede away, and used his own men instead. He watched them fashion a stretcher from twine and two planks of wood, ensured the body was securely fastened to it – seeing it tumble into the mud was something that would do Eleanor no good – and led the grim procession away. Eleanor’s face regained some of its colour once she was out of the frigid gloom of the chapel, and she no longer clung quite so hard to Geoffrey’s arm.