People watched as they passed, some removing caps and hats as a mark of respect, and Geoffrey heard them muttering, telling those who had not yet heard about the ambush of travellers on the New Castle to Durham road. He heard the words ‘Saxon’ and ‘Norman’ whispered frequently, and was astonished that a commonly held assumption was that the Normans had killed one of their own, so Saxons would be blamed. By contrast, a distinguished group of Norman merchants were equally convinced that Stanstede’s death was a simple case of Saxon savagery. Geoffrey watched Cenred’s porcine features turn grim as he overheard the accusations and counter-accusations. They were just passing through Owengate when they met Roger.
‘He has gone,’ he announced, aggrieved. ‘His house is empty.’
‘Who?’ asked Geoffrey. His thoughts were still on Eleanor. ‘The prior?’
‘Simon,’ said Roger impatiently. ‘His house is deserted and he seems to have left the city. No one has seen him today and I have looked in all the places he usually frequents. He is nowhere to be found. Even his pig is missing.’
‘His pig?’ asked Cenred, concerned. ‘Where is the poor beast?’
‘I wish I knew,’ said Roger. ‘Simon and that pig are inseparable, and if we find the pig, we will find him.’
Geoffrey turned away, so Eleanor would not detect his unease. Perhaps she had been wrong to send Simon out to inform the sheriff about the attack, and he was now dead, too. He took a deep breath, smelling the sharp, clean scent of new snow and the sulphurous stench of the open sewers, and wished they had never agreed to help Flambard. He did not like the sensation that events were unfolding all around him, and that he had no control over what would happen next.
It was past noon by the time Haymo’s body had been stripped of its blood-stained clothing, washed, shrouded, and carried to the small church of St Giles on the New Castle road. Roger went again to look for Simon, but returned to say that the house was still empty, and that his neighbours had not seen him since the previous evening, when he had told them he was going to dine with Eleanor.
Geoffrey asked Helbye to remain with Eleanor for as long as she wanted to stay with her husband’s body in the church and then escort her home. The other men were to guard her house, and to watch for anyone loitering or regarding it with more than a passing interest. The Littel brothers were careless guards, more interested in finding nooks away from the biting wind than in carrying out their duties. By contrast, Ulfrith was overly enthusiastic, unable to recognize the difference between people acting strangely and those who stared at the house because its owner had died violently.
‘We should see Turgot,’ said Geoffrey to Roger. ‘I do not feel safe with that map in your possession. We should rid ourselves of it, then leave while there is still daylight.’
‘I cannot abandon Ellie,’ said Roger reproachfully, beginning to walk in the direction of the abbey. ‘And you will not be going anywhere either. Look at the weather! You will not get far in this.’
Reluctantly, Geoffrey conceded he was probably right. Snow fell thick and fast, settling in a deep blanket across roads, roofs, and fields. If it continued, Geoffrey suspected they might be trapped for days. His dog was already struggling. The snow was deeper than its legs were long, and it panted furiously as it tried to keep up with him. They walked through Owengate and headed towards the monastery. Roger hesitated, then seized Geoffrey’s arm to drag him to the huddle of shabby houses that occupied the space between cathedral and castle.
‘Before we see the prior, I want another look for Simon,’ he said, pulling Geoffrey to a narrow alley with houses built so closely together there was barely room to walk between them. ‘Perhaps he found an alehouse and has only just returned.’
‘He was very frightened by what happened last night, and may think it better to stay away from Durham until you leave.’ And he would have a point, Geoffrey thought. Until the map was out of Roger’s hands and in the prior’s, he suspected no one would be safe.
Roger shook his head. ‘Just because Simon is not a knight, does not mean he is a coward.’
Geoffrey knew perfectly well that not all knights were brave and that not all civilians were fearful, although he strongly suspected that Simon was not the most courageous man in the city, no matter what Roger’s loyalty might lead him to claim. Simon had been petrified by the attack – he had rolled into a ball until it was over – and Geoffrey would not have been at all surprised to learn the man had fled. Or was Geoffrey doing him a disservice, and he really had tried to tell Cenred about the ambush, but had met the escaped intruder? Regardless, Geoffrey did not like the fact that he had disappeared.
Roger led the way through narrow lanes, each lined with tiny hovels that emitted the stale, rank odour of poverty, and stopped at a house that was better kept than most of the others. He hammered on the door, so hard that Geoffrey saw flakes of plaster flutter to join the ever-growing blanket of snow on the ground. There was no reply. Roger hauled at one of the window shutters until the hinge buckled, then held it back so they could peer between the thick wooden mullions.
The house was a simple affair, comprising a single chamber and a lean-to cooking area on the ground floor, with a flight of wooden steps leading to a sleeping loft above. Geoffrey saw the lower room had been divided in two. One part contained a table, a stool, and a bench; the other half had been an animal pen, although not so much as a chicken roosted there now. The ashes in the hearth were cold and white, and stray flakes of snow spiralled down from the chimney on to the mat of dirty rushes on the floor. Other than a lump of bread on the table and a pot of cold stew that hung over the dead fire, there was nothing to see. Simon’s house was empty.
‘Can you squeeze inside and have a look around?’ asked Roger, pulling the window shutter open a little further.
Geoffrey stared at the narrow gap between the stone mullions in amusement. ‘Not without removing all my clothes and starving for a few weeks. Can you see from here whether the door has been barred from the inside?’
‘Why?’ asked Roger, letting the shutter close with a snap. ‘What has that to do with anything?’
‘Because if it has, it means Simon is inside,’ explained Geoffrey patiently. ‘Perhaps he is asleep upstairs. Is there a back entrance?’
Roger brightened. The notion of finding another way in had not occurred to him, and his previous attempts to enter had involved thumping on the door with sufficient vigour to leave dents in the wood and to yell loudly enough to make the neighbours come to see what was happening.
Geoffrey followed him down a lane so thin he was obliged to walk sideways. It led to a substantial wall built of woven hazel branches and then packed with mud. He supposed Simon kept livestock at the back of his house, and the wall was to prevent them from straying. He said as much to Roger, who gave a bray of laughter.
‘Think about where you are, lad: the north of England. And what lies beyond the north of England? Scotland. And what do Scottish heathens crave above all else? English cattle. This wall is not to keep cows in, but to keep Scots out. Anyone in Durham who values his beasts has one of these.’
‘I would have thought the castle’s defences would suffice to repel the odd rustling party,’ said Geoffrey, far from certain the Scots were as good at cattle theft as Roger would have him believe.
‘They are devils,’ said Roger uncompromisingly. ‘But it is not them I am worried about now; it is Simon.’ He linked his hands together and crouched down, offering Geoffrey a leg-up.
‘You want me to go?’ asked Geoffrey, startled by the audacity. ‘You do it. He is your brother.’
‘I am too heavy for you,’ said Roger, still holding his hands stirrup-fashion.
‘You are not. I can lift you easily.’
Roger gazed at the wall unhappily and scratched his head. ‘You first, then, and I will follow.’
‘What is the matter?’ asked Geoffrey, bemused by Roger’s behaviour. Entering other people’s property by stealth had never bothered h
im before, and Geoffrey did not understand why he should object to it now. ‘What is there about this particular wall that makes you uncomfortable?’
‘Uncomfortable?’ demanded Roger, cupping his hands again. ‘I am not uncomfortable. Come on, Geoff, lad. It is cold standing here. You go first, and I will be right behind you.’
Geoffrey sighed in exasperation, but placed one foot in Roger’s hands. He was propelled upward with unnecessary force, so he almost toppled over the other side. He straddled the wall and reached down to offer Roger his hand. Roger backed away.
‘Is the yard empty? Is there any movement in the sheds?’
‘Not that I can see,’ said Geoffrey, thinking that someone would have to be desperate before they sought any kind of shelter in the rickety sheds in Simon’s yard. Even under a blanket of snow, Geoffrey could detect a sulphurous stench that indicated some particularly rank-smelling beast had been lodged there in the recent past.
‘Are you sure?’ asked Roger doubtfully. ‘There is usually a pig.’
‘So, you are afraid of a pig, are you?’ asked Geoffrey, sensing the real cause of his friend’s unease. ‘It must be quite an animal if it rattles the formidable Roger of Durham.’
‘It is quite an animal!’ agreed Roger vehemently. ‘It is fiercer than any wild boar I have ever encountered, and more treacherous and vengeful than your dog. It will remember me.’
‘Will it indeed? And what did you do to it to brand yourself so indelibly on its memory?’
‘It was a misunderstanding, and I was only trying to help. But there is no reasoning with a pig. It will see me and bloodlust will blind it to all else.’
‘Rather like you in a city of Saracens, then,’ remarked Geoffrey. ‘Now you understand how they feel when they see the likes of you bearing down on them in full battle gear intent on mischief.’
‘It is not the same. This is a pig with serious intentions and teeth like scimitars.’
‘Then thank you for suggesting I brave the thing alone. But it is cold sitting here. Take my hand and let us get this over with, so we can dump that map on the prior, where it belongs.’
‘Someone is coming,’ whispered Roger hoarsely, glancing furtively down the alley and ignoring the proffered hand. ‘I will keep watch.’
‘You do not need to keep watch – we are doing nothing wrong.’ But Geoffrey was talking to thin air, and Roger had scuttled to the end of the alley before he could point out that concern for Simon’s well-being was no crime and there was no need for stealth and secrecy. Shaking his head in disgust, he dropped into Simon’s yard.
It comprised two sheds that had been home to the pig – when it was not occupying half the house, presumably – and an open area that was about the length of ten lances. There was no movement from the lean-tos, and their doors were closed and barred. Roger need not have been afraid that the pig with the personal vendetta would emerge, because it would not have been able to get out.
The snow had changed the yard from what had probably been scrubby grass to a continuous, unbroken blanket of powdery white, and Geoffrey left deep footprints as he walked towards the rear door. He rattled the handle, and found it was locked. However, one of the windows was ajar, so he levered it open and climbed inside.
He found himself in the extension that served as a kitchen. There was nothing in it except a flagged hearth, a stand holding a bucket of frozen water, and a blocked slop drain. It was not the cleanest room Geoffrey had ever seen, and he grimaced at the slippery vegetable parings that squelched under his boots and at the smell of stale grease and burning.
A door led from the cooking area to a passageway, at the end of which was a second door, which led to the main chamber; the stairs to the upper floor were on his right. Geoffrey walked into the main room and inspected the front door, to see whether it had been barred from inside. He saw that it had not, and all that had been keeping Roger out was a pair of substantial locks.
He looked around the room quickly, half expecting Simon to demand why his privacy was being invaded. But the house was empty, and it seemed to Geoffrey that Simon had simply gone out and locked up his belongings, like any man who expected to be absent for a while. He was about to leave when a fragment of yellow-white under the table caught his eye. Curious, he knelt to inspect it.
The table was crudely wrought, more a series of planks nailed together than a real piece of furniture. At one end was a small drawer, where knives and other utensils were stored when not in use, and it was from this drawer that the small corner of parchment poked. Geoffrey crouched down and saw someone had nailed a document to its underside, presumably to conceal it. It was scarcely an original hiding place, and whoever had put it there should have ensured that none of it showed. But, Geoffrey supposed, it was good enough for a will or the property deed of the house – something that needed to be kept safe but that was not necessarily a secret.
It was not his business to pry into the private affairs of Roger’s brother, so Geoffrey stood and started to walk towards the yard again, wanting to leave Simon’s house and see that Roger delivered the map before anything else could distract them. Then he paused and looked back at the parchment. Something about it was familiar, and he hesitated.
Simon’s house suggested he was not a wealthy man, and his antipathy towards Geoffrey from the moment they met seemed to be based on the fact that Geoffrey could read: Simon, like many men, despised literacy and regarded it with a deep suspicion. So, why should he be at pains to hide a document? Furthermore, the parchment that hugged the underside of the table was of good quality – among the best Geoffrey had seen – and not something an illiterate man of modest means would buy.
Puzzled, Geoffrey walked back to the table and squatted next to it, reaching out to touch the document. Tendrils of unease began to uncoil in his stomach when he recalled where he had seen its like before. Roger had a similar piece shoved down the inside of his surcoat: the parchment was, without doubt, exactly the same as that on which Ranulf Flambard had drawn his treasure maps.
Six
Geoffrey gazed thoughtfully at the parchment hidden under Simon’s table. He had two options: he could leave it where it was, for Simon to reclaim later, or he could inspect it. He was inclined to do what seemed most prudent and leave well alone. But Flambard said there were three recipients for his maps: prior, goldsmith, and sheriff, and since Simon was none of these, he should not have had one. And, if Geoffrey’s suspicions were right, and the attack the previous night was connected to the fact that Roger still had Turgot’s map, then perhaps it had been Simon who had informed Weasel that Roger intended to spend the night at Eleanor’s home.
Geoffrey frowned. Was he doing Simon an injustice by associating him with Weasel’s attack? After all, Simon had been as much at risk as Roger and Geoffrey had been. And did Simon even know the incriminating parchment was in his house? Perhaps someone had put it there without his knowledge. Geoffrey rubbed his head, and thought about Xavier, dead in the castle chapel. Was he one of the three messengers Flambard had employed? Flambard had denied he would use Xavier and Odard, but the bishop was not a truthful man. He may have lied about his other messengers to protect them, should Roger run into difficulties and be forced to reveal the nature of his mission.
Or had Xavier been in the north on unrelated business? Perhaps he had been seduced by the lure of buried treasure, as Flambard feared others would be, and had come to see if he could find it for himself. And what of Odard, the second of Flambard’s friends? Was he also dead in mysterious circumstances? And if so, what did that say about Roger’s safety?
Geoffrey thought about what he knew of Xavier’s death. He and his squire had been travelling with eight other people when the party had been attacked. Cenred assumed the ambush had been the work of outlaws who haunted the Durham to New Castle road and that the motive had been theft. But what if he was wrong? What if Xavier had been carrying the map intended for the goldsmith or the sheriff, and the party had been attacked for
that reason?
Geoffrey scratched his head. If that was true, then was it possible Simon’s map was the one Xavier had carried? Did that mean Simon had killed Xavier? But Cenred said the ambush had occurred at dusk, and Simon had been with Geoffrey then, dining in Eleanor’s solar. So, Simon could not have committed the murder or stolen the map himself. Of course, that did not mean to say that he had not known about the attack, or that it had not been carried out under his orders. After all, if Flambard had trusted his son Roger with the secret of the hidden treasure, then why not his son Simon?
Without further ado, Geoffrey reached out, ripped the parchment from its hiding place, and opened it on the grimy table top, smoothing away its creases and wrinkles. It was, without question, one of Flambard’s charts. It depicted two wavy lines representing streams, and a darker, bolder one that was a road. He recalled Flambard telling him one of the three documents contained such features.
He could not help but smile at Flambard’s cunning. Even with this map and Roger’s, they would still not find the treasure without something to tell them where the waterways and paths were located. They could be anywhere, even outside the county, although Geoffrey suspected Flambard would not have buried his hoard too far from the cathedral: the farther it was from Durham, the greater were the chances it would not reach its intended destination. Idly, but without much hope, Geoffrey wondered whether Roger might recognize the courses of the rivers, and thus identify the spot. Then they could dig up the gold, and hand it to Prior Turgot without the need for more subterfuge.
The Bishop's Brood Page 13
