The Bishop's Brood

by Simon Beaufort

  And now what? Geoffrey thought, as he looked down at the parchment. Should he replace it and not become involved in a mystery that had already claimed the lives of several people? Or should he hand the thing to the prior? The notion of the belligerent Simon profiting from the treasure was repellent, so Geoffrey decided to give the matter further thought later, and shoved the parchment inside his surcoat.

  He went back through the kitchen, and was about to climb out of the window, when he saw a second set of footsteps lying parallel to the ones he had made while walking across the garden earlier. Someone had followed him.

  He froze, listening intently, to see if he could hear anyone else. It was not a large house, and he was astonished he had not heard another person enter. His first thought was that Roger had overcome his squeamish refusal to scale the wall. But Roger would not have slipped in soundlessly, he would have called out. Not only that, but the footprints were about the same size as Geoffrey’s, and too small to belong to the big knight.

  Moving with stealth, Geoffrey headed back towards the main room, looking for a telltale sign that someone else was inside. It was as silent and still as the grave. Outside, children screamed in delight as they tossed snowballs at each other, and he could hear Roger berating the dog for whining. This told Geoffrey that Roger had seen no one enter the house, or he would not have been bothering with the dog – the whines of which suggested it was aware something was amiss, even if Roger was not – but would be coming to his friend’s aid.

  There was nowhere to hide on the ground floor of the mean little house. Geoffrey checked the alcove next to the hearth, and even peered up the sooty darkness of the chimney, but was not surprised to find them empty. He could only assume that, while he had been examining the map, the person had ascended the wooden steps that led to the sleeping area on the upper floor.

  Drawing his dagger, Geoffrey began to climb, surprised that the steps were well constructed and did not creak and groan. It went some way to explaining why someone had been able to sneak up them without Geoffrey hearing. There were two doors on the landing of the upper floor: one led to a room that overlooked the rear garden, and the other to an attic that had a dismal view of the alley at the front. Both were ajar.

  Geoffrey opted for the back room first. Standing well back, he pushed open the door until it lay flush with the wall. No one could be behind it, and the room was completely bare except for apples lying in neat rows on strips of linen. Glancing out of the window, Geoffrey saw there were still only two sets of footprints, and that both of them led into the house: since the other person could not have left via the front door without him seeing, he could only assume the person was still inside. And the only place possible was in the chamber overlooking the front.

  Alert for an attack, he opened the door, using the point of his sword so he could stand well back and no one could shoot him. But no one fired. No one did anything, because the room was empty, and the window was wide open. With an exclamation of annoyance, Geoffrey dashed across to it and looked out. Just below, someone was scrambling down the wall. Geoffrey leaned down and succeeded in grabbing the merest shred of a hood, but the person jerked away and it snapped out of his fingers. Determined he should not escape, Geoffrey went after him.

  The builders of Simon’s house had not meant its exterior timbers to support men clambering on them. There was a sharp snap, and the crossbeam to which the intruder clung split. With a shriek, he let go and tumbled in an inelegant flurry of arms and legs to the ground. For a moment, Geoffrey thought the fall had injured him, and that he would be caught, but the soft snow had absorbed the impact and the man was able to struggle to his feet and run away, stumbling and tripping on the ice.

  ‘Roger!’ yelled Geoffrey, hoping his friend would catch him.

  But Roger did not reply, and Geoffrey saw the man reach the end of the alley. He was going to escape, carrying at least some of the answers to the mystery with him. Geoffrey was about to abandon a cautious descent for a freefall when the matter was decided for him. With a tearing creak, the beam that supported his weight gave way and he, too, fell into the snowdrift under the eaves of the house.

  He staggered to his feet, still bent on giving chase, but the man was already out of sight. Geoffrey hobbled the few steps to the end of the lane, but realized it was hopeless when there was nothing to see in either direction. The fellow could have gone anywhere, and Geoffrey did not know the area well enough to know where to start a search. Disgusted, he gave up, and leaned against the wall to recover.

  ‘What are you doing?’ demanded Roger, emerging from another alley. He saw the open window and the broken timber on the ground below. ‘You could have opened the door from the inside; you did not have to leap from the upstairs window like an acrobat!’ His eyes became wary. ‘Or did you meet the pig?’

  ‘Did you see him?’ asked Geoffrey, not interested in Roger’s porcine battles. ‘Did you see who climbed over the wall after me?’

  ‘No one did. I was keeping watch.’

  ‘Then you did not do a very good job. Someone followed me inside.’

  ‘But why would anyone do that?’ asked Roger, puzzled. ‘Surely, if a burglar intended to rob the place, he would have waited until the house was empty.’

  ‘I do not think he was a burglar. I suspect he wanted this.’ He handed Roger the map.

  ‘Here, what are you doing with this?’ asked Roger in astonishment. He nudged Geoffrey in the ribs. ‘My father did not give you one, too, did he? And he did not tell me? Crafty old dog!’

  ‘He did not,’ said Geoffrey shortly. ‘And I can assure you I would not have taken it, anyway. I found it nailed to your brother’s table.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Roger, gazing at the map in amazement. ‘And how did he come by it?’

  ‘I think Xavier may have been one of Flambard’s couriers, and that he died for it. But how this map – possibly Xavier’s – came into Simon’s hands, I cannot begin to imagine.’

  ‘But my father told us Xavier and Odard were not the other two messengers.’

  ‘Yes, he did,’ said Geoffrey flatly.

  Roger sighed. ‘Was it Odard you saw in Simon’s house, then? Or perhaps that Weasel?’

  Geoffrey shrugged, frustrated. ‘He wore a cloak with a hood, and I did not see his face.’

  Roger frowned, and twisted the map this way and that, as though he imagined it might yield its secrets if he studied it long and hard enough. Eventually, he looked up and his face was bleak.

  ‘You think Simon killed Xavier? Is that what you are telling me?’

  ‘I have no idea, but the more I learn about the business the less I like it. I will go with you to the prior, then I am leaving.’

  ‘You cannot,’ said Roger grimly. ‘I wish you could, because I feel guilty about putting you in danger. But I was talking to one of the castle guards while you were checking the house …’

  ‘You said you would keep watch while I was inside,’ objected Geoffrey.

  ‘You said there was no need,’ countered Roger.

  Geoffrey sighed. ‘So, this person must have scaled the wall while you were passing the time of the day with the soldier. That is why you did not see him.’

  ‘I only took my eyes off it for a moment,’ said Roger, having the grace to appear sheepish. ‘And it was your fault anyway.’

  ‘Was it?’ asked Geoffrey, startled. ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Your dog,’ said Roger, shooting the beast an angry glower. The animal, sensing censure, favoured Roger with a malevolent glare of its own. ‘The soldier tried to pat the thing and it snapped at him. It damn near took his fingers off. I was obliged to chat with him, so he would not report it to his superiors. Eleanor would not approve of that at all. She does not like lawbreaking, and the keeping of savage dogs in the city is a serious offence.’

  ‘It will not be an issue much longer,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I will take him with me when I leave this afternoon. Eleanor’s reputation as a law-abiding cit
izen will remain intact.’

  ‘You will not. That is what I have been trying to tell you. The soldier told me that snow has closed the roads in all directions. The women and the grooms who survived the ambush last night had quite a struggle to get through – they almost abandoned the bodies, because they were beginning to think they would not make it – and everyone who has tried to leave today has been forced to return. Like it or not, we are trapped here.’

  The Benedictines were determined to build a substantial abbey to complement the splendid cathedral, and, although thickly falling snow had put an end to outside work, hammers, saws, and mallets rapped out a syncopated tattoo that indicated progress was still being made on the inside. Geoffrey stood for a moment, gazing again at the foundation stones that showed how massive the cathedral would be once it was completed. It spanned the entire width of the peninsula, except for the part occupied by the little church of St Mary le Bow, where the common people would attend weekly services.

  The abbey was enclosed on three sides by the wall that ran all around the peninsula, and would be protected on the fourth by the cathedral-fortress when it was finished. Until then, it was separated from the town by a fence that had a gate halfway along it. Roger informed the scruffy lay brother on duty that he had important business with Prior Turgot, and pushed his way inside while the man was still deciding whether or not he should let him in – not that he or the tiny dagger he carried could have excluded the knight anyway.

  ‘That is where Turgot lives,’ said Roger, pointing to an attractive building, made from neatly hewn blocks of grey stone that had probably been intended for the cathedral. Its roof was tiled, and it was the only one not laden with snow, suggesting it was probably warm inside. Geoffrey was impressed to note that all the window shutters were open to admit the light, but that real glass kept out the cold. Glass was an expensive commodity, and such luxury indicated that the prior was a man who knew how to look after himself. Roger reached the door, clearly intending to enter regardless of the fact that he had not been invited. A weary-looking monk with ink-stained fingers rushed to intercept him.

  ‘Please,’ he gasped, pushing Roger aside and unlatching the door himself. ‘I am Algar, the prior’s secretary. Before you disturb him, I must see whether he is accepting visitors. He does not like unannounced invasions … I mean visits.’

  ‘He will accept me,’ declared Roger confidently. ‘I am Roger of Durham.’

  ‘I know who you are,’ said Algar, risking life and limb by inserting himself through the door before him. ‘You are the man Bishop Flambard forced to go on Crusade, because the Scottish tribes promised they would never raid Durham’s cattle again if you left the country.’

  Geoffrey regarded Roger in amusement. Here was a tale he had not heard before.

  ‘The Scots are a lily-livered horde,’ announced Roger uncompromisingly. ‘I did to them what they did to us, and gave them a taste of their own medicine.’

  ‘Unfortunately, you gave them more than a taste,’ said Algar gloomily. ‘You gave them an overdose – a fatal one in many cases. The name Roger the Devil is still feared by hapless villagers all along the border, and not all of them are Scots.’

  ‘It is difficult to know where you are sometimes,’ grumbled Roger. ‘Especially in the dark. But I did not come to talk about my reputation as a fearless warrior. I came to see Turgot on important and private business.’

  ‘Wait here,’ said Algar, gesturing to a hallway that contained several chairs and a table bearing a bowl filled with scented leaves. ‘I will see whether he is available.’

  ‘If he is in, then he is available,’ said Roger firmly. ‘I am a Jerosolimitanus and an influential man in this region. If I want to see the prior, then the prior I shall see.’

  ‘I will tell him that,’ said Algar nervously. ‘But wait here first. He gets angry if I grant interviews without his permission, and I intend to be promoted soon. I do not want my chance of advancement ruined because of you.’

  ‘Roger the Devil,’ mused Geoffrey, as the ambitious Algar disappeared up the stairs. ‘I always wondered why you left Durham when you despise anything not English. Now I know: you were compelled to leave because you harried your neighbours to the point where they agreed to do anything just to be rid of you.’

  ‘Pay Algar no heed,’ said Roger contemptuously. ‘He refers to things that happened during my youth, and it is not fair to drag them up now.’

  ‘You left four years ago, Roger,’ said Geoffrey, smiling. ‘You were no youth then.’

  ‘If you say so,’ said Roger, his bored tone indicating the conversation was over. He looked around him. ‘God’s blood! That Turgot knows how to take care of himself. It smells like a whore’s den in here with all these scented leaves lying about.’

  ‘The prior will see you,’ called Algar uneasily. He indicated the arsenal of weapons Geoffrey and Roger carried. ‘I can assure you that you will not need those here.’

  ‘You can never tell,’ said Roger, pushing past him to walk up the stairs. ‘The prior might want to practise his swordplay with me.’ He roared with laughter, and Algar became more nervous than ever.

  ‘Do not worry,’ said Geoffrey kindly, wanting to reassure him.

  Algar was not convinced. ‘That is Roger the Devil. And I have just allowed him to enter Turgot’s private apartments fully armed. If anything untoward were to happen, it could ruin my plans to be prior myself one day!’

  Prior Turgot sat at a large table that had been placed near the window of his solar, a comfortable room with wool rugs on the floor – so thick that Geoffrey’s feet sank as he stepped on them – and rich tapestries on the walls. Soft colours had been chosen, so that pale blues, light greens and primrose yellows gave the room a restful, cosy feel. All the furniture matched, and was the rich red-gold of cherry. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, while next to the table a brazier filled with glowing coals provided additional heat and ensured the great man would not suffer cold draughts down the back of his neck. Among the parchments that littered the table were dishes of sugared almonds and tiny marchpane cakes, as well as two jugs of wine. It was a chamber that offered all the comforts that might be expected by some cosseted queen, and a far cry from the poverty recommended by St Benedict.

  Turgot was not alone. Two other monks were with him, one making copies of confidential letters for the abbey’s records, the other muttering in the ear of the first. Geoffrey could hear reverence in his voice when words like ‘tithe’, ‘benefaction’, and ‘taxes’ were uttered.

  ‘Sir Roger,’ said the prior, standing to bow as the knights approached. ‘To what do we owe this pleasure? You do not usually set foot in places of God when you are in Durham.’

  Geoffrey glanced at him sharply, detecting a note of censure. Despite Roger’s pride in his home, it seemed he was not overly popular in his father’s palatinate. Geoffrey studied the prior carefully. He was small, almost dainty, with soft white hands that fluttered when he spoke. He had a head of bushy white hair, and behind eyebrows that were almost as long as Geoffrey’s little finger were a pair of shrewd eyes. Eccentric though he might appear, Turgot was no fool.

  ‘I wish you would visit us more often,’ Turgot continued, wincing as Roger grasped one of his delicate hands with a hard, brown paw. ‘It would be good for your soul.’

  Geoffrey had the distinct impression that he had been about to add it would also allow him to keep an eye on Roger’s whereabouts, so trouble could be averted.

  ‘You hold your masses so damnably early in the morning,’ said Roger irritably. ‘If you had them at noon, you would find the number of people in your congregations would double.’

  ‘I will bear it in mind,’ said the prior, his face expressionless. ‘So, have you come to ask me to intervene with Bishop Flambard about your banishment?’

  ‘No, I have not,’ said Roger shortly. ‘And I was not banished. I followed my father’s suggestion that I might like to travel.’

 
‘And did you enjoy seeing the world?’ asked Turgot, hopefully. ‘If so, then perhaps you should consider journeying a little farther—’

  ‘The Holy Land is a grand place,’ agreed Roger, smiling at memories that were more golden than the reality. ‘I was on my way back there when I was diverted.’

  ‘Were you?’ asked the prior, and there was no mistaking the disappointment in his voice. He forced a smile. ‘Then, we will not be honoured with your company for long? You will return to the Holy Land, where there are plenty of heathens for you to kill and enemy villages to plunder and loot?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Roger fondly. ‘As I said, it is a grand place.’

  ‘I see,’ said Turgot. He waited several moments, evidently expecting Roger to state the nature of his business and be on his way. Roger, however, was in no hurry to leave, and began looking meaningfully at the wine in the jugs. Wearily, Turgot nodded to one of his monks, who went to fill cups. Evidently anticipating the visit might be a lengthy one, the prior gestured to his two companions.

  ‘Forgive my manners. Do you recall my fellow brethren? This is Brother Burchard, my bursar.’

  Burchard was a large man with a florid, heavy face and a head of coarse black hair that was in need of a trim. His small eyes seemed more petty than intelligent, and he looked to Geoffrey like the kind of man to steal food from the pantries at night and blame it on someone else. Geoffrey imagined that in his youth – the bursar was well into middle age – he would have been an imposing figure. Now he was merely overweight. He nodded a curt greeting to Roger, although Geoffrey noticed it was far from friendly and that he barely bothered to look up from pouring the wine. Something about him reminded Geoffrey of an ape he had once seen in the south of Spain.

  ‘And this is Hemming, my sub-prior,’ Turgot continued, pointing to the other monk.

  Of the three monastics, Hemming was the most normal in appearance. He was unquestionably Saxon, unlike Turgot and Burchard, who were obviously Norman. He had short, corn-coloured hair that bristled thickly from his tonsure and his eyes were an arresting blue. Geoffrey liked the way humour lurked in them as he watched the bursar fill one goblet significantly fuller than the others and keep it for himself, and thought Hemming would be the most interesting and least priestly of the trio. Hemming half rose from his chair and gave an amiable smile.