The Bishop's Brood

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘We have never met,’ he said in a soft, but pleasant voice. ‘But your reputation goes before you.’

  Roger regarded him warily, trying to ascertain whether he was being insulted. After a moment, he indicated Geoffrey with a careless jerk of his thumb. ‘This here is my friend.’

  ‘Does he have a name?’ asked Hemming, his blue eyes gleaming with merriment.

  ‘Sir Geoffrey Mappestone,’ said Roger tartly. ‘And if you want to know his history as well, he has a manor somewhere near Wales, which is full of sheep, but he is not there often and spends most of his time in the service of Tancred de Hauteville.’

  ‘Are you any relation to Godric Mappestone?’ asked Turgot, regarding Geoffrey with interest. ‘He was my father’s overlord in Normandy and abandoned his French holdings for richer pickings in England after Hastings.’

  ‘My father,’ said Geoffrey, wishing that Normandy was not so small and mutual acquaintances not so common. His father was not a man most people had admired, given his propensity for appropriating land that was not his own.

  The prior was pleased by the connection. ‘How is he? He must be almost seventy by now.’

  ‘Dead,’ said Geoffrey shortly, reluctant to tell Turgot what had really happened.

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Turgot, and it seemed his sympathy was genuine. All Geoffrey could think was that either the prior had not encountered his father for a very long time, or he was thinking of the wrong person. ‘I will say a mass for him tonight.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Geoffrey, not adding that Godric needed all the masses he could get.

  ‘I know the name, too,’ said the bursar, and his heavy face creased into a scowl as he struggled to recall where. He snapped his fingers. ‘It was a legal dispute – some claim that Godric had unlawfully seized his neighbour’s field.’

  ‘Probably,’ said Geoffrey. His father regularly treated his neighbours’ fields as his own, and it did not surprise him that someone had complained to the courts about it.

  ‘He was found guilty and fined,’ the bursar continued. ‘I wonder if the scoundrel ever paid.’

  ‘I cannot claim Norman ancestry, and so can embarrass you with no family tales,’ said Hemming, grinning at the bursar’s appalling lack of tact. ‘I am Saxon – a member of the Haliwerfolc.’

  ‘I am one of those, too, on account of my mother,’ interjected Roger. He explained to Geoffrey. ‘Haliwerfolc are those Durham inhabitants who are Cuthbert’s chosen people. We are special.’

  ‘Cuthbert belongs to the abbey now,’ said Burchard austerely. ‘He is accessible to all, not just to Saxon peasants who lay claim to him on the grounds of ignorance.’

  The wry humour left Hemming’s face, although he responded to Burchard’s rudeness only by gazing down at his sandalled feet. Geoffrey looked from him to the bursar, and wondered whether the abbey was the haven of peace and brotherly love it should be.

  ‘Before the abbey was founded, there was a community here called the Church of St Cuthbert,’ said Roger to Geoffrey. ‘All its priests were married, but they left when Cuthbert was taken from them and given to the Benedictines.’

  ‘Not all,’ corrected Hemming softly. ‘Some of us remained. My family has a special connection to Cuthbert, become our ancestor was one of the monks who brought him from Lindisfarne. I could no more leave Cuthbert than fly to the moon.’

  ‘We have lots of saints here,’ announced Roger boastfully. Seeing him about to list them yet again, Geoffrey tried to interrupt, but Roger was unstoppable. ‘Cuthbert is the most famous, but we also have Oswald, Aidan, Eithilwald, Eadfrith, Ceolwulf, Edbert, Billfrith, and the Venerable Bede. And then there was the one who was stolen. What was his name?’

  ‘Balthere,’ said Burchard disparagingly. ‘He was popular with Saxons, but not with intelligent folk. His bones were in St Giles’ Church, but they were stolen. Still, he was only some Saxon hermit.’

  Hemming’s face was white with anger at the insults to his heritage that dripped relentlessly from Burchard’s lips, and Turgot, seeing his bursar had overstepped the mark, intervened hastily.

  ‘It is my hope that Balthere will reappear one day, when he will be displayed with honour and reverence next to Cuthbert.’ He sat, and clasped his hands together, steepling his fingers in the way that Geoffrey had noticed religious men often did. ‘But you did not come to discuss relics. What can we do for you today?’

  Roger treated the prior to a knowing wink. ‘What you can do for me is irrelevant. The real question is what can I do for you.’

  ‘Well?’ asked Burchard rudely, when Roger drained the wine from his cup and declined to elaborate. ‘We are busy men. Tell us what you want, and let us all be about our business.’

  ‘In good time,’ said Roger, fixing the bursar with a cool glare. ‘I do not like to be rushed. And I am still thirsty. Give me a drop more wine, and I shall tell you something that will make you very happy.’

  ‘How was the Crusade?’ asked Turgot, watching as the bursar resentfully filled Roger’s goblet. ‘I have heard the slaughter was great and terrible.’

  ‘It was,’ agreed Roger appreciatively. ‘And I was at the heart of it.’

  ‘That I can believe,’ muttered Burchard unpleasantly.

  The atmosphere in the prior’s solar was uncomfortable. The three monks were growing exasperated with Roger’s clumsy game of wait-and-see, but were too shrewd to dismiss him, lest he really did have something that would benefit them. Whatever they might think of the bluff knight, he was a son of the Bishop Flambard, after all.

  Geoffrey was loath to intervene, but he was uneasy with the notion of Roger passing the map to the prior in the company of his two companions. Had he been Roger, he would have requested a private audience with Turgot, then if Turgot chose to take the others into his confidence later, that was his choice. There was something about the bursar Geoffrey did not like, while he sensed Hemming was an intelligent man who might well use his Saxon wits against a Norman bishop. Geoffrey fought back the temptation to tell Roger what to do and drank more wine.

  ‘I said a prayer for you last night,’ said Turgot conversationally, as Roger drained the cup a second time.

  ‘Good,’ said Roger. ‘A few of them here and there does no one any harm.’

  ‘We are glad to hear it,’ said Hemming, a discreet smile playing around the corners of his mouth again. Geoffrey saw the bursar raise his eyebrows heavenward before slapping the jug back on the table and returning to his seat. Turgot seemed shocked.

  ‘The Holy Land is now in the hands of Christians,’ said Roger, as though news of the Crusade’s success was something the monks might not have heard. ‘We drove the Saracens from our shrines and slaughtered as many of them as we could.’

  ‘I am sure you did,’ muttered the bursar. ‘Slaughter is about the one thing you do very well.’

  ‘And the looting?’ asked Turgot with a smile. ‘How was that?’

  With a sudden flash of insight, Geoffrey saw exactly where the prior was leading the conversation. He almost laughed aloud. Turgot had surmised – quite wrongly – that the purpose of Roger’s visit was to donate some of his plunder to the abbey. Anyone who knew Roger, even slightly, would be aware that he and his booty were not easily parted, and that an abbey would be the last place the knight would consider as a beneficiary.

  ‘There was plenty of looting to be done, I can tell you,’ said Roger, pleased to be asked. ‘All a knight like me had to do was take it.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Burchard, exchanging a keen glance with his prior. Apparently, he was also wondering whether any of it might be coming their way.

  Roger nodded. ‘Of course, I had to fight for it. Saracens love their gold, and only yield it to those they consider worthy opponents.’

  ‘Especially the unarmed women and children,’ muttered Geoffrey. ‘They willingly take on heavily armed soldiers to save their leaking pots and their half-starved livestock.’

  ‘Of course, the infid
el learned a thing or two from me,’ boasted Roger, ignoring Geoffrey’s mumbled comments. ‘At the siege of Antioch, I killed seven men with one—’

  ‘You must be tired of hearing about the Crusade,’ said Geoffrey, mostly so Roger would hand the map to Turgot, but partly because he saw the prior’s beneficent smile begin to look strained. Turgot, like Eleanor, did not want to be regaled with lengthy sagas of bloodshed and mayhem.

  ‘Actually, we have heard very little,’ interjected Burchard, ignoring the grateful smile Turgot gave Geoffrey. ‘Personally, I find it gratifying to hear how infidel gold passed to Christian hands.’

  ‘You would not think so if you had been there,’ said Geoffrey shortly. ‘The Crusade did not display our religion in its best light.’

  ‘Are you questioning the sanctity of our holy war?’ demanded Burchard. ‘It was undertaken at the request of the Pope and had God’s blessing. God would not have favoured such an undertaking had it not been morally right.’

  ‘If I thought God approved the murder of unarmed civilians, I would never set foot in a church again,’ said Geoffrey coolly. ‘But I do not believe He had any say in the matter. I think the Crusader army cut a bloody swath across half the world entirely of its own volition.’

  ‘That is heretical talk!’ exclaimed Burchard, coming to his feet with his fists bunched. ‘Father Prior! Will you allow this dirty, ill-bred lout to spread lies about God’s holy Crusade?’

  ‘Peace, peace!’ said Turgot, waving a frail hand that, nevertheless, held enough authority to make his bursar sit again. ‘There are many views about the morality of the holy wars, and we should always listen to the opinions of men who have experienced them first-hand.’

  ‘Roger needs to speak to you privately,’ said Geoffrey, deciding that if Roger would not take the initiative to end the uncomfortable interview, then he would have to do it himself or risk spending the rest of the day listening to Burchard’s ill-informed opinions. ‘It is a matter of some urgency.’

  ‘If he wants to confess to misbehaving in his sister’s brothel, he can do so to one of the lower monks,’ snapped Burchard. ‘The prior has neither the time nor the inclination to listen.’

  ‘I have done no such thing!’ declared Roger indignantly. ‘You have a nasty mind, Burchard!’

  Burchard was on his feet again, and the prior intervened hurriedly. ‘Perhaps we should accede to Geoffrey’s request. I will hear Roger’s petition in private, as he asks.’

  Burchard made as if to demure, but Hemming took his arm and hustled him outside. Hemming bowed to Geoffrey as he left, and his lack of curiosity suggested to Geoffrey that he was confident he would hear about it later anyway.

  ‘Now,’ said the prior, smiling warily at Roger once they were alone. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘My father charged me to bring you this,’ said Roger importantly, reaching inside his surcoat and rummaging around.

  ‘Flambard?’ asked Turgot, watching Roger search his person. ‘But he is in prison.’

  ‘He has escaped,’ said Roger with a satisfied grin. ‘He will be in Normandy by now.’

  ‘Escaped?’ echoed Turgot in astonishment. ‘But how? The White Tower of London is one of the most secure prisons in the country. No one escapes from there.’

  ‘Well, he did,’ said Roger, still hunting for the map. ‘But that is irrelevant. What is important is that he sent something … God’s blood! I cannot find the damned thing!’

  The cursing, groping, and patting went on for some time before Geoffrey realized he would have to help. Turgot sighed in exasperation, and glanced meaningfully at the hour candle. However, once Geoffrey had unbuckled Roger’s surcoat, the parchment fluttered to the floor and Roger snatched it up with relief.

  ‘Thank God for that!’ he exclaimed. ‘I thought I had lost it. And then what would have happened to my father’s cathedral?’

  ‘What is it?’ asked the prior, examining the thin parchment in puzzlement.

  ‘It is a map,’ said Roger gleefully. ‘And the “X” marks the spot where treasure is buried.’

  ‘That is all very well,’ said the prior. ‘But a cross is no good on its own.’

  Roger explained Flambard’s plan, adding irrelevant asides and unnecessary details that only served to confuse the prior, so it was some time before he understood what Flambard intended.

  ‘It is the kind of plot he would devise,’ Turgot said eventually. ‘I wondered whether he might do anything useful with the fortune he amassed during his years at court.’

  ‘You know about the treasure?’ asked Roger.

  Turgot shrugged. ‘I know he is a rich man, and that he managed to retain a good portion of his wealth when King Henry seized the rest. But I do not know where it is.’

  ‘It is around here somewhere,’ said Roger. ‘It must be. It would not have been safe to cart great chests of gold around the country.’

  ‘True,’ said Turgot. ‘But Flambard is a remarkable man. It would not surprise me to learn he had done it.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘I travelled to London with Hemming not long ago, to visit him in prison, and persuade him to help us with the cathedral. Perhaps that was what gave him the idea.’

  But Flambard had not trusted Turgot, then, thought Geoffrey. Flambard trusted no one – not even the loyal Roger – with the location of his hoard.

  ‘Where are the other maps?’ asked Turgot. ‘As you have explained, one is worthless alone.’

  ‘One is to be delivered to Walter Jarveaux, and the second to Sheriff Durnais,’ said Geoffrey, thinking about the map hidden in his own surcoat and wondering whether to pass it to Turgot immediately, or whether he should send it anonymously, so no one would ask how he came by it.

  Turgot pursed his lips and regarded Geoffrey sombrely. ‘Then Flambard’s clever plan is already in trouble. Yesterday, I received news that Durnais, who has gone to Chester-le-Street, never arrived, and no one knows where he is.’

  ‘Did he receive his map before he left?’ asked Geoffrey.

  ‘Not that he told me.’

  ‘So, does that mean it arrived after he left for Chester-le-Street?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Or that it has not arrived at all?’

  ‘I will ask,’ said Turgot. ‘Although I suspect the latter. Cenred would have told me had a message arrived concerning the cathedral. But Durnais is not the only thing wrong with Flambard’s plan.’

  ‘Well?’ asked Geoffrey, aware of a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  ‘You said the third missive was to be passed to the goldsmith,’ said Turgot. He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, as if his head ached. ‘Jarveaux died two days ago – he choked on an oyster.’

  Geoffrey and Roger sat in silence as they thought about the prior’s revelations. Turgot steepled and unsteepled his fingers as he considered the problem, splendid eyebrows waving to express their owner’s anxiety. Roger scowled at the map – crumpled and dirty from resting so long in the unsavoury depths of his surcoat – as if it were personally responsible for the misfortunes that had befallen the men who were to realize his father’s plan. Still, Geoffrey thought, at least he now knew the reason for Cenred’s odd comment in Eleanor’s house when Roger had announced his intention to deliver his gold to Jarveaux: Cenred, like every other Durham inhabitant, knew Jarveaux was dead.

  The news of the goldsmith’s death and the sheriff’s disappearance gave recent events a yet more sinister turn, and added credence to Geoffrey’s notion that there was more to Flambard’s plan than he claimed. There had already been seven deaths Geoffrey thought were connected to the treasure: the young roof-top brawler, the accomplice of Weasel who had invaded Eleanor’s parlour; Peterkin and the man who had probably murdered him, Xavier and his squire, and now the goldsmith.

  Was Jarveaux’s death a coincidence? Accidents happened, and Geoffrey knew it was dangerous to look for patterns in events that were random. But, it seemed that Flambard’s venture had been doomed from the start. Even before Roger had accepted Fl
ambard’s commission, Peterkin had been killed. Someone had known or suspected Roger would be entrusted with one of the maps, and had been determined to take it from him, even then. Poor Peterkin had probably been questioned by Weasel, and had been killed when he had been unable to answer.

  And what did the missing Simon have to do with the mystery? How had one of Flambard’s maps ended up pinned under his table? Had Simon put it there himself? Or had it been hidden without his knowledge, and he was dead in some ditch with a red quarrel embedded in his cowardly heart?

  All the evidence suggested that someone did not want Turgot, Jarveaux and Durnais to receive their maps – or rather, that the treasure should not be used to build the cathedral. Geoffrey stood, and went to stare out of the window, looking to where the chancel rose out of the snow.

  On the nearby table were some drawings, anchored at the corners by an assortment of goblets, lead seals, and inkwells. They were the plans for the completed building. Geoffrey knew he should not linger in Turgot’s house, and that he should make it clear that he and Roger had discharged their obligation to Flambard, but architecture fascinated him, especially when conducted on as grand a scale as at Durham. He studied the plans, tracing lines on the parchment with his finger.

  ‘How curious!’ he said, Flambard’s maps forgotten as he became absorbed. ‘The Lady chapel will be at the west end, rather than the east.’

  ‘It will be known as the Galilee Chapel,’ said Turgot, coming to stand next to him. ‘We wanted it at the east end, but every time we try to build there, the foundations crack. The Chapel of the Nine Altars, which is next to where we wanted the Lady chapel, is also unstable.’

  ‘Just before I left four years ago, a good part of the Chapel of the Nine Altars fell down,’ said Roger, going to refill his cup again.