‘All that has been rebuilt,’ said Turgot. ‘Even the floor has been repaved.’
‘My father says Cuthbert will be moved into the cathedral soon,’ said Roger. ‘And, of course, if the Lady chapel were to be built next to the Chapel of the Nine Altars – where Cuthbert will be – it means there will be women.’ He looked at Geoffrey as though that explained everything.
Geoffrey, however, did not understand the point he was making. ‘What have women to do with it?’
‘Is it not obvious?’ demanded Roger impatiently. ‘Lady chapels are frequented by women. And if the Lady chapel is built at the east end of the church, then women will walk very close to where Cuthbert will lie.’
‘So?’ asked Geoffrey warily, sensing he was to be regaled with yet another of Roger’s contorted theories. ‘I do not see the connection.’
Roger sighed gustily. ‘Use your imagination, man! How do you think Cuthbert will feel if there are women in the next room, all chattering and flaunting their wares.’
‘Even a saintly man like Cuthbert cannot be afraid he will succumb to temptation after being dead for four hundred years,’ said Geoffrey, amused at the image Roger had created. ‘And women will not go to the Lady chapel to “flaunt their wares”, as you put it, but to pray.’
‘Cuthbert’s body was uncorrupted,’ persisted Roger. ‘It came out of its grave as fresh and whole as the day it went in. Of course he will still be tempted by the charms of a good woman.’
‘But the good women are unlikely to feel the same way,’ argued Geoffrey. ‘You will find most of them prefer their lovers alive.’
‘Well, it is Cuthbert who is making the foundations crumble,’ said Roger firmly. ‘And it is because he does not want women near his shrine.’
Geoffrey started to laugh at the ludicrous nature of Roger’s claim, but Turgot nodded agreement. ‘The stonemasons also believe this, but we will not be alive to see what will happen – that part of the cathedral will not be built for decades yet.’
‘Aaron’s Rod will be in the Chapel of Nine Altars as well,’ added Roger, not willing to let an opportunity pass without mentioning the relic he was sure was coming Durham’s way.
Geoffrey was surprised to see Turgot nod agreement to that, too. ‘Flambard has promised to secure it for us. It and Cuthbert will attract many pilgrims our way.’
‘How can he provide you with Aaron’s Rod?’ asked Geoffrey, astonished that an educated man like Turgot should believe such nonsense. ‘No one can know what happened to it.’
‘Well someone did,’ said Turgot. ‘It is an instrument of great power, and it is impossible to imagine it was just lost or forgotten. Flambard says a Crusader brought it from the Holy Land, and one day it will be here.’
Geoffrey was not usually sceptical of relics, but the whole idea that the Rod should reappear after thousands of years, only to fall into the hands of Flambard, was just too much. He was sure Turgot and Roger were mistaken, but did not want to argue, so turned his attention back to the builders’ plans.
‘The cathedral’s enormous height will mean it will be visible for miles around,’ he said, awed, tapping the parchment with his finger. ‘Its towers will make it taller and larger than the castle. This is not a place of worship; it is a statement of Norman authority in the north!’
Turgot smiled from under his coxcomb eyebrows. ‘Most men see only a big church when they study these drawings, but you have the vision to look further. When it is finished, it will be the most glorious building in Christendom, and people will view it with wonder for thousands of years. Mortals will come and go, but it will remain.’
Geoffrey continued to assess the plans, increasingly impressed by the sheer scale of the building that Flambard intended to raise. Until then, finishing it had been a distant objective, and even his vivid imagination had not allowed him to appreciate its full scale. Now he did understand, he felt its completion should transcend the sordid plotting of men like Flambard. He studied the prior for a moment, assessing the shrewd eyes under the white caterpillars that crawled across his forehead, and came to a decision. He withdrew the parchment he had discovered in Simon’s house.
‘We found the second of Flambard’s maps by chance this morning,’ he said, handing it to the prior. ‘It was in Simon’s house.’
‘But you said the three recipients were me, the sheriff, and the goldsmith,’ said Turgot, staring at it in confusion. ‘Simon is none of these.’
‘Perhaps he is one of the three couriers,’ said Geoffrey, knowing he was not. ‘But that is irrelevant. What is important is that you now have two parts of the puzzle, and that brings Flambard’s treasure a little closer to the cathedral’s coffers.’
Turgot took the parchment, and placed it on top of the one Roger had given him. All three men studied it intently. The cross on Roger’s map was clearly visible through the thin material, but it still did not tell them where the treasure might be hidden.
‘It is hopeless,’ said Turgot, looking up eventually. ‘We have streams and a road, but unless we have some landmark – a village, church, or some distinctive feature – these are meaningless. Flambard is clever: his parchments are indeed useless unless all three are viewed together.’
‘You can understand why,’ said Geoffrey. ‘If two maps were sufficient to locate the hoard, then there would be nothing to prevent one of the three recipients from persuading another to share information and divide the spoils in half.’
‘But his cunning has been wasted,’ said Turgot heavily. ‘I have my map, but Jarveaux is dead and Durnais is missing.’
‘True,’ agreed Roger. ‘Nor do we know whether that dead Hospitaller – Xavier – was to deliver his message to the sheriff or the goldsmith.’
‘We do not know he was to deliver one at all,’ Geoffrey pointed out. ‘We can only surmise that he was one of the couriers: we cannot prove it. He might have come to ensure you did not try to persuade the prior to go digging for personal gain in the middle of one night, Roger.’
‘I would never do that,’ declared Roger hotly.
‘But does Flambard know that? He trusts no one, not even his prior.’
‘A Hospitaller is dead?’ asked Turgot, looking from one to the other uneasily. ‘Would it be one of the trio who often accompany Flambard around the country?’
‘Trio?’ asked Geoffrey thoughtfully. ‘There are three of them?’
Turgot nodded. ‘Xavier, Odard, and Gilbert Courcy. Their Grand Master sent them to Flambard four years ago, to act as his personal bodyguards.’
‘I know a child called Gilbert Courcy,’ mused Roger irrelevantly.
‘You know them?’ asked Geoffrey, ignoring Roger. A child could have no bearing on this affair. ‘Was Xavier red-haired with a scar?’
Turgot nodded, ‘And Odard is small and dark, but his fighting skills are reputed to be prodigious. Gilbert is younger, and is being trained by the others.’
Was Gilbert the ‘squire’ who had died with Xavier? Geoffrey wondered. Or was he elsewhere, perhaps in league with Weasel? And did that mean Flambard had lied, and Xavier and Odard were indeed the other two couriers? Geoffrey rubbed the bridge of his nose and marvelled at the webs of lies and deceit Flambard had woven. No one could trust anyone else, and no one was what he seemed.
‘Xavier was killed with Haymo Stanstede last night,’ said Roger.
‘I heard about the ambush,’ said Turgot. ‘But I did not know one of the victims was Xavier. These Hospitallers usually melt into the background when Flambard is at Durham, so I doubt whether he will be known to anyone outside the abbey. They always go hooded and cowled, sometimes wearing Benedictine habits. They are mysterious men.’
Cenred had not known Xavier, Geoffrey thought. ‘Why did Flambard choose Hospitallers to serve him? Why not Benedictines?’
Turgot shook his head. ‘Who knows? Hospitallers are renowned for their blind loyalty, so perhaps that appeals to Flambard. But let us assume that you are right and that Xavier was one of Flambard’s cour
iers. You, Sir Roger, are the second. That means that the third is probably in the city wondering how to fulfil his mission – Jarveaux is dead and the sheriff is missing.’
Roger scratched his head despondently. ‘Then our journey has been a waste of time. The third messenger cannot deliver his map, and without it the treasure may just as well be on the moon.’
‘Our only hope is that Durnais returns, and that his courier is not the man dead in the castle chapel,’ said Turgot, although he did not look optimistic. ‘It is a pity. King Henry will not readily forgive Flambard for all the evil things he has done, and he will not be allowed to return to England very soon – if ever. Our funds are low, and unless we raise more money soon, building will have to stop.’
‘Tax the people,’ said Roger with a shrug. ‘That is the usual solution to problems like this. Although they complain bitterly, they always come up with the goods.’
‘We could,’ said Turgot. ‘But the people have been too heavily taxed already. No, if Flambard’s treasure cannot be found, there will be nothing we can do but to stop building.’
‘That is life, I suppose,’ said Roger stoically. ‘But I had better get back to my sister. She needs a hand with the brothel.’
The prior winced. ‘I am sure she does, and I am also sure you are the man to help.’
Roger took that as a compliment. He gave Turgot a conspiratorial grin, and was halfway to the door when he stopped. A thought had occurred to him.
‘Geoff is good at solving mysteries,’ he said, ignoring the agonized glance Geoffrey directed at him. ‘He sorted out an unholy muddle involving a plot to kill the Advocate of Jerusalem last year, and then he uncovered a diabolical scheme involving the death of his father. He is good at sniffing out trouble and making all end well.’
‘Is he now?’ asked Turgot thoughtfully. ‘I thought there was more to him than the average knight. Most of them are not interested in architecture. And most would have kept my map and the one from Simon’s home, and set about hunting down the third – and the cathedral would have been doomed.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Roger proudly. ‘Geoffrey Mappestone is the man you need to help you with your problem. He will be able to find out what happened to this missing map.’
Seven
There were times when Geoffrey did not like Roger very much, and when he found the big knight’s lack of tact a sore trial. One of those times was now, with Roger boasting to Turgot how his friend would be able to solve the mystery concerning Flambard’s treasure. Geoffrey did not want to become any more entangled in Flambard’s plans than he was already. Men had died, and Geoffrey had no desire to become the next victim of a convoluted plot hatched by the devious bishop.
‘This could be the answer to my prayers,’ said Turgot. ‘I confess I was beginning to doubt whether Flambard’s hoard would ever find its way to its rightful place.’
‘Geoffrey will see justice done,’ said Roger, slapping his friend on the back with such vigour it hurt.
‘Good,’ said Turgot. ‘Will he start immediately, or would he like another cup of wine first?’
‘No,’ said Geoffrey firmly, not liking the way they talked about him as though he was not there. ‘I do not want wine and I do not want to meddle in Flambard’s affairs. It is too dangerous.’
‘I thought you had been on the Crusade,’ Turgot pointed out. ‘Surely our little city cannot compare to marauding Saracens and mighty battles on the walls of the Holy City?’
‘I assure you it can,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Especially if Flambard is involved. But I agreed to accompany Roger until he delivered his message and that was all. As soon as the weather eases, I am leaving.’
‘But do you not realize what this treasure will mean for the cathedral?’ cried the prior, grabbing Geoffrey’s arm as he started towards the door. ‘Without it, all building will stop within weeks. Then who knows what might happen? It may never be completed!’
‘I am sorry,’ said Geoffrey, disengaging his arm. ‘But I am in Tancred’s service, and I do not think he will approve of me acting for other men.’
‘Tancred risked his life to take God’s holy kingdom from the infidel,’ argued the prior, determined to use every tactic he could think of to make Geoffrey change his mind. ‘He will not object to you acting on behalf of a cathedral raised to God’s glory – especially since you are trapped here anyway.’
‘Aye,’ added Roger. ‘Look at the weather. In Durham, when the snow falls this heavily, the roads are closed for days – sometimes weeks. You might as well make yourself useful.’
‘But I do not want to,’ objected Geoffrey. ‘If I have as much time to fill as you seem to think, then I will spend it in the library, reading.’
‘There will not be a library unless the third map is discovered,’ said Turgot slyly. ‘My monks will be sent to other foundations and Durham’s books will be left to rot.’
‘Rubbish,’ said Geoffrey, knowing that a wealthy order like the Benedictines would never allow such an asset to slip through its fingers so carelessly. ‘The library will be moved to another location. It happens all the time.’
‘Then you are welcome to use it all you like – after you have discovered the third map.’
‘No,’ said Geoffrey, exasperated. ‘Use one of your monks.’
‘My bursar has a tenacious and greedy mind, so I will set him to look for it. But you are a knight, and able to go to places where a monk cannot. We stand a better chance of locating the treasure if two of you search.’ Geoffrey shook his head and grabbed the handle of the door, but Turgot stopped him. ‘If you will not willingly agree to help, then I shall use less pleasant means of persuasion.’
Geoffrey gazed at him in astonishment. Turgot’s voice had hardened, and the eyes had lost their benign quality. The Benedictine Order was powerful, and Geoffrey saw he was naive to imagine that a man could claw his way into such a position of influence by being gentle and kindly. There was an iron core in Turgot that was as strong and unbendable as that in any ambitious nobleman or courtier.
‘How?’ Geoffrey asked. ‘I have committed no crime, so you cannot threaten me with arrest.’
‘Not you,’ said Turgot, turning to fix Roger with eyes that were as cold as ice. ‘Your friend.’
‘Just agree to help him, Geoff,’ said Roger, suddenly furtive. ‘It will not be too taxing, and I will be with you to make sure nothing dreadful happens.’
‘What have you done that leaves you open to blackmail?’ demanded Geoffrey, wondering why Roger had brought him to Durham when he seemed to have so many secrets to hide. Geoffrey was not entirely sure he wanted to know, given that Turgot seemed to consider it sufficient cause for having his own way, and Roger was uncertain and embarrassed.
‘Roger committed a dreadful sin,’ said Turgot harshly. ‘Why do you think he went on Crusade?’
‘You went to atone for a sin?’ asked Geoffrey, regarding Roger uneasily. ‘You said you joined because you were interested in the looting. And the prior’s secretary believed you went because you made a nuisance of yourself with the Scots.’
‘That is what most people think,’ said Turgot, a hint of spite in his voice. ‘An envoy from the Scots did offer a truce – they would leave us alone provided we sent Roger away – and Flambard did agree to it. But there was another reason, too, wasn’t there, Roger?’
‘I suppose there was,’ mumbled Roger.
‘Why did you not tell me before?’ asked Geoffrey, not liking the fact that Roger’s lack of openness was about to impact on his own life. ‘I thought we were friends.’
‘We are friends,’ said Roger with a sigh. ‘I did not tell you, because I did not want you to think badly of me. But the truth is that my father told me to go on Crusade to salve a guilty conscience.’
‘That does not sound like you. You committed murder, pillage and God knows what other crimes on the way to the Holy City, and none of those seemed to have preyed on your mind.’
‘This was different,�
�� muttered Roger sheepishly, prodding at a rug with a scuffed boot.
‘It was indeed,’ agreed Turgot nastily. ‘You see, Roger is a desecrator of holy relics!’
Later that day, Geoffrey and Roger sat in Eleanor’s solar, while outside the snow continued to fall. In some places the drifts had reached the sills of the lower-floor windows. Wind rattled the shutters, hurling pellets of ice against them, and howling down the chimney to make the fire gutter and roar.
The streets were deserted. Shops were closed, no work was possible in the fields, livestock had been herded into the safety of byres and stables, and even beggars had been driven to take shelter wherever they could find it. A dog barked somewhere, and the abbey bells still chimed when it was time for the monks to attend their offices, but as dusk approached, the city grew ever more silent, as though the snow was suffocating it.
Geoffrey edged closer to the fire, trying to warm his hands by cupping them around his half-empty goblet of mulled ale. For all his protestations that he wanted to be out of the city, he was glad he was not on the road in the foul weather that raged outside. Riding would be impossible, not to mention unpleasant, and he would have to walk and lead his horse in case it stumbled and injured itself.
He looked at Roger. The big knight had acquiesced to Eleanor’s insistence that no armour was to be worn in her house, and was dressed in thick red leggings and a crisp white shirt with scarlet laces down the front. Over it he wore a curious fur garment he said he had acquired during one of his Scottish raids. It looked like a wolf pelt to Geoffrey, and smelled like one, too. Why Eleanor objected to armour, but allowed the odorous jerkin into her presence mystified Geoffrey.
Bearing in mind the attack of the night before, Geoffrey had declined to abandon all his armour, even to please Eleanor, and wore thick leather leggings and a light chain-mail tunic. He had left his sword in the room on the upper floor where the men of the household slept, but he still carried a large dagger in his belt and a smaller one in his boot.
Eleanor knelt between them, stirring a pot of pork and bean soup that simmered over the hearth. She had pestered Roger relentlessly about his business in Durham, asking him questions and changing the subject, and then asking questions again. It was not long before she had confused the big knight into telling her all about Flambard’s maps, despite Geoffrey’s attempts to stop him. Her reaction was predictable: she was disgusted that Roger should have been so easily persuaded to help Flambard, and claimed that no good would come of it.
The Bishop's Brood Page 16
