He studied her as she knelt to tend the soup. Her dark hair shone in the firelight, and the flames painted her eyes deep gold. He admired her clean, fresh complexion and the way her dress fitted her slender figure, and thought it a pity she should be in mourning. He thought it an even greater pity she had married old Haymo Stanstede in the first place, because a young and attractive woman deserved better than the wizened specimen he had seen in the castle chapel. He hoped the wealth she would inherit would give her the freedom to make a better choice when the obligatory period of mourning was over. Had he not been obliged to return to Tancred, and had she not laid out her husband’s corpse only a few hours before, Geoffrey would have considered paying court to her himself. It would be a lucky man indeed who captured the heart of Eleanor.
‘He did not do it with malicious intent,’ she said defiantly. ‘He made an honest mistake.’
‘I am sorry?’ asked Geoffrey, startled from his reverie. ‘Surely you do not mean Flambard?’
She sighed. ‘Who have I been talking about this last hour? Have you not been listening?’
Geoffrey had not, and had been concentrating on the way her clothes clung to her body when she leaned over to stir the broth. He knew she had been talking, but Roger had been answering, and he had supposed a contribution from him was not required.
‘It was unfair to force Roger go on the Crusade for what he did,’ said Eleanor, stirring the beans vigorously, as though she wished the spoon were a weapon. ‘He should not have been punished.’
‘It was an honest mistake,’ agreed Roger, gazing down into his goblet with sorrowful eyes. ‘And I am sorry for it, believe me.’
Geoffrey did believe him. He knew Roger well enough to know he would not willingly have desecrated one of the most sacred relics in the country – not because he was respectful of the Church and its authority, but because he was a superstitious man who believed strongly in a divine power that would strike down anyone who treated holy relics with irreverence. Geoffrey also knew Roger was not a clever liar, and that if he claimed the affair was a misunderstanding, then it was likely to be true. He was too straightforward, and too easily caught out in untruths.
Yet he had lied about his reason for going on the Crusade. Geoffrey could only assume that once Roger had started to tell people that his motive was to accumulate wealth, he had eventually come to believe it himself. It would not be the first time he had remembered events in a way to suit his own requirements, although Geoffrey would not have called it lying exactly. Geoffrey supposed that by the time they had met, Roger had already forgotten the real reason for being on the Crusade, but nevertheless he wished Roger had confided in him, and was angry that his friend’s actions had forced him to become the prior’s agent.
‘The way Turgot treated Roger was grossly unfair,’ Eleanor went on furiously. ‘He should have known he would never do such a thing deliberately.’
‘True,’ agreed Roger morosely.
‘And then he threatened to tell everyone about it,’ said Eleanor, sitting back on her heels to look at Geoffrey. Drips from the spoon splattered on to her dress, but the perceived injustice of Roger’s treatment was so great that she was unaware of them.
‘Would that have been so bad?’ asked Geoffrey, deciding he had better enter the conversation before her tight dress distracted him again. ‘If everyone already knew, then Turgot would not be able to blackmail Roger now.’
Eleanor made a disgusted sound at the back of her throat and waved the spoon at him. ‘That is a stupid thing to say. You have only to look at the Crusade to see the ends to which men will go in order to protect the things they consider holy.’
Geoffrey did not think religious fervour was what motivated most Crusaders. A few were holy men, who genuinely believed Jerusalem should be in Christian hands, but they were in a minority.
‘If people had known what Roger had done, he would have been held responsible for every mishap that befell the city,’ Eleanor went on. ‘People always want someone to blame when things go wrong.’
‘Securing a scapegoat is a way folk deal with situations beyond their control,’ agreed Geoffrey, carefully neutral.
‘Quite,’ said Eleanor. ‘Roger would have been held responsible for everything unpleasant – the harvest failing last year, the tithe barn catching fire. He could never have lived here in peace again.’
Geoffrey suspected that was true. Many people were superstitious and simple-minded. Roger would have been blamed for all manner of misfortunes, and while it probably would not have been possible for a mob to lynch him, life would not have been easy for him or for his family, including Flambard. No wonder the bishop had been so keen to send his son to the Holy Land.
‘It was an honest mistake,’ said Roger, yet again. ‘I needed a candle holder.’
Geoffrey tried not to smile. ‘And the item you chose just happened to be St Oswald’s skull – one of the most revered and holy relics in the north of England.’
‘I did not know the shiny silver box in my father’s chamber was a reliquary,’ objected Roger, as if he imagined it had been placed there for the sole purpose of confusing him.
Roger had taken Geoffrey to see Durham’s relics again after their interview with the prior. The reliquary containing Oswald’s head, however, was conspicuous by its absence – something Geoffrey had asked Roger about when they had first visited the shrine. Sheepishly, Roger informed him that it had been put inside the high altar, so it could recover from the indignities it had suffered at his hands. Geoffrey knew that many saints were manhandled in their often-turbulent post-mortem travels, and thought there was no need for the abbey to be so protective.
‘You have not heard my side of the story,’ said Roger unhappily.
‘I have – several times,’ said Geoffrey.
Roger cleared his throat, and began to tell his tale yet again, as though Geoffrey had not spoken. ‘I had just finished an evening in a tavern and decided to visit my father. He was busy, so I waited in his office. The careless servant did not provide me with a light, and I was damned if I was going to sit in the dark, so, I lit a candle, but it kept falling over.’
‘He needed a candle holder, you see,’ elaborated Eleanor. ‘He did not intend to commit an act of sacrilege. It was all perfectly innocent.’
‘I looked for ages,’ continued Roger. ‘Then I saw this silver box on the table. I decided to see whether there might be a dish inside – and there was. I found a wooden one.’
‘St Oswald’s skullcap,’ said Geoffrey.
‘But it did not look like a head,’ objected Roger. ‘It looked like a bowl. And how was I to know St Oswald would be on my father’s table?’
‘When Flambard arrived and saw what Roger had done, he was aghast,’ said Eleanor, shaking her head anew at the unfairness of it all. ‘He would not even listen to Roger.’
‘He was unreasonable,’ agreed Roger. ‘I offered to put Oswald back the way I found him, but he said I would be struck down if I touched it a second time. He and Turgot both said the only way I could make amends for such an act of desecration was to join the Crusade.’
Geoffrey rubbed his chin. Although he could hardly admit it, he saw the humour in Roger blundering around drunkenly in the dark and not stopping to consider the fact that a candle holder was unlikely to be stored in a silver casket. But using saints’ bones as dishes was not something encouraged by the Church, and Geoffrey understood why bishop and prior had thought a pilgrimage necessary to absolve Roger. And Geoffrey was certain that sending Roger on a long and dangerous journey that would take him away from the Scots had also been taken into consideration. Flambard had killed three birds with one stone: he had made sure Roger did not mention his desecration and bring retribution down on his family; he had ensured Roger was absolved; and he had taken advantage of Roger’s absence to agree to the Scots’ truce.
‘Our father did not give Turgot the exact details,’ said Eleanor. ‘But he mentioned a desecration. Turgot promis
ed to keep the secret and to my knowledge, he has – until now, that is. It was unfair of him to tell you.’
‘It was,’ agreed Geoffrey wholeheartedly. ‘I wish he had kept it to himself.’
‘A story was put about that the Scots wanted Roger to leave,’ said Eleanor. ‘We have not had a raid since Roger left, so perhaps they really did make some arrangement.’
‘So, you cannot be angry with me,’ said Roger. ‘I have atoned for my sin. If St Oswald is no longer cross with me, you have no right to be.’
‘I am not angry with you about that,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I am angry because you volunteered my services to Turgot. You told him I would find the third map before he resorted to blackmail.’
‘I was trying to help,’ protested Roger. ‘I thought you liked the cathedral and might want to play a part in its completion.’
‘Not like this, and I have a bad feeling there is more to Flambard’s plan than finding his treasure.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Eleanor. ‘What else could there be?’
‘I do not know,’ said Geoffrey. ‘But I wish we did not have to find out.’
‘You are looking too deeply into what is a simple affair, Geoffrey,’ said Eleanor, as she ladled the soup into pewter dishes and placed horn spoons on the table. It was now pitch dark outside, and the wind had picked up even more, whistling down the chimney and making the rugs twitch and shudder as though they were alive.
‘It all seems so elaborate,’ said Geoffrey, picking up a spoon. ‘Turgot seems an honest enough man. Why not just tell him where the treasure is buried? Why all the secrecy and subterfuge?’
‘If there is enough gold to buy a hundred masons and carpenters and their supplies for the next four decades, then we are talking about a lot of money,’ Eleanor pointed out. ‘And if folk know Flambard owns such a vast hoard, it is not surprising there are greedy men who want it.’
‘I would not want it,’ said Geoffrey vehemently. ‘King Henry would hear about any fabulous increases in wealth, and his commissioners would be on the recipients like hounds after a fox. The King is not a man to let anything stand between him and money, and a thief would not enjoy his new-found wealth for long.’
‘You are different from other men,’ said Eleanor. ‘You are better.’ She blushed when Geoffrey looked at her, startled by the unexpected compliment, and studied the spoon in her hand.
‘It is decent of you to stand by me, Geoff,’ said Roger. ‘I would not like that relic business to be made public – I would never be able to show my face here again.’
‘That was not the only reason I agreed to comply with Turgot’s demands,’ said Geoffrey. ‘It was for Eleanor, too. She had nothing to do with your careless choice of candle holders, but that will not prevent her from becoming the victim of vengeful townsfolk.’
Eleanor smiled, a rosy flush still dappling her cheeks, while Roger looked from one to the other sharply. ‘My sister is a widow of less than a day, Geoff. I do not want her reputation besmirched by hopeful suitors.’
‘I can take care of my own reputation, thank you,’ said Eleanor stiffly. ‘I am not some silly girl who needs the likes of you to tell me how to behave. I am a grown woman who knows her own mind.’
Geoffrey, looking at the determined glint in her eyes and the defiant jut of her chin, was sure she did. The more he saw of Roger’s sister, the more he admired her. He wished he might come to know her better, and thought it a pity he would not have the opportunity.
‘So,’ she said, standing to fill the bowl Roger had already drained. ‘What shall we do to find Turgot’s treasure? Shall we see if we can find Sheriff Durnais, or shall we question Jarveaux’s family, to see if he received one of these maps?’
‘We will do neither,’ said Roger firmly. ‘Geoff and I will handle this. You can stay here and do what widows are supposed to do.’
‘Can I now?’ asked Eleanor archly. ‘And what is that, pray?’
‘You can sit in your solar and cry. That should keep you busy.’
‘It will not! Do you think me some mindless simpleton, who has nothing better to do than to sit at home and pretend to be something I am not?’
‘Are you not distressed by the violent death of your husband? You were married to him, woman!’
‘Of course I am shocked. And I will grieve for him. But he was murdered in the ambush that also killed the knight – Xavier – who you think may have carried one of these maps. If I want to avenge Haymo, then the best way I can do that is by helping you.’
‘But it would not be seemly for you to be out and about with us when we make our enquiries.’
‘I was not thinking of accompanying you “out and about”,’ said Eleanor haughtily. ‘But I can go to places you cannot – I can listen to women’s gossip at the well, and, as a recent widow, I can talk to Alice Jarveaux on the grounds that we have both recently lost husbands.’
‘But you are in mourning,’ objected Roger, returning to what he considered his central argument. ‘You cannot gossip at wells while your husband’s corpse is still warm. Have you no respect?’
‘I have every respect for Haymo,’ snapped Eleanor angrily. ‘Although even you must see that being married to a man three times my age was not easy.’
‘You chose him,’ countered Roger. ‘You need not have done. I always said I would look after you.’
Eleanor gave him a sad, tender smile, and reached out to touch his bristly chin. ‘You did. And I am sure you would have done all you could. But you were on the Crusade, and rumours came back to us about diseases and battles and starvation and God only knows what else. I did not know whether you would return.’
‘I might not have done, given the number of battles I was in,’ said Roger carelessly. ‘But if I had died, I would have asked Geoffrey to make sure that you got all my loot.’
‘And how would you have done that, if you were dead?’ asked Eleanor archly. ‘But we are wasting time. We need to decide how to recover the third map, and I shall help whether you like it or not. We are both responsible for Geoffrey being dragged into this – you because of your act of sacrilege, and me because he acted in my interests when he agreed to the prior’s demands – so we must both assist him in any way we can.’
‘Roger is right to keep you out of this,’ said Geoffrey gently, hoping his quiet reason might succeed where Roger’s bluster had failed. ‘We agreed to help Turgot because we wanted to protect you, not so you can become more deeply involved.’
‘Well, that is too bad,’ said Eleanor haughtily. ‘I will help, and that is the end of the matter. People will be kind to me because I grieve for my husband, and will tell me things they would not tell you. You need me.’
‘We will manage,’ insisted Roger. ‘But Turgot said he was going to set the bursar to discover the third map, too, because he is tenacious. What does “tenacious” mean exactly? Is it something to do with singing in tune?’
‘Burchard?’ asked Eleanor. ‘You do not want him helping you. He is hated by the townsfolk, and if he has been told to find the third map, you may as well abandon all hope of ever seeing it again. People would rather see it destroyed than have it in his hands.’
It was difficult to know where to begin in their quest for the missing parchment the following day. The roads were well and truly closed, so Geoffrey and Roger could not travel to Chester-le-Street in search of Sheriff Durnais, which would have been the obvious place to start. The next option was to visit the home of Walter Jarveaux, to try to ascertain whether he had received a message from Flambard before he had died. It was eventually agreed that Eleanor, with Geoffrey in attendance, would visit his wife.
Meanwhile, Roger was charged to frequent the city’s taverns in search of his half-brother. He was delighted with the assignment, although Geoffrey had grave misgivings, afraid he might damage their chances of learning something useful with his overenthusiasm. His worries intensified when Roger said he would take Ulfrith with him. Ulfrith was no more subtle than Rog
er, and Geoffrey winced when he imagined the pair of them reeling from tavern to tavern in an indiscreet bid for information.
When Eleanor went with Geoffrey to visit Mistress Jarveaux, he found himself staring at her again. Her cloak was a simple affair of blue, but even that cumbersome garment served only to enhance the slenderness of her figure and accentuate her height. She took his arm as they walked along the snowy streets, clutching it hard when her shoes skidded on the slick surface. It had been a long time since he had escorted a woman somewhere – unsatisfactory evenings with females whose names he could not remember did not count – and he found he was enjoying the experience, despite the bitter wind and the threat of more snow.
His dog slunk along behind them, panting with the effort of moving through the drifts. It growled when it reached the first corner, and Geoffrey saw Tilloy and Freyn huddled in an alleyway, still guarding Eleanor’s house against possible attackers. He cautioned them to be especially watchful when the house was empty, and continued the walk from the market square to Owengate, where they would cross the river to reach the pleasant cluster of houses known as the Elvet.
The guards at Owengate had heard about the murder of Stanstede, and were solicitous as Eleanor stepped into the ferry. One offered her a dirty cushion to sit on.
‘We are sorry, Mistress,’ said the other, who had removed his hat as a mark of respect and was bareheaded in the bitter wind. ‘That New Castle road is dangerous, but everyone knows Master Stanstede provided a valuable service and those outlaws should have known better than to attack him.’
‘Thank you, Ned,’ said Eleanor, a little stiffly.
The Bishop's Brood Page 17
