The Bishop's Brood

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘Right,’ said Geoffrey, watching Roger heap portions of meat on three trenchers, then pour generous goblets of wine to wash it down. ‘This business started with Flambard. He charged three messengers to take three maps to three different people. Of these, we can only prove one reached its intended recipient: the prior had his from Roger.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Roger, downing the contents of one cup and refilling it before passing the others to Geoffrey and Eleanor. ‘My father should have given all three to me and not bothered with the others. By now the treasure would have been safe.’

  ‘It is safe now,’ Eleanor pointed out, ‘because no one knows where it is. Continue, Geoffrey.’

  ‘To return to Southampton, I believe Peterkin was killed because it was assumed he was one of Flambard’s messengers, saddling up to ride north immediately. I imagine Weasel and his friend were searching his body for the map when I disturbed them.’

  ‘You gave chase, but Weasel shot his accomplice by mistake and escaped,’ continued Roger, adding more wine to Geoffrey’s already brimming cup so he could feel justified in replenishing his own. ‘Then there was that roof-top fighter, also killed with a red bolt. Do you remember him shouting about a staff?’

  ‘What did he mean?’ asked Eleanor. ‘What kind of staff? A bishop’s crook?’

  ‘He died before he could explain,’ said Geoffrey, before Roger could hold forth about Aaron’s Rod. ‘So we do not know. We do not even know whether his death is related to the others, only that he was killed by a missile similar to that used on Peterkin and by Weasel when he invaded your solar.’

  ‘Then there is a connection,’ said Eleanor. ‘Those stained quarrels are expensive and not often used these days. They hark back to pagan times, when a witch put a spell on arrows to allow an archer to kill the prey he wanted. It is a Durham tradition; I have never heard of it elsewhere.’

  ‘Are they sufficiently unusual that the fletcher might know who bought them?’ asked Geoffrey.

  Eleanor shook her head. ‘They are not made by specific fletchers. They are plain quarrels that someone has paid a witch to chant incantations over. We would be better off trying to find the witch.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Roger. ‘There are not many witches these days who still know the arrow spell.’

  ‘That sounds an appealing way to spend a morning,’ said Geoffrey unenthusiastically.

  ‘It might help us to learn who Weasel is,’ said Eleanor. She picked up a knife and began to saw more chunks from the cold pork Roger had brought from the kitchen. With it was fresh bread and a sauce made from pickled apples. ‘You and I will do that tomorrow, Geoffrey.’

  ‘I will stay here and organize the ladies downstairs,’ said Roger nobly. ‘It is the workmen’s pay day tomorrow, and therefore the busiest day of the week for brothels.’

  ‘Damn your father,’ mumbled Geoffrey, sipping from the overfull cup and slopping wine on his shirt. ‘It is all his fault we are in this mess. If there were any justice, he would still be in prison.’

  ‘Wait a moment,’ began Roger offended. ‘My father is a good man—’

  ‘Flambard is my father, too,’ interrupted Eleanor, ‘but I see him for what he is: a selfish opportunist, who does not care who he destroys or exploits as he claws his way to greater power.’ She saw Roger about to argue and raised her hand to stop him, continuing with her analysis of what had happened. ‘After Peterkin’s death, you two travelled to Durham by an unusual route because Geoffrey wanted to see Salisbury, and you left early, so Weasel and his cronies missed you. They were obliged to wait until you arrived at Durham before ambushing you. Was he watching the gates, to see when you arrived and where you went?’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Geoffrey, not wanting to say he believed Simon was responsible for that.

  ‘Meanwhile, Xavier had already visited Jarveaux and possibly left him a map,’ continued Eleanor. ‘Jarveaux was poisoned at his dinner table, and Xavier was strangled as he travelled from New Castle.’ She swallowed and shot Geoffrey a fearful glance. ‘You do not think Haymo was involved, do you? It was him, Xavier, and the squire who were killed, while the women and the grooms were unharmed.’

  Geoffrey shook his head with a conviction he did not feel. Haymo was Jarveaux’s half-brother and Flambard’s uncle, and so might well have been given a role to play in the devious bishop’s plot. But there was no need to voice his concerns to Eleanor before he had proof. It would only serve to distress her. He found he was becoming ever more fond of her, and was sorry he was not in a position to do anything about it. Because he was a knight, bound in service to Tancred, he could not settle down with a woman, whether he wanted to or not. He was destined to take his women where and when they arose, but never for long. It was a lonely prospect, and for the first time it occurred to him that it was a bleak one.

  ‘There is no reason to believe Haymo had anything to do with it,’ he said, pushing the thought from his mind. ‘Perhaps the ambushers mistook him for Xavier in the dark.’

  But there was a flaw in his reasoning: Eilaf said Jarveaux had been visited by Xavier two days before Jarveaux had died. Therefore, by the time Xavier was killed, the map had been with Jarveaux for at least four days, and Geoffrey was sure he would have heard had Jarveaux’s house been raided during that time. Was this evidence that Xavier had not delivered a map to Jarveaux and that it had still been in his possession when he was strangled? As far as Geoffrey knew, it had not been found on his body, so did that mean whoever murdered him had it?

  ‘What about the women and grooms Haymo travelled with?’ he asked. ‘We should question them about what happened.’

  ‘I will do the ladies,’ said Roger, with a predatory gleam in his eye. ‘You see the grooms.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Geoffrey. ‘They may be able to tell us why Xavier was strangled, but Stanstede and the squire were shot.’

  ‘It is simple to sneak up behind a man and choke him,’ said Eleanor. ‘They probably throttled him to save arrows.’

  ‘You would not be able to choke us,’ said Roger. ‘First, we would hear you coming and be ready for you; and second we know how to fight, so you would be unable to retain your grip.’

  ‘Right,’ said Eleanor, sensing a challenge. ‘I will prove it to you – not now, when you are expecting it, but at some point when you are thinking about something else.’

  ‘Please do not,’ said Geoffrey firmly. ‘You might be hurt before we realize it is you.’

  ‘But it will prove my point,’ insisted Eleanor.

  ‘Then we believe you,’ lied Geoffrey. ‘But we should be thinking about these mysteries, not discussing how easy it is to strangle people. There are still a lot of unanswered questions: how did the second map come to be in Simon’s house? Was it the one intended for the sheriff or Jarveaux? How can we prove Xavier gave his to Jarveaux?’

  ‘And what about Durnais?’ said Eleanor. ‘He is friends with Turgot. Is that relevant?’

  Geoffrey shrugged. ‘We do not know whether his unusual and prolonged absence is because he has had an accident or whether he, too, has fallen foul of people who want his map. We also do not know whether he received it: his might be the one nailed to Simon’s table.’

  ‘I think Durnais is involved in this,’ mused Eleanor thoughtfully. ‘He never leaves the city, and I think it significant that he should choose to do so now, while there is treasure to be found. Perhaps he received his map first, and immediately went to see whether he could find the hoard.’

  ‘Yes!’ exclaimed Roger, reaching across the table for more pork. ‘That is exactly where he is! I bet if we asked people who saw him leave they would say he took a spade with him.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Geoffrey. ‘To hold the post of sheriff for so many years must mean he has a modicum of common sense. If he did take a spade, then it would not have been cocked over his shoulder like a peasant setting out for a day in the fields. But Eleanor may have a point about the connection between his absence and the tr
easure.’

  ‘Of course she does,’ said Roger uncertainly, looking bewildered. ‘But explain anyway.’

  ‘We have two of the three maps. One contains a cross, while the other shows two rivers and a road. The third will record some geographical feature – the name of a village or a distinctive hill – that will identify the general area in which the treasure is hidden.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Eleanor thoughtfully. ‘The sheriff might have the map with that on it, and he has gone to the area to see whether he can find evidence of something recently buried.’

  ‘But he would never find it,’ said Roger. ‘My father said you need all three maps to ensure success.’

  ‘He is probably right,’ said Geoffrey. ‘In fact, knowing Flambard, he is certainly right. But if you were given a map with the name of a village written on it, and you knew that a treasure trove large enough to allow the building of one of the most magnificent buildings in Christendom was nearby, what would you do?’

  ‘I would set out for that village and look for it,’ said Roger without hesitation.

  ‘Quite,’ said Geoffrey.

  ‘The word is that Durnais has gone to Chester-le-Street,’ mused Eleanor. ‘That is doubtless a ploy to confuse people, and his real destination is a secret. I always knew there was more to that crafty old man than meets the eye.’

  ‘Perhaps it was Durnais who ambushed Xavier and his party,’ suggested Geoffrey. ‘It makes sense. He probably wanted to see whether Xavier had another map.’

  ‘But Xavier had already delivered it to Jarveaux,’ said Eleanor. She smiled, pleased with their deductions. ‘I was confused by all this at first, but now it is much clearer.’

  ‘Good,’ said Geoffrey, who felt there were still more questions than answers.

  ‘But there is still Simon to consider,’ said Roger. ‘I cannot imagine why he would have one of these maps in his house. I will be happier when I know he is safe.’

  So would Geoffrey, so he could be sure Simon was not one of the men trying to kill him. He looked out of the window and hoped with all his heart that the snow would stop falling, so they could complete their investigations and leave the city while they were still able.

  Late that night, when the city was dark and silent, Geoffrey slipped out of Eleanor’s house and plodded his way through the snow to Owengate. Apparently, the guards considered the bad weather protection enough, because they were nowhere to be seen, and Geoffrey was able to unbar the wicket door and slip through it to the river. Awkwardly, for it had been many years since he had rowed a boat, he sculled across the Wear to the Elvet houses on the other side.

  When he reached Jarveaux’s home, he stood for a long time in the shadows, thinking and watching. When he was certain the household slept, he crept to the door and inserted the key that Eilaf had given him. It did not fit. Puzzled, he peered at it in the darkness. It felt rough and was rusty with age, whereas the lock had the cool, silken feel of new metal. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Someone, it seemed, had very recently changed the locks.

  Nine

  Geoffrey’s hopes for a break in the weather were dashed when more snow fell that night, so by the morning the city was almost unrecognizable. Thick drifts transformed the seedy hovels near the cathedral into great waves of white, some so deep that nothing could be seen of the houses at all. Geoffrey heard heartbroken sobs, and looked out of the window to see the corpse of one man being dug from a drift by a woman; he had frozen to death where he had fallen the night before. More people were shovelling around a cottage, where a whole family was feared dead because the weight of the snow on the roof had caused it to collapse.

  All work was at a standstill on the cathedral. It was too cold even for the carving that usually proceeded whatever the weather, although one or two men had taken blocks of stone to the tents in the bailey that provided their lodgings, and rhythmic tapping could be heard from within.

  The cold weather brought another danger, too. To combat the cold, fires were built that were too large for the hearths. At least one house had erupted in flames during the night, creating a blaze so fierce it had devoured the snow-covered building in moments, long before the alarm could be raised. It was not frozen corpses that were brought from those smoking ruins.

  People formed lines to scrape snow from the roads so some trading could continue, but it was not long before fresh falls covered them again, and the work was for nothing. Few stalls opened on the marketplace, and those that did were staffed by miserable apprentices, who stood blowing furiously on cold hands and stamping their feet.

  Geoffrey wanted to ride to Chester-le-Street, where the sheriff was supposed to be. He was keen to know whether the man really did have legitimate business there, or whether Durnais was happily digging up half the countryside in search of Flambard’s treasure. But with drifts on the main roads reputed to reach a horse’s withers, Geoffrey knew that any attempt to locate Durnais would be a waste of time. His consolation was that digging for treasure would also be made more difficult by the falling snow, and the sheriff would have serious problems without the benefit of the other two maps anyway.

  Since riding was out of the question, Geoffrey concentrated on what he could do inside the city. Early that morning, he wandered around the market square, making desultory conversation with those few traders who gathered there. But he learned nothing new about the possible whereabouts of Simon, and the only information he gained about Durnais was that the sheriff did tend to do what the prior wanted, and that it was unusual for him to leave the city.

  It was much easier to draw the townsfolk out on the subject of the bursar. Indeed, it was difficult to make them stop once they had started. Poor frightened Eilaf might have been reluctant to tell tales about the abbey’s least popular monk, but others were more than happy to vent their spleen to a willing listener. Burchard was not the only villain in a Benedictine habit, it seemed. Sub-Prior Hemming hired cheap labour to tend the abbey’s fields, so local men found themselves without the means to support their families; and Prior Turgot had an unpopular habit of evicting tenants who were more than three months behind with their rent, when most landlords tended to allow a longer period of grace.

  By the time he had heard enough, Geoffrey had a large group around him, everyone with his own story about how the abbey had done him harm. Some complaints were genuine, but others merely wanted to blame bad luck on the Benedictines, and Geoffrey decided that while the abbey was probably an intolerant and harsh overlord, Durham’s citizens were an outspoken and resentful brood. It was also apparent that Burchard usually carried out many of the abbey’s less popular duties, and had become an obvious focus for hatred.

  Eleanor had gone with Roger to St Giles’, and Geoffrey had agreed to accompany her later to meet some witches and ask them about red-stained arrows. It was not a quest he regarded with much enthusiasm, because he was afraid one might take a dislike to him and put a curse his way, but he was eagerly anticipating the prospect of spending time alone with Roger’s lovely sister.

  He was making his way across the market to return to her house, when he spotted a familiar figure emerging from one of the shops. From the sign outside, Geoffrey saw it belonged to the apothecary.

  ‘Good morning, Mistress Jarveaux,’ he said politely. ‘The paths are slippery today, so may I escort you?’

  ‘No,’ she replied shortly, tucking a parcel under her arm. ‘Go away.’

  He fell into step beside her, aware that her courtly but impractical shoes were making hard work of walking. This worked to his advantage, because she was unable to move quickly enough to shake him off. Alice was not someone whose company he would willingly have sought, but the fact that she had visited an apothecary’s shop – and everyone knew that powerful substances could be purchased from them – combined with the fact that her husband had been poisoned, made Geoffrey want to question her about his death.

  ‘I did not know it was possible to buy oysters at this time of year,’ he said, hav
ing no idea whether that was true or not, but unable to think of another way to broach the subject. ‘I would like some for Eleanor. Can you recommend a good fishmonger?’

  ‘Any will do. They are all controlled by the abbey, so none is any better or worse than the next.’

  ‘Do you like them? Oysters, I mean? I find them slimy and tasteless.’

  ‘Why buy them for Eleanor, then?’ she shot back. ‘Or do you always express gratitude for hospitality by giving something you consider “slimy and tasteless”?’

  ‘Not everyone would agree with me,’ he replied, unruffled. ‘Some people consider them a delicacy – your husband, for example.’

  ‘He was a glutton for them,’ she said distastefully. ‘And look what happened to him. If anyone ever has cause to doubt whether greed is a sin, they should look at Walter.’

  ‘What did you say happened? How exactly did he die?’

  She glanced at him sharply and he caught her arm when she skidded and almost fell. ‘You have a nasty sense of curiosity. Surely, even a knight must see that discussing a man’s death with his widow is unkind. It is painful for me, and I will not chatter about it to satisfy your ghoulish nosiness.’

  ‘You did not seem distressed by it yesterday. I had the impression his death was a relief.’

  She stopped dead in her tracks and glared at him. ‘And what is that supposed to mean? Are you accusing me of something untoward? If you are, you can come with me to the under-sheriff and lay your accusations before him. Everyone knows Walter died by choking, and Cenred is likely to throw you in prison for levelling such a gross charge.’

  Geoffrey suspected that even Durham had not yet reached the point where people were arrested for observing that a young widow shamelessly rejoiced in the death of an aged husband. ‘Did anyone examine your husband’s body, to ensure it really was the oyster that choked him?’