The Bishop's Brood

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘Ida the Witch?’ asked Geoffrey doubtfully. ‘That is her name?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Eleanor. ‘She has always been a witch, and there is no point learning a profession if you do not tell people what it is, is there? You have Jarveaux the goldsmith and Sheriff Durnais. Why not Ida the Witch?’

  ‘Because witchcraft is not tolerated by the Church, and if she advertises her profession so brazenly, she might find herself burned in the market square.’

  ‘Not in Durham,’ said Eleanor loftily. ‘We are not so narrow-minded.’

  ‘Then what about the abbey? You said the monks meddle in all aspects of town life. What is to stop them from persecuting a self-confessed witch?’

  ‘They would not dare,’ said Eleanor, although she sounded less certain. ‘Although, perhaps we should suggest she calls herself Ida the Healer instead.’

  She led the way through Owengate, where more soldiers offered gruff sympathy for her recent loss. They saw nothing odd in the fact that Eleanor told them she was going to visit Ida the Witch, and one even suggested a lane she should avoid on the way because of the danger of falling icicles. They were just approaching the jumble of houses between cathedral and castle, when they were hailed by Cenred. He puffed across the ice to meet them, eyes narrowed against the glare of sun on snow and his cold-reddened, squat nose making him seem even more pig-like than usual.

  ‘I have had no luck hunting your husband’s killer,’ he said without preamble. ‘No one knows any outlaws who would attack a party of ten that included a knight and a squire. I am beginning to think they were travellers themselves, and that they have already moved on.’

  ‘What about the sheriff?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Is he back yet?’

  Cenred shook his head. ‘I cannot imagine why he never arrived at Chester-le-Street. Perhaps, after fifteen years, he grew restless with his duties and decided to take a break.’

  ‘Without telling you? Is he the kind of man to abandon his responsibilities because he is restless?’

  ‘No,’ admitted Cenred. ‘But the shire is large, so perhaps he has decided to inspect some of the more far-flung regions. Usually, I do that, but maybe he wanted to see them for himself.’

  ‘Again, without telling you what he planned?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Surely he would have sent a messenger telling you what he intended?’

  Cenred gave a hearty sigh at the interrogation. ‘I am sure he has his reasons. But whatever they are, you can be assured they are none of your affair.’

  That, thought Geoffrey, depended on whether Durnais was busily digging up the cathedral’s treasure. The more he considered the situation, the more likely it seemed that the sheriff’s unusual absence was indeed connected to Flambard’s hoard. He studied Cenred thoughtfully. Did the under-sheriff know more than he was admitting about Durnais’ absence? Were they working together to discover the whereabouts of the treasure? Geoffrey did not think so. He imagined if that were the case, then Cenred would have gone out with his map and spade, while Durnais stayed at home.

  ‘You are acting as Prior Turgot’s agent,’ said Cenred, fixing Geoffrey with a cool stare. ‘You think that grants you the right to interrogate anyone you please about missing maps, but it does not. I do not care about this fabled treasure, and I know enough about Flambard to doubt whether it even exists. It is probably some vile Norman plot against the Saxons.’

  ‘How?’ asked Geoffrey, wondering what bigotry he was about to hear next.

  Cenred pursed his lips. ‘It is obvious. There is no treasure, but the Normans – prior, bursar, and sheriff – will claim we Saxons stole it. It will provide them with an excuse to tax the Haliwerfolc to pay for this damned cathedral.’

  Was that it? thought Geoffrey. Could it be that simple? It made sense, and Flambard was certainly the kind of man to devise such a scheme.

  ‘Turgot said you might know whether Durnais ever received one of Flambard’s maps,’ he said, deciding to assume for the moment that Cenred was wrong and that the treasure did exist. ‘Did he?’

  ‘I do not know,’ said Cenred stiffly. ‘Durnais did not tell me.’

  ‘Did he receive any messages before he left?’ pressed Geoffrey. ‘Was one brought by a knight, or perhaps by a monk in Flambard’s service?’

  ‘All the abbey monks are in Flambard’s service,’ said Cenred heavily. ‘And the Norman sheriff likes to maintain good relations with the Norman abbey, so there are always monks at the castle.’

  ‘Jarveaux was murdered, you know,’ said Geoffrey, wanting to say something that would make Cenred realize that regardless of whether Flambard’s treasure was real, people connected with it were dying. ‘If you look inside his mouth you will see it was no shellfish that killed him.’

  Cenred stared at him. ‘You have a nasty way of passing your time. First you study corpses in the castle chapel, and now you confess to meddling with the ones in St Giles’ Church.’

  ‘I hope you did not meddle with my husband,’ warned Eleanor sternly. ‘It took me a long time to lay him out nicely, and I do not want my hard work destroyed by you.’

  ‘I did not destroy your work,’ said Geoffrey evasively. ‘But you should inspect Jarveaux, Master Cenred. You will see I am right.’

  ‘Of course you are right,’ snapped Cenred irritably. ‘I know he was poisoned by green hellebore, and that he did not choke on his dinner. I am the under-sheriff and responsible for keeping law and order. Do you think I am unaware of who has been murdered and who died naturally in my city?’

  Geoffrey regarded him uncertainly. ‘You know about Jarveaux?’

  ‘I have just said so. And I have my own ideas about who killed him and why.’

  ‘Who? Since Jarveaux was one of the intended recipients for Flambard’s maps, his murder might be relevant to—’

  ‘I will tell you when I have enough evidence,’ said Cenred stiffly. ‘I will not risk warning the murderer by gossiping before my investigation is completed. You will have to wait and see.’

  Ida did not look like a witch to Geoffrey. She was a comfortable woman in her middle years, who wore a spotless white wimple and had a kind, motherly face. She was gentle with Eleanor, and gave her a pomander of herbs she said would bring about restful sleep if placed under the pillow, and offered practical advice about the early stages of widowhood.

  ‘We came to ask whether you have sold any red-stained arrows recently,’ said Eleanor, settling by the blazing fire in Ida’s clean and cosy home.

  ‘Red-stained arrows?’ echoed Ida. ‘My dear child! No one has asked for those in many a year. They never did what was claimed; only the foolish bought them and only the unscrupulous sold them.’

  ‘No one has asked you for any recently, then?’ asked Eleanor, disappointed.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Ida. ‘And if he did, I would tell him to dispense with such foolery and practise in the butts. The only way to be a good hunter is to learn to shoot. Charms do no good at all.’

  ‘I thought witches were supposed to dispense charms,’ said Geoffrey, thinking that Durham had a very peculiar selection of witches: Moon Mary was too addled, while Ida was too sensible.

  ‘That is what people think,’ corrected Ida. ‘And some dishonest folk no doubt dabble in that sort of thing. But all I do is help heal the sick and give sound and practical advice when it is needed.’

  Eleanor stood to leave. She hesitated, then told Ida all about the missing maps and Flambard’s treasure, and how she thought Sheriff Durnais’ disappearance might be connected to them. She finished by asking the witch if she could suggest where to look next.

  Ida shook her head. ‘I cannot see into the future; you must visit Moon Mary for that. However, I am often summoned to the castle for my healing skills, and I think I saw something you may find useful. It was about ten days ago now – just before Durnais left for Chester-le-Street. I was tending a man with falling sickness, who was in a chamber near the sheriff’s office. I stayed with him all night, and in the small hours, I heard
a stir. I was curious, so I went to see what was going on when honest folk were sleeping.’

  ‘And?’ asked Eleanor.

  ‘A visitor had arrived, and the guards were trying to persuade him to wait until dawn to see Durnais. The visitor, however, was determined to see him immediately, claiming he had come a long way.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Geoffrey, when Ida paused. ‘This could be important.’

  Ida shrugged. ‘The visitor was insistent, so the guards agreed to wake the sheriff. I saw the visitor enter Durnais’ bedchamber and he did not emerge until noon the next day. I had the impression he had discharged his mission and that he spent the rest of the night asleep.’

  ‘With the sheriff?’ asked Geoffrey cautiously.

  ‘The sheriff left that room shortly after the visitor went in, and worked all night in his office before riding away at dawn. That is partly why I remember the incident – Durnais never leaves the city.’

  ‘This is odd,’ mused Eleanor. ‘Most messengers would not be permitted to sleep in the sheriff’s bedchamber. They would be sent to rest with the soldiers in the hall, or perhaps in the kitchens.’

  ‘Not if that messenger was carrying information Durnais did not want him to share with anyone else,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Then it makes perfect sense. What happened to this visitor?’

  ‘As soon as he woke he mounted his horse and rode away. I have not seen him since.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘He wore a Benedictine habit, but given the apparent urgency – secrecy – of his mission, it was probably a disguise. He rode like a man born in the saddle, which made me think he was no priest. He was small, like a bird, with black eyes and a habit of tilting his head to one side. He had an air about him that suggested he was used to being obeyed.’

  ‘Brother Odard,’ said Geoffrey immediately. Ida was more observant than Geoffrey had been in Southampton: she had seen through the disguise, and Odard was a man ‘born in the saddle’ and used to obedience. Odard, like Xavier, was a Knight Hospitaller.

  And something else struck Geoffrey. Flambard had needed three couriers for his maps, and Prior Turgot had told Geoffrey that Flambard had had three Hospitallers – Xavier, Odard, and Gilbert Courcy. He surmised that the young man shot on the roof in Southampton may have been Gilbert. Roger said he had once known a child called Gilbert Courcy, but Roger had been away for four years, and boys grew into young men. Roger had known the child, but did not recognize the youth, although the youth had recognized Roger, and had shrieked his last desperate message to the son of the man he served. And once Gilbert was dead, Flambard had been short of a messenger. Geoffrey had assumed Flambard had deliberately orchestrated the meeting in the tavern, but it had been a stroke of good luck for the bishop when he had spotted Roger. He had set the two surviving Hospitallers to follow him until a meeting could be arranged. Poor Roger really had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Next, Geoffrey considered the sheriff. Durnais was due to relinquish his office to Cenred. That Durnais lived in the castle and not the city suggested he had no family or fine house. Had one of Flambard’s maps – and it had to be the one with the name of a village or a geographical feature on it – offered him an opportunity to take something for himself before he resigned? It seemed to Geoffrey that Cenred was panting hard at Durnais’ heels, and the talk of who would be the next sheriff was all around the town. But even the map with the village marked was unlikely to allow him to locate the gold, if the other two were anything to go by.

  Or had Odard played a more active role in delivering his map than Xavier or Roger? Had he decided he did not know whether Durnais could be trusted, and so had devised a test? Had he given Durnais a false map, with more information on it than the real one, to see whether the man would do his duty by Flambard and meet with prior and goldsmith or whether he would rush off in a frenzy of greed to find the treasure himself?

  The more he thought about it, the more Geoffrey realized that this was indeed what Odard had done. The prior had two of Flambard’s maps in his possession, but he was not in a position to begin digging. Flambard had been very insistent that it would take all three documents before the location of the treasure could be identified, so Odard might well have given the sheriff a different map, one that would make him believe he had a chance of finding the treasure.

  So, if Odard had not given Durnais the real map, did that mean he had passed the original to the prior? In which case, was Turgot already in possession of all three? But then why had Turgot charged Geoffrey and the bursar to search for it? Or was Odard’s map the one Geoffrey had found under Simon’s table?

  ‘So, Odard was the third messenger after all,’ he said aloud.

  ‘You know him?’ asked Eleanor. ‘Was he delivering the map to Durnais, do you think?’

  ‘I imagine so. Flambard said Xavier and Odard were not his couriers; he lied.’

  ‘That man cannot speak without uttering a falsehood,’ said Ida in some disgust. ‘You should not have agreed to do his dirty work – for dirty work it will be if he is involved.’

  ‘We know Roger gave his map to the prior and Xavier visited Jarveaux,’ summarized Geoffrey. ‘And now we know Odard delivered something to the sheriff – who left Durham the following dawn. Odard did not stay long: as soon as he had rested he rode away before anything dire could befall him.’

  ‘Why would he think it might?’ asked Eleanor, puzzled.

  ‘Probably because he knows there are people who do not want Flambard’s treasure to reach the cathedral, and who will stop at nothing to get the maps for themselves. And he is right: Jarveaux and Xavier are dead, and Roger was attacked – twice if you count the incident in the stables in Southampton where Peterkin was killed.’

  ‘I am no soothsayer, as I told you,’ said Ida softly. ‘But I still sense that danger surrounds you both. Be wary and be watchful.’

  It was sound advice, and Geoffrey fully intended to follow it.

  With Eleanor walking beside him, talking about Ida’s miraculous cures for warts, Geoffrey thought about Odard, trying to recall details about him from their brief meeting in Southampton all those weeks before. But he could remember nothing of use. He was still engrossed when they took the ferry across the river to the Elvet, and made their way along the slippery footpath to the houses that lay to the east. He barely heard what Eleanor was saying, and when she stopped outside the home of the third witch, he gazed at her in astonishment.

  ‘But this is Alice’s house,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ said Eleanor tiredly. ‘Have you listened to nothing I have been saying? I told you that the third of Durham’s witches is Mother Petra – my great-grandmother. I do not know if she is a real witch, or if people assume she is one because of her age. But it is her we have come to see.’

  ‘Perhaps I should wait outside,’ said Geoffrey, backing away. ‘I have already had an encounter with your friend Alice this morning, and neither of us wants another.’

  ‘I will protect you from her,’ said Eleanor, pulling him towards the door. ‘And anyway, her bark is worse than her bite. She will not harm you.’

  ‘I am not afraid of her,’ said Geoffrey tartly. ‘I just think it would be better if we avoided each other. Besides, Mother Petra is more likely to talk to you alone than if I am with you.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Eleanor, rapping sharply on the door. ‘She has an eye for handsome men. She is far more likely to talk to you.’

  Mother Petra answered the door almost immediately, suggesting she had probably been watching their approach from a window.

  ‘Alice is out,’ she said. ‘She went to buy rat poison from the apothecary, then she was going to pray by Walter’s corpse in St Giles’ Church. It is a waste of time, if you ask me.’

  ‘Do you mean praying in general or for Walter’s soul in particular?’ asked Geoffrey.

  Mother Petra gave an inappropriate cackle. ‘Both, I imagine. Well, will you come in, or would you rather keep
an old woman freezing on her doorstep?’

  ‘Has anyone bought any red-stained arrows from you recently?’ asked Eleanor, as they followed her into a large room where a fire blazed in the hearth and a massive pot of mulled wine bubbled and steamed over it. Mother Petra ladled herself a cup, but did not offer any to her guests. Geoffrey decided that age definitely had its advantages – there was Ulfrith’s grandfather, the old Norman-hater who had escaped retribution for pushing Geoffrey in the river because he was almost ninety, and now there was Mother Petra, guzzling her hot wine and not bothering to share.

  ‘Why do you want to know?’ asked Mother Petra, blowing on the wine so hard that some of it sprayed out of the cup and across the rugs.

  ‘Because it may help me learn who killed my husband,’ said Eleanor.

  ‘I do not know his name,’ said Mother Petra. ‘But I can tell you he was small, with pointed features, dark greasy hair, and nasty yellow teeth that pointed backwards.’

  ‘Weasel!’ exclaimed Geoffrey. ‘I knew it was him who tried to kill us in your solar.’

  ‘You do weasels an injustice. “Rat” would be a better name. I do not like rats.’

  ‘I understand you have an infestation of them,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Alice is buying enough green hellebore to kill half the rats in England.’

  ‘Ours are particularly hardy,’ said Mother Petra. ‘I asked her to buy the hellebore, although I am beginning to think we shall need something stronger.’

  Was that true? Geoffrey wondered. Had Mother Petra told Alice to purchase the poison? And had Alice then realized that what killed household pests would also dispatch unwanted husbands?

  ‘What do you know about Weasel?’ asked Eleanor. ‘Do you know where he lives?’

  ‘The abbey,’ said Mother Petra. ‘He is a monk.’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Geoffrey. ‘Are you sure?’

  Mother Petra eyed him shrewdly. ‘He is not one of those dolts who process around pretending to be godly, but one who comes and goes as he pleases at all times of the day and night. An abbey spy.’