The Bishop's Brood

by Simon Beaufort

‘Weasel is the prior’s man?’ asked Geoffrey, startled. ‘But how can that be true? We first met him in Southampton, and that is a long way from here.’

  But, he recalled, Simon had examined the cloth on Weasel’s dead colleague and claimed it had a ‘southern feel’ to it. What did that prove? Geoffrey knew the answer to that was nothing: Simon could have been bluffing, pretending superior knowledge of matters he did not understand. Or Weasel’s accomplice could have purchased a new tunic while on his travels, to spend the money he had been paid to commit murder and mayhem. Or had Simon deliberately tried to mislead Geoffrey by suggesting the would-be killers were not local?

  ‘Men travel great distances when it is worth their while,’ said Mother Petra, as if reading his thoughts. ‘You only need look at the Crusade to see that is true.’

  Geoffrey rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to piece the facts together. Weasel worked for the abbey, and had been in Southampton when Flambard had given the maps to his messengers. Did that mean someone at the abbey – perhaps Turgot – had known that Flambard was making moves to have a treasure hoard excavated? Was that possible, given that everyone thought Flambard was incarcerated in the White Tower at the time? The news of his escape was not general knowledge at that point.

  So who had paid Weasel to kill Roger? Was it Turgot, who might well employ subversive means to maintain his position of authority? Was it Burchard, who had a reputation for hiring henchmen to do un-monk-like things? Was it Hemming, who resented the superiority of his Norman colleagues? Or was Weasel acting on his own initiative because he wanted the treasure for himself?

  ‘You will see your rat-faced friend if you visit the abbey,’ claimed Mother Petra, breaking into his thoughts. ‘He disappeared in January and February – shortly after he asked me to put the magic potion on his arrows – but he is back now.’

  And Geoffrey knew exactly where he had been: in Southampton, firing his charmed arrows at Gilbert Courcy, Peterkin, and Geoffrey himself.

  ‘Do many people want their arrows painted?’ he asked, wanting to be certain there was not another rodent-featured man who liked spells on his ammunition.

  ‘Not now,’ said Mother Petra sadly. ‘Back in the old days, no self-respecting hunter would leave his home without his arrows properly blessed. But in these modern times, people have forgotten the powers of the old gods. It is only the wise, like me, who remember.’

  ‘And rat-faced clerics who should know better,’ muttered Geoffrey.

  ‘He was desperate. He is an abysmal archer and needs all the help he can get. I charged him a penny an arrow and he went away happy enough.’

  ‘And he wanted them for hunting deer?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Red is for a stag, is it not?’

  ‘A stag or an enemy,’ corrected Mother Petra. ‘We used them at the Battle of Hastings, to shoot the Saxons. If more of us had used them, the battle would have been over much sooner.’

  ‘You were at Hastings?’ asked Geoffrey in astonishment.

  She nodded. ‘I went with my son Thurstin. It was a glorious day. I shot seven Saxons myself.’

  ‘Lord!’ muttered Geoffrey.

  ‘I was surprised your Weasel even knew about arrow painting, but he claimed he read about it in the library, so, I suppose that vile place is good for something. But it is a great injustice that my granaries are overrun with rats, while the abbey is free of them.’

  ‘Speaking of poisoned rats, do you know how your son died?’ asked Eleanor, somewhat tactlessly. ‘Were you there the day he choked at the table?’

  ‘Not me,’ said Mother Petra. ‘I do not like oysters, and I did not like the company of my whining son at dinner. I learned what had happened later. Why? Do you suspect Alice of killing him with green hellebore?’

  Geoffrey was not sure how to answer such a blunt question. ‘We do not know how he died,’ he said, which was at least partially true. They still did not know for certain who gave him the poison, although Alice was top of the list as far as Geoffrey was concerned.

  ‘Well, he managed almost sixty years without choking himself, so I do not see why he should have started now,’ said Mother Petra. ‘Perhaps he was poisoned. Perhaps he poisoned himself.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ asked Geoffrey uncertainly.

  ‘Perhaps he thought it would be a better fate than being the recipient of one of Flambard’s maps,’ said Mother Petra, wickedly casual.

  ‘You know about those?’ asked Geoffrey, startled.

  ‘Ranulf Flambard is my grandson,’ said Mother Petra, gratified by his surprise. ‘He always confides in me.’

  Then he should be more careful in future, thought Geoffrey, if the old crone was going to talk openly about his secrets to people she barely knew.

  ‘Why would Flambard’s maps make Jarveaux want to kill himself?’ he asked.

  ‘I would not want one in my possession,’ said Mother Petra wisely. ‘There are too many greedy and ruthless men around.’

  Geoffrey was sure she was right.

  Ten

  That evening, when he was sure they would be awake, Geoffrey went with Roger to talk to the women who had been with Stanstede and Xavier when they had been ambushed. Stanstede’s brothel was very different from the luxurious debauchery Geoffrey had enjoyed in the Holy Land. There, small private chambers were available for hire, should a man decide to pay for the company of a woman. Stanstede offered no such comforts, and men apparently took turns to use two dirty mattresses in an adjoining room, or, if they preferred, slipped into the garden, where there was a wall. Geoffrey supposed that a lack of facilities would make for a more rapid turnover, which might reduce conflict should demand exceed supply, but he found the whole set-up sordid. Had he felt the need for the services of a woman, he decided that Stanstede’s establishment would be the very last resort.

  The women lounged around in attitudes of boredom. Some picked lethargically at bowls of nuts that had been placed on the tables, while others were evidently already well on their way to insensibility with Eleanor’s powerful ale. All were – or had been – pretty, and were healthy and well fed. Roger said they were well paid, and that much of their money was sent to families in desperate need. Yet there seemed something distasteful about the whole business, although Geoffrey would have been hard pushed to identify exactly what. Perhaps it was the fact that they seemed to have lost hope, and that they knew life as a whore lasted only as long as they had their health and some of their looks.

  ‘It is too early for us to start,’ complained one woman as Geoffrey and Roger entered. She was a blowsy redhead with stained teeth. ‘We do not work before dark.’

  ‘An hour or so with me would not be work, Cath,’ quipped Roger, who had spent some time preparing himself for the interview and wore his best brothel shirt. ‘It would be fun.’

  Cath looked him up and down disinterestedly, and evidently did not concur. He sat on a bench and consoled himself by inching one meaty hand closer and closer to the thigh of a woman who wore so few clothes Geoffrey was certain she must be frozen. She watched Roger’s clumsy attempts at subtle seduction with weary detachment.

  ‘Tell us what happened the night Haymo died,’ said Geoffrey, thinking they had better learn what they could before Roger became unmanageable. ‘Then we will leave you alone.’

  ‘What, again?’ asked Cath with a sigh. ‘We have gone over this a hundred times with the under-sheriff, not to mention our customers. Everyone wants to hear the story. We know life here is dull, especially in winter, and folk need something to liven up their lives, but we are tired of telling this tale.’

  ‘I will reward you handsomely for it,’ said Roger, leering at the half-naked woman. The expression on his face suggested he would not be paying in cash, but had something else in mind. Not surprisingly, no one showed much interest in his generous offer.

  ‘You are not very good whores,’ he cried in dismay, when the woman tired of his clumsy advances and went to sit elsewhere. ‘You are supposed to make me feel
as if I am the only man in the world.’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ said Cath in her world-weary way, ‘you are not. There are thousands of you, all pawing and drooling, and you are all exactly alike.’

  ‘You cannot say that kind of thing to our customers,’ said Roger, appalled. ‘Ellie and I will be out of business in a week.’

  ‘We do not say it to the customers,’ said Cath. ‘When night comes, you will find us properly bawdy and jolly. But we are off duty now, and do not want men fawning over us in our spare time.’

  A murmur of agreement accompanied her words. ‘And you are not a customer until we see the colour of your money,’ added a woman with hair that had a curious green sheen. ‘You still owe me from last night. Just because you are Eleanor Stanstede’s brother does not mean you get us for free.’

  ‘I am more than that,’ said Roger indignantly. ‘I am her business associate.’

  A groan went around the room. ‘You mean we will have to put up with you indefinitely?’ asked Cath, not at all pleased by the prospect.

  ‘Hopefully, we will not be here long,’ said Geoffrey, wanting to hear the story and leave. He had not yet sunk so low that he needed to force his company on women whether they liked it or not. ‘Tell us about the night of the murder.’

  ‘I do not want to,’ said Cath petulantly. ‘We did not see the attackers, because they kept themselves hidden, and we know nothing we have not already told Cenred, so do not think you will find Master Stanstede’s killer where he has not.’

  ‘We would not presume,’ said Geoffrey. ‘We want to hear the story for ourselves, because Mistress Stanstede would like to know more about what happened to her husband.’

  Cath relented at the mention of Eleanor. ‘There is not much to tell. There were five of us, plus Master Stanstede, in a cart. A knight, his squire and two castle grooms were on horses behind us.’

  ‘Did you know these men?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Had you seen them before?’

  ‘We knew the grooms. They are regulars here, although they are as dense as pea soup. They had been visiting their sister in New Castle. We did not know the knight or his squire, though.’

  ‘What did they look like?’

  ‘The knight had a scar on his face that made him look sinister, and he had red hair like me. His squire was young and comely.’

  Definitely Xavier, thought Geoffrey, who had wanted to be sure. ‘And then what happened?’

  ‘We were riding along quite happily together. Us women were singing, and the grooms and the squire were joining in the chorus. The knight did not, but he seemed to be enjoying it anyway.’

  ‘How far into the journey were you when you were attacked?’ asked Geoffrey.

  ‘We were at Kymlisworth, which is about five miles north of Durham. Near Finchale.’

  ‘Finchale?’ asked Geoffrey.

  ‘I told you about Finchale,’ said Roger with one of his significant looks. ‘It is the place with dangerous snakes and deep bogs. Nasty area. No one goes there if he can avoid it.’

  ‘Kymlisworth has about thirty villagers,’ added Cath. ‘But none of them were among our attackers.’

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘You said you did not see any of them.’

  ‘Because Frances has family there, and she would know if any had turned robber,’ said Cath. Green-hair nodded affirmation.

  ‘When exactly did all this happen?’

  Cath gazed at Geoffrey. ‘What odd questions you ask! Everyone else wants to know how much blood there was, and how deep the arrow went into Master Stanstede. But it was almost dusk. We had left late because of a problem with a horse. Normally, Master Stanstede would never travel after dark, but the knight and his squire joined us in Chester-le-Street and he thought we would be safe.’

  ‘Chester-le-Street?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Not New Castle?’

  ‘We stopped to water the horses at Chester-le-Street, and the knight and his squire asked to go with us,’ said Frances. ‘Everyone knows outlaws are unlikely to attack a party of ten, and that it is safer to travel in big groups. The arrangement suited us all.’

  Was it significant that Xavier had joined Stanstede’s group at the place Durnais had claimed to be visiting? Did it mean Xavier had killed the sheriff for trying to find Flambard’s treasure, then coolly joined the prostitutes to ride to Durham? Or was it the other way around, and Durnais was responsible for the attack on Xavier? Or was Geoffrey reading too much into the train of events, and the role of Chester-le-Street was irrelevant?

  ‘Master Stanstede had decided to stay overnight in Chester-le-Street when he saw how late it was,’ said Frances. ‘Then the knight asked to come with us, and he saw he could save the cost of beds. He believed outlaws would not dare attack if a knight was with us.’

  ‘But he was wrong,’ said Cath bitterly. ‘Very wrong.’

  ‘What happened when you were attacked?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Was the knight targeted first?’

  ‘No,’ said Cath. ‘We were riding along, singing, when there was a hiss and poor Master Stanstede pitched forward. When we pulled him up, there was an arrow in his chest and he was dead.’

  She paused, and Geoffrey saw the glitter of tears. For all her insouciance, she had been distressed by what had happened, and grieved for the man who had hired her. She gazed down at her beringed hands, unable to speak. Frances took up the tale.

  ‘There is not much more to tell. The knight and his man went into the undergrowth with their swords drawn, looking for the outlaws. They told us to wait.’

  ‘Then what?’ asked Geoffrey.

  Frances shook her head. ‘And then nothing.’

  ‘Did you hear anything?’

  ‘Not a thing. Not a leaf stirring or a twig snapping.’

  ‘It was the snow,’ explained Cath. ‘It muffled sounds, and made everything silent.’

  Frances spoke again. ‘After a while, when the knight did not come back, we told the grooms to look for him. They found him and his man a stone’s throw from our cart.’

  ‘Do you know how they died?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘How were the bodies when they were found?’

  ‘Hang on,’ snapped Cath impatiently. ‘We cannot answer if you do not give us time to speak. We do not know exactly what happened to them, because we were not there when they died. But both were dead from arrow wounds. The grooms found them lying in the snow.’

  ‘Did you go to see the bodies yourselves, or did the grooms just bring them back to the cart?’

  ‘Of course we went to see them,’ said Cath, giving him the kind of look that suggested she thought he was simple. ‘You do not think those stupid oafs would know what to do in such a situation, do you? It was us, not them, who carried the bodies back to the cart – and we had to tell the boys to stay with us, not run away like frightened chickens.’

  ‘So much for men,’ muttered the half-naked woman from across the room. ‘They were all but useless, and it was down to the women, as usual, to sort things out.’

  ‘What did you see when you found the bodies?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Precisely?’

  Cath sighed. ‘They were lying side-by-side, and both had arrows sticking out of them.’

  ‘Did you notice whether one had been strangled?’

  ‘No,’ said Cath, eyeing him warily. ‘It was dark, and we had just been ambushed. We put the bodies in the cart and headed home as fast as we could. We did not look at the corpses very hard.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘After a long, hard journey through the blizzard, we went straight to the castle. We told Cenred what had happened, and, although he sent men out immediately to investigate, our attackers had long since disappeared.’

  ‘And so much snow had fallen that the soldiers could not find tracks to follow,’ added Frances.

  ‘You saw nothing more?’

  ‘No!’ said Frances, exasperated. ‘We did not hear anything after the first hiss of an arrow. And we saw no one – we were expecting outlaws to come and make claims on o
ur virtue, but they never came.’

  She sounded disappointed. So was Geoffrey. Their story told him little, other than that Xavier had joined them in Chester-le-Street and not New Castle and Stanstede had been killed first, perhaps to lure Xavier away from the others. He thanked the women and left, although Roger decided to linger a while, much to their displeasure. Geoffrey returned to the solar and sat by the fire, thinking about what he had learned. The more he tried to reason some pattern into it, the more the details became a blur in his mind.

  He was about to give up and retire to bed, when he heard the faintest of sounds behind him. He was instantly on his feet with his dagger in his hand, ready to defend himself. Eleanor stood there with a piece of rope in her hands. He replaced his blade in its sheath with an angry sigh.

  ‘I asked you not to try that. Had you succeeded in putting that rope around my neck, I would have stabbed first and identified you second. You should not attempt such foolery just to prove a point.’

  Eleanor’s face was slightly pale. ‘I am sorry. But Roger can be so arrogant sometimes. I just wanted to show him he is fallible.’

  ‘Then why pick on me?’

  ‘Because you are smaller, and I thought I could manage you better. I should have tried my luck on Roger after all – he is bigger, but he is also slower.’

  ‘I would not risk it if I were you,’ said Geoffrey tartly. ‘It would break his heart if he were to harm you – and harm you he would if you tried that trick on him.’

  She smiled at him, her eyes dark and alluring in the candlelight. ‘I am sorry. Sleep well, Geoffrey.’

  The following day saw no improvement in the weather, and Geoffrey began to despair of ever leaving Durham. He decided to go to the abbey, to speak to the bursar, and see what his investigations had told him. As far as Geoffrey was concerned, they were on the same side, and he saw no point in replicating what the bursar had already done, especially since he was loath to spend long and fruitless hours tramping around in the snow.

  ‘We will search the abbey for Weasel when we see Burchard,’ declared Roger as they ploughed through the drifts together. ‘We will have this man with a noose around his neck today, monk or no. That will teach him to attack me!’