‘The snow dropped from the roof,’ said Geoffrey stiffly. ‘It would have buried me no matter how good a fighter I am.’
‘So you say,’ said Roger disparagingly. ‘I would not have let myself get into such a situation.’
Geoffrey shook his head. ‘Arguing is getting us nowhere. What happened next? I do not remember anything except that I thought I was going to suffocate.’
‘That worried me, too,’ said Roger. ‘So, I decided saving you was more important than engaging in push-and-shove with Burchard. I threw one good punch that bowled him head-over-heels, and came to your rescue. When they saw me coming, Weasel and his louse-ridden companions melted away like shadows in the night.’
‘Did you not give chase, to find out where they went? It would be helpful to know if Weasel really is from the abbey, or whether he is someone else’s hireling – Odard’s, perhaps, or even the sheriff’s.’
‘Turgot’s, more likely,’ said Roger practically. ‘Weasel expected Burchard and Hemming to go burgling last night. How could he know unless the prior had told him? Having Burchard shot while committing a crime would be a good way for Turgot to rid himself of the man.’
‘Possibly,’ conceded Geoffrey reluctantly. ‘Although Turgot is clever, and I am sure he could devise a less embarrassing way of ousting Burchard than having him killed burgling someone’s house. There is something about your explanation that does not feel right.’
‘Feel right?’ echoed Roger in disbelief. ‘You are a knight, man, not some youthful damsel. You cannot dismiss my reasoning because it does not “feel right”. It fits the facts.’
Geoffrey did not feel up to an argument. ‘So what happened after Weasel left?’
‘I brought you here to thaw you out. I have no idea what happened to the monks.’
Geoffrey sighed. ‘Damn! We do not even know whether they are alive or not?’
‘I did not hit them that hard!’
‘But Weasel may have done – and then taken the map.’
‘I did not care what happened to the monks,’ declared Roger stiffly. ‘I was afraid you would die if I did not bring you home. This damned business is not more important than the life of a friend, and I would rather be revealed as the greatest desecrator of relics in the land than leave you to freeze while I chased after the likes of Burchard.’
‘Thank you, Roger,’ said Geoffrey politely. ‘But I was only stunned, not on the verge of death. Did anything else happen?’
‘I had the Devil’s own job of sneaking you in here without Eleanor seeing. She would not approve of us attacking monks, and I thought we should keep the whole business from her.’
‘So monks and Weasel escape, and we are none the wiser about anything. Although we saw Burchard waving something in the air as he climbed out of the window, we do not know it was the map. It might have been anything.’
‘I have the answer to that,’ said Roger carelessly, as though it was of such little importance it had not been worth mentioning sooner.
Geoffrey stared at him. ‘How?’
Roger gave him a knowing wink and rummaged inside his surcoat. The first thing to emerge was a chicken bone, apparently secreted there for future enjoyment – or perhaps to feed to Geoffrey’s dog to see if he could bring about its demise. But the next item out was a stained and crumpled piece of parchment, which he held aloft triumphantly.
‘What is that?’ asked Geoffrey stupidly. He rubbed his head, wondering if the avalanche had knocked some of the wits out of it, because he knew exactly what Roger was brandishing.
‘It is the third treasure map,’ said Roger proudly, placing it on the window sill and attempting to smooth it out with his thick, rough fingers.
‘The last time I saw it – or what I assume was it – it was in the grubby hands of our friend the bursar. What is it doing here?’
‘He dropped it,’ said Roger casually. ‘When I knocked Hemming off his feet, Burchard jumped in fright and it fluttered to the ground. I grabbed it before it got buried.’
‘Did anyone see you?’ asked Geoffrey, certain that if they had, it would only be a matter of time before the killers homed in on Roger to get the thing back.
‘No,’ said Roger smugly. ‘Weasel and his friends were concentrating on you. Hemming was in the snow with his eyes closed, and Burchard was gaping at him, like the stupid ox he is.’
‘Gaping at Hemming? Why was he not looking for the map he had just dropped?’
‘I do not know,’ said Roger crossly. ‘I suppose he thought Hemming was dead and he was about to be next. Anyway, moments later, he was groping around in the snow, hoping to find it again. No one knows I have it except you.’
‘Good,’ said Geoffrey with feeling. ‘Let us keep it that way. Do not even tell Eleanor. We do not want people breaking into her house while we are out and demanding it from her.’
‘No, we do not,’ agreed Roger wholeheartedly. ‘I will order Helbye and Ulfrith to stay with her today. And by tonight, the danger will be over anyway.’
Geoffrey regarded him uneasily. ‘Will it? Why?’
‘I have a plan,’ announced Roger, pleased with himself. ‘I will need a little help from you, but I know exactly what we should do next and how we can bring an end to all this treachery.’
‘Oh, Lord!’ breathed Geoffrey nervously.
While Roger went to the pantry to scavenge bread and ale for an early breakfast, Geoffrey gazed out of the window and tried to assemble his thoughts. Who had sent Weasel after Burchard and Hemming? Was it one of the high-ranking monks or someone outside the abbey? And now that Roger had the map, did that mean they could anticipate attempts on their lives until the treasure was recovered and secured in the cathedral’s coffers? And more immediately pressing, what was the plan Roger was so determined to carry out? Geoffrey hoped it would not prove too impractical.
‘Here we are,’ said Roger, pushing open the door with one foot as he balanced an impressive haul of food in his hands. ‘This should stave off the hunger for a while.’
‘I should say,’ said Geoffrey, alarmed. ‘Eleanor will be furious when she sees what you have taken. There is enough here to feed a garrison.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Roger, taking a loaf and ripping it in half. ‘Your dog will help us out if I have overestimated what we need. That beast will eat anything.’
To prove it, the dog made a sudden leap and Geoffrey saw a slab of ham dragged under the bed.
‘Oh, no,’ muttered Roger, heading after it. ‘Ellie smokes wonderful ham and that was for me.’
There was a brief tug-of-war, after which the dog emerged with the larger piece, and Roger retreated to the window seat nursing a bleeding thumb.
‘What is this plan of yours?’ asked Geoffrey, taking some cheese. ‘We cannot keep this map, Roger. It is too dangerous. We must hand it to the prior today – preferably with some witnesses, so everyone will know we do not have it.’
‘My plan is better than that,’ said Roger, rubbing the ham on his hose to rid it of dog saliva, then taking a bite. Reluctantly, he offered some to Geoffrey, who declined. ‘Never mind passing the map to the prior. That will not make us safe. I intend to give the prior the treasure itself.’
‘How?’ asked Geoffrey warily. ‘He has the other two maps, remember?’
‘But I have this one,’ said Roger, reaching for the third parchment with greasy fingers. ‘And he does not. And no one can do a thing without it.’
Geoffrey took it from him. It was a simple affair, made from the same high-quality parchment he had observed in the first two. It was mostly blank, but in the middle was a word, a drawing of an oddly shaped tree, and what he thought was supposed to be a snake.
‘It says Finchale,’ said Roger, watching him. He pointed to the writing on the map. ‘Finchale.’
Geoffrey stared at his illiterate friend. ‘How do you know that?’
‘The prior can read, but Jarveaux could not and neither can Durnais. My father would not send them maps th
ey could not understand, would he?’
‘He might. It is not impossible to ask a clerk, you know.’
‘But that would mean taking someone else into your confidence,’ said Roger. ‘And my father would not want that. So, he gave his clues in pictures, too, as well as words.’
‘A tree and a snake? How does that help?’
‘I keep telling you about Finchale, and you keep forgetting what I say,’ said Roger irritably.
‘Snakes,’ said Geoffrey in understanding. ‘Snakes and bogs.’
‘Exactly. Finchale is famous for snakes. It is also famous for an oak tree that wood sprites inhabit. It was struck by lightning and split in half, just like the drawing here. The sheriff and Jarveaux would know the tree and its story.’
‘That is clever,’ said Geoffrey, impressed. ‘And, as we surmised, no one with this map alone would be able to locate the treasure, unless he was prepared to dig up huge tracts of countryside. Finchale is not a village; it is an area.’
‘Right. Now, here comes the part where you help. How well do you remember the other maps we had? For example, if I gave you a blank piece of parchment, could you could plot the cross on it?’
Geoffrey nodded. ‘It was folded absolutely geometrically – in half, in half again, then in half a third time. The cross lay on one of the creases. But why do you ask? Even with that and the name of the area, it will be difficult to pinpoint exactly where the treasure lies.’
‘You underestimate a little local knowledge, lad,’ said Roger smugly. ‘I had a good look at the map you found in Simon’s house and committed it to memory – using the creases, like you did with the cross. There were two streams and a path. I spent a long time trying to think of a place where two streams ran parallel and a path cut across them. Then I saw this map, which says they are at Finchale.’
‘You know this area well, then?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Snakes and all?’
Roger nodded. ‘I fished there when I was a boy – my father told me fishing was a waste of time.’ He chuckled. ‘If only he knew! But, you see, I know exactly which two streams and which path the second map depicted. I can scratch them on this map, just like you can do with the cross.’
Geoffrey smiled and shook his head. ‘Flambard is not so clever after all. You outguessed him.’
Roger looked pleased. ‘It takes more than a bishop to outwit me! But his choice of hiding places was more cunning than you think. Finchale is not somewhere most people want to visit.’
‘Why?’ asked Geoffrey as Roger pursed his lips, a difficult feat with a mouth full of meat.
‘Snakes,’ mumbled Roger. ‘You can see that from this map. There is a picture of one.’
‘Not in the winter, surely,’ said Geoffrey sceptically.
‘This is a special kind of snake, so large and strong that it can live wherever it likes, no matter what the weather,’ said Roger grimly. ‘There were all sorts of stories about Finchale’s serpents when I was a lad. They are as thick as your thigh and can swallow a sheep.’
‘But you still went fishing there as a child.’ Geoffrey was unconvinced. ‘Did you ever see any?’
‘Well, no,’ admitted Roger reluctantly. ‘But my mother did not like me going much. It is a desolate place, full of reeds and ghosts. But the fishing is good – probably because the snakes like to keep a decent stock of fish to eat.’
Geoffrey glanced out of the window. ‘It has stopped snowing. We can go today.’
The dog was just snuffling up the last of the crumbs on the floor when they heard angry hammering on the front door.
‘It is early for visitors,’ said Roger, startled. ‘Only just past dawn.’
‘Perhaps it is a customer for the brothel. You had better deal with him before he wakes Eleanor.’
Roger went to the window and flung open the shutter so that he could lean out. ‘Lord help us!’ he breathed. ‘It is Alice Jarveaux – and she does not look happy!’
The insistent knocking was soon replaced by raised voices – women’s voices. Eleanor had answered the door and Alice had burst in, to stand in the hall and give vent to her rage. Eleanor’s softer tones could be heard when she paused for breath, but Alice was doing most of the talking.
‘Wash your face,’ Roger advised Geoffrey. ‘It is filthy, and if they see it, they will know we were up to something last night.’
‘So what? We did nothing wrong.’
‘Listen,’ said Roger, cocking his head on one side. ‘Alice is here because she says someone broke into her house last night. She must have heard something.’
‘She would have been deaf not to,’ said Geoffrey, laughing. ‘The bursar made enough noise to wake people in New Castle, let alone inside her house! I am surprised no one came to challenge him there and then, especially Mother Petra, who seems watchful and astute.’
‘We do not want Alice to think we were involved.’
‘Well, we were involved. You have her property in your hand even as we speak.’
‘We did not steal it, though,’ objected Roger, dropping the parchment quickly, as if not touching it might make a difference. ‘That was Burchard.’
‘We told him where to look.’
‘What does she want it for anyway?’ asked Roger, peeved. ‘It was not intended for her.’
‘Perhaps she, like everyone else in this city, wants the treasure. She may even have killed her husband for it.’
‘But why suspect us? No one saw us, and the fight was over within moments.’
‘We had better be very careful when we speak to her. Do not tell her anything – not about the maps, the prior, and especially not the fact that we know where the treasure is hidden. Is that clear, Roger? This is important.’
‘Stop blathering and wash your face. You look like a man who has been up to no good. Hurry, or they will catch us!’
‘We are Jerosolimitani,’ said Geoffrey indignantly. ‘We have faced Saracens and fought the bloodiest battles the world has ever known. I am not afraid of your sister and I will wash when it suits me.’
‘Roger!’ came Eleanor’s voice, quiet with the intensity of her anger. ‘Come here at once!’
‘Where is the water?’ asked Geoffrey.
His reflection in the bowl that stood on the window sill told Geoffrey his face was indeed covered with dirty marks from the snow that had fallen on him, and his hair had dried in unruly spikes. He washed away the muck as best he could, and tipped the incriminatingly filthy water out of the window. He ran his fingers through his hair in a futile attempt to render it more tidy, then followed Roger into the solar.
Eleanor and Alice were in it, sitting stiffly in two chairs next to a fire that had only just been lit. The flames popped and hissed feebly over the wet logs, and the room was almost as icy as the frigid atmosphere the two women had created. Alice glowered at the knights as they entered.
‘Is this what you learned from the infidel?’ she demanded. She stood, and Geoffrey saw her face was white with fury. ‘Did they teach you how to break into the houses of poor widows and steal?’
‘How dare you accuse my brother of such a vile crime!’ shouted Eleanor. ‘He does not steal.’
‘It is true – we have stolen nothing,’ said Geoffrey to Alice quietly. ‘And we did not break into your house, I can assure you.’
‘Well, someone did!’ snapped Alice. ‘The frame on my solar window was buckled, suggesting that whoever prised himself through it was a large man – like you two, in fact.’
‘There are plenty of big men in the city,’ said Eleanor coldly. ‘Half the monks at the abbey are fat, given what they eat. Being heavy is no grounds on which to accuse my brother of being a criminal.’
‘Perhaps it was not your brother,’ said Alice, her eyes flashing dangerously. ‘He does not have the wits anyway. It was probably his friend.’
‘Geoff did not break in,’ said Roger loudly, determined that Geoffrey should not be blamed. ‘We were only watching—’
He faltered and Ge
offrey shot him a withering look, wishing the big knight would keep quiet if he could not manage a sentence without admitting they had been at the scene of the crime.
‘Watching what?’ demanded Alice. ‘What were you going to say? Where were you last night?’
‘Out,’ said Roger, saying it in such a way that even the least curious of people would have wondered where. Alice pounced.
‘You were burgling the homes of innocent citizens. You should be ashamed of yourselves!’
‘We did not burgle your house,’ said Geoffrey with quiet reason. ‘Really, we did not.’
‘Someone climbed up to my solar window and managed to unlatch it through the broken glass,’ said Alice, her temper only just under control. ‘He ransacked my property and left the same way, although he made so much noise that he woke Mother Petra. She saw him lose his footing and fall. So, you see, there is a witness to your crime.’
‘What makes you think it was us?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘There are many people who would benefit from robbing the house of a wealthy widow. I mean no offence, but you have nothing I want.’
‘No, I do not!’ yelled Alice furiously. ‘Because you have already taken it. You have left me with nothing!’
‘What did Mother Petra see, exactly?’ asked Roger nervously. ‘Faces?’
‘She saw a large man prising himself through the window, and she saw shadows scrambling about in the snow below it. I am not stupid, Roger. Your friend has been pestering me ever since he arrived. He made me faint in the marketplace with the vileness of his accusations, and he has been asking horrible questions about me in the city.’
Her voice had risen to the point where she was almost screaming. It was a shrill sound, harsh and grating. Geoffrey supposed he was still fragile from his brush with death the night before, because he found his head was beginning to ache from the noise. He raised his hand to rub it.
‘There!’ shrieked Alice triumphantly, striding across the room and pushing back his hair. ‘That is what happened when he fell from the window after committing his crime! He is bruised!’
‘Am I?’ asked Geoffrey, surprised. He rubbed his forehead, but could feel no tenderness. Then he looked at his fingers and saw they were black. He had managed a less than adequate job of washing and had missed a patch. He flailed around for an excuse as to why he should have soot on his face.
The Bishop's Brood Page 27
