‘You should have thought of that before pulling your swooning-maiden trick,’ said Roger unsympathetically. ‘Anyway, as I said, if we go to Finchale, we need an earlier start than this.’
‘We will set off at first light tomorrow, then,’ determined Geoffrey, reaching for his sword. ‘But meanwhile, I am going to the abbey. Keep Eleanor talking while I slip out. Tell her I am asleep and should not be disturbed.’
‘But you cannot,’ objected Roger. ‘The physician said—’
‘The physician is a charlatan,’ said Geoffrey. ‘There is nothing wrong with me. And, unless we want to be attacked again, we need answers as soon as possible – before we go to this snake and ghost-infested bog of yours.’
‘But you will need me with you if you are going into that den of thieves and killers that calls itself an abbey.’
‘No,’ said Geoffrey, knowing the last thing he needed was Roger’s blustering honesty when he went to see the prior and his monks. ‘Stay here and make sure nothing happens to Eleanor.’
Twelve
All was quiet when Geoffrey walked through the city to the abbey, but then he realized it was Sunday, and what little trading had survived the snows was forbidden. The window shutters on the houses he passed were tightly closed, and he imagined families inside huddled around their hearths, perhaps telling stories to while away the day, or playing games of chance. He reached the abbey and was escorted to the prior’s house. This time, there was no long wait, and he was conducted to Turgot’s solar almost immediately. Burchard and Hemming were already there.
‘Well, now,’ said Turgot, raising his impressive eyebrows. ‘It seems there was something of a misunderstanding last night.’
‘You could say that,’ said Geoffrey, looking closely at Hemming and Burchard to gauge their reactions to his presence. Both were uncharacteristically blank-faced, and Geoffrey found he was uncertain about how the interview should proceed. He decided an offensive stance was better than a defensive one, and that prevarication and denials would be a waste of time – for the monks as well as him. ‘We followed your bursar and sub-prior when they left the abbey last night, because we wanted to ensure their safety. What happened?’
Hemming gaped at him. ‘You tell us! We had the map when Roger suddenly attacked. It was lost during the ensuing skirmish.’
‘We did not attack,’ said Geoffrey, ignoring the fact that Roger had launched an assault on Hemming. ‘Three men followed you, armed with swords, crossbows and daggers. It was them who fought you – and fought me, too.’
‘I do not believe you!’ said Burchard with a half-laugh of incredulity. ‘I saw no one but Roger. He hurtled out of the darkness and all but knocked Hemming senseless. Then he went for me.’
‘I also saw no one except Roger,’ concurred Hemming. ‘He was like a mad dog. No wonder the Scots wanted him gone from Durham and he was known as Roger the Devil.’
‘He was trying to protect you from men with loaded crossbows,’ said Geoffrey, watching the three monks to see whether one might betray himself with a flicker of unease that Weasel had been seen. Predictably, there was nothing, although all appeared surprised by the assertion.
‘The only man with weapons last night was Roger,’ said Burchard firmly. ‘And now we have lost the map. I dropped it when Roger came at me like a fiend from Hell, and even though I searched for it most of the night, it is nowhere to be found.’
‘I do not suppose you picked it up, did you?’ asked Hemming, giving Geoffrey a searching look.
‘No,’ said Geoffrey. He favoured Hemming with a searching look of his own. ‘But Roger saw you with a knife, going towards Burchard in a way that suggested your intentions were not friendly.’
‘He saw no such thing,’ said Hemming impatiently, while Burchard regarded his colleague warily. ‘He saw me move towards Burchard with a dagger certainly. But Roger could not possibly know what my intentions were.’
‘Well, what were they?’
‘Burchard’s sleeve had caught on the broken glass in the window. If he had tried to free it by brute force – which I sensed he was likely to do – the glass would have broken and smashed on the ground. You will appreciate I did not want that to happen: it would have woken the occupants of the house and alerted them to our presence.’
‘My sleeve did catch,’ admitted Burchard, showing Geoffrey a rip in his greasy habit, ‘when I was trying to squeeze through the window.’
‘I was planning to toss the knife to him so he could cut himself free,’ said Hemming. ‘It seems Roger jumped to entirely the wrong conclusion.’
Geoffrey regarded him uncertainly, not sure what to believe.
‘Why did you have to meddle?’ demanded Burchard, turning on him. ‘Everything was going well until you arrived. You should have left us alone.’
‘Now what are we going to do?’ sighed Turgot, pacing in agitation. ‘We had the map in our hands and we lost it!’ He regarded Burchard in disgust. ‘How could you drop something so important?’
‘I did not do it deliberately,’ protested Burchard. ‘And I spent most of the night trying to find it.’
‘So did I,’ said Hemming bitterly.
‘Was the map all you lost, Burchard?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Or did you manage to keep the rest of your haul from Alice Jarveaux’s solar?’
‘What do you mean?’ blustered Burchard, while prior and sub-prior regarded him warily.
‘Alice paid us a visit this morning, and she accused Roger and me of stealing jewellery last night.’
‘I hope you are not accusing me,’ snapped Burchard, his small eyes flicking nervously from his prior to Geoffrey. ‘I have no need for jewellery.’
‘That is true,’ said Turgot, evidently deciding he had better defend his abbey by supporting his bursar. ‘Monks do not steal trinkets.’
‘Quite,’ said Burchard, gaining confidence. ‘You must have taken the rings and necklaces.’
‘How do you know it was rings and necklaces that were missing?’ pounced Geoffrey. ‘I did not tell you what Alice said was gone, but yet you know anyway. Why is that?’
The bursar stuttered and swore, but was unable to refute the accusations. Eventually, his unconvincing protestations of innocence petered out and an accusing silence reigned.
‘I saw Roger digging in the snow like a dog after a buried bone,’ said Hemming after a while of allowing the bursar to squirm. ‘I surmised you were under it. I wanted to help, but Roger was making such a racket that Burchard was afraid we would be seen, and it would have been difficult to explain what we were doing there at that hour of the night. We were obliged to hide, but I was sufficiently concerned that I planned to visit you today, to make sure you were unharmed.’
‘You were?’ asked Geoffrey, thinking that such an encounter would have been awkward with Eleanor still angry about the missing jewellery.
‘I sensed someone behind us when we left the abbey,’ Hemming continued. ‘I assumed it was you, and decided you did not mean us harm, or you would not have told us where the map was in the first place. But now you say there were others following us? I confess I do not know whether to believe you. Roger went for us, not them, and I certainly saw no one else.’
‘Nor did I,’ said Burchard, grateful not to be the centre of accusing attention. ‘As soon as Roger had ferried you across the river, Hemming and I returned to Jarveaux’s house to look for the map. We saw no one but you all night.’
‘Perhaps the map was stolen by these archers,’ suggested Turgot. ‘It is the only logical conclusion.’
‘But they do not exist,’ declared Burchard. ‘He is making them up.’
‘They exist,’ said Geoffrey. ‘In fact, they may be in the abbey even as we speak. One has been dogging our footsteps ever since Flambard first inveigled Roger into acting as his courier. I do not know his name, but he looks like a rat: small, dark-haired, with pinched features and backward-pointing teeth.’
‘That sounds like Brother Gamelo,’ said Hemming, startled.
/> Gamelo, thought Geoffrey. Where had he heard that name before? Then it came to him: the roof-top fighter – Gilbert Courcy – in Southampton had mentioned a Gamelo. He had pleaded, almost desperately, for Roger to make sure Brother Gamelo did not take the staff.
‘Gamelo was a mercenary before he took the cowl,’ said Turgot thoughtfully. ‘It is possible he heard about the cathedral’s treasure and decided to look into it himself. He has never been obedient, and I have serious reservations about the sincerity of his commitment to our order.’
‘He is one of Burchard’s rent collectors,’ said Hemming, shooting the bursar an unpleasant glance. ‘Thus he has permission to be away for long periods of time with no questions asked. The abbey owns property all over the county, you see.’
Burchard’s eyes narrowed in anger. ‘Do not hold me responsible for what Gamelo may have done. He carries out my orders, and that is all I know about him.’
‘Well, I would have nothing to do with such a man,’ declared Hemming fastidiously.
‘Can I speak to him?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘You can try,’ said Turgot. ‘But he will not answer you.’
‘And why is that?’ asked Geoffrey, wondering whether the man had been threatened into silence by one of the three who stood in front of him.
‘Because he is dead,’ said the prior.
Gamelo was indeed Weasel. Geoffrey would have recognized the mean, narrow features anywhere, even though the body in the chapter house was dressed in a Benedictine habit and not the greasy jerkin Weasel usually wore. So, Mother Petra had been right: she said the man who had brought her the arrows to be stained had been a monk.
Geoffrey stared at the waxen features, wishing the man could give him the answers he needed. Had he been in the pay of the abbey? And if so, was his master Burchard, who regularly hired louts to frighten people into doing what he wanted? Or Turgot, who was determined to have the gold at all costs? Or Hemming, who was engaged in a power struggle with the bursar? Or was it coincidence that he was a monk? Was he acting for the sheriff, or even Jarveaux? And if it was Jarveaux, had Alice continued to use his services after her husband’s death?
The news of Gamelo’s death had seemed as much a surprise to Hemming and Burchard as it was to Geoffrey. Both monks had immediately begun a barrage of questions that the prior had stemmed by raising an authoritative hand. Wordlessly, he had headed for the chapter house, leaving the others to follow. After exchanging a mystified glance, Hemming and Burchard had hurried to catch up, while Geoffrey brought up the rear. Hemming muttered a brief prayer when he saw the still, cold features, although Turgot and Burchard did not seem to consider such niceties necessary. The sub-prior’s own face was white, and Geoffrey wondered whether he might swoon. Concerned, he took the man’s elbow.
‘Forgive me,’ Hemming whispered, so the others would not hear. ‘Sudden death always affects me like this. I have a crushing sense of how fragile life is, and how easily it can be snuffed out. Do you ever have that sensation?’
‘Thankfully not,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘It would not be a useful emotion for a knight, given the number of violent deaths we encounter.’
‘Of course,’ said Hemming, smiling ruefully at himself for asking such a question. ‘I chose a monastic career to avoid such sights, but even monks confront death on occasion, although bloody ones are rare – mercifully.’
‘What are you two muttering about?’ demanded Burchard.
‘We were wondering how Gamelo died,’ said Geoffrey.
The prior snapped his fingers, and his secretary approached. ‘Algar here discovered the corpse and has been investigating the matter for me. Well? What have you learned?’
Algar swallowed hard. ‘I hope this will not affect my chances of promotion to—’
‘If you have discovered why Gamelo died, then I will reward you accordingly,’ said the prior ambiguously. Geoffrey would not have trusted such a vague promise for an instant.
Algar opened Gamelo’s mouth. Inside was a mass of small blisters, and Hemming turned away with an exclamation of horror. The bursar and the prior were less expressive, and gazed down at the corpse with detached interest.
‘The abbey physician thinks the poison he swallowed was green hellebore,’ explained Algar. ‘It blisters the mouth, and he says it is the right time of year to harvest the stuff.’
‘Suicide?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Or did someone give it to him?’
Algar licked dry lips. ‘It seems someone gave it to him.’
‘How do you know that?’ asked Turgot, surprised.
‘Because his was not the only death this morning,’ said Algar. ‘Just moments ago, two lay brothers were discovered dead from the same cause.’
Hemming gazed at him. ‘Three men were poisoned? Are they the trio Geoffrey says followed us last night, do you think? It seems likely, if one was Gamelo, as he maintains.’
‘Did you give them poison?’ asked Burchard of Geoffrey. ‘You may have been the last person to see them alive, since you admit to fighting with them. Cenred will be very interested in this.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Geoffrey facetiously. ‘In the middle of a fight, I asked them to lay down their weapons and take poison instead. They willingly complied, of course, and I always carry a cup of hellebore with me for just such occasions.’
‘Death is nothing to mock,’ said Turgot sharply. He addressed Algar. ‘Where were the other bodies found?’
‘Gamelo was near the ferry. I found him when I went to buy fresh fish for your breakfast. The others were in the woods nearby. I think all three must have drunk the poison at the same time, which explains why they died so close to each other.’
‘A secular person committed this crime,’ announced Burchard. ‘It could not have been a monk, or they would have perished in the abbey grounds.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I imagine your brethren are a little more circumspect than that. However, it is obvious they were killed by someone they knew, or they would not have accepted whatever was given to eat or drink.’
‘Arrange for masses to be said,’ Turgot ordered Algar. ‘And continue to ask questions of anyone who might know what happened. I want to know what happened here, Algar.’
‘But no one knows,’ squeaked Algar, loath to undertake an impossible task. ‘And I do not—’
But Turgot was already walking away. The more compassionate Hemming took pity on the man, and made suggestions as to how he might solve the crime, while Geoffrey left the chapter house and its odour of death to wait outside. Burchard stood behind him, so close that Geoffrey felt uncomfortable.
‘These murders were committed by someone in the city,’ he hissed menacingly. ‘You will not blame the abbey, or I shall make you sorry.’
‘Do not threaten me,’ said Geoffrey, turning to meet his eyes. ‘I am not one of Durham’s merchants, too afraid to stand up to you.’
‘I am not threatening you,’ said Burchard slyly. ‘But I hear you harbour a liking for Stanstede’s widow. Do not forget she will remain here long after you leave for the Holy Land to resume your life of bloody slaughter. I am sure you would not like to think of her at risk after you have gone.’
‘You bastard!’ exclaimed Geoffrey, appalled that he should hear such words from a man who wore the garb of a monk. ‘You would not dare!’
‘Would I not?’ asked Burchard softly. ‘Eleanor is a brothel keeper. Such women have no place in our city. The abbey could drive her out, if it felt so inclined. Who would speak up for her?’
‘Cenred, for a start,’ said Geoffrey immediately. ‘He knows the usefulness of a brothel in a place filled with soldiers, carpenters and masons. He sees it as a way of keeping the peace.’
‘But unless Turgot finds his map, there will be no cathedral for these men to build and guard,’ said Burchard. ‘But that is irrelevant, because we will have our treasure. And you will do nothing more to interfere. Remember Mistress Stanstede the next time you meddle.’
‘You disgust me,’ said Geoffrey, turning away. ‘You, a man of God, would threaten an innocent woman just to protect your abbey?’
‘I would threaten St Cuthbert himself to protect my abbey,’ said Burchard softly.
There was nothing more to be learned from the monks, so Geoffrey left the monastery. The deaths of Gamelo and the two lay brothers had unsettled him, and he was not inclined to return to Eleanor’s house and spend the rest of the day pretending to be ill. He avoided the market and began to walk along the path that led out of the city past St Giles’. The snow made walking awkward and unpleasant, so he abandoned the exercise and settled for a spell of solitary contemplation in the church instead.
As usual, it was gloomy, and most of its window shutters remained closed against the elements. The ones in the Lady chapel were open, partly to light the chancel, but mainly because the two bodies that lay there had now been dead a week, and, although the cold weather helped, it could not totally dispel the miasma of death that permeated the building.
Geoffrey avoided the chapel and sat in the nave, looking at the high altar with its niche for St Balthere’s stolen bones. He recalled what Eilaf had told him about them: that Flambard had presented the bones of a Saxon hermit to the church, so the abbey would not claim all the revenues from pilgrims who flocked to pay their respects.
It was not unknown for relics to be stolen, especially by monastic institutions that wanted to increase their own importance, or by people who made their livings peddling such items. Flambard himself had probably employed such a person to get him Balthere in the first place, and would doubtless do the same to acquire the mythical Aaron’s Rod. But it was unusual for stolen relics to disappear so completely: they invariably turned up somewhere else, where the new owners denied shady dealings and announced the saint had arrived by miraculous means – something difficult to disprove in a country where people believed in divine interventions.
‘It is a sad sight, is it not?’ came a soft voice behind him. It was Eilaf, who had dispensed with his useless boots and was barefoot. His feet were red and swollen from the cold, and his face was more pinched and hungry-looking than ever. ‘That niche should hold Balthere, not a wreath of holly.’
The Bishop's Brood Page 29
