‘Give it to me, then,’ said Roger. He struck a tinder, and allowed the flame to devour the scroll. There was a strangled cry from the other side of the clearing, and Geoffrey saw that Hemming was still conscious enough to understand what they had done. Burchard did not object. He met Roger’s eyes, nodded briefly, and turned his attention back to the dying man.
‘Enough harm has been caused already,’ he said. ‘It is better this way.’
‘Better for him,’ muttered Roger, dropping the blazing text into the snow, where it twisted and blackened as the flames consumed it. ‘He was on that list, too.’
Since they could not move Hemming, they were obliged to wait until he died before they could return to Durham. They carried his body across the river and buried it with Pike and the two archers in a snowdrift, marking the temporary grave so someone could come back for them later.
It took much longer to return to Durham than it had to reach Finchale. Thick clouds made the afternoon gloomy and brought an early dusk that rendered the way treacherous, and all of them were tired. Burchard was silent, and even Roger seemed to have run out of questions, his mind fixed on trying to find the best way to carry the chest of pennies with John.
When they rounded the bend in the river that brought the grey towers of Durham into sight, Geoffrey’s legs ached from the effort of repeatedly planting one foot in knee-deep snow and trying to extricate the other. How Roger had managed to carry the chest, too, was beyond his imagination, and he could only assume the big knight possessed special reserves of strength and energy to be deployed specifically for the transportation of loot.
They reached the city, where walking became easier. Roger spotted the Littel brothers on their way to relieve Freyn and Tilloy from guarding Eleanor’s house, and ordered them to carry the coins. Burchard, loath to let even a paltry trove out of his sight, stuck close to them.
‘We found out about that pig,’ said the younger brother to Geoffrey, as they walked awkwardly up the street, lugging the chest between them.
‘What pig?’ asked Geoffrey, too weary to be very interested.
Littel was offended that Geoffrey had forgotten the task he had set them. ‘You told us to find out whether Simon’s pig had been killed.’
‘Oh, that,’ said Geoffrey, recalling that he believed Simon and the pig were enjoying each other’s company in a tavern where the landlord did not mind that sort of thing.
‘It was slaughtered,’ said the older Littel, pleased to see that his announcement took Geoffrey by surprise. ‘The word is that one butcher was paid handsomely to do away with it in secret, and that it has been gracing someone’s pantries for quite a while now.’
‘Whose?’ asked Geoffrey. Eleanor had been wrong. She claimed she would hear if someone had harmed the pig, but because the butcher had been paid for his silence, the pig’s demise was not common knowledge. The fact was revealing, and Geoffrey supposed that whoever had slaughtered the animal would also know what had happened to Simon. Of course, Simon may have ordered it killed himself, believing that its disappearance might serve to protect him.
‘The butcher is away at the moment,’ came the disappointing reply. ‘But he is due home soon, and we will ask him then.’
Geoffrey was about to reply, when he saw Cenred walking towards them, a group of soldiers at his heels. The under-sheriff stopped when he saw John, bedraggled and sullen next to Roger.
‘Where have you been?’ he demanded. ‘I was told you had deserted. I hope that is not true.’
John hung his head.
‘He has been serving two masters: you and Hemming,’ said Roger. ‘He has something to say about the attack on Stanstede that you may find interesting, too.’
‘Escort him to my office,’ said Cenred to his men. When they had gone, he regarded the knights coldly. ‘I find it disconcerting that the moment you two arrive in my city people die. First there were Stanstede, Xavier, and the squire; then a bowman died on Eleanor’s table; then Simon goes missing; Durnais and Pike disappear; Gamelo and two lay brothers were murdered—’
‘It is nothing to do with us,’ objected Roger. ‘We are innocent—’
‘—and finally, there is Mother Petra,’ finished Cenred.
‘My great-grandmother?’ asked Roger, startled. ‘She is dead? But she was alive the other day.’
‘Well, she is not alive now,’ said Cenred. ‘Still, that is probably a blessing. I was on the verge of arresting her for murder.’
‘Murder?’ echoed Roger, aghast. ‘But she was an old lady! How could she murder anyone?’
‘With hellebore,’ said Cenred. ‘She sent Alice to the apothecary – twice – to purchase some. She was a witch, so she knew how to use powders to kill – and she used some in her son’s oysters.’
‘Jarveaux’s house has rats,’ said Geoffrey. ‘The hellebore was supposed to be for them. How can you be sure she poisoned the oysters? It might have been Alice, who was delighted by his demise.’
Cenred gave a humourless smile. ‘I heard you and Alice do not like each other. But I must disappoint you. Alice bought the hellebore, but she is innocent of her husband’s death. I have sworn testaments from three cooks who saw Mother Petra doctoring the oysters with grey powder. And every servant in the house assures me that Alice never went near Jarveaux’s food – ever.’
‘And you believe them?’ asked Geoffrey doubtfully.
Cenred nodded. ‘Alice did not love her husband and refused to prepare foods he liked, so Mother Petra did it. I suspected the old lady from the start, although I had to bide my time to prove it. She was a witch, and her servants were afraid she would cast a spell on them if they betrayed her. Now she is dead they are ready to be honest.’
‘How did Mother Petra die? She was not murdered, too, was she?’
‘Thankfully not,’ said Cenred. ‘I have had my fill of those for now. She drank too much of that wine she keeps bubbling over the fire and fell asleep. The fire went out and there is a hole in the solar window. The room cooled down and she failed to wake up. That happens to old people.’
It seemed an extraordinarily banal way for the charismatic old woman to die, and not at all what Geoffrey would have expected from a witch. She was the kind of person to have been consumed by fire, or to have taken a dose of her own hellebore, not slipped away in a pleasantly drunken slumber.
‘I examined her body carefully, and so did the abbey’s physician,’ said Cenred, as if reading his mind. ‘There was no sign she had taken poison. Last night, she ordered more wine from the vintner, and was clearly intending to live to drink it. She did not kill herself.’
‘Green hellebore killed Gamelo and his cronies,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Did she dispatch them too?’
Cenred nodded. ‘I checked with the apothecary, and she was the only one in the city who possessed the stuff – he sold her all of it. She used the first lot to kill Jarveaux and the second to kill Gamelo.’
‘Gamelo knew her,’ said Geoffrey. ‘She said she charmed his arrows for him.’
Had Geoffrey’s questions led her to kill Gamelo? At first, he could not see why they should, then he thought about her relatives. She was Flambard’s grandmother, and Gamelo was interfering with Flambard’s plans. He suggested as much to Cenred.
‘I agree,’ he said, after a long pause during which Geoffrey thought he might dismiss the notion as improbable. ‘But the question then becomes why would Gamelo accept poison from her in the first place? According to the physician, Gamelo died during the night. Why would he drink poison given to him by a witch at midnight?’
‘Because he was a superstitious man, who believed in the power of witchcraft. His body was found on the Elvet side of the river, where Mother Petra lives. She must have met him and his cronies and offered them something to eat or drink that she claimed was good for them.’
‘Good for her, more like,’ said Cenred. ‘Again, you are probably right. Alice told me Mother Petra had seen men struggling in the snow the night she was bu
rgled. Doubtless she recognized Gamelo and exacted her own justice.’
Geoffrey nodded agreement. ‘We have found Flambard’s treasure,’ he said, indicating the chest.
Cenred’s eyebrows rose. ‘That should please Turgot. It is a pity Durnais is not here to see it.’
Geoffrey knew Turgot would not have seen it at all had Durnais set eyes on it first, but said nothing. He told the Littel brothers to unlatch the lid and show Cenred the mess of silver fragments.
‘Is that it?’ asked Cenred, bemused. Gradually a grin split his porcine features, and then he broke into a genuine full-bellied laugh. ‘I knew the cathedral’s finances were shaky, but I did not realize they were that desperate.’
Geoffrey smiled. ‘Every little will help.’
He led the way up the winding path towards the abbey. Turgot saw them coming, and hurried to escort them and the heavy box into his house, where he listened white-faced to the bursar’s account of what had happened.
‘So, there never was any treasure?’ he asked. ‘Just this chest of rubbish?’
Burchard nodded. ‘And a worthless scrap of parchment containing scurrilous, unfounded gossip. We consigned that to the flames before it did any harm.’
‘You burned a document Flambard intended for me?’ asked the prior, aghast. ‘What turned you squeamish all of a sudden? Hemming told me how you raise money yesterday. I was very shocked.’
‘I am sure you were,’ said Burchard sarcastically. ‘But you have your informants, just as Hemming had his and I have mine. You knew the truth.’
‘How dare you! And how dare you destroy property—’
‘You would not want anyone to read what was written under your name,’ interrupted Geoffrey, to prevent a row between the two men. ‘Burchard’s activities are common knowledge, so he had nothing to lose by burning the parchment. You, however, are a different matter.’
Turgot stared at him from under his bushy eyebrows. ‘Me?’
‘I did not know about that,’ said Burchard, sounding annoyed with himself. ‘What did it say? I heard what you said about Hemming and his cock fights.’
‘Then it is better no more is said about it,’ said Geoffrey.
‘It was about a woman called Sister—’ began Roger, before Geoffrey could stop him.
‘Oh,’ said Turgot, interrupting hastily. ‘That.’
‘There is one more thing,’ said Geoffrey, standing to leave. He reached inside his surcoat. ‘The pouch with the scroll also contained this. It is a plan of the cathedral with a cross marked on the Chapel of the Nine Altars.’
‘Then the treasure will be there,’ concluded Burchard eagerly. ‘The pennies were just a ruse, to distract attention from the real stuff.’
‘I do not think so,’ said Turgot, sounding disappointed. ‘The cathedral is a very public place, and no one could bury treasure in it without being observed. Oh, well. Perhaps Flambard will invent some other way to see his cathedral built.’
‘I will see there is a steady flow of money,’ offered Burchard helpfully. ‘The city can—’
‘No,’ said Turgot. ‘Your days of extortion are over. Perhaps that is why the foundations keep crumbling – not because St Cuthbert does not want women nearby, but because he does not want our cathedral built with immoral money. As from now, you are no longer bursar. I am putting you in charge of the guest house instead.’
‘But that means I will have to welcome visitors,’ cried Burchard, appalled. ‘You know I do not have the kind of graces for that.’
‘Then this is your opportunity to learn. You are not a truly bad man, although you are overly zealous. If you want to succeed in our order, you must learn to be subtle.’
Geoffrey wondered whether learning the art of subtlety would be enough, and was unimpressed that, after all Burchard had done, he might still be considered for high office in the Benedictine Order. Even Hemming, dead as a result of his own greed and lust for power, would be buried in the monks’ graveyard and his evil deeds forgotten because it would reflect badly on the order. Geoffrey was tired of it all, and longed to be away from the abbey and its dark secrets.
‘Come tomorrow,’ said the prior as they took their leave. ‘I will instruct a lay brother to prise up the appropriate stone in the Chapel of the Nine Altars, although I cannot imagine it will contain anything worth the effort. Still, you might want to see this business finally closed for ever.’
That was true: at that moment, there was nothing Geoffrey wanted more than to see Flambard’s treasure finally exposed as a massive hoax, and to have done with the whole affair.
The next day dawned bright and clear. The sky was a flawless blue, and the sun began to melt the snow that had held the land in a stranglehold for the past week. Everywhere, small avalanches were sliding with soft plops from houses and trees, and icicles shed frigid showers on to the heads of the people who walked below.
‘This is more like it,’ said Roger, as he strolled with Geoffrey to witness the excavation of whatever lay in the chapel. He flexed his shoulders and turned his face to the sun. ‘If you close your eyes, you might even imagine you were back in the Holy Land.’
‘It smells different,’ said Geoffrey.
Roger regarded him uncertainly.
‘The Holy Land smells of dust, hot animal dung, and mud bricks,’ elaborated Geoffrey. ‘Durham smells of frozen sewage, dirty ice, and wet trees.’
‘If you say so,’ said Roger warily. ‘Although you might think differently if you were to wash more often. Ellie was commenting on that only the other day.’
‘On what?’ demanded Geoffrey, affronted. ‘My personal cleanliness?’
‘Lack of it,’ said Roger. ‘She said she had never seen such a filthy pair as us, and that I never used to be so bad. I do not think I have changed. I think she just remembers what she wants to.’
‘A lot of people do that around here. Yesterday, Turgot pretended he had no idea how Burchard raised money. He knew, but was prepared to turn a blind eye because it was good for the abbey.’
‘That kind of thing will no longer be necessary,’ said Roger, ever the optimist. ‘We will witness a big treasure chest discovered this morning, then everyone’s troubles will be over.’
They arrived at the abbey gates where Burchard, already relegated to his new post as guestmaster, came to escort them to the Chapel of the Nine Altars.
‘This must be a blow for you,’ remarked Roger bluntly. ‘It must be galling to perform menial tasks, like taking visitors here and there, after what you have been used to.’
Burchard glowered and declined to reply. Geoffrey felt a mild sense of satisfaction in knowing that at least Burchard would be discontented with and resentful of his new duties, and felt perhaps he had been appropriately punished for his nasty treatment of the townsfolk after all.
Turgot was waiting for them in the cathedral. His secretary, Algar, was standing with him, holding a spade, while several townsmen and a few idle monks had gathered to watch the unusual spectacle of a newly laid floor being prised apart.
‘Here,’ said Turgot, pointing to a large flagstone with his toe. ‘This is the one marked by the cross.’ He offered the parchment to Geoffrey, so he could confirm the deductions. Geoffrey studied it for a moment, counted the stones from north to south, then nodded his agreement. With the help of two lay brothers, Burchard began to ease levers under the slab.
It took a long time. The stone was thick and heavy, and some of the watching monks were ordered to lend a hand. When it was finally out, a sweating Burchard took the spade and began to excavate the hard-packed dirt underneath. It was set hard, like mortar, and even Roger’s great strength struggled with it. It was almost midday by the time the blade thumped against something hollow.
‘Treasure!’ crowed Roger in delight, peering into the hole. ‘I told you so! There is a chest buried here that will be full of gold.’
‘You were wrong,’ said Burchard to Turgot spitefully, pleased to point out his superior’s err
or. ‘You said the chapel was too public to allow anything to be buried, but something is here.’
‘I suppose it could have been left when the foundations cracked four years ago,’ mused Turgot. ‘We relaid the floor then. It is possible someone slipped a container in the earth at that point.’
Everyone watched Burchard excavate the hole. He uncovered a box, but it was much smaller than the one that had contained the pennies, perhaps two hand lengths long, and one across.
‘Oh,’ said Roger, crestfallen. ‘Is that it?’
Burchard’s energetic prodding revealed there was nothing more. He gave a heavy sigh. ‘So Flambard cheats us yet again. I know this box. It is St Balthere’s reliquary. I remember this crack in the lid. How did it end up here, after it was stolen from St Giles’?’
‘Open it,’ instructed Turgot. ‘And then we shall see. Perhaps.’
‘Be careful,’ warned Geoffrey as Burchard tipped the chest this way and that. ‘Remember the last treasure Flambard donated to your abbey was protected by poison.’
Burchard hastily donned a pair of gauntlets, although there was nothing to suggest that there was anything on the box that could be venomous. He levered open the lid. Inside was a smaller container, this one made of silver and covered in jewels.
‘Here,’ said Roger, confused. ‘Burchard might know that wooden box, but I recognize this silver one. It is the reliquary where I found …’ He faltered and gave a nervous wink. ‘You know.’
‘I do not know,’ said Turgot. ‘Found what?’
‘St Oswald’s skull,’ said Roger in a whisper, casting a fearful glance around him, as if he imagined he might be struck down for mentioning it.
‘This box?’ asked Turgot, now confused as well. ‘I do not think so! Oswald’s head has always resided in St Cuthbert’s coffin.’
Eilaf the priest had said as much, too, Geoffrey recalled.
‘But this was the box I opened that night I … you know,’ said Roger.
‘No,’ said Turgot irritably. ‘I keep telling you that I do not know. What night?’
‘I remember it clearly,’ pressed Roger. ‘It is the reliquary in which St Oswald’s head—’
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