The Bishop's Brood

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘Quite,’ said Flambard enigmatically.

  ‘Come on, Roger,’ said Geoffrey, who had heard enough accusations for one day. ‘There is a full moon and the sky is clear. We can be twenty miles away by morning.’

  ‘Yes, go,’ said Flambard. ‘You can be of no further use to me for the time being.’

  ‘That implies we may be of use to you in the future,’ said Geoffrey coldly. ‘And I can assure you we will not. Your greed and games have cost the lives of too many people already.’

  ‘What are those lives compared to what I plan to build?’ demanded Flambard dismissively, gesturing towards the cathedral. ‘They are nothing!’

  He began to gather his belongings, including a thick slice of Simon’s pig to eat on his journey, while Simon held the snake box in dazed immobility.

  ‘But we have Aaron’s Rod!’ cried Odard desperately. ‘You cannot leave me now!’

  ‘You can go back to your Grand Master,’ said Flambard, ‘and tell him that your four years of “loyal” service to me have not brought him what he craves.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Odard indignantly.

  Flambard gave a cold, humourless smile. ‘You must think I am stupid! Do you imagine I do not know why your Grand Master sent me three knights? He knew I had Aaron’s Rod, and he also knew I had hidden it. That was the essence of your sacred oath, Odard – not to serve me, but to discover the location of the most sacred relic in Christendom!’

  ‘No!’ cried Odard. ‘That is untrue!’

  ‘You cannot fool me,’ said Flambard. ‘I am a good liar – better than anyone I know – and I always recognize untruths spoken by those less skilled. Your real objective was never to serve me: it was to find out where I had hidden Aaron’s Rod and steal it for the Hospitallers.’

  ‘It is a sacred thing,’ said Odard softly, evidently seeing further denials were pointless. ‘It should not be hidden in dirty peasant churches or buried in the cold ground. It should be somewhere safe, where it will be revered.’

  Flambard pushed his way out of the solar and down the stairs. Simon followed in a daze, carrying the box. Still clutching his arm, Odard staggered after them.

  ‘I cannot fail now!’ he cried, distraught. ‘Not after four years!’

  Geoffrey took one last look at Eleanor, and then grabbed Roger’s arm to lead him outside. If Odard and Flambard intended to shout at each other in the street, then it would not be wise for the two knights to be present when troops came to arrest the escaped bishop and his henchmen. And Geoffrey had no intention of answering Cenred’s questions about how Eleanor came to be dead, either. The story was far too convoluted, and Geoffrey was not sure what Cenred would believe. He might even decide to play safe and hand everyone over to King Henry, and they would all be executed as traitors.

  Outside, the sun had long since set, and the sky was dark blue. There was a warmth in the air that had been absent before, and Geoffrey sensed spring would soon come. Snow lay in melting piles, while roofs and leaves dripped constantly. A faint crack caused Geoffrey to glance upward, to where a line of huge icicles hung like pointed fangs from the eaves of Eleanor’s house. With horror, he saw one detach itself and begin to plummet down. With a yell, he barrelled into Roger, pushing him out of harm’s way. The icicle smashed on the ground. Startled, Odard also glanced up.

  There was another crack and Odard crumpled. The broken end of the second icicle protruded oddly from his head. It had killed him instantly, the hard ice driving through his skull to pierce the brain inside. Flambard gazed down at him dispassionately.

  ‘That is God’s divine judgement,’ he declared. ‘For four years he has wormed his way into my confidence, pretending to be my friend. But all the time, his sole aim was to take Aaron’s Rod and present it to his Grand Master. But he shall not have it. It is mine.’

  ‘Then it is ironic that it is no more Aaron’s Rod than that icicle,’ said Geoffrey softly.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Roger, sounding more tired than Geoffrey had ever heard him. ‘It is real.’

  ‘Of course it is not real, Roger,’ said Flambard scornfully. ‘How do you think such a thing could have survived all these years? What Simon is holding is the corpse of a grass snake I had prepared four years ago.’ He gave a sudden diabolical grin. ‘But no one knows that except you and me, and you will never be able to prove what I have just told you.’

  ‘But why?’ cried Roger, appalled.

  ‘Why do you think?’ asked Flambard with a shrug. ‘It will make me rich and powerful.’

  ‘Moon Mary was right,’ muttered Geoffrey in disgust. ‘But when she told us to beware of the serpent, she did not mean your dried snake – she meant you.’

  Flambard laughed. ‘Perhaps she did. But when Turgot and Burchard learn what they allowed to slip through their fingers, they will spread my story for me. And the Saxons would love to imagine their St Balthere playing a role in this. Everyone will believe I possess the genuine article. After all, we all know that what people believe is far more important than what is actually true.’

  He sketched a mocking benediction at them, and disappeared with Simon and the snake into the gathering gloom.

  Historical Note

  Holy relics – either items like splinters of the True Cross or the bones of saints – were important in medieval times. The bodies of famous saints, like Cuthbert, were especially revered, although lesser-known ones, like Balthere, would also have been worthy of worship. Cuthbert was a hermit who founded a monastery on the remote island of Lindisfarne in the seventh century. Viking attacks meant the monastery had to be abandoned in the ninth century, and the monks excavated Cuthbert to take with them. The body was discovered to be ‘uncorrupted’, perhaps because it had been preserved by sea salt, and this was declared a miracle. Cuthbert and his monks wandered for some years before finally settling on the rocky peninsula known as Dunholm, or Durham.

  The monks built a shrine, which was later replaced by a Saxon chapel, and the Church of St Cuthbert was founded. By the time of the Norman Conquest in 1066, the Church of St Cuthbert was strong and highly respected by the local people, who regarded themselves as ‘Haliwerfolc’ – Cuthbert’s chosen. Most information from this time comes from a monk called Symeon, who wrote an account of life at Durham in the early 1100s. Cuthbert’s priests were married and had families.

  In 1083, a Benedictine abbey was founded, and the Church of St Cuthbert was disbanded. Symeon says most of the married priests left, although some – including men named Eilaf, Hemming, and Wulfkill, said to be direct descendants of the monks who had brought Cuthbert to Durham – remained. Symeon suggests the Norman takeover was peaceful, but the north was a rebellious place, and it is difficult to imagine the proud Haliwerfolc giving up their sacred relics to an order dominated by Normans. However, Symeon was commissioned to write his history of Durham by Bishop Ranulf Flambard, and so was unlikely to make too much of any opposition encountered.

  Durham was well off for relics. Although Cuthbert was the jewel in the crown, it also boasted St Oswald, parts of St Aidan, and the Venerable Bede, all of which are still thought to be in the cathedral today. Lesser saints included Billfrith, Ceolwulf, Eadfrith, Eithilwald, and Edbert. At one point, it also possessed the bones of a Saxon hermit called Balthere, although these probably disappeared during the Dissolution.

  Just after the Benedictine abbey was founded, work began on a mighty new cathedral. By 1101, the foundations for the nave had been laid, and the chancel was completed. Several times, cracks appeared in the foundations of the Lady chapel that was to be at its eastern end, and it was said that Cuthbert did not want women near his shrine in the Chapel of the Nine Altars. However, it is more likely that the ground at the eastern end of the cathedral was too unstable for such a structure. The Lady chapel, called the Galilee Chapel, was built at the west end, rather than the more usual east.

  The abbey was also beginning to rise. The prior’s house, chapter house, frater, and dorter
were all completed by 1100, as was a small prison. The abbey, like many others, suffered during the Dissolution, although parts of it still survive, including the splendid cloisters. The cathedral is essentially Norman, and most of it was raised between 1093 and about 1130, under the driving forces of three of its prince bishops, one of which was Flambard. Visitors to this magnificent cathedral today will see that the building has been changed very little, and it is one of the finest Norman buildings in the world.

  Finchale (pronounced ‘Finkle’) was reputed to be a wild and boggy place, inhabited by snakes and waterfowl. It stood on the banks of the River Wear, a few miles north of Durham. Much later in the twelfth century, it was occupied by a hermit called Godric, who was eventually canonized. A shrine was erected on the site of his hermitage. Later still, it became a retreat for monks, and the evocatively serene ruins can still be visited today.

  In terms of people, a man named Turgot was prior of Durham Abbey in 1101. He presided over a ceremony in 1104, where the bones of Cuthbert and other saints were translated from the Saxon church to the chancel of the new cathedral. He remained in Durham until 1107, when he became Bishop of St Andrew’s in Scotland, and in 1109 Flambard petitioned for him to be made Archbishop of York. He died in 1115, and was buried in the chapter house of Durham Cathedral. He was succeeded as prior of Durham by a monk called Algar.

  Flambard obtained – evidence suggests that he bought for a thousand pounds – the post of Bishop of Durham in 1099. Within a year, King William Rufus had been shot in a hunting accident, and Flambard lost his protector. Rufus’ younger brother, Henry, was much less tolerant of Flambard’s indolent and thieving ways, and Flambard found himself arrested and placed in the White Tower of London in the autumn of 1100.

  Flambard was too cunning to rot in prison for long, although contemporary sources suggest he was well looked after. A rope was smuggled to him inside a barrel of wine that he shared with his guards. While they drowsed drunkenly, he climbed out of his window, to where horses and faithful followers were waiting below. The story goes that Flambard lost the skin from the palms of his hands when the rough rope grazed them. He then fled to Normandy, apparently in company with his mother, who was a one-eyed witch.

  He made his way to the Duke of Normandy, where he offered advice as to how the Duke should invade England. However, he eventually managed to wheedle himself into King Henry’s favour, and was restored to the see of Durham, where he continued to oversee the building of his cathedral. The last years of his life were devoted almost entirely to architectural projects; he built much of the cathedral’s nave, raised the curtain walls of the castle, and destroyed the huddle of peasants’ houses that occupied the land between cathedral and castle because he deemed them a fire hazard. He died in 1128, having been ill for two years, leaving behind a number of illegitimate children.

  Flambard was a colourful figure, even by medieval standards. He was unquestionably intelligent, and almost certainly worked hard on his cathedral for his own personal aggrandizement. He was a political animal, and owed allegiance to the leader who could best fulfil his interests at the time.

  It is difficult to judge how long the antipathy between Norman invaders and native Saxons lasted. Certainly, Norman domination would still have smarted in 1101, only thirty-five years after Hastings. The north, perhaps because of its geographical location away from the seat of power in the south, tended to be rebellious for longer. That Norman rule entailed Normans being appointed to the most prestigious, influential, and lucrative posts must have rankled, not just among the dispossessed Saxon nobility, but among the peasantry, too. The twelfth century was a violent and unsettled age, and there is no reason to suppose that rivalries and feuds like the ones in this book did not take place.