The Bishop's Brood

by Simon Beaufort

  Titles by Simon Beaufort from Severn House

  The Sir Geoffrey Mappestone Series

  MURDER IN THE HOLY CITY

  A HEAD FOR POISONING

  THE BISHOP’S BROOD

  THE KING’S SPIES

  THE COINER’S QUARREL

  DEADLY INHERITANCE

  THE BLOODSTAINED THRONE

  A DEAD MAN’S SECRET

  THE MURDER HOUSE

  THE KILLING SHIP

  THE BISHOP’S BROOD

  Simon Beaufort

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2003 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  This eBook edition first published in 2016 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2016 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD

  Copyright © 2003 by Simon Beaufort

  The right of Simon Beaufort to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-5983-9 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-790-6 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-879-7 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

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  Prologue

  April 1097, Durham

  It was often said that if a wicked man had the temerity to touch the sacred relics of one of God’s saints, he would be consumed by holy fire and doomed to suffer the torments of Hell for eternity. Brother Wulfkill did not know whether that was true, but he did not intend to find out. When he handled the bones of long-dead martyrs, he wore gloves and always fortified himself with prayers and incantations.

  The reliquary containing the remains of St Balthere lay in front of him, and he used a stick to undo the clasp and flip back the lid. He had expected to see bones, perhaps wrapped in fragments of rotting silk, and gaped in surprise when he saw the withered remnants of a large coiled snake. He crossed himself, wondering whether the very act of opening the casket had caused the saint to express his anger by turning himself into the hideous object that now occupied it. With mounting fear, he quickly slammed the lid closed.

  After a few prayers, during which there was no indication that he was about to be seized by the Devil, Wulfkill summoned enough courage to look inside the casket again. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the lid open a second time, cringing in anticipation of thunder and fury from an enraged God. But nothing happened. The snake was still there, as dead and dry as leaves in winter. Wulfkill sat back on his heels, and pondered what to do next.

  He had been paid – handsomely – to steal the bones and leave them in a predetermined spot for someone else to collect. Now Balthere was unavailable, Wulfkill was in trouble. He had already spent some of the payment he had received on a new roof for his sister’s house and to buy medicine for the poor. But he doubted whether the men who had paid him would care that these were worthy causes: they would demand Balthere or they would want their money back. And it appeared as though Wulfkill would be able to provide neither.

  A crafty look came over his face as a solution occurred to him. The claim that instant death was the fate of those who touched the bones of a saint might be his protection: he would wrap the snake in the sack he had brought and say, quite truthfully, that he had removed the contents of the reliquary. He was a monk, and no one would doubt his word when he declared that he had not inspected what was inside the sack because he feared for his immortal soul. Everyone knew religious men paid heed to the kind of stories that promised eternal damnation, and Wulfkill might yet escape blame when the men who paid him realized he did not have what they wanted.

  Quickly, he swallowed his revulsion, reached inside the casket and grabbed the withered corpse. It gave a papery crackle as he touched it, and white bone gleamed through parts where the skin had rotted away. Wulfkill stuffed it inside his sack and secured it with a piece of twine.

  Aware that time was passing, Wulfkill closed the lid and eased the reliquary back into its niche in the high altar. With a dusty hand he rubbed away evidence that it had been moved, then walked towards the door. Of the whole venture, the most risky part was where he might be spotted by a parishioner, leaving his church in the depths of the night with a bulging sack over his shoulder.

  But it was very late, and the city was silent in sleep. Even in winter, there was work to be done in the fields, and the folk who lived in the seedy shacks nearby were too weary to spend their nights watching the comings and goings of others at the witching hour. Wulfkill left the church unseen, and hurried towards the river to begin the long walk to the agreed hiding place.

  It was nearly dawn by the time he approached the spot where the men had ordered him to leave Balthere. He began to relax, knowing the ordeal was almost over, and that he would soon be able to retrace his steps and spend the rest of the day dreaming about how he would use the remainder of his wages. He had just imagined himself buying a position as house priest to some undemanding widow, when he became aware that he was not alone. He spun around in alarm, trying to see whether he had been followed.

  There was nothing to see. But when he resumed walking again there was a sharp crack followed by a thud, and he felt something strike him in the chest. It was not a hard punch, and it did not even make him stagger. Yet, when he glanced down, there was a crossbow bolt protruding from his ribs. He was just berating himself for not realizing sooner that he would never be allowed to live after what he had done, when he hit the ground. He died where he fell, and shadowy figures emerged from the nearby trees to take possession of the bundle he carried.

  3 February 1101, London

  Odard waited at the foot of the White Tower in the fortress that stood on the banks of the River Thames. It was a cold night, and a bitter wind sliced across the cobbled courtyard, bringing with it flurries of snow. But Odard remained motionless, and only the faint gleam of his eyes indicated he was alert and watchful.

  It was very late, although dull yellow lights glowed dimly from the prisoner’s chamber high above. Occasionally, there was a raised voice and laughter, suggesting the prisoner was not sitting in weary solitude in a dismal cell, but enjoying a butt of good malmsey with his guards. It was not often that the White Tower held a man as important and powerful as Ranulf Flambard, Bishop of Durham, and the castellan had been told to treat him with courtesy. Compared to most folk, Flambard’s prison was a palace. It was sumptuously decorated and there was always a fire blazing to ward off the chill of a long winter. He also had fine food delivered daily and wore the rich, warm robes that befitted a man of his wealth and status.

  Outside, Odard continued to wait. Eventually, the lights in Flambard’s
cell were doused, and the sounds of merriment faded away. A dog barked from the sewage-impregnated alleys that comprised much of England’s largest city, and then even that was stilled. Clouds obscured the moon, so Odard was all but invisible as he continued his patient vigil in the shadows.

  Because it was an icy night, the Tower guards were loath to leave the watch room for their patrols. When their sergeant insisted, they moved in resentful pairs along the wall-walk, glancing into the darkened bailey below, and at the shiny black waters of river and moat on the other side. There was nothing to see, and they hurried inside again gratefully. The King was away, so the garrison left to defend the Tower was small. But no one anticipated trouble, and everyone knew that escape was impossible for the bishop or any other prisoner locked inside.

  A cat slunk across courtyard cobbles that were beginning to sparkle with frost. Odard readied himself. It was almost time. He left his hiding place and walked quickly to the barbican gate. It was closed, but the wicket door had been left unbarred, as arranged. Just outside, he heard the soft snicker of a horse, nervous at being saddled up and made to wait so late at night. Not far away was the watch room, where deep, gruff voices rumbled within. Odard edged closer, until he was able to peer through a gap in one of the window shutters. He counted the guards, and saw they were all inside, vying for space near the flickering fire.

  He walked back to the Tower and glanced up. Flambard’s window was open, and he could see the dark outline of a head as it leaned out. Then there was a soft hiss, and something dropped. It was a thin rope, which uncoiled as it fell and swung this way and that like a pendulum. Odard frowned. It was not long enough, and dangled at least the height of three men from the ground. He tried to gesticulate, to tell Flambard to abandon his escape until more rope could be smuggled in another barrel of wine that he would share with his friendly guards.

  But it was too late: the bishop was already climbing out of the window. Odard tensed, all the cool detachment he had displayed during his earlier wait vanished. Flambard’s feet scrabbled against the wall, so loudly that Odard was certain the guards would hear and come to investigate. Then one of the waiting horses whinnied, long and piercing, and he closed his eyes in despair at the racket.

  And, as if that were not enough, the bishop began to curse and swear as he climbed. Odard gazed upward, willing him to be quiet. King Henry would not be pleased to learn that his most auspicious prisoner had managed to extricate himself from the most secure fortress in the country, and if Flambard were caught, then Henry would exact revenge in a way that only a son of the Conqueror could, and the bishop would be lucky if he ever saw the light of day again. And Odard would fare worse: it was treason to help a prisoner escape, and punishment would be severe and inevitably fatal.

  Flambard’s curses grew even more profane when he came to the end of the rope and realized it did not reach the ground. Odard could see him hanging there, eyes wide with horror when he saw the hard cobbles were still far below him. And then he slipped. Odard darted forward to try to break his fall, but he landed hard and awkwardly nevertheless. Flambard’s cursing became gasps of pain, and, when he tried to stand, he found he could not walk.

  ‘This is a disaster!’ he hissed, his face a twisted mask of agony. He held out his hands. ‘You did not provide me with gloves, and the rope has ripped the skin from my palms.’

  ‘We must hurry,’ whispered Odard, refraining from pointing out that Flambard could have remembered the gloves himself. It did not take a genius to anticipate that rough rope would be hard on hands that had never done a day’s honest work.

  ‘I cannot walk,’ declared Flambard imperiously. ‘My ankle twisted when I fell, because the rope you sent was too short.’

  Odard was beginning to wish that the ungrateful prelate had broken his neck, not merely hurt a foot. But he kept his thoughts to himself, and took Flambard’s arm to help him to the gate. He found he was obliged virtually to carry him across the courtyard, and his breath came in short, agonized gasps – years of good living had turned Flambard’s once athletic frame to the contented flabbiness of middle age, and he was heavy. The bishop was in the very act of grabbing the handle on the wicket gate to open it, when the watch-room door was flung open and four soldiers spilled out.

  ‘You told me they would relax their patrols after midnight,’ whispered Flambard accusingly. ‘Do you not realize what will happen to me if I am caught trying to escape?’

  Odard said nothing, but pulled him deeper into the shadows as the guards came nearer. They chatted in low voices for a moment, before splitting into pairs to begin their rounds. One walked directly to where Flambard and Odard hid, evidently intent on checking whether the wicket gate was locked. Odard’s heart thumped so loudly he was certain the watchmen would hear, and it was almost painful. He was tempted to abandon the bishop and make a dash for the gate, to leap on to one of the horses and escape while he could. But he did not. He was a Knight Hospitaller and under orders from the Grand Master himself to serve Flambard. Hospitallers were not men who broke oaths of obedience just because they were frightened. He watched the soldier walk to the gate, glance up at the bar that secured it, then go to join his comrade on the wall-walk.

  Odard almost swooned with relief, and was moving towards the wicket gate almost before the guard had turned the corner and was out of sight. Outside were four horses. He helped Flambard on to one and mounted another himself. The remaining pair already carried two other stalwart Hospitallers, who would escort the bishop to a ship bound for Normandy. The White Tower was still, silent and brooding when they galloped away from it, heading for the coast.

  One

  6 February 1101, Southampton

  Even on a cold February afternoon, when the sun had slipped behind a bank of clouds that threatened more snow and the wind sliced from the north as keenly as a Saracen’s scimitar, the wharves at Southampton hummed with activity. Merchants strode along the narrow streets that ran between the waterfront and their warehouses, apprentices scurrying in their wake. Soldiers marched this way and that, some going to relieve the guards on the town walls, others returning from patrols into the surrounding countryside, and sailors gathered in noisy, crowded inns where fights broke out. And above it all, gulls screamed, soared and squabbled over the remnants of the day’s catch that had been tossed into the refuse-littered water.

  Sir Geoffrey Mappestone noticed with distaste that even a hard winter frost could not lessen the rank stench he always associated with ports. Not only was there the gagging odour of rotting fish, crushed and trodden into the churned mud that formed most of the streets, and the ever-present reek of sewage, but there was also the pungent stink of the hot pitch that was used to seal ships’ timbers. And there were other smells, too, lurking under the foulness: spices and exotic herbs from southern France, the heady scent of an accidentally punctured barrel of wine, and the damp earthiness of wool waiting to be exported to the Low Countries.

  Riding next to Geoffrey, Sir Roger of Durham hummed to himself. He was pleased to be leaving England for the sun and dust-scented air of the Holy Land. Four years before, the two knights had been part of the Crusade to wrest Christianity’s most sacred places from the infidel, where they had survived hunger, thirst, searing heat, freezing cold, disease, flies, and even the occasional battle. When the Crusade was over, and the Western princes had established their own little kingdoms in the desert, Geoffrey and Roger had returned to England. Geoffrey had gone to pay his respects to his dying father, while Roger had used his Holy Land loot to enjoy the taverns of London. Geoffrey’s father had died, and Roger found that he pined for the adventure and excitement of Jerusalem, and so both were in Southampton to find a ship to take them back.

  ‘Look at that!’ Roger exclaimed suddenly.

  Geoffrey glanced to where he pointed, and saw two men engaged in a skirmish on the roof of a merchant’s house. In the dull light he could see the glint of metal as knives flashed and swiped. Roger was not the only one to
have noticed the action: a crowd of onlookers gaped in ghoulish fascination at the two combatants. Their excited chattering encouraged more people, and Geoffrey was forced to rein in his warhorse or risk having it trample someone. Roger muttered blackly at the delay, although his eyes were fixed with interest on the ducking, weaving figures on the roof.

  ‘Who are they?’ Roger asked of a man who wore a bloodstained fishmonger’s apron, shiny with silver scales. ‘What led them to this?’

  ‘They are a couple of sailors, I should imagine,’ said the fishmonger, wiping hands that were red-raw with cold on his tunic as he gazed upward. ‘Seamen always spoil for a fight when they get paid.’

  ‘It will be a fatal one unless they call a truce,’ observed Geoffrey, wincing as one combatant lost his footing and started to roll down the thatching. ‘What a ridiculous situation to have put themselves in.’

  The fighter’s downward progress was arrested when he used his knife to stab at the roof. He had barely regained his balance before his assailant was on him again. His attacker was older than he, and less agile, but the younger man seemed to have hurt himself in his tumble, and one arm was held at an awkward angle. Assessing the two with a professional eye, Geoffrey saw that while the younger had the stance of a man who had been taught to fight, his injury would impede him, and that the older man’s grim but undisciplined determination would probably see him the victor.

  ‘Look out behind you!’ roared Roger, siding with the injured man.

  His warning came just in time. The youngster twisted to his left, and the lethal sweep that had been aimed at his unprotected back whipped harmlessly past. His opponent advanced, wielding the knife purposefully. Even from a distance, Geoffrey could see murderous intent written in his every move.

  ‘Come on, Roger,’ he said, tugging on the reins to ease his horse away. ‘I see no pleasure in watching a pair of drunkards trying to kill each other.’