The Bishop's Brood

by Simon Beaufort

  This time Geoffrey joined Maude’s laughter. Even Roger, who was a far more loyal son than the devious bishop deserved, could not fail to see that Flambard was about as far from honest and upright as it was possible to be.

  Roger glowered and fingered the dagger at his side, so Geoffrey suspected it was only their friendship that prevented the big knight from fighting him. He controlled his amusement and pushed Roger’s hand away from the weapon.

  ‘You must be the only person in Christendom who thinks this way,’ he said. ‘But we should not be discussing Flambard when we have passage on a ship to find. The morning is already half gone.’

  ‘The best thing that happened to England was when King Henry arrested Flambard and threw him in his dungeons,’ declared Maude, ignoring Geoffrey’s attempt to bring the conversation to an end.

  ‘That is not true!’ Roger was outraged. ‘He is not in a dungeon. He is being treated with courtesy and kindness, and I will kill anyone who says otherwise!’

  He looked dangerous, and Geoffrey hastily stepped between him and Maude. ‘You are right,’ he said gently. ‘The King would not treat a bishop roughly. But the day is passing, and we need to make enquiries at the quay. I want to find a ship while the weather holds.’

  ‘Good luck, then,’ said Maude in the tone of voice that suggested the task was hopeless. She nodded at the high, bright white clouds. ‘There will be no sailings today; the wind is wrong.’

  Geoffrey sat on the edge of the bed and began to tug on his boots. ‘Perhaps, but we can still buy passage for when the wind is good.’

  ‘You mean leave this nice warm chamber?’ asked Roger, eyeing Maude with lustful hope in his eyes, their disagreement already forgotten – or forgotten sufficiently for him to enjoy a romp.

  ‘You stay here,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I want to make sure Peterkin is buried first, and that his brother has enough money to return home.’

  Roger bounded off the bed. He was fully clothed, and even wore a dagger strapped to his thigh, so Geoffrey could only imagine that Maude had passed a very uncomfortable night.

  ‘I had forgotten about Peterkin,’ Roger said, buckling his sword belt and bundling Maude unceremoniously out of the door, slamming it shut behind her. Geoffrey opened it again, and passed the startled prostitute her clothes. She snatched them away and struggled into them before flouncing off down the stairs.

  ‘We must track down Peterkin’s killer,’ announced Roger, donning his surcoat. ‘The one you said looked like a weasel and who also killed that young man on the roof. We cannot have peasants killing our soldiers every time they feel like it.’

  Geoffrey smiled. ‘And how will we do that? This is a large town, and we have no authority to hunt murderers. All we can do is tell the sheriff, and hope he knows the kind of men who favour red-stained quarrels.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Roger reluctantly. ‘But it is curious that these coloured bolts keep turning up everywhere. We have now seen three men killed with them. I wonder if they died because of what the roof-top fighter shouted before he was murderously shot in the back.’

  ‘You mean about the staff?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘I cannot imagine what. You did not even understand what he meant.’

  Roger leaned forward to tap his temple. ‘You are not using that quick mind you are so proud of.’

  ‘Am I not?’ asked Geoffrey, wondering what he could have missed.

  Roger looked pleased with himself. ‘Just because you know you do not know, does not mean Weasel does not know you do not know. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘No,’ said Geoffrey.

  Roger sighed, and began to explain in the patronizing voice he used on some of the dim-witted lads he was occasionally obliged to train as soldiers. ‘We do not know the significance of the young man’s words. But Weasel does not know that, does he?’

  ‘You are beginning to think like your father. You see a deviousness and cunning that are not there. We witnessed a brawl, during which two men ganged up on a youngster and killed him – something that probably happens every day in a town like Southampton.’

  ‘What about Peterkin, then?’

  ‘Peterkin was killed by the same two men because he was silly enough to linger in the stables after his friends had left. He was easy prey, and they killed him so they could take his purse.’

  ‘But he had nothing in his purse, except a wooden cross and some glass beads.’

  ‘That is irrelevant. Thieves do not check the contents of purses before deciding whether a robbery is worthwhile. They killed Peterkin first, and then discovered he had nothing to offer.’

  ‘But they almost drowned you,’ said Roger, refusing to relinquish the notion that there was some despicable plot in motion.

  ‘They did not. That was unrelated meddling by Saxon oafs. But we should look for a ship, or we will still be in this godforsaken place when spring comes.’

  Without waiting for a reply, he opened the door and clattered briskly down the stairs. He was not entirely pleased to see Ulfrith sitting in the room below.

  The Saxon had taken some pains with his appearance. He wore a relatively clean jerkin that was probably the best he owned, and a pair of thick leather trousers that looked as if they had been taken directly from the legs of a cow. His gold hair had been trimmed into a neat bob, and brushed until it shone. Geoffrey regarded him warily. Ulfrith stepped forward and smiled.

  ‘I am sorry for almost drowning you last night,’ he said, not looking sorry at all. ‘And I have decided the only way I can make amends for such a misunderstanding is that I offer you my services. You can take me with you to the Holy Land.’

  ‘This is hopeless,’ muttered Roger disconsolately, as he trailed after Geoffrey that afternoon. ‘Every boat here is either already full or sailing somewhere we do not want to go.’

  ‘The bad weather last month means there are more people who want to travel than there are places on ships,’ said Geoffrey, looking around to see which vessel they might try next. ‘We might have to head farther along the coast, and leave from Pevensey.’

  Roger sighed gustily. ‘But I want to go to Normandy today. I am sick of all this snow and cold. It will be warmer there.’ He glanced behind him, to where Ulfrith hovered at a respectful distance. ‘Your Saxon is still following us. Why will he not take no for an answer? I am tempted to shove him into the sea right now, just like he did to you last night.’

  ‘I do not think a ducking will put him off. He sees us as a chance to escape a life of drudgery and intends to make the most of it.’

  He turned and waited until Ulfrith caught up with them. The Saxon, sensing they had been talking about him and sufficiently naive to be happily optimistic about it, gave a grin as he hurried forward.

  ‘You have changed your mind,’ he said in satisfied delight. ‘You will take me with you after all.’

  ‘Can you arrange passage to Normandy?’ Geoffrey was exasperated with being told there were no berths available and saw he was obliged to resort to other tactics. ‘For us, my sergeant, and our four men?’

  ‘Five men,’ corrected Ulfrith, not even trying to hide his pleasure. ‘Of course I can. I know all the captains here, and they know me.’

  ‘Is that good or bad?’ growled Roger uncertainly. He had a point. Not everyone would like Ulfrith’s irritating cheerfulness, and a word from him to some of the surly types who slouched near their vessels might do more harm than good.

  Ulfrith did not notice Roger was less than optimistic about his chances of success, and made a show of studying the clouds to demonstrate his superior meteorological knowledge. ‘There will be no sailings today or tomorrow, because the wind is wrong, but I will arrange one for as soon as I can.’

  ‘Remember we want to go to Normandy,’ said Geoffrey, thinking that the lad might be so keen to impress that he would buy passage elsewhere if Normandy proved difficult, believing that one foreign place was much like another and they would not notice the difference. ‘There is space on ships sail
ing to the Low Countries and Scotland, but we need to go to Normandy.’

  ‘Aye,’ muttered Roger. ‘Who in his right mind would want to go to Scotland? It is full of screaming savages intent on stealing English cattle for unnatural purposes.’

  ‘You mean like eating them?’ asked Geoffrey, to tease him. Roger’s dislike of the Scots was legendary, and he had spent a good deal of time fighting them before he had left for the Crusade.

  ‘You go back to the Saracen’s Head and I will sort everything out,’ said Ulfrith with a confidence Geoffrey felt was unjustified, given the bald fact that berths on ships bound for Normandy were few and far between. ‘Leave everything to me. And I will negotiate a good price too – better than anything you could manage for yourselves.’

  He strode away, swaggering with the importance of the task he had been set. Geoffrey turned to Roger and grinned.

  ‘A cup of warm ale, even if we have to drink it in the Saracen’s Head, sounds more appealing than spending the day in fruitless discussions with hostile Saxon sea captains.’

  Roger followed him back to the inn. The afternoon was turning chilly, with a cold wind slicing in from the north-east. The sky was clearing, too, promising freezing temperatures once darkness fell. Their feet crunched on slushy snow that was turning to ice, and Geoffrey was glad he had decided to walk that day, and that his warhorse was safe inside the tavern’s stables. Destriers were expensive animals – it was not any old nag that could carry a fully armoured knight into battle without balking at the noise and the stench of spilled blood – and knights treated them with care and respect. It would be easy for a horse to damage a leg on the frozen, uneven ruts that formed the main road.

  ‘What a dismal place,’ said Roger as they walked through streets lined with shabby houses and the smoke from hundreds of cooking fires swirled around them. ‘This is nothing like Durham. Durham is magnificent. You would like it, given your obsession with pretty buildings.’

  As they moved away from the main harbour, the hectic sounds of trade faded. Geoffrey’s dog loped ahead of them, shoving its nose in piles of offal, and wagging its tail in delirious delight. Some of the unwholesome mess through which it rifled was apparently even deemed edible, although Geoffrey tried not to think about what it might be devouring. Suddenly, it abandoned its scavenging and looked back down the road, ears pricked and one foot frozen in mid-step. Geoffrey turned to see what had disturbed it, but the street was empty. He snapped his fingers at it as he passed, to tell it to follow him, but the animal was growling and the hackles at the back of its neck were erect and bristling.

  Geoffrey’s dog was not known for its courage, and it was as likely to become agitated by a large cat as a hostile intruder. Roger ignored it, and continued to stride towards the tavern, but Geoffrey paused and scanned the silent street. It seemed deserted, but the dog continued to growl. There was a narrow alley a short distance away, and the dog’s attention was fixed on it. Geoffrey retraced his steps and peered down it. At the far end was a gate, which swung closed, as though someone had just passed through. He ran towards it, and shoved it open to see where it went.

  It opened on to a grassy area, where three cows nuzzled at the crust of snow in an attempt to graze on the sparse vegetation beneath. Coffin-sized bumps and a scattering of rubble suggested that this had once been the site of a church, abandoned when the town had built a new one. Geoffrey walked to the centre of the green and looked in all directions, scanning for signs that someone had fled down one of the many lanes that radiated outwards like spokes on a wheel.

  But there was nothing to see. A small group of children kicked an inflated pig bladder around at the far end of the clearing, and two men wearing the glistening aprons of fishmongers talked together halfway down the widest of the streets. Geoffrey considered asking them whether they had seen someone running, but they saw him watching them and gazed back with resentful hostility. Bright straw-coloured hair poked from under the cap of one of them, and Geoffrey decided he did not want more encounters with bitter, dispossessed Saxons who seemed to believe that every Norman was personally responsible for the Conqueror’s victory some thirty-five years before.

  His dog had followed him, and was happily excavating a mound that Geoffrey was certain was a grave. Ignoring the snarls of outraged protest, Geoffrey grabbed it by the scruff of its neck and dragged it away before it could find itself some bones. The fact that it was no longer growling suggested that whatever had unnerved it had gone. Geoffrey sighed, suspecting he was being oversensitive, and that he should not allow the animal to send him rushing off down seedy alleyways every time it sensed the presence of a cat. The swinging gate had doubtless just caught in the wind, and had misled him into thinking that someone had opened it. He smiled at his own foolishness, and retraced his steps to where Roger waited.

  Three

  ‘Dog ran off, did it?’ asked Roger as Geoffrey walked towards him after his fruitless foray. ‘You should keep the thing on a leash when we are in towns. It is safer – and I do not mean for the dog.’

  Roger was leaning against a water pump, oblivious of the fact that his looming presence was causing consternation to two Saxon crones who were hovering with empty buckets. Geoffrey tugged his arm, leaving the women to their well, and continued towards the tavern. He wondered when the hostility between Saxons and the Normans would ease. Usually, it was not a problem: Normans had taken Saxon wives, and their children had united the two peoples. But there were pockets of unrest, particularly among older people, who could still remember a time when it had been Saxon lords who had crippled them with taxes and held them in virtual slavery, rather than Normans.

  ‘I am glad you sent Joab home,’ said Roger. ‘He was beside himself with grief when we buried his brother this morning. He was unhinged anyway, but today he verged on the lunatic.’

  ‘I would have sent the others, too, but they declined to go. You have filled their greedy heads with too many stories of Holy Land treasure.’

  ‘What did the sheriff say about Peterkin and the man with the weasel-like face? Did you tell him about the red bolts? I meant to go with you to see him, but that whore Mary came back and accused me of not paying her.’

  ‘And did you?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘It would not be the first time you sent some poor woman away without her earnings. And this one was called Maude, not Mary.’

  ‘How can I be expected to remember such trivial matters as names and whether they were paid?’ asked Roger carelessly. ‘Anyway, I offered her double if she spent a few more moments in my company, and she left happily enough afterwards – with her silver. But what did the sheriff say?’

  ‘He said he knew of no one who uses scarlet arrows and that he has never heard of the tradition of colouring them in the way you described.’

  ‘Must be something that only happens near Durham, then,’ said Roger. ‘We do things better up there. It is why we are superior soldiers.’

  ‘Not because you have more practice from skirmishing with the Scots?’ asked Geoffrey, smiling. He changed the subject, before Roger could start a tirade against the wicked Gaels and their innocent English victims. ‘But the sheriff did not hold much hope for catching Peterkin’s murderer. He said there were two other violent deaths last night, and that random killings happen fairly frequently, given the large number of men who gather – sailors, soldiers, traders, and so on.’

  ‘But Peterkin was in your care, Geoff. You must want his death avenged! We shall have to find this Weasel ourselves.’

  ‘How?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘We do not have time to investigate before we leave, and in any case, we have no idea where to begin. But one of Peterkin’s killers paid the price: the sheriff collected the body of Weasel’s accomplice this morning. He said he had never seen him before, and that he was not local. He will make enquiries, but I suspect nothing will come of it. The town is too big, there are too many places to hide, too few people willing to talk, and too many men coming and going.’

  Roger
shot him a puzzled look. ‘It is unlike you to stand by while your men are slaughtered. Perhaps I should wander the town to see if I can spot Weasel – and then kill him for you.’

  ‘It would be better if you passed him to the sheriff,’ said Geoffrey. ‘A lot of people will recognize Weasel from that roof-top brawl, and the sheriff noticed the similarity between the scarlet bolts that killed the boy, Peterkin, and Weasel’s accomplice.’

  ‘So?’ asked Roger. ‘What of it?’

  Geoffrey sighed. ‘He will identify Weasel’s body and recall that it was us who accused him of killing Peterkin. He will know exactly who murdered the man.’

  ‘But Weasel did kill Peterkin,’ Roger pointed out. ‘He deserves to die.’

  ‘So he might, but it is not for us to take the law into our own hands. The sheriff could hang us for murder, just as he would Weasel.’

  ‘But we would not be guilty of murder,’ protested Roger. ‘Only of dispensing justice.’

  ‘I see,’ said Geoffrey, thinking that perhaps Roger and his devious father had something in common after all – an ability to twist the facts to suit their own purposes. ‘But I doubt you will find Weasel anyway. He will be lying low, hoping to escape by remaining hidden.’

  ‘So, what did the sheriff make of the roof-top fight, then?’ asked Roger, after a while.

  ‘Not much,’ said Geoffrey. ‘His men questioned dozens of witnesses, but no one has admitted to knowing either combatant. He says the boy and Weasel were probably just passing through Southampton and had a disagreement that turned violent. It happens all the time, apparently. But, if we assume it was Weasel’s accomplice who shot the lad – in the back, while Weasel faced him – then we can probably also assume that he killed Peterkin, too. And he is dead – shot by Weasel, who is not as good a marksman, fortunately for me. So, we do not have to worry about him evading justice.’

  Roger looked around and shuddered. ‘I feel as though someone has been watching me all day. I do not like this town. The sooner we leave, the better.’