The Bishop's Brood

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘Have you seen anyone following you?’ asked Geoffrey, surprised that a man like Roger should pay heed to such a sensation.

  ‘I thought I saw an odd shadow earlier, but it turned out to be your dog enjoying itself with a chicken.’ Roger’s eyes lit on a bent figure that limped towards them, and he gripped Geoffrey’s arm in mock alarm. ‘Here comes Ulfrith’s grandfather! Get behind me, quick, lad! He looks dangerous, and you do not want to be bested by him a second time.’

  Geoffrey sighed, seeing Roger was not going to let his embarrassing defeat be forgotten in a hurry. ‘I was not fighting him,’ he pointed out, although he knew it would make no difference to Roger’s perception of events. ‘He pushed me and I fell.’

  ‘Like a maiden who has been at the ale!’ guffawed Roger, loud enough to be heard over half the town. ‘She totters all over the place, and will crash to the floor if you tap her with a feather! But the old man is drawing close, Geoff! Will you draw your sword to protect yourself, or would you rather I saved you?’

  ‘Perhaps you should,’ said Geoffrey, eyeing the old man warily. ‘He has a determined glint in his eye that I do not like at all.’

  The old man wheezed his way towards them, gnarled fingers clutching a stick on which he leant heavily. His remaining wisps of white hair were tied behind his head in traditional Saxon fashion, he wore a grimy tunic, and there were leather laces on his home-spun leggings. Geoffrey glanced at Roger, and saw the big knight grinning openly when he saw the exact nature of Geoffrey’s victorious assailant in the harsh light of day.

  ‘My grandson wants to go to the Holy Land,’ said the old man accusingly, as though it were Geoffrey who had planted the idea in Ulfrith’s mind. ‘And he says you will not take him.’

  ‘He is right,’ said Geoffrey. ‘So, you need not worry about losing him.’

  He tried to step around the old man, but found his sleeve caught in a claw-like hand. He could have shaken it off, but the old warrior was unsteady on his feet, and Geoffrey did not want to knock him over. He stopped, aware that the bony hand on his arm was as much for support as to prevent the knight from leaving.

  ‘You will not find a stronger lad, nor a finer fish-gutter,’ the old man claimed proudly.

  ‘I see,’ said Geoffrey, trying gently to pull away. ‘But you need not be afraid we will take him.’

  ‘You misunderstand me,’ said the old man, securing a firmer grip on Geoffrey’s sleeve. ‘I want you to take him into your service.’

  ‘Useful though a talent for fish-gutting might be in the desert, we must decline,’ said Geoffrey, his surprise evaporating when he realized the old man was urging Ulfrith on him so the boy could complete what he had failed to accomplish the previous night. ‘I have trained soldiers from my own manor, and do not need more.’

  He ignored Roger’s snort of laughter at the notion that his men were anything like trained.

  ‘You do need more,’ insisted the old man. ‘I watched you bury a soldier this morning, and I saw another going home. My grandson will take their places.’

  ‘Thank you, no,’ said Geoffrey firmly. ‘Anyway, I am not in the habit of employing men who have tried to kill me. Or ones who hate Normans.’

  ‘Ulfrith does not hate Normans,’ said the old man, a hint of bitterness in his voice. ‘I wish he did. I have done my best to make him see that you should not be tolerated in our land, but although he nods as I speak, the fire has never been in him like it was his father. Ulfrith has but one ambition in life, and that is to be part of a crusade.’

  ‘Then he is a few years too late,’ said Geoffrey. ‘The Crusade is over, and the Holy Land is now under the control of the Christians, God help it.’

  ‘But there are still skirmishes,’ said the old man, ‘and you still need soldiers to keep the infidel from snatching it back again. Ulfrith is your man.’

  ‘Why are you so keen for him to die so far from home?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘I thought you were fond of him.’

  The old man sighed. ‘There is nothing for him here. I was the chief of a village before the Normans came, and I have spent my whole life expecting a wrong to be righted and to be given my lands back. But the Normans’ hold on England grows stronger with each passing year, not weaker, and I know my manor is lost for ever. Ulfrith can fritter away his life as a fish-gutter, like his father, or he can make something of himself in the Holy Land. You stole his birthright; at least do not deprive him of this chance to do something noble.’

  ‘I will take him,’ declared Roger, who, unlike Geoffrey, was moved by this speech. ‘I need a squire, and the louts Geoffrey has pressed into service are worse than useless. And I am only half Norman anyway – my mother was Saxon and was a great lady in Dur … up north.’

  The old man smiled and began to pump Roger’s hand, tears glittering in his rheumy eyes. ‘Even better! Ulfrith will serve a man with Saxon blood in his veins. I can die with pride!’

  ‘I will train him well,’ said Roger confidently. ‘You will have good cause to be proud of him once he has learned all I have to teach.’

  ‘I hope you know what you are doing,’ said Geoffrey to Roger, as they walked away. ‘I can tell you from personal experience that Ulfrith has a murderous streak.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Roger, pleased. ‘And that will make him a better soldier than you, who do not!’

  That evening, Geoffrey and Roger sat in the Saracen’s Head, discussing whether they should accept the passage Ulfrith had arranged for them on a ship that would not leave for ten days, or whether to ride to Pevensey, to see if they might fare better there.

  Roger was for riding to Pevensey, because he did not like periods of enforced inactivity and would rather be doing something else – even something as potentially futile as a multi-day ride to another port where the situation might be no different. Geoffrey thought it was better to wait, maintaining it was foolhardy to squander an assured passage in favour of the vague possibility that they might find a quicker one. The ship Ulfrith had chosen was a sturdy vessel under a competent-looking captain, and the lad had even inveigled them a cabin, an unheard-of luxury as far as Geoffrey was concerned. Usually, when he travelled by ship, he slept on the open deck when the weather was fine or found some miserable corner in the hold when it was rough.

  Yet, although the sensible option was to remain where they were, Geoffrey did not like Southampton, and did not relish the prospect of lodging at the Saracen’s Head for the next ten days. He could not shake off the feeling that someone was watching them, and was not easy with the notion that Weasel might be lurking in the shadows. He tried to be rational, knowing that a man with Weasel’s inferior fighting skills was hardly a reason to leave the town, but the niggling concern persisted nonetheless.

  The inn was hot and stuffy, and smoke from a badly swept chimney swirled around the room and made his eyes smart. He had also drunk too much wine, and wanted to escape the unhealthy atmosphere for a while to clear the fumes from his head. Leaving Roger carousing with the Littel brothers, while Helbye and Ulfrith hovered soberly in the background, he weaved his way across the room and stepped out into the cold night air. His dog followed, and snuffled optimistically at his hand, hopeful for something to eat.

  It was a clear night, and he gazed up at the many stars that glittered above, wondering why it was that the more he stared at them, the more there seemed to be. He felt a sudden longing to be done with travelling and fighting, so he could sit in some quiet cloister and read about natural philosophy and astronomy, to understand the mysteries of the sparkling heavens above. But he knew that was never likely to happen. He was too old to become a scholar and the only other option was to forsake his knighthood and take the cowl. He knew he would make a poor monk: he was too independent and did not like people telling him what to do. He also had no intention of keeping vows of chastity, and even the most relaxed of orders would be unlikely to turn a blind eye to flagrant and frequent womanizing.

  He snapped his thoughts away from the pr
oblems a scholarly life would bring when his dog began to growl deep in its throat, the way it did when it wanted to voice its objection to something, but did not want to make enough noise to draw attention to itself. Geoffrey crouched next to it, peering into the shadows, alert for any movement that might herald the winding of a crossbow. But there was nothing to see, no matter how hard he looked, and eventually the dog’s growls ceased and its hackles lay flat again. Geoffrey patted its silky head, while it sat at his feet and gave a bored sigh.

  He remained outside a while longer, enjoying the crispness of the winter night, then explored some of the tavern’s outbuildings, to assure himself no one was lurking there with red crossbow bolts at the ready. The dog accompanied him happily enough – something it would not have done had it sensed any kind of threat.

  After the cool peace of the yard, the tavern seemed noisier and stuffier than ever. It had also become more full since Geoffrey had left, and the area around the hearth was a seething mass of bodies, packed so closely together that it was only just possible for a man to raise a cup to his lips.

  The table at which Roger sat was not as busy as the area near the fire, because it was not as warm. When Geoffrey had left, Roger had been engaged in a drinking game with the Littel brothers, but by the time he returned, they had abandoned him, and were dicing with some fishermen in a corner. Their places on the bench opposite Roger had been taken by three Benedictine monks, who sat with drawn cowls that made them look like crows at a funeral. Geoffrey smiled to himself, certain the company of three dour monastics was not the big knight’s idea of fun.

  ‘Are you sober now?’ Roger asked as Geoffrey sat. ‘Did the fresh air dispel that wonderful floating effect that I have been trying to attain all evening?’

  ‘The dog started growling,’ said Geoffrey, reaching for the wine jug. ‘I thought there might be someone lurking outside.’

  ‘You should have fetched me, in case there was an old man or a Saxon boy intent on besting you in armed combat.’ Roger roared with laughter at his own wit.

  ‘I hope to God we can leave this place soon,’ said Geoffrey, knowing he would never be able to mention Southampton again without Roger making some reference to his ignoble defeat. ‘It is worse than Jerusalem for random violence – at least in the Holy Land the fighting has a purpose of sorts.’

  ‘You do say some peculiar things sometimes,’ said Roger, regarding him askance. ‘You are a knight. Where would you be without acts of random violence?’

  Geoffrey cast him a cool glance. ‘Violence is all well and good if it leads to an acceptable end, but not when it causes an innocent like Peterkin to be shot for the price of a jug of ale.’

  ‘I do not know why your overlord, Prince Tancred, tolerates your odd ideas,’ said Roger, with genuine disapproval. ‘It is not natural for a man to carry on so. It must be all that reading you do.’ He folded his arms and pursed his lips in a matronly fashion, every fibre of his being expressing the suspicion and fear that the ignorant reserved for matters they did not understand.

  ‘There are other ways to steal a purse besides killing its owner,’ Geoffrey pointed out. ‘If Weasel had simply pointed the crossbow at Peterkin and asked for it, the boy would have handed it to him. As I said, I will be glad when we leave this wretched country.’

  ‘That is the land of your birth you are talking about,’ said Roger admonishingly. ‘It is a fine place, populated by good, honest folk, and every town and village is fit for the saints.’

  Geoffrey regarded him suspiciously. ‘This afternoon, you claimed you never wanted to set foot on its snow-infested pathways again, and that the sooner you could set sail for sunny Normandy, the happier you would be. What has brought about this sudden transformation?’

  Roger shrugged, watching him out of the corner of his eye in a way that made Geoffrey aware that circumstances had somehow altered. ‘I thought I might stay a while longer.’

  Geoffrey frowned, wondering what had induced Roger to change his mind, when only a short while before he had been all in favour of riding to Pevensey on the remote chance they might find a ship that left England a day earlier than the one in Southampton. Could the prostitute, who had entertained him so royally the previous night, have persuaded him to linger?

  Roger gestured to the monastics who sat opposite. ‘These men have asked me to do something.’

  Geoffrey was immediately wary, unable to imagine anything a monk might say to make Roger want to remain in England. He regarded the three clerics sceptically, wondering whether he might do better not hearing what persuasive arguments they had used on his friend. He looked from one to the other, noting with detached amusement that the trio provided a perfect example of how men wearing identical clothes could end up looking completely different from each other.

  Although all wore the cowled habits that marked them as members of the Benedictine Order, none looked impoverished. The material of their clothes was thick and expensive, and they wore boots of calfskin lined with fur. The monk in the middle seemed to be in charge, although none wore any badge of office. He was a big man, with thick, iron-grey hair and a pair of calculating dark-brown eyes. There were laughter lines around his mouth, suggesting he had found more amusement in his fifty or so years than was likely had he been in a monastery all that time. He also exuded an unmistakable aura of power. Geoffrey had met such men before, and was instantly on his guard, knowing from bitter experience that the less he had to do with them, the better.

  The man to the right was tall and sinewy, with short ginger hair. His expression was simultaneously aloof and cunning, accentuated by a thin scar that ran from his lip to his temple. The last one was small and dark. His black eyes were restless, and Geoffrey had the impression that not the slightest detail escaped his attention. He had a narrow face with a sharp, prominent nose, and he held his head at an angle, which lent him the appearance of a curious but malevolent hen. They all looked, Geoffrey decided, like most high-ranking monastics he had encountered – sly, self-interested, and dishonest.

  ‘What do you want?’ he demanded of the monk who sat in the middle, not caring that the man’s companions clearly thought he should show more respect.

  ‘Nothing overly demanding,’ the monk replied. ‘But before we discuss it, I should probably introduce myself. I am Roger’s father.’

  Geoffrey glanced at Roger uncertainly, not sure the man was telling the truth. Roger beamed happily and slipped a conspiratorial arm around Geoffrey’s shoulders, drawing him close so he could breathe into his ear in a hot, wine-perfumed whisper.

  ‘He is indeed Ranulf Flambard, the Bishop of Durham. My father.’

  Geoffrey looked from the monk to Roger, then back to the monk again. He was spared from making an immediate response by the arrival of a pot boy with some meat Roger had ordered. A sizeable chunk of pork, swimming in a sauce of greasy onions and brown apples, was slapped down, and Roger rubbed his hands in eager anticipation, kinsman forgotten.

  ‘I thought you were in the White Tower of London, My Lord Bishop,’ said Geoffrey bluntly. It was not an auspicious start to the conversation, but it voiced the concern uppermost in his mind.

  Flambard grimaced. ‘So I was until a few days ago. I escaped.’

  Geoffrey was startled. ‘People do not escape from the White Tower!’

  ‘Ah, but I am not just any old person, am I?’ said Flambard with an enigmatic smile. ‘I have many friends, a vast fortune, and more intelligence than the whole of King Henry’s council put together.’

  ‘Modestly put,’ said Geoffrey dryly. ‘But you should not underestimate Henry. He is no simpleton. I met him recently, and I can tell you without exaggeration that he is one of the most crafty men I have ever encountered.’

  Flambard gave a grin, and Geoffrey saw that the resemblance between him and Roger was unmistakable, particularly in the way the eyes twinkled. Geoffrey glanced around him uneasily, certain it was not wise to be sitting in a tavern with the unpopular bishop at any ti
me, but especially when he had just absconded from one of the King’s most powerful fortresses.

  ‘Crafty is a good word for Henry,’ said Flambard. ‘However, I outwitted him easily over my escape. I befriended the gaolers with my affable charm and ready purse, and ordered a vat of wine, so we could enjoy a night of festivity together. Concealed in the vat was a rope. Later, while the gaolers snored in drunken slumber, I climbed out of the window, where loyal subjects waited with horses.’

  Geoffrey reached across the table, to the startled consternation of Flambard’s two companions, and pushed back the sleeve of the bishop’s habit. The ginger-haired cleric reached hastily for something in his robe that Geoffrey was certain was unlikely to be of a religious nature.

  ‘It seems your cunning escape might have been more pleasant had your friends also provided you with gloves – or a less abrasive rope,’ Geoffrey said, gesturing to the heavily bandaged hands he had exposed. There was a small scraping sound as the ginger-haired man sheathed his dagger. He was right to be cautious, Geoffrey thought: Flambard’s ruthless taxes meant that most of the population would dearly love to ram something sharp into the bishop’s black heart.

  Flambard scowled, looking more like a petulant child than one of the most powerful churchmen in England. ‘It is a risk one takes when one is forced to rely on men less able than oneself.’ He fixed his companions with a stare that was about as far from episcopal benevolence as it was possible to be. Both looked away, so Geoffrey knew exactly who Flambard held responsible for the oversight. ‘But although the skin of my palms remains in King Henry’s tender care, the rest of me is about to sail to France, where I shall offer my services to the Duke of Normandy.’

  ‘Geoffrey served the Duke of Normandy,’ said Roger through a mouthful of food.

  ‘Really?’ asked Flambard, appraising Geoffrey anew. ‘Why did you leave him?’

  ‘He sent me to tutor his kinsman, Tancred,’ said Geoffrey shortly, not wanting to discuss his military career with a man he instinctively did not trust. He supposed that while Roger had inherited his physique and swarthy complexion from his father, his personality had come from his mother, or Roger and Geoffrey would not have liked each other.