Her voice was low and far more cultured than Roger’s. And, unlike her brother’s Norman-French, which was liberally spangled with Saxon words and idioms, hers was perfect.
‘And your husband is a spice merchant?’ he asked, flailing about for a neutral topic.
She looked at her feet. ‘By day Haymo is a merchant, but he has other business ventures that take place at night – ventures of which I do not approve, as it happens.’
And Geoffrey knew exactly what they were. In the hall downstairs, the occasional gust of coarse manly laughter wafted upward, sometimes accompanied by a feminine squeal. While Geoffrey did not object to brothels in principle – on occasions he found them places where an enjoyable evening could be passed in pleasant company – he understood why a woman with pretensions to being a lady would disapprove of one under her own roof.
‘Did you not know about his brothel before you married him?’ he asked curiously.
She sighed tiredly. ‘Of course, but Haymo promised he would give it up for me. However, now he claims that having a wife is more expensive than maintaining a bachelor life, and says he needs the money. But I can assure you, Geoffrey, I would rather be poor than live in a house of ill repute.’
She looked away as a chorus of male voices were raised in the kind of cheer that invariably precedes a woman divesting herself of some of her clothes. Eleanor blushed scarlet.
Geoffrey shrugged. ‘It sounds as though there are plenty of customers wanting to avail themselves of what your husband has to offer, so perhaps he will soon earn enough to retire. But brothel keeping is an unusual occupation for a man who is …’
‘Old?’ suggested Eleanor when he hesitated, uncertain how to phrase it. ‘Most of the brothel keepers you have met are young, then, are they?’
Geoffrey glanced at her uncertainly, not sure whether she was asking him a question to solicit information, or testing the strength of his moral fibre.
‘Simon indicated Haymo is not young,’ he said, deftly sidestepping the question.
She sighed again. ‘Haymo is almost seventy, but I think he will live another seventy years yet. Not that I want him gone, of course, but I had not expected him to be so … agile.’
Geoffrey nodded sympathetically, not sure what to say. He was about to change the subject and ask something about the city, when there was another commotion from downstairs. There was a splintering noise that sounded as if someone had thrown a chair, then jeers and accusing voices suggesting a fight was about to erupt. Geoffrey’s dog emitted a low whine and slunk away to a corner with its ears flat against its head. Eleanor pursed her lips and stood up.
‘You see why I do not like this business?’ she asked Geoffrey. ‘Soldiers come from the castle, and sometimes monks escape from the abbey. Warriors and monastics do not like each other, and they fight over the women. And, when Haymo is away, it is me who has to sort it out.’
‘I will do it,’ said Roger, standing and taking a heavy candle holder from the table. ‘I will teach these louts to be unmannerly in my sister’s house.’
He was in the process of reaching for the door, when it burst open. He gazed in open-mouthed astonishment as two men rushed in, each armed with a loaded crossbow and with his head swathed in bandages to conceal his face. Eleanor sat as though transfixed, and Geoffrey dived out of his chair and wrestled her to the ground, wincing as a bolt snapped into the table near his head. Simon’s reactions were almost as quick, and he hit the floor an instant later. Roger was slower. With sickening clarity, Geoffrey saw one of the invaders raise his crossbow and point it directly at his friend’s heart.
Eleanor screamed, startling the man with the crossbow long enough to allow Geoffrey to hurl a wine goblet that hit him squarely on the side of the head. The man reeled, then took aim again with grim purpose. But the danger had penetrated Roger’s mind, and he was on the floor, rolling under the table next to Eleanor, and the bowman found his target was no longer there.
Geoffrey bitterly regretted allowing Roger to persuade him out of his chain mail. He did not even have a heavy boot he could tug off and throw. He glanced around quickly, looking for something, anything, he could use as a weapon. There was nothing.
From his position under the table, he saw the feet of one of the men as he walked around it, looking for someone to kill. Geoffrey saw he had two choices: he could lie where he was and wait to be shot like a trapped animal, or he could attack.
Moving so fast the man was taken by surprise, Geoffrey leapt to his feet and dived full-length across the table, knocking the intruder to the floor. His accomplice darted this way and that in panic, trying to find a position where he would have a clean shot. Geoffrey twisted and turned, using the man with whom he struggled as a shield to protect himself. With one hand, he gripped the crossbow and forced it away, hoping the thing would not discharge during the fracas and kill him anyway. The man fought to point it back at him.
‘Shoot! Shoot!’ he shrieked to his accomplice.
Geoffrey’s dog howled and barked in agitation, while Simon rolled himself into a tight ball and closed his eyes. While the intruders’ attentions were on Geoffrey, Roger acted. He surged to his feet like a great bear and hurled himself at the second intruder with all the energy he could muster. Few men were capable of withstanding a frontal attack from Roger, and his opponent crumpled under the impact. His head struck the corner of the table with a soggy crunch, and Roger found himself astride a man who was insensible.
Meanwhile, seeing their ambush had failed and that his accomplice was unconscious, the first man began to panic. Geoffrey saw frightened eyes through the mask, which were vaguely familiar and he had the sense that he had met their owner before. With a strength born of desperation, the man ripped his crossbow away from Geoffrey and aimed it at his chest, so Geoffrey grabbed the cloth that covered the table and hauled with all his might. Pots and cups rained down around them, landing on the floor with tinny crashes. A large pewter jug caught the bowman a nasty crack on the shoulder, and a heavy candlestick struck Geoffrey’s head. His senses swam, and he was aware of the intruder pulling away from his weakening grasp and making for the door.
‘Do not let him escape!’ he gasped, seeing him reach the door.
He tried to climb to his feet, but he was dizzy and only managed a few steps before he stumbled. Roger shoved past him, and Geoffrey heard his thundering feet on the wooden stairs. He was aware that the intruder still had his crossbow, and that Roger was unarmed. Cursing the buzzing blackness that threatened to overwhelm him, he tried to follow, pushing all else from his mind but helping his friend. Eleanor tried to stop him, but her voice was a stream of meaningless sounds. He reached the top of the stairs, clinging to the handrail with one hand when his legs promised to fail, and fending off Eleanor with the other. His vision darkened, and he felt himself lose his balance and start to pitch forward. Thick arms that smelled powerfully of scented wood balls caught him.
‘God’s blood!’ swore Roger, hauling him back into the solar. ‘Who in the Devil’s domain were they? What did they mean by bursting into the home of a lady with weapons?’
‘I think they meant to kill someone,’ suggested Simon shakily. He made a valiant attempt to pull himself together and sound as though he was unflustered. ‘I take it you did not catch the villain, then? I would have given chase myself, but my bad leg prevented me.’
‘Did it really?’ said Eleanor coldly. ‘Geoffrey knocked himself all but senseless, but that did not prevent him from trying to help Roger.’
‘Senseless is a good word for him,’ Geoffrey heard Simon mutter. If his vision had not still been tipping and swirling, Geoffrey would have taken exception to the comment. Instead, he slumped on a chair and rested his aching head on his arms.
‘Well, no one is hurt,’ said Roger, unsympathetic to matters like bumps on the head that did not involve plenty of blood. ‘Mind you, I thought we were all dead men when they first arrived.’
‘We almost were,’ said Si
mon. ‘Those were professional killers, hired to kill quickly and cleanly.’
‘They made a poor job of it, then,’ said Geoffrey, lifting his head cautiously. ‘Whoever employed them should ask for his money back.’
‘Who would pay men to kill you?’ asked Eleanor, appalled. Geoffrey noted she did not include herself in the statement. ‘What have you two been up to? You said you only came here to deposit Roger’s earnings from the Holy Land.’
‘Perhaps they were Saracens,’ said Simon, in a hushed, fearful voice. ‘Perhaps they followed you to claim vengeance for all that bloodshed you brought about.’
‘They were not,’ said Geoffrey firmly. ‘Their faces were masked, but I saw their hands. They were pale – Saxon or Norman, not Arab. Anyway, surely you heard them shouting in English?’
Simon glowered. ‘If you know so much, then tell us their names.’
Geoffrey ignored him and pointed to the insensible intruder, who still lay on Eleanor’s thick rugs. ‘He should be able to tell us what we have done to warrant such a welcome.’
Roger knelt and felt the man’s neck. ‘He will not be telling us anything, unless you can commune with the dead. He must have died when his head hit the table.’
‘Damn!’ muttered Geoffrey, standing unsteadily and going to remove the bandage that masked the man’s face. The features were not familiar. He glanced enquiringly at Roger and Eleanor. ‘Have you seen him before? Does he live here?’
Eleanor declined to look, although Simon studied the dead man for a long time. He tested the quality of the man’s clothes by rubbing them between two grubby fingers. ‘I do not know him, but he is not from around here. This cloth has a southern feel to it. I imagine he followed you from Southampton.’
‘Why would he do that?’ asked Eleanor, regarding Roger intently, the expression on her face making it clear she had guessed that the real reason for her brother’s visit to Durham had nothing to do with depositing his ill-gotten gains with the city’s goldsmith.
Roger refused to meet her eyes, and busied himself by picking up plates and cups from the floor. Geoffrey watched, wondering what he could say that would prevent her from interrogating her brother, who would quickly become flustered and reveal all. He suspected she would be safer knowing nothing about Flambard’s shady business. If, as seemed probable, the attack had something to do with the map that Roger was to deliver to the prior, then it would be best for all concerned if they were to complete their mission without telling anyone about it, and leave.
‘I expect they intended to rob you of your loot,’ suggested Simon. ‘Your saddlebags were heavy when I lifted them earlier, and I imagine there is a tidy fortune packed inside them.’
‘Aye, there is,’ said Roger, transparently grateful to be provided with a plausible excuse for the ambush. ‘I expect some footpad saw them on our way north, and decided he would make himself rich. That is what happened.’
‘You are lying,’ said Eleanor firmly. ‘You cannot fool me. I am your sister. Tell me the truth.’
‘Well,’ began Roger uncertainly, already yielding.
‘Roger, no!’ exclaimed Geoffrey, appalled that Roger might be about to reveal something that could put Eleanor’s life in danger. His thoughts were still fuzzy from the knock on the head, or he would have been able to concoct a story that would satisfy her without putting her at risk. As it was, he found he could not think clearly, and knew he would only arouse her suspicions by telling obvious lies.
‘He is right,’ acknowledged Roger, reluctantly. ‘I cannot tell you.’
‘Why?’ demanded Eleanor. ‘Are you involved in something illegal?’
‘No,’ said Roger. He caught Geoffrey’s eye. ‘Well, possibly.’
Almost certainly, thought Geoffrey, if Flambard were involved.
‘Is it something to do with our father?’ pressed Eleanor. She snapped her fingers in understanding. ‘I know! You went to visit him in prison and he charged you to run some errand for him. Oh, Roger! How could you be so foolish? You know what he is like! He will twist you around his little finger, just like he always does, and his innocent-sounding request will lead you into trouble.’
Geoffrey regarded her with new-found admiration. She was astute and intelligent, and she had read Roger like an open book.
‘It will not,’ mumbled Roger. ‘He only wants me to deliver a message.’
‘You stupid oaf!’ cried Eleanor in despair. ‘Our father has been arrested and imprisoned for treason, which means anyone caught carrying messages from him will also be considered a traitor. Do you want to be executed for crimes against the King?’
‘It is not like that,’ protested Roger. ‘This is innocent!’
Eleanor gave a sharp bark of laughter. ‘Nothing associated with Ranulf Flambard is innocent. The man is a cunning, treacherous snake, who is willing to use anyone – even his misguided son – to win him the power and riches he craves.’
‘How dare you say such things!’ roared Roger, finally angry. Geoffrey closed his eyes, wincing at the noise. ‘Our father is a good and saintly man. He is a bishop!’
Geoffrey regarded him doubtfully. Even Eleanor was startled into silence by this assertion.
‘What has being a bishop to do with being a good man?’ asked Geoffrey eventually.
Roger swung round furiously. ‘And you have no right to slander my father’s good name, either! He asked me to do something decent and noble, and I intend to discharge my duty with honour.’
Eleanor groaned. ‘Why do you always fall for his charms? And now it seems you have dragged Geoffrey into the mire with you.’
‘He came willingly,’ claimed Roger, although that was not how Geoffrey remembered it.
‘He should not have done,’ snapped Eleanor, glaring at Geoffrey. ‘If he had not agreed to help, you would not be in my solar fighting off attacks from masked intruders.’
‘Geoffrey would never desert a friend,’ Roger yelled, working himself into a state of righteous indignation.
Eleanor turned away to register her disgust. ‘Simon will fetch the sheriff, while you two carry this body downstairs, so it can be removed tomorrow. Meanwhile, I suppose I will scrub the poor man’s blood from my table and find him a shroud.’
‘Now, just a moment,’ began Roger indignantly. ‘This “poor man” tried to kill me – and you, too. I have no idea why, but I will not be blamed for it.’
‘But you are to blame for it,’ argued Eleanor. ‘You agreed to complete whatever nasty business Flambard charged you with, and you brought death into my house.’
Roger sighed. ‘You have not changed, Ellie. You are still a shrew.’
Geoffrey saw tears of hurt glitter in her eyes, before she stormed from the room. Simon scrambled after her, protesting to her deaf ears that it was not safe to fetch the sheriff while it was dark, and that it would be better if he went in the morning. Regardless of his protestations, Geoffrey heard the door open and then close again as he went to do her bidding. Geoffrey thought it unlikely that the intruder would strike again that night – he would consider himself lucky to be alive – but even so, he understood Simon’s reluctance to be out alone so soon after the attack.
Roger grinned at Geoffrey. ‘Pay no attention. Tomorrow, she will be sorry she yelled at us.’
‘You,’ corrected Geoffrey. ‘She yelled at you. I am the innocent bystander.’
‘You are in this every bit as much as I am,’ said Roger. ‘You wanted to come with me.’
Geoffrey laughed at Roger’s ability to remember events in a way that suited him, while Roger eyed him malevolently.
‘Help me with this corpse,’ he snapped, grabbing the legs and hauling on them unceremoniously. ‘Do not stand there cackling like some fiend from Hell, or she really will throw you out of her house. She does not approve of disrespect towards the dead.’
With some difficulty, because Roger was anxious they should not leave a trail of blood and brains on Eleanor’s floor, they manhandled the body
down the stairs, where they laid it on a bench in the hall. Wordlessly, Eleanor thrust a sheet at Geoffrey and watched him cover the dead man with it, before leaving them alone again.
‘She is right you know,’ said Geoffrey, as she slammed the door behind her. ‘It probably is that map Flambard gave you that led to this attack.’
‘Rubbish,’ said Roger. He began to walk back to the solar, where there was a fire and wine. ‘It is Simon who was right, not her. This miserable pair of excuses for robbers was just after my money.’
‘I do not think so. And I do not think Peterkin’s death in Southampton was a coincidence, either.’
‘And why is that?’ asked Roger, unconvinced.
Geoffrey walked to the table, where the crossbow bolt, fired early in the attack, was still embedded in Eleanor’s polished oak. With some difficulty, he removed it, and held it up for Roger to see.
‘Peterkin, Weasel’s accomplice, and the roof-top brawler were killed by red bolts, remember? Well, here is another, just like them.’
Roger gazed at it. ‘But how can that be? That was weeks ago. If tonight’s invaders had wanted to kill us for my father’s map, then they would have made a play for it long before now.’
‘We have not given them the opportunity,’ said Geoffrey, sitting at the table and rolling the bolt between his fingers. ‘We left early the day after we met Flambard. Most people would have required at least a morning to make the necessary arrangements, but we had no ties or obligations, so were able to head north as soon as it was light enough to see.’
‘And that was just as well, given that you wanted to make detours to look at standing stones.’
Geoffrey nodded. ‘That may well have saved our lives. Instead of taking the shorter and more direct road north through London, we travelled via Salisbury. It is not a route most people would choose, and these would-be killers were probably horrified when they believed they had already lost us and Flambard’s map. They have doubtless been searching ever since.’
‘No,’ said Roger, shaking his head, although his voice lacked conviction. ‘It is all coincidence.’
The Bishop's Brood Page 10