The Bishop's Brood

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘In that case, how do you explain these red bolts?’ demanded Geoffrey, waving the offending item in front of Roger’s nose.

  ‘Lots of people have those. I told you it is common knowledge that scarlet quarrels allow you to kill a stag, a blue one a bird, and so on. It proves nothing.’

  ‘It proves a great deal. The sheriff in Southampton denied knowing about this tradition of staining arrows. That suggests it is a local custom, practised here in Durham.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘It tells us that whoever committed the Southampton murders has some connection with Durham. And since Flambard is Bishop of Durham, it suggests to me that he is at the heart of all this.’

  ‘It might,’ said Roger, reluctantly acknowledging that his father might have involved him in something less straightforward than the delivery of a letter. ‘But it might also tell us that Southampton-born Weasel knows good arrows when he sees them and chose to buy from a Durham-trained fletcher.’

  ‘Possible, but unlikely,’ said Geoffrey, after giving the matter some thought. ‘Fletchers produce arrows they can sell to anyone, not ones with a colour significance that only a few will appreciate. The extra work of staining would be a waste of their time. No, Roger, these bolts, like their owners, came from Durham.’

  ‘Do you think Weasel was the intruder who has just escaped?’

  ‘He is the right height and build, and there was something familiar about the eyes through the mask. I am almost certain it was him.’

  ‘But what is he doing so far from Southampton? I do not understand.’

  Geoffrey rubbed his chin. ‘Neither of the men who broke in this evening were good archers, or they would have hit at least one of us before things went wrong for them. We know from personal observation that Weasel is not skilled with crossbows, or in hand-to-hand combat, which may be another reason to identify him as the man who escaped tonight.’

  ‘But who is he?’ asked Roger. ‘Other than a dismal soldier, that is.’

  Geoffrey shrugged. ‘Some hired man, I suppose. Once we know who employed him, all our other questions will probably be answered. However, Flambard has so many enemies that it will be almost impossible to know which of them is after his treasure.’

  ‘No,’ said Roger, after a good deal of soul searching. ‘You have this completely wrong. It is nothing to do with my father’s maps at all. It is to do with the staff.’

  ‘What staff?’ asked Geoffrey, puzzled.

  ‘The staff the roof-top brawler shouted about,’ said Roger, pleased with his deduction. ‘That is the common thread in all this, and it happened before my father chanced to meet me in the Saracen’s Head. The map has nothing to do with this.’

  ‘There was nothing chance about that meeting,’ said Geoffrey firmly. ‘It was carefully planned on Flambard’s part. But this staff notion of yours makes no sense. A staff is a long piece of wood, and difficult to conceal in saddlebags. Why would Weasel chase us all the way up the country when it is obvious we do not have it?’

  ‘Aaron’s Rod,’ said Roger in satisfaction. ‘As I have told you before, this is about Aaron’s Rod.’

  Geoffrey sighed, not wanting to begin that argument again. ‘The answer lies in Flambard’s map. The common thread in this is Durham – and its bishop.’

  Roger said nothing.

  ‘I suspect these two were waiting for us here, anxious we would not come,’ said Geoffrey, when no reply was forthcoming. ‘When we arrived, they were so relieved, they decided to act immediately, before we disappeared again. There is doubtless a good deal more to this business than providing the prior with information about how to lay his hands on money for the cathedral.’

  ‘Such as what?’

  ‘I cannot begin to imagine. But I have not been happy with this errand from the start. There are too many inconsistencies – such as why Flambard feels the need to share the secret with three people, rather than just telling the prior where to find it.’

  ‘But he explained that: it is because the sight of so much wealth would be too much for one man to bear, but three people would monitor each other and ensure the funds were used properly.’

  ‘But if Flambard does not trust any of these men – prior, goldsmith, and sheriff – why give them the secret at all? Why not keep the treasure hidden until he can dig it up himself?’

  Roger was silent again.

  ‘This time,’ said Geoffrey, regarding his friend resentfully. ‘It is you who has dragged me into a pit of intrigue and murder.’

  Five

  The following morning saw a change in the weather. The clear blue skies and pale winter sun were replaced by a cover of solid, dark cloud, which had the dirty brown appearance that preceded snow. It was cold, too, with a searing wind slicing from the north. Geoffrey was glad to abandon his borrowed finery for his own hard-wearing, functional clothes, particularly the padded surcoat. He sat in Eleanor’s kitchen, whetting the blade of his dagger, while her servants prepared breakfast.

  At first light, just after the abbey bell had finished tolling for prime, there was a sharp rap on the door. Bundling her hair into a cap, Eleanor went to open it. A short, burly man stood there. Geoffrey’s dog began to growl, an ominous sound that ended in an outraged yelp as the early-morning visitor aimed a kick at it. Retribution was instant and decisive, however, and Geoffrey saw the animal melt away into the shadows with a look of malicious satisfaction in its glistening eyes, while the visitor swore and rubbed his bitten ankle.

  ‘Cenred,’ said Eleanor, shooting Geoffrey a look that suggested that if he did not control the dog, she would – in a way that would be permanent. ‘Please, come in.’

  ‘You had better teach that beast some manners,’ said Cenred, stepping cautiously over the threshold. ‘Or I will have it shot. I will not have wild animals savaging civilians in my city.’

  ‘You are not a civilian,’ said Eleanor, leading Cenred to the solar with Geoffrey following. ‘You are Durham’s under-sheriff, and the man who will step into Sheriff Durnais’ shoes later this year. You are a military man of considerable influence in this area.’

  Cenred preened himself. He was not an attractive person, and possessed features that were more porcine than human, including an ugly snub nose and small eyes. His clothes were expertly cut, but could not disguise the squat, pugilistic body they adorned.

  ‘Everyone says I am the best man for the position,’ he said smugly. ‘And they are right.’

  Geoffrey leaned against the wall and folded his arms as he watched Eleanor pour her guest a goblet of the warmed ale. In the dim light of early morning, she was even more attractive than she had been by the romantic, golden aura of her beeswax candles the evening before. She wore a dress that accentuated her slim figure and clung to her hips in a way that made it difficult for him to look away. Her dark hair shone, and her complexion was clear and healthy.

  ‘I am here on sorry business,’ said Cenred, accepting the ale and taking a noisy gulp. He grimaced when he found it was stronger than he had anticipated. Geoffrey hid a smile, and thought that any under-sheriff worth his salt should have known that ale served in brothels was invariably more potent than that available in normal houses.

  ‘Cenred!’ exclaimed Roger, striding into the solar and sitting himself at the table. ‘What brings you here at this hour? The lovely ladies downstairs?’

  Cenred shot him a nasty look. ‘Haunting brothels is not something worthy of a man of my station. It is a pity the same cannot be said for you: it clearly does not promote good health and vigour.’

  Geoffrey saw what he meant. There were dark rings under Roger’s eyes, and his usually ruddy face was pale, suggesting he had availed himself of the refreshments and feminine hospitality available on the ground floor after his sister had gone to bed. Geoffrey had considered doing the same, given that Eleanor had retired early and he had been unsettled and restless after their encounter with the intruders, but had not thought it would be polite to do so while he was Eleanor�
�s guest. He had assumed Roger would be similarly discreet, although he realized he should have known better.

  ‘You are still alive, then?’ Roger continued, addressing the under-sheriff jocularly. ‘I thought someone would have slipped a dagger between your Saxon ribs long before now.’

  Cenred gazed at him with dislike. ‘You speak as though you have been away for an eternity, but it was only four blissful years. You have not been missed.’

  ‘Cenred will become sheriff soon,’ said Eleanor, trying to warn her brother against saying anything to antagonize a man who would hold one of the most powerful positions in the shire.

  But Roger was not a man to be impressed by such things. ‘Is there no one better for the post?’

  ‘Roger!’ snapped Eleanor. She poured her brother a goblet of ale, then slapped a large plate of salted pork in front of him, doubtless hoping food and drink would absorb his attention and shut him up. She offered Geoffrey ale, but he declined: Roger had also reacted with surprise when he tasted the strength of the breakfast brew, and Geoffrey wanted all his wits about him that day.

  ‘So, what brings you here, if not sampling the whores?’ Roger asked, draining his cup and slamming the empty vessel on the table with a force that made Eleanor wince.

  ‘I have news for Mistress Stanstede,’ said Cenred stiffly.

  ‘You have come about the men who fired crossbows at us,’ said Eleanor, rubbing the scratch that Roger had made on her table. ‘The body is downstairs and I would be grateful if you would remove it as soon as possible.’

  Cenred was puzzled. ‘What men?’ he asked. ‘What body?’

  Eleanor made an attempt to hide her impatience. ‘The body of the man who died in this very house.’ Cenred continued to look blank. ‘The men Simon came to see you about last night.’

  Cenred’s expression did not change. ‘Simon did not come to see me last night – about dead men in your parlour or anything else.’

  Eleanor released a gusty sigh. ‘Damn him! He must have gone straight back to his house to hide!’

  ‘It was dark last night,’ Roger pointed out. ‘You cannot blame him for being reluctant to be out alone after what happened.’

  Geoffrey was amused that the fearless Roger should take the side of his cowardly half-brother. Roger was not a man sympathetic to fear, and always claimed it was an emotion with which he had never been troubled.

  ‘It is very dark every night,’ retorted Eleanor. ‘But I asked him to go to the sheriff and he let me down. He is simply not to be trusted – fey and fickle, like his father.’

  ‘I hope he has not had an accident,’ said Geoffrey uneasily. He had not taken to the surly Simon, but that did not mean he wished him harm. Perhaps Simon had tried to do what Eleanor had asked, but had been prevented by Weasel.

  ‘He knows Durham like the back of his hand,’ said Roger confidently. ‘It would take more than the likes of Weasel to harm him in its streets. He will be safe enough. Eleanor is right – he probably went home, intending to deliver her message in the safety of daylight.’

  ‘It requires more than a good knowledge of a city to evade a crossbow bolt,’ Geoffrey pointed out. ‘Perhaps we should look for him.’

  ‘Later,’ said Roger, eating his pork. ‘We have more important business to attend to first.’

  He swivelled around in his chair and gave Geoffrey a meaningful wink, to inform him that he intended to visit Prior Turgot and deliver Flambard’s map. His gesture was sufficiently obvious that it was observed by Eleanor and Cenred, both of whom looked very interested in what it might mean. Geoffrey cringed, wishing, not for the first time, that Roger would practise a little discretion.

  ‘We need to deposit your Holy Land loot with the goldsmith,’ said Geoffrey quickly, trying to conceal his friend’s blunder.

  ‘My loot?’ asked Roger in alarm. ‘With the goldsmith?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey, although he could see he had only made matters worse. The suspicious expression on Cenred’s face made it perfectly clear that he knew Roger had no intention of depositing his gold with any merchant, and that something else was afoot.

  Roger’s horror gradually gave way to understanding as he grasped what Geoffrey had been attempting to do. ‘Yes,’ he said, too late and too brightly. ‘I need to visit Master Jarveaux, and see what he and I can do for each other.’

  Cenred raised his eyebrows. ‘Jarveaux is not in a position to do you any favours,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’ asked Roger curiously. ‘What has happened to him?’

  ‘Oysters,’ said Cenred enigmatically. ‘Unpleasant things, if you ask me, but Jarveaux’s mother always kept some for him in her kitchen.’

  ‘I am sure you did not come here to satisfy my brother’s unseemly appetite for gossip, Cenred,’ said Eleanor, turning her attention to the under-sheriff. ‘You said you were here on sorry business. What is wrong, if not the death of a would-be killer in my home?’

  Cenred’s ugly face became sombre. ‘I have some bad news concerning your husband.’

  ‘My husband?’ asked Eleanor nervously. ‘But he is in New Castle. He left a few days ago on business and is due to come back today or tomorrow.’

  ‘That miserable old lecher,’ muttered Roger in disapproval, reaching for the ale Geoffrey had rejected. ‘He had no business making advances to my sister. I will teach him a lesson when he shows his wrinkled face here.’

  ‘That will not be necessary,’ said Cenred softly. He addressed Eleanor. ‘I am afraid your husband and his travelling companions were ambushed on their way from New Castle last night. He is dead.’

  Eleanor gazed at the under-sheriff in horror, while Roger’s jaw dropped in shock. The colour drained from Eleanor’s face, and she became as white as snow. Afraid she might swoon, Geoffrey moved towards her, ready to catch her if she fell. But Roger’s sister was made of sterner stuff. She went to the window seat, where she sat with her hands in her lap, waiting for Cenred to elaborate.

  ‘Haymo is dead?’ asked Roger, aghast. ‘Are you sure it is him?’

  Cenred nodded. ‘It seems he was one of a party of ten who were travelling south yesterday. There was a problem with a horse, and they left later than they should have done to reach Durham in daylight.’

  Roger nodded. ‘No sane man travels the New Castle road after dark. There are more outlaws along it than stars in the sky.’

  ‘The survivors say the attack came out of nowhere, just as the light was beginning to fade and they had reached Kymlisworth.’

  ‘That is a hamlet about five miles north of Durham,’ said Roger, for Geoffrey’s benefit. ‘It is a wild place, full of snakes and bogs.’

  ‘Snakes?’ asked Geoffrey, startled. ‘Not at this time of year.’

  ‘Kymlisworth is near Finchale,’ said Roger sombrely. ‘And Finchale is famous for its snakes.’

  ‘True,’ concurred Cenred. He shuddered. ‘Finchale is not a place for God-fearing men. But the attack was not at Finchale, it was at Kymlisworth. Three travellers were killed: Haymo, a Knight Hospitaller and a squire. The others – five women and two grooms from the castle – were unharmed.’

  Roger made a disgusted noise. ‘But, of course, by the time these people had travelled the last few miles to Durham, the outlaws were long gone?’

  Cenred nodded. ‘One of my sergeants will go to Kymlisworth this morning, and ask if anyone heard or saw anything, although no peasant with sense would admit to it if he had. Outlaws do not deal kindly with tale-tellers, especially ones in lonely villages who cannot protect themselves.’ He regarded Eleanor sympathetically. ‘Haymo’s body is in the castle chapel.’

  ‘I had better do my wifely duty, then,’ said Eleanor, standing slowly. ‘I must have his corpse taken to St Giles’ Church, and see about arranging his requiem.’

  ‘I will come with you,’ said Roger, gruffly kind. ‘I will see to everything. You need not worry.’

  She gave a weak smile. ‘Well, one good thing has come out of this. At least I
will not have to endure a brothel in my home. I can be a respectable widow, and put an end to all that debauchery.’

  Cenred was horrified. ‘Madam, I beg you, do not make over-hasty decisions while you are stunned by grief. Give the matter some time.’

  ‘I thought you would be pleased,’ said Geoffrey, surprised by the under-sheriff’s reaction. ‘Most towns want to stamp out prostitution, not encourage it.’

  Cenred gave him a pained look. ‘We have two hundred soldiers at the castle, and a hundred masons and carpenters – not to mention their apprentices – are employed for the cathedral. It does not take a scholar to see that makes for a lot of men. And men need women. Well, most do.’ He paused and studied Geoffrey carefully, to assess whether he might be one of the exceptions.

  ‘I like women,’ announced Roger enthusiastically.

  Cenred continued. ‘So, since men will always want women and will go to considerable lengths to lay hands on them, it is better to have brothels we can control. Otherwise, the men run wild among the townswomen and all sorts of trouble follows.’

  ‘That is why Stanstede always employs women from New Castle, rather than Durham,’ Roger explained to Geoffrey. ‘To ensure he would have no enraged local fathers or brothers hammering at his doors. I expect that was what he was doing yesterday, was it not, Ellie? Collecting whores?’

  Eleanor swallowed hard. ‘He said he was buying cinnamon, but I knew he was not. I suppose the five women who were travelling with him were his employees?’

  Cenred sighed. ‘Yes, but since they are here, we may as well see them put to use.’ He inclined his head towards the window, where snowflakes were beginning to fall outside. ‘This weather means work on the cathedral will stop, and we will have more need of these ladies than ever if we do not want gangs of bored men running riot.’

  ‘So,’ said Eleanor weakly. ‘I find myself with a brothel to run as well as a husband to bury.’

  ‘I will do it,’ offered Roger, rubbing his hands together gleefully. ‘I know about whorehouses.’