‘Why did you tell them where it was?’ asked Roger accusingly, as they left the abbey and cut through the cathedral. ‘I do not understand you at all.’
‘Because now we are free of Turgot and his nasty quest. He cannot blackmail you any more.’
‘But now Burchard will find the map, and he will take the credit for our hard work.’
‘Burchard is welcome to undertake the dangerous task of burgling Alice. I do not relish the prospect of ransacking her house while she is in it – and I like even less the notion of doing it while she is out and her coming back and catching us.’
‘But we have a key,’ said Roger. ‘Eilaf gave you one, remember?’
‘She changed the lock. Had the key fitted, the map would have been with Turgot by now.’
‘Assuming she has not done something with it,’ muttered Roger. ‘I do not like her.’
‘It is certainly possible she knows about the map and has hidden it somewhere else.’
‘I do not trust that Burchard, either,’ persisted Roger, aggrieved. ‘He is stupid.’ Coming from Roger, this was damning indeed. ‘He is so dense that I do not think he will find the map, even if it is staring him in the face.’
‘I think he is very good at discovering things. He will find it.’
‘But he might keep it for himself,’ objected Roger. ‘Then, if Turgot does not get his map because Burchard has stolen it, he will tell everyone that I misused Oswald’s skull and the cathedral will never be finished.’
Geoffrey smiled at him. ‘We will let Burchard hunt for the map in Alice’s house, then all we have to do is take it from him while he is walking back to the abbey.’
Gradually, a grin of pure delight spread over Roger’s face as he began to appreciate the subtle simplicity of Geoffrey’s plan. ‘We let Burchard take the risks, then step in and steal the glory? I like that, Geoff. I like it very much!’
As they walked through the cathedral, the sounds of hammering and sawing echoed from the eastern end, where the Chapel of the Nine Altars was located. Intrigued, Geoffrey went to see what was happening, waylaying a carpenter, who stood with folded arms watching his apprentices rig scaffolding around the nine round-headed alcoves.
‘We cannot work outside because of the snow,’ the craftsman explained. ‘But we can work here, on the shrines for the saints.’
‘And Aaron’s Rod,’ said Roger.
‘That too. We will have it in the middle, in a long box carved from the finest oak and studded with precious stones. Cuthbert will lie next to it.’
‘And when will it grace Durham with its presence?’ asked Geoffrey, thinking that the carpenter’s handsome reliquary was going to be empty for a long time.
‘Perhaps it is here already.’ He gave the two knights a knowing look. ‘Bishop Flambard said it was, when he gave me his plans for the shrines.’
‘Where is it, then?’ asked Geoffrey, unconvinced.
‘He said it was in a safe place. As soon as the shrines are ready and all the saints are here, Aaron’s Rod will join them.’
‘And when will that be?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘Soon,’ replied the carpenter vaguely. ‘Poor Bishop Flambard is clapped in irons, and it would not do to celebrate its arrival when he is not free to join us.’
‘But he is free,’ said Roger. ‘He escaped. I have seen him myself.’
The carpenter’s face split into a delighted grin. ‘Really? That is good news! I knew God would not let wicked King Henry prevail against My Lord the Bishop for long.’
‘You admire Flambard?’ asked Geoffrey, certain the man must be out of his wits.
‘He is a saint. He pays us well, you see.’
‘And that makes him a saint?’
‘Yes,’ replied the carpenter firmly. ‘He said he will give Turgot enough money for us to work for the next forty years. I told him to be careful, though. I do not know if Turgot can be trusted – he might use the funds for his abbey, instead.’
Had the carpenter’s distrust encouraged Flambard to devise his elaborate plan? Geoffrey wondered. Flambard had few admirers, and so perhaps he had taken to heart the warning of one of them about Turgot’s honesty. He stared at the scaffolding that slowly rose around the chapel, and for the first time began to consider seriously the possibility that Flambard really did have Aaron’s Rod to put in it. The Christian world contained many relics, some unquestionably false, but others genuine. Why should one not be one of the most powerful symbols of the Old Testament? But how could such a thing be owned by Flambard? Geoffrey rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
That night, Roger and Geoffrey crouched behind a low wall. A short distance away was the abbey’s back gate, guarded by a lay brother who could be heard pacing and jumping up and down in an attempt to ward off the chill. Meanwhile, Geoffrey could not recall when he had last been so cold. Despite wearing his warmest clothes, the winter night seeped into his bones and he, unlike the lay brother, could not exercise to start his blood moving again. If he did, he would be seen, and the bursar would abandon his plan to burgle Alice’s house.
Somewhere in the town, a bell chimed and the night watch changed. There was some jocularity as the incoming guards told the others they were in for a frigid time, and the outgoing ones claimed they had filled themselves with their colleagues’ ale, so would not feel the cold. The sound of nailed boots crunching in snow eventually faded away and all was silent again. A cat yowled, suddenly and sharply, making Geoffrey jump, and a rat strutted boldly across the path that led to the hovels that lay between castle and cathedral. Time passed slowly.
Just when Geoffrey was about to suggest Burchard must have been put off by the freezing weather and that they should come back the following night, the gate opened and a burly figure slipped out. It was Burchard, and he was accompanied by Hemming. Geoffrey smiled, suspecting Hemming did not trust Burchard to find the map alone – or trust him to hand it to the prior if he was successful. Or perhaps it was Turgot who was distrustful, and had sent Hemming to keep an eye on his bursar.
Geoffrey and Roger followed the two monks along the little-used path that ran around the rear of the abbey, between river and curtain wall, and that avoided Owengate. They fell into a familiar pattern where Geoffrey led and Roger checked they were not followed. Geoffrey’s part was absurdly easy – there were tracks in the snow, and anyone but a blind man could have followed them. Geoffrey recalled with a smile how Eilaf had described the bursar’s gait – that he lumbered like an ape. Burchard did indeed lumber.
The monks were brazenly confident, and walked side by side without even bothering with the occasional glance behind to ensure they were alone. Evidently, they were not anticipating problems. Geoffrey was also in danger of becoming overconfident, and had to force himself to be patient with their stately progress.
Then a sudden movement caught his attention, and he slipped quickly out of sight. Three men eased themselves from the shadows of the castle wall, and proceeded to make their way stealthily after the monks. Geoffrey gestured to Roger, to indicate that there might be trouble ahead, then concentrated on keeping both the monks and their pursuers in view without being spotted himself.
It was easier than it should have been, considering the stakes were so high. Burchard was in a bad temper, and whispered angrily to Hemming. His voice carried in the silence of the night, and Geoffrey could hear fragments of the monologue. Burchard had apparently been slighted by the prior at dinner. It had something to do with who had been offered wine first, and Burchard was incensed. His furious diatribe stopped when he reached the river, but began again as soon as he had rowed across it.
Once Burchard and Hemming had secured the boat on the opposite bank and walked towards the Elvet, the three men climbed into a second boat and paddled after them. Geoffrey’s eyes narrowed as he studied their shapes in the darkness. He was almost certain one was Weasel, and wondered whether he was in Turgot’s employ, paid to watch Burchard and Hemming. Or was he Hemming’s man, and was ready to help him ag
ainst Burchard? Or was he hired by Burchard, lest Hemming proved difficult? Or did he belong to some other faction in the abbey, which Geoffrey had not yet encountered?
‘Now what?’ whispered Roger, looking at the black waters of the river. ‘Do we swim? Durham only has two ferries, and they are now both on the other bank.’
‘There must be fishing boats we can use.’
‘But that would be stealing,’ said Roger, horrified.
‘We only want to borrow it. And anyway, you are an accomplished thief – all your loot was originally the property of someone else.’
‘God wanted me to have that,’ said Roger loftily. ‘That is why he placed it in the hands of the infidel in the first place. But I do not steal in my own city!’
‘I see,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Well, God probably wants you to cross the river and take the map from Burchard before Weasel does, too. So where are the other boats? Hurry, or we will be too late.’
Roger led them upstream, to where several coracles were hauled up on the muddy shore. They were small, circular craft comprising skins stretched over a wooden frame and sealed with pitch. They stank of fish, and were steered by means of a single paddle. Roger pushed one into the water, and surprised Geoffrey by showing he knew how to manage it. Geoffrey had expected to be swept a long way downstream, and was pleasantly pleased that Roger was able to land them in the shadows of some trees a short distance from where the others had disembarked.
Alice’s house was in darkness. Geoffrey saw Burchard and Hemming observe it for a few moments, then Hemming knelt on the ground while the bursar climbed on to his back. Hemming’s gasps of pain and complaints about Burchard’s weight were probably audible at the abbey. Geoffrey laughed softly to himself as he watched, amused also by the looks of startled disbelief that were exchanged by Weasel and his cronies, as if they could not believe the monks’ incompetence.
Roger gestured he would move to the other end of the street, so they would be able to prevent anyone – monks or their pursuers – from escaping should the need arise, while Geoffrey pressed himself deeper into the shadows of someone’s doorway.
Slowly and inelegantly, Burchard eased himself up the side of Alice’s house, aiming for a window on the upper floor. At first, Geoffrey did not understand why he should choose to break in upstairs, when the ground floor would have been easier. Then he recalled that Alice’s solar had a broken pane – the one Jarveaux had smashed in his death throes. The bursar was aiming for that, doubtless hoping to slip his hand through, unlatch it, and squeeze inside.
Eventually, after a lot of heavy breathing, swearing, and clanking of latches, Burchard managed to open the window. Geoffrey, Roger, Hemming, and Weasel’s little band all smiled at the sight of two fat legs waving helplessly in the air when he became stuck. In the end, Hemming was obliged to climb the wall, too, and push hard at the large rump until it disappeared inside the house. Why the more agile Hemming had not gone in the first place was a mystery to Geoffrey, and he could only suppose that Burchard did not trust the sub-prior to find what they were looking for. Or perhaps Hemming suspected that Burchard would be an inadequate partner and did not want to be the one caught inside when the occupants realized a burglary was in progress.
Once Burchard was in the house, silence reigned again. Somewhere in the city, a dog barked, and Geoffrey wondered if it was his, resentful at having been left behind. He shivered as he waited, wishing Burchard would hurry up, so he and Roger could relieve him of the map, take Weasel and his companions into custody, and leave the whole business in the hands of prior and under-sheriff.
After what seemed like an age, and when Geoffrey was beginning to wonder whether Burchard had decided to wait until dawn so he could see what he was doing, the monk appeared, clutching something that he waved triumphantly to Hemming. Hemming gestured impatiently for him to climb down, and Burchard began the laborious process of prising his bulk back through the window.
Suddenly, things happened. Geoffrey heard the unmistakable sound of a crossbow being wound, and saw Weasel aim his weapon at Burchard. Not wanting to be accused of the murder Weasel was about to commit – he was afraid Turgot would claim that only Geoffrey and Roger had known Burchard planned to visit Alice’s house – Geoffrey abandoned his hiding place and raced towards the spy, bowling into him so hard he knocked him from his feet. The snow was slippery, and Geoffrey immediately lost his footing, too.
Then Roger appeared from the far end of the street, and wrestled Hemming to the ground for some unaccountable reason. Weasel’s companions quickly recovered from their surprise, and one of them drew a knife and struck at Geoffrey, who was still trying to scramble to his feet on a patch of ice. Geoffrey jerked backward, feeling the tip of the weapon catch on the sleeve of his chain mail, and stumbled again. Weasel was scrabbling for the crossbow he had dropped, while one of his friends stabbed wildly with a short sword. The whole tableau was conducted in complete silence, as though it was in everyone’s interest to keep the skirmish a secret.
Fists flew and daggers flashed. Parrying blows from two sides, Geoffrey managed to climb to his feet. He saw Roger wrestling with Burchard, while Hemming floundered in a snowdrift, where he had been pushed. But it was a mistake to look elsewhere: one of Weasel’s men took advantage of Geoffrey’s lack of concentration and darted forward with his sword. Twisting to avoid the hacking blade, Geoffrey slipped again and fell heavily against a wooden shed. It was rotten and unstable, and he heard a rushing sound before something landed on him with all the force of a mass of dropping stones. For a moment, he thought the whole structure had collapsed, but then his mouth, eyes, and nose were full of snow, and he realized that the force of his stumble had dislodged the thatch of snow from the roof.
He began to struggle, Weasel and his men forgotten as he tried to claw his way out of the frozen, solid mass so he could breathe again. It was pitch-black, and he was confused about which way was up. And he was cold. He struggled more fiercely when his lungs began to burn from lack of air. And then everything went black.
Eleven
Daylight slowly invaded Geoffrey’s consciousness. He opened his eyes, then closed them quickly when the brightness made his head ache. He rubbed them, opened them cautiously, and sat up. He found he ached all over, and tried to remember what had happened to him. He was in Eleanor’s house, and opposite was Roger, sprawled in a chair and snoring with his mouth agape.
He remembered following Burchard and Hemming to Alice’s house, and the curious, silent fight between three parties who wanted to keep their presence at the scene from curious eyes. And then there had been the snow. Geoffrey shuddered at the memory of the intensely cold, airless blackness. Unsteadily, and feeling as though he had been trampled by a herd of cows, he walked across the room to Roger and shook him awake. The big knight yawned.
‘Are you all right, lad?’ he asked, relief showing in his face when he saw Geoffrey on his feet. ‘I thought you were done for when you disappeared under that snow.’
‘So did I,’ said Geoffrey ruefully. ‘What happened?’
Roger shook his head. ‘I am damned if I know. One minute the bursar was cramming himself through the window with the map, and the rest of us were watching. Then Hemming drew a dagger and moved towards Burchard as though he meant business …’
Geoffrey gazed at him. ‘Hemming was going to attack Burchard? Why would he do that?’
Roger shook his head. ‘Beats me. I thought they were on the same side.’
Geoffrey rubbed his chin. ‘But they are not. We have been told there are competing factions within the abbey, and that was patently obvious yesterday – Hemming offered to investigate Eilaf’s complaints and expose Burchard as an extortionist.’
‘But that assumes Turgot does not already know,’ said Roger astutely. ‘He is not stupid: I am sure he has guessed exactly how Burchard raises money.’
‘You are probably right. Turgot’s own authority doubtless lies in the fact that as long as he keeps his minio
ns at each others’ throats, none will accrue sufficient power to challenge him. What a vile state of affairs, Roger. I wish we had never come to this godforsaken place.’
‘That is my home you are talking about,’ said Roger huffily. ‘But I told you from the start that the abbey harbours evil men – men who can read – and you would not believe me. Now who is right?’
‘It is more complex than that,’ said Geoffrey tiredly. ‘But tell me what happened after you saw Hemming about to stab the bursar.’
‘I considered doing nothing – it would be easier to take the map from Hemming than Burchard, and I do not like Burchard anyway. But I am a knight, and it goes against the grain to hang back in the shadows and watch a monk murdered. So, I knocked Hemming from his feet. Unfortunately, I hit him harder than I intended, and the breath was knocked out of him. He gagged and retched, and did not enter the affray again.’
‘Hemming was not the only one with designs on Burchard’s life,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I leapt at Weasel because he was about to shoot the man.’
‘That does not surprise me,’ said Roger sagely. ‘Burchard is a nasty piece of work. Hemming and Weasel would have done the world a favour by getting rid of him.’
‘But we thwarted them and Burchard lives to see another day. At least, I assume he did?’
‘After I shoved Hemming over, Burchard himself appeared, not knowing I had saved his miserable life, and started fighting me.’
‘What were Weasel and his men doing while all this was going on?’
‘Playing around with you. I saw one with a sword and another with a dagger, but we know they are poor soldiers, and I was not seriously worried about leaving you to contend with them. I was wrong.’
‘I was holding my own,’ said Geoffrey, offended.
‘You were not. When I next looked to see how you fared, you had allowed them to bury you. Really, man! How could you let pathetic specimens like that overpower you? First there were the Saxons in Southampton, and now this. The sooner we get you back to the Holy Land the better – you are losing your skills here.’
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