The Bishop's Brood

by Simon Beaufort

  Both listened intently. A duck flapped across the water, sending silver droplets scattering as it went. Then all was silent again. Relieved, they resumed walking, alert for any sign that they were being followed or that someone was waiting for them ahead.

  The journey was long and laborious, but uneventful. Once or twice, Geoffrey thought he heard sounds, but each time there was a bird in the undergrowth or a plop from the river as a fish surfaced. It would be a foolish or desperate man to be out anyway, thought Geoffrey. The weather was bitingly cold, and even struggling through uneven, frozen snow did not warm him properly.

  Eventually, they reached a bend in the river, and Roger stopped. The previous night, he had drawn the two streams and the path on the map they had seized from Burchard, and Geoffrey had marked the cross on it. He tugged it from his surcoat, squinting at it from a variety of different angles to prove he knew what he was doing, then gestured to the opposite bank.

  ‘Finchale,’ he announced. ‘Over there.’

  Geoffrey regarded the fast-flowing water uncertainly. ‘I sincerely hope there is a ford.’

  ‘This is the ford,’ said Roger. He gave his friend a conspiratorial wink. ‘Do not worry about getting wet, lad. You will be warm enough once we start to dig up the treasure. Digging is hard work.’

  Geoffrey crouched down and pointed to where the snow had been churned up and the weeds at the water’s edge were trampled and torn. ‘I wonder if this was where those merchants found the sheriff.’

  Roger nodded. ‘I think so, judging from what I was told when I inspected his body yesterday. He must have fallen in as he was about to cross. Should we see if we can find the servant who was supposed to be with him?’

  Not averse to delaying the unpleasant prospect of wading through the icy water, Geoffrey and Roger separated to poke about in the undergrowth with their swords. Geoffrey did not seriously expect to find anything: if Durnais had fallen into the river and drowned, then his servant would have gone for help, not remained nearby. Therefore, when he heard Roger’s yell, he was taken by surprise.

  ‘Here he is,’ said Roger, prodding at a half-buried body in a drift. ‘His elbow was showing, and when I shovelled the snow away, there he was. Poor devil.’

  ‘How did he die?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘He did not drown – he is too far from the river.’

  ‘Aye, but this is Durnais’ man right enough. Jacob the Pike. I have known him since he was a lad. It is a pity. His mother is a widow and he was her only son.’

  Geoffrey scraped away more snow, revealing a young man wearing a bright yellow jerkin.

  ‘There is not a mark on him,’ said Roger, watching Geoffrey conduct a quick examination. ‘No sign he was shot, no wound to the head. Perhaps he died of the cold.’

  ‘Or perhaps he was poisoned,’ said Geoffrey quietly, pointing out a small wound on one of Pike’s hands. It was blackened and swollen, and streaks ran from it up his arm.

  ‘Poisoned?’ asked Roger. ‘How could he be poisoned all the way out here?’

  ‘Snakes?’ suggested Geoffrey, not knowing what to think. ‘You said Finchale’s serpents are different from the ones in the rest of the country.’

  Roger jumped on to a fallen tree trunk and looked warily at the ground. ‘Be on the lookout, Geoff. We do not want the same thing to happen to us.’

  Geoffrey continued to stare at the body, not understanding at all what had happened. ‘This is very odd. We have the sheriff and his man dead on a deserted path: Durnais drowns but his servant is poisoned. Meanwhile, we have Xavier and his man killed on another deserted road: Xavier is strangled but his squire is shot. Why did they all die so differently?’

  ‘You ask too many questions,’ said Roger, after a few moments of pondering failed to provide the answer. ‘What does any of this matter?’

  Geoffrey rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘I do not know. It just seems as though it is significant.’

  ‘I have just remembered something.’ Roger continued to look at the ground, as if anticipating some monstrous serpent would come slithering along it towards him. ‘When I saw Durnais yesterday, I noticed a swollen cut on his hand, too. I did not consider it important at the time, but now I see that it is.’

  ‘So, both men show signs of poisoning,’ said Geoffrey thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps Durnais staggered into the river and drowned before the poison got him.’

  ‘These snakes are dangerous beasts,’ said Roger, raising his sword in a way that suggested he intended to chop one in half, should it be rash enough to make an appearance.

  ‘I hope you are right,’ said Geoffrey uneasily. ‘Because if Durnais and Pike were not killed by snakes, then it means a person poisoned them. And, because they died here, it means their killer knows roughly where Flambard’s treasure is hidden. He might be watching us now.’

  ‘So, you have finally worked it out,’ came a gloating voice from the trees. ‘Congratulations!’

  The bursar’s voice brought Geoffrey to his feet with his sword at the ready, and he and Roger stood back to back, trying to ascertain where the voice had come from. The undergrowth around them was still and silent.

  ‘Burchard?’ called Roger. ‘Come out where we can see you!’

  ‘No, thank you,’ replied Burchard with a startled laugh. ‘You would cleave my head from my shoulders and claim those snakes you have been talking about did it.’

  ‘With their swords, I suppose?’ asked Geoffrey, wondering how many archers the monk had hidden in the undergrowth with weapons trained on him and Roger. ‘We will not harm you. All we want to do is find this treasure and take it to Turgot.’

  ‘As much as it galls me to say so, I believe you,’ called Burchard. ‘I heard you discussing it on the way here. I confess I am surprised: I assumed you agreed to help Flambard solely so you could steal it for yourselves.’

  So, someone had been following them, thought Geoffrey, angry with himself for not being more vigilant. The times he had heard noises must have been Burchard, blundering along the river path in his ape-like manner.

  ‘It is you who wants to steal,’ said Roger, peering into the bushes in an attempt to spot the man. ‘You want the treasure for yourself.’

  ‘I want it for my abbey,’ said Burchard. ‘As I told Geoffrey yesterday, I will do anything for it.’

  ‘Even threaten women,’ said Geoffrey in disgust.

  ‘What women?’ demanded Roger. ‘It had better not be Ellie, or I will remove your head from your shoulders and tell everyone a snake did it.’

  ‘I am prepared to reach an agreement on that,’ came Burchard’s disembodied voice. ‘A truce. We find the treasure together and I will present it to the abbey. And Eleanor will enjoy my protection for as long as she chooses to remain in Durham.’

  ‘And if we decline?’ asked Geoffrey.

  Burchard gave a short, nasty laugh. ‘Life can be unpleasant for women who run brothels. They are often driven out of their homes and their goods confiscated.’

  Geoffrey put his hand on Roger’s shoulder, to prevent him from storming the trees with a whirling sword. He did not care who presented Turgot with the treasure, just as long as it reached its intended destination. If Burchard agreed to leave Eleanor alone, then Geoffrey thought the bargain was good enough.

  ‘We agree to your terms,’ he called. ‘But if I hear that you have reneged, I will return to Durham – no matter where I am – and I will kill you. Is that understood?’

  Burchard cleared his throat nervously, realizing Geoffrey meant what he said. ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘Then come out where we can see you,’ said Geoffrey, still holding his sword at the ready.

  ‘With pleasure,’ said Burchard, stepping away from the bushes and raising his hands to show he carried no weapon. ‘Do I have your assurance you will not slay a lone, unarmed man of God?’

  ‘As long as we have your assurance that you are unarmed and alone,’ said Geoffrey in return, still watching the trees for signs that Burchard had posted arch
ers there.

  The monk allowed Roger to search him. ‘I am unaccompanied. Check if you want.’

  While Geoffrey remained with the bursar, Roger crashed about in the undergrowth, slashing wildly at the vegetation with his sword. Eventually, he returned to say that Burchard was telling the truth.

  ‘I knew where the treasure was buried long before you fathomed it out,’ Burchard crowed, eyeing Geoffrey challengingly. ‘I am surprised you are not still in Durham, scratching your stupid head.’

  ‘How did you work it out?’ asked Geoffrey, refusing to be provoked. ‘And when?’

  ‘After we visited Jarveaux’s house. Did I mention that the silly man hid his map under a floorboard? That is the first place a thief would look.’

  ‘And you would know,’ said Geoffrey, thinking about Alice’s jewellery.

  The bursar gave him a look of dislike. ‘Baubles are better used for an abbey than adorning vain widows. And anyway, Alice can afford to lose them. She is a wealthy woman.’

  Geoffrey saw that particular topic was not going to get them far, so changed the subject. ‘But you lost the map. How did you manage to guess the location of the treasure without it?’

  Burchard looked so smugly superior that Geoffrey felt like thumping him. ‘I lost one of them. Jarveaux had made a copy. I put that inside my habit, and I held the other in my hand for Hemming to see. He told me I was not to leave until I had found it, you see, because he did not want to come back again the following night. Unlike me, there are limits to what he will do for the abbey treasure, and a second night raiding the Jarveaux home was well past them.’

  ‘The abbey’s treasure?’ asked Geoffrey wryly. ‘Not the cathedral’s?’

  ‘It all goes to glorify God,’ said Burchard quickly, realizing he had misspoken.

  ‘Not in the same way,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Abbeys and bishops vie with each other for power. Flambard would never donate gold to build an abbey that will then become strong enough to defy him. He will want all his money to go to the cathedral – his ecclesiastical seat of power.’

  ‘What he wants is irrelevant,’ growled Burchard nastily. ‘In case you had not noticed, he is not here.’

  ‘I do not understand you,’ said Geoffrey, shaking his head. ‘You say you want the treasure for the abbey, so why did you conceal the second map from Turgot yesterday?’

  ‘Turgot is an ambitious man. I do not want him taking the credit for my hard work by digging up the gold himself.’

  ‘Whereas, if you take him the treasure, everyone will know you found it,’ said Geoffrey. ‘You will be a hero.’

  ‘Quite. And it will allow me to do an inventory first – to see exactly what there is. I will not have some of it going to fund secret meetings – to which I am not invited – between Turgot and other powerful men.’

  ‘Most noble of you,’ said Geoffrey. He thought about what Burchard was saying. At first, he had been suspicious of the bursar’s motives, but the more he heard him speak, the more he was certain the man was telling the truth. Burchard was someone who believed any means justified an end. He was happy to lie and steal, as long as he believed that it would ultimately benefit his abbey.

  ‘You are alone and unarmed,’ said Roger. ‘How do you know we will not kill you?’

  ‘Because I told Hemming exactly where I was going, along with the fact that you might join me at some point. If I die or disappear, he will know where to start asking questions.’

  ‘How did you know we would come here at all?’

  ‘Jarveaux’s map was definitely not in the snow by his house, so there was only one other thing that could have happened after I had dropped it: Roger had grabbed it. I knew you would come here.’

  ‘But you said you did not credit us with the intelligence to work out where the treasure is buried.’

  ‘Yes and no,’ hedged Burchard, reluctant to acknowledge their success. ‘But, we are all here now, and since we want the gold safe inside the abbey before it gets dark, we should make a start on the digging. I do not want to spend the night here.’ He shuddered and glanced uneasily around him. ‘Not at Finchale.’

  Roger led the way across the ford. The water was so icy that it made Geoffrey’s head ache, and by the time he had splashed through the shallows to the opposite bank, he could barely feel his legs. Shivering and stamping his feet in a futile attempt to warm himself, he followed Roger up the bank and surveyed the wilderness in front of them.

  Roger was right when he had deemed Finchale a desolate place. It was a long way from any settlement, and exuded the aura that it had been the kingdom of stunted trees, marshy ponds and thick tangled undergrowth since time began. Except for the occasional flap of agitated wings as a duck or a moorhen took flight, and the occasional call of birds, Finchale was a silent place. Geoffrey saw exactly why it had given rise to tales of serpents and snakes. It had an air of desolation, as though it was somewhere people were not supposed to be.

  ‘Right,’ said Burchard, rubbing chilled hands together before rummaging in his scrip and producing a scrap of parchment. ‘We should begin. I made copies of the first two maps last night, then added the information from Jarveaux’s.’

  ‘Why the delay?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Why did you not duplicate them sooner?’

  Burchard sighed. ‘Is that all you are going to do? Ask questions? I had to wait for the prior to leave his office, if you must know, so I could do it without being seen. And then there was that business of Gamelo to sort out.’

  ‘Did you find his killer?’

  Burchard shook his head. ‘But no one at the abbey can be responsible. We have no green hellebore at the moment, because our physician does not approve of using herbs of Saturn during February.’

  ‘The apothecary keeps some,’ said Geoffrey.

  The bursar nodded. ‘But he sold it all to Alice Jarveaux.’

  ‘And what do you deduce from that?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘That she enticed Gamelo and his friends to take poison in the woods near the river that night?’

  ‘That is for Cenred to decide. All I conclude is that I was right: Gamelo was murdered by no one at the abbey.’

  It was poor reasoning: just because the abbey did not have its own stock of green hellebore did not mean no monk had committed the crime. Geoffrey wanted to point this out, but Roger was impatient.

  ‘Never mind that,’ he said, snatching the map from Burchard and holding it next to his own to compare them. ‘We can discuss Gamelo in a tavern later, when we celebrate our success. But first we should concentrate on finding the treasure. Like you, Burchard, I do not want to spend the night here.’

  He and the bursar tugged and pulled at the maps, each trying to see at the expense of the other. Geoffrey did not join in the tussle. He sat on the trunk of a fallen tree and tried to rub some warmth into his wet legs.

  ‘There is the oak,’ said Burchard, pointing to a great gnarled tree that stood on a rise. It was twisted and rugged with age, and at some point during its long life, lightning had struck, cleaving it in two. Miraculously, it had survived, and the winter-bare branches that reached towards the sky seemed healthy enough. Geoffrey imagined it would be there long after he was in his grave.

  ‘And here are the streams and the path,’ said Roger, pacing towards them. ‘So, the treasure lies almost halfway between them, and slightly to the north.’

  ‘Which way is north?’ asked Burchard. ‘And how do we tell what is halfway?’

  ‘Geoff,’ called Roger wheedlingly, after a period in which he and Burchard strode back and forth in ever more confused directions, bumping into each other and complaining that the other was more hindrance than help. ‘Work this out, will you? And then me and Burchard will do the digging.’

  Geoffrey took one map from Burchard’s reluctant fingers, and compared it to Roger’s chart. Needless to say they were different. Comparing them, he began to pace out distances, using small sticks as markers. Roger and Burchard grew impatient, but Geoffrey refused to be hurried, know
ing that a mistake in his calculations would mean wasted time later. Eventually, he pointed to the stump of an ancient beech.

  ‘I do not think it is buried at all. I think it is hidden in that.’

  ‘Even better,’ said Burchard eagerly. ‘We will not have to spend the day wielding spades.’

  He reached the tree and regarded it uncertainly. It had once been massive, perhaps the tallest in the area. Its great height may have been its downfall, because at some point its roots had proved inadequate and the whole thing had toppled. Over time, its branches had rotted away, so that only the trunk remained. It stood taller than a man, leaning precariously to one side, and was thick enough so that the arms of two people with joined hands would not have circled it. The trunk was split, and it was evident that the inside had rotted away to leave a hollow.

  ‘If the treasure is inside, there will not be much of it,’ said Roger, disappointed.

  ‘You look,’ said Burchard, turning to him. ‘There are snakes in this area, and I have an aversion to things that slither.’

  ‘You should not have become a Benedictine, then,’ muttered Geoffrey, although he understood Burchard’s reluctance to put his hand inside the wood. The hole was a sinister dark slit that oozed fungus. Even Roger, never fussy about where he put his hands, was not keen to thrust them through the slime.

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Roger with a shudder. ‘The snakes around here are dangerous, and that trunk looks exactly like the kind of place one would use as a lair.’

  ‘I thought knights were afraid of nothing,’ jeered Burchard. ‘Are you frightened of God’s harmless creatures?’

  ‘Snakes are not harmless,’ Roger pointed out. ‘And Finchale’s are beasts from Hell, possessing venom that can strike a man dead in moments.’ He jerked his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the opposite river bank. ‘How do you think Durnais and his man met their ends? Both put their hands inside the tree and were bitten by snakes.’

  ‘I will look,’ said Geoffrey.

  Roger caught his arm in alarm. ‘These are no ordinary reptiles! If you put your arm in that hole you will be struck. Let Burchard do it. The gold is for his abbey, after all.’