The Bishop's Brood

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘Go on, Geoffrey,’ coaxed Burchard, with sly gentleness. ‘Show us you are no coward. Put your hand in the trunk and see what you can feel.’

  Roger bristled at the challenge, and looked set to ignore his own advice and search the tree, just because he objected to Burchard casting aspersions on the bravery of Holy Land knights, but Geoffrey merely smiled.

  ‘I have no intention of putting my hand inside it. There are other ways to discover its contents.’

  He took his sword in both hands, and brought it down as hard as he could on the ancient bole. The wood creaked and splintered. He struck it again, shuddering to think of what it was doing to the blade, and promising to spend the evening whetting it. It was not long before the old wood split completely, allowing them to peer inside.

  There was a chest, a small black pouch, and an array of spikes to protect them, each one tipped with a dark substance that had a sharp, acrid smell, and that was undoubtedly poison.

  Thirteen

  Geoffrey, Roger, and Burchard stood silently around the shattered tree trunk. Anyone putting a hand inside it would certainly have cut himself, and Geoffrey suspected that the dark substance coating the spikes had been put there for the express purpose of repelling would-be thieves. He knew little of poisons, but the stench indicated this was a powerful one. Burchard crossed himself when he realized the danger they had been in. Roger, more curious than cautious, stretched out his hand as if he were going to poke one. Geoffrey slapped it away.

  ‘Touch those and it will probably be the last thing you do.’

  ‘But such a device means that anyone who puts their hand inside the trunk to retrieve the treasure would be killed,’ said Roger, open-mouthed in horror.

  ‘Quite. It seems your father did not want just anyone to take possession of his ill-gotten gains.’

  ‘But the men most likely to come are his three chosen agents. Why would he harm them?’

  Geoffrey sighed. ‘He does not care. If all three men – prior, sheriff, and goldsmith – came together to collect the treasure as he instructed, then the first to put his hand inside the tree would die. The other two would be terrified into following his instructions – who would want to keep treasure that might prove fatal? Moreover, if one of the three disobeyed Flambard and came alone, then he would die without question. That, I imagine, is what happened to Durnais.’

  He crouched down to inspect the spikes more closely, and pointed to a small thread that had caught on one of the barbs, then at several dark spots that had dripped on to the decaying wood.

  ‘Here is blood, suggesting that someone has already injured himself, and the thread caught here is yellow. The sheriff’s servant wore a yellow jerkin.’

  ‘We found Pike on the other side of the river,’ Roger explained to Burchard. ‘He must have put his hand inside the tree and was poisoned for his pains. But what happened to the sheriff?’

  ‘Perhaps he did not realize Pike had been poisoned,’ suggested Geoffrey. ‘Perhaps he thought he would not be harmed if he took more care. Doubtless Pike shoved his hand inside the tree very eagerly, wanting to see what it held.’

  ‘That makes sense,’ said Roger. ‘While Pike crossed the river in a desperate bid for life, Durnais eased his own hand inside the tree. But the poison got him, too, because I saw the mark on his hand.’

  ‘But it was not as deep as the one on Pike, and so less poison entered the wound,’ said Geoffrey. ‘He probably drowned when the toxin took effect and he found himself unable to struggle free of it.’

  ‘Nasty!’ said Burchard with a shudder. ‘But enough chatter. Let us open this chest. This place makes me feel uneasy, and I want to be away from it as soon as possible.’

  ‘Uneasy in what respect?’ asked Geoffrey, looking around.

  ‘Nothing specific,’ said Burchard. ‘But on my way here, I sensed I was being followed. I hid in bushes several times and heard nothing. I just put it down to excitement and nervousness – after all, I was about to confront you. Come on. Help me with this.’

  Using his sword, Roger levered the box away from the treacherous spears, then hauled it a considerable distance, as if he imagined the poison might still affect him if he remained too close.

  ‘It is heavy,’ he said gleefully.

  Burchard grinned at him. ‘Then this will be a great day for the abbey – and the cathedral.’

  While they discussed how to open the chest, Geoffrey concentrated on the black pouch. He donned his gauntlets to open it, and saw his precautions were not in vain. There were tiny pins at the neck of the bag, each one stained with black. Whether it would prove fatal in such small amounts Geoffrey did not care to find out, but was glad he had been careful.

  Inside the pouch were two pieces of parchment. One was yet another map, depicting not Finchale, but the cathedral: each flagstone in the Chapel of the Nine Altars was marked with great precision, and there was a cross on one of them. Another treasure trove? Geoffrey wondered. The second document was longer, with minute writing conveying a good deal of information. While Roger and Burchard argued about how best to break the two locks that protected the chest, Geoffrey went to a nearby rock and perched on it, smoothing out the parchment on his knee. He began to read.

  It was divided into sections, each headed by the name of a local merchant or nobleman. The first on the list was Haymo Stanstede. The paragraph below his name described how he had been tried for murder in a court presided over by Sheriff Durnais. The account suggested there were witnesses to prove Stanstede had indeed committed the crime, but the verdict had been not guilty. The reason for this, the scroll stated, was the sum of twenty pounds, which had been paid by Stanstede to Durnais. Geoffrey’s thoughts whirled. Was it true? Had a favourable verdict really been secured by a bribe?

  Puzzled, he read on. Under the next name, the apothecary’s, was a statement that the death of one Bertha Kepler three years before had been due to bad medicine, not a falling sickness as attested by the physician. There followed the names of three men who would swear under oath they had witnessed the apothecary pay the physician to hide the truth.

  And so it went on. Several merchants were accused of having affairs with each others’ wives, another was said to dabble in the black arts. The abbey sacristan was a felon, who had assumed a new identity to evade justice. Burchard’s extortion activities were exposed, as was the fact that Hemming liked illegal cock fights, while Turgot had broken his vow of chastity with a nun called Sister Hilde. Minor noblemen were associated with misdemeanours that included cowardice in battle, treason, and a whole range of dishonest crimes. Each entry stated the case against the person, and concluded with a list of evidence or witnesses that would prove the validity of the accusation.

  But what was such a document doing in the tree? Geoffrey continued to stare at it. The parchment was of high quality, and he was fairly certain it came from the same source as Flambard’s maps. So, the list of accusations and the maps had probably been drawn up by the same person. Therefore, Geoffrey surmised that the author of the scroll was Flambard.

  How had the bishop come by such information? Geoffrey knew the answer to that: he was notorious for hiring spies and informants, and these had apparently been working to build cases against many influential people in the county. Geoffrey could only assume he intended to use the information to accrue more power, and to force the people mentioned to support him when he demanded.

  He rolled up the parchment when it occurred to him that speculating would be more pleasant in front of a fire than perched on a snow-covered rock at Finchale. He was about to put it inside his surcoat when he reconsidered. It had probably not been soaked in poison, but he did not want it too near him regardless. He shoved it down the scabbard of his sword.

  ‘Was Stanstede ever tried for murder?’ he asked, walking to where Roger and Burchard still wrestled with the chest. They had succeeded in forcing the first lock, and were busy with the second.

  ‘Last summer,’ said Burchard. ‘
But he was found innocent.’

  ‘My sister’s husband was a murderer?’ asked Roger, horrified. ‘No one has mentioned this before.’

  ‘That is because folk are afraid of you,’ said Burchard, which seemed reasonable to Geoffrey, given Roger’s reputation as ‘the Devil’. ‘But Stanstede was acquitted.’

  ‘Was it a good verdict?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Or was there doubt?’

  ‘There was doubt,’ said Burchard. ‘How he managed to convince Durnais is beyond me. He killed an apprentice who had been drinking and was pestering the brothel women. The boy would not leave, so Stanstede knifed him.’

  ‘Perhaps he had a weapon, and Stanstede acted in self-defence,’ suggested Roger.

  ‘The brothel was busy that night. The lad was a nuisance and Stanstede did not want to waste time persuading him to leave. After he stabbed him, he ordered the body dumped in the woods.’

  ‘You seem very sure about all this,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Can I assume you are an eyewitness?’

  ‘No, you cannot!’ declared Burchard, blushing so furiously Geoffrey was certain he was lying. ‘I am a monk, who has sworn a vow of chastity.’

  ‘I do not care why you were there,’ said Geoffrey. ‘But your account has a ring of authenticity. I think you saw it happen.’

  ‘All right,’ acknowledged Burchard irritably. ‘I was there – but I was hunting errant novices, and was not there for personal pleasure. Why are you asking? The trial was months ago.’

  ‘Was there a woman called Bertha Kepler, who died from a falling sickness?’ asked Geoffrey, answering with another question.

  ‘I remember her,’ said Roger, looking up from where he was attacking the lock with a stone. ‘The apothecary was accused of poisoning her by mistake, but the physician said no.’

  ‘And Hemming?’ asked Geoffrey finally. ‘Is he the kind of man to frequent cock fights?’

  Burchard nodded spitefully. ‘The abbey does not approve of gambling, and Hemming has been warned on several occasions to take up a more godly pastime.’

  Geoffrey rubbed the bridge of his nose. So, Flambard’s accusations may have a basis in fact. Burchard’s expression was questioning, but Geoffrey did not want to tell him about the list and let the man destroy lives in a frenzy of self-righteous bigotry. Then Roger issued a triumphant cry as the second lock shattered, and Burchard’s attention snapped back to it. Breathless with excitement, Roger opened the lid, and all three men leaned forward to see what Flambard’s chest contained.

  ‘There is nothing here!’ wailed Burchard, gazing down at Flambard’s treasure chest in dismay. ‘At least, nothing but clipped silver pennies!’

  ‘You are right; there cannot be more than five pounds here at the most,’ said Roger, bitterly disappointed. ‘When my father said he had treasure, I expected treasure – not a box of coin fragments that have been divided so many times for small change they are all but worthless.’

  ‘These will not even pay for the flagstones in the new cloister,’ bemoaned Burchard, taking a handful and letting them trickle through his fingers like sand. ‘I have been exposed to evil, wickedness and murder for a box of coins so defaced that no sane builder will accept them as wages!’

  ‘There are old dies in here, too,’ said Roger glumly, picking up a weighty metal cast. ‘From my father’s own mint. No wonder the chest was heavy. What could he have been thinking of, making all that fuss over this?’

  ‘Are you sure there is nothing underneath them?’ asked Geoffrey, as startled as the others. Unlike them, however, he derived a degree of amusement from the fact that Flambard’s fabled treasure did not exist. Roger might see the humour of the situation in time, but he suspected Burchard never would.

  They dug their hands into the coins and felt around. Burchard even took Roger’s dagger and poked in the lid, to see whether a false panel might yield something more profitable. But Flambard’s chest was exactly what it appeared – a stout box half-filled with mutilated coins and out-of-date dies. When he said he had taken a percentage of the taxes raised from the people, he had done exactly that: most folk were poor, and the revenues they paid were minimal. Flambard had siphoned off a few clippings here and there, and that was his treasure.

  ‘Nothing!’ spat Burchard, giving the chest a solid kick. It hurt him more than it damaged the box, and he hobbled in a tight circle, swearing at the agony of stubbed toes.

  ‘That is because Sir Geoffrey has the real treasure in his scabbard,’ came a voice from behind them.

  Geoffrey, Roger and Burchard wheeled around, the knights reaching for their weapons.

  ‘No!’ barked Hemming sharply. ‘Leave your swords where they are. If you make any hostile movement, you will be shot.’

  Flanking Hemming were three heavy-set men, all armed with bows. Unlike Brother Gamelo, these men handled their weapons with confidence, suggesting they knew how to use them. Geoffrey moved his hands away from his sword and raised them in the air. Roger did likewise.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Burchard asked, gaping stupidly at his sub-prior.

  ‘You mentioned what you were doing, so I decided to join you,’ said Hemming. ‘Where treasure is concerned, it is never wise to trust a Norman to do the right thing.’

  ‘Well, you have wasted your time,’ said Burchard. ‘Flambard’s loot contains nothing but mangled pennies. Look for yourself.’

  ‘I have no need to look,’ said Hemming, leaning against a tree and folding his arms. ‘I have been watching you for some time now. I know exactly what the chest contains.’

  ‘So, what do you want, then?’ demanded Roger, angry at being held at bow-point. ‘You have no need to threaten us: we have done nothing to warrant this sort of treatment.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Hemming softly. ‘You come to Durham with Flambard’s map, make a pretence at passing it to the prior, then spend the next few days making your own enquiries so you can claim the treasure for yourselves – and you think you have done nothing untoward?’

  ‘It was not like that,’ objected Roger. ‘Turgot forced us into it. We do not want the treasure.’

  ‘Really,’ said Hemming coldly. ‘Then why are you here?’

  ‘So we can take what we find to Turgot,’ said Roger, all the more indignant because his motives really had been honourable. ‘We do not want these pennies.’

  ‘As I have already told you,’ said Hemming. ‘I suspect the real treasure lies in the parchment Geoffrey hid in his scabbard.’

  ‘What parchment?’ demanded Burchard. He glanced back at the tree. ‘Do you mean whatever was in that pouch? I wondered what he was doing so quiet and secretive while Roger and I struggled here. He was stealing the real treasure, was he?’

  ‘What makes you think it was treasure?’ asked Geoffrey, wondering what Hemming thought he had found.

  ‘I am not stupid,’ said Hemming impatiently. ‘I know why you asked about Stanstede’s trial and Bertha Kepler’s death. That parchment contains information about them – and other things.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ demanded Burchard. ‘How could that be considered treasure?’

  But Geoffrey understood, and the answers to various questions became clear. He forced himself to appear relaxed, hoping to draw Hemming into a conversation that would allow him to test his solutions, and at the same time lull the archers into feeling secure until he could act. His chain mail was no match for arrows, and there was no point in trying anything while they were alert and watchful.

  ‘Flambard intends to blackmail the wealthiest people in the shire,’ he said. ‘Stanstede bought his favourable verdict from the sheriff: doubtless he would have paid handsomely to keep it from public knowledge.’

  ‘And Durnais would have paid just as handsomely to prevent anyone knowing he had taken a bribe,’ said Hemming. ‘That document will provide ample funding for the abbey over time. When we run out, all we will need do is decide who to approach next.’

  ‘That is clever,’ said Burchard approvingly. ‘I ha
ve personal experience in raising funds by this sort of means. I expect I shall be the one to implement Flambard’s plan.’

  ‘I do not think so,’ said Hemming, as Burchard started to walk towards him, happily confident. ‘You are not the sort of man I want in my abbey.’

  ‘Your abbey?’ echoed Burchard, stopping dead. ‘Turgot will have something to say about that!’

  ‘He will not,’ said Hemming. ‘Once Flambard learns how Turgot almost let the treasure slip through his fingers, he will be removed and the post given to a man of superior talents. I am better than him in all respects. I guessed what Flambard planned to do long before these knights arrived.’

  ‘How?’ asked Geoffrey curiously. ‘Did he tell you?’

  ‘He did not need to. He is determined to have the cathedral built, and a crafty man like him would not let prison stand in the way of his ambitions. I went with Turgot to visit him in the White Tower, and I guessed then he had something hidden away for us.’

  Once Geoffrey learned that Hemming had suspected the existence of treasure before Flambard’s escape, other things became clear. ‘You hired Brother Gamelo! You were shocked to see him dead – almost to the point of swooning – not because you have an aversion to violence, as you claimed, but because you were appalled by the death of a man so useful to you.’

  ‘Hemming? An aversion to violence?’ asked Burchard in disbelief. ‘But he has a penchant for cock fights.’ Geoffrey already knew this, because it had been written in Flambard’s document.

  ‘I was shocked to see Gamelo dead,’ admitted Hemming. ‘And he was useful.’

  ‘But he was a Norman!’ exclaimed Burchard. ‘I thought you despised us all. And anyway, he was my man, my most assiduous rent collector.’

  ‘Being Norman, he was not averse to dirtying his hands with theft and murder, too,’ said Hemming. ‘He sold his services to anyone who paid him. He even worked for Turgot on occasion, to carry messages to his lover. But I would like to know who killed him.’