The Bishop's Brood

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘You were afraid Turgot would take it?’ asked Geoffrey.

  Flambard nodded. ‘The abbey was collecting every other saint in the area – Cuthbert, Oswald, Aidan, the Venerable Bede, Billfrith, Ceolwulf, and so on. I was afraid Turgot would look inside St Balthere’s box and claim the Rod for the abbey, when it is mine.’

  Geoffrey stared at him. ‘It is said Brother Wulfkill died protecting the relics. But he did not, did he? He was the one who stole them – for you. And then he was murdered so he could never reveal what had really happened.’

  ‘You said nothing to me,’ said Odard, regarding Flambard uncertainly. ‘Your loyal servant.’

  ‘I said nothing to anyone. I must have some secrets, Odard. I cannot tell you everything I do.’

  Odard looked as if he strongly disagreed.

  ‘And then you hid the box in a really safe place,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Part of the cathedral had just collapsed and that meant a new floor needed to be laid. What better place to store your snake until you were ready to collect it?’

  ‘It was a perfect place,’ agreed Flambard. ‘Safe and holy. But then I was arrested, and I decided to take it to Normandy, so it can help change King Henry’s mind about me.’

  ‘But reclaiming it yourself was impossible, so you devised an elaborate plan involving Durnais, Jarveaux and Turgot.’

  ‘Precisely. All three are greedy men, and I knew at least one of them would meet with success. I also knew he would think the snake was my idea of a joke and discard it. And then I planned to reclaim it – with no risk to myself. It worked better than even I hoped, although I anticipated it would be a little quicker. I have been forced to stay in this hovel for longer than I intended.’

  ‘But why poison the tree?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘If you wanted the Chapel of the Nine Altars dug up, why risk the life of the man who might do it for you?’

  ‘I wanted the finder to think he was about to discover something really worth protecting. Had I made it too easy, he might not have bothered, and then all my work would have been in vain.’

  ‘What about that bowl?’ asked Roger nervously. ‘What is it doing with Aaron’s Rod?’

  ‘It is one of Aaron’s priestly vessels,’ said Flambard carelessly. ‘It came with the Rod. I will sell it to some French monastery to keep me in funds while I wait for King Henry to invite me home.’

  Flambard wiped the top of a stool with the hem of his cloak before lowering himself gingerly on to it. He gestured that the others were to sit also, and laid a proprietorial hand on his relic.

  ‘There is no call for us to stand around as though we were all going to engage in some fist fight. Sit, and we will discuss the finer points of my plan in comfort.’ He glanced around him disparagingly. ‘Well, as comfortable as we can be, given the circumstances.’

  ‘Surely there was an easier way to do this?’ asked Geoffrey tiredly. ‘Do you have any idea how many people died because of it? If you do not care about Jarveaux, Stanstede, Durnais, Hemming, and Gamelo and his various henchmen, then surely you must grieve for Gilbert and Xavier?’

  Flambard nodded, but not with much sorrow. ‘But I still have Odard, and he is the best of them.’

  ‘You should not be here,’ said Roger, casting an anxious glance toward the door. ‘What happens if someone recognizes you? You are supposed to be in the White Tower.’

  ‘I had fathomed that out, thank you, Roger,’ said Flambard. ‘But I have a ship waiting a few miles down the river. I will be on my way to Normandy – with Aaron’s Rod – at dusk this evening.’

  ‘How did you become involved?’ Roger asked Simon. ‘You are not a man for this kind of thing. You are plain and honest, like me.’

  ‘Honest?’ said Flambard with a sudden laugh. ‘None of my children could ever be called honest, I hope. God spare me the indignity of having it said that I have sired honest brats!’

  ‘Odard promised I would be rich if I helped Flambard,’ said Simon. ‘He asked me to hide his map until he was certain Durnais could be trusted not to steal the treasure for himself.’

  ‘But you did not hide it very well,’ said Geoffrey. ‘It was found. You told Gamelo where to find us, too. You knew we would be at Eleanor’s house that night, unarmed, and told him to attack us there.’

  ‘I did not,’ said Simon fervently. ‘Do you think me mad? He would just have likely killed me by mistake. If I had wanted him to kill you, I would not have been around when he tried.’

  ‘That I can believe,’ said Geoffrey. ‘But it was you who followed me into your house the next day, was it not? I saw your footprints in the yard, then you escaped through the window. You had come to collect Odard’s map. It had to be you, because you were familiar with the layout of the house, and you knew that the window would open easily when you climbed through it.’

  ‘I did not know that the timbers would break under my weight though,’ said Simon ruefully. ‘I could have broken my neck in that fall, and it would have been your fault. But I had nothing to do with Gamelo bursting into Eleanor’s house. Horrible little man!’

  ‘Gamelo was all right,’ said Flambard. ‘It was he who told me about Turgot’s affair with Sister Hilde, and Hemming’s unmonkish passion for cock fights. Both snippets of information were included in the document hidden in the beech tree. What happened to that?’

  ‘It fell in the river yesterday,’ said Geoffrey, before Roger could admit to burning it.

  ‘Pity,’ said Flambard. ‘But it does not matter. I will be able to secure a lot more from the pilgrims who come to see the Rod. Mother Petra got rid of Gamelo for me. Did I tell you that?’

  Geoffrey was not sure whether to believe him. ‘Did you order her to do it?’

  Flambard smiled. ‘No one orders my grandmother to do anything. She is no man’s servant.’

  ‘Was,’ corrected Roger. ‘She is dead.’

  Flambard nodded. ‘Simon told me. Durham will miss its only real witch.’

  ‘There is always Moon Mary,’ said Geoffrey. ‘She is a real witch. She told me to beware of the serpent. I thought she was speaking gibberish, but bearing in mind what we have just excavated from the cathedral, I think she probably has genuine powers of prediction.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Flambard, impressed. ‘Perhaps I should take her to Normandy. Someone with that kind of talent could be very useful to a man like me.’

  ‘Take her,’ said Geoffrey, thinking it would serve Flambard right to be saddled with Moon Mary.

  ‘You signed Gamelo’s death warrant by telling Mother Petra what he had been doing with his red-stained arrows,’ said Flambard, sounding amused. ‘She was furious, and decided to kill him, so he could interfere with my careful plans no further.’

  ‘What did she do?’ asked Odard. ‘Offer him wine to drive out the winter chill?’

  Flambard nodded. ‘He did not go far after the fight outside Jarveaux’s house. Mother Petra beckoned him inside, and offered him and his cronies wine. They drank it and died in the woods a short while later.’

  ‘Why did she kill Jarveaux?’ said Geoffrey.

  ‘He was going to steal my treasure, too. She knew about my plan, and that he was to receive one of my maps. When he hid it, instead of showing it to the others, she put hellebore on his oysters.’

  Geoffrey sighed, weary of the misguided loyalties that led Flambard’s relatives to commit murder for him. He stood. ‘All this has been very interesting, but the day is wearing on. I want to ride out of the city today, to see whether the road is clear enough for us to leave tomorrow.’

  ‘It will not be,’ said Flambard confidently. ‘It takes more than a morning of sun to clear Durham’s highways. You can come with me on my boat, if you like.’

  While a ride in Flambard’s ship would certainly allow them to reach Normandy more quickly than riding south to find another, Geoffrey did not want to spend any more time in the company of the dangerous cleric. Not only would it mean certain death for him if he was caught, but he was afraid the bish
op would use the opportunity to devise more nasty plans involving Roger.

  ‘No,’ he said, seeing Roger about to accept. ‘We will leave from Southampton.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Flambard, disappointed. ‘But do not go yet. I will be bored waiting for dusk, and would like your company.’

  ‘But it is Stanstede’s funeral this afternoon,’ said Roger. ‘I promised Ellie I would be there.’

  ‘Then I will go with you,’ announced Flambard. ‘She will like that.’

  ‘No!’ cried Odard in alarm. ‘You will be recognized and captured.’

  ‘I shall wear your Benedictine habit,’ said Flambard, rubbing his hands enthusiastically at the notion of an adventure. ‘And I shall blacken my beard and eyebrows with soot from the chimney. It will prove an amusing diversion, and will help while away the hours.’

  Idly, Geoffrey wondered whether Flambard thought all the funerals of the men he had helped to kill were fun. One look at the self-indulgent, crafty features suggested he might.

  A short while later, Roger, Simon and Geoffrey, followed by a Benedictine with a curiously dark beard, dirty face, and a habit that was too small, made their way towards St Giles’ Church. No one paid them any attention, although Odard, walking behind and scowling furiously, earned one or two curious glances from passers-by.

  They were almost late. Eilaf had already lit the requiem candles and the nave was half full with people who had known the brothel-keeper-cum-spice-merchant. Geoffrey noted they comprised mainly men, while the women were limited to those who had worked for him. But Stanstede had a better turnout than the mean gathering that had assembled for Jarveaux, suggesting he had been a more popular figure.

  Flambard chose a suitably shady corner, and watched the proceedings with bright-eyed curiosity. Eleanor glanced over at him, and Geoffrey saw her jaw start to drop in astonishment before she gained control of herself and her mouth set in a firm, hard line. Geoffrey did not blame her. Flambard showed a deplorable lack of tact in attending Stanstede’s funeral, given that his treasure had brought about the man’s death. Geoffrey admired the fact that Eleanor had managed to keep her calm.

  The requiem was unremarkable and over quickly. The mourners followed the coffin and its pungent contents into the graveyard, where Eleanor had purchased a considerably deeper hole than Alice had bothered with. Geoffrey looked at the mound of soil that marked Jarveaux’s resting place, and saw tell-tale scratches where dogs had already explored it. At least Stanstede’s mortal remains would not suffer the indignity of being a mongrel’s meal, as would Jarveaux’s before the end of winter.

  When it was over, Eilaf approached Geoffrey and shyly indicated the faded, but warm, winter cloak he wore. He also had boots, too big and with scuffed toes, but of a good enough quality to keep out the melting slush through which he waded.

  ‘Prior Turgot sent these,’ he said. ‘And I am told there is work at the scriptorium whenever I need it, and a loaf of bread will be on my doorstep each morning from the abbey bakery. I cannot imagine what you said, but thank you.’

  Geoffrey nodded acknowledgement, and only hoped Turgot would not forget the poor parish priest when more important issues took his attention. He was about to suggest Eilaf made himself indispensable around the scriptorium in case the deliveries of bread became unreliable, when he felt a sharp poke in the back. He turned, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

  ‘You do not need to pull that thing out,’ said Alice, eyeing him disdainfully. ‘It is only me, not one of your rough Holy Land friends.’

  ‘It seems condolences are in order,’ he said, refraining from adding that the likes of Alice and her relatives were a good deal more dangerous than most knights he knew. ‘I heard Mother Petra died.’

  Unexpectedly, Alice’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I will miss her – a good deal more than that husband of mine. She was a good woman, always kind to me.’

  ‘She was not kind to everyone though, was she?’ said Geoffrey softly. ‘Not to her son, whom she poisoned, or to Brother Gamelo and his cronies.’

  ‘They deserved what they got,’ said Alice, brushing away the tears and glancing around to make sure no one had seen her moment of weakness. ‘My husband was going to steal from the cathedral, and Gamelo was responsible for the death of one of your own men in Southampton.’

  ‘True,’ said Geoffrey. ‘But it was not for Mother Petra to dispense justice. Flambard is quite capable of doing that himself.’

  ‘I know,’ said Alice. ‘When she told me what she had done to Gamelo, I was terrified for her.’

  ‘I do hope it was not you who pulled the rags from the broken window,’ said Geoffrey mildly. ‘I heard she froze in a drunken slumber, because the fire went out and there was a hole in the glass.’

  Alice laughed nervously. ‘There you go again, making nasty accusations. What makes you think the rags had been pulled from the window?’

  ‘They were conspicuous by their absence in Cenred’s tale,’ said Geoffrey, certain his suspicions were correct. ‘I suppose she was too much of a liability for you, was she?’

  ‘You were the liability,’ snapped Alice. ‘You accused me of poisoning my husband in the market square and of changing the lock on my door for some sinister purpose. Mother Petra poisoned four people, but it was me you caught buying the damned hellebore. I knew it was only a matter of time before you accused me of killing Gamelo, too, so I decided I had better do something to save myself, since no one else would bother.’

  ‘So, you allowed Mother Petra to die.’

  ‘We sewed together by the fire, and she drank her wine. Then she fell asleep. She was old anyway, and banking a fire and pulling rags from broken windows are not acts of murder.’

  ‘You should have been a lawyer,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Perhaps you should give your jewellery to the cathedral, so it can go towards expiating your sins.’

  He gave a curt bow before she could reply, and left her, bringing up the rear of the procession that traipsed through the melting snow to the town. When they reached Eleanor’s house, people began to disperse, although Flambard, Odard and Simon were asked inside, and Eleanor invited Geoffrey to join them for a modest meal. Spending more time in the company of the devious bishop and his ruthless henchman was not something that filled Geoffrey with much enthusiasm, but Eleanor looked tired and drawn, and he felt obliged to dine in her house if she wanted him there.

  Outside, still keeping watch, were the Littel brothers, faces turned to the sun as they enjoyed the first warm day of the year. The older one saw Geoffrey and left his post to intercept him.

  ‘I met that butcher,’ he began without preamble. ‘The one that killed Simon’s pig.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Geoffrey, not having the heart to say it no longer mattered, because Simon was alive and well and about to enjoy what would doubtless be a well-cooked repast in Eleanor’s house.

  Littel glanced uncomfortably at his brother, and shuffled his feet. ‘It was …’ He swallowed, and fiddled with his belt.

  ‘Come on,’ said Geoffrey impatiently. ‘If you know who took it for slaughter, then tell me.’

  Littel leaned towards Geoffrey, muttered a name in his ear, and darted away before Geoffrey could react. Geoffrey’s first instinct was to think he was mistaken, but the final pieces of the puzzle snapped together in his mind and he saw he had been blind not to have seen them sooner. Thoughtfully, he walked inside Eleanor’s house and climbed the stairs to the solar. The others were already there, helping themselves to food, although Odard was nervous and stood at the window. Geoffrey saw he had brought his crossbow with him, and had even managed to keep it wound under his cloak.

  ‘This is delicious,’ said Flambard, reaching out for more bread and smiling benignly at his daughter. ‘Is there more meat? I have dined on nothing but biscuit these last few days, and it is a pleasure to taste flesh again.’

  ‘I will fetch some,’ said Eleanor quietly. Her face was pale, as if she had been crying, and Geoffr
ey thought Flambard was unkind to foist himself on her on such a day.

  ‘It was worth my while attending Stanstede’s funeral after all,’ remarked the bishop happily, taking an apple from a plate and tossing it in the air before taking a bite out of it.

  ‘I am glad he managed to be of use to you,’ said Geoffrey, resentful of the way the man viewed everything in terms of his own interests.

  He saw the bishop’s eyes narrow in anger, but Geoffrey was tired of the whole business and wanted to spend time alone, away from Flambard and the people who would do anything for him. He did not want to hear any more gloating revelations that would show him how clever Flambard had been.

  ‘I am going for a walk,’ he said abruptly, starting to walk to the door.

  ‘No,’ said Odard quietly, and Geoffrey turned in surprise as he heard the crossbow click. ‘You will remain in this room until the bishop is safely away.’

  ‘Here!’ exclaimed Roger, looking up from his food in astonishment when he saw the weapon pointed at Geoffrey. ‘What are you doing, man? Let him go for a walk, if he wants to.’

  ‘I have had enough of this foolery,’ hissed Odard, stepping between Geoffrey and the door. ‘I should have killed you in Simon’s house, instead of allowing Flambard to endanger us all by romping all over a city that would dearly love to see him hang.’

  ‘You will not harm my son,’ said Flambard softly, but with steel in his voice. ‘We agreed.’

  ‘But I can kill Geoffrey Mappestone,’ said Odard. ‘He is too clever to set free.’ He gestured with the bow that Geoffrey was to sit in the window. ‘And you go with him, Roger. No sudden moves from either of you, or I will fire.’

  Roger gaped at him. ‘But—’

  ‘Sit!’ snapped Odard. ‘Or I will shoot Geoffrey now.’

  Roger sank on to the window seat. ‘Will you stand by and let him do this?’ he appealed to Simon.