by Maureen Ash
Isabella gave a shrug. “I suppose so, although I think it unlikely.”
“All the same, Your Majesty, may I have your permission to question them?”
Isabella inclined her head in assent and bid her two women come forward. “Tell Sir Bascot what he wishes to know,” she directed. “The sooner this villain is discovered, the quicker I will be able to return to Canterbury, so search your memories well before you answer.”
The Templar spoke first to Yvette, pursuing the question of her movements within the townhouse, hoping that, while doing so, he would be able to introduce the subject of a servant in the townhouse speaking langue d’oc. “Let us start with the day you arrived at the townhouse with your mistress. Did you keep apart from the other servants, or join in their company?”
“We spoke to some of them, but not all,” Yvette replied. “When we first came, one of the maids took Marie and me up to the room in which we were to sleep and then to another chamber where the queen’s clothes were to be kept so we could unpack them. She was most helpful and offered her assistance, but no one is allowed to touch my mistress’s clothing except ourselves, so she left. I do not remember seeing her again. There was also a manservant that came to light the brazier in our room. He told us his name—I cannot remember it now—and said to call him if we should require anything further.” She stopped for a moment in thought and then said, “Oh, and after we had finished unpacking the coffers, we went to the kitchen and spoke to the cook. I went with Marie to give him instructions on how to prepare the dishes our mistress prefers. But apart from that, neither of us had much congress with the rest of the household, for we were always with the queen, or in our bedchamber or the little room on the lower floor where we ate our meals together. A maidservant brought the food to us there, but we never had a conversation with her.” She looked uncertainly at the Templar. “Is that what you wish to know?”
Bascot nodded. “And you are certain you spoke to no one else?”
Yvette began to shake her head, and then stopped. “Well, I did exchange a few words with the steward,” she said, “but not many. He was un homme sévère, that one, and he frightened me.”
“Why?” Bascot asked, surprised.
“He was very annoyed with Marie for going into one of the rooms without his permission when she went to look for a clean pot de chambre for our mistress. I was just coming down the stairs when he was reprimanding her, and I ran back up to our bedchamber lest he become angry with me, too.”
The Templar turned to the other companion, who was standing alongside the younger girl. She was older, and had far less mobile features than Yvette. Her face had a faded attractiveness that might have been called beauty when she was younger, but now her skin was sallow and her eyes, of a muddy hazel colour, had numerous creases radiating from the corners.
“This altercation you had with the steward—when was it and which was the room that you went into?” Bascot asked. He had been told that Inglis did not allow anyone into the chamber where the wine was stored without his permission, so if that was the one she had entered, and at the right time, there was a chance she might have seen the person who had placed the poison in the flavouring mixture.
“It was on the second day after we arrived, the one on which the woman servant was murdered,” Marie replied. “As to which room . . .” She shrugged. “I went into two or three of them looking for the pot before the steward came upon me. I do not remember exactly which ones they were. I was unfamiliar with the townhouse, and had yet to get my bearings as to how the rooms were situated.”
This older attendant was much less animated than Yvette and did not seem much interested in answering Bascot’s questions, but since she could be possessed of important information he pressed her.
“Do you recall if one of the rooms held a store of wine?”
Again, Marie gave a Gallic twist of her shoulders. “It is possible.”
“Was there anyone else in any of the chambers you went into—one of the servants, perhaps, or a person you had not seen before?”
“Non,” she replied.
Isabella was growing restless at the seeming pointlessness of the interviews, tapping the tip of one tiny slippered foot on the floor in an impatient cadence, so Bascot felt it would not be wise to wait any longer to ask the women if they knew of any other person in the household that spoke their dialect.
“You and Marie must miss being able to converse with those who speak the language of your homeland,” he said to Yvette, “or are any others of the king’s servants familiar with it?”
To Nicolaa’s surprise, it was the seemingly taciturn Marie who answered his question.
“Unfortunately, there are no others in the household from Angoulême. But we speak in our own tongue with our mistress and that gives us much comfort.”
The queen’s impatience was rising even further; she could not see the purpose of his questions. As far as she was concerned, they seemed to have no relevance as to whether or not either of her women had noticed anything that might be helpful in apprehending the murderer. Bascot knew it would not be long before she decided to end the interviews and, unwilling to leave before he had fulfilled his purpose, made his next question a direct one.
“Are you quite certain that is true?” he said to Marie. “We have been told that at least one other in the townhouse is familiar with langue d’oc, and it seems strange that such a person would have escaped your notice.”
Isabella frowned at the implication Marie was lying and, before the attendant had a chance to respond, demanded, “Who is this other servant of whom you speak?”
“I do not know his identity, lady,” the Templar answered quietly. “That is what I am trying to find out.”
“Then why did you not ask forthrightly?” Her tone was imperious. “There was no need for this circumlocution.”
Bascot made no answer, merely looked at the king, who after a moment said in a conciliatory manner, “There is a possibility, Isabella, that this man is the one who committed the murders, and if he is, it is equally possible that he comes from Angoulême. Until we can be certain, I did not want to place your attendants in the unenviable position of naming one of your countrymen a suspect.”
Isabella stamped her foot in anger. “As ever, John, you choose the devious course instead of the direct one. You had only to ask openly; I can assure you that neither of my attendants has anything to hide.”
The queen looked towards the two women and gave a stiff nod. “Marie, Yvette, tell Sir Bascot what he wishes to know,” she commanded.
Marie was the first to speak. “To my knowledge, none of the servants in the royal household is from Angoulême or speaks our dialect. Had there been any, I would have mentioned it to the queen.”
Isabella gave a brief nod of satisfaction and then looked to Yvette. The younger maid vacillated for a moment but, after flashing a quick glance at Marie, and with the suggestion of a frown on her smooth young brow, she confirmed the other companion’s claim. “The only other person I have spoken to besides my mistress and Marie in langue d’oc during the last few months was a troubadour in the court in Rouen and, as far as I know, he is still there. Apart from him, there has been no one else.”
Bascot thought he saw a flash of confusion on the girl’s merry little face as she made her statement, but Isabella, once the girl had finished speaking, turned to her husband and, with exultation in her voice, declared, “You see how easy it is to get at the truth, John? There was no need for artifice.”
She paused for a moment and took a deep breath, her colour high. “I suspect you believe this murderer was sent by Hugh of Lusignan,” she said, having made an astute assumption about the true reason behind Bascot’s questions. “If so, then I sincerely hope your reluctance to ask these questions straightly is not because you doubt my loyalty.”
Isabella’s tone was full of prideful disdain
, and Bascot suspected she was enjoying the opportunity to chastise her husband. Unfortunately, however, she had misgauged the extent of John’s forbearance. After an initial moment of shock at her effrontery, John’s face clouded with anger and he stood up, his demeanour regal and forbidding, and fully reminiscent of the Plantagenet line from which he was descended.
“If I have unwittingly given you offence, Isabella, I apologise, but I would advise you to curb your tongue in future.” His voice was quiet, but chilling. “The men of my family do not easily suffer impertinence from their wives.”
The threat was obvious, for it was well known that John’s father, Henry, had kept Eleanor of Aquitaine immured behind stout castle walls for many years because of her defiance. Isabella went rigid at the menacing words, her beautiful eyes widening with incredulity as her husband swung away from her and left the chamber, motioning for Nicolaa and Bascot to follow. As the Templar rose from his seat, he saw a look of loathing on Marie’s face, directed at the king’s back. The expression was intense, and deeply hateful, and only disappeared when a shaken Isabella called for her to come and fetch a cup of wine.
As the furious king led the party back to Canterbury, Bascot, riding beside Nicolaa, remarked quietly, “I am not satisfied that Isabella’s ladies are telling the complete truth. Yvette’s statement could be construed as ambiguous. She did not state outright that none of the other servants spoke the langue d’oc dialect, only that she, herself, had not had a conversation with any.”
“I agree,” the castellan responded. “But if she is lying by omission, it is hard to determine why. Did she do so in order to avoid contradicting the queen, or was it because she did not want to betray a falsehood told by the other attendant?”
“It might be advantageous to question the girl away from the company of Isabella and Marie, but after John’s confrontation with the queen, I doubt we will be allowed to do so.”
“Leave it with me,” Nicolaa said after a moment’s thought. “I shall invent an excuse to visit the nunnery again—under the guise of a social visit, perhaps—and try to find an opportunity to speak to Yvette alone.”
Bascot nodded and said no more as they drew up close behind the king and his escort and they all passed through Ridingate. Once on the other side, and nearing the townhouse on Watling Street where Nicolaa and her entourage were staying, John gave a curt wave of dismissal and continued on his way back to the cathedral guesthouse, ignoring the few townspeople on the street that made an obeisance as he passed. But Marie’s attitude towards the king lingered on the periphery of Bascot’s thoughts and, as they came to a halt in front of the townhouse, he asked Nicolaa if she knew anything about her background.
“Very little, I am afraid,” she replied. “John only mentioned her in passing, saying she had recently been appointed to her post, and that is all. Why do you ask?”
“I do not believe she has much love for the king,” he replied, and told her of the look of repugnance he had seen on Marie’s face.
“It could have been fostered by John’s chastisement of the queen,” Nicolaa suggested. “It is obvious that both of the women have a great affection for Isabella.”
“Perhaps so,” Bascot agreed, but the incident still bothered him and he did not dismiss it from his mind.
Chapter Thirty
The warmth inside the townhouse was welcoming, as was the mulled wine awaiting Nicolaa and the knights in the hall. As the others went to partake of the refreshment, Bascot followed Gianni up the stairs to the lad’s chamber where, the lad announced by a series of hand gestures, it was his intention to write up a record of the interviews that had taken place at St. Sepulchre’s while the conversations were still fresh in his mind. The Templar, extremely disappointed by their failure to establish the truth or falsity of Aquarius’ statement at the nunnery, and with a sense of urgency, wanted to go through all the notes pertaining to the investigation again. Nicolaa de la Haye was under some kind of threat until this mystery was solved and, in addition, the three Norman servants that were in prison would remain there, daily suffering the threat of imminent torture until their guilt or innocence was proven.
He followed Gianni up to the chamber the youngster had been allotted, a high-ceilinged small room containing only a narrow bed, a table for use as a desk and two three-legged stools. On one side was a small brazier that had been left alight to take the chill from the room. Above it, on the outer wall, was a small casement fitted with shutters, one of which had been left slightly ajar to allow the draught to dispel the fumes of the burning charcoal. The Templar paused at the door and stood watching Gianni set about his task. Lighting a candle, he placed it on the desk; laid out two or three pages of ruled parchment, some sharpened reed pens and a small pot containing ink; and then sat down to work. His movements were smooth and practiced; the competence of his actions made Bascot realise how far the lad had progressed in the short few years since they had arrived in Lincoln. A vivid picture came to his mind of the early days after their arrival at the castle, when Gianni had sat on the floor of the chamber they had shared in the older of the two keeps within the ward, struggling to copy out a few phrases the Templar had written on scraps of well-worn vellum. The boy had not been much more than skin and bone at the time, but tenacity had been strong within him and he had learned his lessons well, so much so that he had achieved his aim of becoming a clerk, and one in the employ of no less a personage than Lady Nicolaa de la Haye, the hereditary castellan of Lincoln castle. A surge of affection swelled in Bascot’s heart; although he would never have a son of his own loins, he did not feel the loss. Gianni more than filled the gap.
As the lad moved his pen across the page in confident strokes, Bascot sat down on the other stool and took up the pile of notes that contained transcripts of previous interviews. They included the one Gianni had prepared the night before when, at Nicolaa’s direction, the Templar had given him the details of his conversation with the cook, Alfred and Aquarius. Starting at the beginning, with the interviews that had been conducted the day after the murder, he carefully began to read, but soon found his concentration flagging, distracted by his inability to discover a motive for the crimes. Had both victims been killed because they had inadvertently foiled attempts on the king’s life, or were their deaths due to a personal enmity? None of the evidence seemed to confirm either premise with any surety. And even if one of these possibilities was correct, he had still not been able to establish whether he should be looking for an intruder or instead, as Chacal kept insisting, be searching amongst the household staff. Until he knew which direction to take, it was impossible to discern which trail to follow.
Laying the transcripts aside, he leaned his shoulder against the wall and mentally recited a paternoster, hoping the familiar regime would bring some order to his mind. As he did so, Gianni glanced up at him and, noticing the furrows of vexation on his former master’s face, leant forward and touched him gently on the arm. When the Templar looked towards him, the lad moved his hands to mime drinking from a cup, asking if he should bring some wine.
Gratefully, Bascot nodded and, as Gianni hurried out of the room, walked over to the casement. Releasing the hook on the shutters, he threw them wide open. A blast of cold air entered the room, but he welcomed the shock to his senses, hoping it would clarify his thoughts. Resting his elbows on the bottom ledge of the casement, he looked out over the town. From his vantage point on the upper storey of the townhouse, he could see overtop the houses on the other side of Watling Street. Directly in his line of vision, and just outside the city walls to the northeast, stood the abbey of St. Augustine and, a little farther north, the spires of the cathedral. Snow was encrusted on all the roof tiles and piled slantwise against chimneys. Overhead the sky had a smoke-like darkness, a dull and misty grey that promised further snow was on the way.
Canterbury was the most hallowed city in England, he thought, and yet, despite the city’s reputation fo
r sanctity, secret murder still crept within its walls, casting deceit and treachery over all. Bascot felt drained of energy; if God intended him to discover the identity of the miscreant, he must summon up the vigor to continue the pursuit. Murmuring a prayer for guidance, he took a deep breath of the frosty air, and, pulling the shutters back to their original position, returned to his task.
Chapter Thirty-one
When John had returned to the cathedral precincts after the appalling confrontation with his wife, he had dismissed his guards with an impatient growl and gone to the guesthouse, imperiously waving aside the hosteler hovering outside the door. Once alone in the luxurious chambers, he had poured himself a cup of wine and begun to pace. First Nicolaa’s cold disapproval and now Isabella’s defiance; it was not to be borne, and anger churned in his gut at their impudence. All about him was perfidy, he thought, his peregrinations up and down the chamber setting the candles flickering wildly in the wake of his furious passage. And it had been that way ever since a time he was young enough to remember. His mother instigating defiance of his father amongstst her children, his brothers vying with each other as they struggled to gain more than their fair share of apportionment; even his sisters had entered the fray, siding first with one sibling and then another as the whim took them. And even though, of his original family, most were now dead—only his mother and one of his sisters, Eleanor, married to the king of Castile, were still living—the duplicity remained, swirling about him in a miasmic cloud.
Slowly he stopped pacing and, willing himself to calmness, seated himself on a comfortable chair at the head of the table. These morbid reflections were not serving any useful purpose; if he was to negotiate his way through this latest morass of betrayal he must maintain a clear head. His prime objective was to raise an army and drive Philip out of Normandy, and to do that he must have the support of his English nobles and their agreement to give him the necessary funds to pay for the additional mercenaries he would need. But in order to maintain the confidence of his liegemen, Arthur’s whereabouts and condition must remain hidden, at least until Normandy was secure. After that, it would matter little whether the truth came out. Once he was victorious, no one would dare gainsay John’s account of what had happened to his nephew, and would be forced to accept the lie he had told the archbishop, that one of his hounds had attacked Arthur and caused his injuries.
