The Canterbury Murders

by Maureen Ash

  The Templar gave a murmur of commiseration and stood beside Criel as the horses set out through the gate at a trot, the disgraced men-at-arms shambling behind. After they had disappeared from view, the constable turned to Bascot and asked if he had come to put more questions to the prisoners, nodding towards the row of cells on the other side of the ward.

  Bascot had given the questioning of the two grooms some thought on his ride to the ward and, finding that he still did not completely trust Aquarius, asked Criel if he would remove the bath attendant to a separate cell while he spoke to them.

  “Of course,” the constable replied, and instructed his serjeant to do as the Templar had asked. As the soldier moved across the ward to carry out the order, Bascot spoke again to Criel.

  “I am expecting the Earl of Pembroke to be here shortly. If he arrives while I am still with the prisoners, would you ask him to wait until I am done?”

  Criel assured him he would, and Bascot walked over to the cell where the grooms were imprisoned and went inside. The two men, huddled on the floor and shivering in the dank chill, looked up fearfully as he came in. They were not manacled, Bascot noticed, a mercy that was more likely due to Criel’s consideration than the king’s. The Templar surveyed them for a moment before he spoke, recalling that their names were Andri and Denis, and then said, “I have come to ask you some more questions relating to the murders of the king’s washerwoman and his steward—”

  Before he could complete the sentence, both men fell to their knees in front of him and the older of the two, Andri, burst into hasty speech. “We did not kill anyone, maître,” he declared. “We liked Molly; she was kind to us. She repaired Denis’ tunic when it was ripped and another time she brought us pain blanc from the kitchen. I swear to you before God that we never harmed her.”

  “And never once did we speak to the steward,” Denis added in a rush. “We did not know him at all.”

  Bascot held up his hand to stem their flood of protestations. Because any witness they gave might be distorted by eagerness to prove their innocence, he gave only a broad explanation for his presence. “I am not come to accuse, but to ask if you heard something that may be related to their deaths.”

  “But we already told all that we know, maître,” Andri said uncertainly, “to the other chevalier that came to the townhouse.”

  “I am aware of that,” Bascot said patiently, “but there is a question that he did not ask and that I now put to you. Are either of you familiar with the dialect spoken in the south of France, called langue d’oc?”

  Both were bemused by the question and glanced at each other in perplexity. “I do not speak it, lord,” Andri said finally, “but I have an understanding of some of the words.”

  “And you Denis?” Bascot asked.

  The other groom shook his head. “Only that they say oc instead of oïl, as we do in Rouen—that is all.”

  “If either of you were to hear it spoken, would you be able to distinguish it from another dialect or patois?” Bascot pressed.

  Andri gave a nod of affirmation, but Denis said he was not sure, but thought he might be able to because, he said, “They say some of the words like they are singing a song.”

  The Templar, reasonably certain now that he could depend on their truthfulness, went on with his questions. “I want you to think back over the time since you joined the king retinue,” he said to them. “Have you heard anyone in the company, apart from the queen and her two ladies, speak in that language, either during the journey from Rouen or since you arrived in England?”

  Both of the grooms pondered his question for a few moments and then, as Denis began to shake his head in negation, Andri nudged him impatiently. “Yes, imbécile, do you not remember? It was when we were on the boat crossing over the Narrow Sea and Molly came to help you while you were sick.”

  Still Denis’ expression remained blank and Andri, with an impatient shrug, said, “He was very ill, maître, and perhaps did not notice.”

  Bascot felt a surge of hope when the washerwoman’s name was mentioned and instructed the groom to tell him what he had heard, and when.

  “It was while we were on the boat crossing over to England. The weather was very rough and Denis became sick with mal de mer. The king’s horses—three of them, a gelding and two mares—were penned inside hurdles in the middle of the ship and they, too, did not much like the storm and started to kick and bite each other. Denis tried to help me with them, but he was vomiting badly and went to hang over the ship’s rail so he would not foul the horses’ stall. He was leaning over so far I feared he would tumble into the sea, but I could not leave the horses to come to his aid. Molly, who had been sitting a little way from us, saw what was happening and came running to help. She was une femme très robuste, that one, and held on to Denis all the way to England, never once letting him go, and wiped his face with the hem of her skirt most tenderly.

  “It was while she was doing this that we heard one of the queen’s ladies—the old one with a face like un citron—talking to someone on the other side of the hurdles. We could not see them, nor they us, because there were bales of hay piled up on that side of the pen, but we could hear them, and they were speaking in langue d’oc. I did not listen to much of what they were saying for I was too busy with the horses, but Molly, she did, and got very upset. She said to me afterwards that the man with the queen’s attendant was un menteur—a liar—and she was going to tell the king about him.”

  “Do you know the identity of the man the washerwoman was speaking about?” Bascot asked, his pulse quickening.

  “Oïl,” Andri replied. “I could not see him because he was behind the pile of hay, but I heard Molly speak his name when she told someone else about the conversation after we docked at Dover.”

  A thrill of satisfaction ran through Bascot when Andri named the person he had suspected, but it was mingled with consternation at the groom’s claim there was another person besides themselves privy to the information. “Are you certain that she spoke to someone else about this?” he asked sternly.

  “Mais oïl,” Andri replied. “I heard her myself, as we were going into the castle with the horses, when she and the other man were walking behind us.”

  “Who was it?” Bascot asked.

  “Le attaché de bain, Guillaume Aquarius.”

  ***

  After promising the two grooms they would soon be released, and receiving their grateful thanks, the Templar went into the cell where Criel’s serjeant had put Aquarius, which was adjacent to the one he had just left. The bath attendant was sitting on a stool in the corner and did not look well. His thin face had taken on a sallow hue and his prominent nose was blue with cold. But the Templar was angry, and squashed any pity he might have felt.

  “You lied to me, clerk,” Bascot growled. “You knew all along who killed the washerwoman. Why did you not say so before?”

  Aquarius looked up at him with an air of resignation. “That was foolish, I know, lord. But at the time I was frightened. I thought that if he found out I had given you his name, he would murder me, too, like he did Molly. And then, afterwards, it was too late to tell you, for it would look as though I was lying to protect myself. All I could do was to give you a little of what I knew, and hope you would piece it together.”

  “If the truth had remained hidden, you would have paid a heavy price for your cowardice and so would the two grooms, who are completely innocent of any wrongdoing,” Bascot said harshly.

  Aquarius hung his head, and made no attem
pt to defend his actions.

  “Is there anything else you have not told?” the Templar asked. “Any further incriminating evidence against him?”

  “Only that he came running from one of the empty chambers on the same floor as the antechamber when I raised the alarm,” the bath attendant replied. “He must have gone in there after he killed Molly, and then waited for her body to be discovered before he reappeared. I did not realise he had done so at that moment, but afterwards, during the hours the guards were searching and no intruder was found, I knew that it could only have been him who murdered her, and that he had done so to stop her telling the king about his conversation with the queen’s companion.”

  “Do you know why he considered that a threat?” Bascot pressed. “Did the washerwoman understand the language enough to hear them speaking of some matter that threatened the king?”

  “She knew a few words and that is all, but was sufficiently familiar with the sound of langue d’oc to recognise that his speech was very fluent and also to note that he used the familiar tu while speaking to Marie. And that was why she was suspicious. Not only did he claim to be from Flanders where the language is practically unknown, but she had seen him and Marie, in Rouen, pass each other by without any sign of recognition. From their conversation together she knew this must have been a pretence. She was an observant woman, Molly, and very protective of the king. Why the pair wanted to keep their liaison a secret, she did not know—and nor do I—but even though Inglis disagreed with her and thought her conjecture foolish, she still felt it was worthy of mention and intended to do so the next time she had an opportunity to speak to the king.”

  “And the day you were seen arguing in the townhouse yard with the steward—did you lie about that, too?”

  “Only a little,” the bath attendant admitted. “I told the truth when I said we were not at odds with each other, but I did not when I related the subject of our discussion. Inglis was irritated with Molly for her persistence in saying that the king should be told of it—that is why he looked angry—and I was trying to pacify him and reconcile the breach between them, that is all.”

  As Aquarius finished speaking, they heard the gateward call out and Bascot looked out into the bail through the grille in the cell door. William Marshal and Miles de Laxton had arrived and were dismounting from their horses. With them was Gilles de Laubrec. After handing their mounts into the care of a groom, they all walked over to where Criel was standing at the bottom of the steps leading up into the keep. The misty rain was still falling and all of them were well wrapped up in heavy cloaks and close-fitting quilted arming caps. Leaving the abject clerk to his self-made misery, the Templar pulled his own cloak close around him and went to join them.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  As Bascot approached, Marshal did not waste any time on words of greeting. “De Laxton has told me of your suspicions,” he said tersely. “Have you been able to validate them?”

  “With regard to the suspect for the washerwoman’s murder, yes,” Bascot replied and related what he had been told by the two grooms and Aquarius.

  “And the queen’s attendant?” Marshal asked.

  “I am fairly certain she is responsible for the steward’s death and that the other companion, Yvette, may have witnessed something that will prove it. Marie should be taken into custody as soon as possible so that she does not harm the young girl to prevent her telling what she knows.”

  Marshal turned to Gilles. “Go to the cathedral guesthouse and inform the king. Tell him that he should arrange for her arrest with all haste.”

  The tall knight nodded and went to retrieve his horse from the groom who had taken it into the stables. Within a few minutes, he was riding out of the bail.

  After he had done so, Marshal looked over to the far side of the compound where Chacal continued to oversee his men’s punishment, then flicked his gaze around the empty bail and up to the parapets, where two lone men-at-arms were pacing on sentry duty. “The garrison seems depleted of men,” he said to Criel.

  “Some of them are without the ward on punishment duty,” the constable replied.

  Marshal gave a grim smile. “Then we must be prepared for a battle.” There was an expectant gleam in the earl’s eye as the spoke, and it was evident that he relished the thought of conflict, despite his advanced years.

  Loosening his sword in its scabbard, Marshal turned to Bascot. “You are the one that tracked the quarry, de Marins. To you must go the privilege of his capture. The rest of us will guard your back.”

  At Bascot’s nod, the earl turned to Criel and rapped out an order. “Instruct your gateward to close and bar the gate.”

  Criel called out an order and the huge double doors of the entrance were slammed shut and barred. The movement attracted the attention of the mercenary band and they paused in their circuit of the training ground, sweat pouring down their faces. Chacal, also alerted by the noise, whirled around, his hand dropping to the sword at his belt. Bascot removed his cloak, handed it to Miles and, sword in hand, walked towards the mercenary.

  “You are under arrest, Chacal, on a charge of murder,” he said as he approached. “If you are wise, you will submit quietly.”

  The mercenary made no attempt to deny the charge, merely shifted his stance so that his feet were slightly apart and his body turned to one side. “So, Templar, you have found me out,” he declared with an ironic chuckle. “But in answer to your excellent counsel, wisdom has never been amongst my strengths. I prefer to depend on my sword.”

  As he spoke, he pulled his blade from its scabbard. His band, alarmed by the challenge to their leader, drew their short swords and closed up behind him, and the Templar could hear Marshal, Miles and Criel respond by readying their own weapons and moving forward. But Chacal forestalled the imminent clash by calling out for his men to hold.

  “None of my band were involved in this matter,” he said to Bascot, “or privy to its commission. Will you give them pardon?”

  Bascot surveyed the half-dozen men of the mercenary band. Despite their willingness to defend their captain, he could see confusion in their expressions. It appeared that Chacal was telling the truth.

  “Order them to discard their weapons and submit to Criel’s restraint, and no charges will be laid against them,” he said quietly.

  Chacal gave a nod and with a gesture of his hand, his men drew back to the shelter of the castle walls and lay their swords at their feet, leaving their captain and Bascot alone in the middle of the ward.

  “I must warn you, Templar,” Chacal said, “that I do not intend to be taken. I would rather die than be left to the mercy of your dishonourable king.” He hawked and spat on the ground. “He is a cowardly cochon. I should have killed him when I had the chance.”

  Bascot made no reply and the two men met in a clash of steel. Neither wore mail or helm, both clad only in thick leather jerkins and quilted arming caps. One stroke from the heavy blades would easily cut through the meager protection and into the flesh beneath. Bascot circled to keep his sighted side towards his adversary, cursing the drizzling fall of rain that was obscuring his vision. The hard beaten earth of the bail was treacherously slick, and both men placed their feet cautiously. Even so, it only took the Templar a moment to realise that although Chacal was quick, he was also reckless, and prone to press his advantage before the time was ripe. After they circled each other two or three times, the mercenary leapt forward in a precipitous attempt to strike Bascot’s sword arm and, after sidestepping the blow, the Templar retaliated by slicing his blade into the upper portion of Chacal’s thigh.

  Blood immediately began to ooze, and the mercenary reeled for a moment before giving Bascot an approving glance. “First stroke to you, Templar, but it will be your last.”

  Chacal was now more caut
ious in his approach and, favouring his wounded leg, circled to the left, on Bascot’s unsighted side. For some moments, each of them sought an opening in the other’s defence until, with a sudden lunge, the mercenary caught Bascot high on his left arm with the point of his sword. The blow sliced through the Templar’s tunic and into his bicep. With a quick counter-stroke, Bascot aimed his blade low, and another wound appeared on Chacal’s leg, just beneath the first injury, which was now bleeding profusely.

  Around them, the bail was deathly silent, the only noise that of their swishing blades and the raucous overhead cry of a circling seagull that must have strayed inland from the coast. Marshal, Criel and de Laxton stood with watchful eyes, not only on the combatants but also on the mercenary band, whose attention was riveted to the conflict in front of them. Suddenly the rain ceased to fall and, as it did so, tiny flakes of snow began to drift lazily down, settling on the shoulders of the two men in the center of the compound and on the cloaks of the spectators.

  Bascot began to abandon all hope of arresting Chacal without inflicting further injury. The mercenary had declared his intent not to be taken alive and it was obvious, by the determination in his flat pale eyes, that he meant this struggle to be his final one. Even if Bascot was himself overcome, Chacal would continue to defy any subsequent effort to arrest him, and face Marshal, Criel or Miles with the same determined resolution, until he forced one of them to deal the death blow. The Templar could not, with honesty, fault the mercenary’s logic. John would be merciless in his revenge; drawing, hanging and quartering would be the mercenary’s certain end if he was taken. But it was a punishment he deserved, and Bascot did not intend to allow his adversary to avoid it if he could find a way to forestall him. With a surge of anger, he renewed his attack.