by Maureen Ash
The Templar then related what Marie had said about her son. “As would be expected of any mother, she claimed that Hugo was a parfait knight, charming and exuberant, and with a naïve honesty that never failed to enchant those who met him. She said that he had been raised by his father as though he were his legitimate offspring, trained in the ways of knighthood just as John of Melle’s other sons had been. Melle’s fief, being small, owed only a quota of one knight to Lusignan when the call to arms was raised for the attack on Mirabeau, and Hugo begged to be allowed to go, claiming that his sire’s other sons were all married and with responsibilities, or absent, like Chacal, and that he would be honoured to serve not only his lord, but his father, in the forthcoming battle.”
Bascot paused for a moment. “It was understandable that Marie would praise her only child in this way, and so I asked Chacal for his opinion of his half-brother.”
“And did he confirm it?” Nicolaa asked.
“Yes, he did. He had not seen Hugo for many years—at the time he left Melle the lad had not yet reached manhood—but he told me that her description was just as he remembered him, and that was why both he and Marie had been so grieved at the manner of his death.” Bascot took a sip of wine, and then added, “It is not uncommon for relatives to assign favourable attributes to members of their family, or friends, after they have died, but in this instance, and as Chacal strikes me as a dispassionate man not inclined to ascribe honour where it is not merited, I believed him.”
Marshal nodded in agreement. “Many a young knight has lofty ideals until he has gained some experience of warfare. It may be that if Hugo had survived, his character would have been tempered by reality, and become more hardened.”
Bascot picked up the tale where he had left it, at Chacal and Marie’s agreement in Rouen to devise a plan to kill John. “Once they were set on their course, they decided it would be best if they kept secret the name of the town from which they came, and their relationship to Hugo and each other,” Bascot continued, “lest the king recognise—and they truly believed he would remember the name—that they were closely affiliated with a man he had ordered put to death. Anticipating that her connection with Melle might be discovered, Marie had already told the queen that she came from another town in Isabella’s domain and, as Chacal was commonly believed to be a Brabançon, he continued with this misconception.”
“But surely the Brabançons of his band knew he was not from their homeland?” Marshal said.
“No, they did not,” Bascot replied. “When he left Melle many years before to ply the trade of mercenary, he entered the service of the Duke of Brabant, and had been with the duke up until the time he and his band joined the de Socienne troupe. After so many years, all of the older men that remembered his coming and knew of his origins had either been killed or left the duke’s employ. The rest were young, and believed him to be, like themselves, from the Brabant. This was an impression he had taken care not to dispel, for it forged their bonds of loyalty to him more strongly.
“Unfortunately, however,” Bascot added, “there was one person to whom, and only in passing, he had told the truth of his origins and that was Godeschal de Socienne. Chacal and Marie both feared that if Molly mentioned to John the oddity of a supposedly Brabançon knight having the ability to speak fluent langue d’oc, the king would question de Socienne about Chacal’s background and the truth would come out.”
“It must have been a shock to both of them when John did not even recognise the bastard son’s name and you, Marshal, revealed that the king had not been the cause of his death,” Nicolaa opined. “All of their subterfuge, and the two murders, had been for naught.”
The earl shook his leonine head. “It is sad indeed. From one small mistaken notion, a tragedy has ensued and two innocent souls have lost their lives.”
“But there is still one part in all of this that I do not understand,” Nicolaa said to Bascot. “How did Chacal and Marie learn that Molly had overheard them speaking together? Did the washerwoman challenge the mercenary directly?”
“No, it was Inglis who did that,” the Templar informed her. “The conversation Aquarius overheard between the steward and Molly in the churchyard appears not to have been the first time they had spoken of the matter for, during the evening of the day that the king’s party arrived, Inglis asked the mercenary if he had ever been in the south of France, and spoke the dialect that was used there. Chacal told him that he had not.
“But even though Inglis accepted his denial,” Bascot continued, “Molly was not inclined to do so, and their argument over the matter ensued. And it was also through the steward that Chacal and Marie learned that it was Molly who had been the reason for Inglis’ enquiry. After the mercenary had assured him he was not familiar with the southern regions of France, or their dialect, he asked Inglis the reason for his question and the steward told him that Molly thought she had overheard him conversing in that language with one of the queen’s ladies while on the boat crossing the Narrow Sea. Chacal laughed it off, saying she must have been mistaken, that he had been born in the Brabant and had never been to Angoulême, or any other southern province, in his life. This, the mercenary says, was a mistake on his part. He should have spun the steward some tale about picking up a smattering of langue d’oc while serving alongside mercenaries that hailed from the south, and had used the few words he knew in order to show politeness towards one of the ladies that served the queen. But once he had denied it, it was impossible to retract, and the die was cast. But even though the steward appeared to accept his word, he soon discovered that Molly had not, for the very next morning, Chacal heard Aquarius and Inglis speaking together out in the yard about her insistence in pursuing the matter. It was then that he and Marie realised Molly was not inclined to let the matter rest, and decided that she, and the steward, must be killed. He told me they also intended to despatch Aquarius but, with Marie at Dover, and the bath attendant being careful to lock the door to his room so that Chacal could not gain entry without rousing the guards stationed in the townhouse, an opportunity never arose to take his life.”
After a moment’s reflection on what she had been told, Nicolaa asked if it was likely that the mercenary would recover from his wounds, and live to face trial at the assize.
“Whether he does or not is, I think, a matter of complete indifference to him,” the Templar replied. “He is resigned to his fate. He even found it amusing to remind me that he had never, throughout the course of the investigation, lied to me, for he had always claimed that one of the servants in the royal townhouse was responsible for Molly’s death, and so it proved to be. He also said he had been overjoyed when I found a possible hiding place in the undercroft that could have been used by an intruder, for he hoped it would send me off on a chase for a non-existent interloper. No, Chacal’s only regret is that Marie’s part in the crimes was discovered; it was to protect her that he refused to give me any information after he was injured, for he holds her in high regard.”
“How so?” Nicolaa asked. “She is no family of his except that she bore a son to his father, and he has been gone from Melle for many years.”
“Apparently she was a faithful companion and friend to his mother—who died when Chacal was very young—and looked after his dam most tenderly while she was suffering from the sickness which took her life,” the Templar replied. “He also said that she cared for himself and his brothers with great kindness after their mother was dead, so much so that they all came to love her. And that is why he so readily agreed to aid her; to him she stood in the place of a mother.”
***
Shortly afterwards, William Marshal left the townhouse to seek his pallet at the cathedral priory and Bascot, before retiring to his own bed in an upper chamber, told Nicolaa that now his commission for the king had been completed, it was his intention to leave early the next morning to return to Lincoln. She watched after him thoughtfully as he le
ft her presence, ruminating on how she could find a way to protect her family if John should decide to take steps to prevent her from revealing his secret.
Remaining in her seat in the hall, she sipped from her almost empty cup of hot cider, deep in thought. Finally, just as the hour was growing very late, she rang a small bell on the table beside her and Dauton answered her summons.
“Bring me some parchment, ink, a quill and some sealing wax,” she instructed. “After you have done that, you may retire.”
Once the implements were placed before her, she wrote steadily for the better part of an hour and then folded the missive and sealed it securely, impressing into the soft wax the de la Haye insignia of a twelve-pointed star, which was engraved on top of a ring she wore. Her task finished, she then left the room to go to her bedchamber, taking what she had written with her, safely tucked into the bodice of her gown.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Bascot rose early the next morning to attend the service of Prime at the nearby church of St. John’s before returning to the Watling Street townhouse to take his leave of Nicolaa, Gianni and the two knights of her escort. They were all seated at the table in the hall, breaking their fast, when he entered. After bidding Miles and Gilles farewell and expressing his hope that the rest of their stay in Canterbury would be less eventful, the Templar turned to say goodbye to Gianni. He had been dreading this moment; once more he would have to leave the lad he loved like a son, not knowing when, if ever, they would meet again. The bond between them was so strong that it could not be broken by absence, but parting was nonetheless filled with sadness.
Placing his hand on the lad’s shoulder, Bascot said, “You have once again made me proud, Gianni. May God be with you and keep you safe from harm.”
Gianni looked up at him, his liquid brown eyes awash with unspilled tears. Raising his hand, he placed the tips of his fingers to his chest, over his heart, and then touched them to Bascot’s breast, a mute declaration of filial love for the man who had been as a father to him. A tremulous smile accompanied the lad’s gesture, and not only did the Templar’s own eye fill with moisture in response, but similarly affected were all of those who were witness to the show of tenderness. Although the lad could not speak, his deep affection for his former master had been made more evident by that simple action than words could ever express.
Choked with emotion, Bascot turned away and found Nicolaa standing beside him, commiseration on her face. “Come, Templar,” she said softly. “For Gianni’s sake, and your own, a swift parting now is best.”
Recognising the wisdom of her words, and with one last fond glance at Gianni, Bascot followed her diminutive figure across the hall and out into the passage. As he prepared to take his leave of her, she forestalled him. “I would have you delay your journey for a few moments, de Marins. I need to speak with you privily before you go.”
Giving a nod of assent, he followed her into a small chamber close by to where they stood. Once the door was closed behind them, Nicolaa took a few slow steps across the room and then turned towards him, her expression strained. “Will you be going straight back to Lincoln, de Marins, or are you stopping in London on the way?”
Surprised that his itinerary should be of interest to her, Bascot said, “I go first to London, lady. Not only do I have to give Master Berard a report on the outcome of the murder investigation, but there is also the possibility that my orders have changed since I was last in contact with him. I need to confirm that I am still to return to Lincoln and not travel to another posting elsewhere.”
Nicolaa gave a brief nod and then handed him the sealed letter. “I would have you keep this by you until I return to Lincoln myself,” she said. “If, by some chance, you are sent to another preceptory, please give it to Master Berard and ask him to hold it until I send word that he is to return it to me.”
She looked up at him, her face drawn and tight, as she added, “Should any harm befall me before I return home, you may open the letter and read the contents and then take such action as you deem necessary. If you have to leave the letter with Master Berard, please convey this instruction to him as well.”
Bascot took the package from her and carefully stowed it in his tunic. As she had expected, he made no query about her strange request other than to give her a searching look, and a promise to do as she asked.
When, a short time later, the Templar left, Nicolaa breathed a sigh of relief. While she could not be certain of the lengths to which John would go to ensure her silence about what had befallen his nephew, it was best to be prepared for any eventuality. The missive she had given the Templar contained all that the archbishop had told her about Arthur’s sad fate. Even if it did not save her own life, the threat of exposure by such a powerful faction as the Templar Order might keep her family safe.
***
As Bascot rode out of Westgate towards the London road, Nicolaa’s missive weighed heavy against his chest. He had a great respect, and personal liking, for the castellan; and since she was not a woman that was easily cowed, he hoped that the threat she had hinted at would not turn into a reality.
As he turned onto the broad highway that led to London, a light rain began to fall and he pulled his cloak closer around him. The countryside through which he travelled was still blanketed with snow, but the surface of the road was bare, having been trampled clear by the traffic that had passed over it since the recent snowfall. The sky overhead was the colour of pewter, but in the distance he could see the light of a pale sun beginning to pierce the gloom. He hoped it was a fortuitous omen and that the letter he carried would never need to be opened.
Epilogue
Late December 1203
John was sitting alone in the hall of the royal townhouse on Stour Street, in his hand a letter he had just received from the prior of St. Gervais in Rouen. Slowly his chin sunk onto his chest as the parchment dropped from his hand and fluttered to the floor. Arthur was dead, having finally succumbed to an intermittent fever that had been oppressing him for some weeks. The letter had been written on the twenty-third of December, John’s natal day, the thirty-seventh anniversary of his birth, and informed him that his nephew had died that very day. What a heavenly irony God had given him; never again would he celebrate the day of his birth without remembering it coincided with the death of his brother’s son, a death he had caused through his own violent temper.
He stared into the fire blazing in the hearth and wished, with all his heart, that he could recall the moment when he had struck Arthur. How rightly anger was numbered amongst the seven deadly sins; through it his father had caused the murder of Thomas Becket, and now he had, by the same instrument, killed his own blood kin. Henry had paid for his crime in public penance, but that was a luxury denied to John for, except for Briouze, no one knew the truth. Taking hold of the jewel-encrusted crucifix that he now wore constantly around his neck, he raised it to his lips and kissed it. He would have to atone for his terrible crime some day, he knew, but, please God, not until after he had secured Normandy.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The setting for The Canterbury Murders is an authentic one. Just before the season of Christ’s Mass in 1203, John and Isabella, along with William Marshal, left Rouen to go to Canterbury from whence, in the new year, they travelled to Oxford to attend the convocation of English nobles that the king had called to garner support for the defence of Normandy. Also, Nicolaa de la Haye is an historical figure and was hereditary castellan of Lincoln castle during this period, and her husband, Gerard Camville, sheriff of Lincoln. It might also interest the reader to learn that a servant by the name of Aquarius is recorded in the annals as having been John’s bath attendant.
The historical mystery of Arthur of Brittany’s disappearance has never been solved. It is generally accepted that he was murdered by John during an argument between them, and behind closed doors, at Rouen castle in April of 1203, but this has not been
proven. In The Canterbury Murders, I offer an alternative, but still hypothetical, solution, one that was suggested to me by John’s treatment of William de Briouze a few years later when the baron fell out of royal favour. Briouze was exiled and it is recorded by Roger of Wendover, a contemporary chronicler, that after this event Briouze’s wife, Matilda, publically accused John of murdering his nephew. The king promptly imprisoned her and her son and starved them to death.
For details of the characters and period, I am much indebted to the following:
John, King of England by John T. Appleby (Alfred A. Knopf)
King John by W. L. Warren (University of California Press)
William Marshal by Sidney Painter (University of Toronto Press)
Medieval Lincoln by J. W. F. Hill (Cambridge University Press)
Maureen Ash was born in London, England, and has had a lifelong interest in British medieval history. Visits to castle ruins and old churches have provided the inspiration for her novels. She enjoys Celtic music, browsing in bookstores and Belgian chocolate.
