Death of a Squire (Templar Knight Mysteries, No. 2)

by Maureen Ash

  Bascot travelled only a short distance before he came to a large clearing. In it were three huge turf-covered mounds, each about nine feet high. Built up from the inside of a shallow pit, they were a construction of wood piled about a central tripod of tall branches, which was then covered with a thick layer of soil and sod. At the top of each was an iron disk, covering the hole through which the stacks were lighted by means of dropping in a handful of burning embers. Ventilation slits were carefully placed around the perimeter of each mound, at intervals of approximately three feet. When the smoke from these slits turned a clear blue it signalled that the charcoal was ready. The whole process took about three or four days, and constant attendance was needed to monitor the fire and repair any cracks that might appear in the outer covering of turf.

  One of the stacks in the clearing had apparently already served its purpose, for it had been allowed to go out and was dismantled. Some charcoal still remained in the depths of the base, waiting to be put in bags and taken for sale. Both of the other mounds were still burning, the nearest one emitting smoke that was an almost translucent haze. At this one, a tall gaunt man clad in a rough goatskin jerkin was on a ladder placed against the side of the stack, carefully blocking the vent holes so that the lack of air would extinguish the fire. At the next stack a young man, similarly dressed and enough alike the other to be his son, was engaged in filling in cracks in the turf covering. Both looked up at Bascot’s approach, but only the younger one looked startled.

  The Templar dismounted and tethered the grey to the branches of a tree at the edge of the enclosure, near to where a crudely built cart with iron-plated wheels stood. In a small pen a donkey peered inquisitively at the newcomers. Bascot’s horse snuffed discontentedly at the acrid smell of burning but, being a reasonably placid animal, chose to ignore it and began to push his nose hopefully at the rough grass near his feet. The Templar walked over to the mound at which the elder of the two men still kept to his task and approached the bottom of the ladder. As he did so, another boy, a younger version of the other two, appeared at the doorway of a roughly constructed shack, a dog at his side, and stood watching.

  “Are you John Chard?” Bascot called up to the man on the ladder.

  “I am,” was the laconic reply.

  “My name is Bascot de Marins. I have been sent by Sheriff Camville to enquire into the murder of a young man in the forest near here. I need to ask you some questions.”

  The man made no reply, nor did he seem in awe of Bascot’s rank, or the fact that he was armed. He continued to concentrate on his task. Bascot felt his temper rise, but held it in check. He knew only too well how deep ran the resentment of those who had to answer to a master. Charcoal burning was a filthy job, demanding that the stacks be watched day and night to keep the fire under control, and it was dangerous, too, for when the stack was finally cool enough to extract the charcoal there was always the possibility that it would burst into flame and consume not only the wood, but the charcoal burner as well. There was little profit in it either, for despite the skill that the procedure required, and the demand for charcoal for braziers and the forges of smiths, there was little remuneration to be had, especially after the licence to operate had been paid.

  Bascot walked over to the youngster standing at the door of the hovel. At his approach, the dog emitted a low tentative growl, which soon subsided when the boy administered a sharp cuff to the animal’s head.

  Bascot gestured to Chard and spoke to the boy. “Go up on the mound to your father and tell him that I will wait only long enough for him to descend his ladder before I use my mace on the sides of his stacks. Then he will either talk to me or I will take him to be questioned by the sheriff.”

  The boy, eyes wide in his dirty face, nodded quickly and ran to the mound and scampered up the ladder. After pulling urgently on the back of his father’s jerkin he whispered Bascot’s message. The charcoal burner turned and gave the Templar a stare of sullen resentment, but did as he had been told, and shambled over to stand in front of his tormentor. Chard’s face was just as dirty as his son’s, his hands and nails black and ingrained with a dirt that had been there so long it would never wash off. The goatskin garment he wore gave off a pungent smell and was stiff with old sweat and grime. Giving his young son a push and telling him to go up on the stack and continue with the task of stopping up the vent holes, the charcoal burner at last grudgingly gave Bascot his attention.

  “You have heard of the death of a lad, a squire in William Camville’s retinue, found hanged in a tree not far from here?”

  Chard gave his head a slight nod.

  “Where were you the night before he was found?” Bascot’s tone was sharp.

  “I’m here every night,” Chard replied. “My sons are too young to be left with the care of the fires. I have to do it.”

  “Did you hear or see anything of the dead boy on that night?”

  “No.” The answer was surly.

  Bascot drew a deep breath and tried to summon up patience as he walked to the stump of a newly hewn tree and sat down. He decided to try a different tack.

  “Who takes the charcoal to sell?” he asked.

  “My eldest son,” the charcoal burner replied with a jerk of his head in the direction of the bigger of the two boys, still perched atop the middle mound and watching them both fearfully.

  “Did he go to Lincoln that day?” Bascot asked.

  Chard nodded his head. “He did. And returned before sundown. He and my younger boy were in the compound through all the hours of darkness.”

  Bascot called up to the boy. “Did you see or hear anything unusual on your journey?”

  Before the lad could speak, his father interrupted. “He did not. I told you. We were here all that night. No one came near nor by.”

  Bascot stood up and drew the short sword he carried in his belt. He walked over to the stack that the charcoal burner had been plugging and dragged the top of his knife across the top of one of the squares of turf that formed its cover. Almost immediately a little puff of smoke appeared. He turned to Chard. “I have little inclination to be lenient with you, burner. You are insolent and uncooperative. Your very manner tells me you have something to hide. Either you tell me what it is willingly, or I take you to the sheriff and let him force it out of you. The choice is yours.”

  Still the charcoal burner stood silent, his wide mouth set in a stubborn line. The dog began to whine. Bascot, his patience at an end, stepped forward and said, “Very well, Chard. You have made your decision.”

  At these words the elder son, from his perch atop the smoking mound, let out a yell. “No! Tell him, Da! For the sake of Our Lord, tell him.”

  Chard looked up at his son. “Shut your mouth, Adam.”

  “No, Da, I will not.” The boy scrambled down and came to stand by his father, resolution on his thin grimy face. “I did see summat that afternoon,” he said to Bascot. “Just as I was coming home. A horse and rider were ahead of me on the path. There was a girl, too, up behind, on the pillion.”

  Chard interrupted once more. “This has nowt to do wi’ us, Adam. If the sheriff can find someone to blame he will, whether they be guilty or no. You are putting your head in a noose, and mayhap mine and your brother’s as well.”

  “No, burner, you are wrong,” Bascot told him coldly. “If you are innocent, you have nothing to fear.”

  The charcoal burner gave him a scornful look of disbelief, but said nothing. Bascot left him to his doubt and turned once again to the boy. “Did you recognise either of these people? Did you see where they went?”

  The boy hesitated for a moment, glanced at his father’s face, and answered with a deliberate shake of his head. “No, sir. And that’s the truth. I could tell they were my betters by the fineness of the horse and the cloak the girl wore. If they were bent on a loving spree they would not take kindly to the likes o’ me spying on ’em. So I stopped the donkey and waited for a spell. Once they had disappeared up the path, I t
ook a different track to get back here.”

  “Did you get a look at the girl’s face?”

  Adam shook his head. “She had her back to me and the hood on her cloak was up.”

  “Nothing else?” Bascot asked, disappointed.

  “No, sir. That’s all.”

  The charcoal burner relaxed his stance now, a look of resignation on his face. Bascot spoke to him once more. “I will ask you again, Chard—did you hear anything later that night—a scream, a shout for help, anything?”

  The man shook his head in negation and his eldest son did, too. Even the little one, still crouching down by the dog, moved his head sideways in agreement with the others in his family. Bascot knew he would get no more out of them.

  Thirteen

  HUBERT’S UNCLE, JOSCELIN DE VETRY, ARRIVED LATE that afternoon. He was a corpulent man of middle height with a mane of dark curly hair frosted with grey. His face was fat, creased with lines that seemed to show a genial temperament but his eyes, for all their sparkle, were busy as he looked inquisitively about him. The clothes he wore were of good quality; his cloak was lined with fur and there was a finely set piece of amber surrounded by silver filigree on the side of his cap. On his arrival, Nicolaa de la Haye’s steward provided him with refreshment in a corner of the hall and sent to inform his mistress of the man’s presence.

  De Vetry’s manner to the castellan was courteous, but not overly respectful. He was, he explained, only Hubert’s uncle-by-marriage, his wife being the sister of the mother of the boy.

  “You will know that Hubert’s father is dead,” he said, “and since all his other male relatives are away from home, it was thought best if I came to escort the boy’s remains back to his mother so that she may bury him.”

  He went on to add that he also had business in Lincoln that could be transacted during the day or two he would stay before he returned home. There followed a careful explanation of his own antecedents: that although he himself had been gently born of a father who had been an impoverished knight, his mother had been the daughter of a prosperous goldsmith in Boston, and that he followed the same trade. It was of matters pertaining to this that he had reason to see one or two of the goldsmiths in Lincoln.

  “I will not say it is for the sake of expediency that I combine my sad duty to my wife’s nephew with monetary concerns, but travel is hard at this time of year and I do not wish to make the journey more often than is necessary.”

  “I trust Hubert’s mother will not be too distressed at the condition of her son’s body,” Nicolaa replied, feeling distaste for the man and his smugness. “I instructed my messenger not to tell her in too great detail how the boy met his death, but I fear the state of his flesh would be a shock to any mother.”

  De Vetry sat up straighter in his chair, his complacency falling away. “Condition? I was told by my wife that he had met with an accident in the forest. I—we—assumed a fall from a horse while hunting, or some such. What happened to him?”

  Nicolaa told her visitor of how Hubert had been found and what the crows had done to him. “He has been decently wrapped and covered, of course, but if you could find a way to keep his mother from too close an examination of her son’s body, I think it would be better for her peace of mind.”

  De Vetry was shaken. “Of course, of course,” he muttered, quickly drinking down the remains of his wine. As Nicolaa motioned for one of the servants to refill his cup, the goldsmith struggled to regain his composure. “Then he was…he was…murdered, you say?”

  “I think it most unlikely that he could have bound and hanged himself from so high a branch without assistance,” Nicolaa said dryly. “My husband believes that he surprised some poachers and was slain by them.”

  De Vetry seemed to relax a little at her words but he still looked at her doubtfully. “Is that what you believe, lady? And Sir William, is he of the same mind as your husband?”

  “Suffice it to say that the matter is being looked into,” Nicolaa replied. She rose from her chair. “But even though I advise that his mother does not see the boy’s body, some member of the family must view the remains, for piety’s sake. I am sure that you, de Vetry, will be willing to perform the task.”

  The goldsmith rose hastily to his feet. Nicolaa felt a perverse satisfaction in watching the colour drain from his face. “Yes, of course, lady. You are right. It is only proper that I do so.”

  “Then, since the hour grows late, I suggest you do it now. Afterwards the body may be placed in a coffin ready for transport when you have finished your—matters of business.”

  Calling to her steward, the castellan gave de Vetry over to his care, directing her servant to take the merchant to the chapel where Hubert’s body lay. She fancied that de Vetry would, in a few short moments, have a more proper respect for the death of his wife’s nephew than when he first arrived.

  BASCOT ARRIVED BACK IN THE CASTLE BAIL LATE IN THE afternoon. He took his horse to the stables and gave it into the care of one of the grooms, then started to cross the ward in the direction of the armoury so that he could divest himself of hauberk and helm. Before he had taken more than a few steps Gianni ran up to him, face alight with pleasure at his master’s return. Behind the boy, standing in the doorway of the barracks was Ernulf, and the familiar figure of Roget, captain of the sheriff’s town guard. Both men raised their hand in greeting, Roget brandishing a wine skin.

  “Hola, de Marins. Come, join us and wipe the dust of the journey from your throat. I have brought a good vintage for you to try. It will fare you better than the horse piss that Ernulf keeps in his store.”

  Bascot nodded his acceptance of the offer and continued on his way to the armoury. Inside, Gianni helped him out of his hauberk, struggling to lift the chain mail shirt onto a stout wooden crosspiece kept for the purpose. Bascot resisted the temptation to help him. The mail weighed almost as much as the boy himself, but the lad took pride in his abilities and the Templar had decided to encourage him in this regard. It had taken Bascot much soul-searching to determine the fine line between indulging the boy and teaching him responsibility and, despite his affection for his servant, he knew that it would be a disservice to allow the lad a laxity that could lead to selfishness.

  When they walked back into the barracks, one of the men-at-arms told them that Ernulf and Roget were in the small room that the serjeant claimed for his own, and Bascot went to join them. The doorway was covered with a heavy leather curtain and the Templar drew it aside so that he and Gianni could enter. The two soldiers were seated at a small table, sharing a jack of wine. Roget hooked a stool from beneath the table for Bascot to sit on, while Gianni scuttled to a corner and settled himself on a pile of neatly folded blankets.

  Roget filled a mazer with wine for Bascot and the Templar drank it down thirstily. The captain had been right in his boast; it was good, full ripe on the tongue and warm in the gullet.

  “So, de Marins, Ernulf tells me you were skewered by an arrow while roaming about in the wildwood looking for brigands. Is life here in Lincoln so dull that you must always be hunting a murderer?”

  Roget laughed as he finished his jest, a full-bodied chuckle that came from deep in his throat. He was a fearsome looking man, tall and strongly built, with the scar of an old sword slash nearly bisecting one cheek from temple to chin. He had once been a mercenary and was reputed to be uncaring of either man or beast, as well as a lecher and a hard drinker, but Bascot found him good company and knew that, for all his faults, he was a capable soldier and loyal to Gerard Camville.

  “I think a murderer must be easier to find than wine as good as this, Roget,” Bascot responded. “Where did you steal it from?”

  The captain gave Bascot a gap-toothed grin and laid a finger alongside his nose. “I can smell out a good wine just as well as I can scent a willing woman, Templar. Le bon Dieu blessed me with a nose for both.”

  They each had another cup of wine, then Ernulf told Bascot that Hubert’s uncle had arrived in Lincoln,
come to escort his nephew’s body home.

  “Is he much grieved?” Bascot asked.

  Ernulf gave him a scornful look. “That one? The only thing that would bring sorrow to Joscelin de Vetry is a loss of his silver.”

  “Was the boy of his own blood, or related by marriage?”

  “Son of his wife’s sister. De Vetry is a pompous blowhard. He was gently born on his father’s side, but his mother was the daughter of a goldsmith. Never fails to remind everyone of his father’s lineage while adorning himself with enough jewels to weigh down an ox cart.”

  Ernulf chuckled as he added, “Seems Lady Nicolaa turned him, if not his gold, a bit green, though. She barely let him get his foot in the ward before she sent him off to see the mess the crows had made of his wife’s kin. The steward told me that afterwards the goldsmith had urgent need to rush to the privy.”

  Roget offered to refill Bascot’s cup but the Templar refused, preferring to wait until he had eaten some food. Rousing Gianni he sent the boy to the kitchen to bring him some cold viands and bread.

  As the youngster scampered off, Ernulf’s face became serious. “I didn’t want to say this in front of the boy, Bascot, but you were foolish to go out alone this morning. You’ve already had one attempt made to kill you, yet you invite another. Why didn’t you take a couple of my lads with you? Never hurts to have a guard at your back.”

  Bascot shook his head. “I will learn nothing from the villagers, or any other peasant, with a show of force, Ernulf. It only makes them herd together, like a flock of sheep, and seals their lips from fright.”