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

by Maureen Ash

  He got up and strode to the arrow slit high in the wall that served as a window for the chamber. His vantage point looked south, the direction from which King John would come. His thoughts raced, trying to untangle the reason for Hubert’s murder. Had the lad, as he and Ralph had at first suspected, eavesdropped on their conversation and discovered that they were privy to a plan being hatched in the northern part of the kingdom to overthrow John and place Arthur on the throne? If that conversation had been the basis for the barely concealed innuendos Hubert had apparently been so fond of spouting, it was likely that the murderer was someone who had also been party to the plot, and had killed their half brother to still his wagging tongue. If that was so, had Hubert been murdered soon enough, before he had revealed Godfroi and Ralph’s names to any who would betray them?

  Godfroi felt cold sweat break out on his brow, from where it dripped and ran into his eyes, as he thought of what his fate would be if the king became aware of their treachery. That the proposed plot had come to nothing would matter little. John was not like his dead brother, King Richard. He did not have a forgiving nature, nor did he trust lightly. Godfroi swallowed the rest of his wine, then poured himself yet another cup. He must hope the de Tournay brothers’ secret had died with Hubert and prayed, with all his heart, that his half brother’s murderer would not be caught.

  TO THE NORTH OF THE OAK WHERE BASCOT WAITED with Fulcher, Alain and Renault were crowded close behind William Camville on the western side of the river. Sherwood was a vast forest, spreading over a good portion of Nottinghamshire, but its eastern edge splayed out like an inkblot, touching the banks of the Trent in more than one place, as it did in the area they were now in, where the forest abutted the river for a stretch of roughly two miles. Its writ was in the province of the sheriff of Nottingham but it was unlikely he would complain about their trespass for, not only was he a friend of Gerard’s, he would also welcome the capture of any of the brigands that continually plagued his territory.

  The small group led by the sheriff’s brother also included Roget, Tostig and the young forester Eadric; the woodsmen having been ordered to accompany them so that they could help guide William’s men through the forest. Tostig was mounted, with Eadric riding pillion behind him. Both men carried bows. They had all forded the river just moments before.

  “We must try to work our way close to where the Templar is without signalling our presence to the outlaws,” William said. “We must catch them before they retreat into the forest. Our mounts will hamper us once we are amongst the trees and we will be sure targets for any arrows loosed from their cover. Are there any trails, Tostig, that we can use?”

  “None that I know of, my lord,” Tostig answered.

  William Camville shook his head in irritation and Renault, who had been studying the stretch of riverbank that wound to the south of where they stood, said, “My lord, the river is shallow as it runs close to the bank on this side. Could we not walk our horses in the water for a space? It would cover any sound of our approach and would get us nearer to the Templar.”

  William considered this, then asked Tostig how far it was to the spot where Bascot was to take Fulcher.

  “A little under half a league, my lord. But the river turns close to the place, and to the outlaws’ advantage, for it curves eastwards. If we are in the water, we cannot get too near before we will be seen. And the river deepens at the bank not far from here. It would be treacherous for the horses.”

  William hunched forward to lean with both hands on the raised front of his saddle and gaze at the turbulent expanse of water. “A good thought, Renault, but unfortunately one we cannot use. We must make our way through the forest and lead our mounts; otherwise, their passage will be heard long before we are seen.”

  “My lord Camville,” Eadric spoke up hesitantly, “I know the woods on this side a little better, perhaps, than Tostig, for I was in the employ of one of the king’s agisters for Nottingham before I came to Lincoln.”

  William swung around to the young woodward. “If you know something that may help us, speak up,” he commanded.

  Eadric’s fair face flushed with embarrassment, but he answered the baron without hesitation. “There is a path, lord, only a little way from where we stand. It is a deer track, but a well-used one. We would still have to lead the horses, but could make much better time than by a winding course through the trees.”

  “Good man,” William said. “That is the way we will go. And we will have to hurry. It will be dusk soon and I would lief have these outlaws secure in our hands before darkness falls. Lead on, Eadric.”

  BASCOT GAZED ONCE MORE ACROSS THE RIVER AT Gianni. The boy was still staring at him intently, his gaze locked to the place where Bascot stood. The Templar let his eye stay on the boy a moment and, as he did so, he saw Gianni raise his shoulders in a peculiar hunching motion, then let them drop. As Bascot watched, the boy did it again. The reeve’s nephew, Edward, who still had hold of Gianni’s arm, shook him for the movement, but the boy defiantly did it again, earning himself a cuff on the ear from his captor. Bascot saw Edward’s lips move in what must have been an admonishment to stand still.

  Gianni was trying to convey something, Bascot thought. Because the boy was mute, they had long conversed by means of hand or body signals, even after Bascot had taught Gianni to read and write. But this movement was one which he had not used for a long time, not since those early days when the Templar had first come across the boy. It had been an instinctive gesture, both as a measure to sum up courage and, at the same time, a tensing of the muscles to withstand any blow that may have been aimed at him. It had always presaged the lad’s intention to run, to flee whatever threatening situation he found himself in. He had done it often in the first days of being in Bascot’s company, and it had slowly lessened as the Templar had earned his trust. Afterwards, many weeks later, Bascot had teased him about it, especially when he had given the boy some task that was disagreeable, such as the painstaking job of polishing his mail with an abrasive mixture of sand and vinegar. It had been a long time since he had seen Gianni hunch his shoulders in that particular way, preparing for flight. But he was doing it now, trying to tell his master something. Bascot hoped he was interpreting it correctly.

  Bascot hauled on the rope still attached to Fulcher and pulled the outlaw upright. “Can you swim, poacher?” he asked.

  The brigand looked up in surprise and nodded.

  “How well?” Bascot asked.

  “My father was an eeler. I could swim before I could walk.”

  “And do you know this stretch of the river?”

  “As well as the palm of my own hand.”

  Bascot leaned down. “I will give you your chance to take this Green Jack to hell with you, or to escape, if that is what you prefer.” At the look of distrust that appeared on Fulcher’s lacerated face, the Templar went on. “I do not give a damn if you were responsible for the squire’s death, nor do I care if you take deer that belong to the sheriff, the king, or even God. I care only to get back my servant, unharmed.”

  Under cover of his shield Bascot withdrew the short dagger he had at his belt and held it up. “This is yours if you do as I say. I will put it in my boot and you may take it when the time is right. Betray me and you will find it in your throat.”

  Fulcher looked at the face above him, the leather eyepatch glistening with water, the one sighted eye so pale a blue it seemed transparent. Slowly the outlaw nodded in assent. “For a chance to see Green Jack sent to his grave I would face the jaws of hell twice over.”

  Bascot straightened, a grim smile on his face. “Then tell me the lie of the riverbed as it passes here.”

  IN THE FOREST ON THE EASTERN BANK OF THE TRENT, Gerard Camville and his men waited. The sheriff was impatient; he had two of his archers stationed near the river’s edge, staggered one behind the other, to relay to him what was passing at the spot where the Templar and Fulcher stood, but so far he had only been told of an exchange of w
ords and the appearance of the boy and some of his captors on the far side of the water. Beside him, his son, Richard, felt his father’s mood, but he knew his sire’s temper. No matter how restless he seemed, he would wait until he gauged the moment right. It was one of Gerard Camville’s greatest assets. The powerful coil of anger that seemed to be ever present in his personality was always in danger of erupting, and often did, but on the battlefield he controlled it, having an innate perception of timing and an almost eerie knowledge of the moment when an enemy was weakest.

  Suddenly one of the bowmen from the riverbank appeared silently through the trees and made his way to the sheriff’s horse. “My lord, the Templar is preparing to take the brigand across the water. He has lashed the outlaw’s wrist to his saddlebow and is riding his horse down into the water.”

  “Hell’s teeth,” Camville swore under his breath. “Once he is on the other side, we cannot reach him quickly. I told him to make them bring the boy to him.”

  “They would not, lord. I heard them refuse.” The archer looked up, a slightly puzzled frown on his face. “Lord, I think the Templar must have a plan.”

  “Why do you think so, man? For the sake of Christ, spit it out.” Camville’s face had flushed a dangerous red.

  The archer remained unperturbed at the harsh words, used as he was to the sheriff’s temper. “Because he only made a pretense of tying the outlaw’s wrist,” he replied. “I could see clearly. He wrapped it, made as if tying a knot, but did not do so. Fulcher can slide himself free at any time.”

  “The bastard,” Camville swore. “If he loses me my captive and does not recover the boy, I’ll hang him instead, Templar or no.”

  “Easy, father,” Richard counselled. “De Marins is not a foolish man, nor a cowardly one. We must see what it is he means to do, then assist when it is needed.”

  “Aye,” the sheriff agreed, somewhat reluctantly. “We will wait, but not too long, and from a nearer perch than this.” He urged the powerful stallion he rode nearer into the trees along the riverbank, and signalled Ernulf and the band of men-at-arms behind him to follow as quietly as they could. When the sheriff called a halt, they were near enough to the river for a quick charge to bring them through the trees and to the waterside in moments.

  The other archer who had been watching at the river’s edge came sliding back through the trees. “My lord sheriff, the Templar is well out into the river now. Almost halfway across.”

  “Then let us pray to God that my brother is there to help him when he reaches the other side, for our horses would need to sprout wings to come to his aid.”

  THE WATER WAS COLD AND WRITHED LIKE A SNAKE. Fulcher felt the shock of it, like red-hot iron on the welts and bruises on his body, as he slipped into the water at the Templar’s side. He had felt the shudder that Bascot’s mount had given and the need for its rider to urge the horse forward with a dig of spurs. On the other bank, the trio holding Gianni watched intently, the boy seeming to shrink as he reached his hands down between his knees and crouched, waiting. Other shapes were appearing in the trees behind them, along with the outlines of bows, held nocked and at the ready. Above, the sky was darkening, seeming to lour in elemental disapproval. The rain continued to fall.

  “How much farther?” Bascot asked Fulcher.

  “Not yet. We must go just a few more paces.” The outlaw had to pull himself up out of the water to make himself heard by the Templar. Once he had spoken, he dropped back down, easing his shoulders.

  They were in the middle of the river now. The water was surging up around the chest of Bascot’s horse, streaming alongside in waves, soaking Bascot to the thighs and cresting in Fulcher’s face like the flap of a curtain. The brigand could feel the slip of the rope at his wrist, the Templar’s boot and stirrup digging into his side, and the rough uneven bed of the river as his feet touched it lightly and bounced away, letting himself be carried forward by the horse’s strength, not his own.

  Bascot’s horse suddenly stumbled, its hooves hitting the hard ridge of gravel that ran down the river just a little off the middle of its course. The grey lifted one foreleg, then the offside hind, as it prepared to scramble up the obstacle it could only feel, not see. At that moment, Fulcher pulled on the rope around his wrist, sliding it free, and said the one word, “Now.” Almost immediately he dove under the animal’s belly, coming out on the other side. Bascot felt him grab at his stirrup, the hand snake up his boot and grasp the dagger, then Fulcher pushed away, sliding into the current and cutting through the water with powerful strokes. Bascot let out a shout, wheeled his horse in the water and drew his sword. The outlaws on the bank ran forward, shouting at each other and pointing to where Fulcher’s dark head could be seen just above the surface of the water as he cleaved a path away from them.

  Arrows erupted suddenly into the air as the bowmen in the forest shot their missiles, not at Bascot, but at their supposed comrade. Bascot knew then that Fulcher had told him the truth. Frantically, he twisted his head, looking for Gianni. The boy was still there beside Edward but even as Bascot spied him, the lad, with a quick movement, bit the arm of his captor so that the reeve’s nephew let out a yell and released him. Then Gianni shrugged, gathered his legs under him and ran, straight for the river. Bascot spurred his horse forward, towards the boy. The grey slipped at first, confused, then pushed with all its strength as his hind legs gained the top of the gravel ridge. Bascot guided him along it as Gianni, running like a deer, reached the bank and jumped as far as he could, legs flailing wildly to give him more distance. He landed with a splash in the water only a few yards from Bascot and, with one bound, the grey leaped forward and the Templar scooped the boy up from the roiling river, dragging him across the front of his saddle.

  On the western bank all was confusion. The outlaw archers turned to aim their arrows at Bascot, and the Templar swung Gianni up behind him and pushed his shield over his shoulder so that the boy could huddle underneath its protection. He could feel the lad’s hands clutching at the back of his surcoat, holding on like a leech. Then a shout of warning sounded from the woods behind the archers and from the screen of trees, William Camville burst, his two squires and Roget close behind, swords in hand. The terrified bowmen scattered towards the water but, from the eastern bank of the Trent, the sheriff now appeared, his mount at full gallop and a deadly mace swinging from his hand. The castle men-at-arms were fanned out on either side of him, short swords at the ready.

  The battle was of brief duration. Apart from their bows, most of the outlaws had little in the way of weaponry—a few cudgels, some rusty knives, the crude blades of scythes. Some half dozen of the outlaw band were killed outright and almost twice that number captured. Only one of the sheriff’s force sustained an injury; a man-at-arms had his wrist bone broken as one of the outlaws, more desperate than the rest, tried to wrest the soldier from his horse. The outlaw had died from a sword slash delivered by Richard Camville, the blow almost cleaving the man’s torso from the lower part of his body.

  The sheriff was well pleased with the outcome of the foray, although he showed some disappointment at the loss of Fulcher. “Still, de Marins, I agreed to exchange him for your servant and that is what we have done. These other miscreants will pay the price for his escape. And I will ensure that they pay dearly, not only for his loss but for that of my deer.”

  It was full dark by the time they reached the gates of Lincoln castle, with the captured outlaws, bound at the hands and to each other, stumbling between the men-at-arms guarding them on either side. Gerard and William Camville, along with Richard and the two squires, rode at the head of the procession, the sheriff for once in a jocular mood, while Roget and Ernulf passed a wineskin back and forth and exchanged jokes with the men of the garrison. More somber were the foresters, Tostig and Eadric. Bascot wondered if this was because they had not been able to capture Green Jack or whether it was because Fulcher, a poacher on the territory in their care, had escaped.

  But the Templar
gave the foresters, the outlaw leader and Fulcher no more than a passing thought. At his back Gianni was fast asleep, wrapped in one of the soldier’s cloaks and with the cap that Ernulf had given him—rescued from the head of one of the captured outlaws—fastened securely on his head. To feel the boy’s chest rise and fall in the soft rhythm of sleep and to know that he was safe, that was enough.

  Twenty-five

  FULCHER STRUGGLED AGAINST THE RIVER’S TOW AFTER he pulled away from the Templar’s horse. Staying underwater, and close to the bank, he had surfaced only briefly to snatch a mouthful of air when it became necessary. The arrows loosed by the outlaws fell thick around him at first, pushing through the water near his head, shoulders and legs, finally losing their impetus as the current swept them away. When he judged it safe he let himself drift into a stand of osiers and, under their screen, came to a halt and cautiously put his head above the water and looked back. In the distance he could hear the sounds of fighting, like a buzzing of hornets, above the roar of the river but no one, neither soldier nor outlaw, came in pursuit of him.

  Easing back into the river he swam, with the powerful strokes that seemed more natural to him than walking. He would put a good distance between himself and the warring factions downstream before coming out from under the protective blanket of the river. As he cleaved through the water, the sting of the contusions on his body eased, the deep ache of his bruises started to abate and he began to feel the life of the river around him; otters at play as they fed, trout darting between his legs, a heron prompted into hasty flight, startled by his sudden appearance. Clumps of reeds swept by on the periphery of his vision, then a willow with branches low from the heavy rain alongside clumpy fronds of sedge grass. How he had loved the river when he had, as a child, accompanied his father and uncle as they had gone out, in the early part of the evenings, to set snares for the eels that provided their livelihood. He had loved it all, even weaving osiers to make traps or, in winter, fashioning nets from hemp that his mother had made from nettles gathered in the summer and then pulped and spun, just like wool. He had proved himself even better than his kinfolk at discovering the secret places where the snake-like fish loved to gather, especially in winter when, with only instinct to guide him, he would creep quietly into the mud and unerringly find their nests.