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

by Maureen Ash

  It was then that he caught a whiff of wood-smoke. Faint, but unmistakable, and with it the scent of charred flesh. Quickly he returned to his hiding place. Someone was on the other side of the tunnel. Straining his ears, he could not make out any sound, but he settled himself down to wait.

  Light was just beginning to glimmer in an overcast sky when there was a movement at the aperture in the bottom of the hedge. Fulcher, tired but still awake, watched as a man wriggled through the cleft then heaved himself upright, pulling a long stout stick behind him. After propping himself up on its length, the man slowly moved towards the stream, appearing to be in some pain from his left leg, which he was dragging behind him. There could be no mistaking the identity of the figure. Tendrils of dead ivy were wound about the arms and shoulders of the man, and the dirty gold colour of his beard glistened with dew. It was Green Jack. Fulcher smiled. The rope of river weed would make a snare that would catch a man just as easily as a fox.

  Thirty

  KING JOHN’S ENTRY INTO LINCOLN WAS TRIUMPHAL, despite the intermittent sleeting rain and biting cold, and the warnings of the old legend that said calamity would befall any king who entered the city. The people of the town lined the streets to watch as their monarch passed before them, his figure resplendent in purple and gilt, astride a snow-white charger caparisoned in the same colours. He waved and smiled at his subjects from the warmth of a fur-lined cloak and hat, leading a procession of knights, squires and pages. Beside him, his new young wife, Isabelle, barely thirteen years of age, peeped out at the throng from the depths of her hood and smiled in her turn, albeit tremulously. Every time she did so, the crowd redoubled its shouts of welcome, strewing garlands woven of winter leaves and berries in front of the procession to proclaim their joy.

  Lincoln castle’s reception was no less warm. Ernulf and his men-at-arms lined the inner side of the huge eastern gate into the bail, all at attention. The metal of their caps was polished bright as a summer sun and the Haye badge of a twelve-pointed star of red glowed proudly against its silver background on the breast of their tunics.

  At the entrance to the new keep, Gerard and Nicolaa awaited the monarch and his queen. Beside them stood their son, Richard, and down the stairs on either side were ranged the barons and knights that had come to do the king honour and stand witness to Scotland’s pledge of fealty. John, greeting all affably, led his young wife up the stairs and into the hall, where a feast of no less than ten courses was laid out for the company.

  Bascot stayed apart from the throng until later that evening, when a more simple meal was served. He took a place near the back of the hall, at a table set aside for Lincoln’s household knights, and viewed the company that was assembled on the dais.

  The Templar had only seen the king a couple of times before, in the days when John had been just a young prince, but he seemed not to have changed much in appearance since then. He was about Bascot’s own age, a few years past thirty, of medium height and with dark auburn hair. The young woman who had so recently become his wife sat beside him. She was very pretty, almost lushly so, Bascot noticed, with a ripe figure that belied her youth and a beguiling smile that was turned with frequency on her new husband and less often, but with only a little less radiance, on the company that surrounded them.

  Nicolaa and Gerard, as hosts, flanked their royal guests. Ranged along the high table with them were various barons, William Camville and Richard de Humez among them, and a phalanx of prelates of high rank. Scattered amongst these were those ladies who had accompanied their lords on the trip to Lincoln, while Richard Camville, as son of the sheriff and castellan, had claimed the privilege of serving the king, standing behind John’s chair with basin and ewer at the ready for the monarch to rinse his hands, and a piece of crisply folded linen for use as a towel.

  There was a multitude of squires and pages in attendance on the company, both from Lincoln’s household retinue and those of the visiting barons. Among them Bascot saw Alain and Renault serving one of the tables that flanked the dais and, farther back, young Hugo and Osbert waited on a group of ladies that included Alys and Alinor. Near them, accompanied by the castle chaplain, was Baldwin, his eyes alight with elation as he gazed on the king.

  The evening went smoothly. Nicolaa’s lady troubadour played for the king’s pleasure and was rewarded by John with a gold piece and an appreciative glance at her ample bosom. Minstrels roamed the aisles, strumming rebec, lyre and viol. The freshly strewn rushes on the floor gave off a pleasant herbal tang and the castle hounds behaved themselves. On high perches behind the exalted company, falcons peered down at the assemblage with sharp predatory eyes. Bascot knew that the sheriff intended one of them, a fine gerfalcon, as a gift for the king. Wine flowed freely throughout the evening, but no one over-imbibed. Torches flared at regular intervals along the walls to illuminate the huge room, and thick beeswax candles gave extra radiance to the company on the dais. It was all very decorous. Only the strained look on Nicolaa’s face and the watchful glances William Camville gave his monarch would have given a hint that these two were on edge; both fearful of John’s reaction to the rumours of treason that had surrounded the squire’s death.

  The next day saw the reception of King William of Scotland, come from his quarters in the guest lodge of the abbey at Torksey. The two kings met on a knoll just outside the walls of Lincoln and there John received homage from William for the lands the Scottish king held in England. It was a formal ceremony, William going down on one knee and placing his hands between John’s in acknowledgement of his acceptance of the other as lord. An old wrangle, this warring for rights of sovereignty over the disputed lands, one going back many years. The assembled company gave a great sigh of relief when the deed was done. John’s satisfaction was evident, his supremacy recognised in front of a plenitude of witnesses. He presided with extreme good humour over the feast that followed in the castle hall. The only marring of the day’s bonhomie was the arrival of a messenger from London with the news that Bishop Hugh had breathed his last. The emissary also told them that the body of the bishop was being brought back to Lincoln, and would, in accordance with Hugh’s wishes, be interred in the grounds of the cathedral. After a brief respectful silence followed by a short prayer, John announced his intention of staying for the obsequies; whereupon William of Scotland proclaimed that he also would remain and join with the English king in paying their final respects to the saintly bishop.

  Bascot stayed apart as much as he could from the mass of people that crowded the bailey and hall, his thoughts still on Tostig and the murders the forester had committed. His own part in the discovery of the man’s guilt still bothered him, mainly because of Joanna’s words blaming his persistence in the investigation for the deaths of the charcoal burner and his sons. His satisfaction at discovering the perpetrator of the crime was tainted by the burden of responsibility that had accompanied it. He began to think again of rejoining the Templar Order. But, if he did, could he bear leaving Gianni to the care of others?

  Late that night, as he was sitting in Ernulf’s quarters, ruminating once again on what he should do for the future of both himself and his servant, the serjeant came in from a last check on his men and the castle defences.

  “The lords and ladies are all abed, thanks be to God. I’ll be glad when this royal visit is over. As will Lady Nicolaa, I’ll warrant.” The serjeant poured himself a cup of ale and pulled off his boots before sitting down beside Bascot.

  “You are up late, my friend,” Ernulf said to him. “Is the bed I gave you too hard to induce a restful night?” He cast an eye at Gianni, curled up fast asleep on a straw pallet in the corner.

  “No,” Bascot replied. “I am thankful for it. I have slept on far worse.”

  “Aye, I’ve no doubt you have. Still, sleep is not always dependent on a soft couch, is it?”

  Bascot shook his head and made no reply. Ernulf, seeing his mood, changed the subject. “I’ve just been talking to an old comrade that rode in
here today from Torksey. Strange doings been going on there, it seems.”

  Bascot roused himself to be sociable. “How so?”

  “Two bodies found floating near the banks of the Trent, tied to one another at the wrists. Vagrants, by the look of them. Or brigands. Unkempt hair and beards, a few scraps of ragged clothing left on their bodies. Both had wounds, one an arrow-hole in his leg, the other’s back and face a mass of bruises and gashes.”

  Bascot looked up, startled. “Did your friend say what they looked like?”

  “The one with the arrow wound was yellow bearded and thickset. He’d been throttled, his larynx mangled. My friend said he had some twists of dead ivy wrapped around his arms.”

  “And the other?” Bascot asked, almost expecting the answer. Gianni had described Green Jack to him and the Templar had told Ernulf.

  The serjeant’s expression was knowing. “Sounded just like Fulcher, the brigand that Roget’s men beat almost to a pulp. Had a knife wound in his chest. Probably bled to death.”

  “You said they were tied together?” Bascot’s mouth suddenly tasted sour.

  “Aye,” Ernulf confirmed. “Tight as lice in a beggar’s armpit. The bindings were river weed.”

  The serjeant poured another cup of ale and handed it to Bascot. “Looks like Fulcher kept the promise you told me about. Made sure Green Jack kept him company on his journey to hell.”

  IT WAS EARLY THE NEXT MORNING THAT OSBERT CAME to the barracks and asked to speak to Bascot. “Lady Nicolaa sends a message from the king. You are to attend him in his chamber—that is, the one that is usually Lady Nicolaa and Sir Gerard’s bedchamber—at the top of the keep.”

  Bascot straightened his tunic and pulled on his boots. “Did she say what it is that the king wants of me?” he asked as he splashed cold water from a ewer on his face.

  Osbert shook his head. “But I don’t think it’s anything bad,” he replied cheerfully. “She didn’t look unhappy at sending for you.”

  Bascot followed Osbert across the bail. Servants and animals were just beginning to stir, shaking themselves awake in readiness for the onerous demands of another day tending to the needs of a castle overflowing with guests. The page trailed through the hall in front of Bascot, then up a flight of stairs to a room Bascot had never been in before, a well-appointed chamber with a large bed set in a wall space and draped with covers and hangings of finely worked tapestry. Alongside the bed was a huge carved-oak clothes press and an ironbound chest secured with triple locks. Under a narrow recessed window was a small table. On its surface was a flagon of wine and cups, a holder with thick lighted candles, and a sheaf of parchment and writing implements. It was at this table that the king was seated, sunk deep in the depths of a furred bed-gown, his feet comforted by soft shoes of lambskin. In one corner a brazier of charcoal burned. There was no sign of the queen.

  “Sit down, Templar,” John said once Osbert had announced Bascot and left the room, motioning towards a stool. “And pour yourself a cup of wine. It is good Rhenish, my favourite. Nicolaa knows my tastes.”

  Bascot went down on one knee and bowed his head in obeisance before accepting the king’s offer. John’s saturnine gaze regarded him obliquely for a few moments before he spoke.

  “I have been told by Lady Nicolaa of the part you played in discovering the man responsible for the death of Hubert de Tournay,” John began. “It seems that without your assistance the forester would never have been found guilty of the crime.”

  Bascot hesitated to make any response to this statement. He did not know how much of the story Nicolaa had told the king. Was John aware that the boy had been the source of a rumour about a plot to undermine his crown? Had he been told that Nicolaa’s own husband and her brother-by-marriage, Richard de Humez, had been suspected of complicity?

  “I am pleased to learn that Lady Nicolaa holds my help in such high regard,” he finally said noncommittally. “But, in truth, Your Grace, many others contributed to the discovery of Tostig’s guilt. My own part was negligible, for I did not have any knowledge of the squire before his death.”

  John had been watching him carefully as he answered. Now he leaned back his head and laughed.

  “There speaks a diplomatic answer,” John remarked with a chuckle. “Say nothing of import and cast no aspersions.” The king shook his head, amused. “You have no need to be careful, de Marins. Nicolaa has told me all, of the machinations the boy hinted at, as well as the possible culpability of some of my barons. That is why I value Nicolaa so much. She is loyal and she is honest. Speaks when there is need and stays quiet when there is not. I could wish more of my nobles were made of such stuff, especially the de Tournay family.”

  His tone became heavier. “Godfroi came to me decrying the rumour that was being bruited abroad about his family. His protestations were vociferous. So much so that it made me not of a mind to believe him. I will ensure a sharp eye is kept on him and his brother in future.” Bascot felt a small stab of pity for Godfroi. Whether he was guilty of treason or not, the murder of his half brother had affected the de Tournay family in more ways than one.

  John rose, his mood seeming to have plunged into darkness as he picked up his wine cup and walked to the window. It was deeply silled on the inside, and all that could be seen through the narrow slit of its opening was a patch of dull grey sky. He stood looking out of the embrasure for some moments and when he spoke again, it was on a completely different topic.

  “You were given as an oblate to the church when you were young, were you not, de Marins?”

  “Yes, Sire, I was.”

  “I, too, was entrusted to the care of monks during the years of my childhood. To the tender mercies of the abbot at Fontevrault. I have no doubt that the rest of my family hoped I would stay there for all of my days, permanently immured in an anchorite’s cell.” The king’s voice was bitter as he, no doubt, recalled the perpetual squabbling that had plagued his family, and also of how he had betrayed both father and brothers in their never-ending struggle for supremacy.

  Then he gave a short bark of laughter and lightened his tone, saying musingly, “How different both our lives might have been, eh, de Marins, had we been left to the guidance of the good brothers? I might never have been a king, or you a Templar. Perhaps it would have been better so.”

  Bascot made no reply. There was none he could make. John walked back to his chair and sat down, pulling, as he did so, a piece of parchment from the pile that lay on the table. “I have been persuaded by Lady Nicolaa to give you a reward for your service. The fief that your father held before his death is still vacant of possession, having since that time been in the charge of the crown. I have promised Lady Nicolaa that I will restore it to you.”

  Taking the chance of offending the king, Bascot interrupted him. “My lord, much as I would be honoured by such a boon, I cannot hold land. I would be forsworn of my vow of poverty.”

  Again John smiled. “I can see why Nicolaa appreciates your service. Most men only remember their promises to God when they lie on their deathbeds. But let us deal with that obstacle later. First, hear me out.”

  He held up the parchment in his hand. “This is confirmation of your fief, de Marins. It only needs your acceptance. However, there is a condition attached if you should decide to take it.”

  John’s dark eyes sparkled as he enjoyed the obvious discomfiture of the Templar. It amused him to see that other men besides himself might be prey to the horns of a dilemma. “The fief is a small one, as you know. It can be ably managed by a castellan of your choosing, but meanwhile you would enjoy the revenues and ultimately have an inheritance to leave any son you may have or”—here the king paused and held Bascot’s eye with his own—“to any male you have chosen for your heir.”

  John paused to give weight to his last words, then he continued. “The condition is that you remain in the service of Lady Nicolaa, as a senior knight in her retinue, with liberty to visit your fief when necessary. You will be recompe
nsed for such service out of her own coffers, and well above the usual rate for a household knight. Not only will you have a fief, its revenues and a good salary, but a legacy to pass on as you choose.”

  The king laid the paper down on the table. Bascot could see the royal seal dangling from it, thoughts of the benefits to Gianni leaping to his mind, as, he was sure, the king knew they would. John watched him with amusement.

  “Well, de Marins,” he said finally. “Is it worth a vow or not?”

  AFTER DUSK THAT NIGHT BASCOT WALKED ACROSS THE bail to the old keep where he and Gianni had their quarters when the castle was not filled to capacity with guests. Slowly he climbed the stairs, up three floors and past his usual chamber, then through the archway that led to the ramparts and onto the guard walk that circled the inner side of the wall. It was bitterly cold. The rain had stopped and the wind had stilled. Above was a clear winter sky, stars shining in pinpricks of hard light, looking as though they had been punched into the blackness with the point of a lance. Already, ice was forming on the battlements.

  Bascot leaned into one of the parapet’s embrasures, pushing his shoulder against the stone merlon at his side. Not far from him, one of Ernulf’s men-at-arms was pacing his duty round. He saw Bascot, saluted, then turned about and retraced his steps. Something in the stance of the Templar told the guard that Bascot had not come up onto the ramparts to pass a few moments in idle chatter. He wanted to be alone.

  Below the castle, spreading south, Lincoln lay like a reflection of the sky, darkness pervading with the occasional glimmer of light from a torch or candle. Bascot threw back the hood of his tunic, felt the icy air swarm onto his neck and ears with the snap of a wolf bite. Reaching up, he undid the thong of his eyepatch and let the leather shield fall loose. Only in solitude did he remove the cover from the pit of ruined flesh that had once been his right eye. Now he welcomed the freedom from constraint.