by Maureen Ash
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Chapter 13
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Author’s Note
Praise for Death of a Squire
“[An] engrossing series . . . The author takes great care to detail the everyday life of the time, but weaves these details through the narrative in a very natural way. The social structure, the class differences, and daily life in a keep are very much a part of the mystery, and readers will feel that they’ve made a trip back through time to witness these events. ”—CA Reviews
The Alehouse Murders
“An excellent mystery, very suspenseful and clever, with a sympathetic sleuth sure to captivate readers.”
—Sharon Kay Penman,
New York Times bestselling author
“I loved The Alehouse Murders. Combining marvelous period detail with characters whose emotions and personalities would ring true in any era, Maureen Ash has launched a terrific new historical mystery series. I’ll be standing in line for the next Templar Knight Mystery.”
—Jayne Ann Krentz,
New York Times bestselling author of Sizzle and Burn
“A deft re-creation of a time and place, with characters you’ll want to meet again.”
—Margaret Frazer, national bestselling
author of A Play of Lords
“A delightful addition to the medieval mystery list. It is well researched and, even better, well written, with distinct, interesting characters and plot twists that I didn’t expect . . . I look forward to more books in the series.”
—Sharan Newman, author of The Shanghai Tunnel
“Fans of quality historical mysteries will be delighted with this debut . . . the first in what will hopefully be a long-running series of Templar Knights whodunits.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Maureen Ash masterfully creates a medieval world full of rich historic detail and peopled with fascinating characters. Her complex hero, Sir Bascot de Marins, immediately engages the reader as he tracks a ruthless killer in a mystery that will keep the reader guessing until the very end.”
—Victoria Thompson, national bestselling author of
Murder on Bank Street
“A perplexing mystery with its flawed but sympathetic hero . . . An enjoyable read.”—Gumshoe Review
“Good, old-fashioned mystery. I look forward to more.”
—Meritorious Mysteries
“Maureen Ash’s series will be very popular if the future novels are the quality of The Alehouse Murders.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Interesting reading.”—San Jose Mercury News
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Maureen Ash
THE ALEHOUSE MURDERS
DEATH OF A SQUIRE
A PLAGUE OF POISON
MURDER FOR CHRIST’S MASS
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
MURDER FOR CHRIST’S MASS
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / December 2009
Copyright © 2009 by Maureen Ash.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without
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For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
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eISBN : 978-1-101-15182-2
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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I would like to add here a word of appreciation for
Emily Beth Rapoport, my editor at Berkley Prime
Crime. Her supportive attitude and insightful
guidance have been invaluable while
I have been writing the Templar Knight Mysteries.
Thank you, Emily.
List Of Characters
PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS
Bascot de Marins—A Templar knight
Gianni—A mute Italian boy, servant to Bascot
Nicolaa de la Haye—Hereditary castellan of Lincoln castle
Gerard Camville—Nicolaa’s husband and sheriff of Lincoln
Richard Camville—Gerard and Nicolaa’s son
Roget—Captain of Gerard Camville’s town guard
Ernulf—Serjeant of Lincoln garrison
John Blund—Secretary to Nicolaa de la Haye
Lambert—Clerical assistant to John Blund
Everard d’Arderon—Preceptor of the Templar enclave in Lincoln
Miles de Laxton—A knight in Gerard Camville’s retinue
VISITING NOBILITY
Gilbert Bassett—Lord of Drayton in Oxfordshire
Egelina Bassett—Gilbert’s wife
Eustachia Bassett—Elder daughter of Gilbert and Egelina
Lucia Bassett—Younger daughter of Gilbert and Egelina
Ralph of Turville—Egelina Bassett’s cousin
Maud of Tur
ville—Ralph’s wife
Stephen of Turville—Ralph and Maud’s son
TOWNSFOLK
Walter Legerton—Exchanger in the Lincoln mint
Silvana Legerton—Walter’s sister
Helias de Stow—Moneyer in the Lincoln mint
Blanche de Stow—Helias’s wife
Peter Brand—Clerk to Helias de Stow
Simon Partager—Assayer in the employ of Walter Legerton
Iseult Partager—Simon’s wife
Cerlo—A Lincoln stonemason
Warner Tasser—A Lincoln silversmith
Roger Fardein—Apprentice to Warner Tasser
One
Lincoln December 21, 1201
THE STONE QUARRY LAY STILL AND SILENT UNDER THE maelstrom of wind and raging clouds scudding in the skies above. The early darkness of a winter evening had already fallen and the deep pit was shrouded in gloom. At intermittent moments, the racing clouds parted for an instant and allowed the beams of a full moon to dance a chiaroscuro of flickering shadows across the steep walls of stone. The night air was cold, its intensity heightened by a bitter wind blowing from the northeast. To the man who stood at the top of the cliff face overlooking the quarry, it was an eerie scene and made him apprehensive. In the daytime, when quarrymen were at work cutting and hauling blocks of stone, the huge pit would be full of activity, but now, in the darkness, it was a lonely place. Although he was only a few hundred yards from the walls of Lincoln town, it seemed as though he were stranded in a desolate spot far from the comforting presence of civilization. He started suddenly as the distant cry of a wolf was borne to him on the gusting wind. Wrapping his cloak closer about him, he damned the person he expected to meet for being late. It must be nearly an hour past the time agreed for their appointment.
A short distance from where he stood was a small shack. It was only large enough to contain a few small tools and some coils of rope but, nonetheless, the door was fastened with a stout lock. A few flakes of wind-driven snow blew onto the man’s cheeks, stinging his exposed flesh like needles. If he was going to wait any longer, he needed to find shelter, and the shack was the only place available. Even if he could not break the lock to gain entry, there might be some relief from the wind on the leeward side of the walls.
Deciding he would wait just a few more minutes, he turned to make his way towards the shed when he thought he saw a movement on the narrow track leading from the main road to the cliff top. The shifting shadows caused by the passage of the clouds made it difficult to be sure, and he stopped and stared in that direction, shielding his eyes from the wind by cupping his hands on either side of his face. After a few moments, he decided he was mistaken. Patting the leather sack tied to his belt to make sure it was still securely in place, he resumed his steps towards the shed.
He had almost reached the small building when he was hit from behind, a heavy clout that took his breath away and brought him to his knees. Instinctively he tried to roll away but was too slow, and again a crushing blow descended on his skull, this time on the side of his head. As he struggled to regain his reeling senses, a booted foot pushed him onto his back and there was the brief glimmer of a knife arcing towards his chest. The blade took him directly in the heart. He was dead within seconds.
The attacker knelt beside his victim, feeling within the folds of the dead man’s clothing for the pouch he carried. The murderer had difficulty removing it and used his knife to cut it free, not noticing that his efforts had loosened the neck of the sack slightly, and one of the coins it contained spilled out onto the ground. Once the pouch was safely stowed inside his tunic, he dragged the corpse to the edge of the cliff and shoved it over. The body fell with silent quickness and landed with a barely perceptible thud beside an enormous limestone block. As the killer crept back behind the shack, the wind increased in strength. Soon it would bring more snow, the flakes driving almost sideways in the vanguard of the incoming storm. By the time the midnight hour arrived, a mantle of white would cover the floor of the quarry and render the body of the dead man indistinguishable from the other snow-covered mounds of stone.
Two
Lincoln December 25, 1201
THE SNOWSTORM LASTED ONE NIGHT AND A DAY. WHEN the last errant flake fluttered down from a leaden-coloured sky, it left the high knoll on which the castle and cathedral stood and the streets of the town on the hillside below covered in a deep blanket of snow. On the heels of the storm the temperature rose sharply and within a few hours rain began to fall, gently at first, then in a torrential downpour that turned the snow into a mire of slush. As the hours passed, the slush began to melt and rivulets of water gushed down the hill towards the banks of the Witham River. It was not until late in the afternoon on the eve of Christ’s Mass that the sky finally ceased its outpouring of moisture.
At midnight, the townspeople flocked to the cathedral for the first Mass of this auspicious day, the Angel’s Mass, and a few hours later, at dawn, to the second service, the Shepherd’s Mass, determinedly slogging their way through huge puddles of water as they trekked up the hill to the grounds of the Minster. By the time the dawn service was over, an uncertain winter sun had appeared and everyone hoped it would continue to shine for the third and last Mass of the day, the Divine Word. Whatever the weather held in store, all were resolved it would not spoil their enjoyment of the holy day or anticipation of the festive evening meal.
Among the crowd of people leaving the cathedral after the Shepherd’s Mass was Bascot de Marins, a Templar knight temporarily staying in Lincoln. Over the socket of his missing right eye he wore a black leather patch, and there were premature strands of grey in his dark hair and beard. By his side trotted his mute servant, Gianni, a boy about thirteen years of age. Both of them were imbued with a sense of well-being after hearing the hymns of praise honouring the Christ child and, as they walked across the grounds of the Minster in the direction of the castle, Bascot reached in the scrip at his belt and took out a couple of candi, boiled lumps of sugar made from sweet canes in the Holy Land and imported into England by the Templar Order. Tossing one to Gianni, he suppressed a chuckle at the boy’s expression of delight as he caught the sweet and popped it in his mouth. In the two years they had known each other, the Templar had become as fond of the lad as if he were his own true son. Soon, in the spring, Bascot would be leaving Lincoln to rejoin the ranks of the Order, and it saddened him to think it might be years, if ever, before he saw Gianni again. He was determined to spend as much time as possible with the boy over the holy days of Christ’s Mass. The pair munched contentedly on the candi as they left the Minster grounds and, crossing the broad highway of Ermine Street, entered the bail of Lincoln castle.
Ahead of them, a large complement of household servants were hurrying from attendance at the dawn service towards the steps that led up to the keep, all intent on taking up the various duties involved in the preparation of the sumptuous evening feast. An extra effort was to be made this year, for Nicolaa de la Haye, the castellan of the castle, and her husband, Gerard Camville, the sheriff of Lincoln, were entertaining guests who had arrived just before the onset of the snowstorm. Gilbert Bassett, lord of Drayton in Oxfordshire, had brought his wife and family to Lincoln to share the holy days and, on the feast of Epiphany, to attend the betrothal of his eldest daughter, Eustachia, to Gerard and Nicolaa’s only son and heir, Richard. The match was considered to be most suitable by all the parties involved, for not only was Eustachia possessed of a considerable dower; her father was an old and trusted friend of the sheriff. Lady Nicolaa intended to ensure the Bassetts’ stay in Lincoln castle was both comfortable and entertaining.
Eustachia’s younger sister, Lucia, was also in the party of the visiting baron, along with Ralph of Turville, an amiable knight who was a cousin of Gilbert’s wife Egelina. With Turville were his wife, Maud, and their twelve-year-old son, Stephen, a lad born with a badly cleft upper lip and separated palate. Conscious that others often found his appearance unsightly, Stephe
n had adopted the habit of wrapping a silken scarf around the lower part of his face. Since the deformities made it difficult for him to speak clearly, he was extremely shy and rarely attempted to communicate with anyone other than his parents.
When Bascot and Gianni entered the hall, a massive log was burning in the cavernous fireplace. It brought a welcome glow of warmth and light to the huge, high ceilinged room. The sheriff, his wife, and most of their guests were nowhere to be seen, the ladies having repaired to Nicolaa de la Haye’s solar to engage in some comfortable gossip, while the sheriff had invited his old friend Gilbert Bassett to share a flagon of wine in his private chamber. Of those of high station, only Richard Camville and Ralph of Turville were in the hall, waiting for two menservants to set up a pair of tables painted with chequered squares so they could play a game of Quek. Near them was Turville’s young son, Stephen, standing close to the wall, his muffler in place, watching in an unobtrusive manner as the servants went about their task.
When the game commenced, Bascot walked over to the table and stood watching the play. It was a relatively simple game that involved tossing a pair of dice onto the chequered board and betting whether they would land on light or dark squares. As gambling for money on a holy day was frowned upon, the stakes were in hazelnuts instead of silver pennies, and a stack of these were piled at the elbows of each of the players. The competitors seemed evenly matched, with Richard winning one or two throws in succession and then Turville gaining the advantage. Both men were in good spirits and laughing all the while; it was not long before some of the household knights gathered to watch the game, and young Stephen was softly clapping his hands together with approval each time his father won a toss.
