by Maureen Ash
Bascot took the coin and rubbed it on the front of his tunic so he could examine it more closely. “It’s an old coin,” he said to Gianni, “and appears to be from the reign of King Stephen. If I am right, it is at least fifty years old, maybe more, and is surprisingly unworn in view of its age.”
He held it out for the boy to see. There, inscribed on the surface, was a portrait of the king, depicted with a diadem on his head and, in his right hand, a sceptre. Around the edge was the inscription STEFNE REX. On the reverse side was a cross of the type with broadened and split ends called moline and a design of fleur-de-lis.
Gianni peered at it, and then, with a questioning look, took the coin from his master and hefted it in his palm. Moving his hand up and down slightly, he looked at the Templar in puzzlement.
“Yes, it may be short weighted,” Bascot answered to the boy’s unspoken question. “I believe many coins made during that period did not have a full complement of silver. That was a sad time in England’s history, Gianni, for the king battled for many years with his cousin, Matilda, for possession of the throne, and coinage was issued not only by the king, but by many barons and bishops as well. I remember my grandsire telling me that most of the minters in Stephen’s reign did not observe the criterion established in earlier times regarding the silver-weight of a penny. This fault was not corrected until King Henry came to the throne.”
He smiled as he recalled the time when his grandfather had, cursing, told Bascot and his brothers of those days, and how the silver the old man had so carefully hoarded was not worth as much as he thought so he had been unable to raise enough funds to buy a young stallion to replace his aging destrier. His grandsire had spat on the ground in disgust at the memory and told his grandsons to always be wary of accepting coin of the realm at face value.
Bascot took the coin back from Gianni and looked down at the scarred earth beneath his feet, pondering how long the penny could have lain there. “This must have been dropped recently; otherwise it would be more badly stained. But it is strange that a coin of such age has not been exchanged for one of new issue.”
Thoughtfully, he placed the coin in his scrip along with the piece of leather thong. “It may have been dropped by someone who had no connection with the murder—one of the stone workers, perhaps—but I shall show it to the sheriff nonetheless. It would appear the clerk was robbed and since Brand worked in a place that is closely involved with exchanging old coins for new, it is a coincidence that must not be overlooked.”
He and Gianni made another careful search of the ground, but found nothing more. Remounting the grey, they rode back to Lincoln castle.
Four
WHEN BASCOT AND GIANNI RETURNED TO THE HALL, Richard Camville was leaning against the wall watching Ralph of Turville and one of the household knights play Quek. The sheriff’s son was in a disgruntled mood. After he had informed his father of the stonemason’s discovery, he had not been able to settle back into his enjoyment of the game. He had looked forward to this visit from Eustachia and was taking pleasure in her company; the possibility of a murder intruding upon the festivities—and their betrothal ceremony—had destroyed his good humour. As Bascot and his servant walked across the hall towards him, threading their way through servants bustling about preparing the evening meal, Richard felt his glumness lighten a little. The Templar had proved himself extremely competent in solving the mysteries that surrounded crimes of murder, and perhaps he would be so again in this latest instance. Then all of the company would be able to enjoy the celebrations without distraction.
As Bascot approached, Richard wondered what it was in the Templar’s nature that made him so insightful of the motives that drove a man, or woman, to commit heinous crimes. He thought back to the day of Bascot’s arrival in Lincoln two years before. De Marins had only recently returned from the Holy Land at that time and had seemed a broken man, both in body and in spirit. He had been sent to Lincoln castle by the Order with a request to Richard’s mother, Nicolaa de la Haye, that she give the Templar shelter while he recovered from injuries sustained during his incarceration by the Saracens, and also in the hope that a period spent in the familiar surroundings of a castle would help him recover his waning faith. De Marins’s recuperation had been slow but, as the months passed, Nicolaa had begun to recognise the intrinsic worth of the man consigned to her care. If the knight had not decided to rejoin his brothers in the Templar Order, she would gladly have given him a place in her retinue.
Richard’s impression of the Templar was of a reticent man who was sometimes difficult to understand, but these minor failings were more than compensated for by his rigid code of honour and tenacious sense of duty. He also possessed, in contrast to most men of knightly status, a deep empathy for anyone unfortunate enough to find themselves in desperate circumstances, such as the mute boy he had taken as his servant. Was it these characteristics that gave him a heightened sensitivity to the baseness in others, or had his long imprisonment fostered an insight that comes only to those who have endured great suffering? Richard did not know the answer to these questions, but of one thing he was certain—de Marins could be tireless in his quest for truth. If there was any mystery surrounding this latest death, the sheriff’s son had every confidence the Templar would not rest until he unravelled it.
As Bascot came up to him, Richard asked if he had found confirmation that the clerk had, as the mason said, been murdered.
“Yes,” Bascot replied. “There can be no doubt the man’s life was purposely taken.”
Richard sighed resignedly. “My father said if that was the case, he would like to hear the details directly upon your return.”
Bascot nodded and, after giving Gianni instructions to go to the scriptorium and transcribe the notes he had taken, followed Richard to the sheriff’s chamber. It was a large room, littered with items of personal use such as spare leather jerkins, boots and tack for horses. On one side of the room were two large ironbound chests with heavy triple locks in which the sheriff kept the fees he collected on behalf of the crown. When Richard and Bascot entered the room, the sheriff was seated with his guest, Gilbert Bassett, in front of a roaring fire, drinking wine. Gerard Camville bade them help themselves to a cup of wine and then asked the Templar what he had found at the quarry.
“The clerk was killed by a stab wound to the heart, lord,” Bascot replied. “Death would have been immediate, and although the mason found his body lying on the quarry floor, I do not think Brand died there. It seems likely he was fatally stabbed atop the cliff face on the western side of the quarry and his body pushed over the edge into the pit. From the condition of his corpse, I would say Brand has been dead at least four days. It is likely he was killed on the day the snowstorm began, or the one before.”
Camville nodded and got up from his seat. He was a man of large proportions, with thick muscles swelling at neck and thighs, and black hair cut high on the nape of his neck in the old Norman fashion. When he rose, he emanated an aura of physical power so strong it made the chamber seem too small to contain his presence. Usually belligerent by nature, Camville had been in a mellower mood since the arrival of his old friend Gilbert Bassett. But even the congenial company of a fellow baron did not stop the sheriff from indulging in his habit of pacing, and that was what he did now, striding up and down the room with a catlike tread as he mused on what he had been told.
“The quarry is a strange place for a clerk to have been in such weather,” he said reflectively. “Did you find any hint as to why he was there?”
“No, lord, I did not,” Bascot replied. “The men who found the body told me the quarry was shut down for two days before the storm began, and so the pit was deserted, most of the men having gone into Lincoln, and the two who remained stayed inside their lodgings. Whatever his purpose, there was nothing on the clerk’s person to give any indication of what it might have been. His purse was missing, and the only evidence I could find that he had been wearing one was this, which was cau
ght in the folds of his cloak.” Bascot laid the piece of leather thong on the table.
Camville picked it up. “Looks as though it might be part of a fastener for a scrip,” he said. “Robbery must have been the reason for his death. Someone lured him there and murdered him for whatever his purse contained. A common enough crime.”
“There was also this coin, lord, at the top of the cliff face, but it may not have been part of whatever money Brand had on him. It looks to be from a very old minting.” Bascot placed the coin on the table beside the piece of leather thong Camville had inspected.
The sheriff’s interest, which had been dismissive at first, now became more alert. He picked up the coin and examined it. “Have you cleaned this, de Marins?”
Bascot shook his head. “I rubbed off some of the surface dirt, that is all.”
Bassett rose from his seat and came to where Camville stood, approaching the sheriff with an easy familiarity that spoke of the close nature of their mutual regard. He was a smaller man than the sheriff, but his compact body was solid with muscle and his face, with its prominent nose and hazel eyes, had a hawkish look. Camville handed the coin to his friend and the baron examined it carefully.
“This is from Stephen’s time on the throne,” Bassett remarked, “and must have been kept securely stored since it was made. It is so pristine it could have been struck from a die only yesterday.”
“Did you say this coin was found near the spot where you believe the clerk to have been killed?” Camville asked Bascot.
When the Templar nodded, the sheriff glanced at Bassett with a look that held some significance.
“What is it, Father?” Richard asked. “Why is the coin of so much interest to both of you?”
“It is the state of its preservation,” Camville said slowly. “Random coins of this age do turn up from time to time, but they are usually in halves or quarters or else very worn, with clipped edges.” He held the coin up to the light of the candle on the table. “But this one is in excellent condition. I am wondering if it could have been part of a trove. There were many people in Lincoln town who felt it prudent during Stephen’s reign to secrete any valuables they possessed.”
All of them were aware that in 1141, during the years when King Stephen had a less than tenacious hold on the throne, he engaged in a significant battle at Lincoln with the supporters of his rival, Matilda, daughter of the recently deceased King Henry I. Quite a few of the more affluent townspeople, fearing for the security of their wealth, hid their money to keep it safe until the danger was past.
“But that was over sixty years ago, Father,” Richard protested. “Surely any troves from that time would have been discovered by now.”
Bassett was quick to refute Richard’s supposition. “That may not be so, Richard. During my father’s lifetime, and while he was sheriff of Oxford, there were perhaps a half dozen caches unearthed in the district. Two of them contained coins of Saxon minting and dated from before King William’s conquest of England in 1066. They had lain undiscovered for more than a hundred years.”
Camville carefully laid the coin back on the table. “I do not like the appearance of this coin near the place where the clerk was murdered. If we assume it was on his person, then why was he carrying it about with him? Brand worked in the mint, which is adjacent to the office of the exchanger. It would have been a simple task for him to turn it in.”
The office of exchanger was a relatively new institution, formed by order of the late King Henry II in 1180. The effect of the new office had been to separate the minting of coins from their distribution and so lessen the opportunities for corruption. The exchanger’s office was also the place where old or foreign coins could be exchanged for new. If a treasure trove had been found, or even a single coin from one, it should have been taken to the exchanger with an explanation of how it had come into the possession of the person who surrendered it. Not to follow this directive was an offence against the crown, for if the heirs of the original owner of the coins could not be found, or there were none living, the proceeds of such a find became the property of the king. Concealment was considered treasonable and the penalties were dire.
“It could be that the provenance of the coin is genuine, lord,” Bascot said. “If someone found it recently—in a crack between the stones of a wall or in the bottom of an old chest, for instance—and gave it to Brand with a request he exchange it for one of current issue, the clerk may not have had time to carry out the transaction before he was killed.”
Camville considered the Templar’s suggestion. “Yes, you could be right,” he admitted. “But still, I would like to be sure. Brand was murdered and, considering the place he worked, this coin may be connected to his death. If this penny was part of an unreported trove and Brand was privy to its discovery, the safekeeping of such a secret could have been the motive for his killing.”
“You will need to be very careful, Father, in how you handle any questions you pose about the coin. The exchanger, Walter Legerton, is not a man to be trifled with. If he realises you suspect the existence of a trove, he will surely report the matter to the Exchequer in London. And if the king hears of it . . .”
“I know what you are warning me of, Richard,” Camville growled. “I am well aware that King John holds me in scant regard—as I do him—and, whether there is a trove or not, he will be quick to accuse me of conspiring to keep its contents from his grasping fingers.”
He spoke to Bascot. “Are any others beside yourself and your servant aware you found this coin?”
“No, lord,” the Templar replied. “The mason and quarryman were not with us when we searched the top of the cliff.”
“Good,” Camville exclaimed. “Then, for now, we will keep it between ourselves.”
The sheriff resumed his pacing for a few moments before he spoke again. “De Marins, as a Templar, your probity is beyond question. If you are my representative in this matter, it will allay any suspicions about the intent of the investigation. Now that you know what is involved, are you willing to make an enquiry into the clerk’s murder on my behalf?”
Although Gerard Camville was nominal lord over the estates Nicolaa de la Haye held through her inheritance from her father, including the castellanship of the castle, it suited the sheriff’s indolent nature to leave the management of the vast demesne in his wife’s hands. Camville’s attitude to the responsibilities of the shrievality, however, was completely different. The office of sheriff was a lucrative one and Gerard guarded his rights jealously; an accusation of wrongdoing, even if not proved, might indeed bring reprisals from the king and could result in Camville’s removal from office. The sheriff and the king had no liking for each other, although they had once joined forces in rebellion against King Richard during a time when John, then a prince, had attempted to wrest the throne of England from his elder brother’s grasp. Now that John was king, he was suspicious of the nobles who had supported him, fearing they would once again show a willingness to change their allegiance and conspire against him. He was therefore wary of Camville, deeming him factious. Only the king’s longstanding friendship with Nicolaa de la Haye and his confidence in her loyalty kept John from depriving her husband of the sheriff’s post, but Camville was well aware that John would not hesitate to do so if he felt he had just cause.
When Bascot and Gianni had first arrived in Lincoln, Gerard Camville and his wife had willingly given the weary pair shelter and treated them with courtesy. For that kindness alone, the Templar owed them both a debt of gratitude. But he also had a genuine liking for Lady Nicolaa and a great deal of respect for her husband. He was more than willing to make every effort he could to keep the sheriff’s reputation free of odium.
The Templar gave his reply without hesitation. “I will be pleased to assist you in whatever way I can, lord.”
The sheriff gave a grunt of satisfaction and Bascot asked if he knew whether anyone had reported Brand’s absence over the days the clerk had been missing.
“Do you know if the clerk had any family, Father?” Richard asked. “If he did, I would have thought one of them would have been distressed by his disappearance.”
The sheriff thought for a moment. “As far as I recall, Brand came to Lincoln with Helias de Stow and his family when the moneyer took up his post a little over a year ago. Both of them lived in Grantham before that. But even if the clerk did not have any kin in town, I would have thought de Stow would have wondered why his clerk was not at his place of work. It is curious he did not mention it to someone in authority.”
He paused, and then said decisively, “That is the best place to start your investigation, de Marins, with the moneyer. There is not much that can be done today while the celebrations for Christ’s Mass are being held. Most of the town will be either at the cathedral or feasting with family and friends, the moneyer amongst them. But tomorrow morning de Stow is likely to be at home; his house is the one that stands next to the mint on the other side to the exchange. Go there and ask him if Brand was due to be at work over the days the clerk has been missing and, if he was, why de Stow did not mention his absence to the bailiff. Even if his answer satisfies you, try also to determine, in a discreet fashion, if the clerk had a legitimate reason for carrying such an old coin on his person.”
