Murder for Christ's Mass

by Maureen Ash

  Nine

  AS BASCOT AND GIANNI WERE ON THEIR WAY BACK to Lincoln, snow began to fall, not as fiercely as it had done on the fourth day before Christ’s Mass, but with a steadiness that told of more to come. By the time they reached the castle ward, the ground was covered in a layer of white more than an inch thick.

  After stabling their mount, they crossed the ward and went into the keep in search of Gerard Camville. On being told by Eudo that the sheriff had gone to the kennels, the Templar told Gianni to wait inside and went back out into the falling snow.

  The building where the hounds were kept was a low ceilinged wooden structure attached to a fenced compound on the north side of the bail. As the Templar ducked his head and went in under the shallow lintel of the doorway, the rank odour of dog filled his nostrils, even though fresh straw lay over the entire floor. One side of the building, partitioned off by a screen of wood, was filled with dogs of every description—mastiffs, lymer and gaze hounds, harriers and the mongrels called velters. Except for a few favoured dogs that were allowed to roam freely in the hall, all the castle canines were kept within the walls of the kennel and compound except when being exercised or accompanying a hunting party. At the moment, they were being fed a meal of raw offal by two kennel servants and were relatively quiet.

  On the other side of the partition were a few stalls used for whelping or to house a dog that was ailing. It was in one of these that Bascot found Camville, down on his knees beside a sick lymer hound, a bitch, that was lying on her side and panting. Her dark eyes were dull and filled with pain. With the sheriff was the kennel master, a sturdily built man with straggly dark hair and a pugnacious jaw, and he was explaining to the sheriff what had happened to the dog as Bascot approached.

  “The wound in her paw turned corrupt a few days ago, lord,” the kennel master said. “She sliced it open during a scuffle with a male. He kept trying to mount her when she wasn’t ready and they fought. When it first swelled, I cut it open to release the poison and then washed the wound with water and wine, but to no avail. I fear she will not recover.”

  Camville nodded his agreement. “She is a courageous hound and has borne me many fine pups. I will be sorry to lose her.”

  As though the dog understood his words, she raised her head slightly and tried to lick the sheriff’s hand. Camville ran a hand gently over her muzzle and stood up. “Do what is necessary,” he said to the kennel master. “But make sure she does not suffer. And despatch the male that attacked her as well. He does not deserve to live when he was the cause of her death.”

  As the sheriff rose to his feet, he saw Bascot. Camville’s compassion for the sick dog did not surprise the Templar. The sheriff was a hard taskmaster, but to those who proved steadfast in his service—human or animal—he gave a full measure of loyalty in return.

  Camville joined Bascot and they left the kennels. As they walked back across the ward to the keep, the Templar related the results of his interviews with de Stow and his employees, and the reactions of Legerton and the assayer. The sheriff grunted in dissatisfaction.

  “Mealy-mouthed whoresons, all of them,” he exclaimed. “If any of them is involved in the clerk’s murder, we’ll have a hard time proving it. And if a trove is at the root of this killing, whoever it was that conspired with the clerk will have it well hidden by now.”

  “It may be Brand confided something pertinent to his mother or the girl he wished to marry during his visits to Grantham,” Bascot suggested. “It might be worthwhile to speak to them.”

  Camville looked up at the louring sky, which was already as dark as evening even though it was only the middle of the afternoon. Snow was still falling, lightly, but relentlessly. “This snow does not look as though it will abate and, if it does not, all roads will be impassable by morning. It is more than twenty miles to Grantham. We will have to wait for the weather to clear before the journey can be made, much as it galls me to do so.”

  THE SHERIFF’S FORECAST OF MORE SNOW PROVED TRUE. Over the next two days, it drifted down in a sporadic fashion and was soon deep enough to reach a tall man’s knees. By the third day, when it finally ceased to fall and the air was crisp and cold, it underwent another mercurial change as the temperature suddenly rose and a downpour of rain began. Although not such a deluge as previously, it was still heavy enough to turn the snow once again into a morass of dirty slush. During this time, a roaring fire was kept going in the hall, and the troupe of minstrels, acrobats and mummers that Nicolaa de la Haye had hired continued to weave their way amongst the throng in the hall, playing music on their instruments, performing tumbling feats and acting out plays with a religious theme in an effort to keep everyone amused. In the evenings, the trestle tables were pushed against the walls and ring dances—commonly called carols—were held. Each of these rings was comprised of equal ranks, with those from the high table who wished to dance forming a circle just below the dais, upper servants in the next and, at the back of the hall, maidservants and varlets. While the musicians played and sang songs of good cheer, the dancers joined hands and twirled in a circle, joining in the words of the song as they did so.

  All the younger people were enthusiastic about participating in the dancing, with Richard leading Eustachia out for every set, their carol completed by Lucia and one of the household knights or squires. Although it was a time of jollity, the enforced confinement caused by the dismal weather slowly began to take its toll and everyone grew restless.

  The tension was broken when Camville’s hunt master came into the hall just as the midday meal was ending and told his lord a boar had been sighted in the sheriff’s chase. “It is a large male and in its prime,” the huntsman said. “The snow that fell in the chase was not as deep as within the town and, with the rain, has melted to only a thin covering among the trees. Providing the weather holds clear tomorrow, the ground will not be too treacherous for horses. If you wish to hold a hunt, lord, the boar will prove a worthy adversary.”

  Gilbert Bassett, sitting next to Camville, heard the huntsman’s words and a slow smile spread over his face. “I have a fancy for some wild pig, Gerard,” he said. “And the pleasure of snaring one will surely increase my appetite.”

  Camville shared his friend’s anticipation and gave orders that a hunt be arranged for the next morning. As the news spread around the hall, the spirits of the men rose perceptibly.

  Nicolaa de la Haye’s female guests also felt a modicum of relief. The temper of their menfolk had grown increasingly testy from the enforced inactivity, and the men’s absence from the keep meant the women would be able to retire to the solar and spend the day in leisurely conversation. It was traditional for gifts to be exchanged on the first day of the New Year, and the women were eager to compare the presents they intended to bestow and to speculate about what they hoped to receive.

  Only Stephen, Ralph of Turville’s young son, was disconsolate. Even though a couple of older pages about the same age as the lad were to accompany the hunting party, Stephen’s mother, Maud, begged her husband to deny their son permission, insisting the boy should stay in the shelter of the keep lest the coldness of the weather bring on one of the ear aches that plagued him at this time of year.

  When Ralph reluctantly concurred with his wife and told the boy he must remain behind, Lucia resurrected her notion of teaching Stephen some of the gestures Gianni used to communicate, begging Maud to reconsider her earlier refusal to allow the lesson. Conscious of the pleading look in her son’s eyes, Maud relented and gave her permission. Lucia did not give her cousin any time to change her mind. She immediately got up from her seat at the end of the table on the dais and made her way to where Nicolaa de la Haye sat.

  THE NEXT MORNING, THE EVE OF THE FIRST DAY OF THE New Year, Bascot stood in the bail and watched Gianni race across the ward to the keep. The Templar had readily acceded to Lucia’s request, which had been put to him by Lady Nicolaa on the girl’s behalf. Bascot suspected Gianni’s eagerness to participate in tutelag
e of the young Turville heir was not completely due to the honour of having the castellan make a personal request for his services, but primarily because he had been told that Lucia Bassett intended to be present during the lesson. The boy had been giving the young noblewoman admiring glances ever since she arrived and, although Lucia was a few years older than Gianni, Bascot guessed the lad had arrived at the age when young males start to become painfully aware of the attractions of female pulchritude. Neither age nor rank had ever been a barrier to the onset of love’s awakening desires, and the crimson blush that spread over Gianni’s face when Bascot told him about the arrangements was a good indication the boy was smitten with the fair Lucia.

  Nicolaa suggested the young people, after the midday meal, hold the instruction in the chamber she used to administer the details of her vast demesne. It was private and supplied with a good quantity of parchment and writing implements. She also asked Lambert to attend the lesson so he could act as a translator for Gianni’s gestures and directed the clerk to write down a brief description of the movements so that Stephen, who was literate, could use the notes for reference.

  As Gianni’s eager steps took him into the keep, the hunt master came out into the bail and gave a loud blast on his horn. In response, saddled horses were led from the stables and the kennel master strode from the compound where the dogs were kept, a pack of mastiffs and boarhounds at his heels. Outside the kitchen, panniers containing flagons of wine were hastily strapped to the back of a sturdy palfrey to provide refreshment for members of the hunting party.

  As the barking of the dogs sounded loud on the cold air, Gerard Camville and Gilbert Bassett left the keep and came down into the bail. Behind them were Richard, Ralph of Turville and the household knights. All were wrapped in heavy cloaks and wore close-fitting caps lined with fur.

  The sheriff mounted his horse and looked about him. Satisfied all was in order, he raised his hand. The gateward on the western gate blew a signal on his horn and the heavy doors were pulled open by two men-at-arms. As the party rode through the opening and out into the countryside, a wide swathe of churned-up mud and slush marked their passage.

  Once the sounds of jingling harnesses and yelping dogs had faded into the distance, Bascot felt a fleeting stab of regret that he was not accompanying the hunters. The sport was forbidden to brothers of the Templar Order because it was believed that such secular pleasure would detract from the monks’ devotion to their religious duties. Although Bascot agreed with the sentiment of the rule, he still felt a craving to indulge in the excitement of the chase. Resolutely he pushed his longing aside. He had been too long away from the company of his brothers, he decided, and since it was unlikely that either Lady Nicolaa or her husband would require his presence until later in the day, he would go and spend the morning at the Templar enclave and immerse himself in the familiarity of the Order’s regime.

  THE LINCOLN ENCLAVE OF THE TEMPLAR ORDER WAS modest in size and located on the eastern shoulder of the hill upon which the castle and Minster stood and just below the area where the stone quarry lay. Although not a large commandery, Lincoln was on the main route from southeast England to the north coast and the preceptory often fulfilled the function of a staging post for messengers, and a harbour for travelling brothers in need of a night’s rest. Sparsely manned at this time of year when movement about the countryside was limited, it still had a complement of a dozen men-at-arms, a serjeant, a priest and a draper, all under the command of the preceptor, Everard d’Arderon. There was also a small number of lay servants—a cook, a blacksmith and several grooms.

  When Bascot arrived, a huge wagon was in the encampment, drawn up outside the storehouse where the goods received in fee from local Templar properties were kept. It also housed a supply of commodities that had been produced in the Holy Land and were sent to enclaves throughout the kingdom for the purposes of trade, such as rare spices and candi.

  Bales containing some of the more staple items were being loaded on the cart as Bascot entered the preceptory. Preceptor d’Arderon was standing alongside the wagon, a piece of parchment in his hands, directing a pair of men-at-arms in placement of the goods. D’Arderon, an older knight with a bluff countenance and neatly clipped greying beard, greeted his visitor warmly and, when Bascot asked the destination of the supplies, explained they were part of a shipment being sent to Tomar in Portugal, a Templar castle that was a bastion against the ever-increasing threat of encroachment by the Moors.

  “This wagonload of goods will join two others that are due to stop here on their way from the preceptory in York,” d’Arderon explained. “Once they have all reached London, the goods will be loaded aboard ship and taken to Portugal. Most will go to the enclave in Tomar, but some of it is needed by brothers in nearby Almourol. Those infidel bastards in the south of Portugal give our men no time to forage for themselves.”

  The Templar castles at both Tomar and Almourol—twelve miles south of Tomar—had been built about thirty years before at the behest of a Portuguese Templar Master, Gualdim Pais, who had died in 1195. It was an area of much unrest as the Moors battled to retake territories that had been reclaimed from them with great difficulty and loss of life by the Christian populace of northern Portugal. If the heathens were not kept back in both Portugal and Spain, there was a danger they would overwhelm the whole of the Iberian Peninsula.

  As d’Arderon had been speaking, Bascot noticed the preceptor looked very tired. Usually hale and hearty despite his sixty-odd years, there were now lines of strain etched on his face, and Bascot recalled the preceptor had recently suffered a bout of tertian fever, a recurring ailment that had been the cause of his being relieved of duty in Outremer two years before, and sent to take up the post of preceptor for the Lincoln enclave. It had been hoped that the softer climes of England would provide some relief from his ailment. And so they had, but the bouts still came upon him at times and although of far less intensity than formerly, they were nonetheless debilitating.

  “I do not have any duties at the castle for the next couple of hours, Preceptor, and would be more than pleased to carry out any task you care to assign me.”

  D’Arderon clapped him on the shoulder. “I look forward to the day when you will be back in our ranks for good, de Marins. Until then, you are welcome for however long a time you can spend.”

  The preceptor looked to where two grooms were exercising the enclave’s horses, walking them around the perimeter of the training ground that lay in the centre of the commandery. Usually the mounts were taken out onto the hillside below the preceptory and given a daily run, but the fall of snow over the last few days had precluded this. On the far side of the compound was a forge where a blacksmith was fitting new horseshoes on d’Arderon’s big black stallion. The animal was frisky and trying to bite the groom attempting to hold it steady. The blacksmith was having great difficulty completing his task.

  “If you would finish overseeing the loading of this wagon, de Marins,” the preceptor said, handing Bascot the paper he had been holding, “I will go and subdue my mount. Although he is unmatched as a destrier, he is also fractious, and needs a firm hand.”

  Bascot took the parchment and for the rest of the morning supervised the loading of sacks of grain, barrels of salted herring, some lengths of timber suitable for palings and a number of casks containing crossbow quarrels.

  After the cart was loaded and securely covered with a protective sheet of leather hides, Bascot reluctantly bid d’Arderon farewell and left the preceptory.

  As he rode back to Lincoln castle, he felt a sense of well-being, instilled by the hours he had spent in the company of men who, like himself, had dedicated their lives to the service of Christ. The desire to accompany the hunting party that had so suddenly engulfed him that morning was completely expunged. As he entered the Minster grounds and rode across it in the direction of the castle, he looked toward the Priory of All Saints where the body of Peter Brand was being kept. The memory of the clerk’s brok
en body and the fatal wound in his chest surged into the Templar’s mind. Although forbidden to hunt game, it seemed as though God had ordained he be a stalker of murderers.

  Ten

  AS BASCOT WAS RETURNING FROM THE PRECEPTORY, the hunting party was also on their way back to the castle. All were in high good humour. As they rode, they recalled the high points of the chase, especially the moment when the boar was killed.

  It had been shortly after they entered the sheriff’s chase—the edge of which was a marshy patch of ground threaded with small streams—that the dogs had flushed the boar from its lair beneath a snow-covered mound of dead bracken. At first the pig attacked and wounded one of the dogs with its sharp yellow tusks, but then, realising there were too many adversaries to be overcome, it sped off into a wooded area. The chase was an arduous one. With the dogs snapping and snarling at it heels, the boar darted farther into the trees, zigzagging back and forth, occasionally executing one of the sudden turns its short legs could perform so well and lunging at its pursuers.

  The quarry was finally brought to bay in the bed of an old dried-up stream. At the far end of the shallow depression were the decaying remains of a long-deserted beaver’s lodge, now covered in a thin layer of melting snow. The boar, finding its passage blocked by the pile of debris, turned and faced its enemies. It was a mature animal, and large, standing more than a metre high at the shoulder and weighing at least two hundred pounds. The dogs, still growling and barking but wary of the gleaming tusks, managed to hold it there until the hunt party caught up.

  Leaving their horses a safe distance from where the pig was trapped, the men dismounted and the hunt master sent two of his assistants up onto the banks of the streambed, one on either side. Each of the huntsmen carried a large net that could be cast over the boar if the need arose. The men of the party, Camville and Bassett in the lead, armed themselves with short cross-hafted boar spears.