by Maureen Ash
“And…” Jennet prompted. “Did you not hear anything, screams or summat? With four people being murdered, I’d have thought there would have been some sort of ruckus.”
“I heard nary a sound. I did just as Wat had said. I didn’t want a beating. Wat had a heavy hand, as well you know.” Here she hastily crossed herself, for forgiveness in speaking ill of the dead. “But, Jennet, that morning Wat had told me not to touch anything in the yard. I was just to pour the ale, not draw it. And he wouldn’t let me even go out to the latrine, at the back. I had to use our old pot in the house. But, Jennet, if Wat had known there was to be murder done, why was he murdered himself? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Did you tell the Templar about this when he asked you?”
“No, he scared me. He looks so… like a heathen, with his dark skin, and there’s that eye patch. It’s like he could be a murderer himself.”
“That’s silly,” Jennet exclaimed. “He’s a Templar, swore his life to God’s service, he did, and spent years in a cell at the mercy of them same bloody infidels you say he looks like. If you could trust anyone, it’s him. Even more than the priests, because most of them are more interested in the pennies we give than in saving our souls. You don’t see them giving up everything they possess for the love of God, like he did.”
“Father Anselm isn’t like that,” Agnes protested. “He was kind to me this morning and helped me when I was all alone.” There was an accusatory tone in Agnes’ voice, as though her sister should have known of her distress and been there when it happened.
“Well, some of them are alright,” Jennet conceded. “There are a few good ones, I suppose, even if Father Anselm is a bit too well favoured for a priest, and knows he is, and all. But the Templar is from Lady Nicolaa, not from her husband, the sheriff. Gerard Camville is none too gentle a creature, as you well know. If he sends one of his men-at-arms to question you, you’ll be made to tell what you know, right enough. And they won’t be asking you quiet like the Templar did. They’ll take you up to the castle and beat the truth out of you.”
Jennet wasn’t too sure if this was true or not, about the Templar being sent by Nicolaa de la Haye, but she had heard a man-at-arms from the castle telling the Haye serjeant that Lady Nicolaa would be waiting for their report in her own chambers so there was a good chance that the castellan had sent them. Whether it was so or not, Jennet wanted to scare her sister into doing as she was told, and Sheriff Camville was enough of a devil to scare anyone.
“Oh, Jennet,” Agnes wailed, “what am I going to do?”
“Tomorrow we’ll ask Father Anselm to tell the Templar you want to see him, and then you’re going to repeat what you told me. I’ll go with you,” she added, seeing the distraught look on her sister’s face. “The sooner the task is done, the sooner you’ll be easy.” She looked down sternly at her sister. “There isn’t anything else you’re not telling me, is there?”
Agnes shook her head and swore that there wasn’t. Jennet was not confident that her sister was telling the truth, but she decided not to press the matter because Agnes truly did look as though she might swoon from the torment of emotions that her ordeal had caused. Later, when Agnes had rested, Jennet would question her again. She was sure there was something her sister was hiding.
Finally allowing the compassion she felt to come to the surface, Jennet took her sister by the arm and led her up a flight of narrow stairs to a bedchamber above. “You lie down on our pallet and sleep now, Agnes. I’ll come up later and fetch you a bit of food for your dinner.”
Willingly letting her sister take charge, Agnes crawled under the thin cover and closed her eyes. She didn’t know what she would have done if she hadn’t been able to come to Jennet.
Once Jennet heard her sister’s breathing begin to grow slow and regular, she left her. There was more to this coil than could be seen, she was sure of that. Just as she was also sure that Agnes could be blamed in some way, if not for the actual killing, then for having a helping hand in it. She hadn’t suggested that to her sister, for it would scare her even more than she already was and, besides, Jennet was sure that Agnes was innocent. She was a trial sometimes, and could be unexpectedly stubborn, but she would never hurt anyone. Why, if she had been that kind she would have fought back at Wat when he hit her. She had enough strength to lift a cask of ale, she could have defended herself. But even when she was being beaten she had never tried to hurt the one who was doing it to her.
Of one thing Jennet was sure, and that was that she didn’t really want her sister to be taken in for questioning by the sheriff’s men. Gerard Camville was a brutal man, and crimes committed by anyone other than himself were harshly punished. And he would be looking for a solution to this murder. It would be bad for custom in the town to have an unknown murderer on the loose and he was fond of his silver, was the sheriff. Just let him see a drop in the tolls and taxes the fair would bring and he would be angry, angry with that cold fury he was capable of-and would look for someone to blame it on. No, she had to get Agnes to tell what she knew and preferably to someone not directly connected to Camville. If she had put the right interpretation on what she had overheard, then the Templar was Lady Nicolaa’s knight, not Camville’s, and it would be much better for Agnes to be under the jurisdiction of the castellan rather than the sheriff. Lady Nicolaa was stern, but she was fair, unlike her husband. Yes, Jennet decided, she would take Agnes to the Templar. Besides, he was a monk, God’s own man, and despite her remarks to Agnes about clerics, she did believe that some of them were good, especially one who had risked his life in the service of Christ amongst the heathens. Muttering a prayer beneath her breath she asked for God’s help and that her instinct about the Templar prove true. She had always tried to protect her sister and often failed; she implored God for assistance in safeguarding Agnes now.
Four
After he and Ernulf had made their report to Nicolaa de la Haye, Bascot left the keep, motioning for Gianni to follow him. Outside, the bailey of the castle was a mass of moving men and animals as visitors arrived for the fair and castle servants rushed about unloading baggage and arranging for it to be stored. Along the perimeter of the castle walls outbuildings were packed close together-smithy, granary, the garrison sleeping quarters and stables, and space allotted for use to the carpenters, fletchers and coopers. There were also pens for sheep and swine, an area for poultry and, at the far north side, walled in for protection against a stray four-footed intruder, Lady Nicolaa’s herb garden. Adjacent to the garden were the mews where the castle hawks were kept.
Bascot and Gianni threaded their way through the crowd, making for the tall tower of the old keep, and Bascot’s room at the top. The Templar knew it was a rare privilege, and in deference to his standing as a member of the Order, that he had been given a private chamber, for the majority of Haye retainers made up their pallets on the floor of the great hall. Although he was grateful for the privacy, the room was almost at the top of the narrow tower, and he cursed his aching ankle as he climbed the circular stairway to the third storey. Once inside, he sank down gratefully onto the shelf that held his pallet and told Gianni to pour them ale from a leather flagon standing in the corner. Reaching into a bundle by the bed, Bascot brought out a small leather sack. In it was a supply of the lumps of boiled sugar that were sent to England from Templar property in the Holy Land, made from sweet canes that grew in the fields near Acre. The Arabs called them al-Kandiq, but in England they were known simply as candi, and were one of the items the Templars used in trade to raise funds for the upkeep of their Order. Bascot was very fond of them, even though they made his teeth ache if he ate too many. He tossed one to Gianni and watched the boy’s delighted expression as he popped it into his mouth and let it roll on his tongue.
Bascot sipped his ale and sucked the candi thoughtfully, his mind on the meeting from which he had just come. Lady Nicolaa’s husband, Gerard Camville, had been present, just returned from a morning’s hunt. Bascot
was reserved in his opinion of the sheriff. Ostensibly the Templar was a guest in the retinue of his wife, for it had been to her that his introductions had been directed when he had arrived last year, but Camville was her husband and, as such, was lord over both her and her offices and possessions. The sheriff was an impressive man, massive with thick black hair cut high on the nape of his neck in the old Norman fashion and a heavy jaw that he kept clean shaven. He seemed as broad as he was tall, with thick shoulders and thighs that swelled beneath the rust-coloured jerkin and hose that he wore. But his unpredictability disturbed Bascot, for his moods were as restless as his body seemed to be. All the time Bascot and Ernulf had been giving a report of their findings at the alehouse, the sheriff had prowled back and forth in front of them and behind. It was as though he found the walls of the private chamber in which they were holding the meeting too small to contain his wide frame.
When the tale had been finished, Gerard had muttered an oath and said, “And tonight we can expect a deputation from the town officials, come to complain about a murderer being loose, spurred on by their wives and daughters. Every female in Lincoln will be seeing a bloody fiend behind her bed curtains, or lingering malevolently near her privy. Damn the deed, and him who did it! My men are stretched as far as they can be at the moment, protecting visiting merchants from outlaws on the road and from thieves in the town. I cannot spare any to go hunting this miscreant.”
He banged the wine cup, from which he had been drinking, down on the table in front of his wife. “And, if these two strangers are found to be of more than lowly station their relatives will come dunning me for recompense. It all means more silver to be paid out, silver I will have to make up out of my own coffers, for the king will say it is my responsibility, not the crown’s.”
Lady Nicolaa had sat silent throughout her husband’s tirade. What Camville had said was all too true. As sheriff, he was responsible for the safety of travellers to the fair and if he was found wanting in his duties, he would have to pay the cost for that failing to any family member who had suffered from the loss of the deceased. Even villeins, absconded from a lord, would merit a few pieces of silver as a consideration to their master. Bascot knew that Camville was nervous of the new king, John, who had ascended to the throne the previous year after the death of his brother, Richard. This was so even though, while Richard had been away on Crusade, Camville and Prince John-as he had been then-had conspired to overthrow the chancellor that Lionheart had left to rule England in his stead. Reprisals had been heavy on Camville when Richard returned to England after being imprisoned in Austria on his way home from the Crusades. The king had taken the shrievalty away from him. Although John had restored it when he had gained the crown, the new king was not as trusting as his brother and watched Camville with a wary eye, for he knew how easily he could be swayed to betrayal. Had it not been that John regarded Nicolaa de la Haye as an old and trusted friend, it was doubtful he would have reappointed Camville to his post, and the sheriff was aware of how tenuous his position was. If the people of Lincoln complained loud enough about their sheriff, the king would have no recourse but to listen and perhaps give the lucrative post to another.
When Nicolaa spoke, it was quietly. “The alehouse is on land held in fee from the Haye demesne, Gerard. Anything that happens on property from which the Haye coffers gain revenue is ultimately my responsibility. It is, therefore, right and proper that I personally oversee the search for the perpetrator of these murders. At least initially, just until the fair is over and our visitors have left, which is only a matter of a week or so. And, I think, the townspeople will accept my guidance. If they do, it will soften any complaint they may make to the king.”
Camville relaxed enough under her suggestion to stop his pacing. He nodded. “You will use Haye men?” he asked.
“De Marins and Ernulf have already viewed the bodies. They can make further enquiries into the matter and I will inform the coroner what is being done.”
Nicolaa, with a concise movement of her hands, pressed them down on the table top and rose, signifying the end of the discussion. “See if you can find out the identity of the two strangers, de Marins. Also enquire about the Jew-his own people may be able to tell you if he had incurred the enmity of a disgruntled creditor or was, perhaps, at odds with one of his own race.” She thought for a moment, then said, “This alewife-were she and her husband complaisant with each other, I wonder? It may be she knows more than she is telling. Could she have been responsible for the deaths, do you think?”
Bascot shook his head. “She has the strength, I think, but not the wits or the boldness. And it took wits and boldness to kill and hide three bodies unseen for at least a day.”
Lady Nicolaa gave his words some thought. “Still, it is worth investigating,” she said. “See her again. Be discreet, but thorough. You may call on Ernulf whenever you require his assistance.”
With that, he and the serjeant had been dismissed and Bascot had left the chamber, feeling a tinge of admiration for the economy of Lady Nicolaa’s direction and the ease with which she had quelled the uncertain temper of her husband. Such diplomacy was a rare gift.
Bascot ruminated on the task he had been given as he sipped his ale and enjoyed the delicious sweetness of the brew. How was he to set about finding out the identity of two strangers in a town half-full of people not ordinarily resident here? The smell of the ale in his cup rose strongly to his nostrils and he felt a jog at his memory. The reek of ale in the taproom earlier that day had been just as powerful, the room filled with the odour even though there had been not a drop poured in any cup, and the room clean of spills. It was not unusual for a taproom to smell so, but it had been powerfully strong, almost overwhelming, as though a barrel had been standing open in the middle of the floor. Even the bodies had stunk of it.
He began to ponder on this when Gianni made a movement and attracted his attention. The lad, though mute, had developed a series of gestures that Bascot easily interpreted. Now the boy was rubbing his stomach and pointing to his mouth. Bascot grinned. It was time for the midday meal and Gianni was hungry.
“I cannot face those stairs again in such a short time, Gianni. Go down and see the cook. Get us some food and bring it back here. When we have eaten, there is work to do.”
The boy scampered away, and Bascot lay back on his pallet and lifted the patch that covered the place where his eye had once been, rubbing the socket gently. Not vanity but pride accounted for the fact that he did not like anyone, even Gianni, to see the wound uncovered. It was a grisly sight and for a moment the pain that had burned and taken away his senses when a Muslim lord had ordered the hot iron to sear his flesh returned like a flash of lightning, then receded. He would not think on that, he decided, the memory was too painful, not for the loss of his eye but for the helplessness he had felt afterwards, and the deep anger that followed.
He got up and moved to the tiny window slit. Overhead the sky was a clear translucent blue, a heat haze shimmering over the fields and woods beyond the castle walls. Down in the bailey he could see Gianni running back across the ward towards the tower, the dark curls on his head bouncing as he struggled to balance two wooden bowls filled with food, one on top of the other. Bascot was glad to see that the boy was beginning to fill out, to put some flesh on his slight frame. When the Templar had found the lad on a wharf in Palermo the boy had been fighting with some mangy street dogs over the body of a dead pigeon, his bones protruding sticklike under a thin covering of skin. The lad had been starving, covered with the festering sores of malnutrition and eyes no more than black circles of pain. Bascot, his soul stirred by the utter desolation of the boy’s expression, had taken pity on him and given him food, then made him his servant, training him and teaching him his letters on the long journey back to England. He had been rewarded by finding that the boy had a quick and intelligent mind hidden beneath his inability to speak. Bascot did not know how old he was-nor did Gianni-but it was a reasonable guess
that the young body had been stunted by lack of food and that he was older than his size would suggest, and was probably about eleven or twelve years of age. Not being able to speak his name, if he had ever known it, Bascot had christened him Giovanni, after the saint of the day on which he had found him. This had soon been shortened to the diminutive, Gianni. The boy was devoted to Bascot and, in return, the Templar had come to regard the lad in almost the same light he would have had he been his own son.
Gianni’s light footsteps pattered on the stairs outside and, as Bascot slipped his eye patch back into place, the door was pushed open to reveal the boy and his burden. One bowl, on the bottom, was filled with chunks of bread; the other, on top, was brimming with a hearty meat stew thickened with root vegetables. Carefully Gianni set them down on the floor then, removing the bread, he poured a smaller portion of stew for himself into the empty bowl and served Bascot with the remainder, laying chunks of bread beside his master on a clean cloth which he had carried folded in his belt. Two wooden spoons appeared from the folds of his tunic and he carefully polished one of them with the hem of his shirt before laying it beside Bascot. Looking up at his mentor with liquid brown eyes, he waited until Bascot gave a nod of approbation before sitting down cross-legged on the floor and hungrily attacking his own food.
As they ate, Bascot thought again about the events of the morning. In a sense, Lady Nicolaa was not only giving him a duty to perform, but a test of his capabilities. She had taken him into her household on the recommendation of the Templar master in London, who was an acquaintance of hers. When she had learned that Bascot could read and write she had asked him, after he had regained some of his strength, if he would assist her in carrying out some of the tasks of running the demesne. Literacy was uncommon, even amongst the nobility, and she had need of someone trustworthy to aid her and her overworked bailiffs and clerks in preparing the records necessary to overseeing her lands. Nothing too onerous, she had explained, or unfitting to his rank, but she herself had so little time and it would bring her great relief if he would agree. Bascot had smiled at her guile. Since he was eating her food and accepting the shelter of his room he could hardly refuse, but she had given him the courtesy of putting the request in the form of a favour to her, not as payment for her generosity. He had agreed to do as she asked and she had given him her thanks.
