by Maureen Ash
They made a handsome pair, the two young friends, so recently dubbed into knighthood. Richard had hair that was almost as bright a red as her own had once been, with a genial manner and a strength of limb and shoulder that promised to soon equal his father’s. Beside him Conal looked slim, but his tall lanky build was deceiving, for Nicolaa had seen him best larger and more experienced men on the practice field. He was fair, like his mother, and his features were finely drawn, giving his full mouth and bright grey eyes an almost feminine look.
Nicolaa shook her head. Richard, she knew, was a lecher, just as her father had been. Somehow it was more disturbing in an offspring than a parent, but she gave thanks that his inclinations were not like Conal’s who, although it was never spoken of openly, was suspected of liking members of his own sex in preference to females. This conjecture stemmed from the fact that he seemed to show none of a young man’s usual interest in women. To be fair, neither did he seem attracted to any of the young pages or squires with whom he came into daily contact and Nicolaa was sure that Richard would not have befriended Conal if there was any suspicion of an aberration in his sexual proclivities. The hint of sodomy was ever apparent in de Kyme’s complaints of his stepson, however, and in his bewailing of no heir to carry on his line. There were de Kyme’s aplenty in Lincoln, he would moan, but not one of them his own true son. Then he would look pointedly at the long-suffering woman to whom he was married and shake his head. It was fortunate that tonight his wife, Sybil, had asked to be excused from the feast, pleading illness as an excuse to keep to her bed.
Nicolaa shrugged. It was nothing to do with her. She remembered vaguely from her own youth that there had been some ruckus at the time of de Kyme’s marriage to Sybil, who was older than he and a widow with a young son. Philip had apparently wanted to wed another, but the girl had been of low birth and dowerless and Philip’s father had threatened his son with the loss of his inheritance if he did not wed Conal’s mother. Recently, he had taken to constantly referring mysteriously to the fact that, had he been allowed his own inclinations in the matter of his marriage, he would have heirs aplenty and it was not too late to rectify the matter. So repetitive were his complaints that no one took much notice of them anymore, not even Gerard, who was closest to de Kyme in that they often shared the pleasure of the hunt or the sampling of some new wine from Poitou.
Nicolaa gave herself a mental shake. That morning the castle chaplain had spoken at Mass of the dangers of the seven deadly sins, no doubt aiming to warn his flock against indulgence while the fair, with its atmosphere of freedom and gaiety, took over the more sober routine of Lincoln for the next few days. Each of us, the priest had said, is guilty of at least one of the deadly sins at some time, and often of two or more. Nicolaa ran through them in her mind-Lust, Pride, Avarice, Envy, Sloth, Anger and Covetousness. She looked around at her companions at the high table. Yes, she thought, the priest was right-we are all guilty of at least one of those sins. Hugh of covetousness, de Kyme of anger, Gerard of sloth, Richard, her son, of lust-just in such a short space she could pick these out and, she admitted, there was her own sin of pride, which she excused to herself by naming it a strong sense of duty. We are all sinners, she thought, even if only in the secrecy of our own hearts. But the priest had also reminded his flock of the seven virtues-Faith, Hope, Charity, Justice, Prudence, Temperance and Fortitude-and told them that at least one of these also was possessed by each man or woman, and that by prayer these virtues could be strengthened to overcome the temptation of the seven deadly sins.
Judging by the raucous laughter and drunken merriment of the crowd in the hall tonight, Nicolaa thought it certainly seemed true that the virtues were harder to find than the sins. Her gaze fell on the Templar, Bascot de Marins. He was an enigma to her, seeming to be completely self-contained except in his relationship with his young servant. It had been on impulse that she had given him the task of trying to discover the identity of the murderer of the four people in the alehouse. He had proved himself a valuable addition to her retinue, but she had the feeling that he had talents beyond those required for a simple clerk and she had wanted to bring them out. The rule that the Templars who left their Order could only do so on condition they join a monastic order stricter than their own was a loose one, and Nicolaa was sure that if she brought pressure to bear on the Grand Master of the Temple in London he would agree to overlook this stipulation with regard to Bascot. Since she hoped the Templar would wish to leave the Order and accept an offer to remain in her household, she wondered if giving him additional responsibility might not defeat her own purpose. It may just drive him into making the very decision she least wanted, that of returning to the Order that he had become, at least temporarily, disenchanted with. Ah well, she thought, as her father had often said, a metal must be well tempered to ring true. And, as with metal, so it was with men. That was a lesson she had learned too well to ignore.
Ten
Bascot and Gianni left the great hall directly after Nicolaa de la Haye stood and announced that she was retiring. Her husband, Gerard, stayed in his seat, motioning for the servers to refill his wine cup and that of Philip de Kyme, who had moved to sit beside him. Most of the ladies who were staying within the precincts of the castle followed their hostess’ example, leaving the men folk to their wine and talk of old battles, while the visiting merchants and their wives, with lodgings hired in the town, also left. But the bulk of the barons and lesser lords stayed where they were, settling themselves in to enjoy the Haye largesse for as long as it was proffered. There would be sore heads aplenty in the morning but since they were there for pleasure and not for work, as the merchants were, none cared.
When Bascot and Gianni reached their tiny chamber the boy, finally full of food, slumped onto his pallet and within moments was fast asleep. Bascot left the boy to his slumbers and walked up the few steps to the battlements of the tower. The walkway faced south, so that he could see out over the curtain wall to the town spread out below and to where the streets drifted down the hill to the River Witham at the lower end. The night air was fresh from the rain and a small wind was blowing. Above was a canopy of stars, washed with the faint light that never seems to leave the sky at the high point of summer. In the semidarkness a few bats flitted. He removed his eye patch and felt a rush of air cool the withered socket beneath.
As always when up high, the loss of half his sight made him feel slightly dizzy, but long years of practice had made him accustomed to it and he gripped the solid stone of the battlements to steady himself. The light of torches could be seen bobbing here and there as the merchants and their families made their way to their various lodgings. Even within some of the dwellings a light could be seen, though it was long past couvre feu or, as the English speaking population pronounced it, curfew. There would be no fines tonight for those who broke the law and stayed late abroad since the advent of the fair in the morning was considered a valid enough excuse to do so.
His dizziness under control, Bascot leaned onto the stone of the crenellations and let his thoughts drift, planning how he would set about fulfilling the task that Nicolaa de la Haye had given him. The scrap of cloth that Gianni had found he could show to the drapers and weavers gathered for the festivities. It might be worthwhile to visit a few silversmiths and ask about the brooch, to see if they could determine its origin. He would need to visit the Jews and ask if the whereabouts of Samuel in the day or two before he met his death were known. It would also be advisable to visit the three places where the alekeeper had made his deliveries and try to discover if he had been seen at any house other than those at which he was known to have stopped. Of course, if the priest recovered and could identify his assailant, Bascot’s task might be made easier.
Bascot shook his head to clear it. Tomorrow there would be so much activity within the town he would have difficulty getting anyone’s attention for long enough to gain a coherent answer to his questions. The other side to that problem would be that people
would be off their guard and he would be able to move comparatively unnoticed through the throng. The scrap of material was, although slight, his best indication of the young woman’s identity. If he could find out who she had been, perhaps then he might also discover the identity of her companion, if the young man had been such, that is. He pondered on that for a moment. Had the boy been her husband? Or a stranger, their only link the manner of their death? There had to be a common thread weaving all of the dead people together and binding them to the murderer. It seemed only fitting that he should start his enquiries with the scrap of material.
Before he went inside to his pallet, the Templar replaced his eye patch, and looked up again at the canopy of stars overhead. Into the peace of the heavens he murmured a prayer for assistance and aid in successfully bringing the murderer to justice.
The next morning the day dawned with as fair a promise of sunshine as any of the townspeople could wish. Before first light there was movement as people gathered in knots of two, three or more, full of anticipation for the festivities. At midmorning there was to be a procession, starting at the principal gate of Stonebow in the lower town and winding its way up Mikelgate and Steep Hill through Bailgate to the Minster where the cathedral was situated. Every guild in the town would be represented, some by a delegation of its members marching in their finest clothes, others by a cart decorated with a scene to display their wares, all accompanied by the same strolling musicians and tumblers that had entertained in the castle hall the night before. The townspeople were already beginning to line the streets, some sitting on stools or benches they had brought with them for the purpose, others claiming an advantageous corner by planting themselves firmly in possession, and for those who were lucky enough to either have a house on the main street or to know someone who had, viewing the procession from the comfort of an open casement in the top storey of the dwelling.
Bascot knew it would be pointless to embark on his queries until the pageant had finished and, since Gianni was all agog to watch it, they climbed to the walkway of the outer wall of the castle bail and got a good vantage point from the battlements. They would see the procession just as it finished the trek up Steep Hill and turned into the grounds of the Minster. Gianni had come prepared for the entertainment by begging some pieces of bread and cheese from the castle cook which he had carefully wrapped in a square of clean linen, and Bascot carried a flask of watered wine at his belt.
They were not alone in their chosen spot. Many of the soldiers from the garrison clustered beside them as well as those of the castle servants who had finished their duties in time to scamper up to the walkway. But in deference to Bascot’s rank and, he suspected, out of consideration for his physical infirmities, he and Gianni were right at the front, and could see the street beneath them clearly through one of the gaps in the crenellations.
The cobblestones below them were thick with people and the hum of conversation. Excited laughter could be heard long before the strains of the musicians accompanying the procession were audible. Finally the leaders of the parade came into view as they passed through the huge arch of Bailgate. An exultant shout went up from the crowd as the most prominent members of the Draper’s guild stepped out from under the arch, their faces red with perspiration as they sweated under the weight of the fine clothes they had donned for the occasion. The sun struck bright on the materials they wore-short summer cloaks in lustrous velvets of blue or green, silken tunics of red, yellow and ivory, and close-fitting caps of softest amber decorated with feathers dyed to match. There was embroidery on every hem and sleeve, and jewels as well, pinned to cap and cloak. They made a magnificent display and the crowd gasped and called out their admiration. Cloth was the main staple of the fair and, as such, deserved pride of place at the head of the procession.
Behind the drapers came the other guilds, first the ones associated with cloth-making such as the weavers, dyers and tailors, then the gold and silversmiths, the parchment makers, the barbers-a wooden pole painted with stripes of red and white carried aloft in front of them-the soap makers and salters, the bakers and carpenters. Many had a cart in their midst, decorated with flowers and strips of cloth, with one or more of the guild members standing inside and displaying samples of their produce or, where possible, actually plying their trade as the carts moved slowly along. Beside and among them the musicians strolled, piping and playing, while the tumblers threaded their way cleverly through the procession and the crowd, deftly catching any pennies that might be thrown their way.
At strategic intervals, Bascot saw, there were pairs of Gerard’s guard, eyes darting amongst the throng, on the look-out for cutpurses. Occasionally one of the soldiers would swoop into the crowd and grab some mean-looking fellow, shake him roughly and issue a warning before letting him go. The sheriff was determined that there would be no charge of laxness against his authority.
When the last of the procession, a few members of the butcher’s guild, passed into the Minster, the crowd flooded behind, laughter and merriment cresting like waves in the wake of a boat. As the last of the revelers disappeared, Bascot and Gianni left the walkway and descended into the bail.
The huge open space was almost empty, only the shrill cries of a goose girl shooing her errant flock back into their pen breaking the unusual stillness. A faint clanging could be heard from the blacksmith’s forge but it was halfhearted and stopped as the Templar and Gianni walked towards the main gate. Down the wooden walkway of the keep’s forebuilding, a party of nobles was descending. Bascot recognised Richard Camville, Nicolaa and Gerard’s son, in the lead, walking beside Conal, Philip de Kyme’s son-by-marriage. Conal was looking straight ahead, his bright fair hair riffling in the breeze and a sullen look on his handsome face, lips pursed and chin high. Richard kept pace with him, slicing a glance at his companion now and then, but saying nothing. Behind them came Gerard and Philip de Kyme, the latter red faced and angry, shouting words lost by distance to Bascot at the descending back of his stepson, while Camville laid a restraining hand on the arm of his friend.
Suddenly de Kyme stopped and turned on the stair. Behind him and Camville were Lady Nicolaa and another woman that Bascot recognised as Sybil, de Kyme’s wife, a tall thin woman with a long face and sad eyes. She was watching her husband and son with an expression that was a combination of anger and grief. De Kyme mouthed something at her and she flinched visibly, then straightened as Lady Nicolaa, copying her husband, laid a hand warningly on her shoulder.
At the bottom of the stairs, which Conal and Richard had just reached, Sybil de Kyme’s son turned and, his hand at his sword, started to run back up the steps towards his mother’s husband. As if with one accord, Richard Camville grabbed his companion forcefully about the shoulders and Gerard, his hand dropping to the blade at his belt, stepped in front of de Kyme. For a moment it was like a tableau as the four men, two young and two middle-aged, glared at each other. Then de Kyme tried to push Gerard aside and scrabbled at his own blade, shouting as he did so. Smaller and slighter, he had no chance of moving the sheriff, who stood like a rock barring his passage. Suddenly Conal shook himself loose of Richard’s grasp and marched back down the steps and across the bail in the direction of the stables. Richard, after a glance at his parents, shook his head and followed him. Camville released his sword hilt, laughed, and then flung an arm about de Kyme and led him off across the bail to the armoury, while Nicolaa and her companion slowly descended the stairs, Sybil de Kyme with faltering steps and an unsteady hand on the rail. Behind them came a group of other ladies, veils and sleeves fluttering, heads together as they spoke in whispers and gave covert glances at the back of Sybil de Kyme.
As the group moved slowly towards the main gate and went through it, trailed by a few younger squires and pages, Ernulf appeared at the top of the forecastle steps, a linen-wrapped bundle under his arm. He saw Bascot and hailed him, signalling him to wait, then trotted down the stairs and over to where he stood.
“A monk from the p
riory came while the procession was passing,” he said. “Brought the two dead youngsters’ clothing. Seems the nuns got ’em cleaned as best they could and dried ’em in yesterday’s sun before the storm came. Also said that Father Anselm is still alive, but only just. Seems none of his vital organs were damaged, as far as can be told, but he is very weak. Brother Jehan is dosing him with a potion to keep him asleep. Give the wound a chance to start mending.”
Bascot digested the news and took the bundle from Ernulf. “I’m glad the nuns were so swift with the clothing,” he said. “Since it seems that Father Anselm will not be able to communicate with anyone just yet, I shall visit some of the drapers today and see if they can identify the cloth.”
“Even if they do, it might have travelled far and wide before it was made into the clothes those two were wearing,” Ernulf opined.
“I know, but it’s a logical place to start.” Bascot looked at the serjeant with a raised eyebrow. “What was the ruckus between the de Kyme’s?”
Ernulf shrugged, his seamed face set into disgruntled lines. “De Kyme woke with a head mazed with wine. Decided to ease the ache by blaming his wife for some imagined thing or other. Conal said some hard words about the treatment of his mother-quite right, too, by my way of thinking, the lady is ill-used by her husband most of the time-and de Kyme turned on him, like he usually does. Told the lad he was a sorry excuse for a man, let alone a knight, and said he wished that both he and his mother had never come into his sight. Said he had the hammer to make more sons, but Sybil’s anvil could produce only the like of Conal or nothing at all and he was going to set the matter straight. The boy took offence-as who wouldn’t?-and it was only by young Richard and Sir Gerard intervening that there wasn’t more than hard words said. From the way de Kyme spoke,” Ernulf added musingly, “it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s sent off to the archbishop for licence to have his marriage dissolved. He and Conal’s mother are cousins of a sort, even if distant. Could be grounds for consanguinity.”
