The Alehouse Murders tk-1

by Maureen Ash

  When they reached the door, Bascot motioned for the two younger men to precede him down the winding stone stairway, pleading that the enforced slowness caused by his unsound ankle would impede their descent. As they clattered down and disappeared round a turn in the tower, he could hear their voices echo back to him, Richard’s importunate and Conal’s blunt in refusal. Bascot heard his own name mentioned, then the voices drifted farther away before they were stilled by the slam of the door at the bottom of the stairway. When Bascot reached the base of the tower there was no sign of either of the two young men. Only Gianni, patiently awaiting his master’s return, was in sight, sitting in the shade of the stairway up to the forebuilding, passing the time by repeatedly tossing three stones from the back of his hand to the palm in an age-old children’s game.

  Fifteen

  From the entryway into the great hall Nicolaa de la Haye stood and surveyed her guests. The company had thinned out since the eve of the fair, but there was still a fairly large number to be accommodated at mealtime. She fingered the chatelaine at her waist, and the keys hanging from it, mentally running through the supplies of wine, flour, meat, vegetables and fruit that were held in store in the huge room at the bottom of the keep. There was still plenty, and the coolness of the lower floor should keep most of it fresh enough for consumption. She was pleased that the intensity of the summer heat had abated a little. It was still hot, but not as oppressive as it had been before the storm had cleared the air. She shrugged irritably in the gown she had donned for today. It was one she had ordered newly made for the festivities and the neckline was stiff and scratchy. Then she smiled at herself. It was not really the discomfort of the gown that was bothering her, but the murders in the alehouse and the attack on Father Anselm. She was no stranger to death. The conflict of battle, accident, sickness-all took their toll, and often. It was rather the mystery of these murders that she did not like, and mystery there was even if de Kyme’s wife and stepson were responsible. She had no affection for Sybil beyond that of distant courtesy between two women whose husbands were friends, and Conal was only well known to her because of the amity between him and Richard. Still, the accusation did not lie easily on her mind. It had about it an untidiness that she did not like, and that offended her.

  Her glance flicked to where her husband was seated. Gerard was in a mood of rare good humour this morning due to the fact that, as far as he was concerned at least, the charges laid by de Kyme had relieved him of looking further for a culprit to bring before the justices. The silver in his coffers was safe, for the moment.

  Farther down the hall she saw Petronille take Ermingard, who was beginning to rock back and forth in her seat, by the arm and persuade her to leave the table where they had been breaking their fast. Matilda Bardolf rose with them and positioned herself on Ermingard’s other side. It was probable they would take her up to Nicolaa’s solar away from the curious eyes of the other guests. Ermingard’s husband and son stayed where they were, Ivo looking with concern at his mother’s retreating back and then turning to speak low in his father’s ear. William de Rollos shook his head briefly, placing another morsel of cold meat in his mouth and chewing with determination, eyes straight ahead. Ivo made to rise, then changed his mind and sat back down, toying with a piece of bread and staring into space. Nicolaa frowned. Ermingard had been unusually difficult these last two days. De Rollos said she had seemed better during the previous months and so he had decided to bring her with him on the long journey from Normandy. Even the summer storm that had caught them while crossing the Narrow Sea had not given her undue stress, he had told Nicolaa. It had not been until after they had arrived in Lincoln that Ermingard had become unsettled. Perhaps it was the press of so many people and the discomfort of the unseasonable heat that had disturbed her, Nicolaa thought. Or, she reasoned grimly, it was the murders that were mazing Ermingard’s senses, with gossip running rampant of poisonings, stab wounds and dead pregnant women. If so, Nicolaa could feel some affinity for her sister’s discontent.

  Agnes stood in the yard behind the alehouse waiting for her cauldron of water to boil. Across the yard her nephew, Will, was crushing dried husks of barley to make the malt that would be added to the water once it was ready. Her own special gruit was waiting for when it was time to make the mash. It would take a full day for the mash to settle before it was ready for straining, then a few more hours to wait for it to be strained a second and a third time. If she was lucky, she would be able to serve ale to her customers by tomorrow night.

  Wat had been buried early that morning. Jennet and her husband, Tom, along with Will, had accompanied her to the funeral Mass. She had come straight back to the alehouse afterward for she could not afford to let her yard stand idle while she made a show of grief. Tears would not turn into silver, but her good ale would, and she needed to take advantage of the influx of visitors to the fair. She shivered as she watched Will finish his task of grinding the barley and turn to cleansing the ale barrels so they would be ready for her brew. Agnes did not know which ones had held the dead bodies of the two young people and the Jew, and she had not tried very hard to find out. A good scrub would take the contamination away, she reasoned, and she could always tell her customers, if they asked, that she had destroyed the barrels that had held the dead bodies.

  The gate into the back lane opened and Agnes saw the tubby figure of her neighbour, Goscelin, come into the yard. He was a baker who had his premises on the same street as her own. She smiled to herself as he came forward and deferentially asked how she was faring. Goscelin had always been friendly-theirs were reciprocal crafts after all, with his grain and her ale-brewed yeast-but he had shown a rare concern as soon as he had learned that Wat was dead, even offering one of his sons to spell Will in giving her protection. He was a prosperous man, was Goscelin, and a widower for some twelve months since the death of his wife from a fever. Agnes murmured a prayer under her breath asking God for forgiveness for her flightiness, then set her most winsome smile on her face as she returned the baker’s greeting.

  Jennet had been right. Wat had been no good husband to her. Agnes had realised that on the last day that Wat had been alive when he had kicked her for pestering him with questions about why she had to stay clear of the yard. Surreptitiously she rubbed the spot on her thigh where his boot had made a great purple bruise. Well, there would be no more of that now, thanks be to God.

  She told Goscelin that she was feeling much better and regarded the baker closely under cover of what she hoped was a demure glance. He had a kind face, ruddy with the heat from his ovens, and a mouth that curved easily when he smiled. It was reputed he had treated his wife well while she was alive and had himself cared for her most tenderly when she had been taken ill. He also had three strong young sons, one of whom he was now offering once again as company and protection. There would be no shortage of hands to do the heavy work in any household of his. Yes, Goscelin would make a much better husband than Wat and it was plain that, once her bereavement was over, he would not cease his attentions to her. If she wanted the baker, she could have him. It was a thought which had comforted her often in the last two days.

  Ernulf did not bother to knock on the door of Brunner’s stewe-house; he kicked it in instead. As the door crashed wide on its hinges the serjeant told the two men-at-arms he had brought with him to wait outside while he went in to find his quarry.

  At the top of the stairs Ernulf could hear the rustling of the leather curtains that covered the entrances to the girls’ cubicles and a muttered oath or two amongst the customers as the noise of his arrival disturbed the business of the bawdy house. Drawing his sword, Ernulf next put his foot to the door that led into Brunner’s private chamber. The door swung open to reveal an empty room, the bed rumpled and filthy covers askew. A leather jack of wine lay on its side amongst the dirty rushes on the floor, drained of its contents. There were no clothes hanging from the peg behind the door, and the small ironbound chest that he had noticed in a
corner when he and Bascot had last been here stood with the lid flung back to reveal an empty interior. Ernulf went back into the hallway and, taking the steps two at a time, roared out a question at the harlots now gathered in a fearful group at the top.

  “Where is Brunner?” he demanded, directing his words at the oldest of the bawds, a woman of some probable thirty years, although she looked a score more.

  “He isn’t here,” the harlot replied, trying to frame her words with some degree of dignity despite clutching desperately at the soiled and stained wrap which was all that covered her skinny frame. Behind her Ernulf could see her customer’s alarmed eyes, peeking from behind the curtain of her cubicle.

  “That isn’t what I asked you,” Ernulf said patiently, “I asked you where he was. I can see he isn’t here for myself.”

  “I don’t know, serjeant, and that’s the truth. Nor do any of us,” the bawd replied, looking to the other harlots for confirmation, which they all gave with much nodding of their heads. “He was here early this morning-showing his usual cheery face,” she added with a sneer. “Then he left. Took young Gillie with him, though I reckon she didn’t want to go from the argument we heard between them, but she went just the same. He yelled up to me that he’d be back for any silver we owed him for last night’s work and that he’d have the hide off of any of us that tried to cheat him, then slammed out the door. Looked worried, I’m glad to say, God rot his soul.”

  Again there was more nodding of heads from the other bawds as they agreed with her words, especially the last.

  “Are you sure he didn’t give any indication of where he was going?” Ernulf persisted.

  “None,” said the older bawd, then she gave a sly giggle. “Perhaps he knew you was coming, serjeant. Didn’t fancy your company maybe, although, speaking for myself, I’d be right pleased to see you here anytime.” She winked at him. “For as long as you like,” she added with a knowing grin. “Just ask for Maud.”

  The other harlots tittered and Ernulf threw a smile back to the one who had made the invitation. “I might find it on my way to pass here again,” he said easily, “but it’ll have to wait until I find Brunner. If he comes back, I want to know. Is that lass your servant?” He pointed to a slip of a girl about nine or ten years of age who was cowering at the edge of the group.

  “That’s my daughter,” Maud replied. “She’s too young yet to earn her keep with the rest of us, so she clears out the slops and cooks our meals.”

  “Then send her to the castle if you have word of Brunner. Just come to the gate, lass,” he said to the girl, “and tell the sentry that Ernulf sent you. Can you remember that?”

  The girl nodded, her eyes stretched wide with awe at being entrusted with such an important task.

  “What’s Brunner done, serjeant?” called out one of the bawds. “Enticed a castle wench away from your bed, has he?”

  Again there was laughter, but Ernulf did not join in. “No, he hasn’t. This time he’s gone too far with his lies. I want him, and I’ll have him. And I’ll be just as hard on any that help him. Remember that if any of you are tempted not to do as I ask if, and when, he comes back.”

  The harlots fell silent as they saw the gravity of Ernulf’s expression. They were still quiet as he went out the door and closed it behind him. One of the men-at-arms looked at Ernulf hopefully. “Any luck, serjeant?”

  “No. He’s gone. And taken the girl with him. But I’ll find him if I have to search every ramshackle hovel in Butwerk. We know the tale the young bawd told of meeting the dead girl on the road was a lie. The girl was the wife of Philip de Kyme’s illegitimate son and was travelling with her husband, who was most definitely not a mason here in Lincoln. And it was Brunner put the bawd up to telling such a falsehood, I’ll warrant. When I find him he’ll tell me the reason why.” He flexed the strong fingers of his right hand into a fist. “I hope he’ll be reluctant to talk. It would give me great pleasure if there was a need to persuade him.”

  Father Anselm was still in the throes of fever. His wound had suppurated despite Brother Jehan’s application of a marigold poultice and it looked as though the poison would kill him. The injured man had never regained full consciousness since they had brought him to the priory nor, even in his delirium, had he uttered any word that would give a hint as to his attacker. All he had said, over and over again, was one word-“Unclean.” The brothers who were looking after him were not sure what he meant. It could have referred to his wound, or perhaps the hair shirt he had been wearing. There was even a possibility that he felt, deep in his delirium, the imminence of his death and was concerned that he was not able to be shriven and his soul cleansed of sin. He was never left alone, and prayers importuning for his recovery were said at every Mass. As the heat of the day grew Brother Jehan ordered his patient bathed with water cooled in the deep recesses of the priory’s buttery. “It is all we can do for him now,” Jehan said to the novice who was his assistant. “His fate is in the hands of God.”

  Sixteen

  Bascot’s thoughts were scattered and unsettled after he left the solar. And he was angry. Questioning Sybil de Kyme and Conal had been humiliating for them, embarrassing for him. He knew he was ill-suited to the role of inquisitor. All those years of being subjected to the will of his Saracen captors had made him very reluctant to expose any other person to an invasion of their privacy, even if such an intrusion was sanctioned by the sheriff and his wife. But such interrogations were justified, a necessary task that must be performed in order to try and find the murderer of those innocents in the alehouse, especially the unborn babe. It seemed to him that their souls were crying out for vengeance. His discomfiture-and that of Sybil and Conal-was of little measure when set beside the heinous act that had been perpetrated.

  He motioned for Gianni to accompany him and walked across the bailey in the direction of the stables. Earlier, it had been his intention to ride out to Philip de Kyme’s manor and talk to both the baron and his secretarius, William Scothern, and perhaps have a look at the letters from the dead boy’s mother. Now, instead, he felt a need to be away from the whole question of who had murdered the victims in the alehouse, and for a brief space put aside the task which Nicolaa de la Haye had given him so that he might perhaps be able to bring a semblance of order to the disquiet of his mind.

  Crossing the crowded bailey he stopped briefly at the barracks to enquire if Ernulf had been successful in his trip to Butwerk to bring in the stewe-holder, Brunner. Relieved at being told that the serjeant had not yet returned, he walked through the huge gate that was the eastern entry into the castle grounds and crossed the wooden bridge leading down to street level.

  Lincoln had resumed the frenzied activity that had begun during the opening parade as the business of the fair entered its second day. Across from the castle the crowds were thick in the precincts of the cathedral and as Bascot passed through Bailgate and started to walk down Steep Hill, he was hard-pressed to push through the crowds of people gathered about stalls and the open fronts of shops. There were entertainers everywhere; strolling players, performing dogs, jugglers, even a shambling old bear being baited by two or three mangy dogs in front of St. Michael’s church. The bear, its muzzle haltered by a leather snaffle, was lackadaisical in its response to the wary bravado of its attackers, ignoring the snapping and snarling of its tormentors and raising a paw only when one of the dogs would overcome fear and make a dash towards him. The crowd was heckling the bearward, offering to find him a pig or a goat as replacement for his bear, yelling that even a goose would be superior as an adversary for the dogs. Bascot edged past the throng while Gianni, as usual, kept pace at his right hand. The boy knew his master’s blindness on that side could make him unaware of an imminent collision with a passerby or the encroachment of a nimble-handed thief. He had also noticed Bascot’s dark mood and wanted to prevent any such upset from deepening it.

  As they pushed their way down the sharp incline Bascot cursed his ankle, which had b
egun to ache. The air was filled with the cries of vendors, the raucous hum of voices raised to be heard above the din and the acrid aroma of human sweat, animal dung and fish guts. This last was from High Market on Spring Hill, a winding street that led off Steep Hill where the fishmongers of Lincoln kept their stalls. In an attempt to escape the press of people Bascot veered off the main thoroughfare, going past the Drapery where the cloth merchants and their customers milled like bees around a hive, and across the top of Parchmingate into the comparative quiet of Hungate. This street led to an intersection with Brancegate, a larger street that crossed the main road of Mikelgate. Since Hungate was nearer the city wall and the residents were mainly merchants selling less expensive items such as household implements, blankets and napery, it was not as congested as the streets they had left behind. Most of the items here would not attract those with a lot of silver to spend and so there were fewer street hawkers and the shop owners had, in the main part, put up the shutters over the casements of the bottom floor of their houses and were displaying their wares by spreading them over a counter just inside the opening. To guard against thieving, the merchant would usually stand outside on the street while a member of his family watched from within.

  Many of the shops had a variety of goods for sale since most of the houses were of three stories and occupied on each level by a different family, or two or three, engaged in varying occupations. Such houses had combined their wares, laying them out carefully side by side, and took turns at guarding and selling. The customers meandering down this street were of a less pretentious sort, clothed in sober garments of russet brown or dark green, the women with plain white coifs covering their hair and the men with simple leather caps on their heads. They inspected the goods carefully, the women judiciously fingering small cloths for wrapping cheese or making swaddling bands while their husbands carefully examined the iron that had been used in making nails or carpentry tools for flaws.