by Maureen Ash
“It is said that Lady Sybil feared for her own son’s disinheritance in favour of Sir Philip’s bastard,” Bascot continued, “and, with the connivance of Conal, removed that threat by killing the son and his wife. I have been given the duty of finding out the truth of that charge. If it is proved, or if I cannot disprove it, then Lady Sybil and her son will stand to answer it before the king’s justices at the assizes in July.”
Bascot paused, picking his words carefully. “Since your cousin, Samuel, was found slain along with the two Christians, it would seem that whoever murdered them also killed him.”
Isaac said nothing, merely kept his watchful silence, and Bascot went on. “Wherever all three were killed, it was not the alehouse. They had all been dead some hours, we believe, brought to the alehouse later from some other place, perhaps a house in the town. The two Christians were from Maine, and must have come to Lincoln recently. I am trying to determine where it was that they came to be in company with your cousin. If I can find that out, I may also be able to determine if Conal or Lady Sybil had the opportunity to kill all three of them. Can you tell me Samuel’s whereabouts on that day?”
Isaac leaned forward and picked up his wine cup, not drinking but merely holding it between his hands. When he spoke, it was softly. “Will Lady Sybil and her son, or any other Christian you may find guilty, also be charged with the death of my cousin?”
Bascot answered him straightly. “You know the answer to that question as well as I. They will not. The death of a Jew at Christian hands will not be considered of sufficient import. Whoever, if anyone, is found guilty of the Christian deaths will, I presume, also be found guilty of the death of your cousin. In that case a fine may be levied concerning his loss-which will go into the king’s coffers-but that is all.”
“Then, why, Templar, should I help you?” The question was couched in the same low tones Isaac had used before.
Bascot tried to answer with honesty. “I had hoped you would want to find out the truth of the matter. Who it was that brought about the death of a member of your family.”
“It will not bring Samuel back, and any information that I give you may be held against me by the kin of whatever Christian is found guilty. Indeed, if my cousin had not been found along with the Christians, I have no doubt that their murders would have been found to have been carried out by a Jew. We are usually blamed in such matters, whether implicated or not.”
Bascot took a breath and leaned back in his chair. He had expected such a response and hoped that he could circumvent it. “It was said in my hearing that such would be the case. It was also said that a hue and cry after the Jews of Lincoln would be bad for trade during the fair. That is the reason I am here. If it is disproved that Lady Sybil and Conal are guilty, do you think it will take long for suspicion to be cast in the direction of you and your brethren? It will be said that your cousin was killed by one of his own race merely to cast the blame elsewhere. Are you willing to take that chance?”
For the first time Isaac smiled. “You speak with a strange directness for a Christian. Especially one”-he gestured with his wine cup in the direction of Bascot’s Templar badge-“who has dedicated his life to the slaying of the enemies of Christ. How do I know that you will not use any information I give you against one of my own kind?”
“You do not,” Bascot replied. “But unless a member of the Jewish community is guilty, I give you my pledge, in Christ’s holy name, that I will keep in the strictest confidence anything you may tell me.”
The usurer stared at Bascot for a moment, then took a sip from his wine cup. Finally, he seemed to reach a decision. “Since that oath is one that I know means much to you, I must assume your promise is made with integrity. Very well, Templar, I will help you as much as I can. What is it you wish to know?”
“As I said, where your cousin was on the day that he was killed. Would he have had occasion to visit any of the Christian houses in the town and, if so, which ones?”
Bascot waited for the answer with held breath. If Isaac named the house of Roger de Kyme it would, with the lack of either Lady Sybil or Conal being able to provide a witness to their activities on that day, press the finger of guilt on them as surely as if they had been caught stuffing the bodies into the barrels. Isaac’s reply, however, was not one that Bascot had expected.
“My cousin was not in Lincoln on that day. He left early, to visit a client who has his manor to the northwest of Lincoln, off the Torksey road. The last time he was seen was when he left to fulfill that task.”
Bascot took in the information with surprise. How had Samuel, if he had left Lincoln alive, come to be back there after he was dead?
“You are sure he did not return? Perhaps later in the day?” he asked Isaac.
“I am sure,” Isaac replied. “Samuel was seen leaving by the warden on the western gate and was never seen to come back. We have asked both shifts of the guards, who all knew my cousin well, and have also enquired at the other access points into the town. He did not return. Alive, that is.”
“What was the name of your client? Have you spoken to him? Did Samuel complete his errand?”
Isaac sighed, the curls in his beard bobbing slightly with the movement. “I cannot tell you the name of our client because, as you know, it would be a breach of the confidence placed in us and might lead not only to loss of the customers we have, but could also involve unpleasant recriminations for our lack of discretion. But this much I may tell you. Samuel was on his way to deliver a small quantity of silver to a borrower and to bring back a signed note of the debt. The client has been contacted and insists that Samuel did not arrive as arranged, but…” Isaac lifted his shoulders in an eloquent shrug of dismissal.
Bascot finished the sentence for him. “… the client would say that was the case even if Samuel did deliver the silver as promised. Without the note of debt you cannot prove that any money was borrowed from you.”
Isaac nodded. “Exactly.”
“The Torksey road-that leads in the direction of Philip de Kyme’s demesne, does it not?”
“It does,” Isaac confirmed, “and also passes by many other, smaller fiefs. I will tell you that it was not to Sir Philip’s manor that my cousin was bound.”
“Was he carrying a large sum?” Bascot asked.
“No. Samuel was allowed to deal only in some of the smaller transactions of my business. My cousin was… a simple man, Sir Bascot. He did not have great intelligence, but he was willing and honest. I cannot think why anyone would want to kill him.”
“But someone did,” Bascot replied, “and there must be a reason why.” He pondered for a moment. “If the two young people were making their way to de Kyme’s manor, it may be that they travelled on the same route, and at the same time, as your cousin. The Torksey road is not the only way to de Kyme’s demesne, but it would be the most direct for travellers coming from the south. I suppose the boy and his wife could have been abducted as they neared their destination but there are no marks on either of their bodies that would indicate a struggle and, if they were taken against their will, it is most certain that they would have made some resistance. And how did your cousin come to be with them when they met their deaths? It is most unlikely that he knew them.”
“I would not have thought so,” Isaac agreed. “Neither I nor any member of my family has any connection with Maine and, to the best of my knowledge, Samuel had never been farther from Lincoln than a solitary trip to London many years ago. But it is unlikely that they met with abduction on the Torksey road. It is well travelled and patrolled by the sheriff’s guard. Samuel would never have been sent on his errand alone if there had been any danger to his safety.”
“It is thought that poison was the means of death for both the Christian couple and your cousin.”
“So I have been told,” Isaac informed him. “Our own physician has examined Samuel’s body and he agrees with that opinion and also that the stab wounds were made after death.”
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bsp; The usurer gave Bascot an oblique look. “I have also been informed that the bodies were secreted in ale barrels before being placed on the taproom floor. I presume that the alehouse keeper must have been in collusion with the murderer?”
“It would seem so,” Bascot answered. “It is possible that the bodies were kept, for a few hours at least, at the house of Roger de Kyme in Lincoln. Both Lady Sybil and Conal were staying there for a time and neither can prove their actions on that day. Lady Sybil says that she was in bed suffering from sickness and Conal claims he was in Newark. Both were alone and have no one to vouch for their honesty.”
Both men fell silent for a moment, each collecting his thoughts. Then Isaac said, “If Samuel was persuaded by another party to accompany the couple from Maine, it would have to have been by someone he knew. A Jew does not lightly fall into the company of Christians, especially strangers.”
“Did he know either Lady de Kyme or her son?” Bascot asked.
“Yes,” Isaac replied solemnly. “Since you have assured me you will hold any knowledge I may have in confidence and since the debt is in the past, I can tell you that Sybil de Kyme had occasion to borrow money from me once, using some of her personal jewellery as surety. She paid the debt promptly. It was her son who handled the transaction. The sum was not large and it was Samuel who was entrusted with the commission of picking up the payment of the loan.”
And Newark, where Conal had professed to spend the day, was to the southwest of Lincoln. A destination that was reached by leaving through the same gate as dead Samuel. Had Conal turned north onto the Torksey road instead of turning south to Newark, as he had said? Had he known Hugo and his wife were near to arriving at their destination and had set out to forestall them, perhaps under the guise of welcoming them in his stepfather’s stead, then luring them into the forest where he offered his wine flask with a vintage that was deadly? Had the Jew seen and recognised him when he was in their company so that it was necessary to include him among the victims? But even if this were so, the one main question still remained-why had Conal not simply left the bodies in the greenwood? It was the question Richard Camville had asked, and also Conal himself, and it was a valid one. There could be no advantage to having the bodies discovered in Lincoln and run the risk, as had happened, of their being identified. In the summer heat, and with the help of foraging wild animals, the bodies would most probably have either decomposed or been devoured. Surely a conclusion a murderer would see as preferable, enabling the crime to remain hidden and not brought out into the light of investigation.
“My information has confused rather than enlightened you, has it not, Templar?” Isaac asked softly.
“Yes. It helps to bolster the sheriff’s charge against Lady Sybil and Conal, but it still does not convince me of their guilt and I do not doubt it will fail to convince the justices either. There are still too many questions without an answer.”
Isaac leaned back in his chair, taking a sip of his wine. He gave Bascot a wry glance. “The answers must surely be there. It remains only to find them.”
Eighteen
Bascot set out early the next morning along the Torksey road, to carry out his intention to visit Philip de Kyme at his fortified manor house near Stow. Accompanying the Templar were Ernulf and two men-at-arms from the castle garrison. All were armed and Bascot wore a hip-length coat of mail over a lightly padded gambeson. The frustration the Templar had felt the morning before had returned during a long night in which he had slept badly. He recognised the cause as being rooted in the disillusionments he had experienced from a very young age but, even so, could not eradicate it.
His thoughts roved back to his childhood. The youngest of three sons, his father had decided to give him as an oblate-an offering-to the church, where he would be trained for life as a monk. At first he had been frightened, had felt all the aloneness of a seven-year-old boy amongst strangers. But the kindness of the monks and serenity of the abbey soon caused this strangeness to pass and he had come to enjoy the regularity of his day and the security of the stout walls that surrounded the enclave. He had excelled at his lessons and been praised for his industry. He had been happy. Then, a few short years later, the brother next to him in age had died in a hunting accident and his father had come to remove him from his new life, citing the need for the security of a younger son against the chance that some mishap should befall his eldest. That was when Bascot’s deep-seated anger had begun. He had resented his father’s decision but, cautioned by the monk who had been his tutor that duty to a parent was an obligation he must not deny, he had done as he was bidden and taken up training for arms. Translating his anger into energy he quickly learned how to wield a sword and mace and was barely eighteen when he won the spurs of knighthood at his father’s side in battle.
That had been in the last days of the reign of King Henry, during one of the many skirmishes that the king had engaged in with his recalcitrant son, Richard. But throughout all the glory of battle and the attendant dangers of injury or death, Bascot had still yearned for his boyhood days in the cloister. When Henry had died and Richard had succeeded to the throne, the new king’s obsession to mount a Crusade to the Holy Land had seemed to Bascot to provide a way to satisfy both his own desires and those of his father. With his eldest brother now married and a new heir on the way, Bascot had begged to be allowed to combine his yearning for the life of a monk with his military skills and join the Knights Templar.
For Bascot, his first months as a warrior monk had lived up to his expectations. He had been attached to a Templar contingent that had accompanied King Richard to the Holy Land, and the battles along the way, at Sicily and Cyprus, had satisfied his conviction of the rightness of his decision. He had still felt this way when the army had reached their destination and had begun the tremendous task of trying to retrieve Jerusalem from the infidels. This ebullience had carried him along until the siege of Acre. There, on a hot August day, on the plains outside the conquered city, he had watched in horrified amazement as King Richard had ordered the slaughter of nearly three thousand prisoners taken as hostage. Bascot had felt his stomach churn with a sickness that had never before assailed him, not even on the day he had first plied his sword and drawn the life’s blood of an armed enemy. Amongst the prisoners were many women and children and they were slain as mercilessly as their men folk. He had finally fled the bloody scene when the lifeless bodies were being methodically gutted in a search for gold that the victims may have swallowed in an attempt to hide it. Others in the Templar contingent had been as shocked as he but, although the Templars were not under the king’s command and were answerable only to the head of their own order, their master, Robert de Sable, was a friend of King Richard’s and they had continued, despite the stigma of the massacre, to accompany the king on his mission. It was about that time that Bascot had begun to question the depth of his devotion to the Order, and his subsequent capture and imprisonment had done nothing to help him find any answers.
Now he was confronted by a different kind of riddle and, in order to solve it, needed to fathom the machinations of a mind that would secretly plot the killing of four people. A spark of his old anger at being manipulated by the intrigues of others rose within him and he encouraged it, making a firm resolution that he would not let any obstacle deter him from being the victor in this battle to apprehend the assassin. And he would fortify himself for the fray ahead with the best weapons he had, the mail and sword of a knight of Christ.
Attempting to dismiss the gloomy and introspective thoughts from his mind, Bascot distracted himself by noting the terrain that bordered the road upon which they were travelling. After crossing the Fossdyke they followed the course of the Trent river, on the western side of which a fringe of forest began, sweeping away in a sporadic growth of trees to become the northern tip of Sherwood Forest. They passed a few hamlets with the open spaces of tilled fields around them, but there were many places where alder and oak grew, as well as the drooping bran
ches of willow at the river’s bank, and there was dense undergrowth that would provide perfect concealment from the road. Had it been in one of these spots that the murderer had waited, hidden, until his victims should come into view? It would be easy to appear behind them, as though travelling the same route, and engage them in conversation. But where had they then been taken? As Isaac had said, the road was well patrolled by the sheriff’s guard. Bascot and his escort had already passed a pair of Roget’s men, and he could see two more ahead, riding slowly north in a circuit that would no doubt end at Torksey.
The day was hot and Bascot did not press the pace out of deference to their mounts. About an hour after they had passed through Torksey they approached Philip de Kyme’s demesne. Outside the palisade that surrounded his manor house an orderly and prosperous looking village was spread. The cottages were sturdily built of wattle and daub and a meeting hall of reasonable size stood in the center, two stories high and constructed of timber. There was a quantity of pigs, geese and some penned sheep which all looked fat and healthy, as did the inhabitants, who doffed their caps respectfully as the group of horsemen cantered past.
Bascot rode down the track of packed earth that led through the village and up to the gates of the manor, Ernulf at his right hand and the two men-at-arms behind. The gateward let them through, once they had identified themselves and stated their business, giving one blast on a signal horn to announce their arrival. Inside the bailey de Kyme’s steward met them and called a groom to see to the stabling of their horses. The manor house itself was impressive, with corner turrets built of stone, a central hall of timber and a massive oak door reinforced with iron plates. The steward led the way into the hall which, since it was not yet mealtime, was bare of tables except for a large one that sat on the dais and was a permanent fixture. Directing the serjeant and two men-at-arms to a corner where there was a keg of ale, the steward led Bascot to the other end of the hall. There a group of men were seated around an unlit fireplace, drinking wine. A chessboard lay nearby, its pieces set ready for a game.
