by Maureen Ash
Petronille thought for a moment and then shook her head. “None that I recall,” she replied. “But you would do better to ask Alinor. She is far more conscious of the comportment of our servants than I.”
Richard exchanged a smile with Nicolaa. His cousin Alinor was more like the castellan than her mother. She had the same coppery red glints in her hair and was of an even more determined nature. At eighteen years of age she had not yet had time to learn the tact that was Nicolaa’s forte but, even so, it was readily apparent that Alinor was cast in the same mould as her aunt. They could be certain that she would have taken care to ensure that none of the servants took advantage of Petronille’s complaisant nature and it was possible that, while doing so, she may have observed if there was any person who harboured an animosity for the dead man.
“I will ask Alinor about the matter, Aunt, just as soon as she has risen,” Richard said and got up from his chair. “I had best go down into the hall and wait for Pinchbeck. Hopefully, he will not be too long.”
Nicolaa followed her son to the door. “I will join you shortly,” she said. “Since I am the one to whom the murder weapon belongs, I intend to be present at the inquest.”
Richard nodded. “As you wish, Mother, but you had best dress warmly,” he advised. “The wind up on the ramparts is bitterly cold.”
Four
When Richard descended to the hall, last night’s guests were beginning to take seats at the tables to break their fast. The visitors were all leaders of various guilds in Lincoln town, and had come, accompanied by their wives, to the castle the previous evening so that they could proffer the donations they had collected for the upkeep of the foundling home Nicolaa had established at Riseholme, one of the properties included in the vast demesne she had inherited from her father. The castellan had decided to show her gratitude for their largesse by marking the occasion with a feast and had invited all of those who wished to do so to stay overnight in the castle rather than risk a mishap on the treacherous ice-covered cobbles of the streets as they returned to their homes in the darkness of a late winter evening. Only two of the guests had declined to take advantage of her offer, but the rest had accepted the invitation and had been accommodated in chambers either within the main keep or in the old tower.
Richard took a seat at the high table and a page came forward and asked if he wished to be served with food, but Richard shook his head and told the boy to bring him a cup of unwatered wine. Although it was not his habit to imbibe such a strong vintage this early in the morning, preferring instead only a small measure of ale, he hoped the potency of the drink would help bring his disordered thoughts into some semblance of clarity before the coroner arrived. As the page scampered away to fetch the wine, Richard saw his cousin, Alinor, coming across the hall. Her face wore a strained look and Richard thought she must already have been told of Tercel’s death, and the manner of it. This was confirmed when she came up the shallow steps to the dais and took a seat beside him.
“Mother has told me of Tercel’s murder, Richard, and how it was accomplished,” she said grimly. “What the devil was he doing up on the ramparts on such a cold night? And who had reason to kill him?”
“Those are questions to which I must try to find the answers, Cousin,” Richard said mildly. “And, to that end, perhaps you can help me. What did you know of your cofferer-was he one to make enemies?”
Alinor shrugged. She was a handsome girl, her features a little too sharp for beauty, but her eyes gleamed with intelligence. Even though his cousin was headstrong, Richard was very fond of her; he had a healthy respect for her cognitive powers and found her strong family loyalty commendable. “I know little about his background beyond what my mother has already told you,” she replied, “that he was baseborn and had been well schooled. He seemed to be competent enough in his duties but, on a personal level, I did not like him.”
Richard raised his eyebrows in query at the unexpected statement and Alinor answered him in her forthright fashion. “The expression in his eyes did not reflect the words that came out of his mouth,” she said bluntly. “There was a smugness about him that I found distasteful.”
“Perhaps his murderer felt the same,” Richard said thoughtfully. “Although I think it would take more than mere dislike to prompt a man to commit murder.”
“I understand that Aunt Nicolaa managed to pull the crossbow,” Alinor replied. “Perhaps the murderer was a woman.”
“It could be so, I suppose,” Richard replied thoughtfully. “A rejected lover or perhaps a jealous one? Was Tercel prone to dalliance?”
“Aren’t most men that way inclined?” Alinor responded sharply and then gave a slight shake of her head to take the barb out of her remark. “Yes, he was. I know of one occasion at least, at Stamford, when our steward berated him for spending too much time in conversation with one of the maidservants. But as to whether or not he had engaged the affections of a maid since we have been in Lincoln-I am reasonably certain there could not be one within the castle household, for he would have known that your mother would never permit such a liberty, but in the town-it could be so.”
At that moment, Nicolaa and her sister came through the door of the north tower into the hall and made their way to the high table. As they sat down, Richard saw Ernulf enter the room, thread his way through the servants laying platters of cold viands and small wicker baskets piled high with loaves of bread on the tables, and approach the dais. When he stood before them, he saluted Nicolaa and then said to Richard, “Coroner Pinchbeck will be here within the hour, lord. When I told him it was Lady Nicolaa’s weapon that was used in the killing, he was most obliging, and said that if there are enough witnesses present, he will hold an enquiry into the death today.”
Richard gave a wry grin. “As I expected, Mother, he is most anxious to collect the value of the deodand from your coffers.”
“I would wish that he were as eager to conduct investigations,” Nicolaa replied sourly. “But, as usual, he will most likely claim he is too busy. It is therefore possible, Richard, that you will have to look into the matter in your father’s stead.”
“I had already expected that would be required of me, Mother,” her son replied.
Pinchbeck decided that he would hold the inquest on the spot where the dead man had been found and asked that the men-at-arms who had been on duty during the time he was killed, along with those who were present when the body was discovered, be brought forward to give witness. Despite the weak rays of the late winter sun, the temperature up on the ramparts was still frigid as the coroner, a short stout individual with an officious manner, quickly examined the body and the bolt from the crossbow. He then questioned the men-at-arms as to the times all of them had been on the ramparts and asked whether any of them had seen and heard anything pertinent to the death, barely waiting for their responses in his desire to escape the bitter wind that was blowing from the east. Pinchbeck’s clerk, a reedy-faced individual with a dewdrop hanging from the end of his long pointed nose, recorded the answers on his wax tablet with fingers that were blue with cold.
“It is my judgement that this man was murdered by a person unknown, and that the instrument of death was a weapon belonging to Lady Nicolaa de la Haye, hereditary castellan of Lincoln castle and wife of Gerard Camville, sheriff of Lincoln,” Pinchbeck intoned with indecent haste, adding that he gave his permission for the body to be removed to a place where it could await burial. The formal statement pronounced, even though somewhat swiftly, the coroner turned to Nicolaa. “If I may now view the crossbow, lady, I shall set a value on the deodand.”
As the attending men-at-arms, under Ernulf’s direction, picked up the corpse and carried it through the arch into the old tower and then down the stairs toward the small chapel in the castle precincts, Richard took his mother’s arm and they led Pinchbeck down to the lower floor where the armoury was situated. The box containing the crossbow was then brought out for the coroner’s inspection.
Pinch
beck’s flabby face lit up with a smile when he saw the rich ornamentation. Running his pudgy fingers lovingly over the silver on the stock, he said, “This is a fine piece, lady. Your father must have been a most generous man.”
“He was, and also one who was assiduous in his duty,” Nicolaa replied with a touch of sarcasm, but the criticism of Pinchbeck’s indolence passed unnoticed by the coroner.
“I would rate the worth of this piece is at least ten pounds, lady,” he said. “And since, by your own admission, it is the weapon that was used to kill your sister’s unfortunate servant, I must levy a fine in that amount upon your good self.”
Nicolaa gave a brief nod. “I will have my secretary arrange for that sum to be sent to your home before the day is out, Pinchbeck. And I expect to receive a signed receipt from you in return.”
“Of course, of course,” Pinchbeck replied airily. “Now, as to further investigation into the death, I am not well-placed at the moment to have time to attend to all the details. And, since the death took place here in the castle, it might be more practicable if Sir Richard, as his father’s deputy, took over the initial enquiry-that of questioning Lady Petronille’s other servants to see if any has knowledge pertinent to the crime and so forth.”
Richard gave a nod of assent, an expression of resignation on his face as Pinchbeck continued, “It is unfortunate that the Templar knight who was in your retinue is not still within the ward,” Pinchbeck opined. “He was a resourceful man and had a talent for seeking out those who commit secret murder.” He looked up with a query on his face. “But I heard that he has rejoined the ranks of the Order. Is that correct?”
“It is. Sir Bascot was awarded the office of draper in the Lincoln commandery and is now second-in-command to the preceptor, Everard d’Arderon,” Richard told him.
“Ah, a worthy post, I am sure, but it is a pity he is not here to give you the benefit of his insight. He seemed to have remarkable perception in such matters.” Pinchbeck drew his furred cloak closer about him and signalled to his clerk that he was ready to leave. “Well, I must hasten. I have many other duties to attend to. Please keep me informed of the progress you make in discovering the perpetrator of this crime, Sir Richard. And please remember that if, during the course of your enquiry, you should need the aid of my advice, I shall be only too happy to supply it. Call on me at any time.”
With this final pronouncement, he swept out the door, his long-suffering clerk at his heels. Richard gave a mirthless chuckle. “His suggestion that I call on him is worthless. The only help Pinchbeck will give me is to sit by the warmth of his fire while he pontificates on the need for evidence, after which he will bid me go out and find some.”
Receiving no response from his mother, who was standing still and silent at his side, Richard glanced at her. “Are you alright, Mother, or is the cold too much for you?”
Nicolaa shook her head from within the depths of her fur-lined hood. “No, I am warm enough,” she answered. “I was just pondering on what Pinchbeck said about the Templar. His help in this would be most advantageous, Richard. As our lackadaisical coroner has just opined, Bascot de Marins has proved himself, in the past, to be unusually capable in solving crimes. I am wondering if he would be willing to lend us his assistance this time.”
“But the previous cases occurred while the Templar was in your service, Mother. Now that he has rejoined the Order, his allegiance lies elsewhere. It is most unlikely that Preceptor d’Arderon would give his consent for de Marins to become engaged in such an enterprise.”
Nicolaa gave her son a look that was filled with a glint of the inherent determination that had also passed down to her niece. “It will not hurt to ask, Richard. If one does not make any venture to gain an advantage, it will never be realised.”
Five
At that moment, the templar knight of whom they were speaking was tallying columns of figures on a sheet of parchment in a small chamber in the Lincoln Templar enclave. He was of medium height and build and wore a leather eye patch over the socket of his missing right eye. Although not yet forty years of age, grey strands were already mingled with the dark hair on his head and in his beard, a legacy of the torture he had undergone while incarcerated for eight long years as a prisoner of the Saracens in the Holy Land. After escaping from his captors, he had returned to England and been sent to Lincoln castle to regain his bodily strength and his devotion to Christ, both of which had greatly diminished during his imprisonment and from the shock of learning that all of his family-mother, father and elder brother-had perished during his absence. Over the two years he had spent in the retinue of Nicolaa de la Haye, he had slowly recovered not only his health but also his faith and it had been at Eastertide of the year before that he had returned to the Templar ranks and been awarded the post of draper. It was a demanding position, and entailed assisting the preceptor, Everard d’Arderon, in overseeing the many properties that had been donated to the Order in the Lincoln area and helping train new initiates into the Templar ranks. Part of his duties included ensuring that all of the brothers were outfitted in a manner that conformed with the Order’s Rule and keeping an inventory of the clothing and equipment with which they were provided. During the summer months there was much activity within the enclave as supplies were sent to commanderies overseas and new entrants to the Order were trained for active duty, but now, in the depths of a cold spell that had descended on the middle and north of England for the last three weeks, there was little work to be done and Bascot was using the time to bring the enclave’s records up to date.
Despite the brazier burning in a corner of the small room, the air was cold and the Templar felt his fingers grow numb as he added up monies received for some of the commodities the Order traded in-precious spices that had been imported from Outremer and boiled sugar lumps called Al Kandiq, or candi, that were made from sweet canes in the Holy Land and had proved immensely popular with the English populace. As he totalled the column, he was gratified by the amount. The funds would be used to supply much needed arms and equipment to brothers in commanderies in Outremer and the Iberian Peninsula and assist them in forming the first line of defence against the persistent attempts of the infidel to encroach on Christian lands.
As he prepared to enter the sum into a ledger where the final totals were recorded, his thoughts drifted to Gianni, the mute Italian boy he had persuaded to become his servant as he had travelled back to England after his escape from the Saracens in 1199. Bascot had first come across the boy on a wharf in Palermo, in Sicily, while waiting for a boat that would take him and his mount on the final stages of the journey back to his homeland. The boy had been starving and near death from malnutrition. His pitiful state had tugged at Bascot’s heart and, after overcoming Gianni’s suspicions of his intent, he had convinced the lad to accompany him to England as his servant. They had arrived in Lincoln just over three years ago, in the depth of a winter that had been just as cold as the present one. Over time, Bascot had taught the lad to read and write and the boy’s quick intelligence had come to the notice of Nicolaa de la Haye. When the Templar had rejoined the ranks of the Order, she had taken Gianni under her protection and given him a place in her retinue, working as a clerk under the direction of her secretary, John Blund. Leaving Gianni behind when he rejoined the Order had been a wrench for Bascot, for he had come to love the lad almost as much as if he were his own son.
Bascot looked again at the profit that had been made from trade in the imported candi. Again his thoughts drifted to Gianni, for the boy loved the sweets. Although Bascot would have preferred to be overseas on active duty rather than stationed in Lincoln, it was some solace to him that his present posting meant he remained in close proximity to the boy. Although he did not often see the lad, the knowledge that he was nearby was a comfort.
His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden gust of cold air as the door was opened and Preceptor d’Arderon came in. D’Arderon was an older knight, now past his sixtieth year, who had s
pent many years on active duty in Outremer. His broad face was pinched with cold above his short greying beard.
“There is a message come from the castle,” the preceptor said as he walked over to the brazier and held out his hands to its warmth. “Lady Nicolaa has sent a request for your assistance in a murder investigation.”
“Someone in the town?” Bascot asked, laying down the quill he had been using.
“No,” the preceptor replied. “In the castle.”
Bascot’s face tensed and d’Arderon castigated himself for his clumsy speech. The preceptor knew how fond his fellow Templar was of young Gianni, and that his first concern at the news would be that the boy was in danger. Hastily, he reassured him that his fear was unwarranted.
“Gianni was not involved in the death. The man who was murdered was a servant in the retinue of Lady Petronille, the sister of the castellan. She and her daughter have been on a visit to Lincoln since just before Christ’s Mass. Apparently someone shot the servant with a crossbow up on the ramparts. Richard Camville has undertaken an investigation into the killing and, if you are willing, asks my permission for your assistance.”
It was late in the morning by the time Bascot left the preceptory outside the eastern wall of Lincoln town and rode through the Minster grounds in the direction of the castle. His duties were minimal at this time of year and d’Arderon had given his consent for Bascot to aid Richard Camville in the search for the person who had killed Aubrey Tercel.
“I can manage here while you are gone,” d’Arderon had said. “Although I will leave the rest of the accounting for your return,” he added with a wry chuckle. “That shall be your penance for being absent from your duties.”
Bascot appreciated d’Arderon’s indulgence. While it was true that, due to the cold weather, there was little activity in the enclave just now, the daily routine still had to be observed-horses led out for exercise, equipment inspected, meals prepared and observance of services in chapel. The Templar men-at-arms regularly based in the preceptory all knew their duties well and carried them out without need for much guidance, as did the lay brothers and servants, but it was part of Bascot’s mandate, as second-in-command, to ensure that all ran smoothly. It was considerate of d’Arderon to allow him time away from his responsibilities.
