Death of a Squire tk-2

by Maureen Ash

  “Up there,” he said.

  From a solid bough about halfway up, a remnant of rope still hung, cut at one end. It dangled a few feet above the ground and swayed slightly as a cold breeze shook the tree, sending down a shower of dead brown leaves. Through the denuded branches could be seen the other end of the rope, fastened to one of the lower limbs.

  “I cut the lad down. Could just reach him while I was mounted,” Tostig said. “Didn’t wait to see where the other end was fastened.”

  The forester strode towards the trunk of the oak, moving with the familiarity of one who has spent his life in the forest, and loosened the knot that held the rope in place. He pulled it down and coiled it over his shoulder and brought it for Bascot to look at. It seemed fairly new, with little fraying and no other marks except where Tostig’s knife had sliced it. The forester scuffed among the leaves and held up the noose, still knotted into place.

  “Here’s the bit I took off his neck,” he said unnecessarily. “I’ll put it and the rest away at the lodge. Shame to waste a good bit of rope.”

  Bascot made no comment as he and Gianni searched the ground. It was fairly untouched except for a faint disturbance of dead leaves that must have been made by whoever had hanged the boy and, later, by Tostig. Gianni went a little way into the trees. Bascot could hear the soft swish of his steps as he moved through the dying bracken.

  The Templar gazed around him. They were completely encircled by trees, most of the branches bare. In full summer it would be a dense forest of green, but now it was damp and smelled musty, with a tang of sharpness to the air that heralded winter.

  “How far is the nearest village?” he asked Tostig.

  “A little over a half of a mile north.”

  “And the sheriff’s hunting lodge?”

  Tostig swung about, gesturing with his hand in the opposite direction. “About twice the distance that way. The old hunting lodge is a little nearer but, like I said, it’s not used anymore.”

  Due south a thin trail of smoke was rising. The scent of burning wood came again in faint wisps. “That smoke, where is it coming from?”

  The forester shaded his eyes and looked up. “Oh, that’s just old Chard burning his charcoal. He’s within the chase, but he has permission. The castle needs a good supply with all the guests coming. Usually Chard does his burning outside of the chase, but there’s a good stand of birch over there and it’s one of the best for his trade, so the sheriff gave him licence to use it.”

  The sky was beginning to darken as they stood talking, not only for the lateness of the day but also from the shadow of rain clouds that were beginning to gather, blowing in from the east.

  “I shall need to go to the village, Tostig, to see if anyone there heard or saw anything untoward last night. I will also want to talk to the charcoal burner, but it’s too late today. It will be full dark before long. Tomorrow morning, as soon as it gets light, I would like you to meet me here and take me to the village.”

  Tostig nodded his agreement and suggested he also bring the agister for the area. He was the forest official that collected payments from the inhabitants of the villages for the exercising of their rights as agreed with Gerard Camville and the king. “He knows more of the people in the village than I do,” Tostig said. “As I told you, I stays away from ’em if I can, except to watch they don’t trespass on the chase. His name is Copley.”

  Tostig began to walk back to the path where they had left their horses. “Besides, he often acts as deputy for the chief forester of the king’s chase. He’ll know who had licence to be out here gathering nuts or bracken, maybe chopping wood or letting their pigs loose to forage.”

  He gave a satisfied grin. “Time he did a little work for a change; he likes his wine cup too much. I’ve had to cover for him more than once. He’s lucky he gets his stipend from the crown and not the sheriff. My master is meticulous about his hunting ground and its keeping. If any of us who were in his pay shirked our duties like Copley does, we’d soon be sorry.”

  This last was said with a kind of affectionate pride. Bascot was surprised. It was not an emotion that he would have expected Gerard Camville to foster in his servants. Perhaps the choleric sheriff had a side to him that was seldom seen outside the greenwood.

  Six

  “Well, Alys, are you going to tell me what Hubert said or not?” Alinor demanded. She stood over her companion, face set in determination, hands clenched into fists and set on her hips.

  The other girl looked up at her, soft blue eyes awash with tears. “Yes, I will. But you must promise me that you will not tell Alain, or your father.”

  It was the next morning. Outside the weather was gloomy from a light rain that had fallen overnight and the temperature had dropped. The two young women were in a small chamber at the top of the new keep, both wearing gowns of heavy wool as protection against the chill. For the moment, they were the only two occupants of the room, but soon, with the arrival of more guests for the king’s visit, others would invade their privacy. The floor was spread with pallets and covers in anticipation.

  Alinor was daughter to Richard de Humez, who was married to Petronille, one of Nicolaa de la Haye’s two younger sisters. Although both her parents were dark haired, Alinor had inherited the Haye glints of copper in her tawny-coloured locks, which now streamed down her back in two long plaits. She was a forceful girl, fifteen years of age, gently rounded and passingly pretty, but with an intractability that she had inherited from her Haye forbears.

  The girl she was berating was Alys de Carston, sister to Alain. Alys had lived in the de Humez household for the past three years, since she had been betrothed to Alinor’s younger brother, Baldwin, a boy who was four years her junior. As the two girls were of an age they had been thrown much into each other’s company and had become fast friends. Alys resembled her brother only in her upright posture. She was a gentle girl, with long fair hair that stubbornly curled in tendrils around a heart-shaped face, and with an air of innocence about her that was genuine.

  Now she mopped her eyes with the edge of her sleeve and said, “It was the time Sir William came to your father’s manor house, in the summer, and brought Hubert with him.”

  “I remember,” said Alinor. “When we had that new minstrel from Anjou.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Alys confirmed. “I was in the chapel-Baldwin had just had a bad attack of his illness and I had gone there to offer up a prayer for him-and Hubert came up behind me. I was all alone, and…” She began to sob softly again, but Alinor interrupted her, impatient.

  “Get on with it, Alys. What did he say?”

  “He…he put his hand on my breast and said that he wanted to bed me.” Now Alys looked up at her companion and her words came in a rush. “I pushed him away, Nora, but he just laughed and said that if I did not he would tell everyone that I had anyway. I told him to go away and leave me alone, that no one would believe him. But…but he sneered at me, said whether they did or not it would still cast doubts on my chastity and your father would look for another bride for Baldwin. He left then, and said he would give me time to think about it, but if I did not, I would be sorry.”

  “Why did you not tell me then, Alys? Or at least tell my mother? She is fond of you, and kind. She would have seen to it that Hubert did not trouble you again.” Alinor’s tone had softened at the real distress in her friend’s voice, and she sat down beside Alys and put an arm around her shoulders.

  “I did not know what to do, and then Sir William left the next morning and Hubert was gone with him. I thought that perhaps he had taken too much wine and had been foolish only, did not mean what he had said. I tried to forget it. I did not want to think about it.” She raised her tear-stained face to her friend. “Can you understand, Alinor?”

  The other girl nodded. “But you still should have told someone. Did he threaten you again when we came to Lincoln?”

  “Yes. Almost as soon as we arrived. It was the day before he disappeared. Alai
n saw him talking to me. In the hall, by the entrance to the kitchen. He-Hubert-had taken hold of my wrist. He wouldn’t let go and then he saw Alain coming towards us.”

  “And your brother, did he challenge Hubert?”

  “He did not get the chance. Hubert released me and left, hurriedly. Alain asked me what cause Hubert had for being so familiar with me. I…lied. I told Alain that I had tripped and Hubert had merely been helping me to my feet.” She took a deep breath, then let it out in a sigh. “I don’t know if Alain believed me or not, but I saw him talking to Hubert later, in the bail. It looked as though they were arguing.” She buried her head in Alinor’s shoulder. “Oh, Nora, what if it was Alain who killed him? It would be my fault. All my fault.”

  Alinor patted her friend’s shoulder. “No, Alys, not your fault, but Hubert’s own. You have done nothing for which to reproach yourself.”

  Alys lifted her head, tears now flowing fast and free. “What shall I do, Nora? Shall I talk to Alain…ask him…?”

  “You shall do nothing, little poppet,” Alinor said firmly. “You will leave Alain and this whole coil to me.”

  In a corner of the bail a group of squires were at practice with the quintain, a swinging crossbar set with a circle of metal on one side and a heavy bag of sand on the other. The young men were taking turns riding at it, lances poised to strike the metal and, when their aim was successful, trying to avoid the buffet of the sandbag that swung towards their heads in response. A group of pages watched, cheering those who were successful and deriding those who tumbled to the ground.

  From a vantage point set at a distance across the bail, by the door of the armoury, William Camville and Richard de Humez watched the young men. Across their line of vision the work of the castle staff went on, carts still arriving with stores of root vegetables, maids milking cows and goats, and the blacksmith busy at his forge.

  “Your young men show well, William,” de Humez said. “Mine could learn a thing or two from Renault, or even Alain. Did you take a hand yourself in their training?”

  William Camville shook his head. “No, one of my household knights is their mentor. I leave it to him.”

  “He has done well in his instruction.”

  The conversation petered out, then de Humez gave William a sidelong glance and said, “Has Gerard told you of his intentions in the matter of Hubert’s death?”

  “Why not be explicit, de Humez?” William replied with a lazy smile. “You want to know if Gerard had a hand in the boy’s murder.”

  De Humez bristled. He was a melancholic man, of middle years and smaller stature than his companion. The Camvilles always engendered a mood of discontent in him, their bold brash manner an affront to what he considered his dignity and, although he did not realise it, a tinge of jealousy for their confidence.

  “If he had, I would not expect him to bruit it abroad,” de Humez replied sharply. “Although I would not be surprised if he had done the deed, or ordered it. Your brother is a rash and hasty man, as ill judgement in his past actions has shown.”

  William threw back his head and laughed loudly. “I wager you would not accuse Gerard of that to his face.”

  De Humez lost his self-righteous pose and became decidedly ill at ease, making no reply. William Camville’s face did not lose its expression of amusement. “Why are you so interested in the death of my squire, Richard? Is it due to his connection with de Vescy-or perhaps because it is rumoured that the boy claimed to have knowledge of secret loyalties to Arthur of Brittany? Are you frightened that if Gerard was in some way responsible that it might taint his reputation with the king-and therefore your own, by reason of you being wedded to his wife’s sister?”

  “Of course not,” de Humez replied. “My own loyalty to John is without reproach. After all, my uncle…”

  “Yes, Richard, your connection with the constable of Normandy is well known,” William interrupted in a tired voice. “But that was over twenty years ago and your uncle is long dead. And so is King Henry, who was his lord.”

  The sheriff’s brother cast a speculative look at his companion, then added, “You, unlike Gerard, were solicitous of Richard, were you not, and stood against John when he and my brother defied Richard’s chancellor? Our present king has a long memory, de Humez. Did you think to cast your lot with Arthur, so you would have no cause to worry that John might remember matters best left forgotten? Were you one of those of whom Hubert spoke as being partisan to Richard’s nephew instead of his brother?”

  De Humez turned white at the accusation levelled at him. Instinctively his hand dropped to the sword at his belt, then, recalling that the man at his side possessed a reputation for swordplay that was almost equal to that of his brother, de Humez changed his mind. Instead he gave William an angry glare and strode off across the bailey.

  William Camville watched him go, thoughtful. What had started as an irresistible urge to bait the prig whom Gerard had the misfortune to call brother-by-marriage had turned to something more as he had spoken the words. There had been real fear in de Humez’s face when William had questioned his loyalty to King John. Had he inadvertently stumbled on a truth where he had thought only to provoke irritation? Slowly William ambled back towards the keep. He would have to think more on this matter, perhaps talk privately with Nicolaa. If there was any meat on the bones he had inadvertently stirred up, it would be best to chew it thoroughly before offering it to Gerard. And his brother’s wife was a good enough chatelaine to know how best to prepare the dish.

  Seven

  Bascot started early for his meeting with Tostig. It had rained the night before, but the sun was now trying to penetrate the cloud cover and it promised to be a fair day for the lateness of the year. The ground smelled fresh and clean, heavy with the scent of moisture and vegetation. It was an odour that pleased Bascot, one he had often dreamed of during his imprisonment in the arid terrain of the Holy Land, permeating his dreams and waking him with a fitful start of pleasure in a remembrance of home before the reality of his surroundings impinged on his consciousness. Behind him Gianni rode pillion, swathed in a warm cloak and with the hat Ernulf had given him pulled firmly down over his head.

  As they descended from the high knoll on which Lincoln was situated Bascot took in the surrounding countryside. It was sparsely wooded until they reached the edge of the chase, and the ground was marshy in places and crisscrossed with rivulets, firming up only when they reached the shelter of the forest.

  Bascot found his way to the place that Tostig had taken him the previous afternoon with little difficulty and the forester was waiting, as arranged, at the spot where the body of the poached deer had been found. With him were two other men whom he introduced as the agister, Copley, and Eadric, the woodward who lived in the village on the southern boundary of Gerard Camville’s chase. Eadric worked with Tostig, and was paid his salary by the sheriff, but his chief responsibility lay to the crown. Since it was part of his duty to oversee any licences issued for industry within the forest, such as charcoal burning, Tostig had asked him to attend the meeting that morning, in case he should be able to help Bascot with his enquiries.

  The agister, Copley, was a short stout man, with a florid face and breath reeking of the stale fumes of last night’s wine. He was dressed more richly than the other two, with a thick cloak wrapped over the good wool of his tunic and a flat cap decorated with silver thread set atop his sparse hair. His mood was disgruntled and he was obviously annoyed at being asked to rise so early in the morning, but showed his discontent only in his manner towards Tostig and Eadric. To Bascot he was carefully deferential, mindful perhaps of de Marins’s rank and the small Templar badge worn on the shoulder of his tunic.

  Eadric, a young fresh-faced man of unmistakable Saxon heritage with pale hair and deep blue eyes, looked uncomfortable, and kept to the rear of the company as they travelled the short distance to the village. Bascot was aware of the complex hierarchy of forest officials, both royal and private, and of the jostli
ng for power that occurred within its ranks. A chase-or forest, as it was often called-brought in a good amount of revenue to those who owned the rights, be they king or noble. Such areas were jealously guarded against offences by those who oversaw its management. It was likely the young woodward was fearful of reprisal from Copley if he was found to have been lax in his duties. Or, since its officials were notably disliked by the general populace for their arbitrary enforcement of the rights they protected, perhaps he was just reluctant to be included in the enquiry Bascot intended to make of the villagers.

  The village was, as Tostig had said, a small one, with perhaps ten families within the fence of hurdles that bounded the compound. The reeve, headman for the village, had been apprised by the forester of Bascot’s intended visit and he, along with the village priest and two others, was waiting for the Templar just inside the gate. Nearby, clustered in a silent watching group, were the other men of the hamlet, while their womenfolk huddled in twos and threes at the entrances to the small thatched cots that straggled around the perimeter of the enclosed space. Children played at the edge of a shallow pond amongst a scattering of geese, chickens and ducks. At the far end of the dirt track that bisected the compound were some storage buildings constructed of rough-hewn timber. Beyond them, over the wall of hurdles, the village fields stretched to the north, empty of grain since harvest time.

  The priest, an elderly man with a completely bald head and few teeth, stepped forward as Bascot and the forest officials came through the gate.

  “Greetings, Sir Bascot. I am Samson, God’s shepherd to this small flock.” His lined, gentle face attempted a smile as he turned and gestured to the man beside him. “This is Alwin, the reeve, and these others”-the priest’s hand waved at the reeve’s companions-“are Leofric, Alwin’s son, and Edward, his nephew.”