by Maureen Ash
In a separate pile of parchment lay the messages she had received from King John. Alongside it was notification from the abbot at Torksey of the Scottish monarch’s safe arrival, which included a separate list of the names of the lords in his retinue and the number of his retainers. There was also a letter from the Templar preceptor in London, telling her that Bishop Hugh was in extremis and was not expected to retain his life for as long as it would take the letter to reach her. In a corner behind her, at a small lectern, one of her clerks was penning a fair copy of the replies she was sending to both men. The guard on the gate tower had been instructed that she was to be informed immediately the king’s entourage was sighted on the approach to Lincoln, and she had runners waiting on the road from Nottingham to let her know of John’s progress from that city. She could find nothing she had forgotten. All was in readiness, yet still a throbbing kept on at her temples, like a small drum, banging as though to draw her attention to some detail she had forgotten. She thought she knew what it was, this nagging warning of dereliction, yet it was something that all her care and efficiency could not remedy. It was the unresolved matter of the squire’s death.
How soon would some courtier, looking for advancement, or to displace her and her family from favour, whisper in John’s ear of the rumour that surrounded Hubert’s hanging? She had known John since he was just a child, with herself only a few span of years older. She knew how suspicious he was, how he saw devils in every corner, treachery in a glance or a carelessly spoken word. And she had seen him take his revenge, not boldly like his brother Richard, or with measured justice like his father, but with a sly quietness, feigning naivety and friendship, then thrusting retribution when it was least expected. For all that John valued her, and she him, he would strike without compunction at Gerard or, heaven forfend, her son.
She wished desperately that there was some way she could quash this rumour about Hubert, but without proof of the identity of his murderer, and the reason for it, gossip would run rampant. Blaming outlaws would be seen by John for the lame excuse it was and dismissed. As would the possibility that the villagers had killed him for attempting to defile one of their womenfolk. She shook her head to clear it. Ruminating thus would bring no profit and would only encourage the ache in her head to strengthen.
She had been meaning to look into the matter that Ernulf had mentioned to her about Copley. She had already had her clerk bring the relevant documents to her chamber and had asked her bailiff to speak to the regarder for the area, a local knight whose task it was to inspect the royal forest for infringements. The bailiff had reported his findings to her steward that morning. Now, she called to her clerk to bring the letters he had completed along with all the other papers, and to light another candle. Hard work had always given her comfort in times of trial. It was a medication she would apply now.
In Ernulf’s chamber in the barracks Bascot and Gianni were breaking their fast. Both master and servant had missed the morning service of Mass, Bascot deciding that the boy needed sleep more than anything else after his ordeal and, reluctant to leave the lad’s side, he had said his own prayers, including one of fervent thanksgiving for the boy’s safe recovery, while quietly kneeling by his pallet. When Gianni had awoken, Bascot had given him a few strips of salted beef left in the chamber from the day before, along with some ale to wash it down. For himself, Bascot made do with coarse bread and a piece of goat’s cheese from Ernulf’s private store.
“Are you recovered enough now, Gianni, to tell me why you were out in the forest on your own?” Bascot asked, trying to sound stern. He knew he should berate the lad, but having so recently come near to losing him, he could not find it in his heart to be angry.
Gianni looked down, his jaws almost ceasing their avid chewing of the meat. “I know you must have had a good reason for leaving the castle without telling anyone where you were going,” Bascot continued, “but I still must know what it was.”
Gianni looked up at his master, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. With a sigh he reached for the small casket that contained the writing materials on which he practiced his letters. Slowly, and with great care, he wrote a few lines, then gave the scrap of parchment to the Templar to read.
Just as dawn announced itself by a slight lightening in the heavy sky, Godfroi de Tournay was spurring his mount towards Nottingham. He had spent a sleepless night tossing his worries about Hubert’s death to and fro, and had come to no resolution. Finally he had decided that he could not, would not, wait for the accusation of treason to be levelled at his family. He would go to see King John, not to confess, but rather to express his outrage at the rumour that was being bruited abroad. For the moment, he had the king’s favour; if he could couch his anger in convincing enough tones he was sure John would believe him. To wait for another to level the allegation would be folly; far better to bring it out into the open himself, and pray the king did not see through his ruse. He wished he had time to find his brother and consult with him, but he did not. Ralph had been away from home inspecting a property many miles away that included buildings in dire need of repair when he and Richard had gone to Boston. It was unlikely he had yet returned. By the time he found Ralph, the king would be in Lincoln and the de Tournay cause lost. He would have to act as he thought best and hope that God would show him mercy and, at the same time, protect him.
In the ward of Lincoln castle, William Camville and Richard de Humez stood beside the sheriff and watched the shuffling row of outlaws, the reeve’s nephew amongst them, being shepherded towards the south wall of the castle by Ernulf and a contingent of his men-at-arms. At Gerard’s feet two of the castle dogs, large boarhounds, sat alertly watching the prisoners. They resembled their master, broad of chest and heavy of jaw, and looked up at him from time to time as though waiting for his command to attack.
“Stretch their necks on long ropes, Ernulf, so they dangle well over the battlements,” Gerard commanded. “I would have their bodies in plain view of the king when he arrives. He will then know that I keep the peace in Lincoln and keep it well.”
“Are you sure this is wise, Gerard?” William asked. “Would it not be better to wring a confession to Hubert’s murder out of one of them before they are despatched? You still need an answer for the boy’s death to give to the king, as it is certain he will ask for one.”
De Humez shuffled restlessly as William waited for his brother’s answer. This matter of the squire’s murder and Nicolaa’s questioning of his own culpability was making him uneasy.
“If I did that, William,” the sheriff said to his brother, “it would seem I had need to find a scapegoat, one that was conveniently dead.”
“There is another side to that argument,” William declared. “It might be said that one of these men was paid by you to kill the boy and, by hanging him so summarily, you sought to guarantee his silence.”
Gerard turned and glowered at his brother. “Whatever is said will be said. I am tired of plots and manoeuvres to gain royal favour, or to dispel distrust. I am sheriff. These men are outlaws. It is my duty to hang them, and hang them I will.”
William knew better than to push his brother further. He stood silently by as, one after another, the brigands had a noose placed around their necks and were thrown over the castle wall.
As the church bells rang out the hour of Tierce, Melisande Fleming was giving her daughter a thrashing. The girl whimpered as the thin rod struck her back and buttocks, but she did not cry out.
“You will tell me why you were at the castle yesterday. And you will tell me who you went there to meet.”
Still the girl remained silent and Melisande signalled to the two female servants holding her daughter to stretch her out farther. Again the rod fell, this time catching her shoulder and biting through the thin material of the only garment she wore, a shift of fine linen.
“Joanna,” her mother said, her bosom heaving from her efforts, “I will beat you senseless if I have to, you know that. Tell me
his name.”
The girl lifted her head from where it had drooped between her shoulders. “Then beat me senseless you will have to, Mother. Or kill me, I care not. For I will not tell you.”
Just a little before Sext, under a lowering sky, Bascot and Gianni were approaching the village where Edward’s uncle was reeve. The gateward, a small skinny youngster with a pimple-scarred face, gave them admittance. Inside the enclave all was still, and the sound of women sobbing could be clearly heard. No one came to greet the Templar and Bascot sent a boy who was tending a flock of geese to fetch Father Samson. When the old man came up the path from the church his steps were slow, and his face wet with tears.
“Greetings, Sir Bascot,” he said unsteadily. “You must excuse myself and the villagers if we seem discourteous today. We have been told of Edward and his involvement with the outlaws, and that he is being punished for his crimes at this very hour. His family is sorely grieved. None of us had any knowledge that he was party to such deviltry.”
“You may not have been privy to it, Father, but his family surely was.”
The old man lifted his rheumy eyes to Bascot. “Oh no, my lord. They were not. Of that I am certain.”
Bascot got down from his horse and went up to the elderly priest. “Father, your duty to God binds you to see the good in men. Yet where there is good, there can also be evil. Believe me when I say that Edward was not the only man of this village to consort with the outlaws, even if the others did so unwillingly. I will have the truth from them, and if I do not, I will let the sheriff extract it by force.”
Samson’s mouth fell open at Bascot’s words, then he clamped it shut along with his eyes and mumbled a prayer under his breath, fingering the plain wooden cross that hung from a leather thong around his neck. “May God forgive them if you speak true, Sir Bascot. And me also, for I have failed in my duty as shepherd of this small flock.”
“Bring all the men into the church, Father, and the milkmaid, Bettina,” Bascot said kindly to the distressed priest. “And there you and I will together hope that your errant parishioners will finally give truthful answers to my questions.”
Twenty-seven
Late that night, Ernulf, Roget and Bascot were sitting in Ernulf’s quarters in the barracks, sharing a jug of wine and the warmth of a glowing brazier. At intervals, as they replenished their cups, Ernulf took a short poker from where it rested amidst the red-hot embers of the brazier and plunged its tip into the wine. The sizzling sound and smell enhanced the taste.
Outside it was cold, with an icy rain falling that was mixed with snow. In a corner Gianni sat, alongside another, smaller, brazier, wrapped in an old blanket and with Ernulf’s cap pulled firmly down around his ears. He was dozing lightly.
Bascot regarded him with affection and felt a renewal of the relief he had felt when he had hauled the boy up onto his horse in the middle of the river. He was now reluctant to let the lad out of his sight, even if it was only to a pallet outside Ernulf’s chamber in the larger common room of the barracks.
“So, mon ami,” Roget said, the brass rings that were threaded through his beard throwing off sparks of light as the movement of his lips set them dancing, “are you going to tell us what you have discovered?”
“It was what Gianni discovered, really, Roget,” Bascot replied. “If he had come to me about what he had overheard in the hall instead of trying to play the hero himself, we would have been spared our trudge through the forest to rescue him.”
“True,” the former mercenary replied, “but then we would not have captured all those brigands, my friend. That alone made the effort worthwhile. Although,” he added, with a glance towards the sleeping figure of Gianni, “I would as lief the boy had not been put into such danger.”
“Nor I,” Ernulf agreed, refilling his cup, then raising it to the captain. “This is a good vintage, Roget,” he said. “I thank you for it.”
“Ha! Enjoy it well. That is the last jug from my store. I do not know how soon I can get more.” The captain made a mock expression of such ruefulness that Bascot burst out laughing.
“He was tumbling a wine merchant’s daughter,” Ernulf explained to the Templar. “The father gave him a dozen jugs of this”-he raised the cup high-“for a promise to leave the girl alone.”
“I was tiring of her in any case,” Roget commented, shaking his head. “I never like to spend too long with one woman. They get ideas that are dangerous.”
Ernulf leaned towards Bascot. “But tell us, what was it Gianni overheard, and what did you find out in the village?”
Both the sergeant and Roget listened silently as Bascot told them his tale. Then Ernulf refilled all their wine cups and said, “So you have discovered who murdered Hubert and the charcoal burner and his sons.”
“Yes,” Bascot agreed. “But I cannot prove it.”
“ Ma foi, does it matter?” Roget asked. “The sheriff will not care for such a nicety.”
Bascot shook his head, but it was Ernulf who answered Roget’s question. “The sheriff may not, but the king will.”
“The king?” Roget protested. “Why should it worry him? The boy was of no importance, not to King John anyway, and I do not think that our new monarch will care overmuch about the fate of Chard and his family.”
“You are right, Roget,” Bascot replied, “but he will care about the rumour of treason. Proof of the motive for Hubert’s murder, and of who committed it, must be given to him.”
“Have you thought of a way to get such proof?” Ernulf asked.
“I think so,” Bascot said. “I have discussed the matter with Lady Nicolaa, who has, by the way, discovered another, and separate, transgression against the king’s justice. We have devised a plan, which, if it succeeds, will bring all these matters to light in front of witnesses and thus resolve them. She has instructed me to explain your part in the ruse we propose to play.”
Roget chuckled deep in his beard and Ernulf grinned. “Just tell us what it is that we are to do, de Marins,” the serjeant said. “We both have much relish to hear of it.”
It was early the next morning that Melisande Fleming received a request from Nicolaa de la Haye to attend a meeting at the sheriff’s hunting lodge for a discussion of the preparations necessary for a hunt planned for the king during his stay in Lincoln. Melisande was in her gold manufactory when the messenger arrived. The workshop was housed in a building adjacent to her house on Mikelgate, and she always enjoyed being in its confines. The sight of the master goldsmith at work on his small anvil, his tiny hammer and tongs stretching and tapping the gleaming yellow metal, always soothed her, and she often herself performed the task of polishing a finished piece with the fine soft fur of a rabbit’s foot.
It had been decided by the goldsmith’s guild that King John would be presented with three gifts from the workshops of Lincoln. Melisande’s manufactory had been allotted the making of a hanap-a large cup-which was to have a cover and footed base and be encased in a wooden box inlaid with silver decoration. The cup was now finished, and Melisande was holding it in her hands, admiring the workmanship of her staff when the messenger came to the door.
The goldsmith’s widow was annoyed at Nicolaa’s request. She knew that John was now at Southwell, having travelled there from Nottingham, a distance of fourteen miles, the previous day. From Southwell he would come the final twenty-three miles to Lincoln and was expected to arrive the following afternoon. She had intended to spend the day preparing for the monarch’s arrival at the castle. There was much to do; the hanap and box must be enclosed in a bag of soft velvet for its presentation, there was her gown to inspect and the choosing of the jewellery she would wear and, most vexing of all, she still had the rebellion of Joanna to contend with.
Impatiently, she threw the short note from Nicolaa onto the floor. She would have to go, like it or not. Even though she held the office of chief forester and, as such, received her salary directly from the crown, it would be unwise to irritate the castellan
by a refusal. Nicolaa was well thought of by King John and any commissions the goldsmiths of Lincoln hoped to receive from him could easily be withdrawn if she chose not to recommend them. Angrily Melisande called for one of her servants to saddle the palfrey she kept in a stable behind the house, and for another to bring her a warm cloak. Before reluctantly leaving the manufactory, she sent an urgent message to Copley instructing him to attend her at the lodge for her meeting with Lady Nicolaa. Still in a fury, she left the warm glow of the manufactory’s small furnace and, with a groom to accompany her, rode towards the western gate of the city.
In the chamber that had been allotted to Baldwin high in the top of the keep, Alys and Alinor kept the sick boy company. His excitement at the imminent arrival of the king had brought on another of his spells of breathlessness and the castle physician had recommended he rest until it should be time for him to be presented.
“I must be well enough to see King John, Alys, I must,” he said tremulously as she held out a cup of heated wine for him to sip.
“If you don’t stop fretting, little brother, you most assuredly will not be,” his sister said tartly.
“I have sent Osbert for his lute,” Alys told him. “He plays passably well and a little soft music may soothe you and allow you to rest. Now come, lie back and drink your wine. It has a generous dollop of honey in it.”
Baldwin, his face flushed from his recent exertions of struggling for breath, did as he was told and, when Osbert arrived, was lying comfortably and breathing easier.
