Death of a Squire tk-2

by Maureen Ash

  Bascot looked up, startled. “Did your friend say what they looked like?”

  “The one with the arrow wound was yellow bearded and thickset. He’d been throttled, his larynx mangled. My friend said he had some twists of dead ivy wrapped around his arms.”

  “And the other?” Bascot asked, almost expecting the answer. Gianni had described Green Jack to him and the Templar had told Ernulf.

  The serjeant’s expression was knowing. “Sounded just like Fulcher, the brigand that Roget’s men beat almost to a pulp. Had a knife wound in his chest. Probably bled to death.”

  “You said they were tied together?” Bascot’s mouth suddenly tasted sour.

  “Aye,” Ernulf confirmed. “Tight as lice in a beggar’s armpit. The bindings were river weed.”

  The serjeant poured another cup of ale and handed it to Bascot. “Looks like Fulcher kept the promise you told me about. Made sure Green Jack kept him company on his journey to hell.”

  I T WAS EARLY THE NEXT MORNING THAT O SBERT CAME to the barracks and asked to speak to Bascot. “Lady Nicolaa sends a message from the king. You are to attend him in his chamber-that is, the one that is usually Lady Nicolaa and Sir Gerard’s bedchamber-at the top of the keep.”

  Bascot straightened his tunic and pulled on his boots. “Did she say what it is that the king wants of me?” he asked as he splashed cold water from a ewer on his face.

  Osbert shook his head. “But I don’t think it’s anything bad,” he replied cheerfully. “She didn’t look unhappy at sending for you.”

  Bascot followed Osbert across the bail. Servants and animals were just beginning to stir, shaking themselves awake in readiness for the onerous demands of another day tending to the needs of a castle overflowing with guests. The page trailed through the hall in front of Bascot, then up a flight of stairs to a room Bascot had never been in before, a well-appointed chamber with a large bed set in a wall space and draped with covers and hangings of finely worked tapestry. Alongside the bed was a huge carved-oak clothes press and an ironbound chest secured with triple locks. Under a narrow recessed window was a small table. On its surface was a flagon of wine and cups, a holder with thick lighted candles, and a sheaf of parchment and writing implements. It was at this table that the king was seated, sunk deep in the depths of a furred bed-gown, his feet comforted by soft shoes of lambskin. In one corner a brazier of charcoal burned. There was no sign of the queen.

  “Sit down, Templar,” John said once Osbert had announced Bascot and left the room, motioning towards a stool. “And pour yourself a cup of wine. It is good Rhenish, my favourite. Nicolaa knows my tastes.”

  Bascot went down on one knee and bowed his head in obeisance before accepting the king’s offer. John’s saturnine gaze regarded him obliquely for a few moments before he spoke.

  “I have been told by Lady Nicolaa of the part you played in discovering the man responsible for the death of Hubert de Tournay,” John began. “It seems that without your assistance the forester would never have been found guilty of the crime.”

  Bascot hesitated to make any response to this statement. He did not know how much of the story Nicolaa had told the king. Was John aware that the boy had been the source of a rumour about a plot to undermine his crown? Had he been told that Nicolaa’s own husband and her brother-by-marriage, Richard de Humez, had been suspected of complicity?

  “I am pleased to learn that Lady Nicolaa holds my help in such high regard,” he finally said noncommittally. “But, in truth, Your Grace, many others contributed to the discovery of Tostig’s guilt. My own part was negligible, for I did not have any knowledge of the squire before his death.”

  John had been watching him carefully as he answered. Now he leaned back his head and laughed.

  “There speaks a diplomatic answer,” John remarked with a chuckle. “Say nothing of import and cast no aspersions.” The king shook his head, amused. “You have no need to be careful, de Marins. Nicolaa has told me all, of the machinations the boy hinted at, as well as the possible culpability of some of my barons. That is why I value Nicolaa so much. She is loyal and she is honest. Speaks when there is need and stays quiet when there is not. I could wish more of my nobles were made of such stuff, especially the de Tournay family.”

  His tone became heavier. “Godfroi came to me decrying the rumour that was being bruited abroad about his family. His protestations were vociferous. So much so that it made me not of a mind to believe him. I will ensure a sharp eye is kept on him and his brother in future.” Bascot felt a small stab of pity for Godfroi. Whether he was guilty of treason or not, the murder of his half brother had affected the de Tournay family in more ways than one.

  John rose, his mood seeming to have plunged into darkness as he picked up his wine cup and walked to the window. It was deeply silled on the inside, and all that could be seen through the narrow slit of its opening was a patch of dull grey sky. He stood looking out of the embrasure for some moments and when he spoke again, it was on a completely different topic.

  “You were given as an oblate to the church when you were young, were you not, de Marins?”

  “Yes, Sire, I was.”

  “I, too, was entrusted to the care of monks during the years of my childhood. To the tender mercies of the abbot at Fontevrault. I have no doubt that the rest of my family hoped I would stay there for all of my days, permanently immured in an anchorite’s cell.” The king’s voice was bitter as he, no doubt, recalled the perpetual squabbling that had plagued his family, and also of how he had betrayed both father and brothers in their never-ending struggle for supremacy.

  Then he gave a short bark of laughter and lightened his tone, saying musingly, “How different both our lives might have been, eh, de Marins, had we been left to the guidance of the good brothers? I might never have been a king, or you a Templar. Perhaps it would have been better so.”

  Bascot made no reply. There was none he could make. John walked back to his chair and sat down, pulling, as he did so, a piece of parchment from the pile that lay on the table. “I have been persuaded by Lady Nicolaa to give you a reward for your service. The fief that your father held before his death is still vacant of possession, having since that time been in the charge of the crown. I have promised Lady Nicolaa that I will restore it to you.”

  Taking the chance of offending the king, Bascot interrupted him. “My lord, much as I would be honoured by such a boon, I cannot hold land. I would be forsworn of my vow of poverty.”

  Again John smiled. “I can see why Nicolaa appreciates your service. Most men only remember their promises to God when they lie on their deathbeds. But let us deal with that obstacle later. First, hear me out.”

  He held up the parchment in his hand. “This is confirmation of your fief, de Marins. It only needs your acceptance. However, there is a condition attached if you should decide to take it.”

  John’s dark eyes sparkled as he enjoyed the obvious discomfiture of the Templar. It amused him to see that other men besides himself might be prey to the horns of a dilemma. “The fief is a small one, as you know. It can be ably managed by a castellan of your choosing, but meanwhile you would enjoy the revenues and ultimately have an inheritance to leave any son you may have or”-here the king paused and held Bascot’s eye with his own-“to any male you have chosen for your heir.”

  John paused to give weight to his last words, then he continued. “The condition is that you remain in the service of Lady Nicolaa, as a senior knight in her retinue, with liberty to visit your fief when necessary. You will be recompensed for such service out of her own coffers, and well above the usual rate for a household knight. Not only will you have a fief, its revenues and a good salary, but a legacy to pass on as you choose.”

  The king laid the paper down on the table. Bascot could see the royal seal dangling from it, thoughts of the benefits to Gianni leaping to his mind, as, he was sure, the king knew they would. John watched him with amusement.

  “Well, de Marins,” he
said finally. “Is it worth a vow or not?”

  After dusk that night Bascot walked across the bail to the old keep where he and Gianni had their quarters when the castle was not filled to capacity with guests. Slowly he climbed the stairs, up three floors and past his usual chamber, then through the archway that led to the ramparts and onto the guard walk that circled the inner side of the wall. It was bitterly cold. The rain had stopped and the wind had stilled. Above was a clear winter sky, stars shining in pinpricks of hard light, looking as though they had been punched into the blackness with the point of a lance. Already, ice was forming on the battlements.

  Bascot leaned into one of the parapet’s embrasures, pushing his shoulder against the stone merlon at his side. Not far from him, one of Ernulf’s men-at-arms was pacing his duty round. He saw Bascot, saluted, then turned about and retraced his steps. Something in the stance of the Templar told the guard that Bascot had not come up onto the ramparts to pass a few moments in idle chatter. He wanted to be alone.

  Below the castle, spreading south, Lincoln lay like a reflection of the sky, darkness pervading with the occasional glimmer of light from a torch or candle. Bascot threw back the hood of his tunic, felt the icy air swarm onto his neck and ears with the snap of a wolf bite. Reaching up, he undid the thong of his eyepatch and let the leather shield fall loose. Only in solitude did he remove the cover from the pit of ruined flesh that had once been his right eye. Now he welcomed the freedom from constraint.

  King John’s words echoed in his mind. Was his father’s fief worth breaking the vows he had taken when he joined the Templars? Poverty, chastity and obedience. He had made those vows not only to the Order, but to God. Even though not now an active member of the Templars he had, for the most part, kept to his promise of poverty, breaking it only for the expenditure of small gifts for Gianni. As for chastity, his thoughts had succumbed to temptation, but his body had not. Obedience was the hard one, for he had not obeyed his senior Templar officers, not since the day he had returned to England and found that his family had all perished during those long years he had been a captive of the Saracens. It had been the compassion of the Order that had kept him in their ranks, not his own honour. What was the wording of the oath? “To obey his Templar Master, or those to whom the Master has given authority, as though the command had come from Christ Himself.”

  He looked down on Lincoln town, then up into the night sky. Crystals of ice were beginning to form on his hair and beard and his ears burned with the cold. Silently he prayed for guidance. What was God’s purpose for him? He begged for aid from heaven, some sign that would tell him what to do. But there was no answer.

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