by Maureen Ash
The sheriff crashed his fist down onto the table, setting the thick oak shivering. “John is devil’s spawn. And so was Richard. They killed their father between them. I was a fool ever to put my trust in either.”
William knew how much his brother had loved King Henry and how much he missed him. He tried to placate the anger he could see rising in his sibling. “Perhaps you were foolish not to realise that neither prince has the integrity of their father, Gerard, but you had little choice as matters turned out. And Henry has been dead a long time. You cannot mourn his loss for ever. He was a good king and held you in high esteem, but now it is his son that is on the throne. You must be circumspect in your dealings with John.”
“I will leave that to Nicolaa. She has a fondness for him, although only the Good Lord above knows why. And he returns her affection. I will leave his entertainment—and goodwill—to her.”
“You still have not answered my question, Gerard,” William said, now standing to face his brother. “Did you have anything to do with this boy’s death? It is rumoured that he spoke of being in the confidence of men who favoured Arthur to be king of England. He could have been killed to dam his overflowing mouth. Were you one such as those of whom he spoke?”
Gerard glowered at his brother. “I have as little use for John’s nephew filling his grandfather’s place as I had for Richard, or for John himself. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
William sat down again, glancing doubtfully up at his brother. “Yes, it is, Gerard. But if the king should ask you the same question, try to be more politic in how you frame your answer.”
Five
BASCOT DECIDED TO VISIT THE PLACE WHERE THE BOY had been found and asked Tostig to take him there. They left the castle in late afternoon, Bascot riding an easy-gaited grey gelding from the stables with Gianni on the pillion behind and the forester astride his own mount.
Tostig took a path that led slightly southwest, towards the stretch of forest where Gerard Camville’s chase was located. As they rode, he told Bascot the hunting ground that had been granted to the sheriff began some two miles from Lincoln town and was bordered on the west by the Trent river and on the south by the slant of the old Roman road called the Fosse Way.
“The royal chase, within which the sheriff’s own lies, is much larger, of course,” Tostig explained. “It extends a good way farther to the north and, in the south, down to the greenwood at Kesteven. There is a lot of good marshland for hawking and hunting smaller game within both, though, as well as a fair bit of timberland.”
“Are there any villages in the sheriff’s chase?” Bascot asked.
“Yes,” replied Tostig. “At the northern tip is a small one, just before the beginning of an open stretch of heath land. And there’s another, larger, hamlet adjacent to the southern boundary.”
“Are either of these villages near where Hubert’s body was found?” Bascot asked.
“The one in the north is,” Tostig replied. “It’s on the edge of Sir Gerard’s chase and the boy was not far into the forest from there.”
“Is that where your quarters are located?” Bascot asked, knowing that in his position as a mounted forester Tostig would receive, as part payment for his services, shelter for himself, his horse and his dog.
“No. ’Tis my right if I wished to do so, but Sir Gerard lets me stay in his hunting lodge. It’s more comfortable and I don’t have the villagers taking resentment at my presence amongst them. Since the royal chase is so close and they must have licence for any activities they would pursue there, they would always be wary that I might report them to the king’s agister or woodward if I should see them taking liberties.” The forester shrugged. “I pretend ignorance most times when they set loose a few more pigs to forage for acorns than are allowed, or perhaps take a coney for the pot, for I know what it is like to be hungry. But it would be more than my life is worth if I were to be too lax and they know it. So, to save their temper, and mine, I stay in the lodge.”
“This lodge, is it near where Hubert was slain?”
“Not the new one, the one where I keep my gear. There is an old lodge a little closer, but it’s ramshackle now and deserted.”
“Were you abroad in the forest last night?” Bascot asked.
The forester shook his head. “No, unfortunately, I was not. Yesterday I went to the southern part of the chase. One of Sir Gerard’s woodwards looks to that area mostly, as he has kin in the village nearby and stays with them so he is handy for the work. But I like to take a circuit there every few days to check and see that he’s doing his job as he should. My mare threw a shoe while I was down there and I had to seek a blacksmith to replace it. By the time I got back to my lodgings it was well past the middle of the night. I wanted only to get my mare bedded down and find my own pallet. I did not leave the lodge until the morning was well on. That was when I saw the crows and found the boy.”
When they reached the chase, Tostig took a path that was almost imperceptible to Bascot. It wound through the trees in no particular manner that the Templar could see, but before long they came to a track that was more defined, with plentiful piles of deer dung and hoofprints, mingled with the deeper marks of the shod feet of horses. The sheriff and his brother must have taken the same route. This track appeared to be well used by both man and beast. In the distance the ring of an axe sounded and there was the smell of smoke in the air.
“It’s just a little way on from here,” Tostig flung back at Bascot over his shoulder. The narrow path had forced them to ride in single file and, as they neared the spot where the poached deer and Hubert’s body had been found, Bascot took care to look about him, telling Gianni to do the same. The boy may be mute, but his other senses were sharp, especially his eyes. With Bascot being blind on one side, he would have to depend on Gianni to notice anything he missed.
Before long Tostig led them to a spot on the path where the slain deer still lay, half-buried under a hump of leaves. “I shall have to get help to remove the carcass. Looks like scavengers have already been at it.”
Tostig dismounted and Bascot did the same, Gianni dropping lightly to the ground with the resilience of youth. The light was beginning to fade, but the scuffs of the poachers’ feet could still be seen amongst the multitude of tracks and the blood of the dead deer was splattered in dark patches onto the moss beside the path.
“Where was Hubert?” Bascot asked, and Tostig led them a few feet off the trail, pointing to the branches of a large oak tree.
“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 b
e 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. Alain 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, cheer
ing 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.”