Death of a Squire

by Maureen Ash

  “What of the identities of your own lovers, mother? You are not so free with their names as you wish me to be with mine, are you? Even when my father was alive you had others to warm your bed. I saw you, and more than once.” The girl threw up her head and glared at Melisande. “Like mother, like daughter. I have my secrets, too. And I will keep them.”

  Melisande drew back her hand and slapped her daughter across the face, just once, but hard. The mark of her fingers stood out on the girl’s flushed cheek like a stain of blood. Then the goldsmith’s widow shook her head and moved away from the girl, walking across the room to take a seat in one of the padded chairs near the fire. She leaned her head back on the softness at her neck and heaved a sigh.

  “You do not know your own foolishness, girl,” she said heavily. “Yes, I gave my favours to men other than my husband, but not before I was married, and never recklessly even then. I want you to marry well, and no decent man will take a bride who has tossed her skirts for all and sundry, not even if I dower you with all the gold I possess.”

  “I have not lain with ‘all and sundry’ as you put it!” Joanna expostulated. “I am not a harlot!”

  Melisande shook her head sadly, rose from her chair and went over to her daughter. Gently she placed her hand under Joanna’s chin and lifted it, and then looked straight into her eyes. “Not a harlot, perhaps, but not a newly plundered virgin, either.”

  When Joanna would have protested, Melisande continued, “I can see it in your eyes, girl. In the way you walk, the manner in which you lace your gown. You have lain with a man and more than once or twice.” She shook her head again. “I would not deny you your pleasure, Joanna; I only wish you had possessed the sense to wait until you had a husband to shield your good name before you indulged your fancy. There will come a day when you will regret what you have done, and regret it dearly.”

  Her mother’s words, so softly spoken, took the anger from Joanna’s face, and her defiance as well. Sullenly she hung her head and looked at the floor.

  Melisande turned and walked to the chamber door. There she stopped and turned. “I hope you have not been foolish enough to fall for the glib persuasions of a man who is already married or, God forbid, one of those prancing young lords up at the castle. But, whatever the case, you can tell your paramour that if there is a bastard child I will not acknowledge him, or her, as my grandchild,” she said. “If you do not give up your lover, I will send you to a nunnery. The choice is yours.”

  GERARD AND NICOLAA WERE WAITING FOR BASCOT when he entered the hall. They had been engaged in a conference with Tostig and a couple of other Camville foresters when Ernulf had come to tell them what had transpired. Immediately they had broken off their discussion and given their attention to the plight of Gianni and the involvement of the sheriff’s prisoner, Fulcher.

  The sheriff was pacing back and forth when Bascot joined them, his face drawn into a scowl as Nicolaa greeted the Templar and offered her commiserations for the abduction of his servant.

  “It must be outlaws that have the boy, for the drawn likeness of a wolf’s head can mean nothing else. Ernulf tells me Gianni was seen alone, going into my husband’s chase. It must have been while he was on that journey he was captured. But what was his purpose for such a venture?”

  “I do not know the answer to that, lady,” Bascot replied. “I only know that I must get him back. To do that I must ask that you release Fulcher and let me take him to the place they have designated.”

  “Never!” Camville growled. “Even if you give them what they want, they will kill the boy anyway, and you as well, if they can. It is a risk that cannot be taken.”

  “Sir Gerard,” Bascot said, “I ask this as a boon from you. The boy is very important to me, more than a servant. He is like my own son.” The admission cost him dear, for although he had come to realise the depth of his feelings for Gianni, he had never before admitted it out loud, even to himself. “If you will grant me this favour, I pledge that I will leave the Templar Order and become your liegeman. It is all I have to offer; if you would have my life I would surrender that as well.” To reinforce his sincerity, Bascot dropped to one knee and bowed his head.

  Nicolaa, knowing how much the words had cost this reticent and solitary man, stepped forward and laid her hand on Bascot’s shoulder. “There is no need to humble yourself, de Marins. You have already given my husband and myself more service than was required for your pallet and sustenance. While we would relish your joining our retinue permanently, neither Gerard nor I would wish you to do so under duress.”

  She turned to her husband, who had stopped his restless pacing and was standing motionless beside her, a cup of wine forgotten in his hand. “Do you agree, husband?”

  Slowly, Camville nodded. “I shall give you your boon, Templar, without restraints,” he said. “You shall have Fulcher as bait for this carrion, but you will not go alone. Ernulf and I will follow, with some of the castle guard.”

  As Bascot made to protest, the sheriff held up his hand. “We will keep out of sight and wait to see what they do. If they have the boy and truly intend to exchange him for the outlaw…” Camville shrugged and did not finish the sentence. “Once your servant is safe we will take the brigand back and perhaps catch a few more of these wolf’s heads in the doing of it.” He looked up from under his heavy brows at Bascot. “If they do not have the boy, they will already have killed him, de Marins, and will attempt to kill you also, once they have their confederate. We will be there to see that does not happen.”

  There was a resolution in the sheriff’s face that told Bascot he would brook no argument and the Templar had to admit that Camville’s reasoning was probably correct. He knew he would not get the imprisoned brigand to use as a ransom unless he agreed to the sheriff’s plan, and if Gianni was dead—he felt his breath squeeze in his chest at the thought—he would wish to kill as many of the outlaws as his sword could reach, Fulcher amongst them. He nodded in acquiescence to Gerard Camville.

  It was not even the half part of an hour later when Bascot set out. The rain was now falling heavily, being driven in gusty sheets by a fitful wind that blew from the northeast. Fulcher, hands bound and a rope around his neck, was mounted on a sumpter pony, with Bascot astride the grey he was accustomed to use, and holding the end of the rope that secured the brigand. Beside the Templar, Tostig rode, bow slung across his shoulder and arrows in his waist quiver, to guide Bascot to the spot by the river that was to be the place of the meeting.

  Behind, in the bailey, Gerard Camville was mounting the big black stallion that was his destrier. The sheriff was in full armour, as was his brother William, who was waiting for one of the grooms to lead out his own deep-chested roan. Another knot of riders was also gathering—Richard Camville, Ernulf, Roget, a handful of men-at-arms, and the squires Alain and Renault. Bascot gave Fulcher a prod in the back with the point of his unsheathed sword and the outlaw, still weak from the beating he had received from Roget’s men, kicked the pony into a shambling trot, preceding the Templar out of the west gate. The sheriff watched them go, waited until he heard the cathedral bells ring out the hour of Sext, then spurred his horse to follow.

  Twenty-one

  IT HAD BEEN ALMOST DUSK BEFORE THE OUTLAWS gathered around the man in the chair ceased talking. Gianni had watched them intently. He could not hear what they were saying but the days he had spent begging in Palermo had made him practiced in recognising people’s attitudes from the way they stood or gestured with their hands. From the manner in which a person walked, or held their head, it was possible to judge if they would be generous or not, if they would be angry at being importuned or merely ignore the outstretched hand with blank eyes, if they would look guilty for being without alms to give, or self-satisfied because they had more than the beggar. The same had been true of the other rag-wrapped urchins with whom he had shared the small piece of wharf where he had slept and taken shelter. Some had been fearless in their harassing of the merchants, ship
owners and sailors that worked or came to trade at the wharf, knowing which ones would be pricked by shame and throw a coin and which ones would respond with a curse or the kick of a boot. But others, Gianni among them, had been too small and frightened to try such tactics, resorting to a helpless whine or cringing tears to wring the price of a piece of stale bread for their efforts. Even amongst themselves it had taken stealth and guile to hide any successful result of their begging. They were friends only when all were hungry. As soon as any alms were given, the recipient would quickly secrete the pittance he had been lucky enough to gain or, if not quick enough to hide it, to swallow it, whether bread or coin, knowing that, if it were the first, it would fill his stomach and if it were the second, it would be safe from the rough clutching hands of the others until he could void it in secret.

  It had taken Gianni only a few moments to forget his fear of the dark circle of trees surrounding him and remember those days, and to realise that the outlaws here in the forest were no different from those he had known in the time before the Templar had come. Resolutely he pushed thoughts of wolves and other nameless terrors from his mind and concentrated on studying his captors.

  It had been apparent from the first that the man seated on the chair was their leader, even as the burly miserable-tempered boy Alfredo had been the self-appointed captain of the band of urchins in Sicily. And this man was the same type as Alfredo, too, a bully, but clever with it, using sharp words and stinging blows to rule those whose mind and body were not as quick or as strong as his own. The reeve’s nephew, Edward, had called the man Jack, but Gianni thought of him in his mind as Diabolo, like the devil he had once seen painted on the wall of a small church where he and some of the other smaller boys had sometimes begged food from the priest in the chapel. The picture had imprinted itself on Gianni’s mind. It had been just inside the entrance, a painting of a huge figure grinning down at the writhing bodies of the unshriven souls at his feet while he poked them with the pitchfork he held in his hand. Curling spirals of flame had risen up around the satanic figure, enfolding the head and body in loops and whirls of hell-smoke, just as the man called Jack was wreathed in the strange winding of stems and dead leaves. And, just like the Diabolo in the mural, this Jack pushed and prodded at the people gathered round him with his heavy staff, chastising as he saw fit and commanding their obedience.

  Finally one of the brigands had been summoned to come forward to where Jack was seated. Reverently the man had lifted up a little box and taken from it a small pot and quill, and a piece of dirty and much-scraped parchment. The paper and quill he handed to Jack, then laid the box carefully across the leader’s knees and held the pot ready while Jack dipped the pen and wrote on the parchment. The band of outlaws looked on admiringly as Jack penned some words on the paper. Gianni doubted whether any of them were literate, which was another means whereby Jack had them in his thrall. Then the paper was rolled up and given to one of the band. Jack pulled him close and whispered in his ear; the man had nodded and hurried off into the forest.

  There had been some cheering from the group as the man left, and Jack had called loudly for ale, and the male members of the band had joined him eagerly in a cup while the women began to serve up to their menfolk and children the meat that had been roasting over the fire, dishing it out wrapped in some of the dead brown leaves that littered the forest floor.

  Gianni’s mouth had watered as he watched the meat being torn from the skewers that held it. He was both hungry and thirsty, and felt fear clutch his bowels again as he wondered what they were going to do with him. The Templar would be searching for him, he knew, but he would not look in the forest. He would look through the castle, then the town, but it would not occur to him to look outside the city walls. Why had he been so foolish as to think of going to the village? He had betrayed his master’s trust and now he would pay for it. He wondered if he would be starved, for there seemed little food to go around. If the note that had been sent was to ask Sir Bascot for payment for his return, it would not profit them to feed him. If the Templar agreed to pay the ransom, a day or two without the food they could ill spare would not harm him, and if Sir Bascot refused to pay, then the food would be wasted on a useless hostage. Gianni shivered. Would they kill him if his master would not pay? Or would they, as Edward had suggested, make him a servant to Diabolo Jack? With visions of that thick stave coming down on his back every time he failed at some task, Gianni was not sure which fate would be worse.

  RICHARD DE HUMEZ LOOKED ACROSS AT HIS DAUGHTER, then swivelled his eyes to meet those of his sister-by-marriage. His expression was a mixture of anger and fear. He had come to Nicolaa’s chamber at Alinor’s request, had waited with impatience while some matter of great urgency was dealt with by Nicolaa in the hall, then had sat in growing amazement as he had been told the reason why Alinor had asked for this private meeting.

  His daughter’s voice broke into his racing thoughts. “I know, father, that you were not in favour of John taking the throne and would have preferred Arthur. I heard you saying so, to mother. I even heard her trying to dissuade you from any rash action that could jeopardize your position with the king. You were not quiet. If I heard you, so could others.”

  De Humez looked from one to the other of the two women. They were more alike than just niece and aunt. His wife, Petronille, Nicolaa’s sister, was dark, as he was himself. But Alinor had inherited the redness of hair and high colour of her Haye antecedents. She had also inherited their stubborn and outspoken high-handedness, and was as he remembered Nicolaa to be in her youth, before time had moulded her forthright temper to include a modicum of diplomacy. He thanked God it had been the soft-spoken second Haye sister who had been chosen for him to take as a wife, even if her dower had been much smaller. He wished that Petronille was here now; she would have calmed the stormy scene he could see coming before it had even begun.

  “What you heard being discussed between your mother and myself was private, Alinor. It was an opinion expressed by many nobles at the time, not only by me, and has nothing to do with you. I am greatly displeased that you have bothered your aunt with such ramblings.”

  De Humez tried to put as much anger as he could into his voice, but knew his headstrong daughter would take little notice, and tried to console himself with the knowledge that Alinor believed she was protecting him rather than putting him in danger.

  “Alinor has not been a bother to me, Richard,” Nicolaa said, trying to speak calmly in an attempt to soothe the ruffled feathers of her sister’s husband. “She is only concerned to protect her family—which is my family also—against any slander that may arise. The king has a long ear for any hint of unrest about him. I would that he heard none about any of our kin and will do whatever I can to ensure that he never does.”

  Slightly mollified, de Humez took a sip of watered wine from the cup that Nicolaa handed him, and said, “There is no rumour to forestall. I have no connection now, and never did have, with any support for Arthur supplanting John.”

  Nicolaa took a mental breath and forced herself to smile. She had a liking for her brother-by-marriage even though she knew him to be querulous and vacillating. He was an indulgent husband and father, but he was also indecisive and prone to be sanctimonious. His would be a willing ear for any plot that would increase his own aggrandisement, as long as he felt the danger to his position would not be too great. A little like King John, she reflected briefly, the very monarch de Humez, she was sure, had not willingly supported. This time her smile came naturally. She had an affection for John, too.

  “It is the matter of Hubert’s death, Richard. Even though Gerard has done his best to ascribe the squire’s murder to outlaws, there is much rumour being bruited abroad that it was for political purposes—that Hubert was privy to a plot against John and was killed because he threatened to expose those involved. That is why Alinor came to me, and why I asked to have speech with you. If you voiced your…opinion…about John to anyone other than Petron
ille, if you even so much as hinted that you would be willing to support a plan that would topple him from the throne, you could be implicated. Not only in Hubert’s death, but in a treasonous plot.”

  As the blood drained from de Humez’s face, Nicolaa allowed her voice to stiffen. “I am fortunate enough to have the king’s favour. That is due to the proven loyalty of my family and myself in the past. But my husband, as you know, does not have the same regard from the king. If it were to be suggested that not only one husband of the Haye sisters, but two, are rumoured to be disloyal…” She let her voice trail off deliberately, watching de Humez closely, then spoke with tones of ice. “Are you sure that you have not spoken of what you call only ‘an opinion’ to any other than Petronille? That any knowledge that Hubert might have had of treason would not have included your name? Be very sure, Richard, of your answer.”

  De Humez shook his head, put down his wine cup with shaking hands. His face was ashen. “I swear to you Nicolaa, I have not, would not—I am loyal to King John. On my oath, I swear it.”

  Nicolaa observed him closely as he made his protestation; saw the concern in Alinor’s face as she, also, searched her father’s expression in an attempt to detect the sincerity of his words. It was possible de Humez was telling the truth, but had there been a slight falter in his voice? Had he been unwise enough to let an indiscretion slip in company that was dangerous? Some word that perhaps was not meant, but could be taken as truth?

  “I believe you, Richard,” she said at last. “And I will do my best to protect your name, and that of my sister and her children. But remember this, just as a candle carelessly dropped on a scrap of straw can be the beginning of a conflagration, so can one ill-judged word bring ruin on the one that utters it. If any hint of this comes to the king, and your name is involved, let us pray that his affection for the Hayes will prompt him to disregard it.”