The Canterbury Murders

The Canterbury Murders Page 3

by Maureen Ash

  Marshal shrugged. “It could be so, I suppose. Many of the king’s nobles are disgruntled with him for the loss of the fiefs they hold in Normandy from King Philip, but I can think of none that are so angry they would stoop to murdering him, or Isabella, especially in such a covert fashion.”

  “The rumours of John’s laxity are true then?” Nicolaa asked.

  Marshal shook his head decisively. “That is a falsehood, a malicious rumour spread by those who wish to justify their betrayal of the king. John has done all that could be expected of him, and more, to keep Normandy secure, but he has been hampered by the disaffection of his vassals and the severely depleted treasury he inherited from his brother. Richard bled his subjects’ purses dry to support his crusade, and then further monies were needed for his ransom after he was captured by Leopold of Austria. Not only does the financial situation leave John hard-pressed to pay for the armaments and supplies he needs to defend his lands, but due to the lack of support from those who should ply their swords on his behalf, he has been forced to hire mercenaries for his personal guard. It is an additional expense he can ill afford.”

  The earl shook his head in disgust. “There are a few barons that have remained loyal but, despite their efforts, many towns have been taken. Conches is lost, and Vaudreuil, and now the French are attacking Château-Gaillard. De Lacy, a stalwart knight, is constable there and trying to hold firm, but the castle is under siege, and it is likely he will eventually be forced to surrender.”

  Château-Gaillard—the “Saucy Castle”—had been built by John’s older brother, Richard. It was only sixty miles from Paris, a fortress intended not only to protect the Duchy of Normandy but also to be a base from which a campaign could be launched to take back the Vexin, a strategic area that was always in dispute between France and England. The late king had been a master of siege warfare and had directed the castle to be erected upon a towering limestone crag—the Rock of Andeli—and the stronghold, with its elliptical inner citadel and curvilinear enclosing wall, was considered impregnable. But there was always the chance that, without outside assistance, de Lacy and his men would be starved into submission. If Château-Gaillard was taken by the French, it would be a blow of major proportions.

  The earl’s glum expression reflected the seriousness of the situation. “I am afraid that Normandy is as good as lost, as are Maine, Anjou and Touraine, but when I ventured to suggest to John that he should try to make peace with Philip, he took umbrage and asked me if I, too, intended to betray him. Although I assured him I did not, and would never do so, the relationship between us is strained.”

  This was indeed dire news and Nicolaa was hard-pressed to understand the king’s attitude towards Marshal, who had proved his loyalty time and again, and had supported John’s claim to the English throne after Richard died. She said as much to the earl, but he shook his head in dismissal. “The king has changed in the last months, lady. Due to the faithlessness of many who swore him fealty, it is understandable that he is full of mistrust, even when there is no foundation for it, but ever since he removed his nephew Arthur from Falaise to a prison cell at Rouen, his attitude has worsened.”

  Nicolaa recalled the rumours that had been circulating about John’s nephew. “I have heard that Arthur has not been seen since Eastertide and, because of the terrible threat John made—that he intended to blind and castrate the boy—it is said he has been murdered by the king. The Bretons are a volatile people and fiercely loyal to their count. If John’s assumption about the servant’s murder is correct, and it took place because she inadvertently foiled an attack on himself, it could be that one of Arthur’s supporters has followed the king to Canterbury intent on taking revenge.”

  Marshal shrugged. “It is possible, I suppose. But I have asked John about Arthur and he assures me the boy is alive and still in confinement. Whatever the truth of the matter, Arthur lost any sympathy I may have had for him when he attempted to take his own grandmother hostage at Mirabeau. Eleanor is a great lady, respected by the entire world; for Arthur to treat her in such a fashion was an outrage that offended all Christendom. But if the king decided to inflict the ultimate penalty on his nephew, it should have been done openly, not in secret.”

  Marshal leaned back in his chair and expelled his breath in exasperation. “If we look for the murderer amongst those whom the king calls enemy, they are legion. Apart from the Bretons, it may be that Philip of France is behind this. It would suit him well if John was dead and the final obstacle to his capture of Normandy removed. Or,” he added, “the motive could be rooted in John’s marriage to Isabella. Hugh of Lusignan was with Arthur at Mirabeau and, like him, taken captive, along with a substantial number of knights who are his liegemen; and recently John, against my advice, released him and so he is at large to wreak further havoc. Lusignan still burns with resentment against John, so it could be that an agent of his is responsible for the woman’s death.”

  Nicolaa thought this last unlikely but, as Marshal said, it was still a possibility. Hugh of Lusignan had been betrothed to Isabella before John made his bid for her hand three years before. The queen’s father, the recently deceased Aymer Taillefer, count of Angoulême, had quickly renounced Lusignan’s suit in favour of John’s, preferring that his only child and heir become a queen rather than the wife of a mere count. Lusignan had, naturally, been incensed at this reversal of his suit and, smarting from the loss of such a wealthy bride, had allied himself with his overlord, Philip of France, in the attack on John’s continental possessions. He was a dangerous and vindictive man, and would not scruple to kill John if the means could be found.

  “Mayhap the washerwoman was murdered for a reason of her own making,” Nicolaa suggested, “and her death is not connected to any political intrigue.”

  “I sincerely hope that is so, lady,” Marshal replied with heartfelt emotion, “and shall pray that heaven grants us such a boon.”

  At that moment, the soldier she had seen in the conversation with Marshal in the bail when she arrived came into the hall and walked towards the dais. As he did so, Nicolaa nodded in his direction. “Is he one of the routiers John brought with him from Normandy?”

  “Yes,” Marshal replied. “His name is Almaric Chacal, a Brabançon from Flanders. He and his small band of men were the ones on duty at the townhouse when the murder took place, and are part of a larger troupe of mercenaries that the king hired to escort him to England, under the command of Godeschal de Socienne.” The earl gave a grim chuckle. “I should imagine Chacal’s ears are still burning from the upbraiding John gave him for failing to keep the premises secure. And it is likely, once Godeschal is told what has happened, that he, too, will add his own fulsome reprimand to the king’s.”

  Nicolaa had heard of Godeschal de Socienne and the fearsome reputation he and his brother had earned as warriors. With the allegiance of his nobles wavering, it was understandable that John would put his trust in mercenaries, even if it was a fidelity that was bought and not earned. By and large, mercenaries were a hard-bitten and arrogant breed, especially those from Flanders—and as Chacal approached, she decided that he fit the image. Despite the rebuke he had recently received from John, he walked with a slight swagger and there was little deference in his voice as he said to Marshal, “You wished to be advised when the king returned, lord. The gateward on the tower reports that his party is approaching.”

  With a brief nod to the mercenary, Marshal rose from his seat and turned to Nicolaa. “Will you accompany me into the bail, lady, to greet John?”

  With a nod of assent, Nicolaa rose from her seat and left the hall with the earl, signing to the two knights of her escort, and
Gianni and Clare, to stay where they were until she returned.

  Chapter Four

  The king came thundering through the gate on a snow-white stallion, the hem of his ermine-lined cloak streaming out behind him. At his heels was an escort of half-a-dozen mercenaries, all wearing coats of mail with conical metal helmets and each heavily armed with sword and mace.

  John came to a sliding halt in the middle of the bail, his expression as dark as a storm cloud. It lightened slightly when he saw Nicolaa standing with Marshal at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the keep. After he had dismounted and tossed the reins of his horse to a waiting groom, he came across to where she was standing and greeted her warmly, clasping both of her hands in his. “I am pleased to see you, lady,” he said, “although I would wish the circumstances were different.”

  “As would I,” Nicolaa assured him. “Marshal has told me of the murder of your servant.”

  John nodded, his eyes full of sorrow. “Poor Molly. She did not deserve to die such a terrible death.”

  Abruptly he put aside his grief, and in a brusque tone he said to Marshal, “Has de Cornhill arrived yet? He is sheriff; he should be here to attend me, especially as a crime has been committed in his bailiwick. His continued absence is most displeasing to me.”

  “A letter arrived from him this morning, after you had left for Dover,” the earl replied, his manner equally stiff, the constraint between Marshal and the king obvious. “He is at his estate in Rochester and apologises for his tardiness, but he has been overtaken by a virulent fever and is unable to rise from his bed.”

  “Damnation,” John swore softly.

  “As you requested in the message you left for me, I met with the coroner at the townhouse after you left this morning,” Marshal added. “He has recorded the details of the murder and released the body for burial. The town bailiff came with him and offered his assistance in the search for the murderer, but his resources are limited—he has only the men of the town guard at his disposal—and their expertise is confined to dealing with much smaller crimes, such as robbery and drunkenness. Despite his willingness, I fear his efforts will not meet with much success.”

  “No, the investigation cannot be left in the hands of a town official,” John declared. “Someone of more competence must be found, and quickly, before the trail grows cold. I will give the matter some thought.”

  Turning back to Nicolaa, he apologised for keeping her standing in the cold. “You have had a long journey, lady, and will be anxious to know the reason for my summons. Come, let us go into the keep and I will enlighten you.”

  As he took Nicolaa’s arm and turned towards the stone tower, he added over his shoulder, “It will be best if you come with us, Marshal. You are aware of the subject I wish to raise with Lady Nicolaa, and our conversation will be rendered more expedient if you are present.”

  As John led the way into the hall, Miles and Gilles, as well as Gianni and Clare, rose from their seats and hurriedly made an obeisance, but the king swept past them all, flinging his cloak to a servant and calling for a flagon of wine as he made his way to one of the corner towers. At the top of the winding staircase, he led Nicolaa and Marshal into a room of moderate size, furnished, as was the hall, with only the bare necessities. On one side was a narrow bed and on the other a small table set about with two chairs, a wooden settle and some stools.

  Bidding them both to take a seat, John paced the length of the room before sitting down himself and waving a hand dismissively at their surroundings. “I apologise, Nicolaa, for bringing you to such a comfortless chamber, but ladies do not often come inside the ward, so none of the rooms are kept suitable for their reception.”

  Nicolaa glanced at Marshal. The earl had been correct when he said that John had changed. The king’s habitual smooth urbanity was gone, replaced by a nervous energy, and in the depths of the dark flashing eyes he had inherited from his beautiful mother was a haunted look. Around his neck were gold chains strung with religious medals, and an image of the Virgin Mary was pinned to his fur-lined hat, almost as though he needed to reinforce heaven’s protection.

  At that moment, there was a knock at the door and a servant appeared with a flagon of wine. Once they had all been served with a cup, and the servant departed, the king began to explain his purpose in requesting Nicolaa’s presence.

  “I am sure you are aware, lady, through my summons to your husband, that due to the perilous situation in Normandy I have been forced to summon a convocation of the Great Council at Oxford.”

  At Nicolaa’s confirming nod, he went on. “It is because of this meeting that I have sent for you. My purpose was twofold, and both parts concern the queen. Firstly, I fear for her safety. Earlier this year, in Normandy, minions of Philip tried to take her hostage at Chinon, and I am concerned this may happen again, here in England.”

  John’s trepidation was not without foundation. There were those amongst his English barons who were in agreement with Marshal, especially those who held fiefs in other lands across the Narrow Sea directly from Philip, and felt that the king should cede Normandy to French rule. If, unlike the earl, they were unscrupulous, it was not impossible that they would stoop to seizing Isabella and use the threat of harming her to force the king to their will.

  “While the council at Oxford is in session,” John continued, “I would have the queen in the safekeeping of a person I can trust. I want you, Nicolaa, under the protection of Marshal, to take Isabella to Lincoln and keep her there until it is ended.”

  “Of course, sire,” Nicolaa willingly agreed, grateful that the task John required of her, although heavy with responsibility, was not to be an onerous one. “Do you wish us to depart immediately?”

  John shook his head. “No, and that brings me to the other reason that I asked you to journey here. My original plan was for myself and Isabella to stay in Canterbury, and you with us, until after we had attended the celebration of Our Lord’s nativity at the cathedral. It would have been of great benefit for Isabella to have a woman of the English nobility at her side when she meets with the many nobles, and their wives, who will travel here for Christ’s Mass, especially one who is known and liked by all. Isabella brought only two companions with her from Normandy—one no more than a young girl and the other, although mature, only recently come to her service. Neither is of noble birth and neither is suitable to attend her on the many social occasions that will take place before the end of December.”

  As the king paused, Nicolaa’s heart sank. If she complied with John’s request—and she really had no choice other than to do so—this would be the first Christ’s Mass that she had ever spent away from her home. But even though she would be sorry for it, she had to admit the wisdom of John’s proposal. She had met the queen for the first time in Lincoln, three years before, and had found her to be a pampered and willful young woman sadly lacking in tact. She was also inclined to be condescending—a trait that would not sit well with many of the barons’ wives, especially those of mature years—and was in sore need of an intermediary to smooth any sensibilities she inadvertently ruffled.

  “As I said, Nicolaa, that was my original intention,” John continued, his voice full of frustration, “but this murder has complicated these arrangements. Since the villain who killed my poor washerwoman managed to slip past the mercenaries’ guard, I cannot now be certain, even with their protection, that Isabella will be safe in Canterbury. That is why I have taken her back to Dover. Until the matter is resolved and she is able to return—which I hope will be soon—I would ask that you stay here, in the town, until you can take up the duties I have described.”

 
“Of course, sire,” Nicolaa answered. “Do you wish me to reside at the Stour Street townhouse?”

  “No, at the moment I have ordered it sealed off and the staff placed under guard until I am certain none of them is responsible for my servant’s death. I do not intend to stay there myself and, in the interim, shall do as Marshal had done and take up residence at the cathedral priory. But there is another royal townhouse, on Watling Street, that will be suitable for you. It is not as large as the one on Stour Street, but it is still capacious enough for you and your retinue to lodge in reasonable comfort.”

  Nicolaa nodded and, the audience seeming at an end, she waited for John’s dismissal, but instead he returned to the subject of the murder.

  “As I said, I am not content to leave the town bailiff in charge of the investigation and it has occurred to me, Nicolaa, that the last time I was in Lincoln, there was a Templar knight in your household who possessed a remarkable talent for solving crimes of secret murder. His name, I recall, was Bascot de Marins. Is he still in your service?”

  “No, sire. He rejoined the Templar ranks not long after your visit,” Nicolaa replied.

  “A pity,” John said ruefully. “He would have suited the task well.”

  “I have heard of this monk,” Marshal said. “He has solved more than one murder in Lincoln town, has he not, lady?”

  “Yes,” she replied, “and earned my everlasting gratitude for doing so.”

  John had remained silent throughout their exchange, but his expression was thoughtful and he suddenly said, “Was de Marins posted abroad after he rejoined the Order?”

  “No, sire,” Nicolaa replied. “He has been in the Lincoln preceptory ever since, and now holds the office of draper.”

 

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