The Canterbury Murders

by Maureen Ash

  John sensed the reproach in the archbishop’s words. Walter had been appalled when he had received a letter from John earlier that year relating what had passed and had strongly urged John to make all haste in revealing his nephew’s whereabouts, and to publically declare the nature of his injuries and how they had occurred. When John had refused, Walter’s condemnation of his decision, although unspoken, had been apparent, and the archbishop’s support, like Nicolaa’s, had been given most reluctantly.

  Walter’s reaction to John’s suggestion that the castellan be approached had been to advise against it, pointing out that the fewer people made privy to the secret, the easier it would be to keep it so. But once again, John had perversely remained determined to pursue his own inclinations. Nicolaa could be trusted, he had said; she had always kept faith with him and he was certain she would do so now. It was her steadfastness, he had added, that had prompted him to send for the Templar. Bascot de Marins had reason to be indebted to Nicolaa and would refrain, he was sure, from questioning any direction she gave. But from the expression that appeared on John’s face when Walter told him of Nicolaa’s protest, it was obvious that he had not expected her to judge him so harshly. She and John had been friends since the days of his youth, and he had firmly believed that she would view the quandary in which he had placed himself with a sympathy born of that long association. That she had not had shaken him severely.

  Walter had felt apprehension envelop him. John could be remorseless towards those he suspected might be capable of betraying him, and the archbishop wished he had kept Nicolaa’s objection to himself. Seeking to amend his error, he made an attempt to allay the king’s fears. “I am certain Lady Nicolaa will keep faith with you, sire. She has given her word and, if I judge her rightly, will keep it.”

  John had given him a sad look and said, “And so would I, too, archbishop, had she not voiced her criticism so vociferously. She is not a woman to dissemble, and so I am forced to be wary, especially since I know her husband to be factious. Even the most faithful of hounds can suddenly turn on a master, and a bitch is often more dangerous than the male dog. I shall make an effort to restore amity between us, but if I fail, then I must, with the greatest regret, number her amongst those who might play me false.”

  Walter shuddered inwardly. This was how John had reacted to William Marshal when the earl had dared to venture an opinion that was in opposition to his own. If the king continued along the reckless path he was pursuing, he would alienate more than just these two important vassals.

  They spoke no more on the subject and Walter had given a hearty sigh of relief when John left to return to the guesthouse. Once the door had closed behind him, the archbishop had drunk deep of his wine cup in an effort to still his inner turbulence.

  Now, as he stood in the nave, he gained comfort from the sanctity of his surroundings and breathed deeply of the lingering aroma of incense, hoping it would act as a balm to his troubled thoughts. John had always been unpredictable, and this was one of the reasons Walter had been hesitant about his suitability for kingship after Richard had died. But recently his capriciousness seemed to have intensified, and it was a trait that made the archbishop extremely uncomfortable. The king had begun his reign well and had exhibited many fine qualities—he was intelligent, energetic, cultured, a fine administrator and a more than competent military leader—and his audacity in snatching a rich heiress like Isabella from under the very nose of a dangerous rival had been more than a touch reminiscent of the boldness his father had displayed when he had stolen the affection of Eleanor of Aquitaine from her husband, King Louis of France. But since the disaffection of his liegemen in Normandy, and the disastrous outcome of his efforts to mend the rift with Arthur, John’s erratic nature had worsened.

  The archbishop paced a step or two, feeling the weight of his advancing years, but he forced himself to shake the heaviness off. Much circumspection would be required at the forthcoming council, and these murders could make that task more difficult. He was no stranger to impediments such as these and had, in the past, faced many just as serious, overcoming them by his flair for diplomacy. This ability had enabled him to successfully mediate between King Richard and the Muslim leader, Saladin, and had facilitated in the raising of the huge amount of money needed to pay Richard’s ransom after he had been captured by Leopold of Austria. Walter had been well rewarded by Richard for his efforts, receiving the post of archbishop and justiciar from his hands. John, too, had shown his gratefulness for Walter’s ultimate support of his bid for the throne, and had made him chancellor in appreciation. But these high positions, although they brought wealth and acclaim, also carried great responsibility. He would be more than capable, he felt, of persuading the nobles who would attend the council in Oxford to aid John in retaking control of Normandy; it was the possibility that these murders might result in the secret about Arthur being exposed that was bedeviling him. If that should happen, the opinion of those whose support John so desperately needed could turn against him.

  He glanced towards the north-west transept and the spot where the sainted Thomas Becket had been struck down in this very month, just after the celebration of Christ’s Mass, thirty-three years before. Shortly after the martyr’s death, a fire had gutted the choir and it was now in the process of being rebuilt, along with the erection of a new chapel. Once all was completed, the sainted bones of the murdered archbishop would be removed from behind the altar in the Chapel of Our Lady Undercroft in the crypt and placed inside the chapel. Life was often filled with adversities, such as those that had confronted Becket, but unlike his sainted predecessor, Walter was first and foremost dedicated to the monarch he served. And, just as he had done with Richard on more than one occasion, he would make every effort to successfully steer John safely through this troublesome time.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The snow did not cease falling until late that evening and left behind a thick blanket that covered the town and the surrounding countryside. With dawn, the clouds had cleared and the sun shone brightly, sparkling upon the whiteness. At the Watling Street townhouse, Dauton sent two menservants with long-handled shovels fitted with wide wooden blades to clear paths from the stables and front door. Householders and merchants all over Canterbury were engaged in the same task and, by mid-morning, travel was once more possible, but only on the main thoroughfares.

  Nicolaa had risen late from her bed, her sleep troubled by the ramifications of John’s directive, and when she finally descended to the hall she found the rest of her entourage already assembled in front of a roaring fire. Bascot, just about to don his cloak, informed her that he was going to the royal townhouse to conduct the interviews they had spoken of the night before. She nodded absently as she accepted the cup of warmed and watered wine that Miles handed to her. At that moment, Dauton came in, and told Bascot that the vintner, de Ponte, was at the door asking to speak to him.

  Instructing the steward to show the wine merchant into a side chamber, Bascot went into the room. De Ponte was hesitant, looking nervous and drained of confidence. The Templar had to prompt him a little before he summoned up the courage to state the purpose of his visit.

  “It’s about something one of my men saw, lord,” he said finally. “Not on the day of the king’s arrival when they delivered the wine, but the next one. My men have been discussing the incident between themselves and this morning Ailwin came to tell me something which I thought you, and the earl, should know.”

  He looked down at his hands, which were clenched together in front of him, and added, “I hope you will not think me presumptuous for disturbing you. Since I had heard that King John has returned from Dover and is at the cathedral, I thought it might be unwise to go to the priory, where I understand Sir William is staying, for fear I might prove an unwelcome intrusion, especially if the earl is with the king. And I was reluctant to go to the castle; Constable Criel is a fine man,
but after my recent incarceration in the cells, I never want to enter the bail again.”

  “I am more than ready to listen to what you have to say,” Bascot assured him, wishing the merchant would come to the point. “What is it that Ailwin told you?”

  Relieved at the Templar’s receptive manner, de Ponte explained. “Ailwin said he had been quizzing both Turgot and Eric about what they saw when they went into the royal townhouse to deliver the wine. Not that he suspected them of any wrongdoing,” he hastened to add, “for neither Turgot nor Eric are possessed of the wits needed to place the poison in the buttery. It is Ailwin that keeps a record of the destination of the deliveries and sees to the proper accounting of the number of barrels or kegs that are taken in. I hire both of the younger men for their brawn, not their intelligence. It is because of this failing that Ailwin pressed them, hoping, he told me, to find some small incident they had seen or heard and not taken into account.”

  “And I surmise, from your presence here, that he did learn something pertinent?” Bascot asked.

  “I am not sure of its importance, but both Ailwin and I thought it might be worthwhile to mention,” de Ponte replied. “Under Ailwin’s questioning, Eric finally said that the next day, when they were travelling on the river to make another delivery farther downstream and going past the royal townhouse, Inglis had been outside in the yard, close to the jetty.”

  He then explained how it was that Eric came to be in a position to notice the steward. “There is much travel on the river, lord, and often it is necessary to pull into the bank to allow other boats to pass. That is what happened on this morning. Ailwin says there were two large skiffs—one laden with wool, the other with barrels of ale—both vying for position in the middle of the river, and he had to pull my boat in near the quay of the royal townhouse to avoid getting involved in the congestion. It was while they were waiting there that Eric saw Inglis standing in conversation with another man.”

  “And?” Bascot asked.

  “Eric said the steward had what he called ‘a black look’ on his face and appeared to be in some sort of argument with the other person.”

  Bascot’s interest sharpened. De Ponte paused and then said, “As I said, lord, it is only a little thing, but if the steward was at odds with someone, I thought it might have some connection with his death.”

  “You were correct to come and tell me,” the Templar assured him, pleased with the information. “Is Eric able to identify the man Inglis was speaking with?”

  “No, lord, he is not. But he did give me a description of his appearance.”

  As de Ponte related the details of the man’s stature, facial features and what he had been wearing, Bascot felt a thrill of satisfaction. The description matched that given by Cecily Wattson of the person who had joined Inglis and the washerwoman in the churchyard, and there was no doubt in Bascot’s mind that the man both she and de Ponte’s employee had seen could be none other than the bath attendant, Guillaume Aquarius. This was the second occasion on which he had been seen in conversation with Inglis, and this time it would seem there had been a conflict between them. It made his need to question the bath attendant again all the more urgent.

  ***

  As the vintner was leaving, Bascot followed him out into the entryway, intending to leave at once for the royal townhouse, but as Dauton opened the door for them both to exit, a messenger wearing the archbishop’s badge on his livery was coming up the path.

  “I have a message from the king for Lady Nicolaa de la Haye and Sir Bascot de Marins,” he said to the steward. “They are both requested to attend him in the priory guesthouse just before Vespers this afternoon.”

  With a polite nod, Dauton said he would relay the summons to his mistress, and Bascot—identifying himself to the messenger—confirmed that he would also attend, and then hurried to the stables to instruct one of the grooms to saddle his horse. While he was waiting for the task to be done, he handed another of the grooms a sealed message and told him to take it with all despatch to the Templar guesthouse near Northgate. The missive was to Master Berard in London, and was a recounting of all that had passed in relation to the investigation, including Nicolaa de la Haye’s request that he make her privy to all information before it was revealed to anyone else. The warden of the Templar house would make sure it was sent to Berard as soon as the road to London was passable. For the first time since he had met her, Bascot was a little unsure of Nicolaa’s motives. While he was certain that her request was, in some way, associated with the king and she saw it as her duty to obey him, he, as a Templar, was not bound by any such obligation. At the end of the missive he had asked Berard for his instruction in dealing with the matter, and hoped he would receive a reply soon.

  He made reasonable time to the royal townhouse on Stour Street. The snow had been cleared from most of the main streets and the warmth of the sun had melted the layer that had covered the refuse channel in the middle of the byways, from which now rose malodorous wisps of steamy moisture.

  As he navigated his horse through a particularly deep patch of snow splaying out at the corner of Castle and Watling streets, he mulled over his relationship with Gianni and how the murder investigation had caused a rift between them. Earlier that day, he had told the lad that he would be going to the townhouse alone and would not require Gianni to come with him and take notes. The hurt in the lad’s eyes was evident.

  “It is not because you lack competence, Gianni,” he had assured the lad, “or that I do not desire your company. There are reasons, of which I cannot tell you, for my decision. You must trust my judgement in this.”

  Gianni had given him a solemn nod of understanding but Bascot knew that the boy, despite the assurances, felt betrayed, and the Templar, not for the first time, cursed King John and his machinations. As he continued on his way, his mood continued to darken and by the time he approached the royal townhouse and caught sight of Chacal, lounging against the doorpost with a truculent expression, his choler was high.

  ***

  “Hola, Templar,” the routier said as Bascot dismounted and tied his mount to a post in front of the townhouse. “Have you come to finally admit that I am right, and that one of the king’s servants is responsible for these murders?”

  “That is a sweeping statement, and a safe one,” Bascot replied in a deceptively mild tone. “Excepting the brothers of my Order, are not all within the king’s domain his servants? Including those who take his silver to guard him?”

  The mercenary captain’s face went tight with anger at the implication of the statement but Bascot had dropped his hand to his sword as he uttered the challenge, and Chacal made no further comment.

  Bascot looked around and saw that the guards surrounding the townhouse were from Chacal’s band. “Why are you here?” he asked the mercenary. “I understood that Criel’s men were on duty during the daylight hours.”

  Chacal shrugged. “There is no set routine. We change shifts according to which men are available.”

  Bascot nodded and went into the townhouse. The entryway was empty, but he could hear the faint sound of voices coming from the rear of the building. As he shut the door behind him, a maidservant came running from that direction and, when she saw Bascot, she hastily bobbed in deference and came forward to take his cloak.

  The Templar had decided before he left Watling Street that he would carry out a thorough inspection of the townhouse before speaking to Aquarius or any of the other servants. On the one occasion he had been here, at the time of Inglis’ death, he had only gone into the rooms on the lower floor and down the ladder into the undercroft. It was time to see the
chamber where the washerwoman had been killed, and the adjoining ones, and also the yard where the vintner’s men had seen the bath attendant arguing with the steward. He also wanted to check Inglis’ belongings, to see if there was any clue amongst them that might provide information pertaining to his murder.

  Dismissing the maidservant, he went into the rooms on the ground floor that led off the passageway, looking into each. All were tidy and appeared to have been freshly swept and dusted, except for the buttery where Inglis had died, and which had been kept locked. Deciding it would not be necessary to examine that room again, he went upstairs, and into the antechamber where the washerwoman had been preparing John’s bath. It remained as Gianni had described it in his notes, the tub still in the middle of the floor—the water now scummy and malodorous—the rug on the floor in front of the tub now dry, but stiff and stained with blood. After quickly looking into the royal chamber and finding nothing of interest, he went into all of the rooms on the same floor. There were a number of them, most fairly large in size, and each fitted out with beds laid with blankets, tables and small coffers; at the end of the passage were storerooms containing a supply of fresh napery, candles and cups. All of them seemed in order and undisturbed.

  On the floor above the rooms were smaller, most with only a narrow slit of a window to allow light to enter, and more sparsely furnished. One, although tidy, appeared to be occupied, for there was a cloak on a hook behind the door, and a case of writing implements on the floor. Again, there were two more storerooms on this floor, stacked as were the storerooms on the floor below with neat piles of bedding, drinking utensils, rush lights and chamber pots.