The Canterbury Murders

by Maureen Ash

  “I trust you are right, Marie,” Isabella replied. “I would most heartily welcome a sojourn in my own court.”

  And, she thought, the chance to see Hugh again. She brought up his image in her mind, his dark hair and beard and flashing eyes. Hugh le Brun, he was called, and fittingly so. She wondered if it was he, as was suspected, who had sent an agent to murder John, and the slaying of the two servants had been connected to that commission. She shrugged. If that was so, she knew that she was in no danger, for Hugh would never allow her to be harmed. Just after her marriage to John he had sent her a secret message, declaring his undying love for her, and telling her that even though she was wed to another, he would find a way to make her his wife one day. A lascivious thrill of desire coursed through her loins as she remembered her former suitor’s boldness. Was that what Hugh was doing now—attempting to make her a widow so he could claim her for his bride? It could be so, she thought, and despite the knowledge that it was wicked, the notion did not displease her.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  In the Watling Street townhouse, Gianni was sitting in the hall, enveloped in a cloud of dejection. When the Templar had returned from the royal townhouse he had, without a word to Gianni, gone directly to speak with Lady Nicolaa. They had been closeted together now for more than an hour. Soon, the lad knew, the pair would be going to meet with the king at the cathedral priory, so it was obvious that Bascot had no intention of sharing the results of his visit to the royal townhouse that morning with anyone other than the castellan. In every other previous investigation of secret murder his former master had always discussed any information he had learned with Gianni. Why was he not doing so now?

  For the first time since the Templar had rescued him from starvation, Gianni felt alone. After Bascot had rejoined the ranks of the Order, he had been comforted by the presence of those in Lincoln castle—John Blund, Lady Nicolaa’s elderly secretarius; Lambert, the other clerk in the scriptorium; and Ernulf, the crusty serjeant of the castle garrison. Now he sorely missed their presence, and wished that his mistress had left him behind when she journeyed to Canterbury.

  A manservant came into the hall and, after tending to the fire in the hearth, laid out jugs of small ale and a selection of cheeses for any that wished to partake of refreshment. But for once the lad’s prodigious appetite failed him. He could not summon up any interest in food, and did not have any tasks to attend to. Earlier Lady Nicolaa had dictated a letter to him addressed to her husband, but after he had made a fair copy of the missive, she had dismissed him, saying she would arrange for it to be taken to the castle herself so that it could be forwarded by messenger to Lincoln. Now, at a loose end, and without any further involvement in the murder investigation to occupy his time, he had little to do but ponder on his misery.

  At that moment, Miles came into the chamber and picked up some of the cheese, eating it while standing. The knight was cloaked and had a pair of gloves tucked in his belt, so Gianni presumed he was about to go to the castle and take Lady Nicolaa’s letter to Constable Criel for forwarding.

  “Greetings, Gianni,” Miles said, walking over to the lad. “What are you doing here sitting in idleness? Have you no duties to attend to?”

  Dolefully, Gianni gave a shake of his head. Miles regarded the boy for a moment, knowing that the cause of his discontent lay in the Templar’s dismissal of his services. The knight felt some degree of empathy for the young clerk. Miles, too, had been disappointed when his mistress had suddenly told him that he was no longer to be involved in the investigation. It had been an interesting experience, one that exercised the mind and stretched the imagination, and he would miss it. He had no doubt that Gianni, accustomed to being in the Templar’s confidence, was feeling the rejection much more strongly.

  “Why not come with me to the castle?” Miles asked, attempting to find a way to lift the lad’s spirits. “It will do you good to get out in the fresh air, even if the weather is foul. And I would welcome your company,” he added sincerely. He had become fond of the young Sicilian, with his ready grin and sharp intelligence, and could understand why Bascot valued him so highly.

  Gianni, glad of an excuse to leave the solitary confines of the hall, gave him a relieved nod of agreement and then ran to the entryway to don his cloak and furred hat.

  ***

  The streets of Canterbury were littered with mounds of snow. Although the weather had remained clear, it was still very cold and there was a shiny crust of ice on the cobbles, making their passage slow. When they reached the intersection of Watling and Castle streets and turned in the direction of the castle, they could see a band of soldiers riding just ahead of them, also headed for the bail. All of the men-at-arms wore coats of mail and had an assortment of weapons hanging from their belts. At the head of the group was Chacal, spurring his mount along the street with little regard for any of the passersby on the thoroughfare, forcing them to step aside quickly if they wished to avoid being trodden under his horse’s hooves. Then they saw that one of the routiers was dragging a prisoner behind him, tied at the wrists by a leading rope and slipping and sliding over the icy ground as he fought to remain upright.

  “That man Chacal has in tow,” Miles exclaimed, “that is Alfred, the manservant we suspected of lying. Come, lad, let us hurry and see why he has been arrested.”

  When they reached the fortress, they left their horses at the stable and went up the forecastle steps and into the hall. The prisoner was nowhere in sight, and the mercenary band was already inside and helping themselves to mugs of ale from barrels at the back of the hall. The routiers were a rough crew, their accents harsh and larded with lewd oaths, and many of them bore the scars of their trade on their bodies—an unnatural twist of a nose that had been broken, missing teeth and hands that were gnarled and calloused. They reminded Gianni of the crew of a pirate ship that had once docked on the wharf in Palermo, violent men who had terrorised the other sailors in the port and the merchants that traded there. Chacal, his expression aloof, stood apart from the rest, his mouth twisted in a grim smile.

  Criel was seated at the table on the dais in conversation with a knight who was a stranger to Gianni. When the constable saw Miles, he hailed him and asked him to join them for a cup of wine. As the knight went up to the dais, taking Lady Nicolaa’s letter from the breast of his tunic and handing it to Criel before sitting down, the constable introduced him to the knight, naming him as Godeschal de Socienne, the leader of the mercenary band employed by King John, and said that he had just arrived after escorting the king and queen back from Dover, installing Isabella at St. Sepulchre’s on the way and leaving some of his men to guard her. Gianni took up an unobtrusive position near the fireplace, and listened to the conversation as Miles asked Criel about the prisoner they had seen with Chacal.

  “Is he the murderer?” Miles asked.

  The constable shook his head. “It is not certain. Chacal told me that the Templar said only that he is to be held for further questioning, so I’ve had him put in a cell.”

  “Well, I hope he is found to be guilty of the murders,” Godeschal said. “These killings have put John in a blazing temper, and Isabella as well. While this miscreant is on the loose, it makes my duty a difficult one; the king is starting at shadows for fear harm will come to the queen.”

  Gianni glanced at de Socienne. He was a heavily built man, hard muscled and with a sword slash running across his chin that reminded the lad of Roget, the captain of Sir Gerard’s town guard in Lincoln, who had a similar scar on his visage, and whom Gianni was pleased to call a friend. Roget had once been a mercenary as well, fighting under the leadership of Mercadier, the captain of the band of paid soldiers that King Richard had taken with him on crusade. But despite the dangerous trade he had followed, Roget had h
is own code of honour, and a streak of pity in his heart for those who were weaker than himself. Godeschal de Socienne did not have the same air about him, and from the hard glint in his eyes he seemed rather to be a man who looked on the world with cynicism and little charity.

  “Yes, the king can be choleric when aroused,” Criel agreed. “If this manservant is found not to be guilty of the crimes, I have no doubt John will look amongst the other household servants for the villain, and I do not think he will treat them gently.”

  Miles lifted an eyebrow. “Torture, you mean?”

  “Aye, likely so,” Criel replied morosely. “If that happens, it will create a touchy situation. Nearly all of the servants at the royal townhouse are from the Canterbury area and have many friends and family in the town. There is sure to be a strong protest if they are put to the test. And I have no fancy for being caught in the middle of it, nor of inflicting pain on any who may be innocent.”

  “Such a task would not be troublesome to Chacal and his Brabançons,” de Socienne said with a sardonic chuckle. “They are angry at the accusation they allowed an intruder to get past them and would be eager for a chance to prove it was one of the servants. If John calls on me to provide men to carry out the examinations, I will assign it to them.”

  As the conversation continued, Gianni’s gaze drifted back to Chacal, who had removed his helm, revealing dark hair pulled sleekly back against his scalp and tied at the nape with a leather thong. His pale flat eyes looked merciless. Gianni shivered, and fervently hoped the king would not give an order for the servants to be tried by torture. There would not be any mercy in such a man.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  In the cathedral guesthouse on the west side of the precincts, the king and Hubert Walter were seated at the oak table in the sitting room, drinking wine and waiting for Bascot and Nicolaa to arrive.

  The archbishop picked up his cup of chased silver and took a sip before saying cautiously, “Do you not think this meeting with Lady Nicolaa might be precipitous, sire? Would it not be wiser to let her indignation cool a little before commanding her to your presence?”

  John shook his head. “You have made her acquaintance only recently, Hubert, while I have known her for many years. Once she is set on a course, she will not swerve from it, no matter how much time passes. For the sake of our long friendship, I will try to heal the breach between us this afternoon, but,” he added darkly, “if she continues to be persistent in her disapproval, then I will have no choice but to view her with distrust.”

  “She does not seem to be a woman who would break her word,” Walter opined.

  “Up until now, I would have agreed,” John replied, “but her recent intransigence has made me uncertain and I need to test her loyalty.”

  “And how will you do that?” the archbishop asked.

  “The Templar is a man of high principle; if she has told him the reason for my caution, I am certain he will not be able to dissemble, which is, my dear archbishop, the reason I requested that they both be present today. De Marins’ reaction to any questions I put to him will soon tell me if Nicolaa has betrayed my confidence, and whether or not I can still rely on her.”

  Hubert Walter made no comment. The convoluted machinations of John’s mind seemed to be endless and marked the difference between himself and the king. The diplomacy the archbishop often employed was a useful tool; John’s devious manipulation was not. And, to his sorrow, he believed that the king was unable to recognise the difference between them.

  ***

  As Bascot and Nicolaa were riding towards the cathedral, the Templar asked her if she knew the reason for the king’s summons.

  “No. He has not deemed it necessary to apprise me,” she replied with a flicker of irritation. “But whatever John’s purpose,” she continued in a less abrasive tone, “it will be an opportune moment to tell him of Alfred’s arrest and, more importantly, of the new information revealed by the bath attendant.”

  Bascot nodded. “And to ask that I be allowed to interview the queen and her companions.”

  “Indeed,” she replied. “It is imperative that you find out if they know of anyone in the royal entourage, other than themselves, that speak langue d’oc. If they do, that person must immediately be taken into custody for interrogation.”

  A tinge of hopefulness had crept into her voice as she finished speaking and it reminded the Templar that earlier, when he had related what Aquarius had told him and had suggested that if such a person existed it was possible they were in the pay of Hugh of Lusignan, she had seemed relieved and more than willing to accept his premise. It could well be that Lusignan was behind these attacks, she had agreed, for John had not only snatched away Isabella, the wealthy bride that had been promised to him, but had also, after taking Hugh captive at Mirabeau, weighed him down with chains and dragged him through the streets of the town. Such a public humiliation would most certainly have fuelled Lusignan’s thirst for vengeance. It would therefore not be surprising, she had surmised, if Hugh, who had recently been released from prison, had sent an assassin to murder the king.

  “It is a likely scenario,” Bascot had opined. “And would provide a motive for the slaying of the washerwoman. If Lusignan’s agent feared she had become a threat to him, killing her would be the surest way to prevent her from telling John of her suspicions. That would also apply to Inglis, in case she had made him privy to her conjectures.”

  Nicolaa had nodded. “You must certainly follow up this line of enquiry, de Marins, and the obvious place to start is by interviewing the queen and her two ladies. But you must have John’s sanction first. He is very protective of her and you will never gain access to her presence otherwise.”

  Now, as they approached the entrance to the cathedral grounds on Burgate Street, Bascot said to her, “I am certain John will make no demur about giving his permission. It is the most logical way to proceed.”

  “I concur,” Nicolaa replied crisply, and then added, in a tone that caused Bascot to glance at her in surprise, “But I have learned that when one is dealing with the king it is best not to make assumptions.”

  ***

  On their arrival they were taken by the hosteler, the monk in charge of the guesthouse, to the room where John was ensconced. After being ushered into the chamber, they found cups of mulled wine awaiting them, and a warm welcome from the king.

  As soon as they entered, John rose from his seat and came forward to where Nicolaa was standing, telling her he was most pleased to be sharing her company once again, and bidding her to take the seat beside him as he filled her wine goblet with his own hands. The castellan was polite, but distant, and confirmed Bascot’s opinion that her recent mood of distraction was linked to the king. A glance at Hubert Walter, who was looking distinctly uncomfortable as he nodded genially in their direction, gave evidence that he, as well as Nicolaa, was not pleased to be at this meeting.

  Once all of them were seated, and with wine cups in their hands, John said smoothly, “I have summoned both of you here to discuss the progress of the investigation. For her safety, I have been forced to leave Queen Isabella at the nunnery of St. Sepulchre and she chafes at the restriction, as do I. In your opinion, de Marins, do you think you are making any progress towards identifying the murderer?”

  John was at his most charming, and attired to suit his royal station. His short dark beard had been smoothed with scented oil and he wore an elegant combination of a fur-lined surcote of dark red overtop a deep blue tunic of the finest wool. His hands were adorned with a number of rings and a large ruby hung from a gold chain about his neck. He touched the gem as he spoke and the candlelight caught and reflected its deep fire. He looked every inch a handsome and benevolent king.

  “Today I ordered, in your name, sire, that one of the menservants at the townhouse be incarcerated to await further
questioning,” Bascot said. “He has admitted to thievery from his former master, and there is a possibility that if your laundress discovered his crime, he may have killed her to prevent her reporting it to you.”

  John leaned forward eagerly. “Yes, Molly was most protective of my interests and would have wasted no time in telling me if she suspected one of the other servants was a thief. The bastard! He will suffer for her death, of that you can be certain.”

  The Templar hastened to prevent John taking such a precipitate action. “There is no proof of his guilt as yet, sire. He had the opportunity, it is true, when he was alone with her after he and another servant brought up the water for your bath, and there is a possible motive, but what puzzles me is, if he killed her, why did he not leave the townhouse immediately after he had done so? He must have known he would be under suspicion as the last person in her company, yet he did not try to escape before her body was found. Also, I have my doubts that he is responsible for the death of your steward. The manner of it suggests a person with a knowledge of poisons and the patience to wait for it to work. He has neither.”

  “So, if he is innocent of both crimes, we are no farther forward,” John said shortly.

  “Not yet, I am afraid,” the Templar admitted, “but I was given some information today that, if confirmed, may bring us closer to a resolution, or at least narrow the field of suspects.”

  John, his senses alerted, said warily, “And what is the nature of this information, de Marins?”

  As Bascot gave the details of his interrogation of Aquarius and then said that, in his opinion, there was the possibility that the murders had been perpetrated to prevent the discovery of an agent sent by Hugh de Lusignan. The king was quick to agree.

  “Molly was with me on many occasions while I was in the south of France, and often heard langue d’oc spoken,” he said. “And she was very observant. If someone who claimed to come from another part of the country had answered her with oc instead of oïl, she would have been quick to take note of it. If nothing else, it would have made her curious, and was the sort of thing that she would have mentioned to me, knowing, as she did, that I have many enemies in that land. And if this person is an agent of Lusignan and became aware of her interest, she could have been killed to prevent her doing so. And if, as Aquarius claims, she told the steward of it, it could also have been the reason for his death.”