by Maureen Ash
Bascot was quick to note the eagerness with which John received the premise that Lusignan was at the root of the crimes and that a look of relief, similar to Nicolaa’s when he had expounded the same theory to her, crossed the face of the archbishop. What was it, he wondered, that the three of them were hiding?
“In view of this development, sire, it is fortunate that the queen and her attendants are nearby,” Bascot said, “for they may be able to help us identify the person about whom your washerwoman was speaking. And even if they cannot,” he added, “it might be profitable to ask them if they saw or heard anything untoward on the night your laundress was killed. Since they returned to Dover immediately after her body was discovered, there has been no opportunity to interview them. It may be that one of the queen’s companions, or even the queen herself, has, albeit unwittingly, observed or heard something that might prove helpful.”
John took a moment to consider the request, his glance darting from the Templar to Nicolaa and back again as he did so. Bascot had the feeling he was appraising both of them in some way, and a glance at the castellan’s rigid countenance confirmed his assumption.
Seemingly satisfied with their demeanour, John answered in an affable tone. “A wise suggestion, de Marins,” he agreed. “And one that should be acted upon at once. We shall go to St. Sepulchre’s early tomorrow morning; I will meet you at Ridingate an hour after Terce and accompany you to the nunnery.”
As Bascot gave his agreement to the arrangement, the king turned to Nicolaa. “I think my wife would welcome a visit from you, lady. Can you be persuaded to come with us?”
That John had issued an invitation for Nicolaa’s presence rather than commanded it was an indication that the king was making every effort to be conciliatory, Bascot thought, but as she politely murmured her assent, he observed that her seemingly dutiful compliance was deceptive. The Templar, sitting on the side of Nicolaa that was not facing the king, saw the fingers of her left hand, which was lying in her lap, clench inward until the knuckles were white. It had cost her dear to be so submissive. John, however, was gratified by her response and spoke again to Bascot.
“How much credence do you put in Aquarius’ tale?” he asked
“None, sire, until—or unless—I can find a witness that will confirm what he claims,” the Templar replied. “He could be telling the truth, or merely employing a ruse to detract us from his own involvement.”
John mused for a moment. “If the murderer is an agent in the employ of Lusignan then it is reasonable to suppose he is not English. And since most of the servants I brought with me from Normandy were on the other vessel that was forced to land at Portsmouth, there is only Aquarius and, I believe, a couple of grooms that were in Canterbury at the time the murders were committed. I shall have Criel incarcerate the three of them until it is determined whether or not they can be deemed suspect.”
John’s words had an ominous ring, but despite his unease, Bascot did not have any way of forestalling the king from imprisoning men that might be innocent, and so he made no comment. A few moments later, John dismissed them and the Templar and Nicolaa left the guesthouse.
The castellan was silent throughout nearly all the journey back to Watling Street and it was not until they had almost arrived at their destination that she suddenly turned to Bascot and said, “I have decided that Miles and Gilles, along with the men-at-arms in my retinue, will accompany us on our journey to the nunnery tomorrow.”
Her declaration took the Templar by surprise. It was only a short distance to St. Sepulchre’s, and he had no doubt that John would bring an armed escort with him.
“Are you expecting some trouble en route, lady, that you feel a need to bring your own guard?” he asked.
“Recent events have taught me a valuable lesson about the vagaries of fidelity, de Marins,” Nicolaa replied tersely, “and I intend to take heed of it. Until I am safe back in Lincoln, I shall keep my own retainers about me at all times.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
The next morning was gloomy and overcast, heralding another fall of snow. In the castle holding cell, the feeble rays of light creeping through the small metal grille in the door were welcoming to Guillaume Aquarius, dim though they were. He and the two grooms, Andri and Denis, had been arrested the evening before, when two of the castle men-at-arms had come to the royal townhouse and escorted them to the bail. Once there, they had been locked in a cell and left to spend the night on rough straw pallets without light, food or drink to fortify them.
His two companions were sitting on the floor on the other side of the cell and, when they thought he was not observing them, kept glancing at him surreptitiously. He had been unable to sleep and neither, he thought, had they, for he had heard them whispering to one another throughout the long night. Neither of them had spoken to Aquarius since they had been arrested. He could feel distrust emanating from them, and their suspicion that it was he who was responsible for their incarceration.
And, he reflected, their distrust was to some extent justified. When the guards had come for them the night before, Aquarius had asked the reason for their arrest. The only reply had been a gruff, “It’s the king’s orders,†with no other explanation offered. After his interview with the Templar, and being told that a witness had seen him involved in an argument with Inglis, he had expected that he might be taken into custody at any time, but the seizure of the two grooms had come as a surprise until he remembered that they, along with him, were the only Norman servants in the royal townhouse. Regretfully, he cursed himself for telling the Templar that he had overheard Molly expressing her concern to Inglis that one of the servants in the household had said oc instead of oïl. That had been a mistake, and all he had accomplished was to direct suspicion towards himself and the two grooms, the only non-English servants in the royal townhouse, and so the only ones who might possibly be expected to use the term. But his words could not be undone, no matter how much he wanted it so, and he would have to accept that he was the one who was responsible for the result. He had always prided himself that although he was not possessed of great physical strength, he had been blessed with intelligence. But now, he realised, he was not as clever as he believed.
As the light of day ventured farther into the room, it illuminated the reaches of their prison. The cell was stark—bare stone walls, a dirt floor and a sour-smelling slop bucket in one corner. Ringed metal bolts from which depended lengths of chain fitted with manacles projected at intervals along the wall and he felt a thrill of despair. He was not a brave man and knew he would never be able to withstand torture. The two grooms were both robust men, with muscles swelling at their shoulders and hands calloused by the rough work of caring for the king’s horses. But their brawny strength would not make them impervious to pain and so it was entirely conceivable that, if they were put to the test, either or both of them would, out of desperation, point the finger of accusation at him. He had envisioned such a glorious future from this trip to England—advancement, monetary reward and esteem. Had he ruined it all through his own stupidity? He looked up at the ceiling, which loomed about eight feet above him. It was covered in grime, and spiders had spun their webs in each of the corners. In the center, affixed to a thick wooden beam, was another large ring bolt. Aquarius shuddered. It was just the right height to affix a man by the wrists and let him dangle helplessly while he was subjected to all manner of hideous and painful torture.
At that moment, the door opened and one of the castle men-at-arms came in carrying a jug of thin ale and a sack of stale bread. These he placed on the floor and then, without a word, went out of the cell, slamming the door shut behind him.
The two grooms fell on the food—none of them had eaten or drunk since the afternoon before—but, belatedly remembering Aquarius’ higher station, they sat back on their haunches and, with a surly expression, waited for him to take his porti
on of ale and bread. Leaning forward and taking just a sip of the ale to moisten his mouth and a small crust from one of the loaves, he gestured for them to eat what remained. His stomach was churning too violently to be receptive to food and, as his two companions wolfed down the fare, he shut his eyes and leaned back against the wall, whispering a fervent prayer of earnest supplication for God’s mercy.
***
At precisely one hour after Terce, Bascot and Nicolaa, and her escort, were waiting for the king at Ridingate, the exit that led out from Canterbury onto the Dover Road. St. Sepulchre’s was but a short distance—barely half of a mile—from the city gate.
The king arrived flanked by guards from the archbishop’s retinue, experienced soldiers that undertook the task of escorting Hubert Walter on his peregrinations to London and other places in the kingdom. John looked askance at Nicolaa’s escort, but made no comment beyond giving her a searching look, merely spurring his horse to the head of the column and leading the party the short distance to the nunnery, the archbishop’s guard riding foursquare around him. Nicolaa and Bascot followed, with Gianni riding between Miles and Gilles at the rear, the men-at-arms behind them.
Gianni was overjoyed to be included in the group; last night Nicolaa had called him to her and said that he was to accompany them the next day as her secretarius, and even though she had not given any explanation for his sudden re-inclusion in the murder investigation, he had hardly been able to contain his excitement. Once more he was at the Templar’s side, even if only metaphorically, and that pleased him immensely.
When they arrived at St. Sepulchre’s, the mercenary soldiers of Godeschal de Socienne’s troop that had been left to guard the queen were ranged around the priory walls, all well wrapped in warm cloaks and vigilantly pacing a circuit of the walls. At John’s approach, one of them rang the bell over the gateway to summon the elderly nun who acted as porteress, and after she had peered through the small grille in the door and recognised the king, she opened the gate and John rode through, followed by Nicolaa, Bascot and Gianni. The king had raised his eyebrow quizzically at the castellan when she had told the lad to accompany them, but she had quietly explained that she had thought it would be worthwhile to have a record of the interview. She had instructed the lad to make his commission of the task unobtrusive lest is disturb the queen. John, shrugging his shoulders, had made no further objection. For this Nicolaa was thankful. She wanted this murder solved, and quickly, so that she could be free of the restraint John had imposed upon her, and she hoped that a written transcript of the forthcoming interview would be helpful in speeding matters towards that end. The men of the archbishop’s guard, along with Nicolaa’s escort, stayed outside the walls with the mercenary soldiers.
Once inside the enclave, the porteress politely asked the king to wait while she summoned the nun in charge of the guesthouse. A little impatiently, John agreed, and she hurried off in the direction of a long single-storied building set in the northeast corner of the enclave, which the king said was the guesthouse where the queen was staying. As the horses began to stamp restlessly while they waited, steam rising from their flanks in the cold air, Gianni took the opportunity to look about him. He had been inside the Templar preceptory in Lincoln, but had never, of course, visited a nunnery, and was curious about the places where pious women lived.
St. Sepulchre’s was not an extensive establishment and the guesthouse was the largest building there. To the northwest was a small church with a two-storied extension attached to it which, presumably, contained the refectory and dorter where the nuns ate and slept. There was a small building with a chimney which Gianni surmised was the kitchen. The stables were located at the western wall; outside the large double door was a pile of manure and a young novice scattering sand on the icy ground. There was also a barn that would be used for storing grain and root vegetables, and just behind it on the other side of the wall the top branches of fruit trees could be seen, the limbs bare and snow-laden, indicating the presence of an orchard. There was also, no doubt, a herb garden and vegetable plot somewhere out of sight. Apart from the novice in front of the stable, no other sisters were to be seen, but it was likely that in this snowy weather, they all stayed inside as much as their duties allowed. It seemed to be an orderly and well-maintained enclave and, Gianni thought, must be a pleasant abode for the nuns who lived there.
The porteress was gone some time, and just as it seemed that the king’s patience would snap, the door into the guesthouse opened and she emerged, followed by a much taller nun with an erect posture and serene unlined face. The latter wore no cloak, but did not seem distressed by the cold as she walked slowly up to the king, her hands hidden in the folds of her sleeves, and bid him welcome.
“Queen Isabella will be pleased to see you, sire,†she said in measured tones that bore a slight trace of a Scottish accent. “She has confided in me that she finds the solitude here tedious and that your visit is exceedingly welcome. If you will follow me, I will take you to her and have wine brought for your refreshment.â€
Chapter Twenty-nine
When they were shown into the sitting room of the queen’s apartment in the guesthouse, Isabella was effusive in greeting her husband, expecting that he had come to take her back to Canterbury. When told that he had not, it was plain to see that she was disappointed, and that it took effort to keep a courteous smile on her face as she welcomed Nicolaa and was introduced to Bascot.
“What then, my lord, is the purpose of your visit?” she asked as she and John seated themselves on the high-backed settle near the fire and Nicolaa and the Templar took chairs facing them. The Scottish nun came in quietly as they did so, accompanied by another sister, and placed a flagon of wine and cups on a small table in front of the royal pair before gliding silently from the room. Isabella’s two attendants were standing quietly to one side, and at the queen’s bidding, the youngest of them, whom Isabella called Yvette, came forward and poured cups of wine for the king and her guests.
Gianni, standing unobtrusively behind the castellan’s chair, stared at the girl, filled with admiration for her loveliness. About his own age, she reminded him of the women of his homeland, with a rosy-tinted olive complexion and laughing brown eyes. Her lips curved sweetly as she gave Nicolaa a smile while filling her cup. It took all of his concentration to turn his gaze away from her so that he could follow the instructions that his mistress had given him—that he was not to take notes while in the presence of the king and queen, but to listen attentively to all of the conversation at the meeting and commit it as best he could to memory and record it later. Resolutely he avoided looking again at Yvette as the king told his wife that besides wishing the pleasure of her company, he had brought the Templar with him to put some questions to her and her ladies about the night the washerwoman had been killed, in the hope that they had seen or heard something that might help identify her murderer.
“It may be some small incident you did not consider of enough importance to mention to me, Isabella,” John added. “A detail that is incriminating but did not, at the time, seem so.”
As Isabella gave some thought to the matter, Nicolaa could sense the Templar’s frustration with the roundabout way in which John was explaining the purpose of their visit to the queen. Before they had come into the guesthouse, and while they were outside in the yard waiting for admission to the queen’s quarters, the king had told Bascot to take an oblique approach in asking whether either of Isabella’s companions knew of anyone in the royal retinue, beside themselves, that spoke langue d’oc. “They are both from Angoulême,” he had said, “and fiercely loyal to my wife and her country. For this reason they might feel they are betraying her if they point the finger of suspicion at a fellow countryman, especially if they are convinced he is innocent of any wrongdoing. Pose the question, but lead up to it in a fashion that makes it seem innocu
ous.”
Bascot was unhappy with the deceit, but since he had never met the attendants and John was, presumably, well acquainted with them, he agreed to comply, hoping the restraint did not prove obstructive.
“I do not believe I saw anything untoward,” Isabella said in response to her husband’s query, but directing her answer to Bascot. “The king and I went to our bedchamber immediately after the evening meal and were sharing a cup of wine in our bedchamber when the washerwoman was murdered. . . .” She gave a tiny shiver. “It was a terrible sight—her throat had been slashed and the water in the tub was red with blood. . . .” She paused for a moment and took a deep breath before continuing. “My husband, concerned for my safety, ordered one of the guards to take me to the bedchamber Yvette and Marie were sharing and keep watch in there over all three of us while the house was searched. We stayed in the room all night until morning came, and then went back to Dover. So none of us, you see, could have seen or heard anything that may help you.”
Bascot glanced at the queen’s attendants. “But it could be possible, could it not, that one of your attendants might have noticed something untoward before the murder took place? They were in another part of the house from yourself and may have seen a servant somewhere he or she should not have been or, perhaps, heard a noise that was unusual, without realizing it was connected to the killing.”