by Maureen Ash
But until the council at Oxford had taken place, the secret must remain secure. As far as he could judge, Nicolaa had kept faith with her promise, even if she had done so reluctantly, and John was fairly certain she had not revealed it to the Templar. It would suit him admirably if de Marins proved these murders had been committed at the instigation of Hugh of Lusignan. The discovery might even be a spur to gaining the support of his nobles. Not many would welcome the thought that one of King Philip’s minions had infiltrated England and attempted to slay their king. Yes, John thought, his composure rapidly returning, the wisest course was to wait—and be ready to take preventative measures if, and when, they were warranted.
***
After Gianni had collected the wine and returned to his chamber, he found Bascot rereading the records of the interviews. When the lad handed him a cup filled to the brim, the Templar took it gratefully and swallowed a deep draught.
“There is nothing in these statements that leads to the identity of the killer,” he said, his tone heavy. “At the time of the washerwoman’s death, all of the servants were overlooked by another, and as for the steward, there was ample opportunity for any of the people in the townhouse to place the poison in the buttery without being seen. And there is no evidence to support the supposition that both of these acts were committed by an intruder. Whoever this villain is, he has covered his tracks well.”
He looked at Gianni, his expression full of chagrin. “And because he remains undetected, and there seems to be no hope of verifying Aquarius’ statement, the king may, at any time, order the torture of the prisoners in the castle gaol. Three men, Gianni, all of whom will most likely admit to any crime if enough pain is inflicted on them, whether they are guilty or not.”
The Templar looked towards the window and the charcoal glowing in the brazier. The burning embers reminded him of when he had been held captive by the Saracens in Outremer and his eye had been put out by the red-hot tip of an iron bar. He could still recall his fear as the metal had been heated in a fire much larger and fiercer than the one burning in the brazier, how every muscle in his body had stiffened in apprehension as he had watched it being prepared, and the moment of excruciating agony when the burning metal had been thrust into his eye. Anger flooded through him at the thought the prisoners might be put to a similar test, and perhaps unjustly.
Gianni recognised the expression on his former master’s face. He knew the Templar’s ways, and how his conscience plagued him if he could not save an innocent person from wrongful persecution. It was the same sentiment that made him so successful in apprehending a murderer; he engaged with the villain just as though he were on the battlefield, plying his mind on behalf of the victim just as he would wield his sword against an enemy of Christ, thrusting and probing until he found a weakness that would lead him to victory.
Picking up the notes that lay on the table, Gianni found the record of what Bascot had told him of his recent interrogation of Aquarius and scanned it once again, hoping desperately that he would discover something that had been missed. His whole concentration on the task, he read the words slowly and carefully, his head bowed.
For some moments, the pair remained immobile, the Templar staring at the brazier and Gianni reading. Only the muffled yelp of a dog in the street below broke the silence until finally the lad looked up with a glimmer of hope in his eyes, and proffered the paper for Bascot’s inspection.
The Templar looked down at the parchment and saw it was the transcript the lad had made the night before, the one that included the outline of the few words Aquarius claimed to have overheard the washerwoman say to Inglis in the churchyard. Mystified, the Templar read aloud the portion to which Gianni was pointing. “‘She was asking Inglis why someone would use oc instead of oïl if they were not from the region where that dialect is spoken.’” Bascot shook his head. “I do not understand. Efforts have already been made to substantiate this piece of evidence and failed. Why do you refer to it again?”
Gianni embarked on a flurry of hand gestures, first pointing to the “someone” in the statement and then to himself and Bascot as though they were in conversation. Then he shook his head, and pointing away, he cupped his hand about his ear as though he were listening. It took the Templar only a moment to realise what the lad was trying to impart.
“Of course—Aquarius did not hear all that the washerwoman said to Inglis,” Bascot said, “only that she had been telling him of someone who used, rather than said, oc instead of oïl, and he could have been mistaken in believing that the word was spoken to her directly. It may not have been. She could just as easily have been referring to overhearing two people conversing with each other, and speaking in the dialect which she called simply ‘oc.’ And if that is so, then her suspicion of only one of them would imply that she expected the other person to be conversant in it.”
Revitalised, the Templar rose from his seat and took a few slow steps to the casement and back, speaking his thoughts aloud. “There are only three people in the royal household whose native tongue is langue d’oc—the queen, Yvette and Marie. I think we can dismiss Isabella from suspicion—her effrontery when she accused the king of losing confidence in her seemed genuine to me. As for Yvette—she is far too naïve for involvement in the complicated machinations these murders required. Her guileless face would betray her in an instant. That leaves only Marie, a much more likely prospect, and one about whom I already had reservations.”
Bascot continued to pace. All along they had been searching for one murderer, but Gianni’s interpretation of the washerwoman’s words made him consider, for the first time, that there were two assassins working in concert, and that Marie was one of them. If that was so, the other must be the one the washerwoman had overheard in conversation with Marie and had, by having fluency in a language that he or she should not have been familiar with, aroused her suspicions. It also implied that Molly and Inglis had been the intended victims all along, slain because of the knowledge Molly had accidentally discovered, and then related to the steward.
His thoughts raced, tumbling over one another, but this time with lucidity. He cast his mind back to what was known about Marie and why such a seemingly innocuous secret as hiding the country a person hailed from would be deemed dangerous if it was revealed. It could only be because the guise was concealing some nefarious purpose, and the usual reason for such a ruse was espionage. And because Marie had knowledge of it, it would imply that not only was her companion pretending to be someone they were not, but that she was also. Nicolaa de la Haye had said Marie had only been in Rouen for a few months before being taken into Isabella’s service. Were she and her cohort spies in the employ of the French? Had she come to the castle with the express purpose of gleaning all she could about John’s strategies for the defence of Normandy and relaying it back to her paymaster? Given the state of the king’s affairs across the Narrow Sea, it seemed a logical assumption to make, even if there was not yet any proof of its veracity.
Satisfied that this premise was a viable one, the Templar turned to consideration of who might be her accomplice. She had arrived in Canterbury just a couple of days before the washerwoman was murdered, so her confederate must have been known to her before she came to England, for there had not been enough time to forge such an alliance during her short time in the country. Was this person another agent who had accompanied her to Rouen when she first went there, or someone she had hired in Normandy after she learned of John’s plan to leave for England? It had to be someone claiming to be from a country far from the south of France—most likely England or Normandy—to keep secret his true origins, for this was the falsehood that the washerwoman had recognised.
Mentally he ran over the list of suspects they had considered so far—the wine merchant de Ponte, the manservant Alfred and Aquarius, the bath attendant. The first two could have travelled to the continent—the vintner on trips to buy wine, and the manservant accomp
anying his master, the draper, on visits to cloth fairs—and met Marie by chance, or design, when they did so. Was it possible that, on such an occasion, she had engaged one of them to help her in her undertaking? The Templar pondered both men for a moment, and then dismissed them. Both were truly English and if Molly had heard either of them speaking in langue d’oc, she would have merely assumed they had become conversant in the dialect during their travels. It was highly unlikely she would have accused either of misrepresenting their birthplace, much less related her fear to Inglis.
Aquarius was a different matter altogether—and there had been something about his story that had not rung true. He had been in Rouen castle when Marie went there, and although he claimed to be a Norman, he could, in truth, hail from the south of France. He had been in the right place (Rouen castle) and at the right time (when she had arrived there earlier in the year) for him to be either the person she had been told to contact and take orders from, or to have been enlisted by her to join in the enterprise. But if that was so, why had he given information that might reveal his involvement?
Mentally he reviewed the notes he had read as he paced back and forth across the room, every word of the transcripts now familiar from his constant examinations of them. Juggling and sorting each statement, he recalled each of the people in the townhouse and their whereabouts at the time of Molly’s death, searching for any other that might be culpable. Suddenly a name came to him and he slowed his steps. There was only one other person, a man that had so far never been regarded as a suspect but fit the criteria of a candidate for Marie’s accomplice just as snugly as Aquarius, and without any attendant objection. As he reflected on it further, a smile crossed his face. Although he had no proof, he was certain he had discovered the identity of the other murderer.
Turning to Gianni, he gripped the lad’s shoulder in commendation. “Well done. Your insight has led to the solving of this riddle. Come, let us go downstairs and tell Lady Nicolaa.”
Chapter Thirty-two
“So you believe there are two murderers, working in concert?” the castellan exclaimed after Bascot told her of the conclusion he had reached.
“Yes, lady, although I only have supposition as to the motive, I am certain there were two people involved in the killings, and that one of them is the queen’s attendant, Marie.”
Nicolaa had been sitting alone in the hall when the Templar and Gianni had entered, staring meditatively into the fire, a goblet of hot cider on a table at her elbow, the contents untouched. She had looked immensely weary, and Bascot had hesitated for a moment before disturbing her, recalling the king’s restriction and wondering if he should send Gianni back upstairs. But he decided not to; it had been the lad’s intelligence that had led him to the solution and he deserved to be present while it was explained to his mistress.
When he told Nicolaa that he believed Marie was involved in the crimes, her expression lightened, and was replaced by a resurgence of the determination that was an integral part of her personality. She leaned forward expectantly as he related how Gianni’s fresh perspective had led him to realise that their previous interpretation of Molly’s words had been too limited in scope.
“If we consider as valid the premise that the washerwoman heard two people speaking in langue d’oc, then not only does it confirm the tale the bath attendant told us, but also our impression that Marie was lying when she claimed that she knew of no one else in the royal household that spoke the dialect.”
Nicolaa nodded. “I remember that the young girl, Yvette, seemed puzzled by Marie’s answer. She, like the washerwoman, must have overheard her using it in conversation with someone else.”
The castellan leaned back, reflecting on the information. “And there is also the fact that Yvette saw Marie going into one of the rooms on the ground floor about the time when the poison was added to the flavouring mixture. Yes, de Marins,” Nicolaa agreed, “you have convinced me that Marie could be responsible for the death of Inglis. But as to her accomplice—do you suspect that she aided an intruder to enter the house?”
“No, lady. That possibility is ruled out by the fact that the person Marie was speaking to must have been known to the washerwoman, else she would not have taken note of the conversation. It has to be someone in the household.”
He paused, and then related to her the steps, with Gianni’s help, that had led him to the identity of Marie’s accomplice, and his name.
The castellan listened intently, and when he was finished she looked shocked. “May God forfend us, de Marins, you are right. But unfortunately, there is no firm evidence, only supposition. The king will want proof.”
“I know, lady, and I fear I have little chance of getting any unless one of the two grooms that are in the castle gaol can help us. They have not yet been questioned as to whether or not they overheard anyone, besides the queen and her two companions, speaking langue d’oc. Because their native tongue is French, they are far more likely than any of the English-speaking servants in the royal household to recognise the dialect and, if it was used it in their hearing, might have noticed it. But even if they cannot help, I feel the suspect should be questioned, and if his answers are not satisfactory it may convince the king to look further into his culpability.”
The castellan stood up, her expression grim. “Yes, it will, but if you need to take him into custody to do so, you will need a weightier authority than mine to sanction his arrest.”
She pondered on the matter for a moment and then said, “I would prefer not to inform the king of our suspicions until every effort has been made to find evidence to substantiate them, so I will send Miles to William Marshal at the cathedral guesthouse with a request that he come to the castle bail directly. The earl has the power to authorise whatever action you deem necessary and will, I am certain, understand the reason we have asked for his help.”
“And Marie?” the Templar asked. “She also needs to be detained, and as soon as possible. Remember that the younger companion, Yvette, might have proof of her culpability with regard to the lie she told to us at the nunnery, when she claimed not to have spoken to anyone else in langue d’oc. If Marie discovers we have arrested her accomplice, the girl could be in danger.”
Gianni’s face went white at the thought that the pretty young maid might be harmed, and his fear was not allayed when Nicolaa shook her head.
“That might not prove such an easy matter. The queen is too protective of both her attendants to take heed of a warrant issued by Marshal, and she has the power to overrule it. We must wait until after the suspect has been questioned in the hope that he will reveal some detail of Marie’s involvement, something Isabella cannot refute. I will instruct Miles to accompany the earl when he goes to the bail and await the outcome of your actions. If you find any evidence against Marie, he can then return to the cathedral guesthouse and tell John, so that the king can issue a writ for her arrest. He is the only one that Isabella will not dare to disobey.”
After giving a brief nod of his acceptance of the arrangements, Bascot departed. As Gianni hurried away to find Miles de Laxton, Nicolaa sank back in her chair, firmly suppressing the quaver of apprehension that assailed her. Even though she believed Bascot’s identification of the murderers to be the correct one, he had, as yet, not been able to discern their motive with any certainty. It was most likely that, as he surmised, they were agents for King Philip, and her fear that the reason for the crimes might be connected to Arthur was groundless. But until it was proven otherwise, she would not rest easy, and was fearful of the consequences to herself and her family if John’s dark secret should be revealed. As these murders so aptly portrayed, one secret often led to another, and could become a snare of intrigue that was both dangerous and repellant.
Chapter Thirty-three
The colour of the sky was a louring grey as Bascot rode along Watling Street towards the castle, and as he turned down Castle Street, a drizzling mist o
f rain mixed with snow began to fall. When he rode into the castle ward he found it filled with an air of disgruntlement. Near the gate seven or eight men-at-arms from the castle garrison were standing in a sullen group, watching grooms bring horses out from the stable. On the other side of the bail, Chacal, stony-faced and arms akimbo, was overseeing the men of his band as they ran continuous circuits of the training ground in full armour. Criel, in company with his serjeant—a veteran soldier in his mid-forties with hands as large as horses’ hooves—stood at the foot of the steps leading up into the keep, their faces dark with irritation.
Bascot walked over to the constable. “Punishment duty?†he asked, gesturing towards the soldiers at the gate and the sweating mercenaries.
Criel nodded in disgust. “There are too many troops in the ward at the moment, what with Chacal’s mercenaries bunking in alongside my men. Last night, in the barracks, a couple of them got into an argument over a dice game and started brawling, and the rest joined in. If it hadn’t been for my serjeant’s intervention, blood would have been spilled.â€
Nodding towards the soldiers at the gate, who were now shuffling into a queue behind the horses, he said, “Those are the worst offenders amongst my own men. They will march behind the horses while they go for their daily exercise, and I’ve told the grooms to keep up a good pace. By the time those troublemakers have waded through a few miles of snow and horse shit, they’ll be too tired to argue with anyone. And Chacal will keep his band at drill until they, too, are ready to drop. If any of the bastards so much as looks crosswise at each other after this, the skin will be taken off their backs, and they know it.â€