Death of a Squire (Templar Knight Mysteries, No. 2)

by Maureen Ash

  “It couldn’t have been de Humez,” William said abruptly. “He was behind me when we came into the clearing, went past me on the chase for the stag.”

  “Was he with you when you left Gerard?” Nicolaa asked.

  William thought for a moment. “I’m not sure. He must have been.”

  “Did you see him just before you reached the place where the old lodge stands?” Nicolaa persisted. “Or before that, as you rode after the stag?”

  “God forfend, Nicolaa, you know how it is in a hunt,” William expostulated. “You are keeping your eye on the dogs and the quarry, not looking to see what a rider behind you may or may not be doing.” He banged his wine cup down on the table. “I do not like de Humez, but it will be a sorry day for your family, and mine, if he is found to be implicated in this crime.”

  “He may not be, William. It may have been one of your squires instead. Would you rather the shadow of guilt was cast on your own household?”

  The sheriff’s brother gave a groan at Nicolaa’s words and he rubbed his hand across his brow in exasperation. “By your reasoning, I myself could have loosed the arrow. Or any of the others engaged in the hunt. I did not hear de Humez or either of my squires mention they had seen de Marins on his way into the woods earlier that morning, but they could have done so, to any one of us, or just in general conversation.”

  “What you say is true, William,” Nicolaa replied. “And we have a scant few days before King John arrives to learn the truth of this matter. We must try, in that short time, to discover what is at the back of this boy’s death and if it is something that might threaten the king, even if that threat comes from someone within our own households.”

  She turned to Bascot. “De Marins, where before I told you to be discreet and take your time, we must now have you investigate in the open and with haste.” She looked up at her husband. “Do you agree, Gerard?”

  The sheriff nodded, the thin line of his mouth compressed with distaste. Nicolaa stood up. “The boy’s uncle should arrive either today or tomorrow. Question him, de Marins—find out if he has any knowledge of his nephew being privy to a plot against the king. And question Alain and Renault again—see if they told anyone that you were in the forest ahead of them.” She glanced once again at her husband. “I will speak to de Humez.”

  Bascot got up from the stool on which he had been sitting and went to the door. As he reached to open it, Gerard Camville spoke behind him. “Let us pray for God to be kind. It may still be that it was outlaws who killed the boy. If that is found to be the answer I will be pleased.”

  As he shut the heavy door behind him Bascot was not sure if the sheriff’s last words had contained an expression of hope, or a threat.

  Eleven

  THE NEXT DAY THE WEATHER REMAINED CLEAR AND cold. After the morning meal was served and eaten, a small party left the castle bail by the east gate and crossed the old Roman road of Ermine Street and entered the grounds in which the cathedral stood. Alinor had decided that a visit there would please her little brother, Baldwin, and she had asked Alys to accompany them with Alain and Hugo as escort. At the last moment, Alain had been called to attend William Camville and Renault had offered his company in his stead. As they were leaving, the page Osbert, who had taken a liking to Baldwin, asked if he could go with them. The girls had agreed and, with Baldwin seated on a small pony so that the short journey should not tire him, they had set off.

  Baldwin was excited at the outing. It was not often he was well enough for more than a simple stroll in the orchard behind the fortified manor house, which Richard de Humez favoured as his primary residence, and he had begged his father to be allowed to come to Lincoln, excited at the prospect not only of seeing the king, but of visiting the cathedral. The nature of his illness, which seemed mostly to be a shortness of breath that made him weak, had caused him to be of a studious bent. He was also very devout, an instinct perhaps born of the dim realisation that it could be possible his illness would not allow him to live long enough to make old bones. With his sparse dark hair and narrow pinched face he already had the look of one older than his years. When they had arrived in Lincoln, he had gone up to the top of one of the castle towers and looked longingly at the bulk of the cathedral, its spire rising straight up into the sky beyond the castle wall, as though reaching for heaven. Perhaps it had been this excitement that had brought on a bout of his illness, for even while he had become entranced at being so near his objective, his breathing had become shallow and his throat had begun to constrict, shutting off life-giving air. He had been immediately put to bed and given a soothing drink containing poppy seed juice to calm him. A leech had been called and, after letting blood from Baldwin’s arm to restore the balance of the humours in his sickly frame, had ordered that he be kept in bed until he recovered.

  That had been the day after they had arrived, almost a week ago, and now he was, if not fully recovered, at least able to stand and walk a little way without discomfort. It had been Alys’s idea for him to ride the pony and he was grateful to her for the suggestion. She had been his betrothed for many years now, since almost before he could remember, and she was dear to him, for she treated him in much the way his mother did, and with a sisterly affection that Alinor, for all that he knew she loved him, was not gentle natured enough to display.

  As they crossed the broad swathe of road that was Ermine Street, a few flakes of snow fluttered through the air. The party were all well wrapped in cloaks, especially Baldwin, but still they felt the cold chill on the air, and when the cathedral bells rang out the office of Tierce, the sound seemed to shatter before it reached them, as though the bells themselves were frozen.

  Renault was leading Baldwin’s pony, with Osbert striding along beside. Alys and Alinor followed, matching their steps with each other as parishioners on their way to attend Mass thronged through the gate with them. Hugo brought up the rear, his attention seemingly focused within, a frown between his heavy straight brows. The crowd around the group was thicker than usual. Word had just reached the city that Hugh, Bishop of Lincoln, who had taken ill in London some two months before, had fallen into a decline and was feared to be near death. Hugh of Avalon was a much-loved cleric, not only for his warmth and piety, but also for the many good works he had sponsored since he had taken over the bishopric fourteen years before. He had caused lazar houses to be built, taken care of the poor, and cajoled prominent citizens into helping rebuild and improve the fabric of the cathedral, badly damaged in an earthquake in 1185. His demise, if it came, would bring sorrow to all his flock, not only to the high born, but to the low as well.

  Now the people of Lincoln were assiduous in attending Masses all over the city, sending up their prayers for the bishop’s recovery, fervently hoping that God would hear their pleas and save the saintly Hugh. As the little group went into the cathedral to stand with the rest of the congregation, all of the party were conscious of the seriousness of the occasion, and stood quietly as Mass was celebrated and God beseeched to turn His merciful eyes upon the good bishop. Afterwards, they drifted out into the cathedral grounds and, with Baldwin mounted on his pony, went to purchase cups of hot spiced wine from one of the stalls on the far side of the grounds. Alongside the wine stall was a vendor selling roasted chestnuts, his wares smoking tantalisingly on a grid above a brazier of charcoal. Renault bought enough for them all to have some. Washed down with the wine, they brought a warm glow to the innards.

  Once the refreshments had been almost devoured, Osbert suggested that he take Baldwin and show him some stone carvings of the Nativity that Bishop Hugh had commissioned to be inserted on the facade of the north wall of the cathedral. Baldwin was eager to see them and they set off, Osbert leading the pony. Alinor, who had been watching Renault covertly, had seen the glances that he had been giving Alys when he thought no one was looking, and asked the squire if he would accompany her in following Baldwin at a discreet distance.

  “Just in case he should feel ill,” she
said. “I know my brother does not like to be cosseted, but it would be best if he were not left alone for long. If he should weaken, or be struck with an attack of breathlessness, Osbert is not big enough to bear him up alone. It can be quite frightening.”

  Renault, giving her an assessing glance but nodding his acquiescence, fell into step behind her, leaving Alys with Hugo to share the last of the chestnuts.

  Alinor walked slowly, allowing the Poitevan squire to catch up with her. Around them people passed, women with babes in their arms hurrying home after attending the service, merchants intent on getting back to their trade and a few clerics on errands for the church. Alinor let the crowd flow around her, keeping well behind her brother and Osbert, who had stopped beside a portion of the cathedral wall and were examining the frieze. Finally, when Renault’s casual footsteps drew him beside her, she looked at him sidelong and spoke.

  “You are smitten with Alys, are you not, Renault?”

  “She is betrothed to your brother, lady,” the squire said shortly.

  “That is not an answer to my question.” Alinor turned to face him. “I have seen you look at her. Even though she is not aware of your fondness for her, it is plain for others to see—if one takes the trouble to look.”

  “And why are you interested, lady? I am no threat to your brother’s affections. Alys is chaste, and would not betray her vow to be true to him.”

  “I know that, Renault. It is not my brother I am concerned about.”

  Richard de Humez’s daughter was not one to dissemble. She, like her aunt, had a forthright nature but, unlike Nicolaa, had not yet learned the wisdom of keeping a still tongue.

  Alinor placed her hand firmly on Renault’s arm, forcing him to a standstill. “I have heard that you and Alain were nearby when an arrow was shot at the Templar. Did neither of you see who aimed it?”

  Renault shook his head, not meeting her gaze and, for a moment, the nonchalant pose he always adopted stiffened. “There was much confusion; it would have been impossible to tell who loosed the shaft.”

  “But you were questioned about it, were you not?” Alinor persisted.

  “Yes, both Alain and I were.” He relaxed a little and said mockingly, “Is it your intention to interrogate me as well?”

  Alinor dropped her hand and shook her head. “No, it is not, Renault.” She took a few steps, then stopped and turned towards him. “Did you know that my father was also subjected to an enquiry?”

  Renault stared at her, both of them unmindful of people passing, or of the fact that Baldwin and Osbert had moved farther along the cathedral wall. The Poitevin’s languid manner was completely gone. “I did not. Surely he is not suspected of such a cowardly act?”

  Alinor shrugged. Her face was smooth, her cheeks rosy from the cold. Tendrils of hair had escaped from under the confines of the fur-lined hood she wore and fluttered as she moved. Her expression was one of determination. “I overheard my aunt speaking to him. She did not so much question him as probe gently about his feelings towards the king and whether he knew of any way that Hubert was involved with those who are rumoured to plot for King John’s overthrow. I think she and my uncle, as well as Sir William, feel that the attempt to kill de Marins must be linked to Hubert’s death, and the murderer fears the Templar may discover his identity.”

  Renault shook his head slowly from side to side as he pondered what Alinor had told him. “I can assure you I am not involved in any such treachery, nor did I kill Hubert for such a reason.”

  Alinor, light brown eyes still intent on his dark ones, said, “But you may have killed him for another.”

  Renault’s face narrowed at her accusation but she went on regardless. “I know you detested Hubert. There had to be more than simple dislike. You and Alain both knew that he had insulted Alys, did you not?”

  Renault immediately resumed his languid pose and looked away. He made no reply.

  “I know you did, Renault,” Alinor insisted, almost stamping her foot with anger at his lack of response. “Alys herself told me how Hubert had accosted and threatened her and so I went and questioned young Osbert, asked him if Hubert had quarrelled with anyone just before he was found dead. Osbert told me that Alain had warned Hubert that if he didn’t leave his sister in peace he would be sorry for it. And Alain would have told you that he had done so, I am sure.”

  “Osbert should keep his mouth shut,” Renault drawled.

  Alinor drew herself up, anger sparking from her. “As you do, you mean? The Templar was not told of this, was he? Nor my aunt?”

  Now the squire let his own temper flare. “And why should they be? Neither Alain nor I had anything to do with that bog-spawn’s murder. Hubert was warned. By both of us. To have challenged him outright would have made the matter known, and damaged Alys’s reputation beyond repair. He knew well enough not to repeat attempting to inflict his loathsome attentions on Alys. If he had…”

  “…either you or Alain would have been incensed enough to kill him,” finished Alinor. As Renault’s mouth set in a grim line, she went relentlessly on, “And he was killed, wasn’t he? Secretly. Perhaps to protect Alys?”

  “And your father, lady?” Renault spat at her. “If he is involved in some plot against the king and Hubert was privy to it, would that not be a much greater reason to kill him, in order to stop up that loathsome cretin’s babbling mouth?” He looked at her askance, his lip curling slightly in disdain. “But then I suppose that Alain and I, both sons of knights of low station, are more expendable than a baron who comes of such high lineage as the constable of Normandy.”

  Alinor, furious now, rounded on him, her voice rising so that passersby looked at the pair curiously and made a wide berth around them. “How dare you accuse me of such baseness? Alys is my friend, betrothed to my brother. I only want to find the truth so that the innocent may not suffer from misguided slander.”

  But Renault’s words had struck home. Alinor knew that her father was a fussy, fretful man who suffered from being compared with the paladin who had been his relative, but she loved him. For all his faults, he was not an unkind parent, solicitous of his ailing son and indulgent to his wife and daughter. But at the back of her mind she feared he may have been tempted into some intrigue, if only lured by the possibility of gaining lands and honours from being an adherent of any who might successfully overthrow the king. If that were so, even if he were not personally responsible for the death of the squire, he might be privy to the identity of the murderer.

  Renault, seeing the conflict of emotions that flitted across her face and caused her to barb her words, took pity on her. “Alinor, do not get tangled in the strands of this riddle. Whoever murdered Hubert will not hesitate to kill again if knowledge of his identity is threatened. Let it alone, lest you put yourself in danger. Leave it to the Templar. He has the ability to defend himself. You do not.”

  Alinor, despite herself, heard the wisdom in his words of caution, much as she was loath to admit it. She nodded her head and when Renault offered her his arm, she took it. Belatedly they resumed their walk in Baldwin and Osbert’s wake.

  Twelve

  AT ABOUT THE SAME TIME THAT ALINOR AND HER COMPANIONS were en route to the cathedral, Bascot was also leaving the castle bail. Mounted on the grey gelding, he left by the western gate, riding in the direction of the sheriff’s chase. He rode fully armed with sword and mace, and wearing a conical helm and dark surcoat over a hauberk of mail to ensure he would not be vulnerable to another attack by a stray arrow. It was his intention to talk to the charcoal burner and, from there, revisit the village where Bettina lived. He felt sure that the core of the mystery that had led to Hubert’s murder was to be found in the forest, but he was at a loss as to how to discover it.

  Crossing the Fossdyke, he barely felt the coldness of the morning or noticed the random snowflake that dropped and melted on the warmth of his horse’s flank, except to reflect fleetingly that Hubert’s lust must have been high to have sought a tryst with Be
ttina in such dank weather, even though it had been reasonably mild on the night he was killed. Still, he thought, ardour does not cease when winter throws its blanket over the earth, and the young are robust. A warm cloak and a bed of leaves would be just as snug as a cold secluded cranny within the castle walls. As he entered the chase, he bent his mind to his task, trying to envision the forest as it would have been on the evening when Hubert had met his death. The woodland was alive with movement at all times of the year, not only with wolves, deer and boar, small animals and birds, but with men as they chopped and hewed, hunted and gleaned, reaped a harvest of meat and berries for the pot or gathered wood for building and burning. Most of these activities were lawful, carried out either by agents of the lord who held the land or by peasants given permission from their master. But there were many in the forest that were not there by right, men and women judged by society as outside its law, forced to steal in order to keep hunger at bay.

  Although it was late in the year, there would still be a few peasants grazing a goat or a pig in the forest, or collecting bracken and wind-felled wood. This was a territory they knew, all the tracks and pathways as familiar as the lumps of straw in their beds. Their own livelihood and health depended on such knowledge and they would be well aware of any intruder, be it four-footed beast or two-legged man. Unless Hubert had possessed the skill to move through the denuded branches of the trees with the stealth of a spectre, someone must have seen or heard him. It was Bascot’s task to find out who.

  As he neared the site of the old hunting lodge, the snow began to come down a little harder, still in tiny delicate flakes, but swirling now, drifting in circles as it was driven by a slight wind that had arisen. At the ruins of the old hunting lodge, the ground had hardened with the drop in temperature. The churned-up tracks made by the passage of the hunt were hard with rime, the mud glistening with frozen moisture. Bascot passed them by, heading in the direction of the thin trails of smoke from the charcoal burner’s fires that were visible above the tops of the trees.