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

by Maureen Ash

  Bascot acknowledged the sincerity in d’Arderon’s words and bade him a reluctant farewell before he turned his mount towards the gate and followed the man-at-arms back to Lincoln castle.

  EARLIER THAT MORNING FULCHER HAD EMERGED FROM the verge of that part of Sherwood Forest that abutted the banks of the Trent and crept in the predawn light down to the water’s edge, pulled out a small skiff from its hiding place in the overhang of undergrowth and poled himself across the river. He had been in Gerard Camville’s chase just as the pale winter sun was striking its first shards of light across the tops of the trees, and inside the sheriff’s buckstall a short time later. There were several deer trapped in the huge pen, ones that had been lured there by the mounds of tasty ivy and holly piled inside into leaping over the low fence, only to find their exit blocked by a deep ditch at the internal base of the barrier. Fulcher, straddled above them in the boughs of a tree that overlooked the pen, surveyed the frightened animals below him and chose a small female roe deer that looked to be in her first year. Fitting an arrow to his bow, he took her in the neck with one shot and leaped down into the enclosure to claim his prize. The rest of the deer, smelling blood, shied away to the far side of the buckstall, clustering together and milling about looking for a means of escape. Fulcher quickly removed the arrow from the dead doe, then slung the carcass up on his back before traversing the ditch and climbing the fence, throwing his burden down on the other side before jumping over himself. He stood still for a moment, testing the quietness of the forest before he once again heaved the dead deer up on his back and began to retrace his steps to the river’s edge.

  He was breathing hard by the time he saw the glimmer of water ahead of him. Since leaving Talli and Berdo at the camp the night before he had travelled three miles to where the skiff was hidden, then another two to get into Camville’s chase. The lack of food combined with the loss of a night’s sleep had sapped his strength, but he knew he had to make it back across the river before he stopped. Once on the other side, he could hide the carcass, and then get Talli and Berdo to help retrieve it. He slowed a little and shifted his burden, took a deep breath and prepared to trot the last few hundred yards.

  The small boat could just be seen bobbing quietly among the reeds when the first arrow struck the ground ahead of him. A second later he heard the baying of dogs. He was able to take two more steps before another arrow flew over his shoulder and thudded into the tussocky grass at his feet.

  “Halt, or you’ll be deader than that deer!” a voice yelled. The barking of the dogs sounded closer now and Fulcher turned to see two mastiffs flying towards him, heavy jaws agape and slavering as they ran, teeth gleaming wickedly against their dark fur. Behind them, at the edge of the fringe of trees he had just left, were two foresters, their green tunics blending with the darkness of the foliage at their backs. Both had bows, nocked and drawn. Between them was another forest official, mounted on a large roan gelding.

  “Yield!” the mounted officer called. “Or I let the dogs have you.”

  The mastiffs were nearly upon him, the larger of the two in the lead, his powerful haunches propelling him forward with the speed of an arrow shot. Fulcher had no choice. “I yield,” he called loudly, dropping the deer and throwing up his arms.

  It seemed an eternity before a shrill whistle halted the dogs. Fulcher could smell their fetid breath as they pulled up abruptly at his feet, fur bristling and teeth bared. Slowly the foresters moved towards him, grinning, enjoying his obvious fear of the dogs.

  As the men came closer Fulcher saw that all three wore an emblem decorated with a royal crest on the front of their tunics.

  “A good day’s hunting, I would say,” said the mounted officer. He leaned down in the saddle to look at Fulcher. “I am Copley, agister for King John. Although this is not my bailiwick, I think the sheriff will be pleased to learn that I have caught a poacher in his chase.”

  The agister leaned back and gave a mirthless chuckle, his florid countenance gleaming with a sheen of sweat despite the chill of the morning. “I would say he will be even more appreciative if it is proved I have also caught a murderer.”

  “A deer I may have killed, but I have murdered no man,” Fulcher proclaimed, trying to ignore the dogs, which were tensed and seemed ready to spring at the sound of his voice.

  “So you say, brigand, so you say,” Copley said, still grinning. “But it would not be unexpected for a man in your position to lie, would it?”

  The agister did not wait for Fulcher to respond, but ordered the bowmen to bind the outlaw and bring him and the deer to Lincoln castle.

  Fifteen

  JUST AFTER MIDDAY THE WEATHER WARMED SLIGHTLY and rain began to fall, gently at first, then with more intensity until it became a driving sleet that covered the streets with an icy slick that made walking difficult. Despite the weather, all of Lincoln was aware of what had happened that morning and people gathered in twos and threes under eaves or in one another’s homes to discuss how the charcoal burner and his sons had been found murdered and that an outlaw had been taken for poaching the sheriff’s deer.

  In her house on Mikelgate the goldsmith’s widow, Melisande Fleming, sat discussing these matters with Hubert’s uncle, Joscelin de Vetry. They were well known to each other, both being in the goldsmith trade, and were also connected from earlier times, from not long after de Vetry had married his wife and Melisande had been looking for a comfort that her elderly husband could not provide. They had been lovers for a time, but not in love, and when their lust had grown cold they had ended the liaison, but had remained friends. This suited them both, for each had a mercenary bent that made them easy confidants.

  Now, in the small solar above the hall of Melisande’s house, they were seated comfortably in chairs that possessed both arms and padded cushions, sipping an amber-coloured wine from Spain that the goldsmith’s widow had ordered opened for their enjoyment. The chamber was richly appointed, the light from beeswax candles reflected in gleaming points of light on the silver of their goblets, and draughts were kept at bay by a profusion of fine tapestries on the walls. Under their feet a coverlet of sheepskin graced the floor before a fireplace of smoothly dressed stone, and the wood burning in the grate filled the chamber with a warm glow.

  “So, you will be taking your nephew’s body home tomorrow, Joscelin?” Melisande asked.

  De Vetry sighed heavily. “Aye. It will not be a pleasurable task to bring the corpse to his mother. She is of an agitated nature at the best of times. What she will be like when she hears of how her son met his death, I shudder to contemplate.”

  “But you said you requested that the coffin be sealed. Is there any need for her to know the more distressing details?”

  “No, but they are sure to be bruited abroad by gossiping tongues. I would rather she heard them gently, from a member of her family.”

  Melisande nodded in agreement. “That is a caring thought, my friend. It is a shame the boy was killed at all.”

  “Yes, but he was a careless youth, heedful only of his own pleasures, and greedy for them. I told him more than once that he might one day end up in trouble if he did not curb his impulses, but he would not listen. And now he is dead, murdered, most likely by someone he angered beyond toleration.” De Vetry sighed again. “For all his cunning intelligence, he was a stupid boy.”

  Melisande reached over and placed her hand comfortingly on her companion’s knee. “And his stupidity was most likely the cause of his death, Joscelin. You must not blame yourself.”

  As the goldsmith murmured his acceptance of her condolences, they were unaware that their conversation was being overheard. Outside the chamber door, which was slightly ajar, stood Melisande’s daughter, Joanna, a young woman just past her eighteenth summer. She was not pretty, being rather too plump for beauty, but her eyes, when not red rimmed from crying, were of a luminous quality that gave her the look of a startled doe. Now, listening to the conversation going on in Melisande’s chamber, sh
e stuffed the corner of her sleeve into her mouth to stop herself crying out. Hubert was dead and her whole world was crashing into pieces around her.

  IN A CHAMBER NOT FAR FROM MELISANDE’S HOUSE, IN the top storey of Lincoln castle’s new keep, another young woman was in distress. Alys had gone to the room she was now sharing with three other girls to sit and think. Neither Alinor nor the others were there, and she was glad of their absence, for what Hugo had told her had alarmed and frightened her.

  She had, from its onset, noticed the morose mood that had occupied her young cousin for the last few days. At first she had thought it was due to a reprimand for some prank or other, or perhaps for being negligent in his duties, but when he had continued to be dejected, an attitude so different from his normally cheerful bonhomie, she had become concerned, especially as he seemed to become more depressed when in Alain’s company, for he had always respected and admired her brother. That morning, after attending Mass, she had watched for him among the crowd and pressed him to walk with her in the castle herb garden, saying she had need of his company as an escort. He had followed her in an abstracted manner, not seeming to feel the cold bite of the wind that had been a harbinger of the sleeting rain which soon followed. Alys had wrapped her cloak tightly around her and pressed him to tell her what it was that was distressing him so.

  “There is something wrong with you, Hugo,” she had said. “Do not deny it, for it is obvious. Please tell me, so that I may help you.”

  Her soft caring tone had made the boy stiffen at first, then he had flung himself down on a stone bench that was placed in the lee of the wall. Pulling at a late-blooming sprig of mint, Alys had thought he was going to be stubborn and not answer her, and she sat down beside him in an attempt to cajole him further. But there had been no need. Seeming relieved, he had spoken first.

  “I don’t see how you can help, Alys, but I must tell someone before I burst with it. I dare not even tell a priest, for fear that somehow Alain will suffer.”

  “Alain?” Alys felt her mood swing from concern to alarm. “What has Alain to do with what is troubling you?”

  Hugo looked up, confused. “But I thought that was why you asked what was the matter, that you, too, suspected…” The squire shook his head in dismay and sunk his head into his hands. “Oh, I should not have said anything, anything at all.”

  Alys touched him gently on the shoulder. “But now you have, Hugo, and you must tell me what it is. If it concerns Alain, I have a right to know. I am his sister and, like you, I love him. I would do nothing to hurt him, even if to do so meant hurt for myself.”

  Although her words were brave, her dismay had intensified as she had listened to the tale that Hugo had to tell. It had been about the night that Hubert had met his death, and how her cousin suspected that Alain, and perhaps also Renault, was responsible. “We were all sleeping on the floor of the hall,” he had said, his voice tremulous, “wrapped in our cloaks, along with a lot of other guests. I couldn’t fall asleep—the man beside me was snoring so loud I thought he would choke—and I saw Alain get up and leave the hall, quietly, so as not to disturb anyone. Some time later, maybe two hours or perhaps three, Renault followed him.”

  “But that does not mean…” Alys started to protest.

  “They did not come back for a long time, Alys,” Hugo interrupted her. “It was early in the morning when they returned. I know it was because just a few moments later the cathedral bells rang the hour of Prime. They had been gone nearly all the night.”

  “Did you ask Alain where he and Renault had been?” Alys said.

  “Yes,” Hugo replied miserably. “But he lied. He said he had only got up once, to relieve himself at the privy, and had returned almost immediately. When I tried to say I had seen him, and Renault, he just laughed and said I must have been dreaming.” The boy gave her an agonised look. “I wasn’t dreaming, Alys. They were gone all that time. And it was during those hours that Hubert must have been killed.”

  “But why would Alain or Renault want to harm Hubert?” Alys said, fearful of the answer, fearful that her brother had discovered how Hubert had shamed and threatened her. “I know they didn’t like him,” she went on bravely, trying to convince herself as much as her cousin, “but Hubert was not liked by many people. That is not a reason to do him harm.”

  Hugo took his cousin’s hand and held it. “Alain knew what Hubert had done to you, Alys. Hubert taunted him with it, daring Alain to challenge him, saying that if he did he would tell all the world you are unchaste. There was nothing Alain could do, except…except…”

  “Murder him?” Alys said tearfully. “Oh, Hugo, Alain would never do such a thing. It is dishonourable, treacherous. I don’t believe it. And even if I did, it would have been unnecessary. Hubert tried to force me to bed with him, but I did not. There was no truth in his cruel taunts.”

  “But Alain would not have known that Hubert was lying,” Hugo replied. “Not unless he asked you. And he would never have done that. It would have implied he thought you welcomed Hubert’s attentions.”

  “I still don’t believe that Alain would commit secret murder, Hugo. I cannot.”

  “I don’t want to either, Alys,” her cousin replied, his despondence deepening. “But before the Templar came to question us, Alain told all the other squires and the pages that we were not to volunteer any information, that we were to protect each other. What else could he have meant except that we were to lie for him?”

  This revelation shocked Alys, convincing her more than the fact that Hugo had witnessed Alain and Renault’s absence from the hall that her brother had something to hide. Alain had always been an honest person, valuing truth and loyalty above all else. Only a terrible secret would make him veer from such a path. Were her fears that her brother had killed Hubert now to be proved true?

  There had been no words she could find to console Hugo. They had sat together in silent commiseration until disturbed by one of the kitchen maids come to pick some of the mint that Hugo was mindlessly shredding between his fingers. As she sat in the chamber, Alys thought that always, ever after, she would associate the smell of mint with death.

  Sixteen

  GERARD AND NICOLAA’S SON, RICHARD, ARRIVED HOME that night just as the company seated in the hall had finished listening to a troubadour that Nicolaa had hired to play for the king during his visit. The minstrel was a woman, not so uncommon an occurrence as it had once been before Queen Eleanor had ascended the throne and given her patronage to anyone, male or female, who had the ability to compose and sing well. The troubadour’s name was Helena, and she was from Portugal. Not only was she an accomplished jongleur, she was young and beautiful. Seated on a stool before her audience, she had just plucked the last notes of a soulful melody from her lute when the door of the hall was flung open and Richard and two other people came hurriedly in, all appearing tired and dishevelled.

  “Richard!” Nicolaa de la Haye, with an unaccustomed loss of composure, stood up from her chair and gazed in surprise at her son. Gerard Camville pushed his chair back, rising swiftly and with an alacrity that belied his girth.

  “All is well, Mother,” Richard Camville called out as he came into the hall and made his way through the throng of people to the table on the dais where his parents sat, the young man and woman who were with him following close behind. The heir to the castellanship had his father’s broad shoulders and heavy thighs, but he was taller and more loose-limbed. The red hair that marked him as a Haye shone like a flaming beacon when he pushed back the hood of his cloak. “I have been sent by the king to tell you of his progress and on what day he will arrive,” Richard said when he reached them. “King John bids me convey to you his warmest affections and tell you he will be in Lincoln in three days’ time. I have left the squires and pages of our household in his care and they will return with the royal party.”

  He then introduced his companions. “This is Godfroi de Tournay and his sister, Marie. But before I explain why they are
with me, we need food and drink. We are all chilled to the bone and our hunger would put a starving man to shame.”

  Nicolaa signalled to a servant and mulled wine was brought, as well as a huge platter of cold meat, bread and cheese. Room was made at the high table for the three newcomers and they gratefully slaked their thirst before helping themselves to the food.

  As he ate, breaking off chunks of white crumbly cheese and devouring it with mouthfuls of cold venison, Richard explained that King John had wanted to send his parents a personal message and had entrusted it to him. “I also have a letter from the king in which he asks you to inform him if it seems that he will arrive before William of Scotland.” Richard looked up and smiled, his strong white teeth flashing as he did so. “He is most anxious not to seem too eager, and would rather that Scotland waits on England’s pleasure than the other way around.”

  Nicolaa nodded. “He has nothing to fear. King William is but one day’s journey from Torksey. A messenger from the Scottish entourage arrived this morning.”

  She looked around at the others seated on the dais, all of whom were straining their ears to hear what Richard had to say; some openly, others more surreptitiously. Beside her husband, his brother leaned in a nonchalant pose, and beyond him Richard de Humez listened quietly, attempting to seem preoccupied with his cup of wine. On her other side, her niece Alinor openly showed her interest while Alys, beside her, looked only at her brother and Renault, who stood in attendance behind the Camville brothers.

  Nicolaa decided it would be wise to defer any more discussions of the king until there were not so many listening ears. She swerved from the subject by asking, “And your companions, Richard? Have they, too, brought messages from the king?”

  Richard became more solemn. “No, mother, they have not. Godfroi was with me in the king’s camp and, it is true, came with me to bring King John’s letter, but that was only until we came to Boston.”