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

by Maureen Ash

  As Gianni left the Fossdyke and struck out across the marshy land to the west, he hastened his steps. It was a long way to Bettina’s village and he would need to get there and back again before the Templar found he was missing. As he ran he pictured in his imaginative young mind the accolades that would be heaped on his head if he was successful in his quest. Already he was gaining fast in literacy, due to the lessons the Templar had been giving him. After today, he would be praised not only for his learning, but also for his quick mind. One day soon, he assured himself, he would be trusted with tasks of importance, perhaps even, in time, become a secretarius to Lady Nicolaa herself. His inability to speak would be of little significance, he would be prized as a servant of the highest rank, and it would all be due to the conversation he had overheard that day.

  Eighteen

  THE HEAVY WAIN THAT BORE HUBERT’S COFFIN STOOD near the eastern gate of the bail with Godfroi de Tournay, Nicolaa de la Haye, Gerard Camville, and their son Richard all gathered to bid Marie and de Vetry farewell on their sad journey. Godfroi fussed with the dun-coloured palfrey his sister was to ride, checking the set of the saddle and asking Richard if he was sure the horse was placid enough to warrant no danger to Marie.

  “We are only going as far as the river, Godfroi,” Marie protested. “From there de Vetry has hired a boat to take us to Boston. It will be an easier journey than by road and I shall have no need of a mount. This one will do very well for the short distance to the quay.” She shook her head in impatience. “Tell him, Joscelin, that there is no need for concern.”

  The goldsmith moved forward, ignoring the look of dislike on Godfroi’s face. “I shall ensure that both your sister and the body of poor Hubert come to no harm. I will be with them all the way.”

  Godfroi did no more than nod his acceptance of the goldsmith’s words, then made a point of ignoring him, turning to make conversation with Richard. Across the ward, the squires and pages of William Camville’s retinue were again at practice with the quintain, ignoring with youthful exuberance the sharpness of the cold wind and spatters of freezing rain that tossed around their heads.

  To one side, Bascot and Ernulf stood watching the cortege prepare to depart, while Richard de Humez and his daughter, Alinor, overlooked the group from the shelter of the keep’s entryway. Young Baldwin had remained in his chamber, the weather being too inclement for him to venture outside, and his betrothed, Alys, had stayed with him to keep him company. Those servants who were going about their duties in the great expanse of the ward steered a wide path around the wagon, attempting to avoid the truculent gaze of Gerard Camville as they passed by.

  Nicolaa placed her hand soothingly on Marie’s arm. “Do not fret about your brother’s concern,” she said quietly. “It is just his distress about this matter that rises to the surface. He will calm when he hears that you have arrived safely in Boston. I have instructed one of my men-at-arms to accompany you and return with all speed to let us know you have done so.”

  “Thank you, lady,” Marie said, her dark eyes filling with sudden tears. With an effort, she stemmed them and said, with a quaver in her voice, “I must admit my own temper is frayed. Telling Hubert’s mother how he met his death will not be easy. And I fear that she will want the coffin opened. I do not know, in all conscience, how I can prevent that. If she insists, it may well be that the sight of his poor body will be too much for her. She is not a very strong person and he was, after all, her only son and dear to her.”

  “A child’s death is never easy for a mother,” Nicolaa responded. “But God will give you guidance, child, if you ask for it. Our prayers are with you.”

  Marie nodded in acquiescence and mounted her palfrey. As she did so, a pair of riders entered the bail, a woman mounted on a fine black mare caparisoned in red and blue, and a man astride a dark bay alongside her. Both were wrapped in heavy cloaks, the woman’s hood trimmed with soft fur. They rode up to the funeral party and the man hastened to help his companion alight from her mount.

  As the pair approached the small gathering, Ernulf let out a low chuckle and said to Bascot, “The Fleming woman has picked a poor day to seek an audience. Lady Nicolaa is not overfond of her at the best of times and I am sure she will give her short shrift on such a sad day.”

  Bascot looked at the pair, recognising the agister, Copley, but not the woman who was with him. He asked Ernulf who she was, and the serjeant explained, “That is Melisande Fleming, chief forester for Lincoln. She is also heir to her late husband’s gold manufactory, and is ever trying to curry favour with Lady Nicolaa, hoping she can persuade her to use her influence with the king to bring more offices and commissions Melisande’s way. She is a greedy woman, the Fleming widow.”

  “And Copley, the agister,” Bascot asked, “is he connected to her in some way other than holding his office from her?”

  “They are related,” Ernulf replied. “Cousins of some distance, I believe, but it is said Copley hopes a closer relationship will develop. If he were to wed Melisande, the contents of her coffers would pay for enough wine to drown himself in.” The serjeant shook his grizzled head. “But the fool has little cause to hope. There are many men in Lincoln who sniff at the widow’s skirts, but she keeps them all dangling, like fish on a line. I doubt she will marry again. She is too fond of her wealth to give it over to the control of a husband.”

  Bascot watched as Marie and de Vetry settled themselves on their horses and the men-at-arms of the escort took up positions in front and behind the cortege as it slowly exited the bail through the east gate. After they had left, Gerard Camville, with his son and Godfroi, walked over to the practice ground to watch the squires at their exertions, leaving Nicolaa to walk back to the keep with Melisande and Copley at her elbow.

  “Come, de Marins,” Ernulf said, “let’s go and find something hot to warm our bellies. And a pot of ale to wash it down.”

  Bascot readily agreed and, for the first time that morning, noticed that Gianni was not with him. He was so used to the boy dogging his every step that he had assumed the lad was waiting nearby, out of the coldness of the wind. But his servant was nowhere to be seen. Bascot shrugged it off. The lad was showing some independence lately and it was most likely he had found a task that would give him an excuse to stay indoors and keep warm. Hunching his shoulders against the swirling flakes of snow that were hesitantly beginning to fall, Bascot felt that he could not blame the boy for doing so.

  AT ABOUT THE SAME TIME AS BASCOT AND ERNULF were eating a tasty rabbit pottage and drinking their ale, Gianni was beginning to wish he had not embarked on his venture alone. He began to realise how foolish he had been. Even if his suspicions were confirmed and proved to be pertinent, how could he prevent the villagers from alerting the man about whom the questions had been asked? He was only a boy, and a servant, with no authority to enforce their silence. Nicolaa de la Haye would not praise him; she would castigate him for his stupidity. The Templar might even be so angry at his interference that he would cast him back out into the streets to beg for his bread. Besides, the distance to the village was greater than he remembered and the solitude of the forest was frightening. He felt his heart begin to hammer with trepidation as he became aware of how far he was from all that was familiar. No, he had been wrong to come on this fool’s errand alone. He was pazzo, he said to himself in his native Italian. Daft in the head and an idiota as well. He must return to Lincoln, and return at once.

  He was quite near the village now, but hastily turned back on the path to retrace his steps. He had gone only a short distance when he heard a rustling sound from somewhere behind him. To Gianni, the forest was as much a foreign country as England had been when he first came. All his young life had been spent in a city, and he knew the smells and sounds that could threaten from a dark alley or a shadowy doorway as well as he knew the fingers of his own hands. But here, among the towering shafts of tree trunks and the grating noise of winter-stripped branches swaying in the wind, it was as tho
ugh he were in an alien land. He began to panic. Was the noise he heard just some small harmless animal, or was it something larger, like one of those ferocious wild pigs that the lords hunted with dogs and spears? It could even be a wolf. Fear coursed through his veins as his imagination leaped. In his mind’s eye he could see fangs, dripping with saliva, reaching for his throat.

  He tried to hurry, heedless of the direction in which he was going, such was his sudden desperation to get back to the familiar walls of Lincoln castle. Completely gone were his dreams of the morning envisioning how he would be commended for his cleverness, how he would solve, all on his own, the mystery of who had murdered the squire. The turmoil of his thoughts was interrupted when he suddenly found himself on an unfamiliar path and was unsure of the way he should take. How he wished he were back in the soldiers’ barracks with the reassuring bulk of the Templar at his side. Taking a deep breath, he tried to calm himself.

  It was as he stood thus, small body tensed with concentration, that the noise came again, closer this time, and louder. Before he could turn to see what it was that threatened him, the world went black as a rough sack was thrust over his head and his flailing wrists were caught in a vice-like grip. His efforts to free himself were short-lived. Within the space of a breath, his hands were bound and he was thrown up onto his captor’s shoulder.

  IT WAS WARM IN THE CHAMBER WHERE ALYS SAT READING to Baldwin. A brazier burned in the corner and heavy rugs of wool and sheepskin had been placed on the floor to exclude drafts. Baldwin was wrapped in a blanket from the knees down, and seated in a cushioned chair with a high back. He listened in contentment as his betrothed read from a Psalter, her voice stumbling slightly when she came upon an unfamiliar word. Alys had come late to literacy, unlike Baldwin and his sister, Alinor, who had both been taught to read at a young age. There were still many nobles who could not read or write, but as realisation of the enjoyment and power that literacy could bring became more commonplace, it was becoming the fashion to have children of both sexes taught their letters by a household cleric or priest.

  “‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.’” Alys’s light, even tone faltered a little as she read the passage aloud, then seemed to fade altogether as she continued, “‘My help cometh from the Lord….’” Atthese last words, she bent her head and broke unashamedly into tears.

  Baldwin quickly removed the wrappings from his knees and came to her side. “Alys, what is it? Are you ill?”

  The young boy, sick so often himself, was ever solicitous of illness in another, and he put his thin arm around the girl’s shoulder and lifted her head with his hand. Her eyes swam with tears, but she shook her head. “No, I am not ill; at least, not in body.”

  “Then what is the matter?” Baldwin stroked her hand tenderly. Although she was older than he by four years, he seemed the more mature, the long hours spent in bed with his recurring sickness having given him ample time to reflect on the nature of life and its troubles.

  “I cannot tell you, Baldwin,” Alys said. “It is a terrible matter, but it was confided to me by another and I do not wish to break a trust.”

  “A trust is indeed a heavy honour,” Baldwin agreed, going across to a table and bringing her a small goblet of spiced cordial from a jug that stood there. “But if the burden is too great, it will be easier if it is shared. You know that I will not break any confidence you divulge to me.”

  Alys sipped at the soothing drink and regarded the slight figure in front of her. She had always been a little in awe of Baldwin, in a way she was not of either his parents or his sister. He was so learned, and so pure, and his faith in God was of a strength rarely found in priests, let alone her elders. Her fears for Alain and the worry about his guilt had consumed her ever since she had spoken to Hugo. She had a need to confide in someone who would be able to tell her what, if anything, she could do to protect her brother, someone to allay her fear for him. Baldwin was kind, he was to be her husband one day, and she knew him to be trustworthy. Taking a deep breath, she told him what Hugo had said and about Hubert, stumbling over the part about the day the squire had propositioned her, but telling it all just the same.

  Baldwin listened until she finished, his only reaction a frown as she told of Hubert placing his hand upon her breast, but he gave her a reassuring smile and nodded for her to continue. When she was done, he neither censured her nor did he reprimand her for keeping the matter secret. His trust in her honesty was complete.

  When she was done, he poured himself a cup of cordial and resumed his seat, pulling the blanket over his legs before sitting silent and deep in thought for some minutes. Alys waited, used to the way he would mull over facts before making a judgement, and feeling a sense of relief in the telling, as though the weight of a millstone had been taken from her back.

  “There is no proof in this story that your brother had anything to do with Hubert’s death,” he said finally and, when she started to interrupt him, held up his hand. “Although it may be that he lied to your cousin, the reason could be entirely different from the one Hugo ascribes to it. And there is only one way for you to find that out, Alys, and that is to ask Alain yourself.”

  Alys leaned forward, gripping him by the hand. “I cannot, Baldwin. Alain will be angry with Hugo, and Hugo will be angry with me for breaking his confidence. Besides, if Alain and Renault did have anything to do with Hubert’s death, they might not admit it, even to me.”

  “Then I will ask your brother on your behalf, and I will also ask that he swear on his honour to tell me the truth.”

  At the dismay in Alys’s face, Baldwin reassured her, and stroked the hand that held his so tightly. “You are to be my wife, Alys. It is my duty to sustain you. If Alain is innocent, he has nothing to fear. If he is not, then we will ask God for guidance in the matter. We must trust in the Lord, Alys. Have you not just read that He is our keeper? He will show us what is to be done.”

  Nineteen

  AS IT CAME UP TO THE HOUR FOR THE EVENING MEAL Bascot realised that Gianni had been missing for a long time. He went in search of the boy, looking in all the likely places he was to be found and enquiring if anyone had seen him. Finally he went to Ernulf and asked if he would question the guards that had been on duty at the castle gates that morning.

  “Perhaps he left the castle precincts on some errand or other and, if he did, they may have seen him leave,” Bascot said. “Although it is unlike Gianni to go anywhere without telling me, it is possible he may have done so. But if he did go out into the town or the cathedral he should have been back long ago. He would not miss the evening meal. I have been to the kitchens. The cook has not seen him, nor have any of the scullions. If the last food he had was when we broke our fast this morning, he will be sore hungry by now.”

  Ernulf took the matter as seriously as the Templar. “Aye, you’re right. The lad likes his victuals. He would not willingly miss a meal. I’ll ask my men if any of them have seen him.”

  When their enquiries were all answered in the negative, they searched the castle more thoroughly, going through the stables, the armoury and all the outbuildings, even poking about amongst the huge sacks in the food store in case Gianni had crept in there for warmth and fallen asleep. The hour for the evening repast came and went, and still there was no sign of him.

  “I am certain some mischief has befallen him,” Bascot said to Ernulf as they stood in the middle of the bailey under a sky now almost fully dark. “It must have done. There is no other explanation.”

  The serjeant nodded, his seamed face as worried as the Templar’s. “It’s too late tonight to search anymore. But if he does not turn up by morning, I’ll have my lads scout around outside the walls and over the Fossdyke. He is not within the bail, else we would have found him, so he must be somewhere outside.”

  Bascot acknowledged the truth of the serjeant’s words and added, “If he is, Ernulf, he is not there of his own volition. Of that I am certain.”

 
NOT ONLY GIANNI MISSED THE EVENING MEAL. AT THE hour when trestle tables were being erected in the hall and laid with clean linen cloths, Nicolaa was sitting in her private chamber listening to her nephew Baldwin tell what he had discovered that afternoon from Alys, and how he had questioned both Alain and Renault.

  “They both swore to me they had nothing to do with Hubert’s death, Aunt, although Alain did go out that night with the intent of waylaying him and giving him a sound thrashing for his treatment of Alys. Renault was privy to his purpose and, when Alain did not return, he followed to find out what had happened. But Alain could not find Hubert. He knew the squire had left the castle by the western gate just after sunset, riding one of Uncle William’s sumpter ponies and, since Hubert had been bragging earlier of a wench that he said was panting for his company, both Alain and Renault assumed that he had gone to keep a tryst with the girl. They expected him to return before curfew was called. Alain waited just outside the main gate until the gateward’s horn was blown to signal that the entrance would be shut, and then he and Renault kept watch for Hubert from inside the ward, thinking he would use the postern gate when he returned. They stayed there until the early hours of the morning and it was nearly dawn before they returned to their pallets in the hall. That is their explanation of why they were gone for most of the night. When the squire was discovered murdered, they decided it would be best to say nothing of their vigil, lest they be suspected of something in which they had no part.”