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

by Maureen Ash

  Baldwin’s tone was earnest as he continued, “I am certain they are telling the truth, Aunt, for they swore that it was so on my holy relic of St. Elfric’s finger bone.” Baldwin’s pale face was shining with perspiration. The anxiety Alys’s revelation had caused, and his subsequent interview with the two squires had distressed him, and he could feel his chest tightening in the way it did before one of the attacks of breathlessness overtook him. With difficulty, he held it in check, determined to finish the task he had set himself before he gave in to the ailment.

  Nicolaa had listened carefully to what Baldwin had told her, and how he had come at his own suggestion and at the request of both Alain and Renault to ask her advice on what they should now do. She also saw the familiar signs of her nephew’s affliction start to show itself, and called for one of her servants to come and help him to his chamber.

  “Be assured I will deal with this, Baldwin, and also be certain that if they are telling the truth, they will not be reprimanded, except perhaps for the misdemeanour of not being forthright with their elders. But now you must rest. Leave the matter with me and do not speak of it to anyone else, and caution Alys that she must do the same.”

  Baldwin accepted his aunt’s directions gratefully and went to his chamber, leaning heavily on the arm of the servant, his breath labouring as he went. Once he had left the room, Nicolaa sat back down at the table she used for dealing with correspondence. She would need to tell Gerard and William what Baldwin had related to her, but first she needed to think. Were the two squires telling the truth? Baldwin was very sure, but he was an honest soul, to whom swearing a falsehood on a relic would be anathema. But she knew that such an act of blasphemy was not uncommon; it had been perpetrated many times, even by kings. And the boy wanted to protect his betrothed, Alys, from the pain she would feel if her brother were found to be guilty of such a heinous act as murder. Finally, she took up a sheet of parchment and drew forward the quill and inkpot that were always on the table. Tomorrow would be time enough to tell Gerard and his brother of Baldwin’s tale. For tonight she would keep it to herself, safely recorded and hidden out of sight.

  GIANNI HAD NOT RETURNED BY MORNING. BASCOT AND Ernulf had sat up nearly all the night, in case the boy should appear from some cranny in the castle grounds that had been missed in their search. When dawn came both the Templar and the serjeant were haggard and worried.

  Ernulf sent some of his men to search the area outside the gates and down into the town. Those men-at-arms who were off duty volunteered their help to swell the ranks of searchers. Gianni was popular with the men, not only because he accepted his inability to speak with equanimity, but also because he was an orphan, a condition that plucks at the hearts of all men who follow the profession of soldier. Again the buildings in the bailey were thoroughly checked, servants questioned once more, menials that came from outside the castle for daily work within its walls were asked if they had seen Gianni on their journey, and even the pens containing fowl and sheep were inspected.

  It wasn’t until just after mid-morning that one of the guards on the wall came running to where Bascot and Ernulf were making another search of the old keep. “We’ve found someone who saw a lad that might have been Gianni, serjeant,” the soldier said. “A carter, bringing a load of wood for the cook’s oven. We’ve told him to wait until you can speak to him.”

  “Where did he see this boy?” Bascot asked, following as the man-at-arms set off back in the direction from which he had come. Ernulf was right behind him.

  “That’s what’s strange, Sir Bascot,” the soldier replied. “The man said the lad was on the other side of the Fossdyke, going into the forest. What would Gianni have been doing out there?” The man-at-arms gave the Templar a sidelong glance. “It’s possible the carter is mistaken. It may have been some other boy he saw. He doesn’t know Gianni by sight, only said he’d seen a youngster that looked about his size.”

  The carter was waiting with his load of wood just inside the entrance to the west gate. He was sitting patiently, leaning against the pile of logs at his back, chewing on a piece of straw. When he saw Bascot, he straightened a little, but did not get down from his seat.

  “The boy you saw, what did he look like?” Bascot asked shortly.

  “Didn’t get a right good look at him, sir. Wouldn’t have noticed him at all except it seemed strange for a little lad like that to be outside the city walls all on his own at this time of year.” The man chewed ruminatively on the straw, not noticing Bascot’s impatience. “He wasn’t very tall,” he finally said, “and was as skinny as a sapling. About ten or eleven years old, I’d say. Had a peculiar hat on his head, like a soldier would wear on a march in cold weather. Couldn’t see what he looked like ’cause the hat hid his face and hair. But he was skipping along right merrily and kept looking over his shoulder.”

  “What time of the morning was this?” Bascot asked, sure from the description of Ernulf’s hat that the boy the carter had seen had been Gianni.

  The carter looked up at the sky. “A little earlier than it is right now. I was just coming with my load; allus do on the same two days of the week. The wood’s part of my fee as tenant to Lady Nicolaa….”

  “Did you see him go into the forest?” Bascot interrupted, impatient with the man’s slowness.

  The carter shook his head. “Had no reason to watch him, did I? He was headed that way and I gave him a passing glance, that’s all. I had to get on with my load, the traffic on the Fossdyke gets heavier the later it gets, and I got work to do when I get back to my byre. Besides, it was Martinmas; there was to be a feast later on, I didn’t want to miss that. And right enjoyable it was, too; my old pig came up with a good load of fat. I can still taste the tripe my old woman made from his innards, well toothsome it was….”

  Bascot turned to Ernulf, ignoring the man’s pleasurable reminiscences. “I’ll need a couple of your men, Ernulf, to search the woods. Why he was out there, only the Good Lord knows, but if he spent the night in the forest, he will be in dire straits from the cold. I pray to God he’s still alive.”

  Ernulf nodded and called to a couple of his men to follow as he and Bascot started off for the stables at a run.

  It was as mounts were being saddled that a priest from St. Mary Crackpole, a church at the lower end of Lincoln town near the Stonebow gate, came puffing up to the door of the stables. He was young, with a round face and a head of hair that was pale and sparse. In his hand he clutched a small and dirty piece of parchment, and he struggled to catch his breath as he leaned his portly frame on the edge of the wide stable door.

  “Sir Bascot? I am Father Michael, priest of St. Mary Crackpole. I have come to see you on a matter of importance.”

  Bascot barely paid the man any attention, thinking the cleric had come on some errand to do with the housing of guests during the king’s visit. Many of the visitors were to be given beds in properties owned by the church. “I have no time now, Father,” Bascot replied. “Go to the hall. Lady Nicolaa’s steward or her secretarius will be pleased to attend you.”

  The priest shook his head. “No, you do not understand, I have a message, given to one of my parishioners this morning. It is for you. And I believe it is urgent.”

  The priest paused and inhaled deeply as his breathing slowed. “It mentions the brigand Sheriff Camville is holding prisoner, and a boy. Perhaps the lad that one of the men-at-arms on the gate told me you are looking for.”

  Bascot’s head snapped up and Ernulf spun around from where he was adjusting the girth on one of the horses. “What is the message?” Bascot said tersely.

  “It is a written one. Here, on this piece of parchment.” The priest held out the soiled scrap of vellum to the Templar.

  Bascot unrolled it. Only a few words were printed in the middle of the torn and jagged square, the writing ill formed and the ink thin and splodgy.

  If you wants the boy alive bring Fulcher to the crossing by the oak at None. Come alone.

&
nbsp; At the bottom was a rough sketch of a wolf’s head.

  “Who gave this to you?” Bascot asked the priest.

  “As I said, one of my parishioners—”

  “A man known to you?” Bascot’s tone was sharp and short.

  The priest nodded. “It was handed to him this morning as he entered the church for Mass. The man who entrusted it to him said it was to be given to one of the priests, and given quickly, as there was a life at stake. He made particular mention that the priest who received it was to be told that it was for the Templar monk who serves the sheriff of Lincoln. My parishioner naturally thought that someone was ill, maybe dying, perhaps one of your brethren. He brought it to me directly.”

  The monk looked uncomfortable as he saw the anger building in Bascot’s face. “It was unsealed, Sir Bascot. I did not know its import when first I read it, but the message itself speaks of evil threats. I came as fast as I could.”

  “What does it say?” Ernulf asked. Since the serjeant was not literate, Bascot read it out and showed him the drawing that had been added. His friend’s face hardened with an anger that matched his own.

  “The man who gave this to your parishioner, what did he look like?” Ernulf barked at the priest.

  “I do not know,” the priest admitted. “I was told he was a rough fellow who was standing by the door of the church. After I read the message, I went to look for him, but he was gone.”

  “Where is this crossing, Ernulf?” Bascot asked the serjeant.

  “Can only be the one where the Trent borders the sheriff’s chase. There is a slight curve in the river there, to the west. An easterly spur of Sherwood Forest comes down hard on the other side.”

  Bascot strode to the door, looking up at the sky as he tried to put his thoughts in order. Rain had begun to fall, and the grey lowering clouds that had earlier hung in the sky like dirty pregnant sheep had coalesced into a solid mass the colour of old pewter. It was now late morning, None just a little more that two hours hence. An hour’s ride, even in such inclement weather, should bring them to the spot that the message had designated.

  Bascot moved back inside the stables. Ernulf, the man-at-arms, the priest and a pair of grooms were all watching him. “Ask Sheriff Camville if I may see him directly, Ernulf, if you would, and also Lady Nicolaa. I will be in the hall directly.”

  As the serjeant turned to go, Bascot moved as quickly as his leg, now aching from a night without rest and the activities of the morning, would allow, to where the chest that held his belongings stood. Inside, along with his own spare tunic and the only other pair of hose that Gianni owned, was his Templar surcoat. He laid it carefully on the pallet beside the chest before calling to one of the grooms to bring him his helm and shirt of mail from the armoury.

  Twenty

  GIANNI LOOKED CAUTIOUSLY AROUND HIM. THE CAMP to which he had been brought was quiet, the trees that encircled the clearing looming overhead in the early morning gloom like a great ill-fitting ceiling. Wisps of fog drifted eerily through the branches, the shapes flat as though a giant hand had pressed them. Sleeping bodies lay everywhere, some entwined together for warmth, others rolled into a foetal ball as though wishing never to leave their womb of sleep. In the middle of the clearing the remains of the fire that had been lit the night before barely smouldered, only tiny wisps of smoke reluctantly puffing as the embers underneath finally died.

  The boy tried to see if there were any guards posted, but the darkness was too deep at the edge of the trees. Cautiously he stretched out his legs and, when his movement was not detected, he tested the security of the rope that bound his leg to the bole of a nearby tree.

  He had been brought here the day before, after the captor that had scooped him up in the sheriff’s chase had run with him thrown over his back for what seemed to Gianni like a long distance. Then, after being bundled into a boat and ferried a short way on water, he had been foisted up again on the shoulder of the man and carried through trees whose branches had slapped at his back and shoulders before he was dumped roughly on the ground and the sack that had covered his head removed.

  The clearing had been brighter then, with the fire burning energetically from well-seasoned wood that emitted little smoke. Over the flames a carcass of a deer had been roasting, the fat sizzling as it dripped into the fire, sending off a delicious aroma that caused Gianni’s already churning stomach to push bile up into his throat. There had been a lot of people in the clearing, mostly men, but a few women also, all roughly dressed and dirty. Little notice was taken of his arrival until the man that had captured him, and still held him by the arm, dragged him through the press towards another man who sat up higher than the rest, on a rough chair carved from wood and decorated with garlands of ivy.

  “This is the Templar’s servant,” his captor said to the man, and Gianni at last looked up and saw that the person who had taken him from the forest was one he had seen before, the day he had gone to the village with his master. It was Edward, the reeve’s nephew. “Strolling through the woods all by himself, he was. I thought as how he might be of some use to you, Jack. Perhaps get a bit of silver if that Templar monk wants him back bad enough to pay for his return or, if not, maybe to use as a servant for yourself.”

  The man in the chair had looked down at the prize he had been brought. He was not a big man, but his appearance caused Gianni to feel a frisson of fear. Like the chair, his person was decorated with stems of ivy, most of the leaves brown and curling. The vines were wound around his arms, threaded through his belt, and a circle of them was woven into the pointed cap he wore on his head. His face, like most of the other men who had started to crowd around, was bearded, his a thick dense thatch of a dark golden colour that curled tight to his jaw and down his neck until it disappeared beneath the ragged collar of the scarred leather jerkin he wore. From beneath eyebrows that were as scant as his beard was thick, eyes of dark hazel looked at Gianni, the intense stare reminding the boy of one of the hawks in the mews at Lincoln castle when it was inspecting a gobbet of meat offered by the falconer.

  “The Templar’s servant, you say, Edward?” the man called Jack said. His voice was quiet, but there was menace in it.

  “That’s right, Jack. I thought him a right good catch to bring you.” Edward’s voice was puffed up with pride in his accomplishment.

  Jack leaned back, his hand resting on the thick oak staff that leaned against the arm of his chair. For a long moment he stared at Edward, and the silence grew in the clearing as he did so. Gianni could sense fear begin to grow in the man beside him, evidenced in the nervous twitch of Edward’s fingers where they gripped his arm.

  Still the man called Jack did not speak, and Edward began to stutter nervously. “I didn’t do wrong, did I, Jack? No one followed us, I swear. I thought you’d be pleased, but if you’re not, I’ll get rid of him. He’ll just disappear, like he was never born.”

  When his words brought no response, Edward dragged Gianni to his feet and would have thrown him back over his shoulder, but suddenly the stave that had been carelessly lying beside Jack’s chair moved so swiftly it was a blur. It came up in his hand and cracked down on the back of Edward’s neck with a blow that brought the reeve’s nephew to his knees, Gianni tumbling down with him, almost into the fire.

  “I did not tell you to bring him here,” Jack said, “but now that you have, you’ll wait my command to take him away.”

  Edward nodded as best he could while he tried to regain his senses. Struggling to his feet he mumbled, “Aye, Jack. I’m sorry.”

  Around him the crowd of people relaxed, some of the men shaking their heads in disapproval of Edward’s folly, others whispering together, smiles on their faces. Gianni could see now that there were children amongst them, including a couple of small ones still in their mother’s arms. All of the people—men, women and children—were clad in rags of one sort or another, most of them layers of old clothing tied on with other scraps of cloth, or bits of rope; a few more fortunate
ones had belts strapped around their middle. Head coverings ranged from hats made from torn pieces of animal fur to crude caps fashioned from the bark of a tree. All the faces were dirty, grimed not so much from lack of water but ingrained in skin that had been exposed to the elements for too long.

  Jack’s hawk eyes turned to Gianni. “What’s your name, boy?” he asked.

  Gianni made the sign he had made so often in his life to show that he was mute, lifting his bound hands, then opening his mouth and pointing a finger to it while shaking his head.

  “Can’t speak, eh?” Jack said. “But since you’ve still got a tongue in there, it’s the way you were born, not from punishment.”

  Gianni nodded. He could never remember being able to speak, although he had tried to do so many times, and had finally accepted that he never would, that God had fashioned him that way at birth. Jack looked at the boy’s clothing, noticing the serviceable wool of his hose, the thick padding of his tunic and the stout boots on his feet. Ernulf’s hat was no longer on Gianni’s head; it must have come off when Edward had grabbed him, or was still in the sack that had been thrust over his head. Gianni cringed. He knew well enough that, even without the hat, his clothes were far better than those worn by most of the people crowded around him, and he also knew it would be the work of moments for him to be stripped bare and his garments distributed amongst the women for their own use or for that of their children.

  Jack’s mouth split into a grin as he saw the fear in Gianni’s eyes, revealing broken teeth that were the same colour as his beard, a dirty yellow. “Frightened, aren’t you, boy?” he said. “And well you might be, for we’ve no liking for those who live at ease behind castle walls and dine off fine meats, even if they are only servants.” He leaned forward, his head thrusting down, reminding Gianni again of a predatory bird.